The Murder at Sissingham Hall (28 page)

‘Well, I must go now,’ said the inspector. ‘Thank you once again, Mrs. Marchmont, for your help, and please do not think too hardly of yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Angela. ‘I shall try and take your advice.’

They left the room together, and I was left to my own sorry reflections. Angela might be able to forgive herself in time, but I thought I should never be able to shake off my own self-disgust.

TWENTY-TWO

It was a crisp, bright, early January day when I next stood on the quayside at Southampton, absorbing the bustle and clamour around me. Despite all that had happened so recently, I was surprised to find that I felt a little pang at the thought of leaving England again. I had no idea how long I should be gone—perhaps months or even years, and I could not help but regret the thought of abandoning so quickly what I had intended should be my new life back in the Old Country.

The past few weeks had been difficult ones. The news could not be suppressed and the whole of England had been abuzz with talk of the sensational events at Sissingham Hall. Perhaps only once in a century were the newspapers lucky enough to get hold of such a story—the murder of a titled man by his young and beautiful wife—and all the protagonists had found their lives made rather difficult lately by reporters from publications that catered to the popular end of the market. Gwen and Hugh MacMurray had clearly delighted in the attention: their faces beamed out at me whenever I opened a paper, but for my part, I had spent several weeks dodging round corners and into doorways in order to avoid sharp-looking young men brandishing notebooks. For a man who wanted nothing more than to retire, bruised and alone, into a corner, this was no way to live and so I had decided the only thing to do was to go back to South Africa and immerse myself in business for a while. I should think about returning to England again once the uproar had died down and some other story had replaced the Sissingham tragedy in the mind of the public.

I stood for a little while, lost in thought, then shook myself and prepared to board the vessel, remembering as I did so the hearty welcome I had received from my dearest friend in this very place—a lifetime ago now, it seemed. If I regretted one thing more than anything else, it was the loss of that friend. I had not heard from Bobs since I left Sissingham, although a letter from Angela Marchmont told me that he had returned to Bucklands and was lying low at present. So far, the newspapers had not found out about his affair with Rosamund so it appeared that once more Bobs, that luckiest of men, had sailed near the wind and escaped. If the news were ever to get out though, it would do irreparable harm to his reputation. He had spoken lightly of the effect that his marrying Rosamund would have on his family, which was one of the oldest and most respected in the land, but he must surely have known the scandal and hurt it would cause and I did not believe that he was quite as careless of his parents’ feelings as he claimed. I had thought of writing to him and had got as far as sitting down with pen and paper, but in the end had been unable to think of anything to say that would not make things worse. We had both loved the same woman and both been betrayed by her. What else was there to be said? And then there was Sylvia. I had liked her very much but Rosamund had stood between us and she knew it. How would she feel about my corresponding with Bobs on that subject? No, a discreet withdrawal on my part would be the best thing for all concerned.

‘There you are, old thing,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Don’t stand there dreaming. Better hurry up as we’ll be sailing soon and we don’t want to miss it.’

My heart leapt.

‘Bobs!’ I cried, turning. ‘Why, what on earth are you doing here? And Sylvia!’

‘Hallo, Charles,’ said Sylvia.

The two of them stood before me. Sylvia looked rather serious and perhaps a little thinner than when I had last seen her, but Bobs’s face wore the same expression of irrepressible cheeriness as ever. There was a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, then Bobs grinned and clapped me on the back.

‘Bit of an awkward lull in the conversation there, what? Hardly surprising I suppose, given what happened last time I saw you. Still, forgive and forget, eh? We ought to thank our stars that nothing worse came of it.’

I felt my spirits lift and my face spread into a smile. I grasped his hand and wrung it heartily.

‘Bobs, I can’t tell you—’ I stopped, lost for words.

‘Steady now,’ he said. ‘You didn’t think we’d let you go off all alone, did you? Not when you’ve demonstrated beyond all doubt that you can’t be trusted to stay out of trouble when left to your own devices.’

I shook my head.

‘I don’t see how you can joke about it, Bobs,’ I said. ‘Especially not after—’

I paused, and he grew serious.

‘Sorry, Charles. I suppose now’s not the time. But you know I never was one to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of the past. Chewing over it won’t change what happened, will it? What’s done is done and all that.’

‘I wish I could follow your example,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I am too inclined to brood about things, but I don’t see how one could do otherwise in this instance. Poor Rosamund.’

Bobs’s face darkened and Sylvia bowed her head as we reflected on the last act of the drama in which we had all played such an unwilling part.

I should have known that Rosamund would never have stood for a life in captivity—or worse, allowed herself to be hanged. Once she knew the game was up there was only one thing to do by her lights. She had chosen her own way out and had taken it there in prison, with the help of the Veronal which Dr. Carter had so obligingly given her, and which she had somehow managed to smuggle into her cell. The news had been a blow, but after all that had occurred previously I was practically numb to further shocks. And perhaps it was for the best, as it saved the necessity of a trial which would show few of the witnesses in a favourable aspect. I was too disillusioned to suppose that she had done it for that reason, however. No, I was sure that the idea of preserving her friends from public embarrassment had never crossed her mind. Her one idea had been to save herself from a tricky situation. Sweet, beautiful, terrible Rosamund. Her very memory would forever be inexpressibly painful to me, and I was impatient to get away and avoid all further mentions of her name, which in the past few weeks had been the only one on everyone’s lips.

‘Better go, Charles,’ said Bobs. ‘They’ve just given the all-aboard.’

‘Well then, goodbye,’ I said, holding out my hand.

‘What do you mean, goodbye? You ass, hadn’t you realized that I’m coming with you?’

‘Coming with me?’ I echoed stupidly.

‘Of course! I thought you knew. Father wants me to go out and see how the land lies at this famous mine of yours. Between you and me, though, I think his real purpose in packing me off abroad is to keep me from getting into any more bad company here. After the past few weeks, I may have to concede that point.’

I saw Sylvia smile despite herself, and for the first time in many weeks I felt a glimmer of hope light up within me. If anyone could cheer me it was Bobs. I had not lost my oldest friend after all. The future was not as bleak as I had imagined. Perhaps one day I should even learn to forget.

‘My dear fellow,’ I began.

‘Oh, never mind that rot,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I say! Hi! You there!’

He darted off after a porter. I gazed after him, then turned to Sylvia.

‘No, I’m not coming,’ she said in reply to my unspoken question, ‘but I shall write, if you like.’

‘I should like it very much,’ I said sincerely. ‘Sylvia—’

‘I’m very sorry about what happened,’ she said quickly, ‘and I want you to know that I’m not angry with you. I can’t blame you, I suppose. Rosamund was always the star-turn; I knew that. We all knew it.’

‘The more fool I for being blinded,’ I said. ‘Will you believe me when I say that it was a brief infatuation, a moment of madness?’

‘No,’ she said, smiling sadly, and I was silenced. She was right, of course, and it was unfair of me to try and convince her otherwise.

An increase in the bustle around us indicated that it was time to go.

‘Shall you come and visit us?’ I asked. Now it came to the point, I was unwilling to take leave.

‘I believe I shall,’ she replied. ‘Mother and Father want to go, and I dare say they’ll let me tag along.’ She shivered. ‘Anything to escape this beastly cold. Well, goodbye.’

She held out her hand and I raised it to my lips, then turned and went to join Bobs, who was standing at the foot of the gang-plank, waiting.

‘All aboard, then,’ he said. ‘I warn you now, I know nothing about this business of yours, so I shall be relying on you to teach me all about it.’

I looked back. Sylvia was still standing there, her hair gleaming in the low winter sunlight. She waved, then turned on her heel and walked off. I found I was already looking forward to seeing her again.

‘Shall we go?’ I said to Bobs, and we turned and walked up the gang-plank together.

***

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About the Author

Clara Benson was born in 1890 and as a young woman wrote several novels featuring Angela Marchmont. She was unpublished in her lifetime, preferring to describe her writing as a hobby, and it was not until many years after her death in 1965 that her family rediscovered her work and decided to introduce it to a wider audience.

Also by Clara Benson

THE MYSTERY AT UNDERWOOD HOUSE

Old Philip Haynes was never happier than when his family were at each other's throats. Even after his death the terms of his will ensured they would keep on feuding. But now three people are dead and the accusations are flying. Can there really be a murderer in the family? Torn between friendship and duty, Angela Marchmont must find out the truth before the killer can strike again.

The Mystery at Underwood House is the latest exciting 1920s whodunit featuring reluctant ‘lady detective’ Angela Marchmont.

Titles published in this series

The Murder at Sissingham Hall

The Mystery at Underwood House

Table of Contents

The Murder At Sissingham Hall

Copyright

The Murder at Sissingham Hall

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

New releases

About the Author

Also by Clara Benson

Titles published in this series