FROM THE SCANDAL AT 23 MOUNT STREET:
She stifled a yawn, for it had been a long night. It was not quite seven o’clock, however, and she had no plans for Sunday, so she decided that there was no harm in trying to get a few hours’ sleep. She was heading towards her bedroom when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to glance at it. It seemed to be a shoe, and it was protruding from behind the sofa at a very strange angle.
‘How odd,’ thought Angela, and paused. She looked at it more closely, still not understanding what it was she had seen. Then realization stole across her and she froze. For several seconds she stood there, quite immobile, while her heart began to beat rapidly. At last she took a deep breath and approached the sofa very slowly, although she already knew perfectly well what she would find, for she had seen it often in the past—often enough, certainly, to recognize it when she saw it.
There it was, just as she had known it would be: the body of Davie Marchmont, lying behind the sofa in a pool of blood, barely recognizable—although who else could it be? Briefly, she knelt down by him and reached out for his wrist as though to look for a pulse, but then in an instant she drew back, for of course there was no pulse; a single glance at him was enough to tell that. She stood up again and moved away and for a long moment stared down at him—at the thing which had once been her husband. Anyone observing her would have said that she was in shock—and perhaps she was, although it had not deprived her of the ability to think, for her mind was working rapidly.
At length she turned away from him, went into the bedroom and changed from her evening-dress into day clothes. The police would be here soon, and it would not do to greet them in silk and pearls. Then, after a moment’s thought, she went over to her bed and pulled the covers back. When she was ready, she returned to the sitting-room and lifted the telephone-receiver to call Scotland Yard. After that, she sat down in a chair to wait. Angela Marchmont was by no means a stupid woman. She had no idea what her husband was doing in her flat or who had killed him, but one thing she did know was that she was in very great trouble.