The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (10 page)

‘
I did happen to catch a glimpse of him. I should say he looked decidedly wary.’

‘
Wary,’ repeated Angela thoughtfully as the car left the village and began to pick up speed on its journey back to London. What did it all mean? What did Mr. Faulkner know that was seemingly so vital to Ursula? Presumably it must have something to do with Philip Haynes’s will—the will that Angela had not yet succeeded in seeing. Was Ursula angry that Mr. Faulkner was enjoying the benefits of Philip’s fortune? A fortune that had once belonged to her and Robin before Edward died? She was not the kind of woman to accept defeat easily. Did she suspect that the solicitor had come by the money dishonestly—had influenced the writing of Philip’s will in some way? Or did she even think that he had committed the murders himself? Angela remembered how keen Mr. Faulkner had been to present her with his alibis for the three evenings in question. Could they really be that unshakeable? She would have to ask Inspector Jameson.

Mrs. Marchmont sighed to herself. What was the solution to the mystery at Underwood House? Who was behind the mysterious deaths?—for she was now almost certain that the deaths of Winifred and Edward, at least, had not been accidental. It was tempting to plump for Robin as the most obvious suspect, especially if it were indeed he who had taken his aunt’s money. Fear of exposure would certainly constitute a strong motive for murder, and—whether she liked to admit it or not—he was the most unprepossessing of all the people she had spoken to so far. There was also the fact that Louisa was clearly hoping against hope that he was the guilty party. Yes, Robin’s guilt would certainly be the easiest way out. And yet—and yet Angela was not convinced. Somehow Robin did not fit into the picture as a murderer. Why should he kill his father, for example? There was no apparent motive there. Unfriendly and ill-favoured he might be, but violent? It was difficult to imagine him holding his father’s head under water as he struggled, or pushing his aunt to her death thirty feet below. Perhaps he might have poisoned Philippa—that seemed more his type of method—but again, why?

Angela shook her head. She was uncomfortably aware that there was one person in particular who appeared to know more than he was prepared to reveal, and she wondered how on earth she was going to tackle him. John Haynes had left the house immediately after lunch, so she had been unable to question him, but truth to tell that was something of a relief as she had not yet decided upon the best way to approach him. How exactly did one go about asking the husband of a friend whether or not he was hiding a guilty secret without offending both the husband
and
the friend?

‘
I shall have to think about that later,’ she said to herself.

‘
Very wise, ma’am,’ said William, from the driver’s seat.

Angela started. She had not realized she was speaking aloud.

‘
Some
people have servants who don’t presume to comment on their employers’ decisions,’ she remarked to nobody in particular.

William grinned.

‘
Is that so, ma’am?’ he said. ‘Begging your pardon, but would these happen to be the same people whose servants aren’t required to eavesdrop on dangerous murder suspects?’

Angela opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a snap and looked out of the window.

‘
I am going to visit an artistic lady today, Marthe,’ said Mrs. Marchmont, standing in front of the long glass in her bedroom and considering her reflection dispassionately. ‘What do you suppose would be the most suitable thing for me to wear?’

Marthe thought for a moment.

‘
The peach
marocain
will be too formal, I think,’ she said. ‘I have seen these types of people before. They are not
chic
. They like to hide themselves under ugly garments that sweep and swoop, so everyone will believe they are dedicated to their art above all and have no time to attend to their
toilette
. Pah!’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘How stupid they are! To dress well, make no mistake, that is also an art. Very well, perhaps the dark-blue tunic in
mousseline de soie
, with the silver pendant and earrings in which
madame
looks so elegant.’

‘
That will be perfect,’ said Angela. ‘You are very right in what you say about dressing well, and I am glad I have you to guide me, Marthe.’

Marthe preened, then turned briskly to her task. Angela allowed herself to be primped and adorned to the girl’s satisfaction, then sallied out in a rather daring new turban that she had been unable to resist buying on a recent trip to Paris, despite its fabulous price.

Susan Dennison—or Euphrosyne Dennison as she was known in her own milieu—lived and worked in a mews house in a run-down part of Chelsea that was considered quite the capital of English Bohemia. Angela was shown up three steep flights of stairs to an enormous attic space which was airy and bright, and which would no doubt be absolutely bathed in sunlight on a less overcast day than the present one. The room had the typical appearance of an artist’s studio, with bare, dirty floor-boards, uncovered windows and detritus of all kinds piled up in the corners. Paintbrushes and jars of water lay on every surface, while canvases in various stages of completion stood around the walls. The smell of turpentine and oil-paint was all-pervasive. Angela approached an easel, on which stood what was presumably Miss Dennison’s latest creation, and viewed the work with a critical eye. It was painted in the modern style and appeared to represent a plump and resplendent nude with greenish-tinged skin, surrounded by a writhing mass of snakes that were devouring a mound of rotting fruit. Angela was not an expert, but as far as she could tell the artist displayed some sign of talent.

‘
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.