The Murder at Sissingham Hall

The Murder At Sissingham Hall

Clara Benson

Copyright

© 2012 Clara Benson

All rights reserved

The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

ISBN:
978-1-300-84121-0

clarabenson.com

Cover design by Yang Liu waterpaperink.com

The Murder at Sissingham Hall

On his return from South Africa, Charles Knox is invited to spend the weekend at the country home of Sir Neville Strickland, whose beautiful wife Rosamund was once Knox's fiancée. But in the dead of night Sir Neville is murdered. Who did it? As suspicion falls on each of the house guests in turn, Knox finds himself faced with deception and betrayal on all sides, and only the enigmatic Angela Marchmont seems to offer a solution to the mystery. This 1920s whodunit in the vein of Agatha Christie will delight all fans of traditional country house murder stories.

ONE

It is always a very odd feeling, returning to one’s home country after a long period abroad. The countryside, the towns, the cities, people going about their daily business, even the weather, look familiar and yet at the same time strange. It reminds me of the feeling I once experienced on accidentally observing myself in a looking-glass which had been placed at right-angles to another—it was quite a shock to see a reflection of my reflection and suddenly realize that my true face was all lop-sided. When I got my first glimpse of the quayside from the deck of the
Ruthin Castle
, a welcome sight after the long voyage, a jolt of joy went through me, yet at the same time I felt oddly shy, like a small boy made to stand up in the drawing-room and recite poetry before a gathering of stern aunts.

‘No-one will be here to welcome me,’ I thought to myself, as the vessel drew ponderously into Southampton dock. ‘I am like a stranger in my own country. Shall I be able to settle down, I wonder?’

The gang-plank went down and I disembarked with the rest of the passengers, alone in the midst of a teeming mass of humanity. For a moment I stood on the quayside, my feet on English soil for the first time in eight years, discomposed by the bustling crowd of passengers, sailors and porters and momentarily uncertain as to which way to go. But just as I was heartily beginning to wish that I had remained in South Africa, I heard a piercing whistle through the din and, turning my head, saw two figures weaving with difficulty towards me. My heart leapt. I was not a stranger after all.

‘Bobs!’ I cried. It was indeed my oldest friend, ‘Bobs’ Buckley, accompanied by a rather good-looking girl I didn’t recognize. I had written to Bobs, informing him of my impending return but I had been far from expecting him to come and meet me. I started forward.

‘Bobs! How marvellous to see you,’ I said, beaming, as I wrung his hand. ‘I had no idea you intended to come and meet me. I thought I should have to slink up to town all alone like a disgraced relative.’

‘Think nothing of it, old chap,’ said Bobs, with a grin. ‘Couldn’t let an old friend down. Thought we’d give you a surprise. As a matter of fact, your return has come at just the right time. I’ve been wanting to try out the Lagonda on a straight run, just to see what she can do. My word, you should have seen her fly!’

‘Oh! I know I shall never recover from the fright. I’m certain my hair has turned completely white,’ cried the girl. ‘Bobs, I’m sure you ran over that cat in Winchester.’

‘A mere bump in the road, I assure you,’ said Bobs airily. ‘In any case, it would serve it right if I had run over it. A cat has no business getting in my way when I am in a hurry.’

‘Silly!’ said the girl, exasperatedly. ‘How was your trip, Charles? Was it too terribly ghastly? Where are your things? Bring the bags along please,’ (to the porter). ‘By the way, you are coming back to Bucklands with us, aren’t you? I mean, I suppose you don’t have any immediate business in town? Mother and Father are very much looking forward to seeing you.’

‘I—I—’ I said, confused by this torrent of speech and puzzled as to which question to answer first. Before I could answer any of them, it dawned upon me suddenly who she was and I started in surprise.

‘Sylvia!’ I exclaimed. ‘I hardly recognized you. Good heavens! I had no idea you had grown up. Have I really been away that long?’

When I had last seen Bobs’s sister, she had been an ungainly schoolgirl with a grubby face and a reckless disregard for the state of her clothes; quite different from the smart, fashionable young woman standing in front of me now. I could not help staring at her, astonished at how much she had changed. She flushed slightly and pulled a face, which immediately brought to memory the tom-boy she had once been and I laughed.

We all stood there for a few moments, grinning foolishly at each other as the crowd flowed around us, then Bobs said:

‘Better get going then, if we’re going to make it back to Bucklands at any time today.’

‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Sylvia. ‘I suppose I shall have to risk life and limb once again. I simply
insist
that you come back with us,’ she said, linking her arm through mine and turning towards a monstrous, dark-green contraption that could only be Bobs’s latest motor-car, ‘Otherwise I shall have to listen to Bobs’s piffle all the way back to Bucklands.’

‘Rot. You know perfectly well that I speak only words of the utmost wisdom. I say, isn’t she a beauty, Charles?’ said Bobs, eagerly. ‘I’ve never had a car like her. On a clear stretch of road she can easily do eighty miles per hour.’

Having duly expressed my admiration, I was permitted to climb in. Once the baggage was safely installed and the porter suitably remunerated, we set off at breakneck speed, narrowly missing an elderly gentleman and a nurse pushing a pram. It was clear that Sylvia had not been exaggerating when she had spoken of Bobs’s driving skills.

‘I see that you are still seeking out danger wheresoever it may lurk, Bobs,’ I remarked, as we reached the London road and the powerful motor-car began to eat up the miles. Bobs shrugged.

‘You know how it is. I never could seem to settle back into things after the War. I should have liked to join the Air Force but Father wouldn’t hear of it. Not after Ralph died, you know.’ Ralph was Bobs’s elder brother, who had been killed at Arras. ‘So I confine myself to more sedate activities.’ He looked as though he were about to say something more but then thought better of it.

I made some reply and tactfully changed the subject.

Sylvia had, understandably, preferred to sit in the back seat. I turned round and complimented her on her new-found elegance.

‘It seems only yesterday that you were putting frog-spawn in my pockets,’ I said. ‘But how you’ve changed! You are quite the
chic
lady. I hardly know what to say.’

Sylvia accepted my compliments with great composure.

‘Oh, Sylvia still puts frog-spawn in people’s pockets,’ Bobs assured me. ‘Only last week there was very nearly an embarrassing incident with the American Ambassador during cocktails. Luckily, Rankin came to the rescue just in time. I really don’t know what we’d do without Rankin. In fact, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Father disinherits me and adopts Rankin as his heir. There’s no doubt he deserves it more than I.’

‘Well, I’m sure he doesn’t go around running over people’s cats,’ said Sylvia.

‘Of course not! He’s far too solemn and lugubrious for that. I say, isn’t “lugubrious” a marvellous word? And it fits Rankin to a nicety. No, I can’t see him running over cats but I can imagine him wringing their necks as a hobby,’ he continued darkly. ‘Perhaps if we went into his room we should see them hanging around the walls like bunting.’

‘How absurd you are, Bobs! As you can see, Charles, he hasn’t changed a bit. Neither have I, really. I’m just a little more polished these days, now that Rosamund has taken me in hand.’

Too late, Bobs shot her a warning look, as a thrill ran through me.

‘Rosamund?’ I inquired. ‘Rosamund Hamilton?’

‘Rosamund Strickland now,’ corrected Sylvia.

‘Yes, of course, I forgot. Has she been giving you lessons in dress and deportment? Picking up handkerchiefs and all that, what?’

‘Not exactly. A couple of years ago when she was down at Bucklands, I happened to admire her clothes and she insisted on introducing me to her dressmaker. You know Mother—she is rather vague and much happier grubbing about in the garden in tweeds, so it was quite a relief to find someone who really takes an interest. One receives so many invitations these days and I was quite floundering, as it was no use begging Mother to take me up to town. Luckily, Rosamund came to the rescue. She knows all the best places to go and Mother was quite happy to relinquish the responsibility. Look out!’ she said, suddenly, as Bobs swerved to avoid a pheasant.

As she and Bobs argued, I was silent, deep in thought. It had come as a shock to hear Rosamund’s name mentioned so soon after arriving back in England and now I examined my feelings closely, not wholly able to make them out. Certainly, I admitted to myself, I should not have been surprised to hear about her—she had always been part of our ‘set’ in the old days and there was no reason why she should not have remained so, especially since I had left England shortly after our engagement came to an end. It was hardly reasonable to expect her to stop seeing my friends once I was out of the picture; in fact it sounded pretty much as though she and Sylvia had become bosom pals in the meantime. Rosamund was not the reason for my leaving the country—so I had always told myself, but was that true? At any rate, there was no use in regretting how things had turned out, as she had married at almost the same time as I left and I—well, I had found myself with other things to worry about in that harsh, unforgiving heat.

So I reflected, then smiled to myself as I decided that the romantic feelings I had once had for Rosamund had long since disappeared. In fact, it would be rather nice to see her again. After all, she had always been a most charming woman, with the ability to make a chap feel like the wittiest and most attractive man in the room. Tired and jaded though I was, I was looking forward to getting back into things and showing the world that while experience might have battered me a little, it had certainly not beaten me and that I was ever the man I had been.

The rest of the journey was uneventful and as we turned in at the lodge gates of Bucklands, Bobs threw me a sideways glance.

‘All right, old man?’ he asked. I knew what he meant.

‘All right,’ I replied, smiling.

‘Here we are. It’s not much but it’s home,’ he said, as we drew up in front of the stately pile that had been the seat of the Buckleys since the Restoration or thereabouts, so it was claimed. The Buckleys were an old, old family that throughout the ages had survived and prospered by shrewdly backing the right side during times of strife, marrying into the right families and sending its sons into Parliament to pursue long, worthy careers. The present generation was no exception.

I received a quiet yet sincere welcome from Lord and Lady Haverford, whom I had always considered as a second family, my own having been so unhappy in so many ways. I was shown to a warm, comfortable room and urged in the friendliest manner to remain at Bucklands for as long as I liked.

We were a gay party that evening, talking nineteen to the dozen, recalling old times. My sun-tan was remarked upon and I was begged most flatteringly to recount some of my adventures abroad which, I must admit, were not as thrilling as I should have liked. Not for me the daring, dangerous life of a true pioneer or a big game hunter. I had left England to take up a respectable post running a farm; subsequently, finding farming a disappointment, I had tried mining and as luck would have it, had struck gold—literally—almost immediately. Much of my time abroad had therefore been taken up with the day-to-day running of my business. Fortunately, my adventures were enough to entertain my audience and Lord Haverford in particular intimated that he would like to pursue talks further at a later date, on a more business-like footing.