The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) (28 page)

There are many worse things in life than to receive a declaration of love and a promise to reform from a charming and handsome man, however dubious his past activities, and Edgar Valencourt at his most persuasive was a difficult man to resist. The soft-hearted Angela was not proof against any of it, of course. By now she could not have torn her gaze away even if she had wanted to, and she was trying valiantly to prevent herself from sinking, but to no avail. His eyes held hers and asked the question. Slowly, hesitantly, she nodded, and he smiled, satisfied.

They stood for a while at the rail, looking out to sea. He took her hand, and she hesitated but did not protest. Then gradually his arms stole around her, and again she did not object, for after many months in which she had struggled with her own unworthiness, it was very pleasant at last to feel that here, at least, was someone who did not disapprove of her—and in fact showed every sign of liking her very much. One thing was still unresolved, however.

‘Forgive me,’ she said.

He knew immediately what she meant.

‘My darling girl, there’s nothing to forgive,’ he said. ‘I meant you to do it.’

‘I know, and I hated you for it,’ said Angela. ‘But not as much as I hated myself for doing it.’

‘Don’t feel like that,’ he said. ‘I have everything to thank you for. You’ve returned the favour and more. Please don’t give it another thought.’

Fine words, but it was not as easy as that. She would never forget what she had done, although she was relieved at his forgiveness. Perhaps one day she would forgive herself too.

‘You’re too thin,’ he said, after a while.

‘Oh, so I’m a damned nuisance
and
I’m too thin, am I?’ said Angela, who was having to make the strongest effort not to cling to him for dear life. ‘I wonder you bothered coming at all.’

‘I couldn’t resist,’ he said softly, his mouth somewhere near her ear. ‘You know I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, don’t you?’

‘That won’t be necessary. I’m only going as far as New York.’

‘Then that’s where I’ll go too. You won’t get rid of me that easily.’

‘So I see,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘And yet I tried as hard as I could.’

‘You wretched woman, I love you so terribly much,’ he said.

‘Wretched? There you go again,’ she said. ‘If you can’t be polite then perhaps you ought to stop talking and kiss me instead.’

‘What a splendid idea,’ he said.

After a few minutes the sun came out and everything began to look brighter, although neither of them noticed. Then people began to come out on deck, and they reluctantly pulled apart and went for a walk.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said, observing that he had a slight limp. ‘Then you really were shot.’

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ he said. ‘It was touch and go for a while, but I seem to be as tough as old boots. Besides, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, not after I’d gone to all the trouble of giving back the brooch to its rightful owners.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Angela.

‘Don’t be. You ought to be glad, because it made me more determined than ever to give up the old life. I’ve had too many guns pointed at me recently for comfort.’

‘I thought it was too much to hope for that you’d had a revelation and suddenly acquired virtue,’ said Angela. ‘Admit it—you’re giving it up because it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps it’s just because I’ve found something I want more.’

She shook her head at him.

‘You’re quite impossible,’ she said, but absently, for her mind was busy marvelling at a most unaccustomed feeling of happiness which the strictest part of her conscience told her she did not deserve. She wavered for a moment then quashed the guilty feeling firmly. She would be good from now on, she thought.

They stopped in a sunny spot and watched idly as another ship passed by in the distance. After a moment he took her hand and examined her wedding-ring.

‘Is this valuable?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said in surprise. For a moment she thought he must have forgotten his resolution already, but instead he pulled the ring off and threw it into the sea.

‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘There—now you’re free. Unless you’d like me to get you a new one, of course. What do you think?’

He was looking at her speculatively. Angela stared for a moment, then bridled.

‘Mr. Valencourt,’ she said severely, ‘fate has seen fit to relieve me of the burden of a most troublesome husband. Why on earth should I immediately saddle myself with another and prove you right about my taste?’

‘Oh, but look how much we have in common,’ he said. ‘Our complexions are perfect gallows both. Why, we were made for one another!’

‘Don’t joke about it,’ she said. ‘And it’s a ridiculous idea. Why, you haven’t even a real name to give me—not if you want to avoid being arrested, anyhow.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of taking a nice, respectable American name so as not to stand out when I get there,’ he said. ‘What do you say to Hieronymus B. Winkelmeyer? It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘Don’t you dare!’ exclaimed Angela, outraged. ‘If you do, I shall never
speak
to you again, let alone marry you.’

‘All right then,’ he said. ‘I shall be plain Edgar, just as before, and give myself a suitably English surname. You may as well give it up at once, though,’ he added. ‘You know I always get what I want.’

‘Not this time,’ she said. ‘On this point I stand firm.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ he said.

Angela changed the subject. It was an absurd notion indeed. What, marry a man with such a past? Yes, he was in little danger from the police now, and had promised to turn over a new leaf, but could he be relied upon to do it? Despite his words, she was not so complacent as to believe that her influence was enough to reform him. She had no doubt he meant what he said
now
, but who could tell what he would do if temptation came in his way? She would do her best to keep him on the straight and narrow path, as she had promised, but there was only so much one woman could do. It was useless to deny she was in love with him, but she was certainly not about to throw away her new-found freedom as easily as that.

They stood in the sunlight, caught up in one another, oblivious to everything around them. Finally all her walls had come down and she had given up resisting him. When all was said and done, whatever his past misdeeds he was no worse than she; and in one way at least he had proved himself the better man with that absurdly quixotic gesture of his all those months ago in court. She could not say whether they had any future together—and she certainly had no intention of binding herself to him in any way—but for now she was content to drink her fill of the happiness he brought, for who knew how long it would last? Perhaps it would end as soon as they arrived in New York, but that would not be for a few days yet, and even a few days were better than nothing. Between the misery of the past and the uncertainty of the future, she would cling to the present and try to preserve it as long as possible. In the end it was all she could do.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

WHEN I FIRST set out, some years ago, to write a book, the thought that was foremost in my mind was that I should write the kind of book I like to read. I have been a rabid devotee of traditional (or ‘Golden Age’) mystery fiction for as long as I can remember; I spent my formative years devouring the entire works of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Josephine Tey, Patricia Wentworth et al, and what I really wanted was more of the same. It wasn’t just the mysteries I loved; I was also fascinated by the tantalising glimpses they gave of life and society in the 1920s and 1930s—and glimpses they were, nothing more, because the authors were writing for their contemporaries and had no need to explain their surroundings, which would already be well understood by readers.

This is where historical fiction generally differs from the ‘real thing.’ However skilfully done, there will always be something slightly self-conscious about a historical novel, since to please the reader the author must weave large amounts of research into the story. Thus, you will always find far more period detail in a modern-day historical novel than you will in a story written at the time—far more description of the cars, the fashions, the hairstyles, etc, to satisfy readers who want to be transported back to the era in question. Just to give a simple and obvious example: a reader in 1926 would know automatically that whenever a character went outside, he would be wearing a hat. This would be so obvious to everyone that an author of the time would be unlikely to mention it. By contrast, since hardly anyone wears hats these days, a present-day writer of historical novels will tend to dwell on the hat.

In writing the Angela Marchmont novels, my aim was not to produce a work of historical fiction, but rather to reproduce as faithfully as I could the tone and style of those original Golden Age works, since I was sure there must be many mystery fans who wished for more ‘genuine’ Golden Age novels, just as I did. In an attempt to make the experience more immersive for readers (and also, I admit, because, like many writers, I am uncomfortable with public attention), I decided to write ‘in character’ as Clara Benson, an author of the 1920s. It was a sort of challenge to myself, to see whether I could do it convincingly. I had no idea whether my little conceit would pass muster, but since I was certain nobody would buy the book anyway, I didn’t think too hard about it.

The result of my efforts was
The Murder at Sissingham Hall
. I published it online in March 2013, complete with fictitious back story, and forgot about it for a few days. When I next looked I found it had sold about ten copies. By the middle of April it had sold a thousand and I began to think I had better dust off its sequel,
The Mystery at Underwood House
, which I had begun and half-abandoned. By the time I published the second book I was enjoying writing Angela’s adventures so much that I could not stop. I had planned to write three or four and then abandon the Clara Benson pen name without ever admitting to it, but events overtook me somewhat, and I found myself keeping the series going for far longer than I had originally intended. We are now at Book 10,
The Shadow at Greystone Chase
, and I’m sure I need not say that I have been absolutely astonished and overwhelmed at the response from readers. It has given me the greatest pleasure to discover that people seem to love Angela and her friends as much as I do. I might have kept the series going longer, but I hate to see a character outstay her welcome, and so I decided to give Angela an adventure of her own and then send her off happily into the sunset. (Concerned readers who have been paying attention may have noticed that she returns to America in the summer of 1929. As a stockbroker she is going to be far too busy in the next few months to investigate any mysteries, even if she wanted to—although she has been astute enough to sell the company for cash, and so with any luck will ride out the crisis without too many losses.)

But if the series has ended, why, then, have I decided to admit to my little fiction now? There are a number of reasons. The first is that I was never entirely comfortable with it to start with—which is part of the reason I gave so little information about the mythical Clara Benson, since I was reluctant to compound the deception. The second is that many people guessed anyway. The third—and perhaps the most important—is the fact that I am unable to abandon this pen name owing to a certain Mr. Frederick Pilkington-Soames, who is a young man with a great sense of his own importance, and who wants to know why, if Angela has had one, he can’t have his own series too? Since Freddy is well versed in the art of persuasion, I find myself unable to refuse him, and since it would be a little too much to believe that the long-dead Clara Benson left
yet another
series in a trunk in the attic, I have decided to come clean. Freddy will have his series and I will stop pretending to be dead. It wasn’t much fun anyway.

Not wishing to outstay my own welcome either, I’ll stop now, but before I go I would just like to say a heartfelt thank-you to all my readers. Your support has meant everything to me, and if I have managed to help you pass a pleasant hour or two with my stories, then it has all been worth while. Thank you.

Clara Benson