The Twelve Clues of Christmas (9 page)

Chapter 13

He hadn’t seen me. Before he could cross the room Bunty rushed at him. “Cousin Darcy. How absolutely lovely to see you again. It’s been ages and ages. Haven’t I grown up a lot since you saw us last?”

“You certainly have,” Darcy said, accepting the hug and the kiss on his cheek. “And how are you, Aunt Camilla?”

“All the better now that you are here,” she said, beaming at him. “Lovely to see you again after so long, dear boy. I’m not sure where Oswald has disappeared to. Really, it’s so hard to make him be sociable. But here are our guests, all dying to meet you: Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone, recently home from India. Mr. and Mrs. Wexler, all the way from America, and their children. The Upthorpe family from Yorkshire, and may I present you to the dowager countess Albury. Countess, this is my nephew, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.”

Darcy went over to her and kissed her hand. She squinted at him through her lorgnette. “Kilhenny’s son? Yes, you have the look of him about you. I’ve no doubt you’re as big a rogue as he was as a young man.”

“Indubitably,” Darcy said and grinned.

“And this,” continued Lady Hawse-Gorzley, “is Lady Georgiana Rannoch.”

I had been about to eat a bite of scone, but had stood frozen with a mouthful unchewed. Now I tried to swallow it rapidly, which resulted in a fit of coughing.

It was hardly the traditional meeting of sweethearts. We didn’t rush across the room into each other’s arms. In fact, I read mixed emotions in Darcy’s astonished stare. “Good God, Georgie, what on earth are you doing here?” he said.

“Hello, Darcy,” I said, trying to recover my dignity from the coughing fit. “The same as you, apparently. Looking forward to a jolly good Christmas.”

“Ah—you two know each other. How splendid,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “But of course you would. You bright young things go to all the same parties in town, I’ve no doubt.”

“Shall I take Cousin Darcy up and show him his room?” Bunty asked, slipping her hand through his arm.

“You most certainly shall not,” her mother replied. “A young lady does not escort a young gentleman to a bedroom, Hortense, even if he is your cousin.”

“We’ll show Darcy his room later, Mother,” Monty said. “But at the moment we are all in dire need of refreshment and I notice scones and cream. Come on, Badger. Dig in, old chap.”

The two young men pulled over a sofa and attacked the scones. Darcy accepted a cup of tea, then came over and perched on the arm of my chair, which I found reassuring. Given his less than exuberant greeting when he saw me, I wasn’t sure how to treat him. I reminded myself that he hadn’t even contacted me properly when he arrived back in England. And a succession of wild thoughts were rushing through my head: that he might have been meeting a girl when my mother had spotted him in London at the Café Royal, and was embarrassed to find me here when he’d hoped to find her. Or, a second alternative, that Lady Hawse-Gorzley was no more his aunt than I was, and this was actually some kind of secret meeting of spies into which I had blundered by mistake. This one made more sense, since I suspected he secretly worked as some sort of spy. I gave him a polite little nod and waited for him to make the first move.

“How are you?” he said in a low voice. “What a lovely surprise.”

“I’m well, thank you,” I replied. “And if you’d taken the trouble to talk to me, you might have heard about my plans to come here.”

“But they told me you were spending Christmas in Scotland with the family,” he muttered to me.

“Who told you?”

“I tried to telephone you. Your sister-in-law instructed the butler to tell me,” he said. “‘Her Grace wishes me to tell you that Lady Georgiana will be unavailable over the Christmas celebration. It is to be a family affair.’ Those were the very words, I seem to remember.”

“The absolute cow,” I said. Darcy laughed. “She never mentioned that you’d telephoned. How utterly spiteful of her.”

“She doesn’t approve of me. I lead you astray, remember? So what made you leave the bosom of the family Christmas?”

“Fig’s family was descending en masse. More than body and soul could endure.”

“But what are you doing here of all places? I had no idea that you knew my aunt.”

“Darcy dear, do help yourself to tea,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I could hardly say that I had answered an advertisement in front of the paying guests, so I leaned forward and poured Darcy a cup of tea. Our fingers touched as I handed it to him and I felt a shiver run all the way up my arm.

“And, Georgiana, perhaps after tea you can take the young people into the study and make plans for the things you’d like to do over Christmas. I do so want you young folk to enjoy yourselves.”

“I expect you’d like to go out for a ride in the morning, Darcy,” Bunty said, pulling up her chair closer. “Do you remember what fun we had the last time you were here and we went out riding on the moor?”

“I hardly think we’d be wise to take the horses on the moor in the snow, Bunty,” he said. “We’d never see the bogs.” He looked up with a grin. “By the way, how is your wild girl—Sally, is she? Still going strong?”

“Wild girl?” Mrs. Wexler asked nervously.

“Not really wild, just strange,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said rapidly. “A strange young woman who lives alone on the moor.” She attempted a gay laugh. “Yes, she’s still going strong.”

“And how is the village where nothing ever happens?” Darcy went on gaily. “That’s what you said last time I was here, Bunty.”

“Just as quiet and peaceful as ever,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said again rapidly. “A perfect little backwater. England the way it used to be. And that’s how we love it. Ah, here is my husband, finally.”

And Sir Oswald came in, still wearing his dreadful old tweed jacket, plus fours, old socks and boots. “Damned fellow didn’t muck out the pigs properly,” he said. “Had to do it myself.” And he promptly sat down next to Mrs. Rathbone. “God, I’m famished. Mucking out pigsties certainly brings on an appetite.”

I heard Darcy stifle a chuckle as Mrs. Rathbone moved hastily to the far end of the sofa.

“And those damned police johnnies have finally departed, thank God. Blasted inconvenient of people to go and kill themselves over Christmas. And those wretched convicts, too. Time of peace and goodwill, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

“Killed themselves?” Mrs. Upthorpe asked nervously. “Who killed themselves? Where?”

“Just a couple of unfortunate accidents in the area. Nothing to be alarmed about,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said hastily. “Have another scone, do. And Alice, bring us some more tea. This is getting cold.”

“And the convicts?” Mrs. Wexler interjected.

“A couple of men escaped from Dartmoor Prison, which is several miles from here. They’ll be far away by now. The police have combed the moors.”

“How exciting. Perhaps we’ll be taken hostage,” Cherie Wexler said and got a dig in the side from her mother.

“Well, something exciting has to happen or we’ll all die of boredom,” the girl retorted.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley leaped to her feet. “Georgiana—why don’t you take the young people now and make your plans?”

“We just got here, Mother. We’ve hardly eaten anything yet,” Monty said, his mouth half full of éclair.

“And I’m still hungry,” Junior Wexler said.

“Of course, I don’t mean to rush you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “In that case, why don’t I take the grown-ups and give them a tour of the house. So many fine historical features.”

The Wexlers, Upthorpes and Rathbones rose obediently, but the dowager countess stayed put. “Does the woman think I’ve never seen an historic home before? I used to be a frequent guest at Blenheim and Longleat, and Albury Park was not too shabby either. Gardens by Capability Brown.”

“Lady Albury, I do realize that you’d find the stairs too much for you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Perhaps you’d like Hortense to take you through to the little library. There is a nice fire and you’d find it more peaceful than being with the youngsters.”

“I like young people. Make me feel alive again,” the countess said. “I shall relish all the latest gossip from London. Go on, off you go.”

The adults departed dutifully, except for Sir Oswald, who was eating away merrily, quite oblivious to the fact that he smelled of pig. Lady Albury moved to the sofa, closer to Darcy and me. “So do tell me all the latest London scandal.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been in Scotland for the past few months,” I said.

“And I in South America,” Darcy said.

“But have you met this notorious American lady? Simpson, is that it?”

“Yes, I have met her,” I said. “And I think the term ‘lady’ is stretching the definition.”

She threw back her head and laughed, patting my hand. “I like you,” she said. “Good sense of humor like your father. And you, young man”—she turned to Darcy—“what were you doing in South America? Up to no good, I’ll wager.”

“A little of this and that, you know,” Darcy said.

“Dealing in arms, no doubt. That’s how people make money in South America, isn’t it? Help to start another revolution then supply both sides with arms.”

“Certainly not,” Darcy said. “How can you suggest such a thing?” But he was smiling, his eyes teasing her.

“I know a thing or two about how the world works.”

“I thought we were supposed to be planning what we want to do,” Bunty said peevishly.

“When Junior has finished polishing off the cream buns, we’ll get started,” I said.

“Junior, you’ll make yourself sick,” Cherie Wexler said. “He is such a little pig. I don’t know why we had to bring him along. You should have stayed with Aunt Mabel, Junior. You aren’t old enough for polite society yet.”

“Go and jump in the lake, sis,” he said and made a grab at the last cream bun.

“So,” I said brightly, “what would we like to do? I gather there is to be a fancy dress ball one night, and we should play charades, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, charades,” the red-headed Badger agreed.

“And the place is perfect for sardines,” I went on.

“Sardines? What on earth is that?”

“Like hide-and-seek but when you find someone you join them, until you are all crammed into a cupboard or wherever you are hiding,” I said.

“That sounds really juvenile,” the Wexler girl said.

“Ooh, I don’t know. Could be fun,” Ethel Upthorpe said, eyeing first Darcy and then Monty and clearly visualizing herself pinned into a wardrobe with them.

“What would you like to do?” I asked Cherie Wexler. “Any suggestions for us?”

“When I go out with friends we dance the quickstep and smoke and drink cocktails in secret,” she said. “Or we go to the talkies.”

“I don’t think the cinema constitutes part of an old-fashioned English Christmas,” I said.

“I think we should go out and have a snowball fight before it gets quite dark,” Monty said.

“Dashed good idea,” Badger added. “Who’s up for it?”

Everyone except for Cherie Wexler thought it might be fun. We put on coats, scarves and gloves and went outside. The sun had just sunk below Lovey Tor and the sky was a brilliant bloodred, turning the snow pink. Rooks were cawing madly as they came home to roost. Darcy came up beside me.

“All right, now spill the beans,” he said, still looking incredulous and a trifle suspicious too. “What brought you here, of all places? I mean, I had no inkling that you knew my aunt.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley really is your aunt, then?”

He nodded. “Of course. My mother’s sister. I don’t suppose I ever mentioned her, because I’ve relatives dotted all over the place. But things are rather strained between my father and me, so when I received this invite, I was happy to accept.” He moved closer to me. “Even happier now.”

I felt a glow of happiness go through me too.

He leaned closer. “Look, I know you’re hot stuff as a detective,” he said. “Did you find out where I’d be staying and wangle yourself an invitation?”

“No, I did not,” I said, feeling myself blushing. “I was absolutely amazed to see you. I had no idea you were connected with the Hawse-Gorzleys.”

“I had no idea you knew them either.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Between ourselves—and this is not to go any further—I applied to an advertisement to help a hostess with her Christmas house party. I had never heard of the Hawse-Gorzleys or Tiddleton-under-Lovey before. But I’d have applied to the North Pole to escape from Fig’s relatives.”

I saw relief flood across Darcy’s face and he laughed. “It must be fate bringing us together,” he said.

A snowball came flying through the air and struck me full in the face. “Whoops, sorry, Georgie,” Bunty said.

Chapter 14

G
ORZLEY
H
ALL AND AROUND THE VILLAGE

D
ECEMBER 23

We actually had a jolly good snowball fight and were just going inside, with fingers and noses tingling with cold, when a white shape came walking up the drive toward us. It was the little maid who had come to us in such distress that morning.

“Beg pardon, miss,” she said to Bunty, “but I’ve a message for your mum from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Miss Florrie and Miss Lizzie want me to tell your mum that they’d like the carol singing to go ahead, in spite of what happened yesterday. They say that Cook has made so many mince pies and Miss Effie would have hated them to go to waste, so would you please come round as planned.”

“Oh, jolly good,” Monty said. “Nothing like a good bout of carol singing, is there? Everyone up to scratch with their ‘Good King Wenceslas’? Or do we need a practice session first?”

We trooped back into the house, where Lady Hawse-Gorzley was thrilled to hear the news.

“Breeding will tell,” she said, rather undiplomatically, I thought. “We will try to find a subdued and reverent carol to sing outside their house. How they must be suffering, poor dear ladies.”

When we had taken off our coats and hats we found that more guests had arrived: a smartly dressed middle-aged couple and a suave, fortyish man with a jaunty, pencil-thin mustache and canary yellow silk cravat at his throat.

“Our party is now complete,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Some of our neighbors have come to join us. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest—he’s a local sea dog, home on leave. Mrs. Sechrest is my bridge partner and I must say she plays a fine hand. Has a fine seat in the saddle too.”

“Pretty decent seat out of the saddle,” the lone man said, getting a titter from Mrs. Sechrest.

“Johnnie, you’re terrible. Can’t you behave for one second?” she said.

“Sorry, old bean. You know me. Got an eye for the ladies, what?” He gave her what could only be described as a smoldering look.

“And this disreputable character is Johnnie Protheroe. He’s a writer of sorts.”

“A renaissance man, Camilla dearest, if you don’t mind,” Johnnie said. “I paint, I sail, I hunt and I’m fun to be around, aren’t I, Sandy?”

Mrs. Sechrest tried to give an imitation of my great-grandmother being not amused, but it didn’t quite come off. Captain Sechrest sat there, whiskey in hand, looking frightfully bored and correct, while his wife clearly enjoyed Johnnie’s attentions.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll be having a simple supper tonight after our carol singing, and I don’t think that we’ll expect you to dress, given the lateness.”

“We’re only getting a simple supper?” Pa Wexler demanded. “Yesterday’s dinner was kinda simple too. I thought we were promised sumptuous multicourse banquets.”

“It has been our experience that guests are rather full of mince pies and good cheer by the time we return from the carol singing. I think you’ll find our simple meal quite adequate, Mr. Wexler.”

As we left the room Mrs. Upthorpe muttered to her daughter, “Eee, that’s too bad. I was looking forward to wearing one of those evening dresses we got in Paris last summer, weren’t you, Ethel?”

“It’s certainly not worth wearing them up in Bradford,” Ethel said. “They don’t know a Chanel from Woolworths, do they?”

I went upstairs thinking about the irony of this. I was the daughter of a duke. My dresses did not come from Paris. In fact, I’d be lucky to find one of them undamaged by Queenie’s ministrations. I was worrying about this as I turned the corner to go to my room and found my path blocked by Johnnie Protheroe. “Well, hello,” he said, looking down at me with what could only be described as a lecherous leer. “And who do we have here?”

“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said frostily. “How do you do?”

“I do very well,” he said. “So you’re the famous Lady Georgiana. One hears that your delectable mother is in the area. Is that correct?”

“I really couldn’t say,” I answered, uncomfortable now with his closeness. He had one hand on the wall and was leaning down toward me.

“And are you as much fun, I wonder, as your mama?” he said.

“Do you know my mother?”

“Not personally, but one reads delicious tidbits in newspapers.”

“You shouldn’t believe what you read in newspapers,” I said and ducked under his arm. I heard him chuckling as I opened the door to my room.

We assembled as instructed, bundled into our warmest clothes, and found that lanterns on poles had been stuck in the snow for us to carry. Bunty also handed out a supply of music books for those who didn’t know the words.

“I thought we’d start off with ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as we walk down the driveway,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “to warm up our voices, so to speak, and then we’ll switch to ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ when we reach the Misses Ffrench-Finch. And we’ll keep it suitably subdued.”

Darcy slid into the line beside me as the singing began and we moved off. “Why are we keeping it subdued?” he whispered. “Are they true aficionados of music who would be offended by our out-of-tune renditions?”

“No, they had a death in the family yesterday morning,” I whispered back. “One of the three elderly sisters was found dead in her bed. Someone had turned the gas on and closed the windows.”

“Suicide?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then one of the other sisters wanted her out of the way, probably. Jealous, or wanted a better share of an inheritance. Or was simply batty.”

I shook my head. “No, one gathers that they adored their sister and relied on her. She was the strong one who made the decisions.”

“When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even,” went on the singing.

He turned to me sharply. “Are you saying it was murder?”

“They’d all like to believe it was an accident,” I said. “But there have been three deaths in three days in this small village. That seems to be stretching the law of averages, doesn’t it?”

“Were the other two similar old ladies?”

“No, quite different. A landowner found shot with his own gun in a tree in the Hawse-Gorzleys’ orchard. A local garage owner fell off a bridge into a creek as he went home from the village pub—where it is said he was fond of visiting the publican’s wife. No hint from the police that they have found any evidence of foul play. The old ladies’ house was locked for the night at six and nobody seems to be able to come up with a reason for wanting Miss Ffrench-Finch dead.”

“They say deaths come in threes, don’t they?” he said. “The most logical thing is that they were all accidents.”

“There are a couple of other things I should mention,” I said. “One of them is the Lovey Curse.”

“The what?” He was laughing, his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern.

“Apparently there was a local witch who was burned alive on New Year’s Eve, hundreds of years ago. As she died she cursed the village that tragedy would strike them at Yuletide every year.”

“And has it?”

“I’ve no idea,” I said, “but the other thing is more serious. You might have read that three convicts escaped from Dartmoor Prison a few days ago. The police seem to think they haven’t gone far. So maybe they are hiding out on the moor and they’ve killed the people who have spotted them.”

“You mean the man out shooting?”

I nodded. “Very early in the morning. Maybe he ran into them.”

“And the man crossing a bridge in the middle of the night? Yes, he could have run into them. But I don’t see how that could apply to your old lady. She didn’t go wandering around on the moor looking for trouble, did she?”

“No, I’m sure she didn’t. I suppose she could have spotted the convicts through her motorcar window. But then she would have telephoned the police straight away, wouldn’t she?”

“And they are hardly likely to have gassed her in her bed. Not the modus operandi of most criminal types. Bashed her head in or suffocated her.”

“Besides,” I said, “they couldn’t get into the house.”

We reached the end of the driveway just as the singers broke into a lusty rendition of:

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted.

Heat was in the very sod, where the saint had printed.

Darcy was frowning, staring up at the big square shape of the Ffrench-Finch house and its plain stone walls. “I don’t think there’s any way that three convicts could be hiding out in a village like this,” he said. “Village eyes are too sharp. They’d notice something. And even if someone was hiding them, the villagers would notice someone buying more food than usual.”

“Your aunt has certainly been buying more food than usual,” I pointed out. “I expect everybody has for Christmas.”

We crossed the deserted street to the Misses Ffrench-Finches’ front door and switched to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

A maid opened the door and was joined by two tiny ladies with neat gray buns. They were now dressed in black with fringed Spanish shawls around their shoulders. The first thought that struck me was that their name was so apt. They both listened with their heads to one side, bobbing like little birds.

“So good of you to come,” one of them said in her soft child’s voice. “Effie always loved the carol singing. We won’t invite you in, I’m sure you understand, but do have some of Cook’s delicious mince pies and try some of our homemade elderberry wine.”

Two trays were produced. The mince pies were wonderful—warm, flaky pastry and plenty of spicy filling. The elderberry wine was not unpleasant and I had a second glass. We drank a toast to their health and to their dear departed sister and went on our way.

Mr. Barclay welcomed us gushing and bowing and requested that we sing a couple of carols none of us knew, before settling on “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I hope the herald angels sang a little better than we did, but he seemed to appreciate the effort. He offered hot cheese straws and mulled wine. From him we went to the vicar, who invited us into his well-worn but comfortable sitting room where we gave him a rousing rendition of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” He had more mince pies laid out for us and a traditional wassail bowl. I was beginning to feel the warmth of the food and alcohol as we left and made for Miss Prendergast’s cottage, singing “In the Bleak Midwinter.”

She met us at the door, looking flustered. I decided she was probably one of those spinsters who always looks flustered. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “I was doing a crossword puzzle and completely forgot the mince pies. I do so love my little puzzles and I was so engrossed that I only remembered the pies when I smelled something burning. And of course by then it was too late to go into town to buy more mincemeat. I feel like such a fool. My mince pies are usually so good too, aren’t they, Lady Hawse-Gorzley? So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for biscuits and ginger wine.” She retrieved a tray she had put on a low table beside the front door. “Here we are. Ginger to keep out the cold. Nothing better,” she said, offering the tray around. “And I am so looking forward to joining you for the Christmas festivities, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she twittered. “So good of you to invite me. So generous. I can’t tell you how much one appreciates company when one is all alone in the world like me.”

The ginger wine was so powerful that it took my breath away and made my eyes water. I stumbled along, half blind, as we headed for my mother’s cottage. I was interested to see whether they would pretend to not be at home, but lights shone out between heavy curtains and the door was opened by my grandfather. I wondered whether he would be playing the role of jolly butler, but instead he said, “I won’t ask you in, because they’ve been working hard all day and consequently have retired with headaches. But we do have a hot rum punch ready and Mrs. Huggins has made some lovely sausage rolls. So if you could possibly manage a quiet carol, it would be appreciated.”

We obliged by singing “In the Bleak Midwinter” again and then Granddad ladled out the punch. He winked as he handed me my glass. “That will put hair on your chest,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, your mum and Mr. Coward have been invited to join you for Christmas dinner.”

“What about you?”

“Not me, my dear,” he said. “Me and Mrs. Huggins will be a lot happier here on our own than where we don’t belong. We ain’t posh and we never will be.”

“I’ll come down to visit on Christmas Day when I get a chance,” I said.

“That will be lovely. Anytime. We’ll be here.”

I took my glass of punch. It was hot and the fumes from the rum were strong enough to make me cough. But it slipped down deliciously and I was feeling that all was right with the world as we left the cottage and headed on our way. We’d only gone a few yards, however, when I had the strangest sensation. We were being watched. I decided that it was probably my mother and Noel Coward having a good chuckle at our expense upstairs in the cottage, but I also sensed something else. I sensed danger.