The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4) (21 page)

‘
It sounds to me as though you
’
re having doubts about his guilt, sir,
’
observed Willis.

‘
Oh no,
’
said Jameson.
‘
I can see clearly enough where the facts are pointing, but I won
’
t be happy unti
l the chaps down in Kent tell us that they
’
ve found the hotel where the two of them stayed and the motor-car they hired.
’

‘
And what if they don
’
t?
’
inquired Willis.

‘
Then they will have to look harder,
’
said Jameson.

Despite their best efforts
, however, the Kent police were unable to find any evidence that Johnny Chang had visited the area at all. When questioned, Johnny himself had finally admitted that he and Lita had been having an affair of sorts, that she had ended it and that he had foll
o
wed her to Charing Cross in an attempt to persuade her to stay. Beyond that, though, he insisted that he knew nothing. She had refused to be won over, he said. It had never been anything serious on her part, and she was going away as she had bigger fish t
o
fry now. She was sorry to throw him over, but that was how things were and he ought to take it like a man. He had seen then that she was firm in her purpose, and had finally stormed away angrily. He was sorry about that: he should have liked to part from
her on better terms, but how was he to know that someone was going to kill her?

And that was all they could get out of him on the subject of Lita. He flatly denied ever having been to Littlechurch or Hastings or the Romney Marsh, and was outraged that anyo
ne could think him capable of murder. As for his lack of an alibi, he maintained that when he got home from Charing Cross he had been taken ill
—
perhaps it had been something he ate
—
and had remained in bed for two days. No, nobody had seen him. In the norm
a
l way of things his mother would have taken care of him, but she had been away visiting his sister and her new husband.

One morning, a day or two after they had returned from Felixstowe, Sergeant Willis looked up from a sheaf of reports which had just come
in from Kent, and shook his head.

‘
Nothing,
’
he said with a sigh.

‘
What about that woman who says she saw a girl in a blue coat and hat getting into a motor-car at Hastings?
’
said Jameson.
‘
Have they found out anything more about that?
’

‘
No,
’
said Willis.
‘
No-one else seems to have seen it, and she can
’
t give us a good description of the car except to say it was a big one. Not much use, really.
’

‘
I suppose not,
’
agreed Jameson.
‘
Well, we shall just have to keep plugging away at it.
’

He was not the only per
son feeling dissatisfied about the whole thing. Mrs. Marchmont had been reading the newspapers avidly since Johnny Chang
’
s arrest, but now that the hue and cry had died down there was not much more to be told. Lily Markham
’
s story had come out, and the pa
p
ers
—
especially the
Clarion
—
dwelt sentimentally on her poor but honest upbringing, her supposed dead husband (whom they imagined as having died tragically during the War) and her orphaned child. Meanwhile, there was little sympathy for the man who was suppo
sed to have murdered her, and young women everywhere were warned to beware of foreigners who spoke with honeyed words yet hid evil in their hearts. Angela shook her head in disquiet. She hoped Freddy was not behind all this: she had not seen him for some
t
ime, and supposed that his recent piece on the police raid at the Copernicus Club and his experience in the cells (which he had written and published to great acclaim at Angela
’
s suggestion), together with his coup in leading the police to Johnny Chang, h
a
d won him the respect of Mr. Bickerstaffe. The newspaper was keeping him busy, she imagined.

So the weeks passed, and soon enough it was time for Angela to return to Gipsy
’
s Mile for the grand launch of Marguerite Harrison
’
s sculpture exhibition in Littlec
hurch. The show had received a good deal of advance publicity
—
thanks no doubt to Freddy
—
and it was rumoured that some of the most important young artists of the moment had agreed to exhibit alongside Marguerite.

Accordingly, on a dull day in October Angela
found herself once again sitting in the back seat of the Bentley as it motored powerfully along the Kent road. They drove in unaccustomed silence, since William seemed unusually absorbed in his own thoughts. By a sort of unspoken mutual consent, neither
o
f them had mentioned the incident of the watch since that day a few weeks earlier, although Angela was longing to know what he had done with it. It had been foolish of Marguerite, who was used to dispensing generous gifts and largesse to all her proté
gé
s.
She ought to have seen that William was a different case, owing to both his position and his character. Still, Angela would not interfere. William was his own man and could quite well look after himself.

They arrived at Gipsy
’
s Mile without incident
—
there
was no fog to cause them to lose their way this time
—
and were greeted as effusively as ever by Marguerite. Miles came out too, and Angela was shocked at the change in him. His face had become thin and drawn, and deep frown lines had appeared on his forehe
a
d. She remembered what Marguerite had said about him, and deduced that he had not yet got over his
‘
queer fit,
’
although he saluted her in his usual laconic but friendly manner.

Cynthia and Freddy had already arrived and were laughing together about someth
ing in the sitting-room.

‘
Angela,
darling
,
’
cried Cynthia.
‘
Why, I haven
’
t seen you for an age! Have you been hiding?
’

Angela resisted the temptation to reply,
‘
Only from you,
’
and merely said,
‘
Hallo, Cynthia. Where is Herbert?
’

Cynthia looked not a littl
e vexed.

‘
So
inconvenient, darling,
’
she said.
‘
You won
’
t believe it, but just at the last moment he said that something had come up at the bank and that he couldn
’
t come. So strange! I
’
ve never known him do that before.
’

Freddy sidled up to Angela.

‘
Don
’
t
believe Mother,
’
he murmured.
‘
If you ask me, the work thing is all rot. I reckon the real story is that he couldn
’
t bear the thought of having to find something original to say to the vicar
’
s wife about forty heaps of bronze and marble fashioned roughly
into the shape of something that would throw one
’
s maiden aunt into a fainting fit.
’

Angela had seen Marguerite
’
s work before, and was inclined to agree, since it was rather modern and daring. She had herself been wondering how it would be received by the
people of Littlechurch, in fact. It turned out, however, that Marguerite had invited so many of her London friends down that it would be a wonder if there were enough room in the gallery to accommodate many of the locals.

While the others talked of the exh
ibition, Angela took the opportunity to speak to Miles and inquire after his health.

‘
Marguerite said you have not been well,
’
she said.
‘
I hope you
’
re quite recovered now.
’

‘
Marguerite was talking bunk,
’
he said impatiently.
‘
There
’
s nothing wrong with me
—
or at least nothing more than a touch of cold.
’
He saw Angela
’
s surprise at his vehemence and looked a little sheepish.
‘
I can
’
t bear fuss,
’
he explained,
‘
and Marguerite insisted on telling everybody that I was at death
’
s door, when nothing could have b
e
en further from the truth.
’

Angela apologized and said she was glad he wasn
’
t ill, at any rate, and the conversation turned to other matters.

Meanwhile, Marguerite was holding forth with great enthusiasm about a young artist who was coming to the exhibiti
on
—
indeed, was expected at Gipsy
’
s Mile at any moment, since he apparently gloried in his poverty and was unable to afford to stay anywhere else for the event.

‘
I think you
’
ll be
tremendously
impressed by Vassily
’
s work, darlings,
’
she said.
‘
I feel that h
e has really captured the spirit of the age with his art. His
Eternity of the Damned
series in particular almost moved me to tears. So clever and witty, how he satirizes the way in which modern society is going. Just wait until you see it! But I shan
’
t say
any more, as I don
’
t want to spoil it for you.
’

Vassily, when he arrived, turned out to be a bulky young man with an intense and piercing stare and a lowering brow. He shook hands with everyone with great solemnity and declared himself honoured to meet th
em all.

‘
I am very glad you invite me,
’
he said in a deep voice to Marguerite, who was fluttering about him anxiously,
‘
although it is very painful for me to stop work even for moment. I do not like to interrupt creative force, but for you I make exception
, Mrs. Harrison.
’

‘
Oh, Marguerite, please,
’
said Marguerite.
‘
We
’
re all terribly informal these days, you know. Now, if you
’
ll just let me show you your room
—’

She bore him away in triumph. The door to the sitting-room was open and William could be seen pa
ssing through the hall as they came out. Angela happened to be looking that way, and was entertained by the little scene that followed. The two men stopped and sized each other up for a second, then Vassily evidently dismissed William as being of no impor
t
ance, for his face assumed a look of disdain. William glanced at Marguerite, who was clutching Vassily
’
s arm, and she tossed her head and turned away. William
’
s expression became impassive and he stepped back respectfully to allow them to pass. Angela not
i
ced that the tips of his ears had turned pink, and felt a pang of sympathy for him.

Freddy had seen it too, clearly, for he threw her a look of malicious satisfaction, and shortly afterwards took the opportunity to sit down beside her on the large sofa.

‘
Y
ou see?
’
he murmured.
‘
What did I tell you? She flits here and there, just like a butterfly, and no man can hold her down. Apart from good old Miles, of course,
’
he added, looking over at the gentleman in question, who was pouring a drink for Cynthia and
l
aughing at something she had said, having apparently missed what had just occurred.

Angela shook her head but did not reply. Instead, she said,
‘
So, Freddy, I gather your first month as a reporter has been a resounding success.
’

‘
Oh, yes,
’
he said.
‘
Since
that night at the Copernicus Club and the heartfelt piece I wrote about the unnecessary violence of the police and the appalling state of the prisons, I have become old Bickerstaffe
’
s right-hand man. Why, the old man is as fond of me as of a son. I have a
nose for the news, he says.
’
He lowered his voice confidentially.
‘
I don
’
t mind telling you that some of the old hands there have begun looking rather askance upon me, but
’
(here he gave an exquisitely expressive shrug of the shoulders)
‘
how can I help it
if I happen to be immoderately talented? It
’
s something that was given to me by a sheer accident of birth. And are lesser men to be given opportunities over my head merely by dint of long service? No, I say: we must think of the greater good. If the futur
e
of the
Clarion
depends upon young upstarts such as myself, then I say long live the young upstarts, and down with the Old Guard!
’