The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) (7 page)

‘Did you say you found him here this morning?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Angela.

‘Do you have any idea what happened?’

‘No.’

She seemed unwilling to elaborate.

‘When did you last see your husband? Alive, I mean,’ said Scott.

‘It was on Thursday,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘Here, at my flat. We talked, then he went away again. I believe he was staying at Burkett’s.’

‘Staying at Burkett’s?’ echoed the inspector. ‘Didn’t he live here?’

‘My husband and I were separated,’ said Angela. ‘He’s an American and he usually lives—lived—in New York. I hadn’t seen him in more than two years when he arrived on Wednesday.’

‘I see,’ said Scott, in whose mind ideas were turning over rapidly. ‘Why did he come to London?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Angela, then corrected herself. ‘Or rather, I know he came to me for money. Whether that was his sole purpose in coming to England I couldn’t tell you.’

‘He wanted money? Did you give him any?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Angela.

‘May I ask how much?’

Angela hesitated, then went over to her writing-desk, brought out of a drawer her cheque-book and handed it to him. Scott looked at the sum written on the most recent counterfoil and just managed to stop himself from whistling. He made no comment, however, and merely handed back the cheque-book.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I’d like you to tell me more about what happened. At what time did your husband arrive?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Angela. ‘I was out last night, at a charity ball. He certainly wasn’t here when I left the flat, though.’

‘And at what time did you arrive home?’

‘I left the ball not long after midnight and came home in a taxi. I was back by twenty past twelve,’ said Angela. This was just the first of many lies she would tell over the next weeks, but it was by no means the worst.

‘And was he here then?’ said Inspector Scott.

‘I don’t know. I suppose he must have been.’

‘Do you mean you didn’t see him?’

‘No. I’d had a little to drink and I was tired, and I wasn’t thinking of anything much. I certainly had no reason to look behind the sofa before I went to bed, which is why I didn’t see him until this morning.’

‘Was the front door locked when you arrived home last night?’

‘Yes. Yes, it was,’ said Angela reluctantly, after a moment’s hesitation.

‘Then how did he get in?’

‘I think he had a key. My maid is away for a few days, and before she went she left her key on the table there. After Davie visited I noticed it had gone and I assumed he’d taken it.’

‘But why should he do that?’ said Scott.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he did it accidentally or absent-mindedly,’ said Angela. She was careful not to accuse him of anything deliberate for she was fully aware, even at this early stage, of how important it was not to display any sign of outright hostility towards her dead husband.

Inspector Scott was an able enough man, but he was not the sort to go looking for difficulties where none apparently existed, and he had already pretty much made up his mind on this case.

‘Mrs. Marchmont, do you have any idea who killed your husband?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘My first thought when I saw him was that he had killed himself.’ She wanted to add, ‘Just to spite me,’ but thought better of it.

‘But there’s no gun. If he’d killed himself then there would be a gun next to the body.’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You didn’t happen to see a gun when you found your husband?’ said Scott. ‘And pick it up, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Are you quite certain of that? You might have done it absent-mindedly or accidentally, just as your husband did with your keys.’

The inspector’s manner was bland, and he seemed to be offering her a way out, but she would not fall into the trap.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I hardly went near him. I certainly didn’t pick anything up.’

She looked up, saw Sergeant Willis hovering sympathetically in the background, and felt a little sorry for him, for they had always been on friendly terms and she imagined that he was feeling somewhat torn at present. As if in confirmation of her supposition, he offered her a half-smile and then turned away, looking uncomfortable. Inspector Scott had no such qualms, however.

‘Mrs. Marchmont, were you and your husband on good terms?’ he said abruptly.

‘We weren’t the best of friends, certainly,’ she replied. ‘That’s why we parted company. However, there was no particular animosity between us. We tolerated one another and were on civil terms, at least.’

Another lie. This one was slightly easier to tell than the first, and Angela was thankful that her arms were covered so that the bruises did not show.

‘Why did you give him money?’

‘Because he said he needed it,’ said Angela. ‘He was still my husband, after all.’

‘Didn’t he work?’

‘He found it difficult to hold down a job,’ said Angela shortly.

‘Are you sure that’s the only reason you gave him the money? He didn’t threaten you, for example?’

‘Of course not,’ said Angela. ‘I told you, we were on civil terms. He asked for the money and I gave it to him. I could afford it, after all.’ Here she only just managed to keep the bitterness out of her tone.

‘Do you own a gun?’ said Inspector Scott.

This was a facer, but after a moment’s reflection Angela decided that there was no sense in lying about it, since it was a matter of public record.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

‘Where is it?’

‘I keep it in the second drawer of that chest by the window,’ she said.

Scott nodded to Willis, who went to the chest, wrapped his hand in a handkerchief and carefully opened the second drawer.

‘It’s not there,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’ said Angela. Now that she had determined on her course, it was becoming easier all the time to act the part. ‘Try the other drawers.’

But of course the chest of drawers contained no gun.

‘Might you have put it somewhere else?’ said Scott. His manner was becoming increasingly polite as his conviction of her guilt became more assured.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I always kept it there. Do you suppose the murderer took it?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Scott non-committally. As a matter of fact, he was half-inclined to arrest her there and then, but the lack of a weapon posed something of a difficulty. There was no doubt at all in his mind that Angela Marchmont had shot and killed her husband, but it would be difficult to prove that until they had found the gun. No doubt she had disposed of it somewhere, and he could only hope she had hidden it in the flat. The place would have to be searched, of course, and more evidence collected, but as far as Scott could see, it was an open-and-shut case.

Just then, the doorbell rang and suddenly the room was full of men with bags and cases and stretchers, who saw that the bereaved wife was present and so lowered their voices, trod carefully on the expensive Persian rugs, and tried not to knock into the furniture. Angela did her best to stay out of the way as they worked. She had remained calm so far, but it was partly out of a sense of disbelief at events, for it was perfectly obvious to her what was about to happen, and among all the confusion the one thing that stood out in her mind was a burning sense of resentment at her husband who, she was irrationally convinced, had done this deliberately to get her into trouble, for she could not think of a more perfect crime. The locked door, the missing weapon, the evidence of the cheque-book—all of this together painted a clear picture of a woman who had taken a gun and shot dead her husband in a fit of rage. And why should anyone think differently? It looked very much to Angela as though the police had a water-tight case against her. She had left the house at about nine o’clock the night before and (as far as the police knew) had returned just after midnight. At some time between nine and a quarter to seven that morning, Davie had come to the flat for reasons best known to himself, and had been shot dead. Unless it could be proved that Angela was out of the house when he was killed, then she would be arrested for his murder. But what if it turned out that he had died after midnight? Then she would have no alibi at all, for she could not—would not—confess where she had really been. That was quite impossible. No, the police must continue to think that she had spent the night at home, and she could only hope that the medical evidence would show that Davie had died before midnight, when several witnesses could confirm that she had been at the White Rabbit Ball. Perhaps it would even turn out that the gun which was used to kill Davie was not hers. But how could that be proved? There was no other weapon here, and she had, of course, given her own revolver to Edgar Valencourt, who was presumably on his way to France at this very minute. She had no way of sending a message to him, for she had no idea where he was going, and even if she had, he was unlikely to come forward with the gun, since he would be arrested immediately himself if he did. Despite all the things he had said, she did not suppose for a moment that his interest in her extended to getting himself into trouble. No, there was certainly no help to be expected from that quarter. The gun was gone and with it a vital piece of evidence.

At that moment she could see no way out, and a sense of defeat came upon her. She supposed that Davie had always meant to do her a bad turn in whatever way he could, although this was the last thing she had expected. Oddly, in the whirl of her thoughts she did not pause to wonder who really had killed her husband, for it did not seem to matter much. After all, why would the police bother looking for anyone else when they had a perfect suspect right before their eyes? She looked across to the other side of the room, where the police were working, and found Inspector Scott regarding her thoughtfully. He withdrew his gaze immediately but there was no doubt at all what he had been thinking. Angela turned away and stared at the wall. At that moment she felt more alone than she had ever done before.

The doctor soon pronounced it to be his considered opinion that David Marchmont had died at some time between eight o’clock on Saturday night and two o’clock on Sunday morning, and that death had occurred as a result of a gunshot to the head—most likely from a small-calibre weapon of some sort, perhaps a revolver. It then became a matter of some urgency to find the murder weapon. A search of Angela Marchmont’s flat was instituted, but turned up nothing. However, other evidence of some interest was unearthed. Firstly, the little chest of drawers in which Mrs. Marchmont claimed to have kept her revolver was tested for finger-prints, and the results indicated that only she had touched it. Secondly, a search of Mr. Marchmont’s body revealed that he was not in possession of a key to the door of his wife’s flat, which suggested strongly that Mrs. Marchmont had let him in herself. On questioning, Mrs. Marchmont stated that she had no idea what had happened to her maid’s key, but guessed that perhaps the murderer had taken it. Be that as it may, it was certain that the key was missing and nobody knew where it might be. It was also remarked during the search of Davie’s pockets that he was carrying three gloves: one pair in tan suède and an odd one in dark grey. It was assumed, however, that he had lost the other grey glove and had forgotten to take its mate out of his pocket before coming out, and the fact was quickly forgotten.

The search of the flat continued for most of the day, and all the while Angela sat quietly, keeping out of everyone’s way and saying nothing unless asked a question by the police. Her husband’s remains were removed, along with a number of her personal effects, and still the search went on. At about three o’clock one of the men gave a sudden grunt of satisfaction, and announced that he had found the bullet. It had embedded itself into the wall next to a large painting, and there was some activity while they tried to get it out. Eventually it was removed, and the men congratulated one another at having retrieved it more or less undamaged. The same could not be said of the wall, however, which was now quite ruined. Angela considered saying something about it, but then decided against it, for it seemed to her that a hole in the plaster-work was quite the least of her worries.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Willis had been sent out to question the other people who lived in the building. Most of them had been out for all or part of the evening, but of the ones who preferred to remain at home on a Saturday night none had seen or heard Davie Marchmont arrive—for this was not the sort of building in which one neighbour spied on another, being inhabited mostly by wealthy people who were far too pleased with themselves and their own concerns to trouble their heads over what their fellow residents were doing at any given moment. Willis did manage to establish, however, that a number of loud bangs had been heard over the course of the evening, including several after midnight. Given that it was only a few days after the fifth of November, everyone had assumed that the noise was youngsters letting off fireworks, and had disregarded it as nothing more than a nuisance. According to one irate elderly woman, there had been one particularly loud bang just after ten, which was so loud that it almost seemed as though it had gone off in the building itself. Inspector Scott disregarded this when he heard it, since Mrs. Marchmont claimed to have an alibi for that time. Instead he concentrated his attention on the bangs that had been heard after midnight, for it seemed most likely that one of them had been the shot that killed Davie Marchmont.

After Willis had got all the information he could out of the other residents and reported back to Inspector Scott, the two men stood on the landing outside the flat and conversed in low voices. Mrs. Marchmont was inside, under the watchful eye of a police constable, although she seemed to have no intention of trying to make a run for it.

‘So, then,’ said Scott. ‘It’s all looking clear enough. Mrs. Marchmont comes home from this ball—incidentally, we’ll have to talk to the people she was with to confirm she was there at all. Still, let’s assume she was. She’s just got home when her husband turns up for a late-night visit, having already dunned her for money and made a nuisance of himself earlier in the week. They have a row—she says herself that she’d had a bit to drink—and she gets the gun out of the drawer and shoots him. Then she panics, disposes of the gun and calls us.’