Read The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Clara Benson
Tags: murder mystery
bit—would never change, in fact—and it was high time she forgot about the man once and for all, for he would bring nothing but disappointment.
‘Wait!’ he said, and followed her up the corridor. They stopped by the door to the ballroom and Angela regarded him inquiringly, doing her best to hide her anger under a calm exterior.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Don’t go. Will you let me explain?’ he said.
In any other circumstances she would have said no, for listening to him would only serve to give him yet another opportunity to do what he did so well: try and win her over with words. Now, however, she saw a look on his face she had never seen before—a look of genuine concern, perhaps even anxiety, at what had just happened, and it disconcerted her, for she had never known him to appear anything other than perfectly pleased with himself. But what could he possibly have to say in justification? As far as they could they had always avoided talking about his crimes, the thing that would forever stand between them. Angela did not want to know anything, for the subject pained her, and he had had the sense and the good manners to refrain from making an accessory of her by pressing the knowledge on to her. But now it looked as though they would have to have it out once and for all—here, in the most public of places. Angela felt the anger rise again at the idea of being forced into such a conversation at such a time, but after a moment’s thought she merely said, without the slightest hint of a smile:
‘I shall give you five minutes, but not here. We’d better go somewhere private.’
She indicated another dimly-lit passage that led off at right angles to the one they were in, and set off along it without looking to see whether he were following. She had been on the organizing committee for the previous year’s ball, and remembered that down here was the room they had used as an office. She stopped halfway along the passage, opened a door and switched on a light to reveal a tiny box-room—little more than a large cupboard, in fact, which contained nothing but a desk and chair, one or two small cabinets and a few untidy piles of paper. Valencourt shut the door behind them and turned to her. There was a silence as they regarded each other warily again, then after a long moment he put his hand reluctantly into his inside pocket and brought something out. It had been wrapped in a handkerchief but had partly escaped its makeshift covering, which was how Angela had spotted it.
‘I ought to have rolled it up more tightly,’ he said.
‘Is that what you think?’ she said.
He held the thing out to her and for an instant she recoiled, but then curiosity got the better of her and she slowly reached out and took it. It was a brooch, a little smaller than the palm of her hand, set with clusters of diamonds, and with one great ruby the size of her thumb-nail in the centre. The light glimmered off it, dazzling and mesmerizing her, and for one mad second she could almost understand why it was he did what he did. But then the spell broke, and she handed it back quickly and said:
‘Did you steal it?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said.
‘Either you did or you didn’t,’ she said.
He fell silent for a moment, and seemed to be debating with himself as to what to tell her. At last, he said:
‘There was a robbery a few days ago at a house in Kent. You may have read something about it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her heart sank. ‘I did, but I didn’t think it sounded like your work.’
‘It wasn’t. An old man was hit on the head while it was going on. I don’t like that sort of thing—never have. There was no need for violence.’
‘But you have some connection to the thieves,’ she said.
‘Unfortunately, yes. I won’t bore you with the whole story, but some time ago when it was all being planned I agreed to take some of the stuff off their hands and dispose of it. It’s not something I’d normally do, but
‘Wait!’ he said, and followed her up the corridor. They stopped by the door to the ballroom and Angela regarded him inquiringly, doing her best to hide her anger under a calm exterior.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Don’t go. Will you let me explain?’ he said.
In any other circumstances she would have said no, for listening to him would only serve to give him yet another opportunity to do what he did so well: try and win her over with words. Now, however, she saw a look on his face she had never seen before—a look of genuine concern, perhaps even anxiety, at what had just happened, and it disconcerted her, for she had never known him to appear anything other than perfectly pleased with himself. But what could he possibly have to say in justification? As far as they could they had always avoided talking about his crimes, the thing that would forever stand between them. Angela did not want to know anything, for the subject pained her, and he had had the sense and the good manners to refrain from making an accessory of her by pressing the knowledge on to her. But now it looked as though they would have to have it out once and for all—here, in the most public of places. Angela felt the anger rise again at the idea of being forced into such a conversation at such a time, but after a moment’s thought she merely said, without the slightest hint of a smile:
‘I shall give you five minutes, but not here. We’d better go somewhere private.’
She indicated another dimly-lit passage that led off at right angles to the one they were in, and set off along it without looking to see whether he were following. She had been on the organizing committee for the previous year’s ball, and remembered that down here was the room they had used as an office. She stopped halfway along the passage, opened a door and switched on a light to reveal a tiny box-room—little more than a large cupboard, in fact, which contained nothing but a desk and chair, one or two small cabinets and a few untidy piles of paper. Valencourt shut the door behind them and turned to her. There was a silence as they regarded each other warily again, then after a long moment he put his hand reluctantly into his inside pocket and brought something out. It had been wrapped in a handkerchief but had partly escaped its makeshift covering, which was how Angela had spotted it.
‘I ought to have rolled it up more tightly,’ he said.
‘Is that what you think?’ she said.
He held the thing out to her and for an instant she recoiled, but then curiosity got the better of her and she slowly reached out and took it. It was a brooch, a little smaller than the palm of her hand, set with clusters of diamonds, and with one great ruby the size of her thumb-nail in the centre. The light glimmered off it, dazzling and mesmerizing her, and for one mad second she could almost understand why it was he did what he did. But then the spell broke, and she handed it back quickly and said:
‘Did you steal it?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said.
‘Either you did or you didn’t,’ she said.
He fell silent for a moment, and seemed to be debating with himself as to what to tell her. At last, he said:
‘There was a robbery a few days ago at a house in Kent. You may have read something about it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her heart sank. ‘I did, but I didn’t think it sounded like your work.’
‘It wasn’t. An old man was hit on the head while it was going on. I don’t like that sort of thing—never have. There was no need for violence.’
‘But you have some connection to the thieves,’ she said.
‘Unfortunately, yes. I won’t bore you with the whole story, but some time ago when it was all being planned I agreed to take some of the stuff off their hands and dispose of it. It’s not something I’d normally do, but