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

and hat that Sergeant Willis brought her. He still looked very uncomfortable.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to him, and meant it sincerely.
    She took one last glance around the flat—it would be some time before she saw it again—and then the four of them left together and descended to the police-car that was waiting for them outside. As they drove off it began to rain again.

NINE
    Mr. Addison, of Addison, Addison and Gouch, sat at the bare wooden table and tried his best not to look uncomfortable, although his chair was hard and he was generously built and he was worried that he might not be doing a very good job of it. He shifted slightly and glanced at his notebook.
    ‘I am glad you agree with our choice of defence counsel,’ he said to his client, Angela Marchmont, who was sitting at the other side of the table. ‘Mr. Travers is the very best there is. He could not be here today as he is in court for the poisoning case, but he has asked me to assure you that he believes there to be several weak points in the prosecution’s argument, and he will come to see you to discuss them as soon as he is able.’
    ‘I look forward to seeing him,’ said Mrs. Marchmont. ‘I have met Mr. Travers once or twice in company and have always judged him to be a most capable man. I shall be interested to hear what he has to say.’
    Angela was bearing up to the indignities of incarceration as well as might be expected in the circumstances, and was as politely interested as possible in what Mr. Addison was telling her, but in reality she had assumed the worst almost from the moment she had found her husband’s body. Even she had to admit that all the evidence pointed to her being the murderer, and more than once, in the middle of the cold, dark night, she had reached such a low pass as to wonder whether perhaps she had done it while in the grip of some sort of brainstorm, and had somehow forgotten it afterwards. Of course, she knew logically that whoever had killed Davie Marchmont, it was not she, and outwardly she tried to remain brisk and optimistic that some evidence would emerge to prove her innocence, but deep down she was racked by pangs of guilt over the lies she had told the police, and she could not silence the murmurings of the small voice in her head which told her repeatedly that she deserved everything she got.
    Of all the incredible things about the case, it seemed to her that the most incredible was the fact that the only person who might give her an alibi for the fatal hour was the one man whose help she could not request, for he was far away—who knew where?—and to whom she had no means of sending a message. But even if she could somehow manage to get word to him, then what could he be expected to do? Present himself and confess cheerfully that at the fatal time the two of them had been driving into Kent to return a ruby brooch he had stolen to its rightful owner? Why, the very idea was absurd! And how would the court look upon her association with a notorious jewel-thief? She could hardly suppose that they would view it favourably, for, as she herself had to admit, most people would quite rightly say that there was no innocent reason at all for a married woman—even one separated from her husband—to spend the night in the company of a known criminal. Even though her intentions had been good, the whole incident appeared distinctly fishy and was likely to make her look even more guilty than she already did, since the proper thing to do, of course, would have been to report Valencourt to the police. Although, as she had said, she considered herself free of her husband following their separation, it was unlikely that the man in the street would find anything to approve of in her friendship (if so it could be called) with Edgar Valencourt—indeed, she did not particularly approve of it herself and had done her best to fight against it, albeit with mixed success. But leaving aside all selfish considerations, there