The Shadow at Greystone Chase (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 10) (5 page)

‘I believe they did, but only as it related to the movements of everybody in the house on the day Selina died. Nothing quite as damning as the evidence of the quarrel.’

Angela pondered for a moment, then said:

‘Very well, then, if Mr. de Lisle didn’t kill his wife, who did? I don’t suppose it’s possible that someone from outside the house might have come in and done it?’

‘It’s highly unlikely,’ said Mr. Gilverson. ‘Naturally, inquiries were instituted in the area, but no-one reported having seen anything unusual or suspicious.’

‘Then presumably the murderer was someone in the house.’

‘Presumably, yes,’ said Mr. Gilverson.

‘But who?’ said Angela. ‘Who was in the house on the day of the murder?’

‘The family, of course: Roger and Evelyn; Godfrey and Victorine; Edgar, naturally. Henry Lacey was also staying there at the time, as was an old school-friend of his called Oliver Harrington, who was on leave and had come to visit for a day or two. I don’t know what became of him.’

‘And none of them came under suspicion at the time?’

‘Seemingly not. The police had a perfectly good suspect in front of their noses, and why should they look any more deeply into it?’

Angela fell silent, for exactly the same thing might have been said about her own arrest and trial. The case against her had seemed water-tight at the time, and yet she had been innocent. Might the same be true of Edgar Valencourt? It was an uncomfortable thought, but that, after all, was why she was here. Despite the unusual circumstances (to say the least) and her vow never to involve herself in another murder inquiry, her interest was aroused by the story Mr. Gilverson had told. There were one or two points which did not seem to fit what she had herself known of Valencourt. Despite his dubious choice of career, she had known him to be a generally good-tempered, rational, intelligent man who thought before he acted, and was certainly not prone to being thrown into a panic or acting rashly. If he really had murdered his wife, then why had he hidden her body in his room? Since he had supposedly locked
her
door to make it look as though she were in bed and did not wish to be disturbed, surely it would have made more sense to put her (or leave her, depending on where she had been killed) in her own room, so as not to leave any traces in his. And if he were guilty, then why had he made sure that he was the one to find her body, when he must have known it would have drawn attention upon him? None of this seemed to add up to the man she had known. That was not to say he was innocent, of course, but it certainly looked as though the matter bore further investigation. She had answered the summons unwillingly, but by turning up here at all she had as good as agreed to do it. However, there were some practical difficulties to be got over first, which would require a certain degree of openness between her and the solicitor. Reluctantly, she decided to lay some of her cards upon the table.

‘Mr. Gilverson,’ she said at last, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I’d much rather not be here now. The only reason I came is because—for various reasons—I feel bound by honour to carry out Mr. de Lisle’s wishes. I will do as he asks, as I expect he knew I would, although in truth, even if he is innocent I don’t see how I can find out anything that the police did not discover at the time—especially not after so many years. Still, I’ll do what I can. However, you must be aware that I cannot simply sweep in and start asking questions of everyone. People will certainly wonder why I am attempting to help clear the name of the man who is supposed to have killed my husband.’

She stopped uncomfortably, thinking she had perhaps said too much. Mr. Gilverson held up his hand.

‘Please do not upset yourself,’ he said. ‘I said there was no need to refer to the subject and I meant it. Of course you are right, and if you will believe me, I tried very hard to dissuade my nephew from writing to you at all. There is no helping him now, and I certainly have no wish to see you get into a scrape on his behalf.’

‘A scrape,’ repeated Angela, half-amused. ‘You might call it that, I suppose.’

Mr. Gilverson smiled.

‘You say you consider yourself honour-bound to do this,’ he said, ‘but believe me, you are quite at liberty to change your mind now if you like. Nobody will think the worse of you—I shall not, at any rate, and Edgar is no longer here to care about it one way or the other. Still, if you do decide to do it, I have been thinking that the only way to go about it will be for you to go in disguise.’

‘In disguise!’ exclaimed Angela. ‘What, do you mean in a wig and a false moustache?’

‘No, no, nothing so extreme,’ said Mr. Gilverson, laughing. ‘Perhaps disguise was the wrong word. Shall we say incognito instead? A false name.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Angela. ‘Yes, of course, that would be the only way. But even then I still can’t simply turn up and begin asking questions of complete strangers. Do the family still live at Greystone Chase?’

‘Godfrey and Victorine de Lisle spend part of the year there, but not the others,’ said Mr. Gilverson.

‘Oh? Did they return to France?’

‘No. Evelyn de Lisle died shortly after Edgar’s trial—some said of a broken heart, since Edgar was her favourite son, although I think that is fanciful, myself. Roger died some three years ago. I propose you commence your investigations by speaking to Godfrey and Victorine.’

‘But how?’

Mr. Gilverson smiled.

‘Nothing easier,’ he said. ‘Greystone Chase is at present up for sale. I shall write you a letter of introduction and tell them you are interested in buying the place. I shall tell them some cock and bull story about how I know you, and that will get you their acquaintance.’

‘Oh!’ said Angela, thinking. ‘Yes, that is a plan, certainly. I wonder, though: will a visit or two to the house be enough to find out what I want to know? It seems to me it would be better if I went down there and scouted about a bit first. Where is Greystone Chase, exactly? Perhaps there are people still living nearby who remember what happened and can tell me more.’

‘I dare say there are,’ said Mr. Gilverson. ‘Greystone is situated on the outskirts of Denborough, so perhaps you might begin your inquiries there, as the family are very well known in the area. Do you know Denborough at all? It’s a small seaside resort which is popular with elderly and retired gentlefolk, although at this time of year I expect it will be fairly quiet.’

‘Elderly and retired gentlefolk?’ said Angela. ‘Then I had better pack my flannel petticoats and most comfortable shoes. One doesn’t wish to stand out.’

‘No indeed,’ said Mr. Gilverson, with an amused look. ‘Then you have definitely decided to do it?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Angela resignedly.

Mr. Gilverson seemed pleased.

‘But I can’t promise anything,’ she went on quickly. ‘It was all such a long time ago that people are bound to have forgotten things. Are you quite sure you’ve told me everything you know?’

‘Not everything,’ said Mr. Gilverson. ‘I should like you to approach the case with an open mind and make your own deductions, and if I told you all I know I should inevitably put my own interpretation on the facts, which is hardly conducive to your reaching a fair conclusion. Go to Denborough and speak to the people there. You will bring a new pair of eyes and ears to the case, and perhaps will find out something that was missed eleven years ago.’

‘Well, I shall try,’ said Angela.

So it was agreed, and Angela rose to take her leave, promising to keep the solicitor apprised of developments. After she had gone, Gilverson sat for a few moments, as though considering what had just passed.

‘Skittish,’ he said to himself at last. ‘Understandable, of course. She doesn’t want to do it, and I expect she’ll be frightened off easily. Still, it’s worth a try. Who knows whether she mightn’t come up with something useful?’

T
HE REGENT HOTEL in Denborough was a grand relic of former glories. Fifty years earlier the little town had been a thriving holiday resort, welcoming the fashionable end of London society as well as the more discerning members of the affluent middle classes. Times change, however, and in recent years the
haut monde
had moved on to Juan-les-Pins and the Riviera, while those in the lower tier had discovered that Devon was both prettier and warmer. These days, therefore, the Regent attracted mainly elderly people who had come to the place every year in their youth and saw no reason to change their habits now.

‘It is so pleasant to see a new face here,’ said Mrs. Hudd, inclining her head graciously towards the new guest by whom she was seated. ‘The Regent is a delightful hotel, but I fear one tends to see the same people year after year. Shall you be staying here long, Mrs. Wells?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ replied Angela. ‘This place was recommended to me quite by chance, but I must say it is very pretty. The sea air is very bracing, too.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Miss Atkinson, who sat to Mrs. Hudd’s other side. ‘I know some people call it chilly, but I always think too much warm weather can be quite stifling, and heat isn’t at all good for the lungs, you know. I don’t understand why anyone would prefer to go abroad when we have everything we need here at home.’

‘Oh, quite,’ said Angela, who was wearing two layers of clothing more than she liked for the time of year, and who would have been quite happy to sacrifice her lungs in exchange for some warm sunshine.

They were sitting in the elegant lounge of the hotel, the most stately of the grand buildings in a faded Crescent which some enterprising local business-man had built on the sea front in the early years of the town’s prosperity. The Crescent was situated in the finest part of Denborough, and the Regent was in the finest part of the Crescent—at the very centre, which gave it a direct and unobstructed view of Denborough Bay. Other, lesser hotels, nearer the outer edges of the Crescent, had inferior views and a correspondingly inferior clientele. Angela had arrived at the Regent the day before and had been swiftly pounced upon by Mrs. Hudd (Mrs. Beatrice Hudd of the Staffordshire Hudds, as she hastened to mention—
not
the ironmongery people, oh dear, no!) and Miss Atkinson, who lived in Surrey but had been a Kentish girl. The two ladies came at the same time every year and feasted upon such social glory as remained in the town these days. The arrival of Mrs. Wells was a cause of great excitement to them both, and was tempered by only a little initial reserve at the newcomer’s relative youth and high social standing, as evidenced by the fact that she brought with her a lady’s maid. Angela’s easy manner and lack of self-importance soon dissipated any doubts they may have had, however, and in less than twenty-four hours she had been welcomed into their little circle and was fast becoming privy to their thoughts on everybody and everything.

‘If you are not familiar with the area, let me assure you that there are many beauties hereabouts,’ said Mrs. Hudd. ‘Besides the bay itself, I mean. Fallow Hill, for example, is a noted landmark which you would be wise not to miss. There are also a number of country parks, although some of the finest ones are private and not open to visitors.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Atkinson. ‘Brancome Hall is simply delightful. I visit it every year and it never disappoints.’

‘Brancome Hall? Is that the large house one passes shortly before turning onto the Denborough road?’ said Angela, although she knew very well that it was not.

‘No, Brancome is quite in the other direction—farther along the coast towards Ramsgate,’ said Mrs. Hudd. ‘I believe the house to which you are referring is Greystone Chase.’ She drew herself up disapprovingly. ‘A very odd place. It belongs to the French.’

‘What, all of them?’ said Angela.

Miss Atkinson tittered behind her hand.

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Hudd means they are a family from France.’

‘I am not fond of the French,’ said Mrs. Hudd. ‘They cheated the late Mr. Hudd in the matter of a painting many years ago. He was given quite unequivocally to understand that it was by one of the Masters, but it turned out to be a forgery—although they
called
it a copy. Five pounds is not a sum to throw away lightly. The experience distressed him greatly, and he was still talking of it during his final illness.’

‘Goodness,’ said Angela.

‘At any rate,’ went on Mrs. Hudd, ‘Greystone Chase is a private house and not open to the public.’

‘There were some terrible goings-on there a few years ago,’ said Miss Atkinson. ‘It was quite a scandal, and I don’t believe they ever got over it.’

‘Oh? What happened?’ said Angela.

Miss Atkinson adopted a suitably solemn expression.

‘I’m afraid it was all quite dreadful,’ she said. ‘One of the sons of the house killed his young wife.’

‘Dear me!’ said Angela.

‘Foreigners,’ said Mrs. Hudd, with a shake of the head.

‘He was caught, of course,’ said Miss Atkinson. ‘Such a disgrace for the rest of the family to have to live down.’

Angela was about to question Miss Atkinson further, when Mrs. Hudd sat up and said:

‘Oh, it is Colonel Dempster! Good afternoon, colonel!’