The Mystery at Underwood House (An Angela Marchmont Mystery) (11 page)

Mrs. Marchmont returned to her flat late in the afternoon to discover a message from Inspector Jameson, who had called while she was out. She immediately picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to Scotland Yard. The inspector was there and saluted her cheerfully.

‘
And how is your little investigation going?’ he asked.

‘
Slowly and uneventfully,’ she replied. ‘I’ve found out one or two interesting things, but nothing that you could make a case with. In fact, I shouldn’t have called you at all had someone not tried to kill me the other day.’

The inspector was instantly alert.

‘
Someone tried to kill you? Are you sure?’

‘
I can’t be certain, but I think so.’

‘
This is most alarming. I am very sorry. Believe me, Mrs. Marchmont, I had no intention of putting you in danger—indeed, I should never have dreamed of asking you to do it had I thought for even one second that this could happen.’

‘
Please don’t worry, I’m quite all right,’ said Angela, feeling as though she had perhaps made too much of it. ‘As I said, I can’t be sure that whoever it was actually wanted to kill me.’

‘
Tell me what happened.’

With some confusion, Angela began her story but he interrupted her almost immediately.

‘
No—no—not over the telephone, perhaps. Better to discuss this in person. Would you object to coming to Scotland Yard? What time is it? I say, is it that time already? I had no idea. No, don’t come here. But—’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I don’t suppose you are free this evening? Should you be dreadfully offended if I asked you to dinner?’

‘
Not at all,’ replied Angela. ‘I should be delighted. I have no engagements that cannot be cancelled, and I should very much like to discuss the case with someone, as I fear I am getting into rather a muddle with it.’

‘
Then that’s settled,’ he said firmly. ‘I shall call for you at seven o’clock, if that is not too early. We policemen keep respectable hours, you know.’

‘
That will be perfect.’

‘
Goodbye, then. Oh, and by the way,’ he added, ‘if a murder attempt is your definition of uneventful, I should be very much interested to know what sort of thing you consider to be exciting.’

Angela laughed and hung up.

Jameson arrived punctually and at Angela’s suggestion they went to a quiet spot in Mayfair where they could talk undisturbed. The inspector listened intently as Angela recounted all that had happened in the past few days, and seemed particularly interested in Winifred’s accusations of fraud.

‘
But you see,’ said Angela, ‘I have no proof that she was cheated out of her money. She refused to tell Mr. Faulkner the name of her correspondent, she apparently signed nothing, and even her daughter claims to be uninterested in the fate of her inheritance—although from what I have seen of Susan Dennison, that may be an affectation. This is where the amateur detective falls down. I cannot investigate her financial affairs myself. To find out anything more I am going to need your help.’

‘
Well, we can certainly make some inquiries of her bank,’ said Jameson. ‘I shall put a man onto it tomorrow. So you say Louisa Haynes suspects Robin?’

‘
Yes, and after what you told me on the train, I must say it was my first thought too.’

‘
What did you think of him?’

‘
Rather an unprepossessing type,’ said Angela frankly. ‘I don’t mind admitting that he and his mother gave me the shivers when I met them. I should not like to be the one to cross Ursula, in particular.’

‘
Yes, she is a character, isn’t she?’ agreed the inspector. ‘And I think from what you have said, it may be time to pay another visit to Master Robin.’

‘
What of the doings in the city? Have you heard anything more about that?’

‘
No, it all seems to have gone quiet on that front lately,’ replied Jameson, ‘but as I said, it could all blow up any day now. I don’t suppose you read such things, but veiled rumours have even reached the press about the troubles at Peake’s, although the company was not mentioned by name.’

Angela had indeed read the article in question and, after putting two and two together following her earlier conversation with the inspector, had taken steps to ensure that she had no money deposited with Peake’s.

‘
And you are quite certain, you say, that you did not see the person who pushed you into the road?’ went on Inspector Jameson.

‘
I am afraid not,’ said Angela. ‘I was caught completely off guard. Perhaps I have led a sheltered life, but I don’t generally expect to be shoved in front of speeding motor-vans by mysterious assailants whenever I leave the house, so I was not paying much attention to anything. And, of course, he waited until there was a large crowd to protect him, in order to make his escape unnoticed. It was unlucky for him that he happened to be spotted and pursued.’

‘
And since you lost the photograph, I presume you have not been able to find out who it belonged to.’

‘
No, but I have a little idea of my own about that which I shall tell you about later, since I have nothing to back it up at present and don’t know where it fits in—or even if it does fit in, in fact.’

Inspector Jameson looked serious.

‘
Do be careful, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘I am wondering now whether I ought to have asked you to do this. I had no wish to place you in the way of danger but you appear to have put the wind up somebody or other. Perhaps you should give it up.’

‘
I can’t give it up now—I promised Louisa that I would continue. And in any case, I am not afraid. I’ve been thinking the matter over and have come to the conclusion that the chief purpose of the attack was probably to get the photograph back, although whoever did it was not above trying to get me out of the way at the same time. Don’t worry, inspector—my friends will tell you that I am far too fond of myself to put my life knowingly in peril. I shall keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious from now on.’

‘
I see your mind is quite made up,’ said Jameson, ‘and I am not in the slightest bit surprised. I have been hearing quite a lot of things about you lately, Mrs. Marchmont, and your name is quite a byword for tenacity in certain circles.’

‘
Oh?’ asked Angela, intrigued. ‘Which circles are those?’

‘
Tell me, do the words “Blue Iris” mean anything to you?’

Angela started, then eyed him suspiciously.

‘
How—?’ she began, then stopped. ‘Ah,’ she said, suddenly understanding, ‘I thought your name was familiar to me. I shall now put my powers of deduction to the test. Let me see: at a guess, I should say that you have a brother, or possibly a cousin in the Foreign Office. Am I correct?’

The inspector smiled.

‘
A brother, yes,’ he said. ‘Henry sends his warmest regards. He was quite enthusiastic in your praise, and believe me when I say that it takes a lot to rouse Henry from his habitual state of half-witted somnolence.’

‘
It is a long time since I saw him,’ said Angela. ‘He was very kind to me and had far more faith in my abilities than I did myself. Indeed, I still maintain that I did very little.’

‘
That is not the view of the powers-that-be. They credit your efforts with having been instrumental in drawing America into the War.’

‘
Nonsense,’ said Angela briskly but with some embarrassment. ‘Anyway, don’t let’s talk about that—it was all such a long time ago now that I have forgotten most of it. I am more concerned with the present. I wanted to ask you about Mr. Faulkner’s alibis.’

‘
Do you mean for the nights on which Philippa, Winifred and Edward died?’

‘
Yes. I have no particular reason to doubt them, but he has such a strong motive and he seemed so keen to tell me about the important personages with whom he had been dining on the nights in question that I thought I had better ask you. Of course, it may just be that he was anxious to make sure I knew of his innocence before I started blundering around suspecting him, but it would be remiss of me not to check. On two of the nights in question he was actually dining with the same person. Can that really be a coincidence?’

‘
As far as I know it is. Both Sir Maurice Upton and Lord Willesden swear that Mr. Faulkner was with them on the first two occasions and the third occasion respectively. Whether he deliberately arranged things so, however, I cannot say.’

‘
I must speak to him again about showing me Philip’s will,’ said Angela. ‘I have not managed to see it so far, and I should very much like to read it myself.’

‘
Do you think it may contain a clue?’

‘
I don’t know, but the provisions of it are so very odd that I wonder whether it mayn’t be the key to the matter. I have been thinking about it ever since I saw Susan Dennison earlier. Philip showed her the will before he died, you know, and made a rather mysterious remark about it.’

‘
What did he say?’

‘
According to Susan, he pointed to the clause that allows Mr. Faulkner to inherit, and told her that it would put the cat among the pigeons.’

‘
And so it did. No mystery about that.’

‘
Yes, but the clause was worded rather strangely. It mentioned something about Mr. Faulkner being to receive the money
on the terms communicated to him
. I wonder whether Philip and he had a private agreement about how the money was to be used. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’

‘
I can’t say that I have. It does sound rather odd—but then, of course, Philip was an odd man. Do you think it may have some significance?’

‘
I don’t know. Perhaps it’s nothing, but I intend to have a look at that will all the same. On second thoughts I think the easiest thing will be for me to go to Somerset House.’

Jameson called for the bill and they emerged into the chill of the evening.

‘
I shall see you safely to your door,’ he said. ‘You may pooh-pooh my concerns, but I am not happy at the idea that someone wishes you harm, so I should like you to promise me that you will be very careful from now on.’

‘
Don’t worry, I shall,’ said Angela. ‘I assure you, no woman could be more jealous of her own comfort and safety than myself.’

‘
You tell a convincing lie, Mrs. Marchmont, but you forget that I have heard all from Henry,’ said Jameson.

‘
One does such reckless things in one’s youth,’ said Angela vaguely. ‘Besides, I have William to take care of me.’

‘
Who is William?’

‘
My chauffeur and man-of-all-work. I found him in America a few years ago. He’s dreadfully impertinent but quite devoted.’

‘
Well, do please be careful,’ said Jameson, unconvinced, and Angela promised that she would.

Mount Street was only five minutes’ walk away and as promised, Inspector Jameson saw her safely inside the building and bade her goodnight, reminding her as he did so to call him at any time if she needed help. Once he had gone, Angela hurried up to her flat. She passed through the dimly-lit drawing room and into the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness. Cautiously, she pulled aside a curtain and peered out. At first she saw nothing but then, after a few moments, a shadowy figure slid out from a doorway opposite and set off down the street. It was impossible to see who it was from that distance. Angela let the curtain fall and thought very hard.

The offices of Addison, Addison and Gouch, solicitors, were located discreetly behind an unassuming black front door on Bedford Row. Mrs. Marchmont rang the bell and was shown immediately into the comfortable rooms occupied by Mr. Addison the Younger (Mr. Addison the Elder having long since retired from practice). Mr. Addison, a jolly, rubicund man who, to his great misfortune, looked more like a milkman than a solicitor, beamed as he shook his visitor’s hand and indicated a seat.

‘
How delightful to see you again, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry I can’t spare you more time this morning, but Mr. Gouch has rather unfortunately broken his arm and I have had to take over his cases for the next week or two.’

‘
Please don’t mention it,’ replied Angela. ‘It was very kind of you to see me at such short notice. I shan’t keep you long.’

‘
I understand you want to ask me about an inheritance.’

‘
Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I won’t bore you with the whole story, but I have been poring over the will of one Philip Haynes, who died a couple of years ago leaving behind him some testamentary instructions of a rather curious nature.’

She explained the provisions of Philip’s will and how his money was to be divided. Mr. Addison listened carefully, eyebrows raised.

‘
That is indeed somewhat unusual,’ he said when she had finished. ‘And, as you may have noticed, it puts the solicitor in rather a position of power—firstly of course because he is the ultimate beneficiary of twenty thousand pounds, and secondly because he is also the executor, and as such is in a position to dictate the course of events to a certain degree.’

‘
Yes,’ agreed Angela. ‘That had not escaped my notice. The contents of the will don’t seem to have caused much surprise among Philip’s family, who knew him as a mischievous eccentric, given to playing malicious tricks on them all, but as an outsider, I must confess I am curious. Why did he decide to stipulate that, after any of his children’s deaths, the money revert to his solicitor, of all people? His family disliked each other, so if he had really wished to sow discord among them, surely it would have made more sense from his point of view to play them off against one another, for example by having the money that would normally pass to one particular family member revert to a hated relative.’

‘
I see what you mean,’ said Mr. Addison.

‘
I have a very active imagination so it’s entirely possible that I am making something out of nothing,’ said Angela, ‘but when Philip Haynes’s granddaughter happened to mention to me that a particular phrase had been used in the will, my curiosity was aroused. Yesterday, therefore, I went to Somerset House to see the document for myself. I spent quite some time reading it, but no matter how hard I looked, I could see no trace of the phrase or anything like it. The granddaughter had been quite certain it was there, but she also said that her grandfather had been fond of changing his will, so I can only assume that a later will was signed which superseded the earlier one. All the same, I should like to know what it meant. Tell me, Mr. Addison, if you were to read a will in which someone left a bequest to someone
on the terms communicated to him
, what should you think?’

Mr Addison pricked up his ears.

‘
That was the phrase in question, was it?’ he said. ‘
On the terms communicated to him
. That is very interesting and suggestive. My word,’ he went on enthusiastically, ‘I know of such things but have never actually come across one myself. I believe they are quite rare these days.’

‘
What do you mean?’ asked Angela.

‘
Why, it sounds very much as though Philip Haynes intended to set up a secret trust.’

He rose and went to a bookshelf, then selected a weighty reference work and brought it back to his desk. Angela waited as he found the page he wanted.

‘
Hmm—hmm. Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Very interesting indeed. Are you familiar with the concept of the secret trust?’ he asked.

‘
Not at all,’ said Angela.

‘
Secret trusts have been used for centuries as a means by which a testator may bequeath assets to a particular person without mentioning him or her by name in the will. They have traditionally provided a convenient means for mistresses and illegitimate children to receive an inheritance without causing embarrassment to the legitimate family. I shall not waste your time by expounding on the finer points of
McCormick v Grogan
or
Rochefoucauld v Boustead
, but the way it works is this: let us say that A wishes to leave a certain sum to B without A’s family knowing he has done so. He writes a will ostensibly leaving that sum to C, having first obtained C’s private consent to act as trustee. In law a trust is then deemed to have been created. Following the testator’s death, C receives the bequest in accordance with the deceased’s apparent last wishes, but is then bound by law to hold it in trust for B.’

‘
And this is expressed in the will using the phrase I mentioned?’

‘
Yes, or a similar expression—one which in any event makes it clear to anybody reading it that C has been given separate instructions regarding the ultimate destination of the assets.’

‘
In that case, then, it is known that a secret trust has been created but not whom it is intended to benefit?’

‘
That is so, yes.’

‘
It certainly sounds as though Philip may at one time have intended to leave some money to a person or persons unknown,’ said Angela. ‘Presumably he changed his mind later on, though.’

The solicitor beamed even more widely.

‘
Ah, but here we come to the most interesting point—we cannot be sure that he
did
change his mind. Incredible though it may seem, the law allows a secret trust to be created without its being mentioned in the will
at all
. Let us suppose that A wanted to leave some money to his mistress, B, but did not wish his wife to get wind of the fact. In this case he could simply say “I leave a thousand pounds to C,” and nobody would be any the wiser that he and C had in fact reached a private agreement for C to pass the money on to B.’

‘
Nobody except C and possibly B, I assume,’ said Angela. ‘It seems a terribly risky thing to do—create a secret trust without mentioning it in the will, I mean. What if C decides to keep the money?’

‘
Ah!’ said the solicitor, nodding vigorously. ‘I see you have spotted the biggest flaw in the thing. Yes, it would be very easy for the trustee to keep the money if he wished. Since secret trusts may be agreed verbally—in fact, are likely to be agreed verbally by their very nature—they can lead to all sorts of disputes. Without witnesses, it may be very difficult to prove that a secret trust ever existed. I imagine that many an intended beneficiary has been cheated out of his rightful inheritance over the years.’

‘
To return to the case in question,’ said Angela, ‘is it possible that, after changing his will, Philip Haynes maintained the agreement with his solicitor to form a secret trust but did not mention it expressly in the later version?’

‘
It’s certainly possible, but we have no way of knowing without speaking to the solicitor himself—and if he is bound by secrecy then he is hardly likely to tell you.’

Just then a clerk entered discreetly and gave Mr. Addison a meaningful look. The solicitor glanced at his watch and nodded.

‘
Is there anything else you should like to ask me about?’ he said politely.

‘
No, I think that’s everything,’ said Angela. She rose and held out her hand. ‘You have been enormously helpful, thank you.’

Mr. Addison shook her hand and gave her another beaming smile.

‘
Do call me if you think of anything else you would like to know,’ he said.

Angela stepped out into the street and walked towards Holborn, intending to return home. The day was a fine one, however, so she decided to make a little detour to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to enjoy the sunshine. Sitting on a bench, she reviewed the information she had received from Mr. Addison. There was scant evidence for it, to be sure, but it looked as though there might be more to Philip’s will than met the eye. It had always seemed odd to her that Philip should leave his children only a life interest in what should have been their birthright. And then to stipulate that the money revert to his solicitor after their deaths? It was unaccountable, wholly unaccountable. But if Philip’s true intention had been to provide in some way for some other person—perhaps a relative unknown to or unadmitted by the family—why, then, that was much more comprehensible. But why had he done it in such a roundabout way? Surely the easiest thing would have been to leave some money directly to Mr. Faulkner, to be held on trust for the person in question. Why give his children a life interest in the money only to snatch it back from their families after their deaths? It seemed almost as though Philip wanted to deny his grandchildren part of their rightful inheritance. Susan, in particular, had ended up with nothing after Winifred’s unfortunate speculation and yet she had claimed to be his favourite grandchild. And what of the wording of the will? Mr. Addison had seemed convinced that the earlier version revealed an intention to create a secret trust. Had Philip changed his mind about the trust, or had he deliberately rewritten the will to make sure that it would remain wholly secret?

Angela sighed. Only one thing in the whole business was clear to her: that Philip Haynes had been a most ill-natured character.

‘
Lucky for me I never had to make his acquaintance,’ she said to herself. ‘What a difficult man he must have been! It’s little wonder his family turned out as they did. A miracle, in fact, that John has managed to remain relatively unaffected by it all. I imagine much of that is Louisa’s doing.’

And what of John, in fact? For the first time, it occurred to Angela that he was the only one left; that he, the eldest child, had outlived his younger sisters and brother. Had he been fonder of them she should have felt sorry for him, but he did not seem to require her sympathy. Could he be in danger himself, though? If Philippa, Winifred and Edward had indeed been murdered—whether for their money or for some other motive—then as Philip’s last remaining child surely he was the next target. Whoever was behind the deaths was ruthless, and would clearly stop at nothing in order to gain his ends. Perhaps she should warn John of the potential danger.

But—but—was there something more to it than that? She had long felt that he was concealing something—and Ursula too seemed to think that he knew something about the matter which he refused to reveal. Could it be the unthinkable? Angela now forced herself to face a question that up to now she had pushed from her mind:
was John the murderer
? His love for Underwood House and desire to keep it for himself gave him ample motive. He had persuaded Philippa to leave her share of the house to him—and shortly afterwards, Philippa had died. Winifred had wanted to get rid of Underwood, and she had died too, leaving her share to Susan, who had been more amenable and had agreed to sell it to John. That left only Edward—and after his death, Ursula. And, judging by the conversation William had overheard between Ursula and Mr. Faulkner, she was smarting from the loss of Edward’s five thousand pounds. Perhaps she would be more willing to sell her share of the house to John now. Had John been relying upon that supposition? Certainly, there was no shortage of motive. But what about opportunity? If Donald was to be believed, John had
not
been in his study, as he claimed, when Winifred fell from the upstairs gallery. And as for Philippa and Edward—why, it would be almost impossible to provide alibis for their deaths.

Angela felt a sinking sense of dismay. Her clear, logical mind told her that there was no use in denying what should have been obvious long ago: that, assuming all three deaths were caused by the same agency, then John was the most likely suspect. Ursula certainly seemed to think so, although she had not said so expressly for reasons best known to herself.

‘
How can I ever face Louisa if he is the guilty one?’ she said to herself. ‘It will break her heart. Why couldn’t she have taken my hint and asked me to stop the investigation when I gave her the chance?’

But there was no use in thinking about that any more. What was past was past, and Angela knew that she must carry on to the end now, come what may.