The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4) (2 page)

William nodded.

‘
All right,
’
he said, and picked up the biggest suitcase, which was awkward but fortunately not heavy.

Angela picked up a smaller bag.

‘
No need to do that, ma
’
am,
’
said William.

‘
Don
’
t be sill
y,
’
said Angela, and motioned to him impatiently to start.

They scrambled with difficulty up the steep bank, fighting their way through the thick undergrowth and using tree roots as stairs, then finally emerged from the thicket and stopped to catch their b
reath. The sheep were still milling about on the road. One seemed to be limping.

‘
Look, that must be the one you hit,
’
said Angela.

‘
Blasted animals,
’
said William with feeling.
‘
Begging your pardon, ma
’
am.
’

‘
Is that everything?
’
said Angela.

‘
There
’
s just my own things to fetch,
’
said William, and half-swung, half-jumped back down the slope with a great cracking of twigs. Angela regarded the sheep. The sheep regarded Angela. Then one of them bleated and received a chorus of bleats in reply. It was a
l
most as though they were laughing at her. She felt quite uncomfortable and turned away. The mist had thinned again and the sun was making feeble attempts to appear. Gipsy
’
s Mile was still some way away, but if they started soon they would arrive in time f
o
r tea, at any rate.

At that moment, there was a cry from behind her, and she heard a crack of branches and a thud. She turned and peered through the vegetation to find that William had dropped his suitcase, which had fallen and landed in the ditch. He was
holding tightly onto the trunk of a tree, staring at something, pale in the face.

‘
What on earth
—’
began Angela, then followed his gaze and saw what he was looking at. Her eyes opened in surprise and she started forward, back down the bank.

‘
Get away, ma
’
a
m,
’
said William.
‘
Get away.
’

But it was too late. The two of them stared, open-mouthed, at the sight before them. Angela wondered how she could possibly have missed it, for the blue rag which she had seen before was not a blue rag at all. It was a woman
’
s
coat. She was still wearing it, and she was quite, quite dead.

William swallowed. He was still very pale.

‘
Go and fetch your suitcase,
’
said Angela grimly.
‘
We must call the police as soon as possible.
’

‘
Do
—
do you think it could have been an accident
?
’
said William.

‘
I doubt it,
’
said Angela. She moved a little closer. The dead woman was lying on her side, one arm thrown out above her head and the other wrapped about her own waist. It looked as though she had been thrown down the slope at the point wh
ere the undergrowth was thickest. Had William not swerved off the road, she might never have been discovered.

‘
Perhaps we ought to carry her to the top of the bank,
’
said William, although he did not look as though he relished the prospect.

‘
No,
’
said Ange
la firmly.
‘
She must be left here. The police will want to examine the scene. We
’
ve already disturbed enough as it is. Go and get your things. We had better start off immediately.
’

William did as he was instructed and returned, unable to stop himself from
glancing at the dead woman as he passed again.

‘
We shall get on quicker if we leave our things here,
’
said Angela.
‘
We can send someone back to get them later. Now, which way was it? I believe we carry on to the end here then turn right and walk for anothe
r mile.
’

They set off along the road at a brisk pace. Lucy
’
s directions proved correct, and about twenty minutes later they arrived at the house and turned in at the gate. Gipsy
’
s Mile was a low, rambling farm-house which was set well back from the lane an
d was surrounded by grazing land. The house was named after a nearby field that had once been the site of illegal horse-racing, and it suited its name perfectly, given its ramshackle exterior and peeling paint. The Harrisons had moved to Kent from London
o
n a whim a year or two ago, and Angela had been surprised at first, knowing Marguerite Harrison, who was not the sort of person to hide herself away from society. However, Marguerite had soon surrounded herself with a regular coterie of friends and hanger
s
-on from London and elsewhere and, she assured Angela, had never been happier.

‘
Darling! What on
earth
have you been doing to yourself?
’
came a dramatic voice from a downstairs window as Angela and William walked up the front path with torn clothes and mud
dy shoes.
‘
Don
’
t move an inch!
’
the voice continued.

The window slammed and shortly afterwards the front door was flung open to reveal a tall, angular woman wearing an extraordinary head-dress and a gorgeous array of silk scarves and shawls. She ran out an
d engulfed Angela in a perfumed embrace, then stood back and examined her from head to toe in an attitude of exaggerated horror.

‘
But where
have
you been?
’
she said.
‘
We were expecting you hours ago!
’

‘
I
—’
began Angela, but Marguerite had caught sight of W
illiam, who had removed his chauffeur
’
s cap in order to brush the dirt off it.

‘
And
who
is this?
’
she said.
‘
Why, Angela, you sly thing! You never said a word.
’

William
’
s face turned a splendid shade of pink and he immediately clapped the hat back on his h
ead.

‘
This is my driver,
’
said Angela hurriedly.
‘
We had a bit of an accident on the way here.
’

‘
An accident? Why, you poor darling! You
’
re not hurt?
’

‘
No, just rather muddy. But Marguerite
—’

‘
Then we must get you cleaned up.
Come in, darling, come in!
’
She ushered them both into the house.
‘
Miles! Miles! Angela has been in a terrible accident.
’

‘
Oh, no, it was nothing like that,
’
said Angela as William escaped thankfully to the kitchen.

Miles Harrison emerged from somewhere and looked at Angela vaguely.
He was even taller and thinner than his wife, with a long, mournful face and the air of a man who had long since given up the fight.

‘
What
’
s that?
’
he said to Marguerite.
‘
Who
’
s had an accident?
’

‘
Angela, of course. Can
’
t you see the state of her?
’

‘
Oh, hallo, Angela,
’
said Miles, seeming to recognize her at last.
‘
What
’
s all this?
’

‘
We had an unexpected encounter with some sheep and ran into the ditch,
’
said Angela.
‘
We had to leave the car and our luggage and walk the rest of the way here. But liste
n, that
’
s not important
—’

‘
Miles, are those people at the garage in Littlechurch on the telephone? You must call them immediately,
’
said Marguerite.
‘
No
—
I have a better idea. Miles shall go and get your things and I
’
ll call the garage
—
or would it perhaps b
e better if we sent your driver? Let me think, now
—’

Angela turned her eyes beseechingly to Miles Harrison, who perfectly understood.

‘
I think Angela wants to tell us something, old girl,
’
he said to his wife, who had grabbed the telephone and was gabbling
urgently into the receiver, asking to be put through to the garage.

‘
We must call the police immediately,
’
said Angela.
‘
You see, when we were climbing out of the ditch I
’
m afraid we found something rather unpleasant.
’

Something in her tone caused both th
e Harrisons to turn their full attention to her.

‘
What was it?
’
said Marguerite, the receiver suspended in her hand.

‘
It was the body of a woman.
’

The Harrisons looked at each other. Even Marguerite was briefly silenced.

‘
How awful,
’
she said at last.
‘
Did
she fall into the ditch?
’

‘
No,
’
said Angela.
‘
I
’
m very much afraid that she was murdered.
’

‘
Why do you say that?
’
asked Miles, just as Marguerite cried,
‘
Murdered!
’

‘
Because her face was all smashed in,
’
said Angela. She felt a little sick at the memory.
‘
I don
’
t think she could have done that simply by falling.
’

Marguerite turned back to the telephone.

‘
I
’
ve changed my mind,
’
she said.
‘
Put me through to the police, please. What do you mean, you can
’
t put me through? Oh, I see. Is that Mr. Turner? Hallo,
Mr. Turner, it
’
s Mrs. Harrison here. I shall need you to send your men along to pull a car out of a ditch presently, but not just now. No, nobody has been murdered. Are you sure you can
’
t put me through to the police? Oh, very well. I shall call you again
in a while.
’

She rattled the hook and spoke to the operator again.

‘
Perhaps you had better talk to them,
’
she said to Angela.

Angela took the receiver and found herself speaking to a young police constable who perked up immediately at the prospect of a rea
l murder case. He listened carefully as she told him what had happened, then asked her to describe exactly where they had found the body. No, there was no need for Mrs. Marchmont to show them where it was
—
he knew the spot perfectly. He would speak to the
s
ergeant immediately and they would take some men along to investigate. In the meantime, please would Mrs. Marchmont be so kind as to remain in the area until tomorrow? Mrs. Marchmont said she was more than happy to do so, and hung up.

‘
You look as though y
ou could do with a brandy,
’
said Miles.
‘
Come and sit down and I
’
ll fix you up.
’

Angela acquiesced gladly and followed him into a large, comfortable sitting-room that bore all the signs of Marguerite
’
s eclectic taste in furnishings. None of the chairs matc
hed: some were low and overstuffed, others rigid and high-backed. Occasional tables were placed about the room, some of them displaying odd items from Marguerite
’
s collection of ornaments and sculptures produced by her artistic proté
gé
s, many more scatter
e
d with books and newspapers. The walls were draped in brightly-coloured tapestries, most of them produced by Marguerite herself during a brief passion for the art a few years earlier. The overall effect was very characteristic and not unattractive.

Angela
sat down thankfully on a sofa and accepted the glass of brandy that Miles had poured her. After a sip or two she felt much better, and capable of replying to Marguerite
’
s barrage of questions. The Harrisons were most concerned at the idea of there having
b
een a murder nearby, but both agreed that it was most likely the work of someone who was merely passing through
—
probably a man who had rowed with his girl and ended up by killing her. No doubt he had disfigured her face in a panic, in the hope that it wou
l
d prevent anybody from identifying her.

Angela was wondering whether it would be a good idea to accept a second glass of brandy when the sitting-room door opened and a loud voice said,
‘
Hallo, hallo, what?
’

The voice belonged to a large, red-cheeked man in
shabby tweeds, who was accompanied by a bird-like woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing. The woman caught sight of Angela and the sharp eyes gleamed.

‘
Angela,
darling
!
’
she cried.

‘
Cynthia,
darling
!
’
said Marguerite, descending on the newcomers in a cloud of scent and kisses.

‘
Marguerite,
darling
!
’
said Cynthia Pilkington-Soames. She flung off her coat and hat and threw herself into a chair.
‘
Get me a drink, Herbert,
’
she said to her husband, then wen
t on,
‘
What a simply
awful
time we
’
ve had getting here! Why, we must have got lost at least ten times, I
’
m sure. What on
earth
made you move to such a God-forsaken part of the world? I
’
ll bet there isn
’
t a decent butcher for miles around! Oh, but of course
you needed to save money, didn
’
t you, after that sculpture exhibition of yours did so terribly badly.
Such
a shame nobody wanted to see it.
’