The Twelve Clues of Christmas (8 page)

After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.

“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”

“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”

“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”

They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”

“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.

“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”

“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.

“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed. “But I do hope the other guests won’t prove so . . . different.”

We went to bed. For some reason I couldn’t sleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the hoot of an owl in the stillness. Random thoughts flew around my head concerning the three mysterious deaths, escaped convicts, the village idiot, the wild girl and the assertion that they were “all crackers” around here. After a while I realized how still it was. The complete silence of the world indicated to me that it must still be snowing and I thought how jolly it would be to have a white Christmas. My dear ones were nearby. There was loads of lovely food and drink and a house that wasn’t freezing. And no Fig for miles and miles. I wasn’t going to let those three deaths, the escaped convicts or difficult Americans spoil it for me.

Chapter 11

G
ORZLEY
H
ALL

D
ECEMBER 23

Other guests arrive today. Hoping they won’t be as difficult as the Wexlers. Not sure I’m cut out for the role of social hostess!

I was awakened early the next morning by the Wexlers tramping down the corridor talking loudly. I didn’t wait for Queenie and morning tea, but went down the hall to the bathroom, then came back and dressed, this time in the skirt from my tweed suit plus a blouse and cardigan—not exactly smart but at least different from the day before. As I came downstairs the butler was standing in the entrance hall. “It’s still not working, my lady,” he called.

He heard my feet on the stairs and looked up at me, then continued. “The telephone line appears to be down. Maybe it snowed during the night, but there is certainly no connection this morning.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley came through from the breakfast room looking harassed. “It’s too bad,” she said. “Now I’ll have to send the motor into town to deliver the message, I suppose.”

“Is there something I could do?” I asked.

“Well, I suppose you could go to the police station and ask to use their telephone,” she said. “It is an emergency, after all.”

“Emergency?” I felt my pulse rate quicken.

“Yes, I need to let the butcher know that I changed my mind. I do want the geese to go with the turkeys. I’m not a big fan of goose myself—so rich and fatty, isn’t it? But Oswald reminded me that it is the traditional Christmas fowl, so I’m afraid we must serve some. The guests will be expecting it.”

“So you’d like me to put in a telephone call to the butcher?”

“Yes. Skaggs, the butcher. The girl on the switchboard will connect you. Tell him that Lady Hawse-Gorzley changed her mind and she does want the geese delivered early tomorrow morning to go with the turkeys.”

“I can certainly do that for you,” I said.

“Go and have your breakfast first, dear,” she said. “The Wexlers have already finished theirs. It appears they only take some kind of cereal that resembles twigs at home, and they absolutely refused to try the kidneys.” She shook her head as if they were already a lost cause. “There is no huge hurry, although I’m sure the butcher will be busy all day today. And we don’t exactly know when the other guests will arrive so I will be tied to the house all day. And the Wexlers asked about stockings. What exactly do people do with stockings at Christmas?”

“Hang them up for Father Christmas, I believe.”

“Hang them where?”

“Over the fireplace.”

“My dear, with this many people it would look like a Chinese laundry, wouldn’t it? No, I think we’ll dispense with stockings. I’ll have a present for everybody inside a snow house and those who want to can exchange gifts privately or put them under the tree.”

“Oh,” I said, staring at her as the thought struck me. “Are we supposed to give presents?”

“Not you, my dear. Absolutely not necessary.”

I nodded, my brain still racing. We didn’t go in for presents much at Castle Rannoch. I always gave my nephew, Podge, a little something. Binky and Fig occasionally managed a box of handkerchiefs or a pair of gloves. Mummy sent a check when she remembered, but Christmas was certainly a no-nonsense affair with us. This time I had actually brought a small gift for Queenie, but it occurred to me now that I should give my grandfather something too, and also my mother. The problem was that Lady Hawse-Gorzley hadn’t reimbursed me for my train fare yet and I was seriously lacking in funds. I didn’t think that my mother would be satisfied with Ashes of Roses perfume from Woolworths instead of Worth. I’d love to have given Granddad a really nice present—a cashmere scarf or a warm pullover. It felt so frustrating to have no money. For a second I wondered if I could ask Lady H-G for an advance, but my pride wouldn’t let me. At least I’d look in the village shop for small tokens and hope for a miracle.

I ate a hearty breakfast and set off for the village, crunching down the driveway, where the snow had frozen hard all night, and stood admiring the village scene—small boys with sleds, a snowman on the village green, villagers bundled against the cold staggering home with baskets laden with good things and mysteriously wrapped packages. Suddenly it was impossible not to be caught up in the spirit of Christmas.

At the police station I was met by a worried-looking young constable. “Sorry I can’t help you, miss,” he said, “but our telephone isn’t working either. I don’t know what can be wrong. It’s not as if there was a storm last night, was there? Maybe it’s the cold what’s done it.”

I looked around the village shop, but there was nothing that was remotely suitable for Christmas presents, the most exotic items being long woolen underwear and white handkerchiefs. But my spirits were raised when I realized that someone would now have to go into town to deliver Lady H-G’s message.

“Their telephone’s not working either?” she said, running a hand through her hair. “What a nuisance. There is always a last-minute hitch, isn’t there? I don’t suppose you’d be an angel and go into town for me, would you? I absolutely have to have those geese and I know he’ll sell out if I wait any longer.”

“Of course I’ll go into town for you,” I said, delighted that I would now get a chance to shop.

The car was summoned and I rode in solitary splendor into the little market town of Newton Abbott. If the village had depicted the rural Christmas scene, this was straight out of Dickens. Little shops with lead-paned bow windows, a cheery pub, children singing carols on every street corner and people staggering under loads of provisions and presents. I delivered my message to Mr. Skaggs, who looked pleased with himself.

“I told her ladyship, didn’t I?” he said in his thick Devon burr. “I said she’d be needing the geese as well. Right, my lovey, you tell her that I’ll be delivering them bright and early on Christmas morning. She don’t need to worry.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley tried to telephone you,” I said, “but it seems that the line is down or something. Even the police station telephone was not working.”

“Ah, well, they wouldn’t be, would they?” the butcher said, giving me a knowing look. “Fire last night at the exchange. Didn’t you folks hear about it? Terrible it were. Seems there was something wrong with the wiring and one of the poor telephone operators plugged in her headphones and she were electrocuted right away. Then the whole thing caught on fire. Took the fire brigade hours to put it out. Such a terrible shame so near to Christmas.”

“So the girl was killed?” I asked, swallowing back my rising fear.

He nodded. “Not exactly a girl anymore. Poor old Gladys Tripp. She’s been operator at the local exchange for years. Bit of a nosy parker if you ask me, always listening in on people’s calls, but a good enough soul. Didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“Did she live out toward Tiddleton-under-Lovey?” I asked.

“No, right here in town. Born and bred here. She and I went to primary school together.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I came out and walked down the high street, no longer noticing the lively Christmas-card scene. The fourth death. Again it could have been a horrible accident—wiring that had been badly done. Electric wires too close to telephone wires. I didn’t exactly know how telephones worked, but I didn’t think that kind of accident would happen too often. And the telephone operator who had been killed was the type who loved to listen in, to gossip. Had she overheard something she shouldn’t? At least I couldn’t tie her to the Lovey Curse when she had always lived in a town ten miles away.

There was nothing I could do to help and I couldn’t see any way that her death was related to the others, unless a madman in the area was randomly targeting people to kill in different ways. Then I remembered there was one connection: I had heard her name before. Inspector Newcombe had mentioned that Gladys Tripp was the quick-thinking operator who had been sharp enough to alert the police after she had received the emergency call about Miss Effie. A link between two deaths at last, but a tenuous one. I toyed with it as I walked down the high street, being buffeted by round ladies with shopping baskets. By the end of the street I was none the wiser and tried to turn my mind back to the job in hand—finding Christmas presents in a hurry. I looked in dress shops, shoe shops, newsagents, even a haberdashery, and found nothing that looked nice but cost little. I paused to look in the bow window of a small jeweler and saw some lovely pieces of antique jewelry that made me sigh with longing. There was some high-quality stuff here. I wondered how many people in a small Devon town had the sort of money to patronize a place like this. I was about to walk on when a small display at the bottom of the window caught my eye.

Lucky Devon Pixies,
said the sign.

I’m a lucky Devon pixie, from the legend old and true,
Kiss me once and turn me twice and I’ll bring luck to you.

The pixies were silver charms in pretty little boxes with the verse on the lid, obviously put there to attract tourists and bring people into the shop. I decided that Granddad could use some luck and that maybe my mother might be charmed by the pixie too. I was about to buy one for each of them when, on impulse, I took an extra one for Darcy, if and when I had a chance to see him again. If anyone needed luck it was he, since he was as impoverished as I and was always popping off to dangerous places.

The man who served me was an elderly Jewish man, presumably Mr. Klein, since the shop was called Klein’s Jewelers. He treated me with great deference even though I was buying such humble items.

“I’ve just acquired some fine pieces from Paris if you’d care to look, miss,” he said as he wrapped up the boxes for me.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have the money for your lovely things,” I replied, giving him a regretful smile.

“I understand.” He handed me the boxes. “It’s not easy to survive these days for most of us, is it? It’s rare that I have a call for my better-quality items these days. My compliments of the season to you, miss.” Then he added astutely, “Or should I say ‘my lady’?”

I came out of the shop with three pixies then went into the sweet shop next door and bought a box of chocolates for Mrs. Huggins and Black Magic for Lady Hawse-Gorzley. I wasn’t going to attempt to buy anything for the invisible Mr. Coward.

Chapter 12

The next lot of guests arrived around two o’clock. They were Mr. and Mrs. Upthorpe and their daughter, Ethel—a large girl with a rather vacant moon face and Marcel-waved hair that somehow didn’t make her seem smarter. Both mother and daughter wore well-cut clothes that shouted Paris, but they still seemed ill at ease. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes regarded each other suspiciously. I showed Ethel up to her room.

“I’m glad to see there’s someone else ordinary here,” she said in a whisper. “I was afraid they’d all be lords and ladies. We’re plain folks really, except that my dad has made a lot of money. But that’s not enough, is it? They wanted to have me presented at court, but I got turned down. So now my mum has set her heart on my marrying into the aristocracy; that’s why she decided we had to come here. But I don’t actually see any young men around.”

“I gather that three of them are due later today,” I said. “The son of the house, his friend from Oxford and his cousin. I can’t tell you what they are like because I haven’t met them yet.”

“So what does your dad do?” she asked.

“He used to be Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch,” I said. “He’s dead now.”

She put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, crikey. I know who you are. I’ve seen your picture in the society pages. Oh, I do feel a fool.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I am quite ordinary, really. I’m unattached with no job, so probably worse off than you are.”

“But you have royal relatives,” she pointed out.

“Well, yes, that’s true.”

“I should be curtsying and calling you ‘my lady.’”

“Not at a function like this. We’re all friends together this week. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

She beamed at me. “You’re a good sport, Georgie. Just wait till I tell the girls at home about this.”

At least I’d made someone happy. We came downstairs to find that Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone had arrived. They looked exactly as I would have expected. He was portly with a small military mustache. They were both wearing country tweeds and she had a good-quality Cairngorms brooch in her lapel.

“Of course it can be dashed uncomfortable in Calcutta in summer,” he was saying. “I usually send the memsahib up to the hills, don’t I, old thing?”

“It’s lovely up in the hills. Tea plantations for miles and miles. Have you ever been to India?” Mrs. Rathbone looked at the Wexlers and the Upthorpes, only to be met with blank stares.

“I wouldn’t like a place like India at all,” Mrs. Wexler said with a shudder. “All that dirt and disease and cows running around the streets. No, sirree.”

“Damn fine place, India,” the colonel said. “You should see the maharajas’ palaces, and the tiger shoots, and the lake in Kashmir. Damn fine place.”

“Are you home on leave or back for good?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley asked.

“Long leave. We take one every five years. We used to have a house in this part of the world, but not any longer, unfortunately. Circumstances being what they are. Not at all sure that we’ll come back to England to settle when I leave the army. Life is just so pleasant for the memsahib in India, isn’t it, old girl?”

“Apart from the heat and the diseases, I must say life in India is very easy. Our servants are devoted. There are always parties and dances. No, I think I’d find it rather dull in England. I did when we were last home four years ago, especially as Reggie was gone most of the time—weren’t you, my dear?”

“Dashed inconvenient, I called it. Only here for a few months and I got summoned to—”

“Oh, I believe that must be the dowager countess now.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sprang to her feet. “Please excuse me while I go to greet her. We’ll be serving tea shortly and you’ll have a chance to try our Devonshire cream.”

She motioned to me to follow her as an ancient Rolls-Royce drew up and a very distinguished-looking lady was helped from the backseat. She was dressed in a long sable coat with matching fur hat. She held an ebony and silver cane and she lifted a lorgnette to survey the scene as another woman, a mousy little creature, scurried around to lead her to the front door.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley came forward to greet her, arms open.

“Countess Albury—what a delight. Welcome to Gorzley Hall and the compliments of the season to you.”

“How do you do,” the countess said stiffly, holding out a black-gloved hand before she could be touched.

“Have you been traveling long?”

“Not too bad. Drove from London yesterday. Spent the night at the Francis in Bath. One of my favorite cities. Always loved shopping for antiques on Milsom Street. Not anymore, of course. Nowhere to put them.”

“Come inside, do,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“I fully intend to,” the countess sniffed. “Certainly don’t expect to stand out here in the cold all week.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley gave an embarrassed little titter and tried to help the dowager countess up the steps. The latter fought her off. “I am not quite decrepit yet, you know. People have tried to put me away in mothballs, but I won’t let them.”

She made it up the steps unaided.

“I’m sure you’d like to go to your room to freshen up before you join our other guests for tea,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Freshen up? Is that some horrible transatlantic slang? If you mean for a rest, a wash, a change of clothes, then please say so. People always said what they meant in my day. There was no ‘freshening up’ and ‘needing to relax’ when I was a girl.” She glanced up the long sweep of stairs. “Given the condition of my right knee, I think I will forgo the ‘freshening up,’ if you would please show my companion where we are to sleep and have someone escort me to a salon or wherever one sits in the afternoon.”

“There’s a lovely big fire in the drawing room,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Maybe Lady Georgiana will find you a comfortable chair.”

The lorgnette was turned onto me. “Georgiana? Not Bertie Rannoch’s daughter! Yes, I see the family likeness.” She put a hand on my arm for me to lead her. “I knew your grandmother and of course your terrifying great-grandmama, Queen Victoria. I nearly toppled over when I was presented to her, I was so nervous. Your grandmother was a shy woman, I remember—well, she would be, wouldn’t she, not daring to say a word in her mother’s presence. But we became quite close after she married Rannoch and I married Albury. I remember your father as a boy. Sweet-natured child. Always loved company and was always so lonely. It was a shame they couldn’t provide him with brothers and sisters. He would have thrived in a big household.”

“Like me,” I said. “My brother was so much older than me that it was like being an only child.”

“At least your grandmother produced a son and heir before she died,” the countess said. “I wasn’t able to do that, I’m ashamed to say. In consequence the estate has gone to a no-good nephew and I was unceremoniously expelled.” She paused, staring out at the snowy scene through the window. “Well, I was offered the gatehouse, but his lower-class wife made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. So I’m living in a small place in Kensington these days. Most of my friends either share my reduced circumstances or are dead. And I had a hankering for the old days—the grand old Christmases of my youth.”

I gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

She leaned closer. “What about the other guests? Anyone I’d know?”

“I don’t think so,” I said tactfully. “But I think you’ll find them pleasant enough.”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “There aren’t many people I know left alive. Outstayed my welcome on this earth, I fear.”

“You are very welcome here anyway,” I said.

She patted my hand. “A kind girl, I can see. Your father was kind, wasn’t he?”

“I hardly knew him,” I said. “He spent most of his time on the Continent.”

“I remember now. There was some kind of scandal, wasn’t there? His wife ran off and left him. Not that that kind of thing causes a scandal anymore. People are always doing it. Look at the Prince of Wales. One hears he’s trailing around after some American woman who is married to someone else. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She turned to look behind her. “Don’t just stand there, Humphreys. Go and find out where I’m to be sleeping and put my things away.” She looked back at me. “She’s a poor specimen. No backbone. But she’s loyal. Been with me five years now.”

We arrived in the drawing room and Lady Hawse-Gorzley made the introductions. The other guests were suitably overawed by the dowager countess, except for the Rathbones. When they found out she had been to India, they entered into a lively session of name-dropping and one-upmanship with the countess.

“And Simla? How did you like Simla? Our of our favorite places, but of course we adore Ooty. Did you ever meet the Maharaja of Udaipur? Such opulence.”

“Yes, he was comfortably off, shall one say, but nothing to compare with dear old Pixie of Hyderabad. And did you ever go to Government House when dear Tommy was viceroy? Now, those were parties.”

The countess was winning the name-dropping handily when tea was announced. Low tables were produced, and a trolley was wheeled in, laden with all the items I particularly adore: warm scones with cream and strawberry jam as well as smoked salmon sandwiches, éclairs, brandy snaps, mince pies, slices of rich fruitcake and a Victoria sponge. Everyone’s mood lightened enormously. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes exchanged boasts about how much they spent on their motorcars and their wives’ furs. The Rathbones and the countess agreed that the good old days had gone and would never return. Even Junior Wexler had to agree that the scones and cream were “swell” and ate an impressive number. I was enjoying my own scones when Lady Hawse-Gorzley suddenly looked up at the doorway. “Why, the boys are here and I didn’t see them arrive,” she said. She got to her feet. “Monty, darling. How lovely to see you. So you made it safely, then.”

“No, Mother, we’re lying dead in a ditch,” Monty said, giving a grin to his sister. “Of course we made it safely. We’re here, aren’t we?” He was tall and slim and looked absurdly young.

“And Badger. You are most welcome.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley held out her hand to a red-haired, freckled young man. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, Lady H-G,” the freckle-faced lad nicknamed Badger replied, giving her a hearty handshake. “Looking forward to it awfully. Frightfully decent of you to invite me.”

“May I introduce my son, Montague, and his friend Archibald, usually known as Badger,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said to the company. Then she looked around. “Didn’t your cousin come down with you on the train? He said he was going to.”

“He came in with us,” Monty said. “Ah, here he is now.”

And Darcy stepped into the room.