The Twelve Clues of Christmas (13 page)

“And I don’t have my hunting jacket either,” I said. I had brought jodhpurs because one always does.

“You can wear my old jacket,” Bunty said. “We’re about the same size and it’s not too shabby.”

“Thanks awfully.” I made a mental note that she was being a frightfully good sport about Darcy.

Having sorted out the universe again Lady Hawse-Gorzley sent the churchgoers off, found jigsaw puzzles and board games for those who were not planning to hunt, and sent the hunters off to sort out mounts. I took the opportunity to go to wish my nearest and dearest a merry Christmas.

The going was treacherous underfoot with melted snow now turned to ice and I wondered if the hunt would be allowed to take place under such conditions. I was concentrating on not slipping and falling on my bottom when a figure loomed out of the hedge in front of me. I started as I found myself looking at a wild-looking woman—hair unkempt, flowing green skirts and, to my utter amazement, bare feet. She blocked my path, staring at me.

“Happy Christmas to you,” I said uncertainly, unnerved by two eyes, green as a cat’s, that stared at me unblinking. “You must be Sal. I’ve heard about you.”

“You want to watch yourself, miss,” she said with her deep West Country burr. “Or you might come a cropper.”

Then she darted through the hedge and was gone.

Chapter 20

I went on my way, a little shaken. I hadn’t really believed in Wild Sal until now, but she really existed and, what’s more, she had just given me some kind of warning. Had she only meant that the ground was treacherous underfoot or was she hinting at something more sinister?

I could hear Mr. Barclay thumping out the organ as I passed the church for my mother’s cottage. Good smells of roasting fowl and sage stuffing greeted me from the kitchen as my grandfather opened the front door, and I came through to the sitting room to find my mother and Noel Coward around the fire. I was given a grand welcome for once as they were all remarkably in the Christmas spirit. Even Noel Coward was wearing a ridiculous paper hat on his head.

“My dear child,” he said. “How good of you to come and visit our humble estate, when I’m sure you have a million and one things to amuse you at the big house. Tell me, what’s it like there—very feudal? Do the peasants all tug their forelocks?”

“You’ll see for yourself if you come to Christmas luncheon today.”

“Ah, I think Claire and I have decided not to accept the kind invitation, if you would give our apologies. It does become so tiring being adored and having to act like one’s public persona when the real Noel is a shy and retiring sort of chap.”

I laughed. “I don’t believe it for a second.”

“I am stung, wounded. Claire, your daughter has inherited your own brutal honesty.”

“I must say, that outfit looks good on you, Georgie. The cardigan suits you better than it ever did me.” My mother opened her arms. “Come and give your mama a Christmas hug. And Noel tells me I was terribly stingy with my gifts yesterday. Passing on a few old clothes, he called it. He said a big fat check would have been more in order. I pointed out that I’d already promised a shopping spree the moment we’re both back in London.”

Noel sighed. “Then I suppose the generous uncle act is up to me.” And to my delight he handed me a couple of five-pound notes.

“Golly. Thank you very much,” was all I could stammer.

“And I’ve got a little something for you too, my love,” Granddad said. “It’s nothing grand like that, but I wanted you to have a little gift on Christmas Day.”

I opened the wrapping and inside was a snow globe with a charming little village inside and
A present from Devon
inscribed around the base.

I laughed. “It’s perfect,” I said. “A lovely souvenir of my visit here.”

“So you’ve got the hordes arriving for the Christmas banquet, have you?” Granddad asked.

“Yes, I believe Lady Hawse-Gorzley invites half the village. Oh, by the way, I just saw Wild Sal. She really exists.”

“Does she?” Noel Coward looked interested. “I’ve been dying to meet her.”

“She’s very strange indeed. Walks around barefoot and just stares with these piercing green eyes.”

“Well, she is supposed to be the descendant of the witch who was burned here,” Mummy said. “Isn’t this place fun? I keep telling Noel he should scrap what we’re doing and set his play in a crazy village like this one.”

“Not much of a comedy at the moment with all these deaths,” I said.

“Let’s hope there isn’t another one,” Granddad said. “Did you hear the ambulance go past about an hour ago? It hasn’t come back yet.”

“Oh, no. I suppose driving conditions are terrible today. It’s so slippery out there.” I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting back, I suppose. I’m expected to help entertain and church will soon be over.”

“Have a sherry before you go back,” Mummy said.

“I shouldn’t, thanks. I rather fear that the wine will flow copiously for the rest of the day, and I’m still recovering from the carol singing the other night. I believe it must have been the old ladies’ elderberry wine.”

They all began to chuckle.

“We have a confession to make about that carol singing,” Noel said at last. “Your mother made the punch and put a generous amount of rum in it. I tasted it and thought it needed something and added a bottle of vodka. The result, I’m afraid, was rather lethal.”

“It was the final blow for me, I’m afraid. I was blotto for the rest of the evening.”

I went around and hugged them, one by one, then stepped out into a stiff cold breeze. The clouds above Lovey Tor were heavy and looked as if they might produce more snow any minute. My grandfather walked with me down the path.

“I’ve been thinking about all these strange deaths,” he said. “That Inspector Newcombe thinks I’m some kind of Scotland Yard miracle worker, but I have to say I’m completely in the dark. Usually when there are a string of murders there is a pattern to them, but there is nothing to tie these together, nor, as far as I can see, any clues to point that they were actual murders.”

“I don’t think Inspector Newcombe is too hot at reviewing evidence,” I said. “I suspect he didn’t dust for fingerprints, make imprints of shoe soles, question witnesses. . . .”

“Hark at you.” Granddad chuckled. “You’re sounding like a proper copper. Young ladies of your station aren’t supposed to know about these sorts of things.”

“I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way,” I said. “Well, as far as we know there were no deaths yesterday, so let’s hope that they’ve stopped.” I turned as I heard a snatch of garbled “Good King Wenceslas” shouted loudly into the air. “Oh, look at Willum. Isn’t he sweet?”

And there was Willum, wearing a paper hat from a cracker, cavorting around the village green, interacting with a snowman.

“You’d better go inside,” I said to Granddad. “You’ll catch cold.”

“My chest is so much better down here,” Granddad said. “Feel as fit as a fiddle, me.”

He looked up as we both heard a distant bell. Not from the church this time, but constant and coming nearer. Then the ambulance came into view, making its way down the winding road. As it came into the village, the village bobby appeared from the police station. The ambulance slowed as it approached and the driver wound down his window.

“Nasty crash over at Gallows Corner,” he called out. “Van skidded off the road and went down that slope into the river.”

“People hurt?” the policeman called back.

“Only one bloke in the van—Skaggs, the butcher from town—and he was killed outright.”

The ambulance went on its way. Granddad and I looked at each other.

“It seems I was wrong about the deaths stopping,” I said.

“A motorcar crash might have nothing to do with the other deaths,” Granddad said. “Only too likely if someone was in a hurry on roads like this.”

For some reason I had to swallow back tears. “He was on his way to deliver geese to us this morning. He’d been told we needed them by nine o’clock, so he was probably driving too fast to get here. Poor man. And what about his family too, on Christmas Day. I’d better go and tell them at the hall what happened.”

Granddad nodded and put a big, comforting hand on my shoulder. “Happy Christmas, ducks. Don’t let it get you down. Whatever’s going on down here, it ain’t nothing got to do with us.”

As I walked back up the drive I was overtaken by the ancient motorcar containing the two remaining Misses Ffrench-Finch and Miss Prendergast.

“Hop in, do,” they twittered as they opened the door for me. “Much too nasty to walk today.”

I climbed up and squeezed in beside them. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s certainly treacherous underfoot.”

“We just heard an ambulance going past,” one of them said.

“I’m afraid there was an accident and a van went off the road,” I said. “Someone was killed.”

“How terrible,” Miss Prendergast said. “Was he a local man?”

“The butcher from town. He was delivering geese to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. I expect he was running late,” I said.

“Such a tragedy. On Christmas Day too,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said (I hadn’t quite worked out which was which). “So much sadness at the moment. That man from the garage falling off the bridge on his way home and our poor sister. We debated long and hard over whether we should join the festivities, but dear Lizzie said that Effie would not have wanted us to sit at home moping. Such a tower of strength, our dear Effie. How we miss her.”

“I’m so sorry for you,” Miss Prendergast said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I’ll always be here.”

“Most kind, my dear. You have been a great comfort to us. It was a blessing the day you moved into this village.”

We pulled up outside the house.

“I just saw the local wild woman.” I looked down the driveway, thinking that I saw a movement among the hedges.

“Wild Sal? Yes, one does see her from time to time,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said. “In fact, Cook tells me that she came to the back door on the night our dear sister died. Knocked on the door quite late and asked for food. Cook said it was snowing and she felt so badly that she brought her into the kitchen and fed her.”

The chauffeur opened the door. I alighted first and helped the old ladies out of the motor. But the cogs were whirring inside my head. So another person had been in the house that night after the front door was locked. And not only another person but one who was a descendant of the witch, and who had just given me a strange warning.

Chapter 21

C
HRISTMAS
D
AY IN TIME FOR THE BANQUET

Any worries were put aside as we joined in the festivities. I delivered apologies from my mother and Mr. Coward to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. There were hot sausage rolls and sherry before the meal, then a gong summoned us through to the dining room, which looked absolutely magnificent, the table decorated with holly, Christmas crackers beside every place. To my intense relief I was not seated between any leg fondlers this time, but with Monty on one side of me and Mr. Barclay on the other. The vicar said grace and the feast began.

The first order of business was the pulling of crackers. This happened with a lot of popping and exclamations as contents went flying across the table, but everyone ended up with a paper hat, some kind of toy or game or musical instrument and a riddle. We put on the hats, which looked very silly indeed on most of us, then tried the riddles on each other as the first course was brought in: it was smoked salmon decorated with watercress and thin brown bread. Next followed a spicy parsnip soup and then the turkeys, three of them, resplendent and brown on platters, were carried in and expertly carved by the butler at a side table. They were accompanied by chestnut stuffing, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips and gravy. Conversation lagged as we ate.

“Well, I declare, this is better than any turkey I’ve eaten at home,” Mr. Wexler said at last.

“I had hoped to have roast goose as well,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “but the butcher let me down, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, but didn’t you hear that he met with an accident?” Miss Prendergast said. “His van went off the road and plunged down a slope. The poor man was killed.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley went white. “No. I didn’t hear. How terrible. Now I feel awful for insisting that he come out this morning.”

“Not your fault, my dear,” Sir Oswald said gruffly. “Roads are icy. Could have happened to anyone.”

We tried to get back into our previous good humor.

“So, Colonel Rathbone, did you ever hunt when you had a house here?” Johnnie Protheroe asked. “I don’t recall seeing you.”

“Haven’t been home in the winter in years. When we do take home leave, it’s usually in the summer,” the colonel said. “We try to avoid the hot months in India.”

“Where exactly was your house?” Mrs. Sechrest asked.

“Over Crediton way,” Mrs. Rathbone said quickly.

“Strange that we never bumped into each other,” Mrs. Sechrest said. “Porky and I have lived in these parts all our lives.”

“Well, Devon’s a big county, isn’t it?” the colonel said. He turned to Mr. Barclay. “Splendid organ playing, by the way. I like an organist who thumps it out properly. And good old hymns too.”

Mr. Barclay nodded and smiled. He seemed out of his element here, looking around nervously. I deduced he must have come from a humble background and this was confirmed when he muttered to me, “It’s very grand, isn’t it? I’m always terrified of making a social faux pas, aren’t you?”

“I often do,” I said. “I’m quite good at shooting my meat across the table when I try to cut it or slipping off my chair. And it’s usually when I have to dine with the relatives too.”

“Your relatives must be old-school sticklers then,” he said.

“Her relatives are the king and queen, Mr. Barclay,” Monty said, grinning as Mr. Barclay’s face turned puce.

“I had no idea. Nobody told me,” he gasped, then took a swig of his wine and promptly choked on it, spattering wine on the white tablecloth.

I felt rather sorry for him and tried to ask him about his own family. It turned out he had a twin brother who played the piano professionally. “He plays at concert parties and summer stock on the piers. My brother wanted us to do an act together called Pete and Pat, flying fingers at the ivories, but I was not prepared to sink to that level, even if he does make good money.”

When we were replete, the remains were cleared away and the Christmas pudding was carried in, flaming, with a sprig of holly on top.

“Hey, Ma, it’s on fire,” Junior shouted. “Should someone throw water over it?”

The countess gave him a withering look. “Don’t you dare,” she said.

The flames died down and Sir Oswald cut the first piece. “Watch out for all the damned silver bits and pieces that my wife insists on putting in it,” he said.

“Silver bits and pieces?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“Old English custom,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There are always silver charms baked in the pudding. You’ll find a horseshoe, a thimble, a ring, a button, a boot, a pig, oh, and some silver threepenny pieces as well.”

“And what are they for?” Mr. Wexler asked.

“I’ll explain when we find them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

The pudding was served with brandy butter. After a couple of mouthfuls Ethel called out, “I’ve got the horseshoe.”

“Very good. That means good luck in the coming year,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“And I have a boot.” Mrs. Rathbone held it up.

“Very apt. It means travel, of course,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Does it really? How lovely,” Mrs. Rathbone replied with what looked like a wistful smile.

Mr. Upthorpe and Johnnie found threepences, which meant money. Badger found the button, which made everyone laugh.

“The bachelor button, Badger. It means you’re not going to get married.”

“Thank God for that,” Badger said.

Suddenly the colonel, seated just across the table from me, turned red, his eyes bulged and he clutched his throat.

“He’s choking!” his wife shouted.

Badger and Johnnie leaped to his aid, thumping him on the back. My heart stood still. Was this the death that had been planned for today? I realized that I had been uneasy ever since the wild woman had given me that warning. The colonel was flailing now.

“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Rathbone screamed.

The other men at the table were now on their feet, standing helplessly as the flailing grew weaker and the colonel pitched forward onto the table, knocking over his wineglass and sending the contents flowing across the white tablecloth like a river of blood.