The Twelve Clues of Christmas (19 page)

Chapter 31

V
ERY LATE NOW,
D
ECEMBER 28

Inspector Newcombe arrived about a half hour later. He looked bleary-eyed and grumpy, as if he had been roused from his bed. He took statements from those who had seen the candelabra topple. Nobody recalled seeing anyone standing nearby. I suddenly thought of the person in the gorilla suit I had noticed at the beginning of the evening. I hadn’t seen him since supper. I mentioned him and no one had any idea who he was.

“Any other time I would have guessed it was old Freddie, if he hadn’t . . . you know,” Mr. Crawley, my hunting friend, said. “Just the sort of thing he’d do. Probably would have swung from the chandeliers too.”

Nobody had seen the gorilla leave. He hadn’t appeared at supper. Certainly he hadn’t been seen standing anywhere near the candelabra, so the inspector dismissed him as unimportant. A constable was dusting around the French door for fingerprints. I waited until the inspector went over to examine the candelabra, then brought his attention to the piece of thread that had been caught on one of its legs.

“You’re suggesting that this was attached to the candelabra and at the right moment someone tugged it over?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s a thin sort of cotton to shift a great thing like that.”

“I suspect it’s something like button thread, which is quite strong,” I said, fingering it. “But the candelabra is clearly top-heavy and the least little jerk might have achieved the desired effect.”

He stared at the open door, the candelabra and the spots of melted wax still on the floor.

“So you want me to believe that someone rigged up a way to topple the candelabra in the hopes that Mrs. Sechrest might come and stand in the right spot sometime during the evening? That seems like a long shot to me, especially when it might be rather hard to stand anywhere alone in a crowded ballroom.”

I sighed. “I agree, unless she wasn’t particularly the intended target. If someone just wanted to cause mischief and chose a target at random, that would be different.” Or if her husband wanted to get rid of her, he’d simply push the candelabra over onto her, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to say those words. Instead I said, “We have to assume this was today’s intended death, don’t we?”

“Ah. Do we?” He rubbed his chin, which was in clear need of shaving. “I had a word with the lord lieutenant of the county and he decided we shouldn’t call in Scotland Yard on this matter. It was his feeling that we can’t prove we’re looking at a single murder here. We’ve no motive, no clues, no weapons.”

“What about Wild Sal? Presumably you arrested her because she was seen near the spot where the master of hounds vanished and her footprints were seen where the van went off the road.”

“Ah,” he said again. “I’ve had to release her. The lord lieutenant felt that we had no real evidence against her. Purely circumstantial, he said.”

“What about the wound to the horse’s leg? We know that was deliberate.”

“Not necessarily. Could have been trying to jump a wire sheep fence and hit the top strand.” He tried to give me a kindly look. “Look, we could speculate that some of the deaths were intentional—that telephone switchboard incident is definitely fishy, if you ask me. So maybe the telephone switchboard girl had overheard something she shouldn’t and needed to be silenced. Blackmailing someone, perhaps. I could go along with that. Maybe the old lady had been bullying her sisters or someone else in the house and they turned on the gas tap. That would make sense too. But there was no possible connection between them, was there? The lord lieutenant said he felt that we were just looking at a run of unlucky accidents, and that such things happen from time to time.”

“So you won’t investigate this as a potential crime?”

He rubbed his chin again. “When I thought that the convicts might be responsible, I did try to find forensic evidence of a crime at the scenes. Didn’t come up with anything, though. But there would be no reason for a convict to risk going into the middle of a busy town, where he might be spotted, to cross-wire a switchboard, and no reason for him to be anywhere near the farm where the woman was kicked by a cow.”

“So maybe that one could really have been an accident,” I conceded.

“We’ve no witnesses to any of the incidents, unless you count tonight. I’ve tried to take fingerprints but the room with the telephone switchboard was badly burned. There were no strange prints in the old lady’s bedroom. And the rest of the deaths happened outdoors. So until I find someone lying with a bloody great knife stuck in his back I’m afraid I’m going to have to drop the idea of a mass murderer at work. I never quite believed it, anyway. Didn’t make sense, did it?”

“I suppose not,” I said, fighting back my anger. “So how long are you going to let these deaths continue? Until January? February? Summer? The local population will be seriously depleted by then, won’t it?”

He winced as if I had struck him and immediately I felt bad. He was just doing his job, following orders from much higher up, and I wasn’t actually angry with him. I simply was frustrated that none of us had managed to do anything to stop people from dying.

“I think we should all go to bed,” he said. “We’re all tired and there’s nothing more we can do here tonight.” He summoned the constable who had been dusting for fingerprints, and the two of them left. Darcy came to my side as I made my way up the stairs.

“Cheer up, old thing,” he said and put his arm around my shoulder. “I know it’s upsetting to see something like that, but there’s nothing more we can do.”

“We just have to wait for someone to die tomorrow, is that what you are saying?”

“I’m saying that there is a perfectly good police force in the village and we need to leave it to them. Oh, and we watch our backs too, just in case.”

“It’s lucky we’re not from around here, isn’t it?” I said.

He looked down at me. “Well, I suppose you can say I have local ties. My mother was born in Devon. Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s my aunt.”

“Yes, but you are not known to the killer, are you? If it is one person, he must have a reason for choosing these particular people. It must be some kind of vendetta.”

“Do you believe he was here tonight? In the ballroom?”

I stared ahead as we reached the top of the staircase and the long corridors stretched away from us into darkness. “There was that man in the gorilla suit. Nobody knew who he was and we didn’t see him toward the end of the evening.”

Darcy frowned. “If he’s as clever as he appears to be, then I think you should not interfere. I don’t want some ‘accident’ happening to you.”

I rested my head on his shoulder as we walked down the hall. We reached my bedroom. “Good night.” I turned to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Is that it?” he asked. His hands grasped my shoulders and he pulled me toward him, his lips coming to meet mine in a demanding kiss. I felt myself responding to him, my body melting against his as his arms slid around me, crushing me to him. When we broke apart breathlessly, I remembered where we were.

“I don’t suppose we should be doing this in the corridor,” I whispered. “Someone might come.”

He looked down at me. “Then let’s continue somewhere more private.” He opened the door to my room. “Oh, good, your maid has conveniently gone to bed.” His eyes were dark with desire as he gazed down at me and went to usher me inside my room. I hesitated, suddenly unsure. What was wrong with me? I asked myself. This was Darcy, the man of my dreams. Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted? And hadn’t I begged him to stay a few nights ago? Then without warning I burst into tears—as much of a shock to me as it was to him.

“That’s what she did and look what happened to her,” I blurted out.

He closed the door hastily behind us, then his arms came around me. “Wait a minute. Who did what?”

“Mrs. Sechrest. I saw her creeping down the hall to someone else’s bedroom, and now she’s probably dead.”

“You think the killer is striking down sinners?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I was still blubbering.

He was trying not to smile as he stroked my black gypsy hair back from my face. “You are adorable sometimes,” he said. “I’m sure that tonight’s horrible tragedy upset you. It upset all of us. But you’re not in the same boat as Mrs. Sechrest, are you? She is married to someone else. And you and I care about each other, don’t we?”

“I know,” I said and sank down onto my bed, my face in my hands. “It’s just that . . . it’s all been too horrible. So many horrible things happening. I don’t feel safe.”

He stood looking down at me tenderly and then he said, “It’s all right. I probably need a good night’s sleep if I’m to compete in that ridiculous race in the morning.” He bent to kiss me gently on the forehead. “Sleep well. And Georgie—I don’t think I’ve actually said this before, but I’m saying it now. I love you.”

I looked up at him. “I love you too,” I said. He was about to walk away when I grabbed his hand. “Don’t go,” I whispered and pulled him down to the bed beside me.

He sat looking at me for a moment, then he removed my gypsy wig and ran his fingers lightly through my own hair. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of you, my little gypsy lass.” Then he started to undo the buttons on my lacy white blouse. Improbably, I found myself wondering if Queenie had fallen asleep or, heaven forbid, she was attempting to undress one of the other ladies. I didn’t hear any screams, so I had to conclude it was the former. Darcy slid the blouse from my shoulders then drew a finger gently down my front, tracing lightly the curve of my breast. I felt a strong surge of desire that wiped all thoughts of Queenie or anyone else from my mind. I wanted him. I wanted him badly.

His hands had just moved around to the catch of my brassiere when the door opened suddenly, sending a stream of light into the room and making us both look up, blinking.

“I came to undress you, my lady,” Queenie said stiffly, “but I see that the gentleman is already helping you.”

Darcy got to his feet. “Lady Georgiana was distressed by tonight’s tragedy,” he said. “She needed comforting.”

“Comforting, is that what you call it, sir?” She looked at me. “Should I go away again, then?”

Darcy looked down at me and smiled. “No, it’s all right, Queenie. You can take care of your mistress. She’s had a long day.”

He blew me a kiss and he was gone.

“Sorry about that, miss,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt nothing.”

“Mr. O’Mara only escorted me to my room because I was upset,” I said primly.

“Go on,” she said, giving me a nudge. “You were going to have a bit of the old ‘how’s-yer-father,’ weren’t you?”

“Queenie,” I said severely. “That is not how a lady’s maid talks to her employer. You may go. I’ll finish undressing myself.”

“I didn’t mean no harm, miss,” she said.

“I’m tired,” I said. “Just go.”

She closed the door and I sat in the darkness, not moving. All the unsettling events of the day flashed through my mind, followed by one overwhelming fact: Darcy loved me. A smile came over my face until I let the worry surface from the depths of my consciousness. He loved me. I loved him. But we couldn’t ever marry.

Chapter 32

G
ORZLEY
H
ALL

D
ECEMBER 29

Day of the Lovey Chase but beastly weather. I hope nothing will go wrong. I wish Darcy wasn’t taking part in it.

I was awakened by Queenie with a tea tray.

“Morning, my lady,” she said. “Bloody awful day. Fog so thick it reminds me of back home in London. I don’t half wish we was there now.”

I looked out the window, where only the first trees in the orchard were visible and Lovey Tor didn’t exist.

“Oh, crikey,” I said. “I wonder if they’ll be able to run the Lovey Chase in this weather.”

Queenie put down the tray on the bedside table. “I’m sorry I barged in on you last night,” she said. “I should have scarpered off and left you to it. He’s a bit of all right, ain’t he? The cat’s whisker, I’d say.” And she gave me a wink.

“Queenie, I doubt that any other lady’s maid in the world would speak to her mistress the way you do.”

“Like what, miss?” she asked. “I was only having a nice little chat with you. Friendly, like.”

I was about to say that we were not friends, she was my servant. But I couldn’t do it. I got out of bed and sighed. I had to accept that she would never learn, that she would never be employable elsewhere and that I was stuck with her.

“It’s going to be freezing watching that race,” I said. “You’d better put out my warmest jumper and my tartan trousers. This is one of the occasions when I wish I owned a fur coat.”

“You could always borrow mine, miss,” she said.

I tried to keep a straight face. Queenie’s ancient fur coat was mangy and spiky and made her look like an aged hedgehog. “Awfully good of you, Queenie, but I think not,” I said.

I was in the midst of getting dressed when a bell rang in the hallway outside my door. “One hour to the start of the chase,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s powerful voice called. “Everyone needs a hearty breakfast today so get a move on.”

I finished dressing and went downstairs; I met Darcy going into the breakfast room.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, a challenging smile in his eyes.

“I did, thank you.” I noticed he was dressed in thick corduroy trousers and a big fisherman’s jersey. “You’re not going to run the race in those clothes, are you?”

“I have my racing gear on underneath,” he said. “And I will not reveal it until I really have to. Frankly, I’d like to back out, but it would be rather letting the side down.”

We helped ourselves to a generous breakfast and joined others at the table. The mood was remarkably cheerful considering what had happened the previous night. Johnnie Protheroe came to sit beside me. “You’ve heard the news, have you? Captain Sechrest called in on his way from the hospital this morning. Sandy has some nasty burns but they are not life threatening. She’s going to be all right.“

“That is good news,” I said, and I saw the relief in his face. He really cares about her, I thought. He cares about her and she’s married to someone else. What a complicated world this is. And then I realized something else. If this was yesterday’s planned murder, then the killer had finally made his mistake. His victim was going to live and she might have some idea why she was a target.

Breakfast finished, we wrapped ourselves up in scarves and hats and walked down the drive. Mist swirled about us and the bare bones of trees loomed like giant skeletons. However, there was already a festive atmosphere in the village, with bunting strung between buildings and signs to a car park behind the shop. On the far side of the village green some booths had been set up. We went through a gap in the hedge and were charged fourpence admission by a young Boy Scout. Folding seats had been set beside what looked, through the mist, like a real racetrack, only the fences were, as Junior had described, two feet high at the most. Quite a few people had arrived from elsewhere and the stalls selling hot cider, roasted chestnuts and baked potatoes were doing a good trade. So were the bookies. I could see on a blackboard that Monty appeared to be the current favorite. Darcy was at ten to one. I joined the line for one of the bookies and placed my bet on him.

“Isn’t this kind of gambling illegal?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“It’s for charity,” the vicar said hastily. “The restoration of the church, you know. And you’ll see that the police are well represented in the crowd.”

I left the seats for the older people and stood behind one of the booths, which offered some shelter from the bitter cold. Mist swirled in, swallowing up the tents and then revealing them again. All around me people were laughing, but I couldn’t join in their festive mood. All I could think of was that this mist was a perfect opportunity for a killer, and that Darcy would be among those running out there.

“Yoo-hoo, Georgie!” I turned at the sound of my name and spotted two gorgeous mink coats coming toward me. Mr. Coward and my mother, both looking equally glamorous, came to join me. “Hello, my darling.” My mother kissed me about three inches from my cheek. “So what happened after we left last night? Any news on the poor woman?”

“Nothing much happened. The police decided to call it an accident and the good news is that she’s going to be okay.”

“Strange sort of accident,” Mummy said. “Someone must have bumped into that candle thingie, either accidentally or on purpose. It couldn’t have been blown over. Surely it was too solid.”

“I agree,” I said. I looked around. “Is Granddad here?”

“Mrs. Huggins wouldn’t let him out of the house. She said it would be too bad for his chest. She’s taken to bossing him around lately, I notice.”

“She has her eye on him,” I said.

“Well, why not? Poor old dear. He needs some companionship in his old age,” she said.

“You’d welcome Mrs. Huggins as a stepmother?”

A spasm crossed that perfect face. “Well, if you put it that way, it might be a tad embarrassing. But she does cook well and I find it a comfort to know she’s looking after him.”

“He could do with more money.” I decided to be frank.

“Darling, do you think I haven’t tried? He claims it’s all German money and he won’t touch it. Always was stubborn, you know.”

The sound of a drum interrupted this conversation and the Boys’ Brigade band marched in, playing “The British Grenadiers.” An announcer with a megaphone got up onto a makeshift dais.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the two hundred and thirty-third running of the Lovey Chase,” he boomed. “Presenting this year’s contestants: From Widecombe, Tony Haslett. From Little Devering, Roland Purbury. From right here in Tiddleton, Monty Hawse-Gorzley. Visiting us from Shropshire, give a hand for a very good sport, Mr. Archibald Wetherby. . . .”

The flaps of a big tent were drawn back and out came the most extraordinary apparitions. They were wearing white woolen long johns and long-sleeved woolen undershirts. On their heads were ancient plumed helmets like those worn by the dragoon guards and around their waists were small saddles, with stirrups hanging down to their knees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more ridiculous. There were shouts, jeers, taunts as the young men came out, one by one.

“From Bovey Tracey, Mr. Jonathan Protheroe. And from Ireland, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.” Darcy caught my eye for a brief second and gave me an embarrassed grin.

“Runners to the starting gate, please,” the announcer shouted. Everyone cheered now. “Five times around the track,” he continued. “No cheating and cutting corners or running around the jumps in the fog. Anyone not playing fairly will be disqualified.”

The runners lined up along a ribbon laid on the ground. Their breath rose into the frigid air and they looked like a row of warhorses, ready for battle. One of the boys from the band stepped forward with his bugle and sounded the call. The starter waved his flag and they were off. It was soon clear that the saddles and flying stirrups were a bally nuisance. These danced and flew around, hitting other racers and getting in the way as they tried to jump. There was a collision at the first jump as Badger and a hefty lad tried to jump it at the same time. More cheers and jeers. And then they were swallowed up into the mist.

I found I was holding my breath, peering into the mist at the ghostly shapes of the runners. I heaved a sigh of relief as they reappeared a minute later with Monty and Darcy at the front of the pack, together with a slim youth. Badger and Johnnie Protheroe came lumbering up toward the rear of the pack.

Behind me two men were chatting. “You have your money on young Monty, then? I’m not so sure myself. Don’t know if he has the stamina.”

“Who else is there?” the other male voice said. “If poor old Freddie Partridge had been alive, I’d have backed him. Always a good sport, old Freddie. Who’d have thought he’d shoot himself, what?”

I was holding my breath again, not because I was thinking of the racers this time, but because something incredible had just dawned on me. Something so obvious and simple that I wanted to shout out loud. Freddie Partridge. I believe I had heard his last name before, but it had never really registered. I peered to my right, through the mist, trying to make out the shapes of the first trees in the orchard. And in my head I heard Sir Oswald saying clearly, “It was a pear tree.”

“Oh, golly,” I said out loud. Freddie had been the first of the deaths and he was the Partridge in a pear tree.