The Scandal at 23 Mount Street (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 9) by Clara Benson Page B

it,’ said Scott callously. ‘We’d better get over there now and take a look before she has a chance to tamper with the evidence.’
    ‘Why should she do that?’ said Willis.
    ‘Any number of reasons,’ said Scott. ‘She’s the one who plays at being a detective, isn’t she? Fancies herself cleverer than the police. By the time we get there she’ll probably have pocketed half the evidence so we can’t deduce anything from the scene of the crime.’
    ‘She doesn’t usually do that,’ said Willis. ‘She’s always been very respectful, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Well, and what of it?’ said Scott. ‘Because there’s always the other possibility, which is that she did away with him herself. She’s probably scrubbing the house clean of clues as we speak.’
    He stood up and strode towards the door.
    ‘Or she might even be upset at the death of her husband,’ said Willis quietly to himself, as he followed his superior out of the office and down the stairs.
    But despite the kind-hearted Willis’s supposition, Mrs. Marchmont showed no signs of being particularly upset at her husband’s death when Scott and Willis arrived. On the contrary, she looked a little pale and tired but perfectly composed.
    ‘He’s behind the sofa. I haven’t touched him,’ was the first thing she said as she admitted them to the flat.
    The two policemen walked over to look at the mortal remains of Davie Marchmont. It was not a pleasant sight. It looked as though he had taken a shot to the head, but the bullet had not passed through cleanly, for there was a certain degree of mess. Sergeant Willis winced. Inspector Scott turned to Mrs. Marchmont, who had remained at the other side of the room, presumably not wishing to look at the body again.
    ‘Did you say you found him here this morning?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ said Angela.
    ‘Do you have any idea what happened?’
    ‘No.’
    She seemed unwilling to elaborate.
    ‘When did you last see your husband? Alive, I mean,’ said Scott.
    ‘It was on Thursday,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘Here, at my flat. We talked, then he went away again. I believe he was staying at Burkett’s.’
    ‘Staying at Burkett’s?’ echoed the inspector. ‘Didn’t he live here?’
    ‘My husband and I were separated,’ said Angela. ‘He’s an American and he usually lives—lived—in New York. I hadn’t seen him in more than two years when he arrived on Wednesday.’
    ‘I see,’ said Scott, in whose mind ideas were turning over rapidly. ‘Why did he come to London?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela, then corrected herself. ‘Or rather, I know he came to me for money. Whether that was his sole purpose in coming to England I couldn’t tell you.’
    ‘He wanted money? Did you give him any?’
    ‘Yes, I did,’ said Angela.
    ‘May I ask how much?’
    Angela hesitated, then went over to her writing-desk, brought out of a drawer her cheque-book and handed it to him. Scott looked at the sum written on the most recent counterfoil and just managed to stop himself from whistling. He made no comment, however, and merely handed back the cheque-book.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind I’d like you to tell me more about what happened. At what time did your husband arrive?’
    ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Angela. ‘I was out last night, at a charity ball. He certainly wasn’t here when I left the flat, though.’
    ‘And at what time did you arrive home?’
    ‘I left the ball not long after midnight and came home in a taxi. I was back by twenty past twelve,’ said Angela. This was just the first of many lies she would tell over the next weeks, but it was by no means the worst.
    ‘And was he here then?’ said Inspector Scott.
    ‘I don’t know. I suppose he must have been.’
    ‘Do you mean you didn’t see him?’
    ‘No. I’d had a little to drink and I was tired, and I wasn’t thinking of anything much. I certainly had no reason to look behind the sofa before I went to