Mistletoe and Murder (8 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Mistletoe and Murder
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Daisy decided to be frank. “I wish I knew what's going on. There are so many undercurrents, it's quite unsettling. The conflict Mr. Calloway feels, I suppose.”
“I
said
he'd ruin Christmas,” Jemima butted in malevolently. “I wish he'd never come. I wish Uncle Vic never found him. I wish he was
dead!”
“Oh, stow it, Jemmie. It's you who'll be spoiling Christmas if you don't look out.”
“Buck up, Jem.” Miles joined them. “You look like the end of a wet week. Think of presents and turkey and flaming Christmas pud.”
“I don't like Christmas pudding.”
“I'll let you in on a secret: Cook's made a trifle in honour of our distinguished guests.”
“I wish
they'
d never come, too!” said the impossible girl, and flounced off.
Her brother and sister sighed in union. “Sorry, Daisy,” said Miles. “She's rather too much for Mother, I'm afraid.”
“Her manners are simply dire,” Felicity agreed. “I wonder
if Uncle Vic or Grandfather could stump up for a couple of years of school for her.”
“A good idea. It's worth putting out a few feelers.” Miles paused. “But not until this business is over. There's no knowing what may come of it. Ah, the candles are sputtering. Light a couple of lamps, Flick, while I snuff them before the tree goes up in flames.”
Her curiosity burning, with no prospect of satisfaction, Daisy went to send the children to bed.
 
“ … And I don't think I've ever been so utterly clueless as to what's going on.”
“Daisy, don't talk to me of clues,” Alec groaned, tearing off his stiff collar. He hated stiff collars, but he would have hated still more to give his mother-in-law any extra ammunition to use against him. “I was hoping for a rest from sleuthing. All that's happened is that the captain has invited a bigoted zealot to stay and the rest of the family wants—quite reasonably in my opinion—to see the last of him.”
“He's simply frightful, isn't he, darling?” She wrinkled her nose in the adorable way which always made him want to kiss her. “But Captain Norville travelled all the way from India with him, so he knew quite well what he was like. Why invite him? And why try so hard to please him now he's here?”
“Common courtesy to a guest. And I expect the captain invited him before he found out what a pill he is.”
“There's more to it than that,” Daisy said with conviction. She was halfway out of her frock by now, and Alec didn't want to talk about the Norvilles, or even think about them. “He'd hardly go off into the woods at midnight on
his own to wrestle with his soul about whether to stay a few more days.”
“Enough, love! If I know Belinda, she'll be here at dawn to show us the contents of her stocking, even if she doesn't believe in Father Christmas any more. No doubt bringing Derek with her. Let's get some sleep!”
“Sleep?” Daisy queried innocently, but there was a beguiling glint in her usually guileless blue eyes.
“To bed, woman! I'll be with you as soon as I've folded this damned instrument of torture.” He wrestled with the studs of his starched shirt.
“Let me help, darling,” said Daisy.
Somehow the shirt ended up on the floor, where it spent the night.
Bel and Derek appeared at first light. By the time Daisy chased them out to wash and dress, they had consumed two tuppenny bars of Fry's chocolate, two sherbet dabs, and the tangerines from the toes of their stockings, and had read their own and each other's comic papers.
“I'm sticky,” said Daisy.
“I'm exhausted,” said Alec, “but I suppose we'd better get up. It'll take a policeman to stop those two opening all the rest of the presents before breakfast.”
“Breakfast before presents and presents before church. I suppose Calloway will insist on giving a sermon even on Christmas morning. I hope it's short and not too full of hellfire.”
After breakfast everyone gathered in the library. Daisy, having had no idea who lived at Brockdene, had provided a large box of chocolates which was well received. Trust her to get it right, Alec thought.
He was worried about the present he had bought Daisy for their first Christmas. She had admired some petrified wood they had seen somewhere in the western United States, and he had secretly bought “wood opal” earrings and a long string of beads. Knee-length beads were fashionable, but would she rather have had real pearls, even though he could afford only a short string and not of the best?
He need not have worried. She was thrilled, and when he muttered something about pearls, she said dismissively, “Oh, everyone has pearls. I bet no one else in England has anything like this.”
Belinda and Derek were equally pleased with their presents from America, but the big hit was something Daisy had picked up for a few pennies. When she explained that the dried maize kernels would turn into “popcorn” when toasted, they had to try it at once. Derek ran off to the kitchens for a frying pan.
Everyone gathered around the library fireplace to watch. When the kernels started to pop, Nana howled and hid behind a chair. Some of the white puffs flew out and flared up in the fire. They were bigger than Daisy had expected and soon overflowed the frying pan, eliciting a great deal of hilarity.
Everyone tasted, including Nana, even Lady Dalrymple, but when Belinda and Derek went on crunching, she said, “Daisy, stop them. They'll ruin their meal.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Tremayne, “they're nothing but air, my lady. And there's the service in the Chapel for the kiddies to sit through before we get to Christmas dinner.”
A pall fell over the company. Alec had been aware that Calloway had not joined them at breakfast nor afterwards,
but more as a lifting of spirits than a conscious noting of his absence. He was off duty. He didn't care where anyone happened to be at any particular time.
“The Rev must be sleeping in after wrestling with his demons in the wood all night,” Miles said lightly.
“Don't speak so disrespectfully of Mr. Calloway,” the captain snapped.
“Especially on Christmas Day.” For once Godfrey supported his brother, though his zeal seemed to Alec less a change of heart than a rather forced and unconvincing tribute to the season of goodwill to all men. “We'd better get along to the Chapel. It's nearly eleven. He'll be upset if we're late.”
The ancient clock began to chime the hour as Alec followed Daisy down the steps into the Chapel. A few servants sat at the back, though not nearly as many as had come to the carol singing. By daylight the Chapel had lost some of its charm, but several beautiful old paintings were visible and sun slanting through stained glass cast patches of colour on the white walls. There was no sign of Calloway. No doubt he was hanging behind to make a grand entrance.
The congregation settled down into an expectant hush. Still no Calloway. The children began to fidget. Daisy put her arm around Belinda, and Lady Dalrymple confiscated the rubber band Derek had taken from his pocket.
Still no Calloway. Captain Norville got up and went out. A couple of minutes later he returned, without Calloway. He went to speak to the housekeeper at the back.
In the quiet, their whispered exchange was audible.
“Who took the Reverend his morning tea?” asked the captain.
“No one, sir,” the woman said unabashed. “Mr. Calloway is not a guest of his lordship.”
Captain Norville let out a gusty, exasperated sigh. Miles jumped up and joined him. “I'll go and see if he's still asleep, sir,” he offered.
“Thank you, my boy.” The captain raised his voice. “In the meantime, while Miles fetches Mr. Calloway, I suggest that anyone who wishes should go out to the Hall and make themselves comfortable.”
Daisy immediately shepherded the children out. Alec paused to let Lady Dalrymple go ahead, but she stayed behind for a moment of private prayer. When she caught up with them, she made straight for his side and started to complain about the ill-breeding of modern churchmen in general and the Reverend Calloway in particular.
Alec supposed it was better to be the recipient of her complaints than their subject.
He did not have to suffer long before Miles came into the Hall from the East Wing. “Mr. Calloway's bed hasn't been slept in,” he announced.
“He's hooked it,” Felicity said at once.
“Don't be vulgar, dear,” said her mother automatically, but she looked relieved.
The captain stared at Miles, seemingly silenced by shock, while Jemima muttered, “Good riddance!” and old Mrs. Norville murmured, “Oh dear!”
“Piffle!” cried Godfrey Norville, much perturbed. “Why should he leave so unceremoniously? As Victor's guest, he was welcome at Brockdene. We did our poor best to make him welcome, didn't we?”
“Don't worry, Father, he hasn't gone off,” said Miles. “At any rate, as far as I can tell only his outdoor clothes
are missing. Perhaps he decided to walk into Calstock to go to the service there instead of preaching to the heathen.”
“Miles!” His mother was scandalized.
“Sorry, Mother.”
“Maybe he fell asleep in the chapel,” Daisy proposed soothingly. “The one by the river.”
“Dashed uncomfortable.” Miles shook his head. “No, more likely he fell on his way through the woods. The gale brought quite a few branches down, and it was dark, remember. He might have tripped and sprained his ankle.”
“I hope he broke his leg,” said Jemima viciously, “or his neck.”
“Jemima!” Poor Dora grew more and more flustered.
“In any case,” Alec said calmly, “we'd better go and look for him. Miles, Captain, Mr. Norville, you'll come with me? I'm not certain of the way.”
“I'm coming too,” Derek whooped. “Come on, Bel. We'll take Nana. She'll be a ripping bloodhound.”
Daisy instantly quashed that plan. “You're staying right here, both of you.” She exchanged a look with Alec.
He seconded her. If they found Calloway injured, or if he'd managed to fall into the Tamar and drown himself, they wouldn't want the children underfoot.
When Alec came downstairs, having changed his shoes and put on his overcoat, Miles, Captain Norville, and Mr. Tremayne awaited him.
“Father's soothing my mother,” Miles said uncomfortably. “I'm afraid her undutiful children are a trial to her.”
They walked down the terraces, through the tunnel under the lane, and into the valley garden. Here they spread out to cover the several winding paths, looking about them as they went. The paths, steep and slippery in places, must
have been difficult to negotiate safely in darkness, but no one saw any sign of the missing clergyman.
The previous afternoon, Alec and Daisy had not gone all the way to the bottom of the garden. Now, when they reached the woods, Alec saw that Miles was right about the damage done by the gale. The broad woodland path was scattered with twigs and a few quite large branches.
“If one of those fell on the poor chap,” said Tremayne, “he wouldn't have had a chance.”
“No,” Miles agreed, “or he could easily have tripped over one in the dark, though I suppose he brought a lantern.”
“Let's assume he didn't veer from the track,” Alec proposed, “unless we find he isn't in the chapel. We'll stick to the track.”
“Even with no more than a ricked ankle,” said the captain, subdued, “which I hope is the worst of it, he might have gone to the chapel for shelter rather than try to make it back to the house.”
“Watch out for footprints though,” Alec said. “If he strayed, we might be lucky enough to spot it.”
But the dying gale had dried the ground, leaving no muddy patches to show footprints. Last autumn's fallen leaves, spread in drifts across the path, crunched underfoot. Perhaps they left a trail an expert Red Indian tracker could have followed, but to Alec's eye no obvious trace showed where they had trodden.
The chapel came into view.
“Hello, the door's open,” said Miles. He strode ahead, pushed the half-open door, and went in.
As the others approached, he suddenly came out, his face
dead white. He took two steps and stopped, swaying, his eyes shut, his one hand clenched.
Alec reached him first. “Steady, old man. Lean on me.”
“I'm … all right. I've seen much worse. It … it's just that it brings it all back.”
“What?” the captain demanded. “What did you see?”
“Calloway. He's there all right. Dead. With a knife in his back.”
“N
o!” Captain Norville rushed towards the open chapel door. When Tremayne caught his arm, the force of his charge swung him round, fists bunching. “Let go of me!”
“Stop! You mustn't go in there, Victor. This is a matter for the police.”
“He's dead? Calloway's dead?” Fists relaxing, the captain shook his head like a bewildered bull whose chosen victim has just jumped a fence. His shoulders slumped. “Then Mother will never be vindicated.”
“To be honest, Uncle Vic,” said Miles, still pale but with a touch of colour returning to his cheeks, “I don't think Grandmama cares much any more.”
“Little you know! Did you know she still sleeps with a miniature of my father under her pillow? To you she's just a wrinkled old lady, but inside she's still young and pretty and in mourning.”
Alec never would have expected such a flight of fancy from the seaman. What on earth was going on? He vaguely remembered Daisy recounting some tragic story from old Mrs. Norville's past, but he hadn't paid much attention. It
didn't do to ignore Daisy's apparently idle chatter, he thought. Then he reminded himself that it was Christmas Day, and he was on holiday. He wasn't going to have anything to do with investigating Calloway's death, dammit!
All the same … “I'd better make sure the poor devil's not lying there slowly bleeding to death,” he said to Tremayne. “I won't touch anything but his wrist.”
Miles gave him a puzzled look. “But … ,” he started, then fell silent as Alec frowned at him.
Something else Daisy had told him: She had mentioned his profession to young Miles, and sworn him to secrecy when she discovered that Lord Westmoor had not passed on the information to his poor relations.
Alec went into the dimness of the tiny chapel. In spite of himself, he kept a lookout for footprints; and though he saw none, not even Miles's, he kept to one side so as not to leave his own. The Reverend Calloway lay prone before the simple altar. He might have been performing a profound obeisance before his Lord, were it not for the knife hilt protruding between his shoulderblades.
His head was turned away from Alec. The arms were caught beneath the body, as if he had been on his knees praying when he was struck down. He was wearing his funereal black suit, his overcoat folded over the back of a pew, next to the burnt-out lantern. Mortifying the flesh, Alec thought wryly, or warmed by the fervour of his devotions.
Alec bowed his head briefly towards the crucifix, but when he knelt, he was kneeling beside the fallen man, not before the altar.
Against the black cloth, the wide patch of blood around the knife was hard to make out. The base of the haft was stained. Alec thought a fair amount of blood must have
welled out immediately, but not spurted. The murderer would have blood on his hands, but probably not his clothes.
The blade had gone in high on Calloway's back, between the shoulderblades, slanting downwards but too high, Alec guessed, to hit the heart. Nevertheless, when he reached beneath the body for the wrist, he knew before he touched it that the man was dead.
No pulse. Cold, and rigour well advanced. Soon after midnight, probably.
Dammit, he was
not
going to start detecting!
But he couldn't stop his mind working. As he started to stand up, he saw the dark pool of congealed blood by Calloway's open mouth, spreading under his cheek pillowed on the cold stone. The knife must have nicked a lung. Perhaps it had severed the spinal chord, paralysing the man. That would explain why he had not struggled in his death throes, why he was laid out so neatly.
There was something oddly familiar about that knife hilt. Alec stooped to take another look. Yes, if he was not mistaken, it was the seaman's knife Belinda and Derek had found yesterday in the secret passage.
Where had they left it?
DAMMIT, HE WAS NOT GOING TO START DETECTING!! This was one for the local police.
He hurried out of the chapel, using his handkerchief to pull the door shut behind him. “Where's the nearest police station?” he asked.
“Calstock,” Tremayne told him. “It's …”
The captain interrupted. “Calloway's dead, then, Fletcher? I searched half of India for that man, talked him into
coming home when he was all set to retire over there, put up with his prudish ways for weeks on end …”
“Why?” Alec asked bluntly.
“Why? Because …”
“The less said the better, Vic,” Tremayne interrupted in his turn, and repeated, “This is a matter for the police.”
“I'll go and fetch them,” Miles offered.
“Are you sure you feel up to it, my boy?” his grandfather asked with concern.
“Yes, perfectly. I'll be better with something to do.” He looked at Alec. “I suppose … I suppose I'll have to tell them it's murder.”
“It's difficult to see how it could be accident or suicide,” Alec agreed dryly, “or even self-defence. But just report a violent death, and make sure they bring a doctor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe Dr. Hennessy is away for Christmas,” said Tremayne. “You can say I suggest they ring up county police headquarters in Bodmin for advice. Don't tell them any more than you absolutely must.”
“Yes, sir.” Again the young man glanced at Alec, who nodded. From the family's point of view, if not from that of the police, the canny old solicitor was quite right. “Right-oh, then, I'm off.” He strode off up the path, back the way they had come.
“Wait!” Alec called. He turned to Tremayne. “Does he go near the house?”
“No, the public footpath skirts the garden on the river side. There's a hairpin bend, then another gate into the garden, then a rather steep slope up to the top before it straightens, meets the farm track, and then runs on to Calstock. Why?”
“Never mind!” Alec shouted to Miles, waved him on, watched him go past the gate, then said to Tremayne, “Because I don't want the children hearing about this.”
“Gad, no!” Captain Norville, who had been standing in gloomy contemplation of the chapel, swung around. “Nor the ladies, by Jove.”
“We'll have to tell them something,” Tremayne argued, “the ladies at least. We must agree on a story before we go back to the house. Something which won't spoil Christmas for everyone.”
“They'll find out soon enough when the police arrive,” Alec pointed out. “Better to tell them the truth in the first place. Tell the ladies Calloway's dead, anyway, and Miles has gone for a doctor. Let them assume natural causes. I don't think anyone was sufficiently fond of him for his demise to spoil their Christmas dinner.”
“It's spoilt mine!” the captain muttered.
“Very well,” said Tremayne, “we'd best get back and break the news before they start to wonder what is going on.”
“I'll have to stay,” Alec said reluctantly, “to make sure no one goes in and disturbs the evidence. With any luck, Miles will bring a bobby back in time for me not to miss my dinner.”
“I'll stay,” grumbled the captain. “Can't leave a guest of Westmoor's out here.”
“Sorry, I wish I could let you, Captain. But I'm afraid it looks as though you and your family are going to be the chief suspects.”
“Me? I wanted him alive. His death has ruined everything!”
“Fletcher's right, Victor. Unaccustomed as I am to criminal
practice, I can see that all of us, even I, shall be under suspicion. Come along, now, we must go and break the news of the reverend gentleman's demise. We don't want to keep the ladies in suspense.”
“Do please try to keep it from the children,” Alec begged.
“Of course,” said the captain gruffly.
“And if there's a key to the chapel, I expect the police will want to lock it up until they can examine it properly.”
“I'll send someone with the key.”
They tramped off. Alec strolled up and down in front of the chapel. He hadn't done guard duty for years, but waiting was still a not infrequent part of his duties, usually in far less pleasant surroundings. Birds sang in the trees, and a pair of rust red squirrels chased each other, leaping from branch to branch like trapeze artists. Somewhere in the distance, a peal of bells rang out in joyful clamour: the end of the morning service in Calstock, probably.
There would be no church service at Brockdene today. The intended celebrant had bled to death or choked on his own blood—but Alec was not going to speculate on the precise medical cause of his departure to a better world, nor on who had sent him there.
He took his pipe from his pocket … and put it back again. Much as he longed for a smoke, it would somehow be disrespectful to the dead, a feeling he had encountered before. To distract himself, from that and from the irrepressible instinct to detect, he took a turn around the chapel.
Patches of evergreen bushes, laurels and rhododendrons, grew on each side, but there was room to pass between thicket and wall. Behind the chapel, the ground fell away
abruptly in quite a high cliff, fifty or sixty feet, with a mud flat at the bottom. The river was a muddy brown after the gale and heavy rains, turbulent, with quite a bit of debris racing seaward on what looked like an ebb tide. The opposite bank, bordered with yellowed reeds, was much lower, a gentle hillside dotted with red Devonshire cattle.
“Alec!” It was Daisy's apprehensive voice. “Alec, where are you?”
“Here. Coming.” He hurried round to the front.
Daisy flung herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. “Gosh, darling, I was afraid you'd been done in, too.”
“Too? I suppose the captain couldn't keep his mouth shut.”
“So Calloway
has
been murdered. How dreadful! Captain Norville and Mr. Tremayne just told us he had died.”
Alec groaned. “And I've just told you he was done in!”
“Give me credit for a little
nous
, darling. If he'd popped off from a heart seizure or something, the captain would have stayed to wait for the doctor. If you stayed, it meant there was something suspicious about his death, and you didn't trust the captain not to mess about with your clues.”
“Not
my
clues. I'm on holiday. I managed to stop Miles giving me away, so don't you breathe a word of my profession. Where are the children?”
“I caught them sneaking out right after you left. I made them promise not to come this way, and Derek said they'd go up the hill to the Prospect Tower. It's to be a giant wigwam, I gather. They were both wearing the Red Indian costumes we brought them. Bel's adorable in the beaded jacket and the squaw feather, with her ginger braids! Poor Nana was to be a buffalo, but she likes to be chased, and they won't hurt her. How was he killed?”
“Stabbed with … Dash it, Daisy!”
“You might as well tell me, darling. It won't be a secret once the local bobby arrives.”
“I hope we can keep it from Belinda and Derek. And I had hoped for a peaceful, if not merry, Christmas dinner before it's generally known.”
“Well, I shan't tell anyone. Especially Mother. Oh heavens, she's going to be simply livid! Livider, I mean, if there is such a word. Let's put off telling everyone as long as possible. We'll persuade the bobby not to come up to the house till after dinner, so only—let's see—four of us will know. Besides the murderer. Who do you think stabbed him?”
“I'm trying hard not to think about it,” Alec pointed out.
“No one was exactly keen on the poor chap,” Daisy mused. “I'm afraid no one will really mourn him. I wish I knew why Captain Norville invited him in the first place.”
“He said something odd,” Alec revealed reluctantly. “He said, ‘Then Mother will never be vindicated.' And then he talked about her still mourning her husband.”
“But he wasn't. Her husband, I mean. I knew you weren't listening when I told you about Mother's letter. Or was he?”
“Great Scott, Daisy, what the dickens are you talking about?”
Daisy held up her hand. “Hush a minute. Let me think. This does rather change things. Surely ‘vindicated' in that context must mean … Darling, I rather think I know what Calloway was here for!”
“Must I beg for enlightenment?”
“No, why should you?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You're absolutely determined not to investigate so you
have no reason to want to know. In any case, it's all hearsay and guesswork, not evidence.”
“I give you fair warning, a second murder is about to be committed,” Alec growled.
“Keep your hair on, darling, I'm rather fond of that black thatch of yours. Right-oh, I'd better start from the beginning.” She narrated Lady Eva's tale of the events leading up to the drowning of Albert and his eldest brother, Viscount Norville, the sixth earl's heir.

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