‘That is my New Eve,’ said a deep voice behind her. ‘I hope to have it ready for an exhibition I shall be putting on later this summer.’
Angela turned to look at the speaker. If she had thought of Euphrosyne Dennison at all, she had pictured a girl with a slight, coltish figure and an ethereal manner. She was therefore surprised to be confronted by a woman with strong brows and a heavy jaw who could only be described as short and stout. She was swathed in a diaphanous collection of silk robes and scarves in garish colours that gave her something of the appearance of a plump and exotic bird. Her unexpectedly delicate hands were stained with paint. Angela thought of Marthe and suppressed a smile.
‘You are Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Miss Dennison, but did not introduce herself. ‘Please, sit down. You won’t mind if I work as we talk.’
Angela looked about her, but the only thing she could see to sit on was an old packing-case. She sat on it gingerly, wondering whether an apparent disdain of the need for comfortable chairs was a family trait common to all the Hayneses. Euphrosyne Dennison showed no sign that she was aware of the deficiencies of her quarters, but took up a paintbrush and palette and began dabbing ferociously at the canvas.
‘Is it nearly finished?’ asked Angela.
Miss Dennison stood back and squinted at her handiwork.
‘I cannot be sure yet,’ she replied. ‘There is something about it that does not please me. Technically, I can see no faults, you understand—yes, my powers are revealed undiminished in this work—and yet—and yet—I do not know. Perhaps the Muse has failed to cast its sweet spell over my endeavours on this occasion. I fear it lacks what one might call the Divine Spark.’
‘Dear me, how provoking,’ said Angela politely.
Miss Dennison gave a cluck of impatience, then removed the painting from its easel and stood it against the wall.
‘I shall return to it later,’ she said. She picked up another unfinished picture, placed it on the easel and set to work.
‘Aunt Louisa tells me you are looking into the death of my mother,’ she said.
‘I am,’ said Angela, ‘and of your Aunt Philippa and Uncle Edward also.’
‘And what have you discovered so far?’
‘Very little in the way of concrete evidence,’ said Angela. ‘Although I have found out one or two things of interest. For instance, I have discovered that your mother believed she had been defrauded of all her money by a friend or relation.’
Euphrosyne Dennison looked up in surprise.
‘Oh yes?’ she said sharply. ‘Who?’
‘She would not say. I heard about it from Mr. Faulkner, the solicitor. He said your mother came to him with the story a week or two before her death. The unnamed person had persuaded her to invest all her money with him and was proving dilatory about paying it back. Did you know about this?’
Miss Dennison had by now recollected herself and turned back to her painting. She made a dismissive gesture with her shoulders.
‘No, I knew nothing about it,’ she said, ‘and if I had, why should I have been interested? My mother was perfectly at liberty to do whatever she liked with her money.’
‘But it would have been yours now, had this mysterious person not taken it,’ Angela pointed out.
‘I despise money,’ declared Miss Dennison grandly. ‘I am above such considerations. Of course, I do not expect others to understand the meaning of Art, but suffice it to say, Mrs. Marchmont, that its true adherents are transported to a higher plane on which material things are revealed in all their petty insignificance.’
‘But even an artist such as yourself needs money on which to live. How can you pay for your materials without it? And this garret—you must have to pay rent, surely?’
Susan bridled.
‘I have friends who assist me in these matters,’ she said haughtily, ‘and I understand that my paintings bring in a good deal, although I am not familiar with the details.’
‘Then I guess there is no use in asking you about your grandfather’s will and why you think he left his money as he did,’ said Angela.
‘Oh! Grandpapa!’ exclaimed Miss Dennison. She drew out a handkerchief and put it to her eyes. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but I am still prostrate with grief over his passing.’
This was a surprise. Angela had assumed that no-one in the Haynes family regretted Philip’s death, but it looked as though she had been wrong.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I had no idea that you were so fond of him.’
‘Yes,’ said Susan. ‘I was his favourite, you know. We spent hours together when I was very young. I told him all my girlish secrets and he told me some of his. I was inconsolable when he died—quite inconsolable.’
‘Did he tell you, then, why he left so much of his money only conditionally to his family? Why, in short, it was to revert to Mr. Faulkner should any of them die?’
‘Grandpapa had a very mischievous sense of fun,’ said Miss Dennison. ‘He liked to play tricks on people. Perhaps it was something to do with that. And he was always making new wills. He showed me his final one, I remember, shortly after he wrote it—or at least the part about the money reverting to Mr. Faulkner. “That may not look like much to you, my girl,” he said, “but mark my words, it will put the cat among the pigeons when I am gone.”’
‘Can you remember what it said, exactly? It all seems rather mysterious.’
‘There was nothing mysterious about it. The wording was quite clear and straightforward, although I don’t remember what it said—just something about Mr. Faulkner being to receive the money on the terms communicated to him in the event that any of Grandpapa’s children should die.’
‘On the terms communicated to him,’ repeated Angela thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure that’s what it said?’
‘I don’t know if they were the exact words, but it was something very close to that, certainly.’
I wonder what he meant.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Miss Dennison. ‘Perhaps they had agreed between themselves that the money should be used for a particular purpose. That is how I understood it.’ She was mixing a colour as she spoke, and to Angela’s astonishment suddenly spat onto the palette.
‘I never feel that a painting is truly complete unless it contains the essence of the artist himself,’ she explained, as she blended the gobbet of spittle into the colour. ‘I put part of myself into every work I produce—and not just saliva, you understand, but also—’
She broke off to concentrate on a tricky section of the picture, much to the relief of Angela, who hastily brought the subject around to Winifred’s death. But Susan had little or nothing to tell about the deaths of any of her relatives. She had observed nothing on the occasions of Philippa’s and Edward’s deaths, and very little when her mother had died.
‘I heard it all but had no portent at the time of the tragedy that was about to befall me,’ she said with a dramatic shudder. ‘I heard the slamming of the door as she came out of her room, then a great thud and a scream broken off. Poor Mother.’ She applied the handkerchief to her eye again.
Angela stood and prepared to take her leave.
‘You will let me know if you find out anything more about your mother’s money, won’t you?’ she asked.
Euphrosyne Dennison waved a paintbrush in a manner that might be taken as assent, then paid no more attention to her visitor, who decided that, all things considered, it would be easiest to show herself out.
SIXTEEN
Mrs. Marchmont returned to her flat late in the afternoon to discover a message from Inspector Jameson, who had called while she was out. She immediately picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to Scotland Yard. The inspector was there and saluted her cheerfully.
‘And how is your little investigation going?’ he asked.
‘Slowly and uneventfully,’ she replied. ‘I’ve found out one or two interesting things, but nothing that you could make a case with. In fact, I shouldn’t have called
you at all had someone not tried to kill me the other day.’
The inspector was instantly alert.
‘Someone tried to kill you? Are you sure?’
‘I can’t be certain, but I think so.’
‘This is most alarming. I am very sorry. Believe me, Mrs. Marchmont, I had no intention of putting you in danger—indeed, I should never have dreamed of asking you to do it had I thought for even one second that this could happen.’
‘Please don’t worry, I’m quite all right,’ said Angela, feeling as though she had perhaps made too much of it. ‘As I said, I can’t be sure that whoever it was actually wanted to kill me.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
With some confusion, Angela began her story but he interrupted her almost immediately.
‘No—no—not over the telephone, perhaps. Better to discuss this in person. Would you object to coming to Scotland Yard? What time is it? I say, is it that time already? I had no idea. No, don’t come here. But—’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I don’t suppose you are free this evening? Should you be dreadfully offended if I asked you to dinner?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Angela. ‘I should be delighted. I have no engagements that cannot be cancelled, and I should very much like to discuss the case with someone, as I fear I am getting into rather a muddle with it.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ he said firmly. ‘I shall call for you at seven o’clock, if that is not too early. We policemen keep respectable hours, you know.’
‘That will be perfect.’
‘Goodbye, then. Oh, and by the way,’ he added, ‘if a murder attempt is your definition of uneventful, I should be very much interested to know what sort of thing you consider to be exciting.’
Angela laughed and hung up.
Jameson arrived punctually and at Angela’s suggestion they went to a quiet spot in Mayfair where they could talk undisturbed. The inspector listened intently as Angela recounted all that had happened in the past few days, and seemed particularly interested in Winifred’s accusations of fraud.
‘But you see,’ said Angela, ‘I have no proof that she was cheated out of her money. She refused to tell Mr. Faulkner the name of her correspondent, she apparently signed nothing, and even her daughter claims to be uninterested in the fate of her inheritance—although from what I have seen of Susan Dennison, that may be an affectation. This is where the amateur detective falls down. I cannot investigate her financial affairs myself. To find out anything more I am going to need your help.’
‘Well, we can certainly make some inquiries of her bank,’ said Jameson. ‘I shall put a man onto it tomorrow. So you say Louisa Haynes suspects Robin?’
‘Yes, and after what you told me on the train, I must say it was my first thought too.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Rather an unprepossessing type,’ said Angela frankly. ‘I don’t mind admitting that he and his mother gave me the shivers when I met them. I should not like to be the one to cross Ursula, in particular.’
‘Yes, she is a character, isn’t she?’ agreed the inspector. ‘And I think from what you have said, it may be time to pay another visit to Master Robin.’
‘What of the doings in the city? Have you heard anything more about that?’
‘No, it all seems to have gone quiet on that front lately,’ replied Jameson, ‘but as I said, it could all blow up any day now. I don’t suppose you read such things, but veiled rumours have even reached the press about the troubles at Peake’s, although the company was not mentioned by name.’
Angela had indeed read the article in question and, after putting two and two together following her earlier conversation with the inspector, had taken steps to ensure that she had no money deposited with Peake’s.
‘And you are quite certain, you say, that you did not see the person who pushed you into the road?’ went on Inspector Jameson.
‘I am afraid not,’ said Angela. ‘I was caught completely off guard. Perhaps I have led a sheltered life, but I don’t generally expect to be shoved in front of speeding motor-vans by mysterious assailants whenever I leave the house, so I was not paying much attention to anything. And, of course, he waited until there was a large crowd to protect him, in order to make his escape unnoticed. It was unlucky for him that he happened to be spotted and pursued.’
‘And since you lost the photograph, I presume you have not been able to find out who it belonged to.’
‘No, but I have a little idea of my own about that which I shall tell you about later, since I have nothing to back it up at present and don’t know where it fits in—or even if it does fit in, in fact.’
Inspector Jameson looked serious.
‘Do be careful, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘I am wondering now whether I ought to have asked you to do this. I had no wish to place you in the way of danger but you appear to have put the wind up somebody or other. Perhaps you should give it up.’
‘I can’t give it up now—I promised Louisa that I would continue. And in any case, I am not afraid. I’ve been thinking the matter over and have come to the conclusion that the chief purpose of the attack was probably to get the photograph back, although whoever did it was not above trying to get me out of the way at the same time. Don’t worry, inspector—my friends will tell you that I am far too fond of myself to put my life knowingly in peril. I shall keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious from now on.’
‘I see your mind is quite made up,’ said Jameson, ‘and I am not in the slightest bit surprised. I have been hearing quite a lot of things about you lately, Mrs. Marchmont, and your name is quite a byword for tenacity in certain circles.’
‘Oh?’ asked Angela, intrigued. ‘Which circles are those?’
‘Tell me, do the words “Blue Iris” mean anything to you?’
Angela started, then eyed him suspiciously.
‘How—?’ she began, then stopped. ‘Ah,’ she said, suddenly understanding, ‘I thought your name was familiar to me. I shall now put my powers of deduction to the test. Let me see: at a guess, I should say that you have a brother, or possibly a cousin in the Foreign Office. Am I correct?’
The inspector smiled.
‘A brother, yes,’ he said. ‘Henry sends his warmest regards. He was quite enthusiastic in your praise, and believe me when I say that it takes a lot to rouse Henry from his habitual state of half-witted somnolence.’
‘It is a long time since I saw him,’ said Angela. ‘He was very kind to me and had far more faith in my abilities than I did myself. Indeed, I still maintain that I did very little.’
‘That is not the view of the powers-that-be. They credit your efforts with having been instrumental in drawing America into the War.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Angela briskly but with some embarrassment. ‘Anyway, don’t let’s talk about that—it was all such a long time ago now that I have forgotten most of it. I am more concerned with the present. I wanted to ask you about Mr. Faulkner’s alibis.’
‘Do you mean for the nights on which Philippa, Winifred and Edward died?’
‘Yes. I have no particular reason to doubt them, but he has such a strong motive and he seemed so keen to tell me about the important personages with whom he had been dining on the nights in question that I thought I had better ask you. Of course, it may just be that he was anxious to make sure I knew of his innocence before I started blundering around suspecting him, but it would be remiss of me not to check. On two of the nights in question he was actually dining with the same person. Can that really be a coincidence?’
‘As far as I know it is. Both Sir Maurice Upton and Lord Willesden swear that Mr. Faulkner was with them on the first two occasions and the third occasion respectively. Whether he deliberately arranged things so, however, I cannot say.’
‘I must speak to him again about showing me Philip’s will,’ said Angela. ‘I have not managed to see it so far, and I should very much like to read it myself.’
‘Do you thin
k it may contain a clue?’
‘I don’t know, but the provisions of it are so very odd that I wonder whether it mayn’t be the key to the matter. I have been thinking about it ever since I saw Susan Dennison earlier. Philip showed her the will before he died, you know, and made a rather mysterious remark about it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘According to Susan, he pointed to the clause that allows Mr. Faulkner to inherit, and told her that it would put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘And so it did. No mystery about that.’
‘Yes, but the clause was worded rather strangely. It mentioned something about Mr. Faulkner being to receive the money on the terms communicated to him. I wonder whether Philip and he had a private agreement about how the money was to be used. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’
‘I can’t say that I have. It does sound rather odd—but then, of course, Philip was an odd man. Do you think it may have some significance?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s nothing, but I intend to have a look at that will all the same. On second thoughts I think the easiest thing will be for me to go to Somerset House.’
Jameson called for the bill and they emerged into the chill of the evening.
‘I shall see you safely to your door,’ he said. ‘You may pooh-pooh my concerns, but I am not happy at the idea that someone wishes you harm, so I should like you to promise me that you will be very careful from now on.’
The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) Page 10
