Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels (11 page)

I
n the afternoon Grandmama offered to help Bedelia in some of the last-minute preparations. Of course Cook would see to the meal itself, and most of the other things that required the use of the kitchen. But there was still much sewing to be done, lavender bags that were not finished, ornamental roses to be made, and definitely more decorations for the great tree in the hall.

“I could have sworn that we had more than this last year!” Bedelia said, looking at it with dismay. “It seems almost bare, don’t you think, Mrs. Ellison?”

Grandmama regarded the huge tree, its dark green needles still fresh and scented with earth and pine. It was liberally decorated with ribbons and ornaments, and there was a handsome pile of parcels beneath, and smaller ones with lace and flowers hanging from the branches. It was far from bare, but certainly there were places where more could be hung. It was important that she make herself necessary.

“It is very handsome,” she answered judiciously. “But you are quite right, of course. There are still one or two places to be filled in. I am sure it would not be difficult to find the materials to make a couple of dozen more ornaments. One needs only a child’s ball, perhaps two of different sizes would be even better, paste, and as many different colors of paper as possible, beads, dried flowers, ribbon, lace, whatever else can be spared that is pretty. Sometimes an old gown can provide an amazing variety of bits and pieces. It’s not difficult to make tiny dolls, or angels.” She had rather run away with herself, but it was all in the growingly desperate cause of detection. Very definite ideas were crystallizing in her mind, but she needed more time!

Christmas was supposed to be a time of forgiveness, but surely there could be no healing without honor, no real peace without change of heart? And no change without truth.

“It is not a lack of materials,” Bedelia told her. “I have not the time, and I doubt the maids have the skill.”

“I should be happy to help you, if I may?” Grandmama offered. She had not been so courteous in years, and in spite of her amusement at herself, she was rather enjoying it. It was like a step outside her own life, a curious freedom from the expectations of others, or the chains of past failure.

“I should be delighted to contribute something to such a glorious tree,” she continued eagerly. “And also a sort of family tradition. The Barringtons have been in this village for so many generations there are bound to be scores of people who will call in to wish you season’s greetings and share your hospitality.” That was certain. Tradesmen always paid their respects this time of year and partook of mince pies, candied fruit and nuts, and of course a cup of punch.

Bedelia accepted, and half an hour later they were sitting in the sewing room at opposite sides of the table cannibalizing an old evening gown, cutting off beads, braid, fine silk and velvet pieces, and the paler ribbons and lace from two old petticoats that had also been found.

“There is too much dark red,” Bedelia said critically. “All of the silk and velvet is the same shade.”

“That is true,” Grandmama agreed. “What we really need is something else bright in a completely different tone.” She looked at Bedelia with a frown. “I have a very daring idea. Perhaps you would find it offensive, but I have to ask. If it grieves you, I apologize in advance.”

“Good gracious!” Bedelia was intrigued. “I am not easily shocked. What is this idea?”

“Maude said that she traveled in many strange and exotic places.”

A faint distaste flashed in Bedelia’s eyes but she masked it. “Is that helpful?”

“No doubt she wore some…strange clothes,” Grandmama said tentatively. “Possibly of colors we would not choose.”

Bedelia understood instantly and her face lit with pleasure.

“Oh! But of course! How clever of you. Yes, certainly, some of them might be cut up for the most excellent Christmas ornaments.”

Grandmama felt a chill at the thought of cutting up any of Maude’s clothes, things she had worn in the places that she had obviously loved so far from home. She might have stood in the sunset in some Persian garden and smelled the perfume of strange trees and the wind off the desert and looked up to unimaginable stars. Or perhaps there would be scarves of silk she had bought at a noisy, multitudinous bazaar in Marrakech, or some such city. They should all be treated with tenderness, folded to keep in the odor of spices and strange fruit, oils and leathers, and the smoke from the campfires.

“You are so clever, Mrs. Ellison,” Bedelia was saying. “Of course most of her things are here and we have only to unpack them. And it is unlikely that any of them are things that anyone else would wear. I really do not care to offer them, even to the poor. It would be…”

“Disrespectful,” Grandmama filled in, meaning it, and enjoying forcing Bedelia to agree. She hated herself for doing it, but truth required some strange sacrifices. “This way they will be totally anonymous, and give pleasure for years to come.” Forgive me, Maude, she thought to herself. Detection is not easy, and I refuse to fail. She stood up. “I suppose we should begin. See what we can find.” That was crass. She had not been invited to look into Maude’s effects, but she was most curious to see if there was anything helpful. No one else who knew that she had been murdered would ever have such an opportunity.

If Bedelia were offended she did not show it.

Upstairs in the box room, where the luggage had been stored, they set about opening the two trunks Maude had brought back with her. Grandmama found herself with the one packed with ordinary blouses and skirts, underclothes, and sensible, rather scuffed boots. They were of moderate quality linen, cotton, and some of raw, unbleached wool. She wondered in what marvelous places Maude had worn these. What had she seen, what emotions of joy, pain, or loneliness had she felt? Had she longed for home, or had she been at home wherever she was, with friends, even people who loved her?

She glanced across at Bedelia and studied her face as she pulled out a length of silk striped in purples, scarlets, crimsons, and tawny golds mingled with a hot pink. She drew in her breath sharply. At first it seemed to be pleasure, excitement, even a kind of longing. Then her mouth hardened and there was hurt in her eyes.

“Good heavens above!” she said sharply. “What on earth could she have worn this for? Whatever is it?” She shook it out until it billowed and appeared to be a sheet with very little distinctive shape. “One can only hope it was a gift, and not something she purchased for herself. No woman could wear such a thing, even at twenty, never mind at Maude’s age! She would have looked like something out of the circus!” She started to laugh, then stopped abruptly. “A very good thing we looked at this first, Mrs. Ellison. If the servants had seen it we should be the talk of the village.”

Grandmama felt her fury flare up and if she had dared she would have lashed out verbally in Maude’s defense. But there were bigger considerations, and with intense difficulty she choked back the words. She forced herself to look as close to good-natured as she could manage, which effort cost her dearly. “Instead they will be talking about the gorgeous and perfectly unique ornaments on your tree,” she said sweetly. “And you will be able to say that they are a remembrance of your sister.”

Bedelia sat rigid, her eyes unmoving, her face set. It could have been grief, or the complexity and hurt of any memory, including anger that would never now be redeemed, or regret for forgiveness too late. Or even debts uncollected. The only thing Grandmama was certain of was that the emotion was deep, and that it brought no ease or pleasure.

They took the silks downstairs and Bedelia cut into them with large fabric shears. Bright clouds like desert sunsets drifted across the table and onto the floor. Grandmama picked them up and began to work on the papier-mâché and paste to make the basic balls before they should be covered in the bright gauze. After that they would stitch little dolls to dress in the gold and bronze and white with pearls. She smiled at the prospect. It was fun to create beauty.

But she was not here to enjoy herself. This silk in her hands had been a wonderful, wild, garish robe that Maude had worn on the hot roads of Arabia, or somewhere like it.

“I imagine Maude must have known some very different people,” she said thoughtfully. “They would seem odd to us, perhaps even frightening.” She allowed the lamplight to fall on the purple silk and the brazen red. “I cannot imagine wearing these colors together.”

“Nor could anyone else outside a fairground!” Bedelia responded. “You see why we could not have her here when Lord Woollard stayed. We allowed him the courtesy of not shocking or embarrassing him.”

“Is he a man of small experience?” Grandmama inquired with as much innocence as she could contrive.

“Of discreet taste and excellent family,” Bedelia said coolly. “His wife, whom I have met, is the sister of one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting. An excellent person.”

Perhaps even a week ago Grandmama would have been impressed. Now all she could think of was Maude’s Persian garden with the small owls in the dusk.

There was a knock on the door and Agnes came in. A brief conversation followed about parties, games to be played, especially blindman’s bluff, and of course refreshments.

“We must remember some lemon curd tarts for Mrs. Hethersett,” Agnes reminded her. “She is always so fond of them.”

“She will have to make her own,” Bedelia responded. “She will not be coming.”

“Oh, dear! Is she unwell again?” Agnes asked sympathetically.

“She will not be coming because I have not invited her,” Bedelia said tersely. “She was unforgivably rude.”

“That was over a year ago!” Agnes protested.

“It was,” Bedelia agreed. “What has that to do with it?”

Agnes did not argue. She admired the rapidly progressing baubles, and returned to the task of organizing pies and tarts.

“How very unpleasant,” Grandmama sympathized, wondering what on earth Mrs. Hethersett could have said that Bedelia still bore a grudge a year later, and at Christmas, of all times. “She must have been dreadfully rude to distress you so much.” She nearly added that she could not understand why people should be rude, but that was too big a lie to swallow. She could understand rudeness perfectly, and practice it to the level of an art. It was something she had never previously been ashamed of, but now it was oddly distasteful to her.

“She imagines I will forget,” Bedelia responded. “But she is quite mistaken, as she will learn.”

Grandmama bent to the stitching again, blending the bright colors with less pleasure, and wondered what Maude had done to Bedelia that old memories lingered so long in unforgiveness.

Why had Maude returned now? Was it possible Grandmama was completely mistaken? Had she allowed her bored and lonely imagination to conjure up murder where there was only an unexpected death, and grief that looked like anger? And a proud woman who would not allow another to see that she was bitterly ashamed of having turned away her sister for fear that her behavior was socially inappropriate, and now regretted it so terribly when it was too late? Was Grandmama making a crime out of what was only a tragedy?

D
inner was tense again. As on the first night there was the palpable undercurrent of emotions that perhaps there always is in families: knowledge of weaknesses, indulgences, things said that would have been better forgotten, only there is always someone who will remind.

Aloud they recalled past Christmases, particularly those when Randolph had been a boy, which necessarily excluded Clara. Grandmama studied her face and saw the flicker of hurt in it, and then of annoyance.

The others were enjoying themselves. For once Arthur joined in the laughter and the open affection as Bedelia told a tale of Randolph’s surprise at receiving a set of tin soldiers in perfect replica of Wellington’s army at Waterloo. It seemed he had refused to come to the table, even for goose. He was so enraptured he could not put his soldiers down. Bedelia had tried to insist, but Arthur had said it was Christmas, and Randolph should do as he pleased.

Grandmama found herself smiling also—until she saw the hunger in Zachary’s eyes, his look at Bedelia, Agnes’s look at him, and remembered that Randolph was the only one among all four of them likely to have a child. He was forty. Clara, strong-willed and ambitious, was a great deal younger. When would they have children? Or might that be another grief waiting in the wings?

She would have liked to have had more children herself; a daughter like Charlotte might have made all the difference, or even like Emily. A lot of work, a lot of frustration and disappointment, but who could measure the happiness?

It would be better if she did not think of the past anymore. Far better to treasure what you have than grieve over what you have not.

She looked around their faces again. Why does anybody hate someone enough to kill them, with all the risk involved? You don’t, if you are sane. You kill to protect, to keep what you have and love: position, power, money, even safety from scandal, the pain of humiliation, or loss, or the terror in loneliness. She could easily imagine that. Perhaps we were all as fragile, if one found the right passion, the fear that eats at the soul.