The Riddle at Gipsy's Mile (An Angela Marchmont Mystery 4)

Clara Benson

©
2014 Clara Benson

All rights reserved

The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the a
uthor 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 b
y 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
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ISBN: 978-1-291-77739-0

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Cover design by Yang Liu
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Los
t in the mists of the Romney Marsh, Angela Marchmont stumbles upon the body of a woman whose face has been disfigured--presumably to prevent recognition. Who is she, and what was she doing out there in the middle of nowhere? The search for answers will ta
k
e Angela from a grand stately home to London
’
s most fashionable--and disreputable--night-club, and into a murky world of illegal drinking, jazz music and lost souls.

The Romney Marsh in Kent is famous for its stark, flat beauty, and its vast expanses o
f landscape. A thousand years ago it belonged to the sea, but over the centuries the enterprising local populace slowly began to drain the land and claim it for their own. Today, it is a quiet, sparsely-inhabited place: an area of grazing land bounded by
a
criss-crossing of drainage ditches and narrow lanes in which it is easy for the unwary traveller to lose his way. It is so deserted that one might travel for miles without seeing a soul.

It was along one of these lanes on a chilly September day that Lucy Syms rode her chestnut mare at a gentle trot. The morning had been fine
—
sunny with just that hint of crispness in the air which betokened the arrival of autumn
—
but after lunch, when she h
a
d set out again, the clouds had descended suddenly and the mist had begun to roll in across the marsh. Soon it would be impossible to see anything. Lucy gave an impatient click of her tongue. Her horse, Castana, was a skittish, nervy type who disliked the
fog and needed only the slightest excuse to become restive.

‘
Don
’
t worry, girl,
’
said Lucy soothingly, as the mare tossed her head and snorted. She patted Castana
’
s neck.
‘
We
’
ll turn back in a moment. It
’
s just our bad luck that this mist decided to come d
own now.
’

She straightened up and looked about her, hoping that the sun would burn through the mist quickly. But no: even as she looked, the grey dampness extended its arms and enfolded them both in its clammy embrace. The horse pranced and huffed.

‘
Bother,
’
said Lucy. She nudged Castana.
‘
Come on, then. We
’
ll have to try again when the fog lifts.
’

Just then she heard the familiar sound of a motor-engine in the distance, and paused to listen. The sound grew louder. She tugged on the reins gently and managed
to persuade Castana to leave the road and stand on the grass verge. Presently, the outline of a large motor-car could be distinguished through the mist. It approached slowly and came to a halt by Lucy, its engine purring gently. A window opened.

‘
Hallo,
’
said a voice cheerfully.
‘
I
’
m awfully sorry to trouble you, but we seem to have lost our way.
’

The voice belonged to a woman with dark hair and a smiling expression. She was dressed fashionably and elegantly and appeared to be somewhere in the middle thirt
ies.

‘
Where do you want to go?
’
asked Lucy.

‘
It
’
s a house called Gipsy
’
s Mile, just outside Littlechurch,
’
said the woman.
‘
The signposts are rather confusing around here and I fear we may have taken a wrong turning a little way back.
’

‘
Yes, you did,
’
agre
ed Lucy.
‘
I know Gipsy
’
s Mile very well. You must go back the way you came, then turn left. Carry on for five hundred yards or so then turn right at the crossroads. The house is on your right about a mile farther on.
’

‘
Thank you,
’
said the woman, then to L
ucy
’
s surprise turned and said something that sounded like,
‘
Two bob!
’
to her driver.

‘
Are you a friend of the Harrisons?
’
asked Lucy curiously.

‘
Yes,
’
replied the woman.
‘
Do you know them?
’

‘
Yes
—
at least, my fiancé
is a friend of Miles
’
s.
’

‘
Oh? Then perha
ps we
’
ll see each other again. I
’
m Angela Marchmont, by the way.
’

‘
Lucy Syms,
’
said Lucy. Castana was getting restless and showing signs of wanting to throw herself in front of the car.
‘
I must take my horse home now. She doesn
’
t like the mist. Goodbye, an
d good luck!
’

She nudged the mare and set off back the way she had come. A little way down the road she looked back and saw the car turning with some difficulty. After a few minutes it was successful and roared off into the fog. Lucy patted her horse
’
s nec
k and they started home at a trot.

In the car, Mrs. Marchmont was engaged in an animated debate with her American driver, William.

‘
You agreed two bob,
’
she said.

William shook his head.

‘
I think you must have misheard me, ma
’
am,
’
he said.
‘
I merely said t
hat if I were a betting man, I would bet you two shillings that this was the right road.
’

Angela assumed a mock-stern expression.

‘
I am shocked, William, shocked, that you should attempt to use such a shabby excuse to worm out of your responsibilities. I d
istinctly heard you promise to pay me money if you were wrong.
’

‘
Well, that
’
s as may be,
’
said William.
‘
It would be impertinent of me to contradict you directly, ma
’
am. But I
’
d like to remind you
—
respectfully, of course
—
that you still owe me half
a
crown
from the last time we had a bet.
’

‘
What? Do you mean the boat race? But surely I paid up?
’

William shook his head.

‘
Nope,
’
he said.

‘
Are you quite certain?
’

‘
Perfectly certain.
’

‘
Oh!
’
said Angela, and paused.
‘
Then I suppose t
hat means I am in your debt for sixpence.
’

‘
It would seem so, ma
’
am,
’
agreed William, abandoning all pretence about the existence or otherwise of the two-shilling bet.

‘
We shall have to do something about that,
’
said Angela.
‘
Now, let me see, what have we
got? There
’
s the Autumn Double coming up. That ought to be worth a flutter. Terms to be agreed upon.
’

‘
You
’
re on,
’
said William.
‘
I want my sixpence, at the very least. Now then, that must be the turning there.
’

He guided the Bentley carefully around the s
harp bend, and almost immediately the car plunged into a dense patch of fog, rendering the countryside around them almost completely invisible
—
so much so that it was barely possible to see more than a yard or two in any direction.

‘
Dear me!
’
said Mrs. Marc
hmont.
‘
How inconvenient. Should we stop and wait for the fog to clear, do you think?
’

‘
I don
’
t know, ma
’
am. How long does it generally last around these parts?
’
said William doubtfully.
‘
Days, or only hours?
’

‘
I was thinking rather in terms of minutes,
’
s
aid Angela,
‘
but since I have no desire to sit in the middle of a field until Sunday, perhaps we had better press on. Be careful, though.
’

William switched on the head-lamps and advanced cautiously. The road was wide enough to admit only one vehicle, and w
as bounded on both sides by deep drainage channels which were almost entirely screened off by thick hedgerow. One careless move and the car could career off the road and into the ditch. After a hundred yards or so, the fog thinned and William accelerated
a
little. He was too precipitate, however, for almost immediately they plunged into another fog patch, causing him to slow again
—
luckily for the flock of sheep which happened at that moment to be wandering in the lane just ahead of them. There was a thump
a
nd a chorus of bleats, and William gave a yell of surprise and swerved to the right. He was briefly aware of a horde of startled woolly faces caught in the beam of the head-lamps, before the Bentley hurtled through the hedgerow, tipped forwards and screec
h
ed to a stop on a muddy bank, just inches from the water.

There was a moment of silence.

‘
Are we there yet?
’
said Angela sweetly.

William drew a deep breath and wiped his brow.

‘
I
’
m deeply sorry about that, ma
’
am. You
’
re not hurt, I hope?
’
he said.

‘
I don
’
t think so,
’
said Angela.
‘
What about you?
’

‘
I
’
m fine
—
I think,
’
he said.

‘
Can we get out, do you imagine?
’

William opened the door and stepped out carefully. Angela, fearful that the alteration in the car
’
s weight might cause it to slide further into the d
itch, did likewise without waiting for him. They gazed at the Bentley, which sat at a crazy angle and seemed to glare back at them reproachfully.

‘
I don
’
t suppose there
’
s any use in trying to back it out,
’
said Angela.
‘
The sides of this ditch are far too
steep. We shall need some horses, or a mechanic, or something. Do you think there
’
s much damage?
’

William rubbed his chin and bent to examine the front wheels.

‘
I don
’
t know,
’
he said.
‘
There was a mighty big thump as we went down. I wonder about the front
axle.
’

‘
Well, there
’
s nothing we can do at present,
’
said Angela.
‘
Suppose we get the luggage out and carry it up the bank. I
’
ll help you.
’

William unloaded the suitcases while Angela examined the muddy sides of the ditch, trying to decide upon the best a
nd least dirty spot from which to climb up to the road. During its header, the Bentley had torn a gap in the hedgerow, and the bank there was slippery, with deep tyre tracks, and impossible to climb. Angela picked her way gingerly along the water
’
s edge t
o
where the undergrowth was thicker and the slope less steep and muddy.

‘
I believe we might be able to get up here,
’
she called to William. The young man joined her and she pointed out the spot she meant.
‘
You see?
’
she said.
‘
There, to the left of that blu
e rag. We can use these branches as handholds.
’