The Scandal at 23 Mount Street E-Book

Clara Benson

• Herausgeber: Mount Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

When an unwelcome figure from her past turns up unexpectedly, Angela Marchmont has no idea that she is about to become the most notorious woman in Britain. Forced to reveal secrets she has kept to herself for many years and which she had thought were safely buried, Angela faces a fight for her very life which she looks almost certain to lose without the help of the man she loves. But what hope does she have when the one man who can save her is the one man who has every reason to abandon her to her fate?

Leseprobe

The Scandal at 23 Mount Street

An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9

Clara Benson

© 2015 Clara Benson

All rights reserved

The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

Cover design by Shayne Rutherford

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Contents

The Scandal at 23 Mount Street

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Books by Clara Benson

The Scandal at 23 Mount Street

When an unwelcome figure from her past turns up unexpectedly, Angela Marchmont has no idea that she is about to become the most notorious woman in Britain. Forced to reveal secrets she has kept to herself for many years and which she had thought were safely buried, Angela faces a fight for her very life which she looks certain to lose without the help of the man she loves. But what hope does she have when the one man who can save her is the one man who has every reason to abandon her to her fate?

Chapter One

It was an ordinary sort of week to begin with. November had set in, and with it a series of dull, overcast days that seemed deliberately calculated to cast a pall over everyone’s mood—not least that of Mrs. Angela Marchmont, who, owing to one or two circumstances that could not have been foreseen, found herself stuck at home for several days with nothing to do. The previous Saturday she had been due to visit some friends, but the sudden death of the host’s great-aunt had put paid to that. On Monday she had been engaged to dine with an old friend whom she had not seen in some years, but this had had to be postponed when Eva’s husband fell ill (had Eva been unwell herself, she would have dragged herself up to London come what may, she assured Angela, but Harold was simply unable to look after himself and could not do without her). In addition to this, Angela’s maid, Marthe, was fretting over news of her mother in France, who was prone to depressive fits and had shut herself in her bedroom, vowing never to come out again. Naturally, Angela could not refuse Marthe’s request to take a few days’ leave to visit her family, but the seasonal gloom had affected her spirits and she was forced to exercise all her good sense in order to suppress the irrational suspicion that everyone had suddenly decided in concert to cause her inconvenience.

Had she known what was about to befall her, Angela might have followed Marthe’s mother’s example and hidden herself away somewhere, that it might all be avoided, for despite all her best efforts, her life was about to be thrown into the spotlight in the most unwelcome way. In recent years, her involvement in several famous and sensational murder cases had given her a certain amount of celebrity, and although she had never actively sought fame, she had learned to tolerate it and even enjoy it with distant amusement. Still, for the most part she preferred to live privately—for even the best of us have secrets we do not wish to share with the world—and so, had she known that she was about to become the most notorious woman in Britain, and that all her carefully-constructed walls were about to be brought down and her personal actions be exposed to the full, disapproving glare of public judgment, she might well have acted differently that day and saved herself one worry, at least. Of course, like anyone else, Angela had made her fair share of mistakes in life, and if she had a particular fault it was a complacent—perhaps bordering on self-satisfied—belief that she could bury those mistakes, and thus never have to account for them, merely by pretending that they had never happened. Nonetheless, while tea-shops and public houses buzzed with the story and every man and his wife pored over the morning newspaper, eager for each new development in the case, her many well-wishers did tend to agree that it was rather harsh on her to have to pay for her sins all at once. That was the nature of justice, however: it pressed on blindly, oblivious to the effect it might have on those in its path as it pursued its ultimate ends. Long after the event, Angela could not help but torment herself, wondering how things might have turned out had she not made the choices she did, but each time she was forced to the inescapable conclusion that had things been otherwise she would most likely be dead herself now, her name a nine days’ wonder in the newspapers, soon to be forgotten. Had she done right, though, in accepting the favour offered her and agreeing to that silent bargain which exchanged her life for that of another, however wicked he had proved to be? She did not know, although her guilty conscience would whisper the answer in her ear for a long time to come.

All this was still in the future, however, and far from Angela’s mind on Wednesday, as she returned to her flat in Mount Street after a short trip to Regent Street to buy a gift for a friend. To add insult to the injuries of the week, she had given her driver, William, the afternoon off, whereupon it had immediately begun to rain. It started as a mere drizzle, and so she set off boldly on her quest without an umbrella, but by the time she was ready to return, the drizzle had become a deluge and Angela was forced to take a taxi home. The cab drew up opposite the flat and she jumped out and hurried across the road as fast as she could before her parcels got wet. At the outer door of the building she fumbled in her handbag for her keys, but in her haste dropped them in a puddle. Uttering an exclamation of impatience, she was about to bend down and retrieve them when she was forestalled by a man who had been standing in the shelter of the doorway, and who hastened forward to pick them up for her. As she took them from him she caught sight of a pair of deep blue eyes and started in surprise. Down went the keys into the puddle again, this time joined by the parcels.

‘Bother!’ she exclaimed involuntarily.

‘I think they’ll be all right,’ said Edgar Valencourt, examining one of the unfortunate packages. ‘Look, this one’s only a little bit wet at the end.’

‘I was not referring to the parcels,’ said Angela, whose heart had set up the most ridiculous flutter.

‘Well, that’s a fine welcome, I must say,’ he said.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she hissed, glancing about, for it did not do to chat idly to wanted criminals in a Mayfair street. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I don’t know why you persist in believing me.’

‘Nor do I,’ she said dryly. She was privately aghast at how her spirits had soared at the sight of him, but there was no use in struggling against it, for there he was, just as she remembered him, smiling as though he were genuinely happy to see her, and try as she might she was unable to arrange her features into the disapproving frown that was required in the circumstances, but could manage only a smile in return.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘A cross face doesn’t suit you.’

‘Ought you to be here?’ she said. ‘Are you safe?’

‘As safe as anywhere.’

‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said after a moment. ‘This weather is filthy.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me out in the rain,’ he said.

Upstairs, Marthe was bustling about in preparation for her imminent departure. Her eyes gleamed briefly when she saw Valencourt, but her training held good and she said nothing.

‘Marthe, you remember Mr.—’ said Angela, and hesitated. ‘By the way, what are you calling yourself this week?’ she inquired sweetly.

‘Smart will do,’ he said.

‘Mr. Smart, then.’

‘But of course,’ said Marthe. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

‘I don’t know how you keep up with all these names of yours,’ said Angela. Her eye fell on an enormous display of white and pink lilies that stood on a nearby table and filled the air with a delicate scent. ‘Have these just arrived, Marthe?’ she said. ‘Who sent them?’

‘M. Etheridge,’ said Marthe. ‘They came an hour ago.’

‘Oh, how kind of him,’ said Angela. ‘I must send him a note of thanks.’

‘Mr. Etheridge?’ said Valencourt, after Marthe had retired discreetly.

Angela darted him a wicked glance.

‘He lives in the flat downstairs, but he has a place in Surrey with a hothouse. He likes to send me flowers sometimes,’ she said.

‘I see.’

‘He’s a darling,’ said Angela.

‘I’m sure he is,’ said Valencourt, not taking his eyes off her.

Angela relented.

‘I think he’s about eighty-four,’ she said.

‘Then he ought to know better, at his age,’ said Valencourt. He moved a little closer to her and she retreated slightly. There was a pause. At that moment the telephone-bell rang, rather to Angela’s relief. Marthe answered it.

‘It is Mrs. Jameson,’ she said.

‘Do you mind awfully?’ said Angela, and took the instrument without waiting for a reply from him. She was on the telephone for some little time—without, probably, saying anything that made much sense, for her mind was elsewhere—and when she finally hung up she turned to find Edgar Valencourt and Marthe talking in French like old friends about a place in France they both knew well. Marthe bobbed and scurried away immediately when she saw her mistress’s face.

‘That was Kathie Jameson,’ said Angela. ‘She’s a sort of relation of mine. You might recognize the name. A couple of weeks ago she married Inspector Jameson. You know, from Scotland Yard.’

‘How splendid. I hope they’ll be very happy,’ said Valencourt politely.

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Angela. For some reason she was feeling a little giddy, and the mischief had come upon her, so she beamed angelically and said, ‘You can’t imagine what a comfort it will be to have a policeman in the family. There are so many criminals about these days that one can’t be too careful, don’t you think?’

His mouth twitched in amusement.

‘You appear to be developing a most unbecoming sense of humour, Mrs. Marchmont,’ he said.

‘Do I? It must be the weather,’ said Angela.

She moved further away from him and placed herself deliberately so that there was a table between them. She was quite determined not to make a fool of herself over him again as she had in Italy, and flattered herself that she was doing well so far. Of course, he was perfectly aware that he was safe from her—that she would never give him away to the police, but that was as far as it went.

‘So then, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ she went on with great formality.

‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ he said. ‘I just happened to be passing and thought I’d drop in.’

‘Have you been in Italy all this time?’ she said.

‘Not all the time, no,’ he said. ‘I tend to move around, rather. I spent most of the summer there, though, recovering from an injury. You might remember it.’

‘Of course I do,’ said Angela, softening a little. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Quite all right, thank you. Just the occasional twinge whenever a woman points a gun at me.’

That made her laugh.

‘I don’t suppose that happens very often, even to you,’ she said.

‘Not too often, no,’ he said.

They smiled at one another for a moment, then he began, ‘As a matter of fact, there was something—’ but got no further before the doorbell rang loudly.

‘Whoever can that be?’ said Angela, as Marthe emerged and squinted through the peep-hole. ‘Someone must have let them in downstairs.’

‘It is M. Pilkington-Soames,’ said Marthe, with a glance at Valencourt.

‘Freddy! Don’t let him in!’ said Angela in a sudden panic, but it was too late, for the ring was followed by a knock and a muffled voice, which called:

‘Don’t bother trying to pretend you’re not at home, Angela—I can hear you. Open the door. My mother won’t let me back in the house until you’ve bought all her raffle tickets.’

‘Quick! You’ll have to hide,’ said Angela. ‘If he finds you here I’ll never hear the last of it. He’s a reporter, and a very inquisitive one at that,’ she said in answer to his questioning look.

‘How remarkably inconvenient,’ said Valencourt, as she chivvied him towards the nearest door, which happened to lead to her bedroom.

‘Don’t come out until I tell you,’ she said.

‘You seem rather—er—practised at this,’ he said. ‘Do you do it often?’

‘Not more than once or twice a day. You’ll find the others hiding in the wardrobe,’ she said as she shut the door on him. She had no time to wonder what had possessed her to make such an idiotic remark before Marthe opened the door to admit Freddy Pilkington-Soames, who rolled in looking dishevelled and as though he had been up all night. He looked around suspiciously as he entered.

‘What was all that noise I heard just now?’ he said. ‘I thought there was someone here.’

‘No,’ said Angela, busying herself with the lilies as Marthe spotted Valencourt’s hat and whisked it away behind Freddy’s back. ‘There’s only me. And Marthe, of course. What was that you said about raffle tickets? Why didn’t Cynthia come herself?’

‘She said you’d be more likely to buy them from me,’ said Freddy. ‘Her exact words were, “You do it, darling—you know how susceptible she is to handsome young men.”’

‘Is that so?’ said Angela, narrowing her eyes.

‘I know, she has the most awful cheek,’ said Freddy. ‘She’s right, though. How could you possibly refuse such a vision of angelic beauty and innocence?’

‘That’s not quite how I’d describe you,’ said Angela, ‘but of course I won’t refuse. How much to make her stop bothering me, do you think?’

‘Ten bob ought to do it, I reckon.’

‘Here,’ said Angela, digging in her handbag and handing him a crumpled note. ‘What’s the prize? Not another pig, I hope.’

‘I’ve no idea. The usual, I expect. You’ll have to ask her. I say, what’s the hurry?’ he said, for she was showing signs of wanting to usher him out. ‘I was going to ask you to come out to tea with me.’

‘Not now, Freddy,’ she said. ‘Marthe’s going away and I have things to do. As a matter of fact I was just about to have a bath.’

‘But if Marthe’s going away you’ll need someone to help you,’ he said. ‘I can hold the towel if you like.’

‘Out!’ she said, and pushed him towards the door. He was finally persuaded to leave, and she returned to the sitting-room, half-laughing, hoping that Valencourt had not overheard too much of the exchange.

‘You can come out now,’ she said, opening the bedroom door.

‘He sounds like an interesting young man,’ remarked Valencourt as he emerged.

‘Oh, Freddy’s quite incorrigible,’ said Angela. ‘I like him very much.’

At that moment Marthe appeared, wearing her coat and hat and carrying a little suitcase.

‘If that is all, madame, then I will go,’ she announced.

‘Yes, thank you Marthe,’ said Angela. ‘Do give your mother my best wishes. Oh, and you’d better leave your key in case I need it.’

‘Very well, I will leave it here,’ said Marthe, putting the article in question on a little table. Then she bade them goodbye and left. Now they were quite alone, and Angela felt all the awkwardness return. There was a silence. She knew she ought to invite him to sit down, but feared it might encourage him to stay. He made no move, however, but merely stood there, looking at her.

‘I seem to have caught you at a busy moment,’ he said at last.

‘Not at all. As a matter of fact this week has been very quiet up to now,’ she said.

‘Still, perhaps I oughtn’t to have turned up like this. I’m a tremendous nuisance to you, I know, but I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself.’

Angela opened her mouth to contradict him, but could not say the words, because of course he was a tremendous nuisance—there was no denying it.

‘You were going to say something,’ she said instead.

‘Yes,’ he replied. He hesitated, then went on, ‘I don’t suppose it’ll be of much interest to you, given your earlier stated opinions on the subject of my character, but I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to retire.’

Whatever Angela had expected, it was not this. She glanced up, and was surprised to find that he looked almost embarrassed.

‘Oh,’ she said. She was about to go on when there was a loud knock at the door, followed by a series of rings at the bell, which made her jump.

‘I thought you said you weren’t busy,’ said Valencourt.

‘It’s Marthe again. She must have forgotten something,’ said Angela. ‘She needn’t have made such a racket, though.’

She went into the little entrance-hall and opened the door, expecting her maid to hurry in apologetically. Instead, she was confronted by a most unexpected and unwelcome sight. Her heart gave a great thump, and she stared in shock and dismay at the man who stood before her, smiling from ear to ear.

‘Hallo, Angie,’ said the newcomer.

‘Davie!’ said Angela when she found her voice. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Why, I came to see you, of course,’ he said. ‘You might look more pleased to see me.’ Then, as she made no move, he said, ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

He did not wait for her to reply but instead pushed past her and into the house. Angela’s head was in a whirl, but she exerted herself to be calm and act as though everything were quite normal.

‘I guess you’re doing well for yourself,’ he said, looking around him as he entered the sitting-room. He caught sight of Valencourt and stiffened. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you had a visitor. I guess that’ll teach me not to call first.’

He grinned genially and held out a hand. Valencourt took it with some reserve.

There was no getting around it now. Angela pulled herself together with the utmost effort.

‘This is Mr. Smart, Davie,’ she said, at her most distant and imperious. ‘Mr. Smart, this is David Marchmont, my husband.’

Chapter Two

It was all terribly awkward, of course. Fortunately, Valencourt had sized up the situation immediately and was at his blandest and most self-effacing. Davie Marchmont, meanwhile, helped himself to an apple from a nearby bowl of fruit, threw himself into a chair and smiled broadly as though it had never occurred to him to doubt his welcome. To judge by the strong smell of spirits that hung about him, he was in drink.

‘So you’re a friend of Angie’s, I guess,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Valencourt. ‘Or rather, my mother is.’

‘Do thank her kindly for me,’ said Angela, jumping on this with relief, and inwardly blessing the fact that Valencourt was still wearing his coat. ‘Of course I’ll come on Sunday. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

‘She’ll be very pleased to hear it,’ said Valencourt.

Angela escorted him to the front door and handed him his hat. He glanced warily towards the sitting-room and turned a questioning gaze on her, but she gave a little shake of her head.

‘I’ll see you all on Sunday, then,’ she said brightly.

‘Don’t forget to bring your raffle tickets,’ he said, and then he was gone, leaving Angela alone with her husband—the last person she wanted to see at that moment.

She returned to the sitting-room, where Davie had now wandered across to the window and was idly pulling open the drawers in a little chest and glancing into them as though he were quite in his own home. He was a tall, well-built man who had obviously once been handsome, but too much alcohol and too many late nights had done little for his appearance, and he was now running distinctly to seed. His skin wore an unattractive sheen and there was a thickening around the jaw and the waist that spoke of an excess of self-indulgence over the years, but despite this, he was still an imposing presence.

‘Congratulations,’ he said without turning round, as she entered the room. ‘I liked your little pantomime just then. You don’t think it fooled me for a second, do you?’

‘What are you doing here, Davie?’ said Angela. ‘I thought you were in New York.’

‘You mean you hoped I was in New York, to judge by what I just saw,’ he said. He turned away from the window. ‘Who is he? I guess he’s not too fussy about whether a woman’s married or not.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Davie,’ said Angela. ‘He’s an acquaintance of mine. You don’t suppose I sit at home all day, avoiding people, do you? I have lots of friends—both women and men—and they’re all quite welcome to visit if they like. But never mind all that. Why are you here? I thought I’d made it quite clear before I left the States that I wanted nothing more to do with you.’

‘That may be so,’ he said, still wearing that self-satisfied smile of his, ‘but I never said I wanted nothing more to do with you. And who knew whether you were serious or not? Married couples fight all the time, but they make it up again often enough. If you really meant it, then why didn’t you divorce me when you had the chance?’

‘That was a mistake on my part,’ said Angela. ‘I ought to have done it before I came here.’

‘Well, you didn’t, and from what I hear it’s a little more difficult in this country to get rid of a husband you don’t want. That’s good news for me, I guess.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Angela, taken aback.

‘Why, it means that you still belong to me, and that’s how it ought to be, don’t you agree?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You wanted the separation as much as I did,’ said Angela.

‘Is that what you think?’ he said. ‘Then you’re wrong. You’re my wife. Why would I want to let you go?’

He took a step forward and tried to put his arms around her, but she shook him off and stepped away.

‘Is that any way to treat me?’ he said, quite unabashed. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t love me any more.’

‘Of course I don’t love you any more,’ said Angela. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I ever did. Listen, Davie, I presume this is all a joke on your part, but I can assure you I don’t find it very funny. We agreed to separate a long time ago, and I expected you to keep to your side of the bargain. Oh, I see,’ she said, as a sudden realization struck her. ‘You want money, don’t you? You’ve spent what I gave you and now you want more. That’s it, isn’t it?’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Still the same old Davie, I see. You won’t lift a finger for yourself but you’re quite happy to live off your wife.’

‘What if I am? I’m not fit to work, you know that. What choice do I have?’

‘Not fit to work, indeed,’ she said scornfully. ‘Only because you think it’s beneath you. You weren’t too proud to let me support you, though.’

‘And you never missed an opportunity to rub it in, did you? Making me come and beg for money, keeping me short. A wife ought not to embarrass her husband, but that’s what you did. I could never make a show.’

‘In front of all the other women, you mean? I see. It wasn’t enough for you to humiliate me with your unfaithfulness—you wanted me to fund it too, is that it? Well, I told you when I left that I wouldn’t give you another penny, and I meant it. You’ve come a long way for nothing, I’m afraid.’

They glared at one another furiously, Angela trembling slightly as years of resentment that she had thought long smoothed over rose to the surface. How she had hated all the rows and the recriminations! It had been nothing but misery almost from the start, and now, just as she was congratulating herself on having escaped and created a happy, contented life for herself in England, here he was again, bringing up the past and all the old feelings she had worked so hard to bury. Was there no end to it?

Davie regarded his wife calculatingly and changed tack.

‘Listen, Angie,’ he said wheedlingly. ‘I didn’t mean to get you all riled up. I just thought that after all this time you and I might be able to talk to one another without fighting.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ said Angela coldly. ‘I haven’t changed my mind. As soon as I am able, I shall file for a divorce, and until then I should be very glad if you would leave me alone.’

‘I told you, you can’t divorce me,’ he said. ‘Not here, anyway. You have no grounds. You ought to have done it back in the States while you had the chance. Here you’d have to prove adultery on my part, and you won’t do that—just you try! I’m smart enough to be careful.’

Angela’s heart sank. Of course he was right.

‘As a matter of fact,’ he went on meaningfully, ‘I wonder what would happen if I did a little digging into your life here. You’re a good-looking woman, Angie, and you’re still young enough to want to have fun. I’ll bet you get plenty of attention. What exactly have you been getting up to in the last couple of years? I saw the look that passed between you and that fellow just now. A friend of his mother, are you? How long do you think it would take a private detective to find out whether that’s true or not? How would you like to have it all brought out in court and hear yourself called an adulteress? That would look good in the newspapers, don’t you think?’

While he spoke he had advanced slowly upon her, and for a few seconds she stood frozen in fear. Then the spell broke, and she regarded him with disdain.

‘Do as you please,’ she said. ‘But you may as well save your money, because you won’t find anything.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, I know all about you. You weren’t exactly all white when I married you, were you? How would you like everyone to know about that?’

Again she felt the thrill of fear, but hid it.

‘It’s a pity you never wanted to give me children,’ he went on. ‘Maybe that’s where things started to go wrong between us. It’s not right to deny a man an heir. Kind of unnatural on the part of a woman, don’t you think?’

Angela said nothing, and he again gave that self-satisfied smile.

‘Still, never say die, eh?’ he said. ‘I don’t have to worry about that any more. Not now. Not all women are as frozen as you.’

‘How much do you want?’ she said suddenly, and his smile widened.

‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘I thought that might bring you round.’

‘You haven’t brought me round at all. I want you to leave, and I want to know how much it will cost me to get rid of you.’

His smile was so wide now that he was practically grinning from ear to ear. He came slowly towards her. Angela smelt the alcohol on him again and felt slightly sick.

‘Suppose you suggest a figure,’ he said.

Chapter Three

For the next day or two Angela existed in a state of permanent nervousness and agitation. Davie’s visit had upset her greatly, but she had hoped that once she gave him some money he would leave her alone—or, better still, go straight back to America. To her dismay, however, he turned up again on Thursday and announced that he would be more than happy to give her a divorce as long as she signed an agreement to pay him a generous annual allowance for life. This she refused absolutely to do. He laughed, for he had not really expected her to accede to it, and said in that case perhaps he ought to come and live with her at the Mount Street flat for the time being, so as to make the money she had already given him last a little longer. There had been an unpleasant scene, but Angela got rid of him at last, and it was not until Friday that she noticed to her consternation that Marthe’s key, which she had left on the table as she departed, was no longer there. Angela called a locksmith as soon as she discovered the loss, and asked him to come and change the lock, but he was unable to come before Monday, and so she knew she would spend the weekend worrying that Davie might turn up and let himself in whenever he felt like it. He had refused to say how long he was planning to stay in London, but it was perfectly obvious that he meant to make a deliberate nuisance of himself while he was here, and she feared that now she had given him money he would keep on coming back for more and never leave her alone.

All this agitation was not helped by Angela’s worry that Edgar Valencourt might appear again and confirm Davie’s suspicions about them. She had heard nothing from Valencourt since Wednesday, and wondered whether he had gone back to Italy or wherever it was he lived at present. If that were so, it was probably for the best, although it was a pity they had not had the chance to finish their conversation before Davie had turned up. Had he really meant it when he said he was retiring? There had been reports in the newspaper in the past day or two about a daring robbery in which some valuable jewellery had been stolen from a private collection at a house in Kent. A servant had been knocked out and the thief or thieves had made off through a broken window. Angela’s heart had given a great thump when she read the story, but it did not sound like his way of doing things, and sure enough it soon emerged that the police believed the theft to be the work of a well-known and ruthless gang. Angela was relieved despite herself, for although she had always maintained carelessly that it was all the same to her whether Valencourt retired or not, since she would accept no responsibility for his moral character, that part of her which would forever have a weakness for him had always secretly hoped that he would give the thing up one day. Of course they had no future together, for even if he did decide to stop doing it, there was still the unavoidable fact that he was wanted by the police in several countries and would be in danger of arrest for the rest of his life. Nonetheless, she would have liked to hear more about what he intended to do with himself now.

By Saturday Angela had quite given up any hopes of seeing Valencourt again, so she was surprised when she returned from lunch with a friend to see a familiar figure standing in Mount Street, fifty yards or so away from her flat, apparently engaged in examining the window display of a picture-framing shop. She reached a decision and, glancing about, headed in his direction. She did not stop or turn her head when she reached him, but instead said as she passed:

‘I’m going to the Park. You can follow me in five minutes if you like.’

It was a grey day, but dry at least. Angela found a bench not far from the Serpentine, from where there would be a good view of anybody approaching, and sat down. Sure enough, in a few minutes he joined her and sat down at the other end of the bench. Angela glanced about again.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ she said.

‘You can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry about the other day.’

‘You weren’t to know. Nor was I, for that matter.’

‘Weren’t you expecting him, then?’