The Twelve Clues of Christmas (3 page)

My mother laughed that wonderful bell-like laugh that had enthralled theatergoers for years. “You’re becoming as devious as I am, darling. All right. I’ll do it. And by the way, guess who I saw going into the Café Royal this evening? None other than the delicious Darcy.”

“Darcy? But I thought he was in Argentina.”

“Not any longer, obviously. I’m sure it was he. Nobody else has those roguish black curls—so very sexy.”

I wanted to ask if he was alone, but I couldn’t make myself. “Then I expect I’ll be hearing from him in due course,” I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned, “although he won’t come up to Scotland, I’m sure. Fig is so jolly rude to him.”

“Then escape to London and meet him in a hotel, darling. You’d have a blissful time.”

“Mummy, you’re not supposed to suggest things like that to your unmarried daughter. Besides, think what the royals would say if they got word of it.”

“Oh, bugger the royals,” Mummy said. “It’s time you stopped trying to please other people and started living for yourself. I always have.”

* * *

I
T WAS ONLY
when I climbed into bed and curled into a tight ball in an attempt to bring back life to my frozen feet that I realized what I had done. I had condemned myself to spending Christmas with Fig and her family.

Chapter 4

S
TILL
C
ASTLE
R
ANNOCH

D
ECEMBER 15

Stopped snowing, at least for a while.

I was awoken in the morning by loud bumping noises and muttered curses. Queenie appeared and instead of bringing in my morning tea she was dragging my trunk.

“Here you are, miss,” she said. “Your trunk like you wanted. I hope I got the right one. It does have your name on it.”

I sat up, my breath coming out as steam in the freezing cold of the room. “Yes, it’s the right one, Queenie, but I’m afraid I won’t be going anywhere after all.”

“Ruddy ’ell, miss. You mean I got to take it back up all them stairs again?” she demanded.

“Just leave it for now and go and get my tea,” I said. “I’ll feel better when I have something warm in my stomach.”

“You should see what’s going on downstairs, miss,” she said, pausing to look back from the doorway. “Apparently them people what we stayed with in France are coming to stay. You know, the stingy ones what only had one piece of cheese and crackers for their dinner?”

“It was lunch, Queenie,” I corrected. “Remember I told you that people of my class eat luncheon in the middle of the day and dinner at night.”

“Well, whatever it was, there weren’t enough food to feed a ruddy hamster,” she said bluntly. “I expect they’re coming here for Christmas so they can eat your brother’s food instead of their own.”

“That’s not for you to comment on,” I said. “You must watch what you say. If my sister-in-law ever heard you, I really would be forced to sack you. You realize that.”

“Sorry, miss. My dad always said my big mouth would get me in trouble, if something else didn’t first.”

“So the servants are getting their rooms ready, are they?” I asked. “That must mean they are arriving very soon.”

“It’s a pity you aren’t going away after all,” Queenie said. “I don’t see a very happy Christmas shaping for us.” With that she made a grand exit.

I got up and went over to the window. The world was covered in a blanket of white, apart from the black water of the loch, which lay mirror-still reflecting the crag and the pine trees. For once the scene looked almost like an Alpine picture postcard and I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of the fun I’d have building snowmen and going sledding with little Podge, my nephew. He was almost five years old now and splendid company.

When I came down to breakfast, however, I learned that Podge had developed a cold and was not to be allowed out in the snow. “But you can take Maude out tobogganing when she comes,” Fig added, as if that were an incentive. Maude probably wouldn’t want to do normal things like tobogganing, I thought. I’d never met a drearier child. Nor a worse know-it-all. I looked up as Hamilton came in with the morning post on a salver.

“Anything for me, Hamilton?” I asked hopefully. If Darcy was back in London, surely he would have written. . . .

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Only a letter for His Grace and some magazines.”

Magazines were better than nothing, I supposed. I took
Country Life
and
The Lady
and went to curl up in an armchair by the fire in the morning room, which was the only room in the house that became passably warm. I flicked through the pages, trying not to feel anxious and depressed. Every page seemed to show pictures of jolly Christmas house parties, hints on how to decorate with holly and mistletoe, amusing cocktails for New Year’s bashes. . . . I put down
Country Life
and thumbed idly through
The Lady
. I was about to put it down when some words leaped off the page at me:
Tiddleton-under-Lovey
.

It was an entry in the advertisements column.
Wanted: young woman of impeccable background to assist hostess with the social duties of large Christmas house party. Applications to Lady Hawse-Gorzley, Gorzley Hall, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, Devonshire.

I stared at it as if mesmerized. What an astounding coincidence. Here was a place I had never heard of before and now it had come up for the second time in two days. That ought to be a sign from heaven, surely. As if I were destined to go there. My breath was coming in rapid gulps. I could escape from Fig and be paid for it. It really did seem too good to be true, an answer to a prayer. I was about to rush to the writing desk and send in my application when I felt a warning siren going off in my head. Maybe it
was
too good to be true. I had come up with brilliant ways to make money before and they had all turned into disasters. I couldn’t face a repetition of the escort service fiasco, and I had never heard of Lady Hawse-Gorzley.

I went back into the breakfast room, where Fig and her mother were working their way through the
Tatler
, making catty remarks about the society pictures.

“Does either of you know anyone called Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.

They looked up, frowning. “Name sounds familiar,” Fig said.

“Sir Oswald, I believe,” Lady Wormwood said. “Only a baronet. West Country people, aren’t they? Why, what have they done?”

“Nothing. I read the name in
The Lady
and I’d never heard of them. Just curious, that’s all. Interesting name, don’t you think?” I wandered out of the room again, trying not to let my excitement show. They were legit. Lady Wormwood had heard of them. West Country people. Now I just hoped that I wasn’t too late. Heaven knew how long our copy of
The Lady
had taken to reach us up in the wilds of Scotland. There were probably hundreds of applications from suitable young women winging their way to Gorzley Hall at this very moment. I decided I needed to act fast. I was about to make a dash to the telephone when I decided that wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all. It might fluster and embarrass her. The correct method would be to write to her on Castle Rannoch writing paper, crest and all, but it would be too slow. Drat and bother. Suddenly I brightened up. I could send her a telegram. I’d learned about the effectiveness of telegrams when I was in France, and all the best people sent them.

“I’m going into the village,” I said, popping my head around the breakfast room door. “Does anyone want anything?”

Fig peered at me over the
Tatler
. “How do you propose going to the village in this weather? You’re certainly not taking the motor and I don’t want MacTavish to have to drive you.”

“I suppose I could ride,” I said.

“I thought you said it would be criminal to take your horse out in this weather,” Lady Wormwood said with the smirk of someone who is scoring a point.

“I could walk if necessary. It’s only two miles.”

“Through snowdrifts? Dear me, it must be urgent.”

“It’s probably a letter to that Darcy person,” Fig commented. “Am I right?”

“Not at all,” I said. “If I can’t have the car I’d better start walking.”

“Dashed slippery out there. Who is going out walking?” Binky asked, appearing in the doorway.

“I am,” I said. “I have to go to the village and I’ve no other way of getting there.”

“I’m going in myself later,” Binky said. “If you don’t mind sticking around a bit, you can ride in with me.”

Fig glared at him as if he had let the side down by actually wanting to help me, but it was his car, after all.

“Thank you, Binky.” I beamed at him. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

I went upstairs and worked at composing my telegram. Would it make me seem too eager and pushy? I wondered. But then other girls in more southerly climes would have had a couple of days’ head start on me, and Christmas was rapidly approaching. I had to take the risk. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled again and ended up with:

COPY OF THE LADY JUST REACHED ME. HOPE I’M NOT TOO LATE TO APPLY FOR POSITION. SENDING MY PARTICULARS BY POST. GEORGIANA RANNOCH.

Of course anyone who sends telegrams on a regular basis would know that this amount of verbiage would cost me a fortune. I blanched when Mrs. McDonald at the post office-cum-general store told me the amount, but Binky was hovering and my pride would not let me take it back for rewriting. Besides, I didn’t actually know what I could have left out. So I handed over the money, hoping that it would result in a paid position shortly. I realized there had been no mention of money in the advertisement. Perhaps the only recompense was to be the joys of a big house party. Ah, well, no matter. Anything would be better than a house full of Fig’s relatives.

I waited all that day and all the next, sinking further and further into gloom. I was too late. Some other young woman of impeccable background would be enjoying the delights of that big house party while I ate baked beans on toast and dodged Foggy’s grabbing hands. Then the next morning a miracle happened. Hamilton appeared with the post while we were at breakfast.

Fig took it. “Oh, something for you, Georgiana,” she said. “Who do you know in Devon?”

I snatched the letter and went out of the room to read it. “It will be a rejection,” I kept muttering as I opened the envelope. Instead I read:

My dear Lady Georgiana:

I was overwhelmed to receive your telegram. I had no idea that someone of your rank and status would ever consider gracing our small house party in the Devon countryside. We would be more than honored for you to join us. As mentioned in my advertisement, your duties would only be those of a young hostess, making sure that the younger guests have a good time. Could you be here by the twentieth and stay until after the New Year?

I hardly like to discuss remuneration, but of course we will cover your traveling expenses as well as the fee for your services. I think you’ll find us a jolly crowd and we’ll have a really gay Christmas.

Yours sincerely,

Camilla Hawse-Gorzley

I bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

“Queenie, I need my trunk again. We’re going away!” I shouted.

“Cor blimey, miss,” she muttered. “Now I suppose you want me to go back up all them stairs and get the ruddy trunk out of the attic again.”

Chapter 5

O
N MY WAY TO
T
IDDLETON-UNDER-
L
OVEY

D
ECEMBER 20

I’m delighted to say that Fig was seriously miffed when I told her I had been invited to a house party for Christmas.

“But you don’t know anybody in Devon,” she said.

“I know all sorts of people,” I said. “I just don’t mention them to you.”

“Well, if that doesn’t take the cake,” she snapped. “And Maude was so looking forward to seeing you again, and having more French lessons too.”

I smiled sweetly. “I expect you’ll all survive without me. Do give my love to Foggy and Ducky.” Then I made a grand exit. I can’t tell you how good it felt.

* * *

I
ALSO CAN’T
tell you how excited I was when I got my first glimpse of Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Queenie and I had traveled on the night express to King’s Cross and then across London in a taxi to Paddington. I glanced out the taxi window as we inched our way through the London fog, wondering if Darcy was still somewhere close by and I had no way of contacting him. I had actually received a postcard on the day I left Scotland. It said,
I gather you’re celebrating Christmas with the family. I’ve also been roped in for a family do. But I hope to see you in the new year. Happy Christmas. Love, D.
It was so frustrating. He wrote
Love, D,
but did he mean it? And why hadn’t he telephoned me if he was back in Britain? Some of the time I felt hopeful about a future with him and then chance remarks like my mother’s dashed those hopes. If you loved somebody, didn’t you want to be with her? At least to telephone her to hear her voice? I tried to face the fact that Darcy really was not good husband material, even if I were allowed to marry him. He was one of those men who could not be tamed or made to want to settle down.

I was glad to board the Great Western Railway at Paddington Station and leave the depressing cold and grime of London behind. We had to change trains in Exeter and then take a branch line. The little train huffed and puffed its way beside a lively stream with snow-dusted hills on one side until it reached the small market town of Newton Abbott. The Hawse-Gorzley chauffeur was waiting with a splendid, if rather old, Bentley. As we set off through the country lanes the sun was sinking in a red ball behind the hills. Rooks were cawing as they flew home to their trees. On a great sweep of upland moor I saw a line of Dartmoor ponies silhouetted against the sunset.

We came around a bend and there it was, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, nestled under a snowcapped tor. Was that rocky crag the Lovey? I wondered. It didn’t look very loving to me. Or was it perhaps the noisy little stream that passed under the humpback bridge as we approached the first houses? On one side of the village street was a small row of shops and a pub called the Hag and Hounds—complete with a swinging pub sign depicting a witch on a broomstick with baying dogs below her. On the other side was a pond, on which glided several graceful swans, and a village green. Behind this were some thatched cottages and the square tower of a church. Smoke curled up from chimneys and hung in the cold air. A farmer passed, riding a huge cart horse, the clip-clop of its hooves echoing crisply in the evening air.

“Stone me, miss, it looks just like a ruddy picture postcard, don’t it?” Queenie said, summing up my thoughts.

I wondered which of the cottages was to be occupied by my mother and Noel Coward. I wondered if my grandfather had consented to come and my heart leaped with hope. Christmas at an elegant house party and my loved ones nearby. What more could I want? Darkness fell abruptly as we drove between a pair of tall gateposts, topped with stone lions, and up a gravel drive. Lights shone out of a solid, unadorned, gray stone house, its severe façade half covered in ivy. This then was Gorzley Hall. It didn’t exactly look like the site of an elegant house party—more Bennet residence than Pemberley, but who was I to judge by appearances?

We drew up at the front entrance and the chauffeur came around to open the door for me.

“My maid will help you with the bags,” I said, indicating to Queenie that she should stay, even though she was looking apprehensive. Then I went up to the front door. It was a massive studded affair obviously designed to keep out past invaders. I rapped on the knocker and the door swung open. I waited for someone to come then stepped gingerly into a slate-floored hallway.

“Hello?” I called.

On one side a staircase ascended to a gallery and I spied a pair of legs in old flannel trousers up on a ladder. They belonged to a stocky chap with shaggy gray hair, wearing a fisherman’s jersey, and he was wrestling with a long garland of holly and ivy.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

He spun around in surprise and I saw that it wasn’t a man at all but a big-boned woman with cropped hair. “Who are you?” she demanded, peering down at me.

My arrival wasn’t exactly going as I had expected. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “If you could please go and tell Lady Hawse-Gorzley that I have arrived. She is expecting me.”

“I am Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she said. “Been so dashed busy that I completely forgot you were coming today. Come up and grab the other end of this, will you? Damned thing won’t stay put. It looked so simple in
Country Life
.”

I put down my train case and did as she requested. Together we secured the garland and she came down the ladder. “Sorry about that,” she said, wiping her hands on her old slacks. “I don’t want you to think we’re always this disorganized. Had a hell of a day here. Police tramping all over the place, not letting the servants get on with their work. That’s why we’re so behind. Must have the decorations up, y’know. First guests arriving day after tomorrow.”

She led the way back down the stairs, then stuck out a big hand. “Well, here’s a pretty first introduction to Gorzley Hall, what? Camilla Hawse-Gorzley. How do you do? Dashed good of you to muck in like this. Nearly had a fit when I saw my little advertisement answered by the daughter of a duke. You should have seen the other applications I got—their ideas of impeccable background and mine weren’t at all the same, I can tell you. Parents in trade, I shouldn’t wonder. So you were an answer to our prayers and here you are.”

She beamed at me, making me realize she wasn’t as old as I had first thought. “Well, don’t just stand there. Take off your coat. Come on through and have a sherry, then I’ll give you a quick tour of the house. Brought a maid with you, I expect?”

“Yes, I brought my maid.” I realized it was going to be hard to get a word in edgewise.

“Jolly good. If I can round up Martha, she can show the girl where you’re sleeping and take up your things.”

She rang a bell furiously. “Damned girl is probably entertaining the policemen in the kitchen. Got too much of an eye for the other sex, that one. Going to come a cropper, you mark my words.”

While she was talking she had led me through to a comfortable-looking drawing room with armchairs and sofas set around a blazing fire in a hearth almost the size of our one at home. Lead-paned bay windows looked out across an expanse of lawn. The walls were wood paneled and the ceiling had great beams running across it. What’s more, it was delightfully warm. Lady Hawse-Gorzley motioned me to sit in one of the armchairs then went over to a table in the corner and picked up a decanter. “Sherry all right for you? Or would you prefer something stronger? A brandy maybe, after your travels?”

“No, sherry would be lovely, thank you.”

“Always have one myself before dinner. I suppose the sun has to be over the yardarm, wouldn’t you say? What time is it, by the way? Damned grandfather clock has given up the ghost again. It’s been in the family since 1743, so I suppose one can allow it the odd temper tantrum, but dashed awkward time for it.”

“It’s about five thirty,” I said, consulting my wristwatch.

“Is it, by George? A little early for sherry, but in the circumstances, I suppose we can bend the rules, what?” She poured two generous glasses and handed me one. “God, how the time has flown today. I don’t know how we’re going to get everything ready for the guests in time. Those damned police tramping around all day.” She perched on the arm of a nearby chair and knocked back her sherry in one gulp. “Like another?” she asked, and looked surprised that I hadn’t yet started mine. “Come on. Drink up. Do you good.”

I knew that good breeding did not allow one to ask too many questions, but I was dying of curiosity. “Lady Hawse-Gorzley, you mentioned that the police had been here all day. What exactly have they been doing?”

“Tramping all over the place and upsetting my servants, that’s what. Damned impertinence. All because our stupid neighbor had to go and kill himself in our orchard. Of all the inconsiderate things to do, especially when he knew I had people coming. Still, that was par for the course with him. Didn’t care a hoot about anybody but himself.”

I tried to digest this while she knocked back a second sherry. “Your neighbor killed himself? Committed suicide, you mean?”

“I hardly think so. If you wanted to kill yourself you probably wouldn’t bother to climb a tree first, would you? Not unless you wanted to fall and break your neck, and our fruit trees aren’t that big. No, the police think it was an accident. Carrying a loaded rook rifle with him, somehow slipped or knocked the gun and it went off in his face.”

“Had he come onto your property to shoot rooks then, do you think?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. The big elm by the church is where the rooks go to roost for the night. He could have stood in the churchyard, fired with his eyes closed and not been able to miss at dusk. No, my husband agrees with me—it was probably designed to be another of his practical jokes. Going to rig up the rifle so that it went off when someone walked past, or maybe aiming it to shoot at one of our windows—that’s what the inspector suggested.”

“He was aiming to kill one of you?”

“No, just give us a nasty scare. That was young Freddie’s stock in trade. M’husband reckons that he wanted to pay us back because Oswald found him shooting grouse on the moor the other day. I mean to say—everyone knows the grouse shooting season ends on the tenth of December. And there he was, bold as brass on the eighteenth. Gave him a damned good talking-to. Obviously he didn’t like that and decided to get back at us.”

She took another swig of sherry. “Inherited the property behind ours from his father a few years ago. Still hadn’t married and amused himself by being absolutely bloody to his neighbors. In his thirties but still acted like a ten-year-old boy.” She paused and sighed. “Still, I wouldn’t have wished an end like that for the poor chap. He might have turned out all right if he’d married and had to settle down.”

She broke off at the sound of footsteps outside and several blue uniforms passed the window.

“Ah, they are finally off home,” she said. “I told them they were wasting their time looking for clues on my property. Quite clear the fellow shot himself while trying to rig up some kind of trap. Had the wire with him. Fool. Well, let’s hope that’s the end of it. The last thing I want is to have my guests greeted by policemen all over the place. I was worried they’d all cancel when they read about the breakout last week.”

“Breakout?”

She looked up in surprise. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about it! I thought it was in all the newspapers. There have certainly been enough pressmen hanging around here.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. It takes a long time for news to reach us in the wilds of Scotland.”

She leaned closer. “Three convicts escaped from Dartmoor Prison, only a few days ago. Supposed to be model prisoners and they were part of a gang working in the quarry. It was all very well planned. They lingered behind on some pretext, hit the guard over the head with a rock and made off over the moor. They were shackled, of course, but apparently one of them made his living as an escape artist. Two of them were entertainers of some sort, but they were all nasty pieces of work. History of violent crimes.”

“And they haven’t caught them yet?” I glanced up nervously at the window. It was now completely black outside with no lights showing anywhere.

“Not seen hide nor hair of them. We’ve had men with dogs up on the moor, police checkpoints along all the roads, and not a sign of them. We think they must have had a vehicle waiting on the nearest road and were whisked away before anyone could sound the alarm. Which means they are well away from here, thank God.” She stood up. “I tell you, it’s been a hell of a business. Quite upset m’husband. He’s a quiet man, is Sir Oswald, doesn’t say much. But I could tell it upset him, especially as he was the one who found the blighter slumped in our apple tree today.”

As if on cue I heard the sound of boots in the hall and a big, florid man came in. He had a face like a British bulldog, all jowls and sad eyes. And he was wearing an old tweed jacket that made him look more like a tramp than a lord of the manor. “Well, they’re finally off, then,” he said. “What a bloody business. What did the blighter think he was doing? If he hadn’t shot himself I’d have wrung his bloody neck.”