Read Online The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) by Clara Benson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clara Benson
Tags: murder mystery
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more assured.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I always kept it there. Do you suppose the murderer took it?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Scott non-committally. As a matter of fact, he was half-inclined to arrest her there and then, but the lack of a weapon posed something of a difficulty. There was no doubt at all in his mind that Angela Marchmont had shot and killed her husband, but it would be difficult to prove that until they had found the gun. No doubt she had disposed of it somewhere, and he could only hope she had hidden it in the flat. The place would have to be searched, of course, and more evidence collected, but as far as Scott could see, it was an open-and-shut case.
Just then, the doorbell rang and suddenly the room was full of men with bags and cases and stretchers, who saw that the bereaved wife was present and so lowered their voices, trod carefully on the expensive Persian rugs, and tried not to knock into the furniture. Angela did her best to stay out of the way as they worked. She had remained calm so far, but it was partly out of a sense of disbelief at events, for it was perfectly obvious to her what was about to happen, and among all the confusion the one thing that stood out in her mind was a burning sense of resentment at her husband who, she was irrationally convinced, had done this deliberately to get her into trouble, for she could not think of a more perfect crime. The locked door, the missing weapon, the evidence of the cheque-book—all of this together painted a clear picture of a woman who had taken a gun and shot dead her husband in a fit of rage. And why should anyone think differently? It looked very much to Angela as though the police had a water-tight case against her. She had left the house at about nine o’clock the night before and (as far as the police knew) had returned just after midnight. At some time between nine and a quarter to seven that morning, Davie had come to the flat for reasons best known to himself, and had been shot dead. Unless it could be proved that Angela was out of the house when he was killed, then she would be arrested for his murder. But what if it turned out that he had died after midnight? Then she would have no alibi at all, for she could not—would not—confess where she had really been. That was quite impossible. No, the police must continue to think that she had spent the night at home, and she could only hope that the medical evidence would show that Davie had died before midnight, when several witnesses could confirm that she had been at the White Rabbit Ball. Perhaps it would even turn out that the gun which was used to kill Davie was not hers. But how could that be proved? There was no other weapon here, and she had, of course, given her own revolver to Edgar Valencourt, who was presumably on his way to France at this very minute. She had no way of sending a message to him, for she had no idea where he was going, and even if she had, he was unlikely to come forward with the gun, since he would be arrested immediately himself if he did. Despite all the things he had said, she did not suppose for a moment that his interest in her extended to getting himself into trouble. No, there was certainly no help to be expected from that quarter. The gun was gone and with it a vital piece of evidence.
At that moment she could see no way out, and a sense of defeat came upon her. She supposed that Davie had always meant to do her a bad turn in whatever way he could, although this was the last thing she had expected. Oddly, in the whirl of her thoughts she did not pause to wonder who really had killed her husband, for it did not seem to matter much. After all, why would the police bother looking for anyone else when they had a perfect suspect right before their eyes? She looked across to the other side of the room, where the police were working, and found Inspector Scott regarding her thoughtfully. He withdrew his gaze immediately but there was no doubt at all what he had been
‘No,’ she said. ‘I always kept it there. Do you suppose the murderer took it?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Scott non-committally. As a matter of fact, he was half-inclined to arrest her there and then, but the lack of a weapon posed something of a difficulty. There was no doubt at all in his mind that Angela Marchmont had shot and killed her husband, but it would be difficult to prove that until they had found the gun. No doubt she had disposed of it somewhere, and he could only hope she had hidden it in the flat. The place would have to be searched, of course, and more evidence collected, but as far as Scott could see, it was an open-and-shut case.
Just then, the doorbell rang and suddenly the room was full of men with bags and cases and stretchers, who saw that the bereaved wife was present and so lowered their voices, trod carefully on the expensive Persian rugs, and tried not to knock into the furniture. Angela did her best to stay out of the way as they worked. She had remained calm so far, but it was partly out of a sense of disbelief at events, for it was perfectly obvious to her what was about to happen, and among all the confusion the one thing that stood out in her mind was a burning sense of resentment at her husband who, she was irrationally convinced, had done this deliberately to get her into trouble, for she could not think of a more perfect crime. The locked door, the missing weapon, the evidence of the cheque-book—all of this together painted a clear picture of a woman who had taken a gun and shot dead her husband in a fit of rage. And why should anyone think differently? It looked very much to Angela as though the police had a water-tight case against her. She had left the house at about nine o’clock the night before and (as far as the police knew) had returned just after midnight. At some time between nine and a quarter to seven that morning, Davie had come to the flat for reasons best known to himself, and had been shot dead. Unless it could be proved that Angela was out of the house when he was killed, then she would be arrested for his murder. But what if it turned out that he had died after midnight? Then she would have no alibi at all, for she could not—would not—confess where she had really been. That was quite impossible. No, the police must continue to think that she had spent the night at home, and she could only hope that the medical evidence would show that Davie had died before midnight, when several witnesses could confirm that she had been at the White Rabbit Ball. Perhaps it would even turn out that the gun which was used to kill Davie was not hers. But how could that be proved? There was no other weapon here, and she had, of course, given her own revolver to Edgar Valencourt, who was presumably on his way to France at this very minute. She had no way of sending a message to him, for she had no idea where he was going, and even if she had, he was unlikely to come forward with the gun, since he would be arrested immediately himself if he did. Despite all the things he had said, she did not suppose for a moment that his interest in her extended to getting himself into trouble. No, there was certainly no help to be expected from that quarter. The gun was gone and with it a vital piece of evidence.
At that moment she could see no way out, and a sense of defeat came upon her. She supposed that Davie had always meant to do her a bad turn in whatever way he could, although this was the last thing she had expected. Oddly, in the whirl of her thoughts she did not pause to wonder who really had killed her husband, for it did not seem to matter much. After all, why would the police bother looking for anyone else when they had a perfect suspect right before their eyes? She looked across to the other side of the room, where the police were working, and found Inspector Scott regarding her thoughtfully. He withdrew his gaze immediately but there was no doubt at all what he had been
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