The Incident at Fives Castle (An Angela Marchmont Mystery #5) (22 page)

‘Shot,’ said Angela. It was hardly a question.

Henry nodded. He looked sick.

‘Through the heart, just like Klausen,’ he said.

Angela came further into the room and gazed down at the dead body of Claude Burford. His face was swollen and bruised from the fight with Freddy, but aside from that he might have been sleeping. Only a tiny round hole in the centre of his breast indicated that anything was amiss.

‘What do we do now?’ said Gabe, white in the face. ‘Lord Strathmerrick and Mr. Buchanan will need to know.’

‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘Go and tell them, will you, Bradley? Tell them to meet me in the study as a matter of urgency. I shall lock the door then join you.’

Gabe needed no further instruction. He ran off. Henry was about to follow him, but Angela put her hand on his arm.

‘Have you still got my gun?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ replied Henry. ‘I looked to make sure when I discovered that the other one had been taken. It’s still there, all right.’

‘Then I suggest you get it. It looks as though you’re going to need it.’

‘I could kick myself,’ he said, as they hurried downstairs. ‘If only I hadn’t been in such a rush this afternoon I should have put the second gun in a much safer place. I ought to have known that something was up when it went missing, but I never dreamed that Burford would be the target. Wait here.’

He went into his room and emerged a few moments later with Angela’s revolver.

‘You’d better keep it for now,’ she said, and he slipped it into his pocket.

They arrived outside the dining-hall to find Lord Strathmerrick, Sandy Buchanan and Aubrey Nash emerging behind Gabe with shocked looks on their faces.

‘Is it true?’ demanded Buchanan of Henry. ‘How did it happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘But there’s no time to be lost. We must decide what to do next.’

‘Now we shall never find the documents,’ moaned Lord Strathmerrick, who was not quite
wringing his hands but looked as though he would like to.

The men all disappeared in the direction of the study, leaving Angela standing alone once more in the passage.

‘How they do talk, these politicians,’ she said to herself. ‘When disaster strikes, they like nothing better than to sit down and chat about it for an hour or two.’

For her own part, she could not decide what to do, and in the absence of any other ideas returned to the drawing-room. There she found the ladies in glum mood, which was only slightly enlivened by an animated debate currently going on between St. John and Miss Foster about the relative merits of Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott. Angela sat down in an easy chair, her mind elsewhere, and gazed absently at Freddy who, with bandaged ear, was still enjoying the ministrations of Selma Nash. After a few minutes he glanced her way and laughed as well as he could.

‘Why, Mrs. M, what on earth are you gaping at?’ he said. ‘If you’re not careful someone will toss a penny into your mouth and make a wish.’

Angela, coming to, realized she had indeed been sitting with her mouth open, and shut it with a snap. She stood up and glanced significantly towards the door, then went out. Freddy narrowed his eyes, waited a few moments and followed her.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Claude is dead,’ she replied.

‘Good God,’ he said, staring. ‘Do you mean he killed himself?’

‘No. It looks like murder.’

Now he was even more astonished.

‘But who did it?’ he said. Angela said nothing, and he went on, ‘Do you mean to say there are
two
murderers on the loose at Fives?’

‘No,’ said Angela, ‘I don’t think there are. Claude denied killing Klausen, you know, and it looks as though he may have been telling the truth.’

‘I say,’ said Freddy, and paused to digest this new idea. ‘But why was he killed?’

‘To keep him quiet, I assume,’ said Angela. ‘He was certainly involved in the theft of the papers, but once he was caught he became a dangerous burden, so he was put out of the way to prevent him from betraying his accomplice.’

‘This gets stranger and stranger,’ said Freddy. ‘I feel as though I’m in the middle of the most extraordinary dream. I rather think I’d like to wake up now, though.’

‘I feel the same,’ said Angela, ‘but perhaps we can put an end to it this evening.’

‘You don’t mean to say you know who did it?’ said Freddy, impressed.

‘Not exactly,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but I have a hunch about the papers. If they are where I think they are, then we have our murderer. If I’m wrong, then there’s no harm done.’

‘If you
are
right, you will naturally claim that you knew all along.’

‘Naturally,’ she said.

‘Very well, what is the next step?’ said Freddy.

‘First of all, I’m going to talk to Henry, and then I shall need your help,’ said Angela.

‘How very kind of you to let me in on the thing,’ said Freddy. ‘What do you want me to do? Please don’t ask me to hit anybody. I’m not up to fighting again.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Angela. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. I just need you to charm a woman. You ought to find that easy enough.’

She explained what she wanted in a few words and he raised his eyebrows but listened carefully.

‘I say,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I’d like to take a closer look. Now then, do you think you can do it?’

Freddy drew himself up.

‘I should say so,’ he said. ‘In the service of my country and the delightful Mrs. M. I am prepared to do anything.’

‘Excellent. I shall remind you of that promise one day, but this will do for the present. Now, I am going to fetch Mr. Jameson. I shall be back in a minute. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to begin.’

He nodded and returned to the drawing-room, and Angela hurried along to the study and knocked on the door. To her dismay, she found only Gabe and Aubrey there.

‘Where is Mr. Jameson?’ she said.

‘He went upstairs with Buchanan and Lord Strathmerrick, as they wanted to see Burford’s body,’ said Aubrey.

‘Dear me, and I did need him rather urgently,’ she said.

‘I can fetch him if you like,’ said Gabe, standing up.

‘Oh, would you? I’d be most grateful,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in the drawing-room—and please tell him to bring the gun. I think he might need it.’

She left Gabe and Aubrey glancing at each other in surprise, and ran back to the drawing-room. She paused a moment to get her breath back then slipped through the door quietly. Everything was much as it had been before, except that now Freddy was sitting on a sofa next to Miss Foster with an open book in his hand.

‘—but I always thought Wordsworth was a terribly dull chap,’ he was saying. ‘All that whimpering about daffodils. If you want real feeling, then Coleridge is your man.’ He struck an attitude and declaimed, ‘“The night is chill; the forest bare; is it the wind that moaneth bleak?” Marvellous stuff. It gives me quite a shiver whenever I read it.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Foster, clasping her hands together. ‘I quite agree with you, Mr. Pilkington-Soames. I believe there is nothing quite like poetry for striking a thrill to the very heart, but the
subject-matter
is of the first importance.’

‘I read one once in which the chap spent forty-seven verses describing the spots on the back of a ladybird,’ said Freddy. ‘If anyone ought to have been forced to wear an albatross around his neck, it was that poet.’

Miss Foster tittered, and the two of them bent their heads over the book while Freddy flicked through in search of something purple enough to satisfy the lady’s tastes.

In the meantime, Angela had spotted what she was looking for. Miss Foster’s notebook was lying on a small table just to one side of the sofa, but not quite out of Miss Foster’s eye-line. Nobody else was taking any notice. Angela moved quietly behind the sofa. Freddy, who had not looked up but was perfectly aware of her presence, drew the poetry book towards him slightly and indicated a particular verse, so that Miss Foster was forced to turn further away from Angela in order to see it. Angela took her opportunity and quietly picked up the notebook.

‘I say, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said a loud voice just then, making her jump. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in literature too.’ It was St. John, who had spotted what she was doing. He came over, took the notebook out of her hands and began flicking through it. ‘Look, Miss Foster, Mrs. Marchmont wants to read your latest chapter. I said you ought to let people have a look at it. No use in hiding one’s light under a bushel and all that, what?’

Angela had frozen for a second, but now she glanced over and saw Freddy and Miss Foster both staring at the notebook in horror. Miss Foster quickly recovered herself and gave a little laugh.

‘Oh, Mr. Bagshawe,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you before how
protective
I am of my notebook. Why, I hate to say it, but it makes me feel quite
anxious
to see the fruits of my imagination in anyone else’s hands. May I have it, please? I should be only too glad to read one or two extracts to you if you like.’ She rose and held out her hand to take the book.

‘Nonsense,’ said St. John jovially. ‘If you’re ever going to succeed as a writer then you must be prepared to let others read your stuff. Don’t worry—we’re all friends here, and even if it’s a little rough around the edges, I’m sure everybody will be happy to suggest areas in which you might improve.’

‘I really must insist—’ began Miss Foster, and tried to take the notebook out of his hands, but St. John held it out of her way.

‘Now, now,’ he said in playful admonishment. ‘There’s no need to be shy about it—’ he stopped in surprise as Miss Foster snatched at the notebook and he lost his balance. For a few seconds they fought over it comically, then there was a tearing sound and it fell to the floor, scattering loose leaves everywhere.

There was a brief silence, then Miss Foster made a dart at the floor and began picking up the papers.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said St. John. ‘Do let me help you.’

‘There’s no need—’ began Miss Foster, but St. John had already picked up several of the loose leaves and was frowning at them.

‘I say, Miss Foster, you do write on jolly thick paper,’ he said. ‘Look, it seems to be made of two sheets pasted together. Yes, it is—look, you can see where the glue is coming away here.’

Everyone in the room was now watching the little scene with interest.

‘St. John,’ said Freddy in a warning tone.

Miss Foster glanced around and saw the expressions on the faces of Angela and Freddy, then turned back to St. John.

‘Give the papers to me,’ she said, and suddenly the soft, affected voice of Letty Foster had gone, to be replaced by something altogether colder and harder.

‘What?’ said St. John absently, still absorbed in pulling the glued pages apart. ‘Why, they’re all the same—and look, what’s this? Somebody’s put some other bits of paper between the layers. Dashed odd way of going about things, what?’

There was a click, and everyone in the room gasped at the same time.

‘Give me the papers,’ said Miss Foster, more loudly this time. St. John looked up and blinked as he saw the gun in her hand, pointing directly at his chest.

‘Is that a gun?’ he said.

‘What on
earth
are you doing, Letty?’ said Lady Strathmerrick in astonishment.

‘Give her the documents, you ass,’ said Freddy to St. John.

St. John, not the quickest of thinkers, finally seemed to realize that something was amiss, and handed the scraps of paper to Miss Foster. She seized them and hurried out of the room, just as Henry Jameson and Sandy Buchanan entered through a different door to a chorus of astounded voices. Sandy Buchanan held up his hands until everybody subsided.

‘What’s all this?’ he said.

‘Miss Foster has taken the papers,’ said Angela to Henry. He understood immediately and ran towards the door through which Miss Foster had just left. ‘Be careful!’ Angela called after him as he went out. ‘She has a gun.’

‘I don’t know where she thinks she’s going in that evening-frock,’ said Gertie. ‘She’ll have to stay indoors or she’ll freeze to death outside.’

Sandy Buchanan started to say something, but he was immediately interrupted by the sound of a gunshot from somewhere nearby inside the castle. It was followed quickly by another, then silence. All the guests gazed at one another, wide-eyed.

‘Do you suppose she’s shot him?’ said Gertie. ‘Perhaps someone ought to go and find out. Freddy, be a sport, will you?’

Freddy was about to tell her exactly what he thought of her suggestion that he pursue, unarmed, a dangerous woman carrying a revolver, when Henry Jameson slipped back into the drawing-room. He said nothing, but exchanged significant glances with the Foreign Secretary. Buchanan was about to follow him out of the room when Gertie spoke up.

‘You don’t really think you’re going to get away with that, do you?’ she said. ‘Come on, spill the beans. What have you done with Miss Fo? Did you shoot her?’