The Twelve Clues of Christmas Page 10

  “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

  GORZLEY HALL AND AROUND THE VILLAGE

  DECEMBER 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?”

&n
bsp; “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?”