The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) (17 page)

After Angela returned to England it seemed she and Barbara were doomed to remain nothing more than friendly acquaintances, for the sad fact was that Angela had not the first idea about motherhood after so many childless years, whereas Nina and Gerald had a brood of their own and were quite happy to include Barbara in it, and give her the family life she could not have enjoyed with Angela and Davie. Moreover, there was still no getting around the fact of Barbara’s illegitimacy, which was a heavy burden to lay upon a child, and so all in all it seemed safest to maintain the fiction that she was an orphan. Angela had always meant to tell Barbara the truth one day, but had continually put off the decision to do so until it had become too difficult. Now the secret had come to light in the most public way possible, and in addition to all her other woes Angela was now racked with guilt at the thought of the effect the trial would have on her daughter—although she was beginning to think Barbara would be much better off without her, for there was no denying that she seemed to have made rather a mess of things.

Involuntarily, her thoughts turned to Edgar Valencourt, and she wondered where he was and what he was doing. Had he read in the newspapers about her arrest and trial? If he had indeed gone to France as he had said, then it was quite likely that he knew nothing about what was going on at present; at least, she hoped that were the case, for it was too painful to her to think that he might be perfectly aware of her plight and observing it helplessly—or even indifferently—from afar. Perhaps he had reached South America already and was busy establishing a new life for himself. If so, then he would certainly know nothing, and by the time he found out what had happened she would probably be long dead. Still, she stood firm in her belief that naming him would do nothing to help her cause—and in fact would be more likely to harm it. Her reputation was already battered enough, but some pride still remained to her and she did not wish to damage it any further by having all her sins put on public display at once. If some miracle occurred and she were acquitted, there would be enough work in trying to live down what had already been revealed. Angela wondered which, if any, of her friends would prove loyal in that event. Her brother Humphrey was doing his best; he had sent her a stiff letter of support, even though she knew that the very idea of such a thing happening in the family must horrify him. Other friends had sent messages of varying degrees of sincerity. Freddy she was certain of, but there was no saying how some of her more distant acquaintances might regard her now that they knew the truth.

At that, Angela remembered William and Marthe, those two most faithful of servants. Poor William had evidently been upset at being called to appear for the prosecution, although he had had nothing to tell that could harm her. Marthe could be trusted to keep quiet about Valencourt—and in any case there was no reason why she should suppose that he might have had anything to do with Davie’s death at all, for she had seen him only briefly a few days before the murder. She and William had proved themselves wholly trustworthy and for that she silently thanked them, but still, they would soon need to find new situations when the inevitable happened. Perhaps it would be better if she released them from her service immediately, in fact. She would, of course, write them excellent references—although she had no idea how a new employer might look upon the word of a convicted murderess. She hoped her reputation would not harm their prospects. Yes, perhaps she would give them notice now. They were welcome to remain until they had found something that suited, naturally, but the least she could do was to allow them plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements.

Having reached this decision, Angela wrote the letters and the references immediately, for she felt that there was no time to lose. They would be sent out later, and Marthe and William would be free, and then she would have one less thing to worry about. After she had finished, she sat, thinking of what was to come. The case for the defence was due to begin the next day, and all she could do now was trust that Mr. Travers, with Freddy’s help, would somehow produce some evidence that would exonerate her. It was a small hope, but at present it was the only one she had.

The case for the defence opened on Friday morning. The crowd outside the Old Bailey had swelled to almost twice the size of the first day, for the whole country, it seemed, had been eagerly following the progress of the trial in the newspapers, and hundreds of people formed a queue down the street, agog to see what, if anything, the defence might have up its sleeve. The revelation about Angela Marchmont’s love-child had been more sensational than any of the observers had expected even in their wildest imaginings, and the popular papers had lingered over the story with outward solemnity and inward glee. Now it remained to be seen what sort of weapon Angela might have in her armoury to defend herself against the charge of killing this husband of hers, who had clearly been a scoundrel of the worst sort. By now there was a fair amount of sympathy for her among the wider public, but the facts which could not but awaken their compassion were, of course, the very facts which gave her an undeniable motive for murder. The law was not concerned about whether the prisoner were worthy of sympathy or not—murder was murder, and justice must be pursued to the bitter end.

As the crowd filed in, Freddy and Kathie took their usual seats on the press bench.

‘Now, this is Percy’s opportunity to shine,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ve seen him in action before. He’s not much to look at, and he’s certainly not as showy as old Ben, but once he gets going he’s rather impressive. I should like to see what he makes of the case.’

‘Do you really think he can do anything?’ said Kathie. ‘The prosecution’s argument seemed so conclusive.’

‘I can’t deny he did a good job,’ admitted Freddy. ‘That touch with the mother-in-law was particularly effective. There was no need at all to bring her over here, since there’s plenty of physical evidence against Angela and motive proves nothing, but I suppose he wanted to end with a flourish of trumpets and dancing-girls. It was pure showing off, if you ask me.’

‘Poor Angela,’ said Kathie. ‘And poor Barbara. I hope they’ve managed to keep the news from her. Do you know what Mr. Travers is planning to say?’

‘Some of it,’ said Freddy. ‘We’ve found one or two witnesses who don’t sound like much, but their evidence is suggestive, to say the least, and with a following wind he might be able to eke them out a bit. Remember, he doesn’t have to prove her innocent. All he has to do is to plant enough doubt in the minds of the jury to make them uncertain whether she’s guilty or not.’

‘But surely the best way to do that would be to find out who really killed him?’

‘Naturally,’ said Freddy. ‘But so far no-one has conveniently stepped forward and confessed to it, and I don’t suppose they ever will.’

He was cross with himself, for he had been sure he would be able to find more witnesses, but even his search for the taxi driver had come up with nothing, and he had had no luck at all in tracing the foreign-looking man who had been seen arguing with Davie Marchmont on the steps of Burkett’s. Now they must rely on very little, when what they really needed was some strong evidence to refute the prosecution’s case and shake the conviction of the jury.

‘It’s such a pity the police fastened upon Angela so quickly as the only suspect,’ said Kathie. ‘I’m sure Inspector Scott is a very good detective, but he can’t possibly have investigated the thing thoroughly enough. I only wish Alec could have taken the case, but we were away at the time. I wanted to go to Scotland, you see, because I’d never been. Perhaps we ought to have waited until the spring, and then this might never have happened.’

For a moment she looked stricken with guilt.

‘Don’t worry, old girl,’ said Freddy. ‘Nothing you could have done would have changed all this. Jameson wouldn’t have been allowed to investigate it anyway, don’t you see?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Kathie. ‘Still, he might have given Inspector Scott a hint or two.’

Freddy opened his mouth to reply but was given no opportunity for just then there was a sudden bustle, and a voice instructed everyone to rise, and proceedings began for the day.

The first witness was Marthe Guillot, maid to the prisoner, who confirmed that she had left her keys with Madame on the day she left for France. No, she had not seen them since, and did not know what had become of them. They were certainly nowhere in the flat. Her evidence was brief and to the point, and she was allowed to step down, which she did after darting a glance at Angela.

The next person to take the stand was one Josiah McLeod, unemployed and of no fixed abode. Mr. Travers and Freddy had done their best with him; he had been cleaned up, given a shave and a new suit of clothes, and drilled in the art of speaking in public without mumbling, spitting or invoking the Deity. He had also been kept away from all sources of alcohol the day before he was due to testify, but by Friday morning his hands were trembling and his eyes watering, and so in the end it was judged better to give him a nip or two of whisky to steady him, with the promise of more after he had finished. The drink took immediate effect, and by the time he was nudged into the witness-box, he was tolerably firm on his feet.

Mr. Travers drew Jos out gently, and the spectators listened in fascination at the story he had to tell, which was simple enough. When he repeated what the second man had said to Davie Marchmont about shooting him as he would a dog, there was a collective sigh of satisfaction from the public gallery, for if anything had been wanting in the case up to now, it was a rival suspect. A man such as Davie Marchmont must have had enemies, for it was surely not possible that, with such a character, his wife was the only person he had ever offended. Now it looked as though here were another possible murderer—one, moreover, who had actually been overheard threatening to shoot the dead man. Of course, one did not like to take the word of a tramp, but this one was speaking soberly enough, and there was no reason to suppose he was lying.

‘Might the threat to shoot Mr. Marchmont have been a joke?’ inquired Mr. Travers.

‘I don’t reckon so,’ said Jos. ‘It sounded deadly serious to me. I shouldn’t have liked to be in this dead chap’s shoes meself and have had to hear it.’

‘And what did Mr. Marchmont say to the threat?’

‘He never said anything. The other feller walked away before he had the chance.’

‘What did Mr. Marchmont do then?’

‘Stood for a minute, a bit surprised, like. Then he picked something up off the ground and put it in his pocket and went off.’

‘He picked something up? What was it?’

‘Looked like a glove to me. Can’t be sure, but it might’ve been, anyhow.’

‘Was it his own glove?’

‘I don’t know. He already had gloves on, but he might have had a spare pair with him. Who knows how many pairs of fancy gloves these rich gents own?’

‘Quite,’ said Mr. Travers.

Sir Benjamin stepped up to cross-examine.

‘Pardon me, Mr. McLeod, but am I right in supposing that you had been drinking on the day in question?’

Jos shuffled uncomfortably and admitted that that was the case.

‘Then might you have been mistaken in what you saw?’

Jos, in some confusion, launched into a ramble in which he denied that he drank to excess, and claimed that in any case he was perfectly able to hold his drink and that his eyesight and memory had been unaffected by what he had taken that day. Sir Benjamin did not press the point, for there was no need to, and Jos was allowed to step down, which he did thankfully.

By way of demonstrating the reliability of Jos’s memory (for there was no other reason to debate the matter in such detail given that the man who had threatened Davie could, unfortunately, not be produced), the defence then recalled Inspector Scott, who confirmed that three gloves had been found in the dead man’s pockets: one pair in tan suède, with the name of a popular American glove-maker on the label, and one single glove in dark-grey kidskin of a slightly smaller size, which had no label at all. On further questioning, Inspector Scott agreed that it looked rather as though the odd glove did not belong to David Marchmont, but said that they had not attempted to trace its owner for it had not been thought necessary. Anyone might accidentally pick up an odd glove, he said, and the police had had no reason to consider it suspicious so had given it no further thought.

As Scott gave his evidence, something stirred in Freddy’s mind and he frowned. What was it that had occurred to him just then? Someone had been talking to him about gloves recently, he was sure of it. He racked his brain for a few seconds but nothing came to him. It was a pity, for he had the oddest feeling that it might be important, but there was no use in chasing a fleeting thought, and so he shrugged and abandoned the effort. Perhaps it would come to him later.

The next witnesses were Samuel and Ernest Hepworth, two lively-looking lads of fourteen and thirteen, who were something of a triumph of Freddy’s, for he had had great difficulty in finding them and persuading them to speak.

They were brothers who lived in Chalfont St. Giles, they said, and had been staying with an elderly aunt in South Audley Street for a few days at the time of the murder, for there was a nasty outbreak of whooping cough at school and the healthy ones had all been sent away until it passed. It was evident that this aunt of theirs had no idea how to manage them and even less idea of what they had been getting up to while they were guests under her roof, for as Mr. Travers questioned them gently it became clear that they had pretty much run wild from the day of their arrival until the day they had returned to school.

It was, of course, the week of the fifth of November, and the brothers had built up quite a collection of fireworks, which they took particular glee in setting off at every opportunity, much to the annoyance of the neighbours. On the Sunday they were due to return to school, and so on the Saturday they slipped out of the house late at night with the intention of holding a firework display in the street for their own private enjoyment, using what remained of their collection. In order to avoid having to suffer inconvenient and tiresome remonstrance from their aunt if she discovered them, they went around the corner to Mount Street to do it. To their disappointment, it turned out that most of the fireworks had somehow got damp, but they did manage to cause enough disturbance to give them satisfaction and to make them agree that it had certainly been worth while. They then crept back into the house and returned to school the next day, with nobody being any the wiser.