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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Overhearing, Miles said with a grin, “I was away at school, Mother, and then in the army. I was deprived of the opportunity to trouble you. What Flick wants is something to keep her occupied.”
“What Felicity wants is to go up to London to do the social season, and there's no chance of that!”
“I expect she's happier in the summer,” Daisy said tactfully, “when it's easier to see other local young people.”
“Oh yes, there are always plenty of tennis parties, and picnics, and drives to the seaside, with friends and friends of friends. She was hardly home a single day last summer. But that makes one anxious, too. I never knew just whom she was meeting.”
Daisy had no consolation to offer. She was relieved when Mr. Norville called her over to examine the plans of the fifteenth-century, pre-pendulum clock in the Chapel. Not that she understood his explanation of its mechanism; her school had not considered science a suitable subject for young ladies.
She retired early, intending to get up early so as not to
waste daylight. If it was sunny again, she might even try a few indoor photographs. She had brought magnesium powder for flashes, but she hated using it. In her experience, it tended to either fizzle or explode in clouds of smoke. A long exposure was much easier to cope with, though she still often ended up with over- or under-exposed pictures.
 
When she went down in the morning, she found Miles already at breakfast.
“A hot breakfast,” he said cheerfully, waving at the row of spirit lamp—warmed dishes on the sideboard, “in your honour. I wish you'd come and stay more often! Try the sausages, they're home-made.”
“Mmm, they smell delicious.”
Halfway through her meal, Miles had to leave her to walk into Calstock to the office. “It's Saturday, so I'll be back at midday,” he told her, “and then four days free! We've been given a holiday on Monday, Tuesday is Christmas, of course, and Boxing Day is a Bank Holiday. Your people arrive tomorrow?”
“Yes, in the afternoon.”
“It'll be fun having children around for Christmas. I'm off. Cheerio, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy finished her breakfast without seeing any of the others and went through to the old house. Taking notes and noting questions to be asked, she moved from the Old Dining Room, into the Chapel, then back to the Punch-Room with its miniature wine bins, now empty. Thence stone stairs, steep and narrow, led to the White Room in the Dutchman's Tower.
Above the White Room was the Drawing Room. With windows on three sides, it was flooded with light. The most
prized items here were the two cushions sat upon by King George III and Queen Charlotte when they came to breakfast in 1789, but they weren't exactly picturesque. The most photographable piece was the Italian writing cabinet with the secret drawers. Daisy contemplated trying a shot, but if the naked figures came out well enough to distinguish, her editor would probably balk at printing it.
A quick foray up to the two small bedrooms in the top of the Tower showed each so full of a four-poster bed as to make photography impossible. The Hall and Dining Room must be sunny by now, though, and both were worth a photo or two. Daisy went back down.
The rest of the morning she spent taking photos in the Hall and the Old Dining Room. At lunch, she asked the questions she had noted down, which the ever-helpful Godfrey Norville answered with his usual flood of information. He was winding down when the tramp of boots was heard in the corridor.
“Not too late for lunch, I hope, Mr. Calloway,” cried a hearty voice. “Come in, come in, my dear fellow. You must be as sharp-set as I am.”
“Uncle Vic!” Felicity sprang to her feet.
The door swung open. A big, weather-bronzed, bearded man in a gold-braided jacket filled the doorway. “Mother, here's your wandering son come home again. How are you, my dear?” He strode in and bent to kiss his mother, then stood with his hands on the back of her chair, looking around with evident satisfaction. “Your servant, Dora. Felicity, my word but you're a young lady now and no mistake! Jemima, come kiss your old uncle. Well, Godfrey, how do you go on, old man? And Miles, my dear fellow, it's good to see you again.”
A babble of greetings answered him. As far as Daisy could see, everyone was pleased to see him, but no one seemed to notice the man who had taken his place in the doorway.
The man Victor Norville had addressed as Calloway was an elderly clergyman, a tall, thin figure in black with a dog-collar. His yellowish face, set in stern lines, bore an expression of resigned weariness. He seemed an odd companion for the genial captain.
Victor Norville's voice, accustomed to battling gales and crashing waves, cut through the babble. “Dora, I've brought a guest. He won't upset your housekeeping too much, I dare say.”
“We already have a guest, Victor,” Mrs. Godfrey pointed out. “Mrs. Fletcher, as you will have gathered, this is my brother-in-law, Captain Norville.”
The captain engulfed Daisy's hand in his own. “Happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am. My sister-in-law's guest is a sight prettier than mine! No offense meant, Calloway—you can't deny it! Mother, Dora, Godfrey, this is the Reverend Calloway, who's come all the way from India with me.”
By then, Felicity and Jemima had set two more places at the table. Daisy liked the look of Captain Norville, but she excused herself to go back to work, not wanting to cramp the family reunion.
As she left, Miles stopped her to say he had brought a couple of letters for her from the Calstock post office. She picked them up from the cluttered hall table: an oil lamp; a pair of leather gloves; several candlesticks with remains of candles of various heights; a man's handkerchief, clean
and neatly folded; two library books; a jar of spills and another of pencils; a week-old
Times.
One of Daisy's letters was from Violet, forwarded from St. John's Wood in Belinda's careful handwriting. The other was from Alec. He must have written it very shortly after Daisy had caught that ghastly early morning train to Plymouth.
Tearing it open on her way up to her room, she prayed that no rash of murders had called him to the other end of the country, putting paid to his holiday after all.
She scanned his clear, firm writing, and as she dropped into a chair by the window she actually laughed aloud in relief. His mother had decided to spend Christmas with her sister in Bournemouth! Daisy would have only her own mother to cope with.
But what had Vi written for when they would see each other tomorrow?
A moment later she put down her sister's letter with a sigh. Johnnie didn't think Violet was well enough to travel. Derek was devastated. Well, Belinda would be equally devastated, and Daisy was going to have to cope with Mother without the able assistance of the “good” daughter Violet had always been.
“Blast!” she said. She moved to the writing table to pen a reply to her sister. Having finished it, she realized that it probably wouldn't be posted till the day after Boxing Day, unless she walked into Calstock herself. “Oh, blast! Oh, well, back to work.” Turning to the typewriter, she made notes of Godfrey Norville's answers to her questions.
The housekeeper had better be told that the Frobishers and Mrs. Fletcher senior were no longer expected. Daisy
went to find Mrs. Pardon, running her to earth in the Kitchen Court.
“Well, I don't mind saying, madam, it's a great relief. I was going to have to put someone in the old house, which isn't at all convenient, there's no denying.”
Daisy took the opportunity to investigate the complex of kitchens, store rooms, sculleries, and laundry rooms around the court, still in use though coeval with the old house. Then she made her way to the Red Room.
Above the Punch Room, the Red Room had been part of the solar in mediaeval times. Its huge four-poster was hung with crimson drapery, hence the name. The tapestries on the walls were particularly spectacular, especially a more-than-lifesize battle scene, but there were also three charming panels of children at play. Reluctantly, Daisy decided the light was too dim for photography, but the South Room, the other part of the partitioned solar, would be brighter with its big windows onto the Hall Court.
Daisy went through. Here hung more splendid tapestries, and well lit now, but to Daisy the most interesting feature of the room was what they hid—the squints Felicity had described.
The far-right corner must overlook the Chapel. Pulling back the arras, Daisy was delighted to find a closet big enough for two or three people at a pinch, and the promised opening through the wall. The worshippers above would be visible to the priest, but not to the congregation, thus preserving the ladies' modesty, Daisy supposed.
She crossed the room to find the peephole onto the Hall. As she pulled aside the tapestry, she saw that someone was there before her, an obscure figure in the shadows.
And from the Hall beyond came the voices of two angry men, raised in a shouting match.
A
lone, Daisy might have succumbed to temptation, against every precept of ladylike behaviour drummed into her at an early age. With someone else already present, eavesdropping was out of the question, alas, especially as that person was turning towards her.
She backed out, with a word of apology. Jemima followed, into the room's brightness. She looked upset.
Daisy wasn't surprised. Though she hadn't heard what they were shouting, she had recognized the disputants' voices. With Godfrey Norville's she was by now familiar, and the stentorian second could only be his brother's. The amity of the captain's return had not lasted long.
“Are you all right, Jemima?” she asked. “I heard your father and uncle arguing, but I don't suppose for a minute it had anything to do with you, did it?”
Jemima gave her a sullen glare. “I don't know. I didn't hear what they said.” She ran from the room.
Daisy was pretty sure the girl was lying, but after all it was none of her business. With a shrug, she decided to take a proper look at the Hall squint later. She turned to
consideration of the South Room's furnishings, including a walnut escritoire with—according to Godfrey—secret drawers, like the one in the Drawing Room. Frustratingly, she failed to find a single one.
By the time she finished, the light was fading fast and she was in need of a cup of tea. She returned to her bedroom for a wash and brush up. Then she went along to old Mrs. Norville's sitting room to find out whether the tea ceremony had returned to its accustomed place.
Mrs. Norville was just setting the final stitches in her piece of embroidery. “Tea in the library again,” she said in answer to Daisy's enquiry.
“I hope buzzing up and down those stairs isn't too much for you?”
“Not at all, my dear.” The old lady gave her the sweetest smile. “On the contrary, I'm sure it's good for me. Godfrey and Dora do tend to keep me wrapped in cotton wool, however often the doctor swears there's nothing wrong with me bar a few aches and pains, the tribute one pays to old age.”
“Mother?” Captain Norville blew into the room like a fresh sea breeze. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher! What, no tea? Has the custom of the house changed since I was last at home?”
“Tea in the library today, Victor dearest, in honour of our guests. Come in, come in, Mr. Calloway,” she invited the clergyman, who had come with the captain but paused on the threshold. “I shall be with you in just a minute.” She tied a last knot, folded the cloth, and started to put away her needle and silks.
But the Reverend Calloway was staring in horror at the colourful images scattered about the room. “Pagan idols!” he exclaimed. “My life has been spent in fighting these demons.
I did not expect to find them worshipped in my own country. Madam, better you had remained a heathen all your days than to accept our Lord and then renounce Him!”
“Poppycock!” cried the captain. “My dear sir, my mother is as Christian as you or I, or Mrs. Fletcher there. I gave her these gewgaws myself, just as mementos of her homeland. Ornaments they are, nothing but ornaments, I assure you.”
“Indeed.” Calloway gave him a hard, suspicious look. “I trust you are right, Captain. But this is most disturbing.”
Mrs. Norville looked quite frightened. Daisy decided it was time to stick her oar in.
“I find the chap with the blue face particularly jolly,” she said brightly. “It rather reminds me of Picasso's blue period.”
“Picasso?” Calloway asked, frowning.
“Pablo Picasso, the French painter. Or is he Spanish? Too, too fearfully modern, anyway. Gosh, do let's go down to tea. I'm simply parched.”
She practically forced the clergyman to accompany her, leaving the Norvilles to come together. While she went on chattering inanely about modern art—a subject with which she was not widely acquainted but hoped Calloway was less—she wondered what on earth had possessed Captain Norville to bring the grim missionary home with him.
From what she had seen of the captain, Daisy was sure he had been motivated by a kindly impulse. Perhaps he had thought Mrs. Norville would like to talk to someone who had spent his life in India. More likely Calloway had nowhere to go for Christmas, and Victor Norville had not considered that he might throw a blight over the festivities.
Maybe that was what Victor and Godfrey had quarrelled about.
As on the previous day, Godfrey Norville didn't come in for tea. With no interaction between the brothers to observe, Daisy was foiled in her hope of finding out more about their squabble. She wondered whether it was responsible for the tension, almost excitement, she sensed in the rest of the family.
It was nothing she could put her finger on. They just seemed more vivid, more like oils than the pastel watercolours they had been yesterday. Perhaps the enlivening presence of Captain Norville was enough to explain the change. And, of course, Christmas was nearly upon them, with more unknown and therefore interesting guests arriving tomorrow.
Daisy hadn't yet informed either Mrs. Norville or her daughter-in-law about the reduction in numbers, so she went ahead and told them now.
They were expressing their regrets when Calloway burst out, “Travelling on Sunday! When I left England, decent people did not travel on Sunday for pleasure, only if forced by circumstances. Things are sadly changed!”
Daisy suspected his memory was at fault, but she said politely, “When did you go abroad, Mr. Calloway?”
“As soon as I had taken orders. I was called to minister to the heathen, and in that field I have laboured for over fifty years.”
He must be over seventy then, Daisy reckoned, though he didn't look it. The tropical climate must have suited him. “Always in India?” she asked.
“Always in India,” he confirmed, throwing a significant glance at old Mrs. Norville. “Naturally I came home on
leave several times, though not in recent years. I see that England has not changed for the better.”
“The War altered many things,” Daisy said, and used the excuse of refilling her teacup to exchange the Jeremiah for Miles's more cheerful company.
“Sorry about the old grouch,” he said, as she sat down beside him. “He's a bit of a blister, isn't he?”
“Oh dear, did my face give me away?”
“No, no! Or only because I was looking. I'm afraid the Rev is here for a purpose, and he's going to be staying for Christmas. Uncle Victor told me what happened upstairs in Gran's room. He's a good egg, Uncle Vic, behind all the hail-fellow-well-met. By the way, he's hoping you won't mention that business to the rest of the family.”
“Of course not.”
“I want to thank you,” Miles said awkwardly, “for jumping to Gran's defence.”
“The chap with the blue face …”
“Krishna.”
“Krishna really did remind me of Picasso. On the whole, I prefer Krishna.”
Miles laughed, and they dropped the subject.
For the rest of the day and the following morning, Daisy saw the Norvilles and their clerical guest only at meals. She was madly trying to get her article, if not written, at least planned before her own family arrived. She had a wealth of material to sort out, much of it the kind of stuff which would make for a marvellously lively piece.
By an hour after lunch on Sunday, she had her outline prepared and was ready to call it a day. The afternoon was overcast, but still mild, with no sign of impending rain. She decided to walk down to the Quay to meet Alec, Belinda,
and the Dowager Lady Dalrymple. She couldn't tell exactly when the boat would arrive, but she knew the early Paddington-Plymouth express ran an hour later on Sundays.
In the entrance hall, she met Felicity and Miles, bound on the same errand to welcome the newcomers, and they found themselves following the pony-trap down the drive.
“We didn't like to tell you at lunch,” said Felicity, “because the Rev was there, but you missed his service this morning. Gran invited him to preside in the Chapel, and Uncle Vic herded us all in willy-nilly, servants too.”
“How very remiss of me,” Daisy said, “though I plead that I didn't know about it. No one herded me. But perhaps my lack of piety will make Mr. Calloway look more kindly on the rest of you.”
“Not a hope,” Miles scoffed. “He took one look at Flick's lip rouge and gave us a sermon on vanity.”
“You've got the wrong kind of vanity,” his sister argued. “‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,' that's about the unimportance of worldly things.”
“My word, you must have been listening!”
“And you weren't,” Felicity retorted.
They went on teasing in a brotherly-sisterly way. Daisy thought how much she missed Gervaise, who had not returned from the trenches of Flanders, where she assumed Miles had left his arm. The loss of her brother still hurt, though she had to admit she didn't think of him as often these days, nor of her dead fiancé. Michael held a corner of her heart forever, but Alec filled the rest, Alec and Belinda, and she was going to see them any minute. She hastened her steps.
When they came in sight of the Quay, a motor launch
was already moored at one of the wharves. The trap and a farm wagon stood nearby, with pony and cart-horse waiting patiently. On the Quay, a pile of luggage was growing, handed up from the launch by the boatman to the hands of two farm labourers. Alec was already ashore, directing the operation. The heap of bags concealed the passengers still aboard.
Looking down into the boat, Alec said in his firmest voice, “I wouldn't do that if I were you, old fellow. If you don't both land in the water, you'll land in the mud.”
Old fellow? The only thing less likely than that he should so address his daughter was that he should so address his mother-in-law. Whom had they brought with them?
Alec reached down and helped Belinda up onto the wharf. She saw Daisy at once and came running, pigtails flying.
“Mummy, Mummy!” She flung herself into Daisy's open arms. “Mummy, Derek's come too! He rang up and said couldn't we invite him without telling Aunt Violet or Uncle John he'd asked, so Daddy rang back right away and I talked on the 'phone to Aunt Violet and told her I'd be
frightfully
sad if Derek couldn't come and she said yes!”
Before she finished, Derek had disembarked and was tearing along after her, hauled at top speed by Nana, the breeze ruffling his blond hair.
“Nana!” Daisy exclaimed.
“Hello, Aunt Daisy,” called Derek. “Did Bel tell you about me coming?”
Fending off the puppy, Daisy listened with half an ear to her nephew's rhapsodies on their journey up the Tamar. Meanwhile Belinda had turned to Felicity and Miles.
“Hello, I'm Belinda Fletcher,” she said. “I'm most awfully sorry about bringing Nana. My friend she was going to stay with couldn't have her, right at the last minute. Daddy says she'll have to stay tied up outside.” Doubtfully she added, “He says she won't be too awfully miserable.”
Felicity glanced at Miles. Her eyes full of mischief, she said, “Nana might pine. We can't have that. No one will mind if she comes into the house.”
“The East Wing,” Miles qualified. “Father would have forty fits if she were let loose in the old house.”
Belinda and Derek promised faithfully that the puppy should not put so much as her nose over the threshold, and Daisy performed belated introductions. By then her mother was ashore, moving towards the trap, leaning heavily on Alec's arm.
“Grandmama is in a fearful bate about Nana,” Derek observed, “and about having to come by boat, and because Uncle Alec told her in the train he thought Lord Westmoor wasn't going to be here for Christmas, and because Mummy and Daddy didn't come. She's mad as a whole hive of hornets.”
“Don't speak of your grandmother like that, you horrid little brat,” said Daisy, quailing. “Felicity, I think it would be a good idea if you and Miles took the children up to the house while I see if I can smooth a few ruffled feathers.”
“Right-oh,” Miles said promptly. “We'll go the back way, through the woods, and give the dog a run. Come on, you two.”
Felicity looked down at her rather smart shoes. “Not me. I'll stick with Daisy.”
“Mummy?” Belinda clung.
“Go along with Mr. Norville and Derek, darling. Nana's
your puppy. You're in charge of her, even if you let Derek hold the lead.”
“You can have her now, Bel,” said Derek magnanimously. His dog, Tinker Bell, was a country dog and hardly ever had to go on a lead.
Belinda felt better holding Nana's lead. She had been worrying about coming to Brockdene. Gran had warned her that going to stay in a grand house with a grand lord would be very different from staying with Uncle John and Aunt Violet, who were practically part of her family. If Belinda's manners were not perfect, they would look down on her as Ill-Bred! And then there was Grandmama Dalrymple, who was as grand as a grandmother could be and rather frightened Bel, and maybe already considered her Ill-Bred.
BOOK: Mistletoe and Murder
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