The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Problem at Two Tithes

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

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  Also by Clara Benson

  THE PROBLEM AT TWO TITHES

  Clara Benson

  Copyright

  © 2014 Clara Benson

  All rights reserved

  The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

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  The Problem at Two Tithes

  On a reluctant visit to her painfully respectable brother and his wife, Angela Marchmont finds herself once again caught up in murder when a local farmer is shot dead, apparently at the hands of his sworn enemy. But the case is not as simple as it seems, for other motives and suspects soon come to light. With reporters hot on the scent and her friend Inspector Jameson battling a conflict of interest, Angela must use all her ingenuity to unravel the case and bring the murderer to justice—or more than one person will suffer the consequences.

  ONE

  Sir Humphrey Cardew was a man for whom the word complacency might have been invented. As a young boy his natural intelligence, obedient disposition, and preference for quiet games and cleanliness had prompted many a visitor to exclaim that he was a darling of a child—a delight, in fact—and to observe to his parents that they must be tremendously proud of him. Faced with such adulation, the precocious Humphrey had quickly learned that to stand in the drawing-room, his hair combed and his hands folded smartly behind his back, and recite, with the merest hint of a lisp, Come Down, O Maid or Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, before an audience of relatives and family acquaintances, was the quickest and surest way of earning a handful of sixpences and shillings (and even the odd half-crown on festive occasions, after the sherry had been passed round). So successful was he in his efforts to please that he saw no reason to change his approach as he grew older, and by the age of forty he had, through the continuing application of the arts he had learned as a boy, combined with diligence and hard work, attained one of the most senior positions in the Department of Labour and earned himself a knighthood to boot. Now, at forty-eight, he could justifiably look about him—at his fair and frosty wife, his quiet and dutiful sons, his large, comfortable house in Surrey with its nine acres of land, and his position as squire of the nearby village—and feel that he had earned all this; it was his, and he fully deserved it. Even if there were one or two dissenting voices (for even the best of men will have their naysayers) who decried him as the worst kind of pompous ass and wished him, if not precisely at the devil, then at least at a place in which his self-satisfaction might be duly punctured, they were in the minority and could be safely disregarded.

  Aside from the occasional annoyance, then, there was little to blemish this otherwise idyllic state of affairs, and for the most part Humphrey’s life proceeded in harmony and serenity. There was one particular irritation, however, which, while it could for the most part be forgotten, occasionally required his attention. When Humphrey was ten years old, his parents had, most inconsiderately, presented him with a sister. Humphrey was not the sort of boy who needed playmates—and indeed, what was he supposed to do with a child ten years younger than himself, other than regard her with faint puzzlement and then return to his carefully-catalogued butterfly collection?—and so he naturally passed much of his time in pretending the new arrival did not exist. Unfortunately, this interloper could not long be superciliously ignored, for as soon as she learned to walk she began to demonstrate a regrettable tendency to get up to mischief, break his toys, and trample the cabbages in the kitchen garden. Such destruction of neatness and order disturbed Humphrey greatly—especially since Miss Angela immediately and mystifyingly became a great favourite of the servants, who fed her sweetmeats and taught her to whistle. Nobody had ever taught Humphrey to whistle, but he consoled himself by rattling the coins in his pocket and reflecting that, while artlessness and good humour might have their attractions, they did not pay.

  As the two of them grew older, however, Humphrey found it more and more difficult to comfort himself thus, for his sister, far from losing that early spiritedness and determination to do things her own way, grew even more independent-minded and inclined to draw attention to herself. By rights, as soon as she grew up she ought to have married a suitable young man, produced some children and dedicated herself to quiet country pursuits; instead, as soon as she was of age she announced her intention to earn her own money, and when objections were raised, declined to argue the point and merely ran away to London and did it anyway. Being a conformist by nature, Humphrey could not understand why on earth anyone should want to defy the wishes of their family, when it was so much easier to do what was expected of one, and he was even more astounded at the idea of a woman’s supporting herself, so in his confusion he found the safest course was to pretend it had never happened. This approach stood him in good stead over the years, as his sister first disappeared to the United States to work as secretary to an important financier, then married some dreadful American, and at last—and worst of all—returned several years later (having apparently discarded the American), took up detective-work and began to get her name in the newspapers. There was no falling-out—nothing so extreme as that—but over time Humphrey and Angela found that the best way to get along was to meet as infrequently as possible, since when they did meet their incompatible personalities tended to lead to some little friction. Inflexible and rigid as he was, Humphrey never realized that it was invariably his headstrong sister rather than himself who made the allowances while they were in company together, and was secretly convinced that she set out to vex him deliberately, although he would have deemed it beneath him to voice the suspicion out loud.

  Now she was coming to visit—at his own invitation, for he was not one to shirk his duty and it had been many years since she had visited Two Tithes, the house in which she had grown up and which he had in due course inherited. Whenever they had met since her return from America it had been on neutral ground, but the longer this went on the more uncomfortable Humphrey became. He was a fair-minded man, and moreover did not wish to be thought unfeeling. It would be right and proper for his sister to be welcomed back to her childhood home. Despite her odd proclivities and her many years’ residency a
mong the Americans (whom Humphrey considered to be little more than barbarians), she appeared to know how to conduct herself in company, and could presumably be trusted not to do anything to embarrass or inconvenience him—or so he had thought until a week ago, when he had received a telegram from her out of the blue to say she was stuck in Italy and could she please come next week instead? That confirmed him in his suspicion that she had not changed a bit, and while he naturally replied in the affirmative, his heart sank at the disorder she was likely to bring with her. Still, he comforted himself with the thought that at least she would not get herself mixed up in any murders or other similar unpleasantnesses during her visit, since nothing of that sort ever happened here, deep in the Surrey countryside.

  On the morning of the expected late arrival Humphrey and his wife Elisabeth sat, as they always did, in the breakfast-parlour at Two Tithes, which overlooked the croquet lawn and the rose garden, and drank their tea from china cups that were never permitted to be chipped, while Humphrey read The Times and Elisabeth her post.

  ‘Mother says she will arrive at four,’ said Elisabeth. ‘What time is Angela coming?’

  ‘She said three o’clock,’ replied Humphrey, ‘although I shouldn’t rely on it. She may well arrive later than that.’

  ‘Well, I suppose her turning up at all will be something,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She’s already a week late. An hour or two more won’t make much difference, will it?’

  Humphrey nodded in heavy agreement.

  ‘It’s tremendously inconsiderate,’ said Elisabeth for perhaps the fifth time. ‘What made her think we could accommodate her this week? Why, for all she knew we might have had a houseful of guests coming.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what she was hoping,’ said Humphrey. ‘As a matter of fact, I was rather surprised that she accepted the invitation at all.’

  ‘Well, if she does turn up she can certainly help with the fête. We shall need all the assistance we can get. Do you suppose she can bake? I am starting to feel quite overwhelmed by the cake stall. I know Margaret Tipping promised to help but after last year I don’t quite trust her to do a good job. Another competent pair of hands would be such a relief—although of course Angela lives in a flat, doesn’t she? One of those modern buildings. Hardly conducive to baking. She probably has her food sent up. Perhaps I won’t ask her, then. I should hate to have to put her right as I did Mrs. Tipping. It does rather create bad feeling.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job by yourself, my dear,’ said Humphrey. ‘I know Mrs. Hunter is especially grateful to you.’

  ‘I should think so, too,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I happen to know she doesn’t get that sort of help from anyone else.’

  ‘Well, after this perhaps they will stop asking us for money for a while. The church roof can’t possibly have developed another hole already.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Elisabeth. ‘There’s always something. I fancy it will be the organ next. I happened to mention the other day that it was starting to squeak on the higher notes, which of course was a mistake on my part as Mr. Hunter’s eyes gleamed immediately, and so I had to make my escape before he could broach the subject.’

  Before she could expand further on this topic, she was interrupted by the entrance of a visitor who bore a certain resemblance to herself, being slim with the same fair hair and blue eyes. Where Elisabeth’s habitual expression was a mixture of haughtiness and impatience, however, the newcomer looked much more cheerful. This was Kathleen Montgomery, Elisabeth’s younger sister, a widow who lived with her young son in the nearby village of Banford Green. She was invited to sit down and did so.

  ‘And how is Peter this morning?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Have the spots quite cleared up? Do you suppose he is well enough to go back to school yet?’

  ‘He’s much better today, but he’s still looking very pale and thin,’ said Kathie. ‘I think I shall keep him at home for another week or so, just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to spoil him,’ said Humphrey. ‘A little hardship will be good for the boy. He is becoming soft.’

  ‘Oh, but he had it so badly,’ said Kathie. ‘I was quite worried about him last week. Measles can be such a dreadful illness. A few more days won’t do him any harm.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Humphrey, ‘but that’s a few more days’ school fees wasted. Of course I am happy to pay them, but I should hate to think I was throwing money away.’

  ‘You know how grateful I am for the help,’ said Kathie, ‘and I promise I’ll send him back as soon as I can—but you wouldn’t want him to get sick again and miss even more school, now, would you?’

  ‘No, I suppose you are right,’ said Humphrey. ‘That reminds me—I saw Norman Tipping yesterday, and he said that he was going to send a man along to mend your fence in the next few days.’

  This may have seemed rather an abrupt change of subject, but in fact it was not, for Humphrey—if not Kathie—had expectations of Norman Tipping, and hoped very much that before long he would be relieved of all responsibility for young Peter Montgomery’s schooling, being very fond as a rule of keeping his money to himself.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Kathie. ‘He did say something of the sort, although he didn’t say when. I must say it’s very kind of him.’

  ‘I only wish he would get to the point at last,’ said the forthright Elisabeth.

  Kathie did not reply to this, but instead said:

  ‘And so Angela is coming today. I shall be very glad to see her again. I thought she was rather good fun when we met her in London.’

  ‘I do hope she’s going to behave herself, at any rate,’ said Elisabeth, who had only a passing acquaintance with the notion of fun. ‘Mother is coming and I don’t want her upset. You know how easily shocked old people are. Perhaps I had better have a quiet word with Angela to let her know what sort of thing will be acceptable in conversation. We don’t want her mentioning that husband of hers—wherever he may be—or all that horrid business with dead bodies.’

  ‘I have already written to her with full instructions,’ said Humphrey, ‘although I’m not sure whether the letter will have reached her in Italy, especially since she seems to have moved about rather a lot. I wrote to her in Florence but her telegram came from Venice.’

  ‘I shall speak to her anyway, to remind her,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘That is probably best, my dear,’ said Humphrey. ‘Then we shall have nothing to worry about. It will just be a pleasant family party, with no unwelcome surprises.’

  ‘Unwelcome surprises?’ said Kathie. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ replied Humphrey. ‘It’s just that my sister is rather modern in her ideas.’

  ‘Positively outré, in fact,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She’s not quite the thing at all, and if you’ll take my advice, Kathie, you won’t let her influence you.’

  ‘Influence me?’ said Kathie with a laugh. ‘Why should she try to influence me? Don’t be silly, Elisabeth. She’s jolly nice, and I’m quite sure she’ll behave perfectly well.’

  She then went out and left the Cardews to finish their breakfast.

  TWO

  Mrs. Angela Marchmont rested her chin in her hand and gazed out of the window of the Bentley as it ate up the miles along the Surrey road. Her maid, Marthe, was sitting in the front with her driver, William, and all three of them were uncharacteristically silent. At last, William cleared his throat and said:

  ‘I guess it must feel a little funny to come back home after all these years, ma’am. Do you suppose much will have changed?’

  Angela made no reply but continued to gaze out of the window. William and Marthe exchanged glances. After a minute or so, Marthe took out a pocket-mirror and held it up. She appeared to be examining her own rather pretty face, but in reality she was observing her mistress in the back seat. She was most disconcerted. Angela had returned from Italy on Tuesday evening, almost a week late, with only a terse telegram regarding the collection of her luggage to
explain herself beforehand. When she finally did arrive, she said very little but wore an abstracted, almost dazed air, stared into space, and was inclined to put butter in her tea and sugar on her toast if not duly forestalled. On polite questioning she claimed to have been ill, but that was clearly nonsense, since she was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and had in fact never looked better. Marthe was offended. Something had happened and she had been left out of it. She wanted to know what it was, although she already had the strongest suspicion, since in her view only one thing could explain her mistress’s general demeanour. She replaced the little glass in her pocket and narrowed her eyes. She was determined to get the secret out of Angela by hook or by crook, and she began idly pondering the best approach.

  They passed the sign for Godalming and William said:

  ‘Not far now, I think, ma’am.’

  At his words Angela turned her head, then visibly pulled herself together.

  ‘Yes, we’re nearly there,’ she said. ‘Keep a careful lookout for the turning as it’s rather difficult to see. There, that’s it.’

  William successfully navigated the sharp bend. The new road headed downhill into a valley, and from the top commanded splendid views. Below them was a pleasant landscape of rolling fields and hedgerows, and ahead they could see that the road led directly to an agglomeration of white, red and brown houses, from the centre of which a church spire stood out proudly. The sky had been overcast all day so far, but now the clouds parted and the sun cast a ray or two onto the village, showing it to its best advantage.

  ‘It is very pretty,’ said Marthe. ‘Then this is where you grew up, madame.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘If you look slightly to the left you can just see Two Tithes. It’s that house standing a little apart from the rest. I wonder if any of the old servants are still there. If they are, no doubt they will tell you all kinds of hair-raising tales about the things I got up to as a girl. I should advise you not to believe any of them. Or not more than half, at any rate,’ she added fairly.