The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) (19 page)

For a few minutes it looked as though they would not be able to find the place at all, then they saw a half-concealed sign that pointed to the right, and Marthe gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

‘That way,’ she said.

After a few minutes they saw that they were passing through the main street of a large village. Few people were about, since everything was closed for the day, and lights glimmered out of the windows of the houses round about. Soon they left the village behind them, and Marthe began to look about her.

‘There,’ she said suddenly.

To their left they could dimly see through the dusk the outline of what looked like a large farmhouse, which stood about a hundred yards back from the road.

‘We had better stop here,’ she said.

William drew the car up and they all climbed out. The house was at the end of a long track, and they regarded it warily. As far as they could see, there were no lights at the windows.

‘Well, there’s no use in our coming all the way here for nothing,’ said Freddy at last, and started up the path. The other two followed, and soon they were standing before a solid wooden front door mounted with a black knocker.

‘What do we do now?’ whispered William.

They hesitated for a moment, then with an impatient noise Marthe stepped forward and rapped on the door sharply. They waited, but no-one came. She rapped again.

‘It was always a slim hope,’ said Freddy, after a minute. ‘Now what?’

William had wandered off and was peering through windows. He disappeared around the side of the house and Freddy looked at his watch.

‘Perhaps we ought to come back and try again tomorrow,’ he said, ‘although I don’t suppose he’s here.’

Just then, William rejoined them in a hurry.

‘There’s a light at the back of the house,’ he said in a whisper, and motioned to them to follow him.

A path led around to the back, where they could dimly see what looked like a kitchen garden, bare and forlorn in the freezing cold of January. Freddy and Marthe followed William and saw that he had been speaking the truth, for as soon as they got there they saw a pool of faint light issuing from one of the windows. Freddy peered in cautiously, and saw that the light came from a candle set on a wooden table in the centre of a neat little kitchen.

‘There must be someone here, then,’ whispered Freddy. ‘What shall we do? He won’t answer the door.’

‘I say we wait until he’s gone to bed and then break in,’ said William.

‘But what if we’ve got the wrong house?’ said Freddy.

‘Then we apologize and pay for breakages,’ said William. ‘Either that, or we spend the next few weeks in gaol.’

‘Splendid,’ said Freddy. ‘A spell in a French prison? I can’t think of anything I’d like better.’

Marthe was already heading back towards the front of the house. The other two followed, and for the next few hours they sat huddled in the car, waiting until they thought there was a good chance that whoever lived in the house had gone to bed. At last, when the dusk had long turned pitch black and the lights of the distant village had been extinguished one by one, they emerged and set off up the path to the lonely house once again. There was no longer a light in the kitchen, and the place was in darkness, but fortunately William had thought to bring a torch, and so they were not entirely helpless.

They had agreed that the most likely entry-place was a window to the side of the house, which gave into a little scullery. When they reached it, Freddy removed his coat and held it against the glass in order to dampen the sound as much as possible, and then William gave the window a sharp blow with the heel of the torch. The glass gave immediately, and they all caught their breath at the sound it made as it hit the scullery floor with a loud tinkle. Nobody came, however, and after a few moments Freddy reached inside and loosened the window catch.

‘Better let me go first,’ whispered William, who came from a family of acrobats. In a trice he was up on the sill and through the window.

‘Go around to the front and wait for us,’ said Freddy to Marthe, who had refused absolutely to stay in the car. He climbed up and followed William through the window with slightly more difficulty.

It was pitch dark in the scullery. William switched on the torch and led the way out and into a stone-flagged passage lined with doors. He opened the first one. It creaked loudly and they held their breath for an age, it seemed, but nobody came. William glanced in and shone the torch around briefly, then shook his head. They looked quickly into the other rooms but found no-one. Presumably the lighter of the candle had retired upstairs to bed. William glanced at Freddy and indicated upwards with his head. Freddy nodded and put a foot on the bottom stair.

‘You won’t find anyone up there,’ said a voice, and they whirled around to find themselves caught in the bright beam of another torch, which blinded them and prevented them from seeing who was speaking. Whoever it was must have approached as silently as a cat, for they had not heard a thing, and evidently he did not appreciate finding two strangers in his house late at night, for his voice sounded distinctly unamused.

‘Who’s that?’ said Freddy, somewhat idiotically in the circumstances.

There was a pause, then the voice said:

‘I know you, don’t I? Look here, what’s all this?’

The torch went off and there was the hiss of a gas lamp being lit, and suddenly the place was illuminated and they saw they were standing in the entrance passage of the house. Before them stood Edgar Valencourt, in his shirt sleeves but otherwise fully dressed. He looked from one of them to the other, his expression grim. They were not looking at his face, however, but at the gun which he held in his hand.

‘I think you’d better explain yourselves,’ he said.

Freddy eyed the gun warily. This was certainly the man who had been dancing with Angela, and he did not look especially pleased to see them.

‘Must you point that thing at us?’ he said. ‘We only wanted to talk to you.’

‘That’s obvious enough,’ said Valencourt. ‘Most people who knock and get no answer take the hint and go away instead of breaking in through the scullery. But as you can see, I’m not accepting visitors at present.’

At that moment there was a loud rapping at the door, and he glanced back but did not lower the gun.

‘It’s Marthe,’ said William. ‘She’s seen us and wants to come in.’

‘Marthe?’ said Valencourt in astonishment. He regarded the two young men for a second, then, reaching a sudden decision, tucked the gun in his belt and went to fling open the door. Immediately Marthe pushed past him and into the house.

‘Look here, what the devil is all this?’ demanded Valencourt.

‘I take it you don’t know,’ said Freddy, but got no further before Marthe turned to Valencourt and burst into a torrent of voluble and excited French. He stared as though he could not believe his ears.

‘
What
?’ he exclaimed, and had they had any doubts as to his ignorance of Angela’s plight before, they were now dispelled, for it was perfectly evident that this was wholly unexpected news to him. ‘Is this a joke?’ he said, looking from one to the other of them. ‘It’s not very funny if it is.’

‘
Non
,’ said Marthe, shaking her head vigorously. ‘M. Pilkington-Soames, he will tell you.’

‘I only wish it were a joke,’ said Freddy. ‘But do you really suppose we came all the way to France and broke into your house just for the fun of it? We wanted to speak to you. Angela’s in the devil of a fix and they’re almost certain to hang her if she can’t prove she was somewhere else that night, and yet she won’t even try.’

‘What do you mean, she won’t even try?’ said Valencourt.

Freddy now told him briefly about Davie Marchmont’s death, and about the trial, and how bad things looked for Angela, and Valencourt listened. The wary look had now returned to his face, and aside from that first exclamation of surprise at the news, nobody could have said what was passing through his mind.

‘And what has all this to do with me?’ he said, when Freddy had finished.

‘You were with her that night, weren’t you?’ said Freddy.

‘What makes you think that?’ said Valencourt. ‘Did Angela tell you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Freddy. ‘She won’t say a word. She insists she was at home all night and didn’t notice her husband’s body behind the sofa until the morning, but I saw you together at the White Rabbit Ball and I drew my own conclusions. I don’t know where the two of you were, although I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her flat, but for some reason the silly woman won’t give you away even to save her own skin.’

‘Won’t she?’ said Valencourt. For a second an odd, indefinable look passed across his face, but it vanished quickly and his expression once again became unreadable.

‘You must come,
monsieur
,’ said Marthe. ‘If you tell them that she was with you that night then they will let her go and she will be safe.’

‘Are you quite certain of that, though?’ said Valencourt. ‘I rather think Angela has got it right. It seems to me that my interference is likely to make things worse, if anything. I suppose you know I’m not exactly a favourite of the police. If I step forward and say Angela was with me—and mind, I’m not admitting she was—then the court is hardly going to look favourably upon her, is it? Our having been together that night won’t do her reputation any good at all. And in any case, leaving aside the small matter of the various warrants for my arrest—which may be unimportant to you, but which I can’t quite bring myself to ignore—I can’t prove where I was that night either. It seems to me that if I come forward all that will happen is that they’ll say we were in it together and hang two of us instead of one, and that would be rather a waste, don’t you think?’

Freddy’s heart sank, for it looked as though Valencourt would refuse to come back with them, just as he had feared. They had only ever had a slim hope of finding him and persuading him to do it, but to have got this far only to fall at the last fence was almost too much to bear. Of course, it was hardly likely that a hardened criminal would be prepared to sacrifice himself for someone else—especially a woman he had probably considered as a mere plaything—but still, Freddy had hoped that he might have been willing to help them in some way. If he were not, then all hope was gone. Perhaps he might be persuaded to give them a signed statement. It would be better than nothing.

Marthe was by no means discouraged, however.

‘You are right,
monsieur
,’ she said, ‘and if we could have found any other way to do it, then we should not have come to you. But somehow I know you can help if you only will. You do not wish to see her hanged, surely?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ said Valencourt. ‘But you must see that it’s useless for me to try and provide her with an alibi. Nobody saw us, and the jury will never take my word for it once they find out who I am.’

‘But you are all we have,’ she said. ‘If you care for Madame at all, then please help us. Please,
monsieur
.’

He looked at her beseeching face.

‘Is there really no hope that she’ll be acquitted?’ he said.

‘None at all, barring some miracle,’ said Freddy. ‘The prosecution has a very strong case indeed. They know he was killed with her gun, and they know—or at least they
think
they know—that she was in the flat at the time he died. And they’ve made it look as though she had every reason to do it. If it were anybody else but Angela I’d be convinced myself that she did it. Oh yes, they’ll find her guilty all right—there’s not a doubt of it.’

‘I see,’ said Valencourt, and still his expression was closed so that they had no idea of his thoughts. They waited. ‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps I can do something, but I shall need to know all about it first. As you’ve probably realized, I don’t get the newspapers delivered here, so this has all caught me rather unprepared.’

‘I brought this week’s papers with me,’ said Freddy. ‘They’re in the car.’

‘I’ll get them,’ said William.

‘I’ve been reporting the case myself,’ went on Freddy after William had gone out. ‘It’s been pretty sick-making, I don’t mind telling you. Poor Angela’s been having the devil of a time.’

‘Has she?’ said Valencourt, and again the odd look passed briefly across his face. He hesitated and said, almost as though he were unwilling to ask, ‘How is she bearing up?’

‘Very well, considering that she’s had to listen to all her private concerns being talked about and judged in front of hundreds of people. It seems she has a daughter nobody knew about, and her husband was blackmailing her over it. Hardly the kind of thing one wants to talk about before strangers.’

‘A daughter?’ said Valencourt in surprise. ‘Barbara,’ he said after a moment’s thought.

‘Yes. Did you know?’ said Freddy.

‘Not at all,’ said Valencourt, ‘but I’ve met the young lady in question, and they do look very alike. I ought to have realized at the time. Look here,’ he went on as William returned with the newspapers, ‘we’re cluttering up the house by standing in this passage. You’d better come into the parlour while I read. You see, even someone of my sort knows how to treat his guests,’ he said ironically to William, who had hardly spoken a word, but who somehow managed to radiate dislike for Valencourt even while remaining perfectly respectful.

They followed him into the parlour and sat as he read the newspaper reports carefully, only pausing now and again to ask Freddy a question. He seemed particularly interested in what Alfred Pearson had said about Davie Marchmont that day at Burkett’s. At last he threw down the latest edition of the
Clarion
and looked up.

‘It all looks rather bad for her, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Does the defence have anything else?’

‘Not much,’ said Freddy. ‘We can throw some doubt on the time of the gunshot, but most of the case rests on this mysterious foreigner who was seen threatening Marchmont on the day he died.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Valencourt non-committally and gazed at the floor as though he were thinking.