The Twelve Clues of Christmas (6 page)

Chapter 8

One of the policemen headed straight for us. He was wearing a fawn raincoat and a matching fawn hat and had a droopy fawn mustache. If he’d had the words “detective inspector” tattooed to his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” he said, raising his trilby to reveal thinning fawn hair, neatly parted down the middle.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”

“I suppose you’ve heard this latest news. Two deaths in two days. And just when I thought I’d be getting time off to do some Christmas shopping with the wife, too.”

“But they were both accidents, surely,” Bunty said.

“Let’s hope so, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, let’s hope so,” he said. “But I have to wonder about Ted Grover. Not usually the type who goes stumbling around drunk, would you say? Holds his liquor pretty well, so I’ve been told. Which makes me ask myself whether one of them convicts might still be hiding out in the neighborhood and encountered Ted last night.”

“If I were those convicts I’d have headed for Plymouth as quickly as possible and boarded a ferry for France,” Bunty said.

“You would, no doubt, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, but then you’re a young woman of the world. Those criminal types would be lost on the Continent, not knowing how to parley-vous and all that. They’d stick out like sore thumbs and be caught instantly. If you want to know what I suspect, I suspect that they haven’t strayed too far. What’s more, I suspect that someone around these parts is hiding them.” He looked at my grandfather. “Now, take the folks who are renting this cottage, for instance. Moved in just around the time of the breakout, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but one of them is Claire Daniels and the other Noel Coward,” I said. “They’re supposed to be in seclusion, writing a new play together, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be harboring escaped convicts.”

“And how about you, sir?” the inspector asked. “Are you one of their servants?”

“I am Claire Daniels’s father, Albert Spinks,” Granddad replied stiffly, “and what’s more I was on the force for thirty years with the Metropolitan Police.”

The inspector took a step back, then stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Inspector Harry Newcombe. What a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ll be calling upon your expertise, if you don’t object. So you’ve been at the cottage these last few days. And I notice that the cottage garden looks directly onto the orchard where the man shot himself. So did you happen to hear a shot in the early hours of yesterday morning?”

Granddad shook his head. “No, I can’t say I did, but then, I sleep quite soundly. Have they ascertained the time of death?”

“No, I haven’t had the doctor’s report yet,” the inspector said, “seeing that he was off delivering a baby at Upper Croft Farm on the moor, but we reckon it had to be early yesterday morning. I can’t imagine that anyone would go tramping through an orchard and climbing trees in the dark, so that would make it seven thirty or later. And it had to be before Sir Oswald went on his morning rounds with his dogs.”

“I was up by seven,” Granddad said. “But maybe I was shaving or getting the fires started and a little rifle like that doesn’t make much noise.”

“It’s strange that nobody heard the shot, though,” the inspector said. He patted my grandfather heartily on the shoulder. “It’s going to be a boon to have someone like you on the spot here. You’d be in the position to notice any strange goings-on in this village, wouldn’t you? My men can’t be everywhere and there are so many little villages like this where the blighters could be hiding.”

“These convicts,” Granddad said thoughtfully. “I did read something about the breakout when I was coming down on the train, but I didn’t take in the details. Local men, are they, then?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Two of them were entertainers of sorts—an escape artist turned safecracker; we reckon he picked the locks on their shackles—then a bloke who used to have an act in the music hall and the third one was a bank clerk who’d been involved in a railway heist. We reckon he was the brains. Quiet little man on the surface but absolutely ruthless. Slit your throat as soon as look at you.”

Bunty shivered.

Granddad nodded. “But none of them with connections around here?”

“Well, the bank clerk had a sister in Plymouth. You can bet we’ve got a close eye on her place. And of course that big heist was on the Penzance-to-London express, but further up the line in Wiltshire. You no doubt remember it.”

Granddad nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The money was never recovered, was it?”

“It was not. So the Wiltshire police will be keeping their eyes open near the spot where it happened. And both the entertainers had spent a fair amount of time in the West Country—played summer shows on the piers in Torquay and Weston-super-Mare. What’s more, this music hall bloke, Robbins, he was inside for swindling his landladies out of their life savings. And we reckon that he bumped off a few, including the last one down here in Newton Abbott.”

“Why wasn’t he hanged for murder, then?” Bunty asked.

“Got off on a technicality. Couldn’t actually prove that he pushed her down the stairs, so it was reduced to manslaughter and he got twenty years. Nasty bit of work he was, too.”

“But he’d have no reason to linger in these parts, would he?” Granddad asked.

“I wouldn’t if I were him. He was a Londoner. And they’d be queuing up to turn him in around here.”

Granddad shook his head. “In my experience there’s not much that gets past the locals in a village like this. If someone were hiding here, they’d know it.”

Inspector Newcombe sighed. “I reckon you’re right. And I am probably reading too much into a couple of unfortunate accidents. I don’t see how the first could be anything other than suicide, and the second—well, there’s no sign of a struggle. And those convicts—well, they’d have bashed someone over the head, wouldn’t they?”

“Have you dusted the rifle for fingerprints?” I asked.

The inspector seemed to be aware of me for the first time. “Ah, we’ve an amateur detective here, have we, miss? Like to read those Agatha Christie books, I’ve no doubt. They’ve turned half the population into know-it-alls.”

“I have had some experience with murder,” I said. “And if I were you I’d have checked the rifle for prints and also I’d conduct an autopsy on the body. That way you can be sure nobody else was involved.”

Inspector Newcombe gave me a patronizing smile. “If I were planning to kill somebody, young lady, I’d wait until he came down from his tree. If he was up a tree with a rifle, I’d feel rather vulnerable as I approached him.”

This was, of course, a valid comment and I nodded.

“Are you also staying at the cottage, miss?” he asked.

“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch, the king’s cousin,” Bunty said grandly, “and she’s staying with us at the hall.”

“Well, I never,” Inspector Newcombe said. “No offense, I hope, my lady. Honored to make your acquaintance, but I suggest you go back to the hall and have a nice Christmas celebration and you leave the detective work to the police.”

* * *

“
O
BNOXIOUS LITTLE MAN,
isn’t he?” Bunty muttered as we retraced our steps to the hall. As we turned onto the village street the door of the general store opened and a strange-looking figure came out. He was so bulky that he almost filled the narrow door to the shop and he was dressed in bright motley clothing with a shapeless red hat on his head and a mop of unruly curls. He set off with a strange lumbering gait, like a giant in a children’s pantomime.

“Who on earth is that?” I turned to Bunty.

“Oh, that’s only Willum. He’s the village idiot. Every village has to have one, don’t they?” She laughed. “Actually, he’s the son of Mrs. Davey at the shop. He’s a bit simple, but quite harmless. Just wanders around, helping people for the odd coin occasionally. “Morning, Willum,” she called out.

He turned his innocent child’s face to us and touched his cap. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Did you hear the news? They are saying that Ted Grover from over Five Corners way fell into Lovey Brook last night. What were he doing walking across the fields in the dark, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Returning home from the Hag and Hounds,” Bunty said.

Willum frowned. “That’s what comes of drinking, don’t it? He should have been safely home with his mum like I am of an evening.”

“Quite right, Willum.” She chuckled. “Rather sweet, actually,” she added to me as we moved away. “Oh, and you’ll probably meet Sal at some stage. She’s our wild woman.”

“You’re making it up.” I laughed.

“I am not. We have our idiot and a wild woman to boot. Sal is one of those strange untamed creatures you find sometimes in the country. She lives up on the moor in a stone hovel, picks herbs, dances around barefoot in the moonlight. The locals swear she has magic powers—in fact, there is a rumor that she is a direct descendant of our witch. She’s tough, I’ll tell you that much. You’ll see her out in the foulest weather running around barefoot in a flimsy dress.” She glanced across at me. “Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t scared you off. Mummy says I mustn’t mention her or Willum or the unfortunate events to the guests or they’ll all want their money back.”

“I gather the first ones are arriving tomorrow,” I said.

“Yes, and Mummy’s not happy about it. She wanted everyone to arrive at the same time for the grand welcome, but the Americans insisted on coming a day early. Mr. Wexler cabled from the ship that they’d be arriving on the twenty-second to give them plenty of time to settle in, and that they were bringing their son as well, because he refused to be left behind.”

“Oh, dear, I hope they are not going to be difficult,” I said. “I’m afraid people with lots of money do seem to be rather arrogant.”

“Let’s hope that the presence of one who is related to the royal family will awe them into submission.” Bunty gave me a wicked grin. “Oh, Lord, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet Mr. Barclay now.”

A small man with hair neatly parted in the middle and a perfect little mustache was coming out of the church.

“Morning, Mr. Barclay,” Bunty called merrily.

“It is not a good morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Not at all. That dreadful Prendergast woman has absolutely no taste. You should see what ghastly things she wants to do with the decorations. And the vicar only wants the good old hymns. He shot down my version of ‘
In Dulci Jubilo
.’ Positively shot it down—after the choirboys have been practicing it, too. Oh, well, if he wants a boring midnight mass, he shall have one.”

And he swept away with small mincing steps before I could be introduced. Bunty and I exchanged a smile. “He’s always upset about something,” she said. “Always complaining to the parish council and seething with indignation.” We approached the gates leading to Gorzley Hall. “So now you’ve seen what a strange lot we are. Hopelessly inbred, all crackers.” And she laughed.

Chapter 9

G
ORZLEY
H
ALL

D
ECEMBER 21 AND THEN 22

As we were about to turn in to the drive an ancient motorcar drew up across the street and three birdlike old ladies were helped out by an equally ancient chauffeur.

“We’ve been shopping, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” one of them called excitedly. “Such fun. Almost forgot the crackers, and we were afraid that Hanleys would have sold out, but they hadn’t.”

“And your dear mother invited us again to join you for Christmas luncheon,” the second old lady called to us. “We look forward to it all year.” She turned for affirmation to her two companions, who were handing packages to the chauffeur. “And I hope you won’t forget to come caroling at our house. Cook has made enough mince pies to feed an army.”

With that they tottered like a line of ducklings into their house. I knew, of course, they could only be the Ffrench-Finch sisters.

“They are rather sweet, really,” Bunty said. “Never married. Lived here all their lives. How boring, don’t you agree? But they seem content enough. Of course, Effie, the oldest, bosses the other two around. They have a really good cook. Mummy’s tried to lure her away several times, but she won’t leave them.”

With that we continued up the drive toward the house. We spent a pleasant afternoon putting up holly and mistletoe. I thought that Bunty made a big fuss about the correct situation of the mistletoe sprig, as the only younger males were to be her brother and her cousin. I also made note of where it was so that I could avoid standing there. I really dislike being grabbed and kissed by aged colonels.

* * *

T
HE DECORATIONS WERE
complete, apart from the tree, which would be decorated by the guests on Christmas Eve. Then after a fairly simple dinner, by their standards, during which Lady Hawse-Gorzley got through rather a lot of wine, I went to bed early. I must have slept in rather late and I woke with a start to see Queenie looming over me.

“Morning tea, my lady,” she said. “Guess what? It’s been snowing all night. It looks lovely out there.”

I sat up and examined the scene with pleasure. The pine trees beyond the orchard and then on Lovey Tor made the scene look almost alpine. To the left smoke was curling up from the chimney of my mother’s cottage. “It does look lovely,” I agreed. “Perfect for Christmas.”

“Good food here, eh, miss?” she said, setting down the tray. “Will you be wearing your tartan skirt and the jumper again?”

“No, I think the gray jersey dress and my pearls. The Americans will expect me to look like royalty.”

“Yer gray dress and pearls?” Queenie said. “Won’t you be a bit cold in that?”

“No, the house is actually quite warm,” I said. “You can put them out while I go and have a bath. Let’s hope the bathroom is free at this hour.”

“I thought I might pop down and visit my auntie ’ettie after breakfast, if that’s all right with you,” she said, handing me my robe.

“Of course. She asked after you.”

Reluctantly leaving the warmth of my bed and taking a good swig of tea, I slipped on my robe. I had just assembled my sponge bag and towel and was halfway down the hall when I heard a violent hammering at the front door. I paused, looking down from the gallery with unabashed curiosity. Was this the first visitors arriving so early?

The aged butler went to the door and I heard a young woman’s voice, thick with the local accent, saying, “Oh, Mr. Dickson. Terrible news. It’s Miss Effie. We just found the gas turned on in her bedroom and Miss Effie stone dead. We don’t have a telephone in the house so Miss Florrie sent me to call the doctor—though what he can do, I can’t imagine. Stone dead, she were, God rest her poor soul.”

This outburst brought Lady Hawse-Gorzley through from the dining room. “What’s going on, Dickson? What’s this all about?”

“It’s the girl from the Misses Ffrench-Finch, my lady,” Dickson said, his voice wavering a little with emotion. “It seems that one of the ladies has been found dead in her bed, and this girl wishes us to telephone for the doctor.”

“How awful. I’m so sorry,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Come on in, my dear. What a shock for you. Which of the Misses Ffrench-Finch was it?”

“Miss Effie,” the girl said, swallowing back a sob that rose in her throat. “I don’t know what the other two are going to do without her. She was always the strong one, the one who bossed us all around.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley put an arm around her shoulder. “Well, she was no longer young, was she? I suppose it was her heart?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Like I were telling Mr. Dickson, we found the gas turned on for her gas fire, but no flame lit. She must have been breathing that gas all night.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley sprang into action. “Dickson, please telephone Dr. Wainwright and tell his receptionist he is wanted immediately at the Misses Ffrench-Finch. I had better come over right away, hadn’t I? I imagine there is chaos.”

“Well, ma’am, Miss Prendergast is already there. I expect she’d be comforting Miss Florrie and Miss Lizzie. She just happened to be passing on her usual morning walk, so she went straight inside and was her usual efficient self. But of course she doesn’t have a telephone neither, so that’s why she sent me here.”

I didn’t wait a second longer, but headed straight back to my room. Queenie hadn’t got around to laying out my clothes. “I thought you was taking a bath, miss,” she said when confronted. I didn’t have time for explanations and hurriedly put on the kilt and jumper I had worn the day before, then ran down the stairs and along the drive to catch up with Lady Hawse-Gorzley. The snow now lay several inches deep and I wished I had taken the time to put on sturdier shoes.

“You heard the ghastly news, I take it,” she said, hearing my footsteps behind her. “They must have made a mistake. The poor old thing probably died in her sleep from natural causes. It wouldn’t be like Miss Effie to forget to light the gas or to turn it on by mistake. She’s the efficient one of the three. She was the one who looked after the other two and kept them in line.” She sounded genuinely upset. “It’s not right,” she added. “Three deaths in three days. We’ll have people really start to believe in the Lovey Curse and then my guests will all want to go home.”

“I’ve always heard that bad things come in threes, haven’t you?” I said to her. “Three deaths in a row is not unprecedented, especially as they are all so very different. Perhaps we’ll find there was a malfunction with the gas fire. Perhaps the wind blew out a low flame. All kinds of simple explanations.”

She looked at me as if she had only just realized to whom she was speaking. “Lady Georgiana, I really can’t expect you to get involved in our local unpleasantness. Why don’t you go home and have breakfast? I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“I thought maybe I might be able to help,” I said.

“Well, all right. Won’t say no. Could use the company. Dashed awful, isn’t it?”

We were just crossing the road when I heard my name being called and saw my grandfather waving. “Just been out to get the morning papers,” he said, striding toward us. “Mrs. Huggins likes her
Daily Mirror
and Mr. Coward likes the
Times
and I like a morning walk. Lovely down here, ain’t it? Smashing, eh?”

“Yes, it’s lovely,” I said.

He picked up something in my manner. “Why, what’s the matter, love?”

“One of the old ladies who lives in this house has just died in suspicious circumstances. This is Lady Hawse-Gorzley. You met her daughter yesterday.” I turned to her. “This is my grandfather. He used to be in the Metropolitan Police. Perhaps it might be a good thing if he came with us.”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked worried. “Surely we’re only dealing with another ghastly accident, aren’t we? You yourself just said that deaths come in threes.”

“I said bad things come in threes,” I corrected. “And I hope we are just dealing with a ghastly accident. But it couldn’t hurt if my grandfather came with us to take a look.”

“But the ladies won’t be ready to receive gentlemen callers at this hour,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley exclaimed in horror. “They may still be in their night attire.”

Granddad laughed. “I’ve seen worse than night attire in my thirty years on the force,” he said. “Still, I won’t come in if I’m not wanted.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley relented. “It might be useful to have a trained professional eye on the scene. And I suppose the police will have to be called eventually.”

We went up the path to the front door. It was a solid, square Georgian house in local Devon sandstone and was of pleasing proportions. The type of house the old wool merchants built for themselves when wool meant prosperity. We found the front door still ajar. Lady Hawse-Gorzley pushed it open and we were met in the front hall by a frantic-looking housekeeper. Her apron was on askew and her hair an unsightly mess.

“Oh, it’s you, Lady Hawse-Gorzley. What a terrible thing to happen. Poor Miss Effie. We sent the girl to telephone for the doctor.”

“Dickson is helping her do so at this moment,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “This gentleman is a former detective from Scotland Yard. He may be able to throw some light on what happened.”

“Throw some light,” the woman said. “There was something wrong with that gas, that’s all. What else could there be?”

We went up a broad curved staircase and were met at the top by Miss Prendergast, who was trying to give an impression of being calm while clearly being considerably agitated.

“Thank God somebody else has come,” she said. “What a terrible business. I didn’t believe it when the maid ran out in hysterics. But I’m afraid it’s true. See for yourselves.”

She opened the door to a bedroom. The faint odor of gas still lingered, but the windows were wide open and an ice-cold breeze blew in. I glanced at the small white figure in the bed. She looked so tiny, so frail. I looked away hurriedly and rather wished I hadn’t come. What had made me think I could be of any use?

Granddad looked around. “I don’t know how she managed to kill herself in a big room like this with the windows open,” he said.

“Oh, no, I opened the windows,” Miss Prendergast said quickly. “Everyone here was in such a state, they hadn’t even thought to do so. So it was the first thing I did. I turned off the gas and opened the windows or we might all have suffered the same fate as Miss Effie. They were shut tightly. The smell in here was horrible. Poor woman. It had to have been a malfunction. Either that or one of the servants turned it on and forgot to light it properly. Of course, you’ll never get her to own up to it now.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley sniffed contemptuously. “That’s what comes of sleeping with the windows shut. Nasty, unhealthy habit. Good fresh air never hurt anyone.”

“Well, that’s the strange thing, ma’am,” the housekeeper said. “Miss Effie usually slept with her window open, and the door open too. Miss Florrie is prone to nightmares, so Miss Effie kept her door open in case her sister cried out in her sleep.”

“But they were both closed last night?” I asked.

She nodded. “They were indeed. I suppose it was snowing and she didn’t want the snow to come in. And maybe the wind blew the door shut.”

“Then maybe it was a gust of wind that blew out the fire,” I suggested.

“Yes, that would be it,” Miss Prendergast agreed. “Temperamental things, gas fires. I won’t have them in the house.”

Granddad was prowling the room, not touching anything, but checking. “This lady—she hadn’t given any signs of being depressed or worried lately, then?”

The housekeeper, who had been lurking close to the doorway, gave a little cry. “Suicide, is that what you’re suggesting, sir? Never. Not Miss Effie. She was the one who kept this place going. Had us all on our toes and took good care of her sisters. No, she’d never have left them in the lurch.”

“Did you have any visitors at all yesterday evening?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley asked.

The housekeeper shook her head firmly. “Oh, no, ma’am. The ladies never entertain in the evenings anymore. It’s an early dinner, then bed for all three of them. They might manage a little game of cards after dinner, but not for long.”

“I must have been one of the last visitors, then,” Miss Prendergast said. “I was here for tea and Mr. Barclay stopped by so of course he was asked to join us. Most awkward, since Mr. Barclay and I have not seen eye to eye on the decorations. Miss Effie was most tactful about it. Smoothed things over wonderfully. It was a knack of hers. Oh, and when we were leaving Willum arrived, didn’t he, Mrs. Bates?”

“That’s right. The ladies had asked him to come over and bring down the decorations from the attic for them. He brought them all down and then helped us bring in the Christmas tree. It’s all there in the drawing room. They never decorate it until Christmas Eve. It’s their tradition.”

“So after Willum nobody came?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley persisted.

“No, ma’am. I believe we locked the doors when Willum went.” She stopped talking at the sound of a car drawing up outside. “Oh, Lord,” she groaned. “It’s that policeman. He was here the other day. Nasty bullying way with him. Made our girls quite upset, scaring them with talk of convicts hiding out in the sheds.”