The Twelve Clues of Christmas (4 page)

“Language, Oswald. We have a visitor.”

He broke off as he saw me sitting there. “Oh, hello. Who’s this?”

“Georgiana Rannoch, y’know, sister to the duke.”

“Are you, by George? What on earth are you doing here?”

“She’s graciously agreed to join our little house party,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, giving me a warning frown that I failed to understand.

“So you’ve been invited to join this bun fight, have you? Idiotic idea, if you ask me. No good can come of it.”

“I’m sure Lady Georgiana will enjoy herself like everyone else and we’ll all have a splendid time,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied with great vehemence, all the time glaring at her husband.

He stuck his hand into his pocket and produced his pipe. “Can’t think why. Dull as ditch water down here,” he said, going over to the mantelpiece to find a match. “I’d have thought you’d be hobnobbing with your royal kin at Sandringham.”

“I wasn’t invited,” I said. “And anyway I’m sure it will be loads of fun here.”

“Well, we’ve got our share of excitement, as it turns out. You heard the ghastly news, I suppose.”

“I told her about the escaped convicts and about the man managing to kill himself in our apple tree.”

“It was a pear tree, as it happens,” Sir Oswald said, “but it makes no difference. The local bobbies were full of bright ideas. Suggested he might have come into our orchard to poach pheasants. Utter rubbish, I told them. You don’t shoot pheasants from trees. They are ground birds. Idiots, the lot of them. And you don’t shoot pheasants with a rook rifle either. No, it’s quite obvious to me that he was rigging up some kind of stupid trap. He had the wire with him. Then his weight broke a branch, he slipped and the gun went off in his face. Nasty way to go, but the blighter had it coming.”

He looked down at himself. “God, I look a sight, don’t I? Been out with the damned police all day. Dinner at the normal hour then?”

“If the servants have managed to cook it and set the table while being cross-questioned by police all day,” Lady H-G said.

“I’d better go and change.“

Lady Hawse-Gorzley got to her feet. “And I should give Georgiana a tour of the house and show her where she will be sleeping so that she has time to freshen up and change for dinner. Come along, my dear. This way.”

She led me on a whirlwind tour—lovely old dining room with a polished table running the length of it, library, morning room, music room and at the back even a ballroom with the air about it of being long out of use. Lady Hawse-Gorzley chatted incessantly like one who hasn’t had company for a long time, which made me wonder why she had suddenly decided to have a large house party this Christmas.

“So how many guests are you expecting?” I asked when she paused momentarily for breath. “You said a large party.”

“Let me see.” She stared out across the expanse of the ballroom as if trying to picture people in it. “Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone. Charming couple, just back from India, you know. Looking forward to a good old-fashioned English Christmas again. Then there are Mr. and Mrs. Upthorpe from Yorkshire, with their daughter, Ethel. He owns some kind of large factory up there. Trade, I know, but delightful people nonetheless.”

She paused to take a breath. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Wexler from America with their daughter. Most looking forward to some lively transatlantic conversation, I can tell you. And then there is someone I’m sure you already know. The dowager countess Albury and her companion. Do you know her? No? I’m surprised. She’s someone who has moved in the highest levels of society, but maybe not in your time.”

While she talked she ran her finger over a couple of marble statues, looking for dust, adjusted sprigs of holly in vases and then led me out of the ballroom again, talking over her shoulder. “And then a couple of local friends—Captain and Mrs. Sechrest. He’s a navy man. You’ll like them. And Johnnie Protheroe. You can’t have a party without Johnnie. Life and soul of any gathering. Most amusing. Let me see—that makes thirteen, doesn’t it?” She stopped her forward progress and turned back to me with a fleeting worried look. “Oh, dear. I’m glad I’m not superstitious or that would be unlucky, wouldn’t it? But then, I haven’t counted you and you can count as a guest, can’t you? So that would make fourteen. And the rest are family, brought in to boost the numbers.”

I wondered why she wanted to boost the numbers, since it was already going to be expensive to feed that many guests. Was there a requisite amount of guests needed at a house party? But she had already gone on ahead, out of the ballroom, down the hall and back to the stairs, while hurling out a commentary as she passed. “M’husband’s study and the land office on your right. And servants’ quarters through that door. Kitchen, laundry, all that kind of thing. Haven’t seen a servant in hours. Hope the police haven’t arrested them or scared them all off.”

Then she set off up the stairs at a lively clip.

“Where did your things go? I wonder. Did someone take them up for you?”

“I expect my maid was shown where to put them.”

She turned back. “I’m so glad you brought a maid with you. Of course you would. Of course. Well, she’ll be jolly useful. She can help the female guests with their attire. I don’t suppose they’ll all think of bringing maids with them. Of course they won’t. I don’t have a personal maid any longer. Had to let her go. It’s not as if I need help getting dressed and Martha handles the washing and cleaning admirably. So here we are.”

We had gone along a main corridor, lined with family portraits, hunting scenes, with old china vases adorning the deep windowsills. I saw that this must have been the original manor house and that wings had been added on either side to make an E shape. The walls were also oak paneled with all kinds of nooks and crannies. At the moment I observed this, Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, as if reading my mind, “Perfect place to play sardines, don’t you think? I’m hoping for some splendid game nights.”

She turned in to one of the side wings now and paused outside a door. “I’ve put you in here. Not quite as big as the main bedrooms but should be all right. We’re camping in this hallway ourselves for the duration. Given over our bedroom to guests, y’know.”

Then she flung open the door. I was expecting to see a spartan room like the ones we had at school. Instead it was a pretty room, little and old-fashioned with roses on the eiderdown, a matching dressing table skirt and curtains, a white wardrobe, a white chest of drawers and a fireplace waiting to be lit.

“It’s charming,” I said.

“Used to be my older daughter’s,” she said. “She’s married now. Lives on the Continent. Can’t drag her back to England for love or money. Will it do, do you think?”

“Absolutely. It’s lovely,” I said. “Much nicer than my room at home.”

“Is it, by George?” She looked pleased. “Oh, and I see your maid has unpacked your stuff. Dashed efficient girl, is she? French?”

“No, she’s English,” I said, not wanting to reveal Queenie’s normal lack of efficiency or that I’d probably find she’d hung up my stockings and shoved my ball dress into a drawer.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to dress for dinner,” she said. “We’re not usually that formal when it’s just family, but over Christmas we’ll be going the whole hog. Living up to the spirit of the thing, y’know. You’ll hear the first gong at quarter to eight for sherry.”

And with that she left me. It was only when I looked in the mirror that I realized I was still wearing my hat. I grinned to myself as I sat down. This was a good place. The house had obviously seen better times, that was clear. So had the Hawse-Gorzleys. Which made me wonder why they had chosen to embark upon such a lavish house party this year and who these guests were, coming from Yorkshire and India and even America to be part of it.

Chapter 6

G
ORZLEY
H
ALL,
T
IDDLETON-UNDER-
L
OVEY,
D
EVON

D
ECEMBER 21

Good dinner last night. I think I may have fallen on my feet here!

I awoke to find Queenie standing over me, with a tea tray in her hands.

“Morning, my lady,” she said. “I’ve brought your tea.”

I sat up, examining her closely to see if she had been bewitched overnight or whether someone else was actually impersonating her.

“Are you feeling quite well, Queenie?” I asked.

“Yeah. Never felt better,” she said. “I like it here, miss. Them servants don’t look down their noses at me. In fact, I’m the only lady’s maid what is in residence at the moment so the cook asked me if I’d prefer to have my meals brought to my room or I’d like to eat with the rest of them. How about that, eh?”

“And what did you say?” I took a sip of deliciously strong hot tea.

“I said I wasn’t too proud to sit down with the rest of them. And she said good, ’cause they were going to be run off their feet with this house party.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley has asked that you assist the other ladies who will be coming,” I said. “You can do that, can’t you? I do hope you won’t let me down and do anything too dreadful.”

“Oh, no, miss. I’ll be real careful, I promise. I won’t set anyone on fire or nothing. I’ll stay away from candles.” (This because she had set her former employer on fire with a wayward candle.)

“I am glad to hear that, Queenie. I’ll be wearing my Rannoch tartan skirt and my green jumper today.”

“Bob’s yer uncle, miss. It’s going to be a lovely day.”

I got out of bed and went over to the window, to find that my room faced the orchard where the body had been found. What a strange thing to have happened. I stared down at the bare trees, wondering which one he had been climbing and what exactly he’d intended to do. They weren’t very big trees. Had he really been intending to aim the rifle at one of these windows—at this one, maybe? I shivered and turned away. Well, I wasn’t going to let the accidental death of a man I didn’t know spoil my Christmas.

I came downstairs to find the front hall taken up by the most enormous Christmas tree, which four men were attempting to raise into place while being bossed around by Lady Hawse-Gorzley.

“Morning. Slept well?” she barked up at me. “Splendid. Breakfast in the dining room. Can’t stop now or they’ll smash the chandelier.”

I went through into the dining room to find places set at one end of the long table and a good smell coming from a number of silver tureens on the sideboard. I was just filling my plate with kidneys and bacon and wondering if it would be greedy to add some kedgeree to the mix when a girl came into the room. She was wearing riding breeches and a hacking jacket and her face was glowing as if she’d just come from the cold air.

“Hello,” she said, looking at me curiously. “Who are you?”

“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said, wishing that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had let a few more people know I was coming so that I didn’t have to keep on explaining myself.

“Oh, you’re the famous Lady Georgiana, are you? Mother’s done nothing but talk about you. She’s frightfully excited. You count as a coup.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes, I mean it’s close to claiming you have royalty at your party, isn’t it?” Her face lit up. “I say, isn’t your mother Claire Daniels? Used to be a famous actress? Well, the village is buzzing with the rumor that she’s come down here for Christmas. Is that true?”

“I gather it is,” I said. “But nobody’s supposed to know. She’s working on a new play with Noel Coward.”

“Noel Coward? I say. How frightfully exciting. That livens up our dull little corner of the world a bit, doesn’t it? Is that why you agreed to take up Mother’s little offer?”

“Partly,” I said. “And partly because I wanted to escape from an even duller place than this.”

“Can there be anywhere duller?” She laughed. “I’m Hortense, by the way. The daughter of the house. Sorry I wasn’t here last night. I was staying with friends in Exeter.”

Hortense Hawse-Gorzley, I thought. What on earth made people choose such names for their poor children? She must have read my thoughts because she grimaced. “I know. Dreadful name, isn’t it? But I’m usually called Bunty. Don’t ask me why. No idea.”

“And I’m Georgie,” I said.

“Jolly good. I was dreading we’d have to go through the title and formality stuff. I hate that, don’t you? I suppose it’s because I don’t have one. Complete envy.”

I laughed. “You wouldn’t find my current situation very enviable.”

“Really? I should have thought you’d have a frightfully glamorous life—balls and parties and chaps lining up to marry you.”

“Hardly lining up. There have been a few, but they were all half imbecile and utterly awful. I wouldn’t have turned down a halfway decent offer.” I noticed her gear. “Have you just been out riding?”

“Yes, I have. Splendid morning for it. Do you ride? Stupid question; of course you do. You’ve probably got stables full of oodles of horses.”

“Not oodles, but I do have a horse at home.”

“Better than the ones we have here, I’m sure. We used to have splendid horses, but of course that’s all past now. I gather the family used to be quite rich once. Tin mines in nearby Cornwall. But they closed and Daddy invested the last of the money in America. Right before the crash of ’29, as it happened. So we’ve been in reduced circumstances ever since. But I shouldn’t be talking about it. Mummy doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Your family eats a good deal better than mine does,” I said, sitting down with my heaped plate.

“Ah, well, we have the home farm. We live on what we can grow and raise most of the year. And Daddy is building up a breeding herd of Jersey cows. Lovely clotted cream, as you’ll soon find out.”

She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “If you like I’ll show you around the village after breakfast.”

“I think I’m supposed to be helping your mother,” I said. “Doesn’t she have masses to do before the first guests arrive?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to actually do anything.” She grinned. “You’re just supposed to be yourself. Lend authenticity to the whole charade.”

“Charade?”

She lowered her voice and whispered, “They’re all paying guests, my dear. Only don’t for God’s sake let her know that I told you. It’s Mummy’s brilliant idea to make some money. Ye Olde English Christmas with ye olde aristocratic family. Apparently some people are prepared to pay a lot for that.”

So now it made sense—the diverse guest list and Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s flustered preparation for them. And that was why she wanted a young woman of impeccable social background.

“It should be rather fun, actually,” Hortense, or rather Bunty, went on. “Better than the usual dreary Christmases we’ve been having lately. My brother’s arriving tomorrow and bringing an Oxford chum and Mummy’s invited a cousin who is absolutely dreamy and we’ve been promised a costume ball as well as all the usual village festivities, which are rather amusing in their way.” She paused and a worried look came over her face. “Oh, Lord. I hope they won’t cancel the village things because of what happened to poor old Freddie. You heard, did you, that our neighbor Freddie Partridge shot himself on our land yesterday? I quite liked him, you know. At least he wasn’t boring like most people around here. And he played some jolly good tricks on people. I loved it when he bunged up the pipes of the church organ with dead rooks and the organist pumped harder and harder and suddenly they all came flying out all over the congregation. Mr. Barclay, the pompous little chap who plays the organ, was furious. But then, it’s very easy to upset Mr. Barclay. He takes himself far too seriously.”

While she talked she had managed to consume large amounts of food. She got up to refill her coffee cup. “I think my father really wanted me to marry Freddie, so that he could get his hands on all that extra land. Now I’m not sure who will inherit it. I don’t think he had any close relatives.”

At that moment Lady Hawse-Gorzley came in, pushing back her hair from her face. “Oh, there you are. You girls have met, I see. Splendid.”

“Is there something you’d like me to help you with, Lady Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.

“We could use more holly and some mistletoe too, if you girls would like to take a basket down to the churchyard. I want the whole place decorated with greenery—festive atmosphere in every room, y’know. Oswald has gone out looking for the Yule log.”

“Yule log?” Bunty laughed. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”

“Nonsense. It’s part of the traditions of Christmas. We’ll go out with the guests on Christmas Eve and have one of the horses drag in the Yule log. If only it snows we can put it on a sledge and drink hot toddies and sing carols as we bring it home.”

Bunty shot me a look. “While the happy peasants dance in the snow and tip their forelocks, I suppose.”

“Don’t be facetious, Bunty. I’m counting on you to get into the spirit of the thing. So off you go and bring back as much holly and ivy as you can carry. And you might see if the vicar could spare us some more candles. We’ll need an awful lot, especially to light the ballroom for the costume ball.”

“We do have electric light, Mummy.”

“Yes, dear, but candles are so much more atmospheric, aren’t they? A masked ball by candlelight. Think of it.” And she looked quite wistful.

“Come on, then, Georgie,” Bunty said. “I’ll find some shears and off we go.”

“And could you possibly stop at Dickson’s cottage and tell him I’d like to go through things with him later this morning, if he doesn’t mind?”

Bunty turned to me. “Dickson’s our former butler. He grew so ancient that he had to be put out to pasture, but we dust him off for formal occasions. He’s an old dear, actually. Almost like one of the family.”

I put on my coat, hat, and gloves and we set off down the driveway. We stopped first at the gate cottage, where we were shown into a spotless little room and Bunty gave her message to the former butler. He looked extremely elderly and frail, but was dressed formally with stiff collar and black jacket, as if ready to spring back into action again. When she introduced me he gave a correct little bow.

“What an honor, my lady, that you would choose to grace our little corner of England. And how is the health of their dear majesties?”

“I haven’t seen them since Balmoral but they were well then, thank you.”

He sighed with relief. “One does worry so much about His Majesty’s chest,” he said. “Given the current behavior of the Prince of Wales. Tell me, have you actually met the American woman?”

“Yes, I have,” I said. “Many times.”

“And is she . . .” He paused, searching for the right words.

“As dreadful as they make out?” I smiled at his embarrassed face. “Oh, yes. Quite as dreadful.”

“I feared as much. The boy was always weak. Still, one hopes that he will buck up and do the right thing when the time comes.”

Privately I didn’t share his optimism, but I nodded and smiled and we took our leave. As we came out of the gates and into the village we noticed several groups of villagers, standing in tight knots, talking animatedly. A cluster of men outside the pub glanced furtively in our direction, then went back to their chatter. There was something unnerving about this, a tension in the air as if something was being plotted. Bunty didn’t seem to notice there was anything odd in their behavior.

“So here’s the sum total of Tiddleton-under-Lovey,” she said. “One pub, two shops, one school, one church on the green and a few cottages.”

“What about that nicer house beside the school?” I asked. “Is that where the schoolmaster lives?”

“Oh, no, he has a cottage on the Widecombe road. That house belongs to the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Three elderly sisters who have lived there all their lives. Their father left them quite well off and they never married. We used to call them the Three Weird Sisters and spy on them when we were growing up. You’ll meet them over Christmas, I’m sure. Mummy always invites them to Christmas lunch.”

“And what about the pub?” I asked, looking at the sign swinging in the chill morning breeze. “The Hag and Hounds? What’s that about?”

“Local history.” Bunty grinned. “We had a local witch, you know. Back in the 1700s. They wanted to catch her and bring her to trial, but she escaped onto the moor. They chased her to the top of Lovey Tor with a pack of hounds and then burned her at the stake. We have a festival to celebrate it every New Year’s Eve. You’ll be able to see just how primitive we are down here in Devon. This way.”

And she turned from the street to the path around the village green, then stepped through the kissing gate into the churchyard. Rooks rose cawing and flapping.

“Damned nuisance,” she said. “They peck out the eyes of newborn lambs, you know. So let’s see where there might be any good holly left.”

As we made our way between ancient gravestones the church door opened and a woman came out. She had spinster written all over her, the sort of woman one always sees coming out of churches and doing good works. She wore an old fur coat that might have been “good” once and a shapeless hat and those strange lace-up shoes that old women seem to favor. And she came toward us, head down against the wind, holding her hat on with one hand.