The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (21 page)

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.

‘
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.

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.’