The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘Give that to Mrs. Haynes, please,’ she said, handing it to a passing servant. ‘And be sure to put it in her hands yourself. I shall be back soon to explain further.’

  She ran out to the Bentley and they set off to drive the half-mile into the village. When the car drew up on the edge of the square she spied the face of Mr. Hawley peering expectantly out of the window of Mr. Faulkner’s office. He came out to greet her.

  ‘Do you believe something untoward has happened to him?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope not,’ Angela replied, ‘but I suggest we go to his house and see if he is there. Perhaps he has been taken ill and could not answer the telephone. Does he live alone, by the way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No servants?’

  ‘He has a woman who comes in from the village, but she does not live with him.’

  ‘Then let us go. You shall show us the way.’

  Mr. Hawley got into the Bentley and they set off. Mr. Faulkner’s house was at the end of a lane quite on the edge of Beningfleet. It was square and comfortable, with a well-tended garden. The three of them alighted from the car and approached the front door. Hawley rang the bell and they waited. There was no answer.

  ‘I wonder if his housekeeper came today,’ said Angela. ‘Does she have a key?’

  ‘That I do not know,’ said the clerk.

  William was peering in through the window.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said. He moved to another window and peered again.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said suddenly. There was a note of urgency in his voice. Angela joined him and he pointed wordlessly at something. Angela drew a sharp breath.

  ‘We must get into the house somehow,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Hawley, sounding frightened.

  ‘Blood, if I’m not much mistaken,’ said William. He picked up a small rock from the garden. ‘Stand back,’ he said.

  ‘Not that window,’ said Angela. ‘We must preserve all the evidence as much as possible. Try this one here. It’s the dining-room and it doesn’t look as though anybody has been in it.’

  William wrapped his hand carefully in his handkerchief and gave a smart blow to the window with the rock. The glass gave way with a loud tinkle. He reached carefully inside and loosened the catch.

  ‘Can you give me a leg up?’ he asked Mr. Hawley.

  White in the face, the clerk did as he was asked. William levered himself cautiously up and across the window-sill.

  ‘Watch out for the broken glass,’ said Angela. ‘Now, go to the front door and let us in.’

  William nodded and disappeared. A few seconds later there was a rattle at the door and it opened. Angela entered, with Mr. Hawley following unwillingly behind. William held up a slip of paper.

  ‘I found this just here inside the door,’ he said. ‘It’s a note from the housekeeper saying that she came this morning but couldn’t get in.’

  Angela glanced at it then looked round. They were in a gloomy entrance-hall panelled all in wood. Around the walls were hunting scenes and prints of horses. The place was almost silent: no noise could be heard other than the ominous ticking of a grandfather-clock which stood in one corner. Angela noticed that a chair next to it looked quite new. She raised her head and sniffed the air. There was a smell of fresh paint.

  ‘I believe he has been decorating,’ she said.

  She looked into the dining-room.

  ‘New furniture, too,’ said William, at her shoulder. ‘I guess he’s been spending some of his hard-earned cash lately.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, but made no other comment. They reached the door of the living-room and William pushed it open.

  ‘Must I—must I come in?’ asked Mr. Hawley faintly. ‘I am not altogether fond of the sight of blood.’

  ‘Sit here, then,’ said Angela. She left the clerk in the hall and followed William into the living-room. There was no mistaking what had happened. They stared for a few moments at the thing on the floor. Mr. Faulkner was lying on his back, his gaze fixed unseeing on the ceiling. The handle of what looked like a large kitchen knife protruded starkly from his chest, and a pool of dark liquid congealed around him.

  ‘Stabbed through the heart,’ said William. He moved forward.

  ‘Don’t touch him,’ said Angela. ‘The police will want to examine him.’

  ‘I guess his luck ran out,’ said William.

  ‘He was playing a very dangerous game,’ said Angela. ‘His luck was bound to run out eventually. I suppose he thought he had played his cards very cleverly, but he reckoned without the fact that murder comes easily to someone who has already killed three times.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ cried Mr. Hawley, who had plucked up the courage to join them and who was now staring, aghast, at the sight before him. ‘Mr Faulkner! Who could have done such a terrible thing?’

  ‘We must call the police at once,’ said Angela. ‘William, take Mr. Hawley out to the car. I shall telephone from here.’

  William escorted the poor clerk outside, while Angela telephoned the local police and Scotland Yard and then came out to wait with them. After a short time a police sergeant on a bicycle came puffing up to the house.

  ‘Now then, Mr. Hawley, what’s all this nonsense I hear about Mr. Faulkner getting himself murdered?’ he said, removing his hat and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant Peters, here you are at last. No, no, it’s not nonsense at all,’ cried Hawley. ‘Why, I saw it with my own eyes: his dead body lying in a pool of blood in his own living-room.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘I thought it was just a silly prank by one of the boys in the village. You can’t mean to say it’s true?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid it is, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘Allow me to show you. Unfortunately, we were forced to break into the house, but otherwise we have tried to touch as little as possible.’

  She led Sergeant Peters inside and showed him where the body lay. As soon as he saw it, he stiffened and his manner became brisk and business-like. He was an officer of the law doing his duty, and he was now in charge. He ushered her from the house and eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘Might I ask your name, madam? And what exactly brought you to this house?’

  ‘My name is Mrs. Angela Marchmont,’ said Angela, ‘and I came to Mr. Faulkner’s house because I suspected that his life was in danger. Unfortunately, it seems I was right.’

  The policeman looked disbelieving.

  ‘It is rather a long story,’ said Angela, ‘but perhaps it will make more sense to you when I tell you that this murder is connected to the recent deaths at Underwood House.’ She fumbled in her bag and brought out something which she handed to him. ‘In case you don’t believe me, here is the card of Inspector Jameson of Scotland Yard. He has been investigating this case and I have been assisting him in his inquiries.’

  The sergeant examined the card carefully. He still seemed a little doubtful.

  ‘I have called Scotland Yard,’ she went on. ‘Inspector Jameson is on his way back from the North and they will send him down as soon as they can, but in the meantime we are to leave things in the hands of the Beningfleet police.’

  Whether Peters would ever have believed her is a matter of some doubt, but fortunately for Angela a car then drew up carrying the local inspector, who had been rudely summoned from a quiet afternoon’s fishing with news of violent happenings. It was he who had originally called in Scotland Yard to look into the mysterious deaths at the big house, and he knew Inspector Jameson well. He agreed to Angela’s being allowed to leave on condition that she remain at Underwood House until the next day. She promised to do so and departed with William and Mr. Hawley, who was now looking rather faint.

  They took the clerk home to his wife and then headed back to Underwood.

  ‘Well, ma’am, I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe you when you said there was a murderer about,’ said William, ‘but now I h
ave to say you’ve got me convinced.’

  ‘That is a great reassurance to me,’ said Angela dryly.

  ‘So, what’s the plan now?’ asked William.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure there is one,’ said Angela, ‘but I should like to go into the attic myself and have a closer look at that box of papers before our quarry discovers that they have been disturbed.’

  ‘But it’s too late,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you remember? Whoever was watching me in the attic saw me do it.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Angela. ‘The mysterious spy in the attic.’

  ‘You don’t seem too bothered about him.’

  Angela smiled to herself.

  ‘I think he has other things to worry about besides a box of letters,’ she said. William glanced back at her curiously but she said no more.

  ‘So, it’s back to Underwood for more fun. These Hayneses are more trouble than a nest of vipers.’

  ‘They are certainly a very unusual family,’ she agreed.

  ‘Do you need me to stand by again this evening, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes. I have the feeling that something is going to happen very soon.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Angela wrinkled her brow and stared out of the window. The sky was black and it looked as though a storm were brewing.

  ‘I don’t exactly know,’ she said, ‘but whatever it is, I hope it will put an end to this business once and for all, without anybody else getting hurt. By killing Mr. Faulkner, the murderer has now killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. He must have been very desperate to do such a thing, and now he has cornered himself. He could do almost anything.’ She leaned forward to emphasize her words. ‘We must tread carefully, William. Somebody very dangerous is in our midst.’

  THIRTY

  It was almost seven o’clock when they drew up at the house.

  ‘Everyone will be dressing for dinner,’ said Angela. ‘I had better do so too or I shall be late. William, be ready for my call. I don’t know quite what is going to happen, but I should like you to be there when it does.’

  She hurried upstairs and made a hasty toilet, throwing on her evening gown and adding, as an afterthought, a crimson velvet evening jacket with wide, draped sleeves. She smoothed her hair in front of the looking-glass, smiling as she thought how horrified Marthe would be at the perfunctory nature of her preparations, then returned downstairs to the drawing-room.

  She was not quite the last to arrive. John and Susan were absent, but Louisa, Stella, Ursula, Guy and Donald were all dressed and making desultory conversation. Louisa gave her a significant look. She was obviously dying to ask where Angela had been but could not without throwing discretion to the winds. Guy had no such qualms, however.

  ‘Why, it’s our Angela, returned from her mysterious outing. Where on earth have you been, Mrs. Marchmont? We quite missed you. We have all spent the last two hours listening to Miss Euphrosyne and her theories on the nature of Art. I stifled my yawns as best I could but I believe at least one escaped through my left ear while I was holding my mouth shut.’

  ‘Hush!’ scolded Louisa. ‘She may come in at any moment and hear you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was called away on urgent business,’ said Angela. She took a deep breath and went on boldly, ‘It appears that Mr. Faulkner, the solicitor, has been murdered.’

  There were gasps of dismay and everyone began to ask questions at once. As soon as she was given the opportunity, Angela recounted briefly the events of the past two hours. Rather than reveal her part in the discovery of the body, she gave them to understand that she had been summoned to Mr. Faulkner’s house by the police.

  ‘But why should anyone want to murder Mr. Faulkner?’ said Louisa.

  ‘I can think of lots of reasons,’ said Donald. ‘As a solicitor he must have been privy to many secrets. Perhaps somebody wanted to close his mouth forever.’

  ‘Of course somebody wanted to close his mouth,’ said Ursula in a high, clear voice.

  Everybody fell silent. Angela was instantly on the alert.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Louisa.

  Ursula turned to her.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean, Louisa,’ she said. ‘He knew far too much about this family and its dark history, and so he had to be silenced.’

  ‘There you go again,’ broke in Donald impatiently, ‘dropping hints about who knows what. Why can’t you just say what you mean?’

  Ursula rose and walked over to the young man with deliberate steps. She stood before him and looked into his eyes.

  ‘You of all people ask me why I do not speak up?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ exclaimed Donald. ‘I am sick of all this mystery. People keep dying and I should like to know why. You say you know something, Aunt Ursula, so why don’t you just tell us what it is and stop all this beating about the bush?’

  Something that might have been a short bark of laughter escaped Ursula’s lips.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I accept your challenge. Let it be said out loud for once. Absurd and dramatic as it may sound, we have a murderer among us. Tell me, Donald, why did you do it? Was he threatening to tell everybody your secret?’

  Donald took a moment or two to realize that she was addressing him directly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Did he want money? He was a venal old fool. Perhaps that was his undoing.’

  Angela remembered the smell of fresh paint in Mr. Faulkner’s house, and the new furniture.

  ‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ said Donald, as Ursula’s meaning dawned upon him. ‘Have you gone quite mad?’

  ‘I am not mad, no,’ she replied. ‘But perhaps you are. I have heard it said that most people who kill are mentally unhinged.’

  ‘Mentally unhinged?’ repeated Donald, going quite red in the face. ‘Why, I am as sane as anybody here. If anybody is unhinged it is you.’

  ‘Where were you this afternoon, Don?’ asked Stella suddenly. ‘I was looking for you because I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere in the house.’

  Ursula looked triumphantly towards Donald as though to say, ‘You see? I am not the only person to have noticed.’

  ‘Why—why—’ Donald stuttered. ‘I was—I don’t know. I can’t remember. Probably out in the grounds somewhere. Does it matter?’ This attack from two fronts seemed to have quite overwhelmed him.

  ‘It matters to me,’ said Stella, so quietly that her words were almost inaudible.

  ‘Of course Donald didn’t kill anybody,’ said Louisa. ‘Ursula, what on earth makes you think he did? What could he possibly have to gain from it?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ replied Ursula. ‘He did it for the money that Philip left him.’

  ‘What money?’ demanded Donald. ‘Grandfather didn’t leave me anything as far as I know.’

  ‘Oh, don’t pretend,’ snapped his aunt. ‘The time for pretending is past, now. Philip told me all about it when he was still alive.’

  ‘He told you?’ said a voice in astonishment. It was John Haynes, who had entered the room unnoticed. He stepped forward. ‘What did he tell you, exactly?’

  ‘About the secret provision in his will, of course. Didn’t anyone think it odd that he should leave his children only a life interest in half their inheritance, and that the money should revert to his solicitor after their deaths? Whoever heard of such a thing? Why, it’s quite absurd. But what nobody except myself knew was that Mr. Faulkner had secretly agreed to hold the money in trust for another person—and that that person was Donald Haynes.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said John. ‘What in heaven’s name gave you that idea?’

  ‘I told you, I heard it from Philip. He said that he wanted to leave some money to his daughter Christina’s illegitimate child without anybody else finding out.’

  ‘What?’ cried John, Louisa and Donald all at once.

  ‘Don’t try to claim that you didn’t know,’ said Ursula
. ‘You adopted Donald after Christina died. I remember it well, John—you brought him home one day and said that his mother was dead and that the two of you would bring him up as your own child. I admit I had no suspicion of the connection until Philip told me about the provision in his will. He did not name the person in question but I guessed whom he meant at once. As a matter of fact, I wondered that it had never occurred to me before.’

  ‘But why should he tell you all this?’ asked Louisa.

  ‘Philip and I were fond of each other,’ replied Ursula. ‘He was very misunderstood, especially by his family, but I found him amusing at times. Occasionally he told me things that he had not told anybody else. This was one of them.’

  ‘Now, Ursula,’ began John, ‘you have got hold of quite the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Has she?’ demanded Donald suddenly. He looked very pale, and there was a queer sort of smile on his face. ‘Are you quite sure of that, Father? But of course, you’re not really my father, are you? And Mother’s not my mother. We all knew that, but we all went on, year after year, pretending it didn’t matter.’

  ‘Donald,’ said Louisa in distress, ‘of course it doesn’t matter. We love you as our own child. You are our own child.’

  ‘No I’m not!’ he said fiercely. ‘I am nobody. You heard what Aunt Ursula said. I am the bastard son of a disgraced woman.’

  ‘Look here!’ said Guy. ‘You mustn’t say that!’

  Donald rounded on him.

  ‘Shut up!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t you think I know what you have been doing over these past few weeks, making love to Stella and trying to win her for yourself? Don’t try and pretend to be my friend when what you really want is to take what is mine.’ He drew himself up. ‘Very well—so now Aunt Ursula has kindly told us all who my real mother is, perhaps the other thing is true too. Should I confess to it now and save the bother of a trial?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Donald,’ said his mother. ‘Ursula has got it all wrong. Of course we know you didn’t do it.’

  ‘Do you know it?’ he said. ‘Do I know it, in fact? Aunt Ursula believes me guilty, and so does Stella. So perhaps I did do it. Perhaps I lost my senses and killed all those people—my aunts and uncle and Mr. Faulkner—while in a sort of brainstorm that I have since forgotten about.’