The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) (6 page)

‘No, Edgar,’ she said. ‘I want to see you do it.’

‘You’re a hard woman,’ he said. He hesitated for just a moment, then dropped it through the letter-box.

They returned to the car. Angela was fighting the urge to break into a run, but he walked at a leisurely pace as though they were strolling along the river on a Sunday afternoon.

‘Back to London, then,’ he said as he started the engine. ‘Do you suppose your friends have noticed you’ve gone yet?’

‘I told them I wasn’t feeling well and that I’d get a taxi home,’ she said. ‘I ought to be quite safe.’

He glanced at her.

‘Are you sure of that?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t like leaving you to the mercies of that fellow.’

‘I told you, there’s no need to worry about him. He’s a nuisance, that’s all. He wants money, and he’ll probably hang around until I’ve given him enough to satisfy him for the present, then go away.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t divorce him when you had the chance,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have time, though. I came away rather quickly in the end. I was frightened, you see. I thought something dreadful might happen if I didn’t get away from him.’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘You don’t mean you were afraid he’d kill you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. I was afraid I’d kill him.’

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. They drove in silence for a few minutes, then suddenly Angela began to laugh.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just that I shall never get over your ability to surprise me.’

He laughed too.

‘As a matter of fact I’ve rather surprised myself this evening. I certainly never expected to be doing this. You wretched woman! Look what you’ve done to me. I shall never be able to hold my head up in public again.’

‘I knew you couldn’t be as black as you like to paint yourself,’ she said.

‘I suppose even the worst of us have our decent moments.’

‘Were you good, once?’ she said curiously.

‘Perhaps not good,’ he said. ‘Can anyone be wholly good? I certainly wasn’t as good as you, but I was better than I am now.’

‘I’m not that good,’ she said. ‘I’ve done my share of bad things. I just don’t boast about them.’

‘Do I boast?’

‘Just a little,’ she said.

He laughed again.

‘I suppose I do, now and again. I can’t help but be pleased with myself. It’s a weakness of mine. Am I insufferable?’

‘Not
all
the time,’ she said.

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Then there’s hope for me yet.’

‘I suppose you’re in some danger now,’ she said after a pause. ‘Do they know how to find you?’

‘Not at this moment,’ he said. ‘Most criminals have the good sense to stay well away from the scene of the crime. They’re hardly likely to be looking for me here.’

‘But they will come looking?’

‘Yes,’ he said carelessly. ‘They’re rather a foul lot and they don’t forget a bad turn in a hurry. I dare say they’ll keep up the search for some time to come.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ she said.

‘One doesn’t get far in this business by being afraid,’ he said. ‘I try and take these things lightly.’

‘Can you protect yourself, though? Do you have a gun, or anything like that?’

‘I don’t like guns,’ he said. ‘They’re noisy and fire things that hurt when they hit you.’

‘All the more reason to have one yourself,’ she said.

‘Well, I don’t own one, I’m afraid.’

‘I have a gun,’ she said after a moment. ‘You can have it.’

‘But I don’t need it.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’d like you to take it all the same.’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned for my safety, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said.

‘Let’s pretend for the purposes of this conversation that I am,’ she said.

‘Yes, let’s. I rather like the idea. It’s a long time since anyone was concerned about me.’

‘Then you’ll take the gun?’

‘Of course I will,’ he said, ‘since you insist on it.’

‘I do,’ she said.

They fell silent for a few moments, then he said:

‘Am I to take it that I’m back in your good books now?’

They exchanged glances.

‘Perhaps,’ she replied.

‘Then will you come and talk to me and keep me company while I pack my things? It’s almost three o’clock and I shall be going in a few hours, and I’m afraid I left everything in rather a mess before I came out. Do say you will. You’re not tired, are you?’

‘No,’ said Angela, who had never felt more awake. It had been the oddest of evenings, and she was still feeling strangely reckless and exhilarated after their midnight adventure. She knew she would find it impossible to sleep if she went home, so without giving it too much thought she agreed. After all, he would be gone for good soon, and she would never see him again—which would be a relief in many ways—so she saw no harm in granting his request and keeping him company for the few hours that remained to him in London. He seemed pleased, and the rest of the journey to London proceeded mostly in silence.

It was a quarter to seven and still dark when they arrived back at Angela’s flat in Mount Street. Angela was nervous, for she feared that Davie might have taken it into his head to come to the flat and let himself in with Marthe’s key, but her worries were swiftly dispelled when she turned on the light and found everything as she had left it. She peeped into one or two rooms but saw nobody.

‘You can come in,’ she said to Valencourt, who had been standing outside on the landing.

‘Isn’t Marthe back yet?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I gave her a week. She’ll be back on Wednesday.’

‘Dear me. How will you manage?’ he said mockingly.

‘I’m not entirely incapable,’ she said. ‘I do know where things are kept, at least.’ She went across to a chest of drawers by the window and opened the second drawer, then frowned and pulled open the top one instead. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she said, and handed him her little revolver. ‘I keep it fully loaded.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, putting it in his pocket. ‘I shall treasure it always.’

‘Good. Now, you’d better go if you don’t want to miss your train. Goodbye,’ she said, and held out a hand to him imperiously.

‘Well, I call that cool!’ he exclaimed. He ignored the hand and pulled her into his arms.

‘I was trying to be dignified,’ she said when she could finally speak. ‘And now you’ve ruined it.’

‘I do beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I lack your sang-froid. I refuse to be dignified when we’re saying goodbye.’

‘I rather wish you hadn’t come back at all,’ she said. ‘Now I shall have to forget you all over again.’

‘But I don’t want you to forget me,’ he said. ‘In fact, I shall be awfully offended if you do.’

She laughed.

‘You know I couldn’t possibly,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me?’ he said lightly after a moment.

‘No, Edgar, I don’t think I would.’

‘I didn’t really expect you to say yes, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask,’ he said.

‘Well, I thank you for the kind thought, but I’m quite happy here,’ said Angela.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said. ‘It would be selfish of me to drag you away even if you wanted to come. It’s just that now I’ve got you I’m finding it rather a wrench to let you go.’

He tightened his arms about her as he spoke.

‘It would never work,’ she said. ‘There’s no sense in even thinking about it.’

‘I dare say you’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’

‘I’d like to have met you under different circumstances,’ he said. ‘But as you’ve so rightly told me before, I chose my path and now I have to live with it. Shall you ever approve of me, do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps one day. Go and do something splendid and we’ll see.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You might slay a dragon, or—or save somebody’s life, or perform some act of glorious self-sacrifice. That ought to do the trick.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I shall have to content myself with struggling to live an honest life.’

‘That will be admirable. I wish you all the best with it.’ she said. She freed herself with some difficulty. ‘Now go, and don’t come back.’

‘I won’t promise,’ he said.

‘I shouldn’t believe you if you did,’ she said.

He kissed her one last time and a second later was gone. Angela watched out of the window as he got into his car and drove off into the damp November morning, then turned away. She was trying very hard to be sensible about things. There was no use in regretting him, for there had never been any hope to start with and she was not one to indulge in useless wishing. No; it was much better this way. They had parted on the best of terms and now at least she could remember him fondly and with a smile. She could not say whether his attempt to pursue the straight and narrow path would be successful, but if it were not she was unlikely ever to find out about it and be disappointed. Now all that remained was for her to be firm with herself and suppress any awkward feelings for him that might remain. She was confident of her own strength and was certain it would not take too long.

She stifled a yawn, for it had been a long night. It was not quite seven o’clock, however, and she had no plans for Sunday, so she decided that there was no harm in trying to get a few hours’ sleep. She was heading towards her bedroom when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to glance at it. It seemed to be a shoe, and it was protruding from behind the sofa at a very strange angle.

‘How odd,’ thought Angela, and paused. She looked at it more closely, still not understanding what it was she had seen. Then realization stole across her and she froze. For several seconds she stood there, quite immobile, while her heart began to beat rapidly. At last she took a deep breath and approached the sofa very slowly, although she already knew perfectly well what she would find, for she had seen it often in the past—often enough, certainly, to recognize it when she saw it.

There it was, just as she had known it would be: the body of Davie Marchmont, lying behind the sofa in a pool of blood, barely recognizable—although who else could it be? Briefly, she knelt down by him and reached out for his wrist as though to look for a pulse, but then in an instant she drew back, for of course there was no pulse; a single glance at him was enough to tell that. She stood up again and moved away and for a long moment stared down at him—at the thing which had once been her husband. Anyone observing her would have said that she was in shock—and perhaps she was, although it had not deprived her of the ability to think, for her mind was working rapidly.

At length she turned away from him, went into the bedroom and changed from her evening-dress into day clothes. The police would be here soon, and it would not do to greet them in silk and pearls. Then, after a moment’s thought, she went over to her bed and pulled the covers back. When she was ready, she returned to the sitting-room and lifted the telephone-receiver to call Scotland Yard. After that, she sat down in a chair to wait. Angela Marchmont was by no means a stupid woman. She had no idea what her husband was doing in her flat or who had killed him, but one thing she did know was that she was in very great trouble.

‘Mrs. Marchmont?’ said Sergeant Willis of Scotland Yard. ‘Are you quite sure, sir?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Inspector Scott tetchily, still holding the telephone-receiver in his hand. ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

‘No, sir,’ said Willis.

‘Well, then,’ said Scott. ‘I’ve never met the woman myself but I understand you know her. She says she found the body this morning. It’s her husband, apparently.’

Inspector Scott was a compactly-built man of middle height and thinning hair, whose disposition was not improved by a tendency to dyspepsia. Sergeant Willis respected his abilities but found him slightly hard to take by comparison with the even-tempered Inspector Jameson, who was away on honeymoon at present. Scott also had an unfortunate love of writing reports, and Willis (who did
not
love writing reports) had been most put out at having been summoned to work early on a Sunday morning to catch up on his record-keeping. He had got no further than filling in his name at the top of a page, however, when a call had come in to say that a Mrs. Angela Marchmont had found a dead body in her flat. This was surprise enough, but the identity of the dead man was even more unexpected.

‘I didn’t even know she had a husband,’ said Willis.

‘Well, she hasn’t any more, by the sound of it,’ said Scott callously. ‘We’d better get over there now and take a look before she has a chance to tamper with the evidence.’

‘Why should she do that?’ said Willis.

‘Any number of reasons,’ said Scott. ‘She’s the one who plays at being a detective, isn’t she? Fancies herself cleverer than the police. By the time we get there she’ll probably have pocketed half the evidence so we can’t deduce anything from the scene of the crime.’

‘She doesn’t usually do that,’ said Willis. ‘She’s always been very respectful, as a matter of fact.’

‘Well, and what of it?’ said Scott. ‘Because there’s always the other possibility, which is that she did away with him herself. She’s probably scrubbing the house clean of clues as we speak.’

He stood up and strode towards the door.

‘Or she might even be upset at the death of her husband,’ said Willis quietly to himself, as he followed his superior out of the office and down the stairs.

But despite the kind-hearted Willis’s supposition, Mrs. Marchmont showed no signs of being particularly upset at her husband’s death when Scott and Willis arrived. On the contrary, she looked a little pale and tired but perfectly composed.

‘He’s behind the sofa. I haven’t touched him,’ was the first thing she said as she admitted them to the flat.

The two policemen walked over to look at the mortal remains of Davie Marchmont. It was not a pleasant sight. It looked as though he had taken a shot to the head, but the bullet had not passed through cleanly, for there was a certain degree of mess. Sergeant Willis winced. Inspector Scott turned to Mrs. Marchmont, who had remained at the other side of the room, presumably not wishing to look at the body again.