The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery)

by Benson, Clara

  ‘Run, you idiot, run!’ she told herself. Instantly, the spell broke. She turned and dashed for the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her, just as the ghastly thing that had been Guy Fisher fell to the floor and lay still.

  Angela half-ran, half-fell down the stairs and threw herself at the door, wrenching at the handle and pulling it open. She pitched out onto the landing, sobbing and coughing and gasping for air. All at once, she was surrounded by people and voices, exclaiming in consternation.

  ‘Fire!’ she croaked. Her knees gave way under her and she was about to sink to the floor when she was caught by a pair of strong arms and set down gently.

  ‘Mrs. Marchmont! What on earth has happened?’ said the concerned voice of Inspector Jameson.

  ‘There’s a fire in the attic, and Guy is dead,’ was all she could say.

  ‘Get everybody out,’ said Jameson to someone, perhaps one of his men. ‘Mrs. Marchmont, do you think you can walk?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ she said with dignity.

  He helped her up and she stood, swaying slightly.

  ‘Next time I shall carry two guns—one up each sleeve,’ she said grimly, then fainted.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The late May sunshine streamed in through a gap in the curtains with the promise of a beautiful new day. It shone gently on Angela Marchmont, waking her by degrees. She blinked a few times and lay where she was, enjoying the sensation of warmth on her face. After a while, she sat up and stretched, then yawned and coughed experimentally. She raised a hand to her throat. The aches and bruises were fading and she was definitely feeling much better. She reached over and rang the bell.

  ‘Good morning, Marthe,’ she said, when the girl arrived. ‘I should like some tea, please.’

  Marthe beamed.

  ‘Ah, madame,’ she said, ‘you are better today.’

  ‘Yes, I certainly feel as though I am on the mend,’ replied Angela. Her voice was still a little hoarse. ‘In fact, I believe I could manage some buttered toast as well.’

  ‘Mais oui,’ replied Marthe fondly. She went out and returned after a few minutes bearing the desired items on a silver tray. ‘You have had many calls and messages from wish-wellers,’ she said.

  ‘Well-wishers,’ said Angela.

  ‘Those also. Mrs. Louisa Haynes sent flowers and a message. Mrs. Ursula Haynes,’ (this said in disdain) ‘telephoned yesterday. Then there are three or four messages from someone called Stella. Also, Monsieur l’Inspecteur called once and sent the most beautiful bouquet of blue irises.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Angela.

  ‘And I think also there has been some mistake,’ said Marthe, opening her eyes wide in puzzlement, ‘because a man called Briggs has sent you some cabbages.’

  ‘How delightful,’ said Angela. ‘We must have them for supper.’

  ‘Me, I do not like the cabbage,’ said Marthe indifferently.

  Angela took a sip of tea and a bite of toast. They tasted delicious.

  ‘I am sick of sitting in bed all day,’ she announced. ‘Today I shall get up and go out. I am quite recovered. It was only tiredness that made me stay in bed yesterday.’

  ‘But no, madame, you cannot go out,’ said Marthe firmly. ‘I shall not permit it.’

  ‘I assure you, I feel quite well,’ said Angela.

  ‘Maybe so, but you look a fright,’ said the girl. ‘See here!’

  She picked up a hand-glass from the dressing table and held it out. Mrs. Marchmont took it from her and examined her reflection. The face that stared back at her was blotched, with red, swollen, watery eyes and singed hair.

  ‘Good gracious, is that me?’ she said. ‘Perhaps you are right, Marthe. Very well, I shall not inflict myself on the good people of London today. You must see what can be done with my hair later. And now you had better bring me the newspaper and a cold compress.’

  She settled back into her pillows and prepared to face another day of dullness, which was relieved only slightly by the amusement to be found in reading several different—and entirely inaccurate—descriptions of the recent events in the papers.

  The next morning she felt better still and was quite firm in insisting she be allowed to get up, despite Marthe’s protestations that she was not yet fit.

  ‘I have many things to do,’ she said, ‘and I am hardly a delicate flower that needs protecting. ‘Besides, I should like to speak to Inspector Jameson.’

  Inspector Jameson was also anxious to speak to Mrs. Marchmont and sure enough, called in person at the earliest time that could be thought decent. He found Angela in her living-room, sitting at the little table by the window and watching the people pass by in the street below.

  ‘I am glad to hear you have quite recovered,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘A little sore and singed around the edges, but otherwise I am quite well.’

  ‘You created quite a stir the other night, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that events did run away with me rather, despite my precautions.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no use in my telling you that you should have waited for my return instead of going into the attic yourself.’

  ‘None whatever,’ said Angela firmly. ‘Had I waited, then Guy would have removed the box and hidden it and we may never have found out the whole truth. As it is, I am only sorry that the papers were destroyed before I had the chance to read them all. I did manage to rescue one thing, though.’

  She went to a little cabinet, brought out Philip’s letter, which she had found in the pocket of her evening jacket, and handed it to the inspector. Jameson read it through then looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had no idea of this.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Angela, ‘and I should never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.’

  ‘Is it true, what he says about his daughter?’

  ‘Not by all accounts. Everyone else is quite certain that Christina was so desperate to escape her father that she ran off of her own accord. I think this is a special version of events designed to dupe a susceptible young man.’

  ‘What kind of person would do this?’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine. But I think Philip Haynes must have had something very wrong with him to have behaved in such a cruel, callous fashion towards his orphaned grandchild.’

  ‘But he must have had a reason for what he did,’ said Jameson. ‘Even the insane do not act totally at random. They always have some motive, even if it would not appear rational to the rest of us.’

  ‘I can only assume that his—what shall I call it?—indoctrination of Guy was intended as some kind of posthumous revenge against Christina for having escaped his clutches all those years ago. Perhaps he even saw himself as the righteous one, visiting the sins of the mother upon the child. But why he went to all that trouble to persuade Guy to murder his aunts and uncles is beyond my understanding. Possibly it was another one of his twisted games. I have heard much of his mischievous love of causing strife, but this went further than mischief; indeed I can only describe it as pure evil. He must have lied and lied. And he must have been especially talented in manipulation to be able to drive a man to murder like that.’

  ‘True,’ said Jameson, ‘but I think Fisher must have been a little unbalanced himself to start with. People don’t generally go around murdering their relatives on someone else’s say-so without having a screw loose somewhere.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he fell under the influence of his grandfather at a very young and impressionable age. Who knows what poison was dripped into his ear throughout his youth?’

  Jameson nodded assent.

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Angela reflectively, ‘but I had the feeling all along that we were being danced about like puppets—that there was someone behind the scenes pushing us in the direction he wanted us to go. But I never thought for a moment that it was all happening on the instructions of a dead man.’

  ‘You
have told me how Philippa Haynes was killed,’ said the inspector, ‘but what about Winifred Dennison?’

  ‘It was quite simple,’ said Angela. ‘On that day, you remember, Guy was visiting his mother’s grave and supposedly didn’t arrive back until it was all over. In reality he returned to Underwood House much earlier than he claimed and went up to his room. He was looking out for an opportunity to kill Winifred or Edward or John. It didn’t much matter to him which one—any of them would do. He got his chance when he heard Winifred come out of her bedroom, which was the one next door to his. He crept along the landing after her and then, when she paused for a second, picked her up and threw her over the balustrade. He then ran into Donald’s room which, as you may recall, is just opposite that exact spot on the landing, opened the window and climbed down the same ivy that had provided his mother’s escape route all those years ago. After that I imagine he went and hid somewhere for an hour or two, before turning up having apparently missed all the excitement.’

  ‘As you say, very simple. But how did you deduce what happened?’

  ‘When I was examining the scene of Winifred’s death, I was wondering whether the murderer could have killed her and then dashed downstairs in order to give the impression that he had been nowhere near the landing when she fell. Guy helpfully ran down the stairs to test the theory for me and it looked as though it would have been possible but difficult to do without the killer drawing attention to himself. Then Stella turned up and pointed out that the most obvious means of escape would have been for him to hide in one of the bedrooms nearest the top of the stairs. The only person known to have been upstairs at the time was Winifred’s daughter, Susan. She could have done it, of course, but I wondered whether someone else could have escaped through a window. I had a look outside and, sure enough, there was a convenient mass of ivy outside one of the rooms. In addition, Susan told me that she had heard her mother’s bedroom door slam at about the same time as Winifred fell. I investigated and discovered that it couldn’t have been Winifred’s door as the sound doesn’t carry that far. It seemed more likely that the noise came from someone slamming a door as he ran into a room, and who else would that be but the murderer?’

  ‘I see what you mean. So, after some rather clever detective work on your part, you decided that Guy was our man, but how on earth did you know about the letter from Mr. Faulkner? Or was that a lucky guess?’

  ‘It was partly luck, I admit. Once I had got the idea into my head that there was a secret trust involved, it made sense to assume that there must be something in writing somewhere that attested to its existence. But anything of that nature was likely to be in the hands of Mr. Faulkner and I had no idea how to go about getting hold of it. However, after I started suspecting Guy I remembered that I had seen him with a letter one day which seemed to have put him in a bad temper. I only caught a glimpse of it but I thought I recognized the handwriting. It was then that I made the connection and realized that it was Mr. Faulkner’s.’

  ‘That was the famous letter your man William took from the box.’

  ‘Yes—and the letter that sent Mr. Faulkner to his death. In trying to blackmail Guy he misjudged his power rather badly, I’m afraid. He thought he was safe because he still held Edward’s money in trust and Guy couldn’t get it without his help. I suppose Guy decided to be satisfied with the ten thousand pounds he got after Philippa and Winifred’s deaths, and preferred to get rid of the thorn in his side that Faulkner had undoubtedly become, rather than submit to blackmail in return for Edward’s share of the money.’

  ‘Yes, blackmail is always very dangerous,’ said Jameson. ‘But what of Ursula Haynes? What did she know, or think she knew?’

  ‘From what I can gather, it appears that Philip told her something of the secret trust, but not whom it was intended to benefit. She thought he was talking about Donald and began to suspect that he might be behind the deaths, so she began to press Mr. Faulkner for information.’

  ‘Why didn’t she mention it to the police? She certainly kicked up enough of a fuss to make us think she wanted the murderer caught. Why not accuse Donald outright?’

  ‘The other night she said that she had kept quiet out of affection for Louisa,’ said Angela. ‘That might be true, I suppose, but I’m not entirely convinced of it myself. Ursula is a queer, calculating sort of woman, and I think she may have had some idea of using the information to her own advantage.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Let us look at it from her point of view. She suspects her husband has been murdered. She rather despised him, so it is not his loss she feels so much as the loss of five thousand pounds, which reverts to Philip’s solicitor. She believes that the unknown beneficiary of the secret trust is the killer, and that Mr. Faulkner knows who it is, but she also knows that murder would be hard to prove. She wants to get the money back one way or another. What does she do, then? First, she reports her suspicions to the police. They can do all the hard work investigating the matter for her, and if they find a murderer then so much the better, since she will get the money back. However, she wants to hedge her bets and so she stops short of naming anyone in particular.’

  ‘What do you mean, hedge her bets?’

  ‘Why, if she gives Donald’s name to the police immediately and they find no evidence against him, then the game is up and she has no other means of recovering the five thousand pounds. So what she does instead is to make a great show of implying that she knows who did it and is just waiting for the right moment to reveal all. This, she believes, will frighten Donald and Mr. Faulkner, and make it possible to reach some kind of financial settlement in private if the police fail to deliver the goods.’

  ‘A kind of blackmail, you mean?’

  ‘I doubt she saw it in that way, since the money was rightfully hers, but yes, I suppose one could call it that.’

  ‘The Hayneses ought to be grateful to you for rescuing those two letters from the attic,’ said Jameson. ‘Had they got burnt then there would have been no evidence of a secret trust and the money would have gone to Mr. Faulkner’s heirs instead of Philip’s.’

  ‘Was there nothing else in writing, then?’

  ‘Nothing that we could find. But thanks to the letters there should be no difficulty now in returning the money to Ursula and Susan.’

  ‘So Ursula’s plan worked in the end,’ said Angela. ‘She will be glad of the money now that she has to fund her son’s legal costs. Do you think they will be very hard on him?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Jameson. ‘Peake’s seem to be rather embarrassed that they allowed a trusted employee to get away with stealing so much money, and so they are attempting to maintain a discreet distance. But that doesn’t alter the fact that a crime has been committed.’

  ‘True,’ said Angela, ‘and it’s not as though there were any mitigating circumstances either—Robin simply got greedy and took what was not his. However, he has Ursula on his side.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jameson. ‘I shouldn’t like to bet on the might of the law winning out against a Mrs. Ursula Haynes on the warpath.’

  The inspector shortly afterwards took his leave and Angela was left to her own reflections. On the whole she was satisfied at the way things had turned out, although she was sincerely sorry that Guy had come to such an unfortunate end even if he had tried to murder her. He had been a most charming and clever young man. Who knew how he might have turned out had he been more fortunate in his family history?

  But Philip Haynes: what kind of man must he have been, to have wanted to cause such chaos among his family even after his death? John had suggested half-jokingly that his father’s will had been designed especially to set the Hayneses at each other’s throats, and sure enough he had been right. Philip’s malice had led to the untimely deaths of at least three of his children and one of his grandchildren, as well as his solicitor. John was the only child now; thank God he had turned out a sensible man, since he was the only one left to pick up the pieces after th
e destruction wrought by his father. It would be a long, hard task.

  THIRTY-SIX

  A few days later Angela received a visit from Louisa, who was dying to talk to her about the whole affair.

  ‘I’m so glad you are much better, Angela,’ she said as soon as she entered the room. ‘I have been feeling quite dreadful, because of course it was all my fault. I ought never to have asked you to do it, but I assure you I never dreamed that you should be plunged into danger like that. Please say you will forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, so you needn’t worry in the slightest,’ said Angela. ‘I am only sorry the thing couldn’t have been resolved without burning your house down.’

  ‘It’s not quite as bad as that,’ said Louisa. ‘Obviously there’s been quite a bit of damage to the roof and some of the upstairs rooms will be uninhabitable for a while, but luckily the men managed to put the fire out before it took a proper hold.’

  ‘That is a relief,’ said Angela. ‘John would never speak to me again if I destroyed his beloved Underwood House. How is he, by the way?’

  ‘Exceedingly upset and ashamed, and doing his best to hide it by being as bad-tempered as possible.’

  ‘Dear me. Poor Louisa—are you having to bear the brunt of it all yourself?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Had I been offended by John’s manners I never should have married him in the first place. He has been truly distressed by the whole affair, so we are all being kind to him.’

  ‘How did he know who Guy was?’

  ‘He accidentally overheard Philip talking to Mr. Faulkner about it a couple of years ago, at about the time Philip was drawing up the final version of his will and creating the secret trust. He kept quiet about it because Guy hadn’t mentioned it himself, so John thought he must be ashamed of it.’