The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) (20 page)

Freddy took out his notebook and consulted it.

‘I don’t recall one being mentioned,’ he said. ‘In fact, if you remember, Evelyn de Lisle sent her own maid up earlier in the afternoon to see if Selina wanted anything, so I think we may assume she didn’t.’

‘Then who came to report that she was unwell and would not be coming down to dinner? Surely since whoever it was must have been the last person to see Selina alive, the police ought to have taken her name?’

‘One would think so,’ said Freddy, squinting at his own handwriting. ‘Perhaps it was the one who ran away.’

Angela glanced up, and an impatient look crossed her face.

‘What is it?’ said Freddy.

‘Oh, nothing. I thought I’d remembered something, that’s all, but it’s gone now. I have evidently reached the age at which one’s mental faculties begin to decline,’ said Angela.

‘Perhaps you ought to take a holiday after all this,’ said Freddy. ‘I’m sure it will do you good.’

‘So people keep telling me,’ said Angela. ‘But I seem to have spent most of this year gallivanting and it hasn’t helped so far, so I should rather say that a spell of hard work would be more to the purpose.’

‘What a ghastly thought,’ said Freddy. ‘If they required any real work of me at the
Clarion
I should hand in my notice on the spot.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And speaking of that organ of truth and righteousness, I promised the home editor I’d give him eight hundred words on the accident at the soap factory in Clapham by four o’clock, so I had better go and make a start. Such a pity so many people died, as it means I shall have to resist the urge to pun.’

He took his leave and went out, and Angela was left to think, although with little result, since all her ideas were mere speculation. At length she decided to abandon thoughts of the case for the present. There was an exhibition at an art gallery she wished to see, and she called William to bring the Bentley round to Mount Street. But whether the paintings were uninspiring or whether she was in the wrong frame of mind, somehow she could not concentrate on the matter at hand, and after less than an hour she left.

‘William,’ she said idly as they returned home, ‘I don’t suppose you remember the name of the servant who ran away from Greystone Chase, do you?’

William thought.

‘Jemima, I think, ma’am,’ he said. ‘They said she jumped out of a window, but I expect that wasn’t true.’

‘These things do get exaggerated,’ agreed Angela. ‘But someone certainly did run away—I know it happened because the housekeeper told me, and she was there at the time. I shall have to ask Freddy to ask the Kent police for her surname. I don’t much fancy trying to find her after all this time, but apart from this Mme. Charbonnet—who I doubt will know anything—I have run out of people to question.’

‘Winkworth,’ said William suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Jemima Winkworth,’ he said. ‘That was her name. I’ve just remembered.’

‘Oh,’ said Angela. ‘Winkworth. Now where have I heard that name recently? Ah, yes. The Misses Winkworth. The woman in the wheel-chair and her sister. Oh!’ she said suddenly. ‘The elder one called her sister Jemmy, I’m sure of it. I wonder whether it’s the same woman.’

She thought back to the day on which she had met the Misses Winkworth on the cliff path. What had the elder one said? Something about them all being dead now, so there was no harm in bringing Jemmy back to Denborough. Who was dead? Was she referring to the de Lisles? Jemmy had been simple in the head, and had had a stroke, and wanted to return to Denborough to die in an expensive nursing-home—far too expensive, in fact, for a woman of her class. Angela stared out of the window and thought very hard.

As soon as they got back to Mount Street she made a telephone-call to Freddy. He answered somewhat grumpily, as he was struggling with his piece on the soap factory disaster.

‘Listen,’ said Angela. ‘I think I’ve found the servant who was the last person to see Selina alive. She’s in Denborough and she’s quite ga-ga, unfortunately, but I think she knows something and was paid to keep quiet.’

‘What?’ said Freddy, all thoughts of soap forgotten. ‘Who is she?’

Angela explained.

‘Yes, I remember them,’ he said. ‘Those old cats from the Regent were terribly sniffy about it.’

‘You have to admit it’s a little odd, though,’ said Angela. ‘I mean, that they can afford that nursing-home. The elder one said that Jemmy had been seen by several doctors, which must have cost a lot of money. What if she saw something and was spirited out of the house afterwards by the de Lisles, who paid her a handsome sum in return for her silence?’

‘That’s rather a big conclusion you’ve jumped to,’ said Freddy. ‘I won’t say you’re wrong, as it’s certainly plausible, but it’s not a lot of use to us if her mind’s gone, is it?’

‘No,’ admitted Angela. ‘Perhaps her sister can tell us something, then.’

‘If Jemmy received money to keep quiet then they’re hardly going to talk to us.’ said Freddy.

‘Then what can we do?’ said Angela.

Freddy thought.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Let’s assume you’re right—Jemmy saw something that night, and was paid to leave Greystone and keep her silence. In that case there must surely be a written agreement of some kind, don’t you think? If I were the sort to go around carelessly strangling family members in front of the servants and I wanted to buy their silence, I’d probably arrange a nice, fat pension rather than paying a lump sum, which might look suspicious if anybody thought to inquire into the matter. What’s the betting there’s a letter somewhere which sets out the conditions of the payment?’

‘That makes sense,’ said Angela. ‘But how can we get hold of it?’

‘If Jemmy has a copy, which I imagine she does, then it seems to me there are two possible ways to get hold of it: one, charm, and two, burglary,’ said Freddy.

‘Well, the first one sounds much easier,’ said Angela. ‘Could you manage that, do you think? You could think up some story and get into Jemmy’s room at the nursing-home somehow. If she doesn’t have any documents there, at least we might find out the address where they’re held. Or failing that, find out where her sister lives. We might try her if we have no luck with Jemmy.’

‘Nothing simpler,’ said Freddy. ‘My charm is legendary. Just say when you want me and I’ll be there. Not this afternoon, though, if you don’t mind. This piece is determined to defeat me and I’m equally determined it shan’t.’

‘I have to speak to this Mme. Charbonnet,’ said Angela. ‘Perhaps I’ll do that before we start trying any tricky stuff. In the meantime you might call your sergeant in the Kent police and make quite certain that this Jemmy is the same Jemima Winkworth we’re looking for. It wouldn’t do to go bothering a sick woman if she’s not the person we’re after.’

She promised to let him know when he was needed and hung up. Freddy went back to work and handed in his piece with about a minute to spare, and with only two accidental puns requiring subsequent removal by the editor.

T
HE NEXT DAY Angela returned to the Regent Hotel with the aim of finding Mme. Charbonnet. Denborough was a small place, and despite what Marthe had said, Angela did not suppose it to be absolutely teeming with French people, so she did not expect to encounter much difficulty in finding the woman, if indeed she were still living there. Her inquiries at the hotel drew no result, and her first thought after that was to ask Colonel Dempster, but alas, it appeared that he had gone to visit his brother in Cheltenham and would not be back until the next day. Mrs. Hudd had returned in great state to Staffordshire, her two weeks of Kentish festivity behind her for another year, so there was no information to be had from that quarter. Miss Atkinson remained, however, and welcomed Angela with pleasure and some puzzlement, since all this coming and going by Mrs. Wells seemed to her an odd way to conduct a holiday. If she was curious as to why Angela was so particularly interested in the French residents of Denborough she hid it politely, but in any case was unable to help—although she had noticed that there was a servant in the town who seemed to be foreign, to judge by her dress. Angela guessed she was referring to Florence, and decided to turn the matter over to Marthe, who sallied forth into Denborough and was soon able to report to her mistress that Mme. Charbonnet was still living in the town, but had married and was now called Mrs. Poynter.

‘Oh!’ said Angela. ‘Of course! I know her perfectly well. I saw her several times when I was here last. I wonder it didn’t occur to me straightaway. She doesn’t look at all English. Did Florence say anything about why her mistress came here in the first place?’

‘No,’ said Marthe.

‘Well, that’s only to be expected, I suppose,’ said Angela. She fell silent, wondering how best to approach the woman, who was presumably living a respectable life these days. It would hardly be good manners to introduce herself and announce that she knew Mrs. Poynter’s past history as the mistress of Roger de Lisle—but how else could she question her?

‘You’d better give me the address,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether I’ve quite the courage to knock on her door, but perhaps I might bump into her when she goes out or in.’

Just then she happened to catch sight of Marthe’s face, and saw on it again the worried expression she had noticed so often lately.

‘I do wish you’d stop looking at me like that,’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s getting to be rather a bore.’

‘
Pardon
,
madame
,’ said Marthe, and busied herself with Angela’s things. Angela felt a little irritation.

‘Don’t try and get around me by putting on that respectful air either, because I know it’s all pretence,’ she said.

‘Excuse me,
madame
, but which is it? Am I to show you my real feelings, or am I to hide them? I cannot do both at the same time.’

‘And don’t be impertinent,’ said Angela.

Faced with such contradictory instructions, Marthe could do nothing but fall silent. There was a pause.

‘Look here,’ said Angela at last. ‘I won’t say I’m having fun, because of course I’m not, but you must see why I have to do it. It will all be over soon anyway, and then we can forget about the whole thing.’

‘I understand,
madame
,’ said Marthe.

‘We’ll go to New York and see to the business there, and then you shall choose somewhere for us to go if you like, but you must promise to stop fussing.’

‘Very well,
madame
, I shall do my best,’ said Marthe.

‘Good,’ said Angela, and went out, leaving Marthe to shake her head in private.

Mrs. Poynter lived in a large, modern brick house on the outskirts of Denborough, in the opposite direction from Greystone Chase. It was not to be supposed that this was the same house in which she had been kept by Roger de Lisle as Mme. Charbonnet, so presumably she had moved here after her marriage. Angela wondered whether Mr. Poynter knew of his wife’s past. Colonel Dempster had said there was gossip in the town about her, so perhaps he knew and did not care.

It had begun to drizzle when Angela arrived, and the house was not situated in the sort of area through which one might pass accidentally while out walking, so despite her assertion that she would not knock at the door, Angela plucked up her courage and did so. It was answered by a woman she guessed to be Florence, who informed her that the lady of the house was not at home. Angela turned away and was halfway down the garden path when she spied Mrs. Poynter herself approaching along the cliff top with her little dog. The other woman saw her at the same time and paused for a moment. There was no sense in giving up now, so Angela went boldly up to her and said:

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. Poynter, but might I speak to you for a minute? It’s about the murder at Greystone Chase.’

Mrs. Poynter regarded her for a moment. Her expression was wary, but it also held a note of curiosity.

‘You are Mrs. Wells, I think,’ she said. ‘I have seen you before. They say you have been asking questions, but I couldn’t quite understand why. Someone said they thought you were a newspaper reporter. Is that true?’

Her accent was quite pure, and apart from a slight rolling of the r, it was almost impossible to tell from her speech that she was anything but English.

‘No, I’m not a reporter,’ said Angela. ‘I’m a sort of detective, and I’m looking into the murder of Selina de Lisle. I understand you were connected with the de Lisle family many years ago, and I wondered whether you might be able to tell me something about what happened at the time.’

Mrs. Poynter gave a short laugh.

‘
Connected
with the de Lisles,’ she repeated. ‘Is that the word they use in Denborough nowadays?’ Angela said nothing, and Mrs. Poynter went on, ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me. I no longer have any
connection
with the family, nor have I for many years. That is a part of my life which is long past, and I have no wish to return to it. True, the old ladies of Denborough like to wag their tongues, but they will have their amusement. I in turn greet them cheerfully in the street, and help them carry their shopping, and run after them if they drop their scarves, and so they have no choice in charity but to tell one another that I am kind-hearted enough for all they know to my disadvantage.’