The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  Angela said nothing and he looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘How silent you are, Angela. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself? I thought you might at least apologize for breaking into my box and trying to steal my things.’

  ‘You knew I should be up here, then?’

  ‘I guessed, yes. You really ought to be more discreet when you confer with your young American, you know. I saw you both poring over my letter from Faulkner downstairs and knew the game was up, as they say. I came up here and saw what had happened. My first instinct was to take the box away, of course, but on reflection I thought it might be better to leave it here as bait. I knew you would want to read the other things.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replied Angela. ‘I have just read your most recent letter from Philip and it makes me feel terribly sorry for you.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Sorry for me? Why on earth should you be sorry for me?’

  ‘Because you are quite alone, and the only person you had to rely upon in your life—the person who should have protected you most of all—has been deceiving you cruelly, even from beyond the grave.’

  ‘Deceiving me? Of course he hasn’t been deceiving me. He told me the truth about my mother and her family when no-one else would. Finally, after all these years, I know why she was always so unhappy, and why she would never talk to me about it when she was alive. I have heard all about my so-called father,’ he spat out the word, ‘the farm-hand who attacked her. I know how her family spurned her after her disgrace and cast her out of the house without mercy when my grandfather’s back was turned. And these are the people who congratulated themselves and grew fat on their new-found riches when Grandfather died—the brothers and sisters who treated my mother so wickedly that she died of a broken heart when I was only eight years old. What right had they to live when she was dead through their actions?’

  ‘But Guy, your mother went of her own free will,’ said Angela. ‘Nobody cast her out. She hated her father and wanted to escape his influence, so she ran away.’

  ‘It’s not true, I tell you,’ he snapped. ‘That’s what the Hayneses want everybody to think, but I know better.’

  ‘Did your mother tell you the story?’

  ‘I told you, she wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘Then all your information has come from your grandfather, and if I have learned anything in the past week or two, it is that he was not a man to be depended upon.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘He was a good, kind man. After my mother died he sought me out and paid for my schooling. It is all thanks to him that I won my scholarship to Oxford. Then, when I came down, he gave me the post here at Underwood, and promised he should always provide for me. He was the only family I had—the only one who acknowledged me, at any rate. I know the rest of them would have shunned me had they known who I was.’

  Angela had a sudden flash of realization.

  ‘John knows,’ she said. ‘Did Philip tell him?’

  ‘Does he know?’ said Guy with mild interest. ‘I’ve often wondered whether he did. He looks at me in an odd way, sometimes.’

  ‘I think he has been protecting you, although I can’t believe he knows the whole truth. Or perhaps he does know and has been trying to fool himself. Christina was his favourite sister, you know.’

  ‘That’s what he told you, I expect.’

  Never one to argue uselessly, Angela was silent. He moved a little closer to her and she gazed at him warily.

  ‘I mustn’t take my eyes off him,’ she thought.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet again. Aren’t you simply dying to tell me how clever you’ve been in working it all out?’ he asked.

  ‘Not especially,’ she replied.

  ‘No, you’re not the type to boast about your triumphs, are you? I must admit I wasn’t particularly impressed when I first met you. You seemed far too polite and reserved to do anything effectively. But then you immediately started looking at the thing logically and methodically, so I thought I had better watch my step. And then Louisa told me you had found the photograph, which I must have dropped when I was down at the lake in February, and I had to get it back at all costs.’

  ‘So you thought you might as well try and put me out of the way while you were at it,’ said Angela.

  ‘Oh, that was quite on the spur of the moment,’ he said. ‘The opportunity was far too good to miss. It was a close thing, though—I nearly got caught thanks to the unfortunate public-spiritedness of an enthusiastic crowd of young lads.’

  ‘The other day in the woods was premeditated, though.’

  ‘Naturally,’ he said lightly. ‘I had already become somewhat concerned after I followed you one evening in London and saw that you were in league with Inspector Jameson—you kept that rather quiet, by the way. Then, when I overheard you talking about my mother to old Briggs, I realized you had somehow got on to the right track and thought I’d better do something about it sharpish. Unluckily for me I missed you first time and alerted you to the danger. Careless of me—I am generally a crack shot. But tell me, Angela, what put you on to me in the first place? I am curious to know.’

  ‘Your mother’s birthday,’ said Angela. He looked at her, uncomprehending, and she went on, ‘When I first met you, you said that on the day Winifred died you were away because it was your mother’s birthday. I assumed you meant you had gone to lunch with her, but then later Stella told me that you were an orphan, and I realized you must have been visiting her grave.’

  He nodded.

  ‘In addition to that, something Susan said led me to believe that Philip had set up a secret trust to benefit an unknown person, and I wondered whether it might have some connection with Christina. Then John mentioned that her birthday was in May, and shortly afterwards I heard that she had had a child. Two dead mothers with birthdays in May and a connection to Underwood House might easily have been a coincidence, but I decided to look into it anyway. A trip to Somerset House confirmed the theory.’

  ‘Didn’t you suspect Donald, then? Everybody else seemed to.’

  ‘I did look at his birth certificate just in case,’ said Angela, ‘but I thought he was too young to be Christina’s son. Besides, you were the one with the broken watch.’

  ‘Ah! I wondered whether that would give me away. Yes, drowning a man does tend to damage one’s things, rather. I had to dispose of a perfectly good dinner suit, too.’

  ‘And you had been up to London to try and get the watch repaired. Was it the same day you took the photograph from me?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘I thought it might be.’ She paused for a second. ‘So Philip left instructions that a family meeting was to be held on your mother’s birthday every year,’ she went on. ‘But what about the other meeting, the one on the 16th of February?’

  ‘It’s the anniversary of the day she died,’ he said. ‘I asked Edward down by the lake whether he recognized the significance of the date, and he didn’t—not even when I showed him the photograph. The date of his own sister’s death, and he didn’t even remember it! That is unforgivable.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know when it was.’

  ‘Then he ought to have found it out,’ he said angrily. ‘That was typical of them all—they cared for nobody but themselves. While they were living off Grandfather I don’t suppose they ever spared a thought for the years of poverty and misery my mother and I had to suffer; all the times she went without so she could buy shoes and books and food for me. In the end it wore her out and she simply gave up. They deserved nothing, I tell you, except what they got from me.’

  ‘Did you poison Philippa?

  ‘No. That was Ursula’s idea, wasn’t it? Digitalin, or something. No, I didn’t poison her—I went into her bedroom in the dead of night when she was fast asleep and held a pillow over her face until she suffocated. Nobody suspected a thing: after all, she’d been ill with heart trouble for years, and no-one would have been in the slightest bit surprised had she
popped off at any moment.’

  ‘When did Mr. Faulkner realize that you were responsible for the deaths of your aunts and uncle? Or was he in on the whole thing?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t in on it, but he received a nice, fat payment from Grandfather in return for keeping quiet about the secret trust. I think he started to suspect what was going on after I killed Winifred—it was after her death that he started to make excuses as to why I couldn’t have my money immediately. I guess he was just testing things out a little, and looking to see how I would react. But I wasn’t going to stand for that. I called his bluff and demanded payment and he gave in.’

  ‘I take it he knew who your mother was.’

  ‘Yes, he was in on that all right. It was his idea to set up the secret trust, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Then after Edward died you approached him for the five thousand pounds and this time he wrote back asking for a share of it in return for his silence.’

  ‘That was the letter you saw, yes.’ Guy shook his head slowly. ‘Stupid old man. Did he really think I should let him get away with that kind of trick? And supposing I had given in to his demand, would that have been the end of it? Why, of course not! He would have left me alone for a little while, and then, just as I was beginning to breathe again and feel that all was safe, I should have received a terribly polite letter from him, telling me that he was unfortunately very embarrassed for funds at the moment and could I see my way clear etcetera etcetera? Once he had got his hooks into me I should never have been rid of him, and so I had to do something about it.’

  ‘Blackmail is a risky enterprise,’ said Angela. ‘I wonder he didn’t realize the danger he was putting himself in.’

  ‘He was a conceited old fool who thought he was far too clever for me. Well, he was wrong. You don’t happen to have his letter on you, by the way, do you?’ he asked carelessly.

  ‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I have put it in a safe place.’

  ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘I’m quite resigned to being rumbled. Now I suppose everybody will find out what I’ve been up to. Not that that will help you, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He took a step forward. His manner was as carefree as ever.

  ‘Why, I need to get away as quickly as possible,’ he said lightly, ‘and you’re rather an obstacle in my path, I’m afraid.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Angela moved back a step. He grinned.

  ‘What’s the use in killing me?’ she asked. ‘You’ve already admitted you’ve been found out. Another murder is hardly going to help your cause.’

  ‘No, but it can’t make things any worse either. I am already destined for the noose if they catch me, so one more dead body won’t make any difference. I need time to get away, Mrs. Marchmont. I have plenty of money thanks to Philippa and Winifred—although I have had to give up on the idea of getting my hands on Edward’s inheritance now that old Faulkner is dead. I can live a life of ease abroad somewhere, but I shall need a head start. If I let you go you’ll run straight to your tame inspector, who will post look-outs at all the ports. Besides, you’ve escaped from me twice,’ he went on, ‘and I don’t mind telling you I’m rather cross about that. I don’t like to be beaten, you see, and certainly not by a woman.’

  He rubbed his hands together absently. She looked at them: they were large, powerful hands. She pictured them, grasping Edward’s neck and forcing him under the water until he ceased struggling, and unconsciously raised her own hand to her throat. It was growing warm in the attic, uncomfortably so, and the flickering light cast shadows on Guy’s face, giving his smile a terrifying aspect.

  ‘What will Stella think of you?’ she asked.

  ‘Stella is in love with that idiot, Don,’ he said. ‘I thought about killing him in the woods half an hour ago, just for the fun of it, but decided I had more urgent matters to attend to. A pity,’ he said. ‘Stella and I should have been happy together, I’m sure of it.’ He took another step forward. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s been simply enchanting to talk to you, and I should love to stay and chat, but I have a train to catch, so I fear I must say au revoir. Oh, how silly of me—naturally, I meant adieu.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Angela. ‘I have something to show you.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Are you trying to play for time? I shouldn’t bother, if I were you. Your young American is out in the woods looking for Don and no-one in the house can hear you. There’s nothing you can do—unless, of course, you think you’ve got something else up your sleeve?’

  ‘How funny you should say that,’ said Angela. ‘It’s almost as though you knew.’

  So occupied was Guy with his own cleverness in beating her that he had not noticed her hand creeping slowly and surreptitiously into the capacious sleeve of her evening jacket, but when she spoke, something in her voice brought him instantly to attention. He looked at the thing in her hand that had not been there before, then started to laugh.

  ‘Put your hands up,’ Angela said. There was no mistaking the deadly serious tone of her voice as she levelled the little revolver at him and cocked it in readiness.

  ‘Is this the elegant Mrs. Marchmont? You wouldn’t dare,’ he said, still with a half-smile on his face. He made as if to move towards her, then yelled and leapt back as, with a steady hand, she fired. The bullet grazed his ear and he clutched at it then gaped at the blood on his hand.

  ‘Perhaps I should mention that I, too, am a crack shot, Mr. Fisher,’ she said. ‘Try that again and next time I will aim for your heart instead of your ear. Now, put your hands up as I told you.’

  She cocked the gun again and Guy held his hands up.

  ‘You’re rather magnificent when you mean business,’ he said. He was pale and sweating. ‘But whatever you’ve got planned for me, I should do it quickly if I were you, as we appear to be on fire.’

  It was true. The faint scent of something that had been nagging at the back of Angela’s mind for some minutes was now manifesting itself as drifting blue smoke, and she turned her head briefly and gasped as she saw flames licking hungrily at the sides of the armoire behind which Robin had made his bed. No wonder it was so hot in the attic: his burning candle must have caught something and set off quite a conflagration.

  That one second of inattention was enough for Guy, and he threw himself at her, knocking her to the ground. She let out a shriek of surprise and pain as he pinned her down with his weight and reached for the revolver. Acting quickly, before he had managed to get hold of her right arm, she brought the gun round, panting, and fired. The shot went wide, but it gave him enough of a start to enable her to wriggle free from his grasp and stand up. Quick as a flash, he rolled over and threw himself at her ankles from behind as she tried to escape. Down she went again, and this time the gun flew out of her hand and skittered across the floor, disappearing into the very heart of the flames. Cursing to herself in frustration, she kicked out backwards with a high-heeled shoe and had the satisfaction of feeling her foot connect hard with his nose. He let out a yell of pain and she scrambled to her feet again, glancing about her. The rapidly-spreading blaze was behind her and Guy was between her and the stairs, blocking her way out. He stood up slowly, blood pouring from his nose to join the trail of blood already dripping from his ear. The careless grin had gone and his eyes were narrowed with deadly intent. He advanced step by step, pushing her inexorably towards the flames. She felt the heat at her back and coughed as the smoke began to drift insidiously into her nostrils. In a moment he would force her into the fire and all would be lost. She cast about desperately for something that could be used as a weapon against him, and her hand fell on an earthenware chamber-pot from the pile she had seen earlier. Picking it up, she hurled it at him with all her strength. It glanced off his shoulder and he gave a grunt and paused, breathing heavily through his mouth. That gave her enough time to grab at the next thing in the pile, which was the stag’s head. She heaved it up with some difficulty and held
it in front of her.

  ‘Get back!’ she cried, jabbing at him wildly with the sharp antlers.

  He regarded them warily and paused, uncertain what do do next. They appeared to have reached a deadlock. She could hold him off with the stag’s head and prevent him from pushing her into the fire, but soon the smoke and the flames would overcome them both. She had to act quickly. The stag’s head was too heavy to throw so she stabbed its antlers at his face as hard as she could. He raised his hands to fend it off, then caught hold of it and wrenched it from her grasp. He cast it aside with a roar as she picked up another chamber-pot to throw, but before she could hurl it at him he was upon her, livid with fury. He twisted the chamber-pot out of her hand, and it fell to the floor with a clatter. His hands were on her neck now, and it was the end. She could feel the pressure of his fingers, choking her, squeezing the life out of her. A warm, calm feeling stole over her, and for one long second she closed her eyes and gave herself up to her fate. How easy it would be, she thought, to stop struggling and allow the delicious sleep to wash over her, enveloping her completely.

  Then her eyes snapped open and, summoning up the last of her strength, she lifted her hand to her breast and plucked out a diamond pin from her jacket. He had relaxed his hold briefly, believing her to be unconscious, and in that split second her hand darted upwards and she thrust the pin as hard as she could into the fleshy part of his left thumb. He let out an exclamation and dropped his hold, clutching at his hand and staggering. Before Angela could move away, his foot caught on the dropped chamber-pot, and he lost his balance. For one terrible moment he seemed to hang, suspended by an invisible thread, his eyes fixed on hers in wordless horror. Then, with an awful inevitability, he plunged backwards into the flames.

  For a second there was no sound apart from the crackling of the fire; then, with a terrible scream, he rose and turned towards her, arms raised, his hair and clothes afire, advancing upon her slowly like an avenging angel. Angela wanted to turn and run, but her feet seemed to have rooted themselves to the spot and she was transfixed by the sight before her.