The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) (2 page)

Here she broke off, for the letter was not from Mr. Addison at all. Marthe glanced up in curiosity at Angela’s sudden silence, and raised her eyebrows at the sight of her mistress’s face, which had assumed a blank, closed expression.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Angela did not reply, but continued to stare at the single sheet of paper in her hand. Its letterhead declared it to be from a firm of solicitors by the name of Gilverson and Gilverson, and it read simply:

Friday, 17th May

Dear Mrs. Marchmont,

I write in respect of my late client, Edgar Valencourt de Lisle, about whom I have a communication to make that would be better discussed in private. I should therefore be very grateful if you would come to my office at your earliest convenience. Might I suggest next Friday, 24th May, at 2 p.m? If not, I shall be more than happy to accommodate any other day you prefer.

Yours sincerely,

Charles Gilverson

P.S:
Please be assured that all discussions will remain absolutely confidential.

Angela gazed at the wall for a few moments, looked back at the letter to remind herself of the date suggested for the appointment with Charles Gilverson, thought for an instant and reached a sudden decision.

‘Go and send a telegram to the Atchisons and tell them we’ll be there on Thursday,’ she said to Marthe. ‘And you’d better start looking up the train times.’

‘But I thought you did not wish to go,’ said Marthe.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Angela, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Marthe went off to do as she was bid. When she had gone, Angela drummed her fingers vigorously on the mantelpiece for some two minutes. She then took up the letter, read it once more, crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket. After another minute she fished it out and tore it into pieces for good measure. She had no idea what this Charles Gilverson wanted to say to her, but it could not possibly be anything she wanted to hear. Perhaps there had been a mistake. At any rate, she had no intention of going to his office, and of course he would not have the temerity to try again. She would ignore the summons and go to Scotland instead, and then he would go away and leave her alone.

B
UT IF ANGELA thought she could escape the inevitable, she was wrong. She spent a very dull week in Scotland and returned to London, secure in the knowledge that she had missed her appointment with Mr. Gilverson and thus had nothing to fear. To her dismay, therefore, the first thing she saw when Marthe presented her with her post was a familiar-looking envelope, addressed to her in the same hand as the first letter, but bigger and bulkier this time. Evidently this one contained more than just a single sheet of paper.

‘That will be all,’ said Angela pointedly to Marthe, who was hovering about with an expression of the strongest curiosity. Marthe stuck out her chin and reluctantly withdrew, and Angela opened the envelope with some trepidation. Inside was a letter and another, smaller envelope addressed to her. She turned her attention to the letter first. It was from Mr. Gilverson, and it read:

Wednesday, 29th May

Dear Mrs. Marchmont,

It has occurred to me that my earlier letter may have come as something of an unwelcome surprise to you in view of the unfortunate events that occurred last winter, about which I imagine you hardly want to be reminded. If it did, then I beg your pardon. My intention was never to upset or alarm you in any way, and I hope you will forgive me if I have inadvertently done so. I wrote to you originally in fulfilment of instructions left to me by my late client, who asked me to communicate with you a certain number of months after his death. He did not specify how many months, but he was clear in his wish that you be given time to recover from your ordeal before I wrote to you.

Having reflected upon the situation, and since I understand the enclosed letter is somewhat personal in nature, I have now decided to send it to you directly, in order to allow you to read it in private and consider the course of action you wish to take, if any. My client referred to your generosity of spirit several times during our conversation, and was hopeful that you would be prevailed upon to lend your assistance in resolving his problem. However, since it is by rights his own concern and none of yours, please be assured that no recrimination of any kind will be due to you should you decide to decline; on the contrary, I am aware of the demands I am placing upon you even by writing to you now, and you therefore have my word that if I do not hear from you, this is the last communication you will receive from me regarding this matter.

If there is anything further you wish to know, I can be communicated with at any time at the above address.

I remain,

Yours sincerely,

Charles Gilverson

Angela hardly knew what she had been expecting—a blackmail demand had been her immediate assumption on receiving the first letter—but this was a surprise indeed. What could it mean? She now turned to the smaller envelope and regarded it warily. It bore only her name, written in a clear, masculine hand; presumably that of the man she had known as Edgar Valencourt. Her first thought on looking at it was that his handwriting was wholly unfamiliar to her, for he had never written to her nor she to him. How little she had known him! And what
had
she known of him, after all, but what he had told her? It was not until that fateful day in court that she had found out his terrible secret and felt her world collapse about her ears. Now she hesitated for some time before opening the letter, since it seemed that no good could possibly come of it. After all, what could it be except an explanation for his conduct and a demand for her gratitude in return for his having taken the blame upon himself? He was dead now, and nothing he could say would change what had happened, so why read the letter and reopen the wounds that had begun slowly to heal over? For a few moments, indeed, she had half a mind to tear it up unread, but something stopped her and she could not bring herself to do it. She bit her lip, then at last opened the envelope reluctantly and took out the letter it contained. It was written on cheap paper she recognized well from her own time in prison, and was dated mid-January, before his escape and subsequent death at the hands of a criminal gang.

My darling Angela
(it read)
,

I expect by now you’re sick and tired of the very sound of my name, and would be quite happy never to hear it again—and believe me, I thought long and hard before putting pen to paper today, since the last thing I want is to remind you of this whole sorry business. In fact, I shouldn’t blame you if you wanted to throw this letter into the fire and refuse to read it, but I know your generosity and I hope you’ll be kind enough to give me your attention for just a few minutes, even if I don’t deserve it.

Of course, you know how bad I’ve been—it’s not as though I’ve kept it a secret from you, and it would be ridiculous of me to try and deny it now. The police have been looking for me for a long time, and with good reason. I’m a thief and a criminal and probably worse besides. I’ve done things that any right-thinking person would be ashamed of, and felt no remorse—at least until recently. But Angela, I’m not a murderer. I was tried and convicted, and I escaped from prison by a stroke of pure luck, but if they’d succeeded in hanging me they’d have hanged the wrong man. I spent ten years and more running away from ‘justice,’ as they like to call it, with no possible means of clearing my name. I was marked down as bad, and in a fit of defiance—rage—I don’t know what—I went on to show them just how bad I could be. If they thought me guilty then it seemed to me that I might as well live up to the description. So that’s what I did—at least until I met you. You were kind to me even though I’d deceived you, and I can’t tell you how much it lifted my spirits to feel that there was one person at least who saw a little good in me, when everybody else, including myself, considered me to be wholly bad.

Now I’d like to ask you to be kind to me one last time. I’ve never been one to abandon hope, and it seems to me that you’re the only one I have left, so I’m afraid I’m going to be terribly selfish once again and ask for your help. Selina did not die at my hands. Of that, at least, I’m completely innocent. I don’t expect you to believe my word, of course—the police didn’t, after all—but I should be so very obliged if you would consider taking a little time to look into the matter yourself and to come to your own conclusions. I was found guilty on quite circumstantial evidence, and I should like as much as anyone for the real culprit to be brought to justice. It oughtn’t to matter, but while I’m still alive to care about it, I’d like to think there was a chance that one day this particular stain on my character might be removed.

I know there’s nothing you can do to help me now—that’s not what I’m asking, and in fact I’ve instructed Charles not to communicate with you until after my death. You’ve had quite enough on your own plate and it would hardly be kind of me to add to it. But I will confess to feeling comfort at the idea that
someone
might be prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt long enough to try and find out what really happened that day, and I should very much like that someone to be you. I know you have a deep sense of justice, and won’t be swayed by all the other things you know to my disadvantage, and I believe if anyone can discover the truth and clear my name, you can. Then perhaps one day you will come to think better of me than you do now.

If you do decide to help me, Charles can give you all the details of the case. If you don’t, then there’s no harm done. For myself, I wish you every happiness.

Yours ever,

Edgar

Angela’s first reaction on reading the letter was one of anger. Was it never to end? Was she never to be free of him, even after his death? How
dare
he call her darling and demand her help, as though none of the last few months had ever happened? As though he had not hidden his murderous past from her until it was revealed so dramatically that day in court? As though he had never offered himself up as a sacrifice and put her in his debt forever?

Here her anger receded as quickly as it had arisen and she sagged a little, because of course that was the
real
heart of the matter: her own deep-seated guilt at having allowed him to do it. She was less angry with him than she was with herself. She was under a great obligation to him, and they both knew it, although—drat the man—he had not been so tactless as even to hint at it in his letter. He had not asked her to return any favour, but had expressed his request merely in terms of her doing him a kindness. There was no begging or pleading, and—except for the initial endearment—no indelicate hinting at anything more than past friendship to embarrass her. Had the letter come from anyone else she would most likely have been moved to pity and agreed to the request immediately.

But why had he asked her to investigate the murder of his wife at all? Surely he must be guilty. Of course he was guilty. Why, the alternative was unthinkable, for if he really were innocent of murder then that made his sacrifice for her all the greater, and all the more incomprehensible. Just then Angela was struck by a thought which had not occurred to her before, and she drew in a sharp breath. Why had she never realized it? Of course! The reason Edgar Valencourt must have come forward and confessed to the murder of Davie Marchmont was because he believed that she had done it. There was no other explanation for it, for had he believed in the culpability of a mysterious third party then he would most likely have assumed that Angela’s defence would produce some evidence of it, and that Angela would be acquitted on balance. But the fact that he had stepped in pointed to his belief that there
was
no evidence, for the real murderer was already standing there in the dock. She had told him herself that she had been frightened she might kill her husband one day, but that did not mean she had done it. On the contrary, she had run away to avoid the temptation. Davie’s death had been entirely his own fault, caused by his own greed and stupidity.