The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) Read online

  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.

  THE 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 par
don, 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.’

  ‘But shouldn’t you like to see justice done?’ said Angela.

  ‘I thought it had been,’ said Mrs. Poynter.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Angela, and for the first time found she truly believed it. ‘They got the wrong man. I want to find out who really did it.’

  Mrs. Poynter hesitated.

  ‘What use can it be after all this time?’ she said. ‘He’s dead now, I understand. He has no reputation to lose, whereas I—I have spent more than ten years pretending not to notice when people talk about me behind their hands and forget to include me in invitations. Were it not for the fact that I am as stubborn as a donkey and have determined to see it out I should have persuaded my husband to leave long ago. I dare say you have no idea what it’s like to feel the stares of people every time you leave the house, but I can assure you that the last thing I want is to resurrect it all again, just as everybody had begun to forget.’

  She nodded and prepared to walk on, but Angela said quickly:

  ‘Oh, but I do. I know exactly what it’s like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Angela was already regretting her outburst, but there was no sense in going back now. It was time for the truth.

  ‘My real name’s not Wells at all,’ she said. ‘It’s Angela Marchmont. If you’ve been reading the newspapers lately I dare say you’ll have heard of me.’

  ‘But of course,’ said Mrs. Poynter in surprise. ‘You were put on trial for the murder of your husband.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t do it, but I was only acquitted because Edgar de Lisle took the blame,’ said Angela. She hesitated. ‘He didn’t kill my husband either, though. He confessed to it to save me.’

  Mrs. Poynter regarded her with increased interest. Angela held her chin up proudly.

  ‘I think I see,’ said Mrs. Poynter at last. A look of what might have been sympathy appeared on her face. ‘Perhaps you had better come in.’

  She turned and led the way into the house. Angela followed, her heart beating fast. She had as good as admitted everything to a perfect stranger. Had it been a terrible mistake? But Mrs. Poynter would surely not have invited her in had she not done so.

  The house was furnished tastefully in the English style, although here and there were little touches which indicated a foreign hand at work. Mrs. Poynter invited Angela to sit and called for Florence to bring tea.

  ‘You see I have adopted all the English customs,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Do you like living in England?’ said Angela.

  The other shrugged.

  ‘There was nothing for me in France,’ she said. ‘My first husband died in the war, and I had no family or money. What else could I do but take what opportunity was offered me? I should have died of hunger otherwise. It was lucky for me that I had my looks. Many other women in my position were not so fortunate.’

  ‘But you might have returned after the war.’

  ‘I might, but my home was destroyed and besides, I was comfortable here. And then I met my husband, who is the kindest and most understanding of men, and that was that. I am not stupid enough to throw good fortune away when it presents itself. And so you think I can help you prove Edgar’s innocence?’ she went on. ‘I am afraid you will be disappointed, for as you can imagine, I was not invited to Greystone very frequently. Roger found me a pretty little cottage and there I was very happy for a while.’

  It was the first time Angela had ever heard the word happiness in connection with the de Lisle family, and it sounded odd to her.

  ‘Were you in love with Roger?’ she found herself asking.

  Mrs. Poynter shook her head.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘He was in love with me, and that was enough for me in those days. I had lost my husband, whom I adored, and I knew I should never love again, but Roger flattered me, and gave me gifts, and told me his troubles, and I felt myself to be a lucky woman when so many others had to dig in the mud just to survive.’

  ‘I had heard that Roger was a difficult man,’ said Angela carefully.

  ‘He was,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘He was capricious and jealous, and easily driven to anger, but I knew how to soothe him, which nobody in his family did—least of all his wife.’

  ‘Did she know about you?’

  ‘I imagine so. But one didn’t mention such things, of course. We would smile and nod if we saw one another in the street—it would have looked strange not to do so, since we had been acquaintances in France—but it went no further than that. Roger relied on my discretion, and I certainly did not want to cause any upset. Anyway, he told me she did not care. Theirs was not a happy marriage, he said, and it was only right that he look elsewhere if his life at home was less than satisfactory.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that courtesy extended to his wife,’ Angela could not help saying.

  Mrs. Poynter laughed shortly.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘We women are not so fortunate in that respect. Society does not afford us the same licence, and Roger certainly would not have allowed such a thing. He used to fly into a rage if he heard of me even speaking to another man, and I expect he was the same with Evelyn.’

  ‘Did you feel sorry for her?’ said Angela.

  ‘Perhaps a little,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘I was fond of Roger but, as you say, he was a difficult man. Still, perhaps I was more sorry for his sons. Godfrey in particular had very little freedom. Every part of his life was laid out before him. He was to go to this college, and go into that business, and marry such a woman. He was never allowed to decide for himself.’

  ‘What, he was even told whom to marry?’ said Angela. ‘Do you mean Roger chose Victorine for him?’

  ‘No, he chose Selina,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘You know, of course, that Selina was engaged to Godfrey first?’

  ‘I had heard it, yes,’ said Angela. ‘Why was he so keen to have them marry?’

  Mrs. Poynter did not answer at first.

  ‘It was a blow to my pride, of course,’ she said at length. ‘But there is no use in struggling against these things. There comes a time when a man tires of a woman; it is inevitable, I suppose, and Selina was much younger and prettier than I.’

  ‘Roger was in love with her,’ said Angela. So her supposition had been correct.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘As soon as he met her his affection for me began to cool—I could see it. He came to me as much as ever, but I could see that he was
becoming distant and abstracted, and was not thinking about me. Of course, I had no power, no money of my own, and so I could do nothing about it. I was forced to stand by and watch, knowing that sooner or later I would be cast aside. In the end he even began to confide in me about her. Those were dark times for me, since I had no idea what I should do or where I should go without Roger’s protection.’

  ‘Then he brought her into the family with the intention of making her his mistress?’ said Angela. ‘If that is the case, then I don’t suppose he cared which of his sons married her, as long as one of them did.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘Still, she was cleverer than he and knew where her power lay. I don’t believe she cared a fig for him, but she was poor, and marrying into the de Lisle family would bring her wealth and standing that she should not have had otherwise. Once she was Edgar’s wife she led Roger a merry dance, and he soon found out that here was someone who would not bow to his will.’

  ‘Do you mean there was no affair between them?’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘He was determined to have her, but she refused him continually. He was driven almost mad, but she knew just how far she could go without compromising herself. She knew that if she gave in to him then all her power would be lost. As I said, she was clever.’

  ‘Do you think her marriage to Edgar was genuine, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs. Poynter. ‘She was in love with him, I’m certain of it. She must have been, or else why should she have risked offending Roger and losing everything she stood to gain by throwing away one perfectly good brother in favour of the other?’

  ‘Did Edgar know about Roger?’

  ‘I dare say he did. I imagine the whole family were aware of it. Roger was not one to hide his feelings, you see.’