The Incident at Fives Castle (An Angela Marchmont Mystery #5) (2 page)

Angela Marchmont applied her lipstick with care, and was just about to put on her hat when the telephone-bell rang.

‘Hallo, Mrs. M,’ said a familiar voice at the other end of the line. ‘All ready, then?’

‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Angela. ‘Yes, I was about to set off.’

‘Good,’ said Freddy Pilkington-Soames. ‘I was just calling to make sure you weren’t going to funk it.’

‘Why on earth did you think I was going to funk it?’

‘Because I saw your face when Gertie attacked you and insisted on your coming. You wanted to say no but couldn’t think of an excuse on the spot.’

Angela laughed.

‘That’s true enough,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the habit of turning up to stay at the homes of people I barely know. As it happens, however, Lady Strathmerrick personally sent me a very kind invitation, which made me less uneasy about it. She also mentioned that the American Ambassador and his wife will be there, and that clinched the thing, as they’re old friends of mine whom I haven’t seen in years.’

‘I see,’ said Freddy. ‘Angela, is there anyone in the world you
don’t
know?’

‘Oh, probably,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘Besides, I might ask the same thing of you.’

‘I am known and beloved by everybody, naturally,’ said Freddy. ‘That’s why I get invited everywhere. Not like my friend St. John, who has become
persona non grata
ever since he went all militant. He was desperate to come to Fives with us as he’s been mooning after Gertie ever since I introduced them a few months ago. She thinks he’s an idiot, but he won’t listen to reason. He just keeps on sending her silly poems and making sheep’s eyes at her in the hope that one day she’ll notice what a dashing fellow he is and go and live with him in a grimy hovel in Whitechapel.’

‘I do hope you’re going to behave yourself,’ said Angela. ‘I’ve seen what mischief you and Gertie can get up to in combination.’

‘Of course I’m going to behave myself,’ said Freddy. ‘I shall be a paragon of virtue. Difficult to be otherwise, really, in the presence of the parents and family of one’s friends.’

‘Are they all as—er—lively as Gertie?’ asked Angela curiously.

‘No, nothing like it,’ said Freddy. ‘The Earl and Countess are nice enough but pretty staid, all told. Priss is lovely to look at—and doesn’t she know it! But she’s engaged to a bright young politician, so there’s no fun to be had there.’

‘I should think not,’ said Angela.

‘Then there’s a younger sister, Clemmie. She’s about eighteen or nineteen. She’s nowhere near Gertie’s equal for tricks, but she shows promise for the future. The last time I saw her she was at the sulky stage and wouldn’t smile. Apparently, she’s taken it into her head to study science, and who knows, she might even make a decent fist of it. She’s got brains, all right. Then there are two younger boys, Gus and Bobby, neither of whom is old enough to be of any interest to us. The American Ambassador, though,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, Gertie mentioned him. That’s rather interesting, now I come to think of it.’

‘Why?’ said Angela, and repeated her question when he did not reply.

‘Because I have the feeling that something is afoot, Watson,’ he said.

‘Really?’ said Angela. ‘Of what nature, exactly?’

‘Oh, political, naturally. You know Sandy Buchanan is going to be there, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but why is that important? Surely Foreign Secretaries are allowed to visit their friends at New Year just like everybody else?’

‘Of course they are, but why should he be going there at the same time as the American Ambassador? Are they going to discuss important matters of state?’

‘Perhaps you ought to ask him,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t see anything particularly suspicious in it myself. Great men tend to spend time with other great men. Did Gladstone and Disraeli have tea together, I wonder? I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if they did.’

‘They loathed each other, by all accounts.’

‘Did they? Well then, I expect they glared at each other over sherry and made pointed remarks. Anyway, even if they are going to talk about matters of state, why should that interest us? It will probably just be negotiations about the order of precedence at official banquets or something—deadly serious to them and awfully dull to the rest of us.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Freddy. ‘Perhaps I have spent too much time lately cultivating my natural suspicion.’

‘I think you have. But even a reporter must take a few days off now and again, you know.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Freddy. ‘Very well, I’m glad you’re coming, at any rate. I shall be setting off soon myself, so I dare say I’ll see you this evening at dinner.’

He saluted her and rang off. Angela put on her hat, summoned her maid, Marthe, and prepared to leave.

‘Are we all set, William?’ she asked, when they arrived downstairs to where her chauffeur was waiting with the Bentley.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the young man replied cheerfully. He held the door open for her, and then he and Marthe got into the front seats and they set off for the North.

For the first few miles, Angela sat in silence while William and Marthe conversed politely in the front. Angela was glad of that, as the two had a somewhat prickly relationship in general. William would have been glad to be friends, but Marthe considered herself to be a cut above him and tended to be frosty. Today, at any rate, they seemed to be getting on.

The Bentley ate up the miles and by mid-afternoon, sooner than Angela would have thought possible, they were crossing the border into Scotland. There was still some way to go yet, for Fives Castle was in the southern part of the Cairngorms, many miles to the North of Edinburgh. As they left that city behind them, Angela noticed that the air grew colder and fresher, and she thought she could detect the scent of pine needles. The sky had gone a flat, dingy grey, and there was a closeness to the atmosphere, despite the cold.

‘I do believe it is going to snow,’ she remarked. ‘I hope you have both brought plenty of thick clothes with you. I don’t know how warm these Scottish castles are.’

William’s expression said that he was not afraid of a bit of snow, while Marthe shivered and pulled her coat more closely around her.

‘Yes,
madame
,’ she said. ‘I have heard that Scotland is as cold as the North Pole, and so I made sure to pack my warmest things. And yours too.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Angela, and fell silent again, wondering, not for the first time, whether it had been a good idea to accept Gertie McAloon’s invitation. Angela had, almost by accident, done the girl a good turn a few months ago during the Gipsy’s Mile case, and Gertie in her gratitude had been keen to make Mrs. Marchmont’s closer acquaintance. But Angela knew very little of the Strathmerrick family, except that the Earl was something important behind the scenes in the Government, and that they all spent some part of each year at Fives Castle. Freddy was going, and that was something at least; and it would be nice to see Aubrey and Selma Nash again after several years, but Angela could not help feeling something of an interloper, despite Lady Strathmerrick’s kind invitation.

It was getting dark now, and the trees overhead made it even darker. The road narrowed and began to wind gently through the pine woods. William was driving slowly, mindful that he was unfamiliar with the place. Here and there the motor’s head-lamps briefly caught a deer, or a rabbit, or some other animal as it darted off into the forest. Then it began to snow.

‘You were right, ma’am,’ said William, as the first large flakes drifted down all around them, looking rather like scraps of torn paper that had been thrown up into the air and were now bobbing back down to earth. The snow fell gently at first, then more and more thickly. It began to lie on the road and on the grass verges. Soon enough, the trees were resplendent in thin silvery coats and Angela was becoming concerned.

‘Is it far, do you suppose?’ she said.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied William. ‘As a matter of fact, I was expecting to see the entrance a while back. Ah—here we are.’

The road was now bounded to their right by a high stone wall. It ran for a mile or so, then curved away from them, and they saw that they had arrived at the gates of the Fives estate. William turned the Bentley in and past the gatekeeper’s cottage, and proceeded slowly along the narrow, winding road, which rose and dipped through the trees. There was not enough snow yet to cause the car any difficulties, but Angela was glad they had arrived when they did. If it continued at this rate then it would surely be two or three feet deep by morning.

The Bentley crested the brow of a small hill and emerged from the trees, and they had their first view of Fives Castle, which stood out in sharp relief against the eerie, darkening sky. In spite of herself, Angela was struck by the grandeur of the building. There are some Scottish castles which hardly deserve the name, and could be more appropriately defined as large houses, but that was by no means the case here. With its frowning bulk, its turrets, its crenellations and its hundreds of windows, many of which were lit up, there was no doubt that Fives Castle inhabited its name and description comfortably—indeed, it seemed to Angela that had someone set out to build something that could be held as a model for the ideal of a Scottish castle, he could not have made a better job of it. William and Marthe had fallen silent and were gazing at the enormous mass that loomed ahead of them. At last, Marthe murmured something in French which Angela did not catch, although to judge by the girl’s expression she was unwillingly impressed.

‘What do you think, William?’ said Angela.

‘Well, it sure is big,’ said William. ‘I’d like to say something more poetic but that’s the first word that comes to mind.’

Angela laughed.

‘And to mine too,’ she said.

‘It is very big,’ said Marthe. ‘I hope it is also warm. I have noticed that the English are very fond of cold rooms. Me, I like to sit by the fire.’

‘My, but the snow is coming down thickly,’ said Angela, as the flakes swirled and flurried about them. ‘I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if we were snowed in by tomorrow.’

‘I’d like that,’ said William. ‘I’ve never been stuck in a castle before. It would be an adventure. Do you suppose they have any ghosts here?’

‘Ghosts?’ said Marthe. ‘I do not like ghosts.’

‘Don’t worry, Marthe,’ said Angela. ‘There won’t be any ghosts. And if we do get snowed in it is more likely to be very dull than anything else.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ said William.

The Bentley now drew to a halt before the castle’s massive oaken doors, which despite the weather were thrown open to reveal a glimpse of a dimly-lit entrance-hall beyond. The doors were framed by a grand portico, which was flanked by two stone lions. A manservant emerged with an umbrella and opened the door of the Bentley to allow Angela to descend. She hurried into the shelter of the portico with thanks, and the servant directed William and Marthe around to the servants’ entrance. At that moment, a long, gleaming Daimler drew up, which must have been following close behind them. Angela paused as she recognized the occupants of the car. Someone had evidently recognized her too, for the door was flung open and a woman sprang out without waiting for assistance. She was swathed in furs and sported a cunning hat which did not quite hide the expensively-styled golden hair beneath. Even wrapped up as she was, it was clear to see that she was impossibly glamorous.

‘Why, it’s Angela Marchmont!’ she exclaimed delightedly. ‘Aubrey, look who’s here! Angela, you never told us you were coming. How simply marvellous! Look, Aubrey!’

Aubrey Nash now joined them, smiling broadly, and greeted Angela with less effusiveness but no less pleasure, gazing into her eyes and pressing her hand warmly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, in the way of Americans, with a quiet, thoughtful manner. Angela had known them well a few years ago when she was living in New York, but had not seen them for some time as Aubrey had been posted abroad.

They stood for a few moments under the portico, inquiring about each other’s health, families and recent doings, while the manservant hovered politely.

‘Oh, but this weather is filthy,’ said Selma at last. ‘I swear, darling, much as I just love your fine nation, I’m sure the cold and the wet will be the death of me.’

‘Then let’s get inside,’ said her husband.

Once safely indoors, they found themselves standing in a large, square entrance-hall, from the centre of which rose a magnificent carved staircase. Straight ahead, on the first half-landing, was an enormous Gothic window of stained glass. It was dark at present, but Angela imagined the window would look spectacular in daylight. The dim electric lights (the place had been modernized, at least) revealed that the walls were hung all around with shields, swords, halberds, flags, coats-of-arms and other heraldic symbols, as well as the usual assortment of heads removed forcibly from wild animals without their unfortunate owners’ consent. A particularly bad-tempered looking stag glared at them from a wall to their right. There was even a suit of armour standing to attention at the bottom of the stairs, although the man who had worn it some four hundred years earlier must have been a good few inches shorter than Angela.

They had barely divested themselves of their outer garments when there was a clattering noise from above them and Gertie McAloon came hurtling down the stairs. She arrived breathlessly just as another woman emerged more sedately through a door that led from the hall. There was a strong resemblance between the two of them, and Angela recognized the older woman as Lady Strathmerrick, whom she had glimpsed briefly once a few months earlier. The Countess greeted the American Ambassador and his wife with affection, then turned to Angela and held out a hand.

‘How do you do?’ she said, with a touch of reserve which did not escape her daughter. ‘You must be Mrs. Marchmont. I am Lady Strathmerrick.’

‘Hallo, Angela, I’m so pleased you could come,’ said Gertie. ‘Mother, now I insist that you be kind to my friends. They’re not all dissipated inebriates, you know. Many of them—perhaps even most—know perfectly well how to behave in polite company.’

A pained look passed fleetingly across Lady Strathmerrick’s face at Gertie’s blunt insistence on making public what had been said in private, but she affected not to notice the inference.

‘Have you met Mr. and Mrs. Nash?’ she said.

‘Oh yes, we’re old friends,’ said Angela.

‘Indeed?’ said Lady Strathmerrick in surprise. She seemed to unbend slightly at this discovery.

‘Do come and have a cocktail,’ said Gertie, rather contradicting her previous statement. ‘Or there’s tea if you’d prefer.’

Angela thought it politic to take the safer course. ‘I should love some tea,’ she said with more enthusiasm than she really felt, and was rewarded with an approving glance from the Countess.

‘Is Gabe here?’ said Aubrey Nash.

‘Yes, he arrived a little while ago,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘He’s shut up in the study with my husband and the gentleman from the civil service but they should be along shortly. The rest of us are in the West drawing-room.’

She led them out of the entrance-hall and into a long, brightly-lit gallery bordered on one side by windows that presumably looked onto the garden, although given the near-darkness outside, it was difficult to tell. Along the wall of the gallery hung portraits of twenty generations of McAloons and their consorts and children, as well as one or two portraits of Kings and Queens that Angela remembered as having seen in books.

Gertie was talking brightly, nineteen to the dozen. She appeared to be on her best behaviour and Angela guessed that her mother had given her a stern talking-to in advance of the party’s arrival.

‘Most of the formal rooms are shut up in winter,’ she was saying. ‘They’re dreadfully cold and damp pretty much all year, except in the height of summer, and they’re just not worth heating up except when we have a really large party. The ball-room will be opened up tomorrow, though, for the dance.’

‘The dance?’ said Angela.

‘Oh yes,’ said Gertie. ‘Every year at Hogmanay we hold a dance for the servants and the tenants and anyone who cares to come from the village. It’s all great fun. Everybody stuffs themselves and jumps about and has a jolly good time, and all the young men fight over who gets to dance with Priss. She hates it but has to put a brave face on it and pretend she’s enjoying herself.’

‘It sounds delightful,’ said Angela. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

They now entered a large, comfortable drawing-room which was evidently the one favoured by the family, for it had the air of being well-used. Although it was smart and tastefully decorated, Angela noticed that the carpet was somewhat worn, and that some of the chairs and sofas sagged a little. One armchair was firmly occupied by an elderly retriever, who evidently considered it to be his rightful property: he made no attempt to move as the guests arrived, but merely cocked an eye and an ear at them and carried on with his nap.

A young man with a complacent demeanour rose from a sofa as they entered, and stood to polite attention. This was Claude Burford, whom Angela remembered hearing of as a rising politician. He shook hands with her, and Angela had the strangest feeling that he was looking at her and attempting to gauge whether or not she was a person of any importance. Evidently he was unable to decide, for a frown of puzzlement crossed his face briefly, which pleased her, since she much preferred not to be so easily read.

‘This is my eldest daughter, Priscilla,’ said Lady Strathmerrick.

‘Hallo, Mrs. Marchmont,’ drawled Priss, not bothering to stand up. She was both exquisitely beautiful and exquisitely bored and made no attempt to hide the fact. The Countess gave her an exasperated glance but said nothing.

‘Claude and Priss are going to be married,’ said Gertie. ‘Isn’t that right, Priss? I’ll bet you can’t wait for the wedding, can you? Won’t it be fun to be a politician’s wife?’

Priss glared at her younger sister but did not respond to the needling. Instead, she said, ‘Give me a cigarette, Claude, will you?’ The young man gave her a meaningful look, and she sighed and said sulkily, ‘Oh, very well, I shan’t, then.’

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You know how the constituents hate to see a woman smoking.’

‘The constituents aren’t here, though, are they?’ said Priss. ‘Why should they care what I do at home?’ Before Claude could answer, she tossed her head and entered into determinedly polite conversation with Selma Nash.

Gertie gave Angela a wink, and Angela wondered what it was all about. For an engaged woman Priss seemed to lack a certain enthusiasm for the state, and even appeared to hold her betrothed in contempt. Had there been a row? She sipped her tea and wondered how the next few days would turn out.

Lady Strathmerrick seemed to be warming to Angela, now that she had found to her relief that Mrs. Marchmont was not a bright young person who was likely to get up to mischief, but rather an elegant and sophisticated woman close to middle age who was perfectly capable of conversing without using incomprehensible slang. Not only that, she was friends with the American Ambassador and his wife, as well as, apparently, a number of other people of notable importance. That, to Lady Strathmerrick, indicated that Angela was probably All Right, and gave her some cause for relief. She now introduced Angela to Miss Foster, a woman with untidy hair and a vague manner who had once been governess to the children.

‘She was no better at controlling them than I was, though,’ said the Countess with some impatience, ‘and so we gave up and sent them to school.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ agreed Miss Foster mournfully. ‘I fear I am better suited to the life of a companion than a governess.’

‘Not that you’re much company lately,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘If you’d only spend less time on that silly novel of yours, perhaps you’d have more time for me.’

She spoke carelessly, in the manner of a superior to a dependant, but Miss Foster did not seem to take offence.

‘Do you write?’ asked Angela. Miss Foster brightened up.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Indeed I do. I don’t mean to say that my poor efforts will ever be worth publishing, but I find a great deal of satisfaction in putting pen to paper and expressing my very deepest thoughts. There is something almost sublime in the sound of the syllables of the English language, and I must confess I find it quite thrilling to think that by committing my words to paper, I am giving them something in the nature of immortality. To think that people might read my little stories and poems long after I am gone!’

‘You write poetry as well, then?’ said Angela.

Miss Foster puffed up and preened a little.

‘Not to say
poetry
,’ she said modestly. ‘I merely dabble in light verse. Perhaps you would like to hear some?’ She glanced towards a large notebook which sat on a nearby table.

Angela’s attention was just then caught by Gertie, who, unseen by Miss Foster, was shaking her head frantically, eyes wide open in horror.

‘Er—’ began Angela.

She was rescued at that moment by the entrance of a cross-looking girl of eighteen or so, who without waiting for preliminaries said, ‘I say, it’s coming down a blizzard out there. It looks as though we’re going to be snowed in soon. Has everybody arrived now?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Strathmerrick. ‘No, we’re still missing Mr. Pilkington-Soames and the Foreign Secretary.’

‘And Professor Klausen,’ added Claude Burford smoothly.

‘Well, they’d better get a move on,’ said the girl, who Angela guessed to be Clemmie, ‘or they won’t manage it at all. The snow is already three feet thick down in the glen. At this rate, nobody will be able to get here for the dance either.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Gertie. ‘Nothing would keep them away. It’s the high-light of the year for most of them. They’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.’

‘I do hope we don’t get any gate-crashers as we did last year,’ said Clemmie. ‘We were turning them out of dark corners for weeks afterwards. MacDonald says he’s already seen a suspicious-looking character hanging about the place today. He ran off when he was spotted, though.’

‘Well, if he was a gate-crasher then he was a pretty inept one,’ said Gertie. ‘The dance isn’t till tomorrow.’

‘Dear me,’ said the Countess. ‘Do you think we ought to send out a search-party for the remaining guests? I should hate them to get stuck in the snow.’

‘No need for that, Lady Strathmerrick,’ said a voice from by the door and they all turned to see Sandy Buchanan and his wife entering the room. Angela recognized him immediately: he was the darling of the newspapers because of his sociable nature, and he and his young wife were frequently photographed attending the opera, or the ballet, or the opening of a new art gallery, or the summer parties of the rich and well-born.

Buchanan greeted everyone heartily, pressed Lady Strathmerrick’s hand and clapped Claude Burford on the back. As he shook hands with Angela she again had the queerest feeling that she was being assessed, for the Foreign Secretary gave her a searching glance and looked deep into her eyes. Then came a little nod and a twist of the mouth, and Angela wondered what he had seen and whether he had approved of her. She had the feeling that he was not so easily shut out as Claude.

Eleanor Buchanan was much younger than her husband, and wore her hair back from her face, which threw her thick, dark eyebrows and high cheekbones into sharp relief. She would have been strikingly attractive were it not for an intense, watchful manner and unsmiling expression which put one rather in mind of a wild animal that sees enemies all around it. The Foreign Secretary had entered into conversation with Aubrey Nash, and she looked towards the two men warily, her fingers playing unconsciously with a gold locket she wore around her neck. Angela thought she had never seen anybody so tense, and did her best to put her at ease, although she did not seem to be having much success, for Mrs. Buchanan replied in monosyllables and glanced to her right and left as she spoke, and Angela soon gave it up and left her to herself.