A Question of Hats: An Angela Marchmont mystery

By Clara Benson

When a mysterious parcel containing a hat is delivered by mistake to Angela Marchmont she thinks little of it, except to note that she wouldn't be seen dead in the thing. But if she doesn't want it, there are plenty of other people who do—and who are prepared to take it from her by force if necessary. It soon turns out there's more than just a hat at stake, and now it's up to Angela to discover what's been going on—before someone else gets there first!

A Question of Hats is a short story of seven chapters, which takes place between the events of The Incident at Fives Castle and The Imbroglio at the Villa Pozzi. There are no spoilers for the rest of the series!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mount Street Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386267829

Book preview

Chapter One

London, February 1928

‘What do you think of these new spring hats, Marthe?’ said Angela Marchmont one morning. ‘The magazines are full of this new style with the wider brim.’

Angela’s maid, who had been clearing away the detritus of an evening-party, stopped what she was doing and came to look at the picture her mistress was indicating.

‘They are not so severe, these ones,’ she pronounced at last after some consideration. ‘They throw the face a little into shadow and make the lines look softer. That is good for some.’

‘Including me, I suppose,’ said Angela with a sigh. ‘When one reaches a certain age one starts to look for clothes that conceal rather than reveal.’

‘Ah, you must not worry, madame. You are not at that age yet!’

‘No?’ said Angela, somewhat reassured.

‘Non. You have another three years, perhaps. Or five if you are very lucky. But one day, alas, the signs of time will begin to show on you, as they do on all women, and then all hope will be gone.’

‘Dear me! Do you think I should order my coffin now, to save you the trouble later?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said the girl imperturbably.

Angela flicked to another page.

‘What about this one? A feather turban in silver-grey. Rather smart, don’t you think?’

‘Ah, a turban—is that what it is?’ said Marthe with magnificent disdain. ‘I thought it was a dead pigeon they had put on her head.’

Angela gave it up and threw the magazine aside.

‘It’s no good looking at spring fashions anyway,’ she said, with a glance towards the window, down which the raindrops had been trickling steadily all morning. ‘Not in this rain. But I don’t want to be caught unawares if we get a sudden spell of good weather.’

‘There is no good weather in London,’ said Marthe mournfully.

‘Not today, certainly. Goodness me, is that really the time? And I’m not even dressed yet!’

‘Your guests did not leave until past four o’clock.’

‘So late? I had no idea. I was having far too much fun to think about going to bed.’ Angela stretched and stood up. ‘Well, I suppose one must face the day sooner or later, and I have a hazy memory that I promised to meet the Lawrences for lunch. Get Edrys on the telephone for me, won’t you, and ask her what time. Meanwhile, I shall go and find something suitable to wear. Is the pink georgette frock with the roses on it clean and pressed?’

‘That will not be suitable at all, madame. Mrs. Lawrence will think you have taken leave of your senses. No, the green printed crêpe de chine with the gold edging is much more becoming, and perfect for all weathers, even the rain.’

Angela knew better than to argue with Marthe about matters of dress. She abandoned all thoughts of the pink georgette immediately and went off to make her toilette, reflecting that if she had only three years of youth left in her, then she had better make the most of them.

She returned from her appointment with the Lawrences in the early evening to find that a parcel had arrived in her absence. It was large and square, and wrapped in cheap brown paper.

‘What’s this, Marthe?’ she said.

‘I do not know, madame,’ said Marthe. ‘It came ten minutes ago.’

Angela picked it up and pulled the paper off it. It came off easily, to reveal a hat box.

‘Ah, then you have bought a spring hat after all,’ said Marthe with interest. ‘Not the turban with the feathers, I hope.’

‘I shouldn’t dare after that pointed remark of yours. No, I haven’t bought a hat at all. Now what—’

She removed the lid and they both peered inside the box.

‘It’s a hat, right enough,’ said Angela, bringing it out. They regarded it in silence for some moments. It was an unpleasantly sickly shade of purple, and was covered with squirls and patterns and frills and ribbons, applied with abandon, and seemingly without any thought of symmetry, harmony or pleasingness to the eye. ‘Well, not to say a hat. Certainly not something I’d wear myself.’

‘Then you did not order it?’

‘Good gracious, no! I told you I hadn’t.’

‘I am very happy to hear it, madame,’ said Marthe sincerely. ‘If you ever ordered a hat of this kind I should be filled with sorrow, because I should know that all my work had been in vain.’

‘You talk as though I lumbered about in nothing but woven grass and animal pelts before you arrived,’ said Angela.

‘Non, madame, you were always very chic, even before I came,’ Marthe assured her. ‘But I am French and you are not.’

There was no answer to that, so Angela turned her attention back to the hat.

‘We’d better return it,’ she said. ‘Who sent it? There’s no