The Twelve Clues of Christmas Page 19

“I agree with you, sir,” the inspector said. “And believe me, I’ve asked myself that question over and over. But they’ve nothing in common. They’d certainly not have mixed socially, would they? I mean a master of hounds and a switchboard operator and a butcher. I’ll wager they didn’t even know each other.”

  “I presume you’ve been through your case files to see if you’ve any antisocial or violent blokes in the area?” Granddad asked.

  “I’ve done that. We’ve our share of lads who are soft in the head, like that poor chap you’ve got in the village here, but nobody who’s shown any inclination to kill people.”

  “It could be someone who has come down from London for the Christmas holidays, I suppose,” Mummy said.

  “I don’t think that’s likely, madam,” the inspector said. “You see, whoever it was knew an awful lot about these people. He knew where the hunt was likely to go. He knew that Ted Grover took a shortcut home over that bridge when he’d been to see his lady love. He even knew that Mr. Skaggs would be making an early morning delivery in his van and would be coming around that dangerous bend.”

  “If indeed those people were his targets,” Mr. Coward said, waving his cigarette holder at the inspector. “What if he just wanted the thrill of killing and it really didn’t matter who fell off the bridge or whose van went off the road?”

  “Don’t say that, sir,” the inspector groaned, “because if that is true, then we’ve no way of ever catching him.”

  “You will,” Granddad said. “I’ve dealt with a lot of criminals in my life, some of them remarkably clever men, but they always slip up in the end. Get too cocky, see. Like leaving the evidence on that horse’s leg. Until that moment you could say that every one of those deaths was an accident. Now you know that at least one wasn’t.” He looked up. “I take it you haven’t found the bloke who fell off that horse?”

  “We haven’t.” The inspector shook his head sadly, “And not for want of trying. My boys have scoured those hills, and we’ve had the dogs out, and not a trace of him. We have to assume that he went down in that bog, poor bloke.”

  An absurd idea was passing through my mind. What if someone had wanted to disappear, to make it look as if he came off his horse in the mist and wandered into the bog? It sounded so far-fetched that I didn’t like to say it, but I thought I’d ask a little more about the master of hounds when I got back to the hall.

  Mrs. Huggins appeared with a tea tray loaded with generous slices of Christmas cake.

  “I should be getting back,” I said reluctantly and made for the door again. “See you tomorrow at the fancy dress ball.”

  “You won’t recognize us, we’ll be in such brilliant disguises,” Noel Coward said. “And watch your step as you walk up that long driveway. So far the killer hasn’t attacked anyone from the hall, but it might be only a matter of time.”

  “Noel, don’t say things like that.” My mother slapped his wrist. “Walk with her if you’re worried about her.”

  “What, and have to walk back alone in the growing darkness? Not for a million pounds, my dear. It’s not for nothing that my last name is ‘coward.’”

  “I could accompany you, my lady.” The inspector made signs of putting down his teacup. “But I don’t think there’s any need to worry. You’re not from around here, are you? The killer or killers only seem interested in people from these parts.”

  “That’s encouraging, isn’t it?” I gave them a bright smile and departed.

  I made it back to the hall without incident, although I have to confess, I did turn sharply every time there was a rustle in the bushes. When I reached Gorzley Hall I found that the wanderers had returned. The members of the sightseeing party were full of enthusiasm for what they had seen and were relating their experiences to the boys who had been training and to the bridge players.

  “And we saw Buckfast Abbey. And we actually heard the monks chanting,” Mrs. Upthorpe said. “It was like stepping back into the Middle Ages.”

  “And all those cute little villages and humpbacked bridges,” Mrs. Wexler agreed.

  “And we saw the Dartmoor jail,” Mr. Wexler reminded her. “My, but that’s a grim-looking place. I’d want to escape if I were sent there.”

  “Don’t forget the ponies,” Mrs. Wexler reminded him. “We actually saw the famous Dartmoor ponies.”

  “You saw ponies?” Junior Wexler showed interest for the first time. “Like wild ponies, you mean?”

  “We sure did. Running up the mountainside in the snow.” Mrs. Wexler paused to ruffle her son’s hair. “But how did your training go, son?”

  “Swell. I thought the fences would be big, but they are only this high.” He held his hands about eighteen inches apart. “Anybody could jump over them.”

  “Tea is ready when you’ve all had a chance to change,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and as they went up the stairs to do so, she sidled over to me. “Any news from the outside world? One feels so cut off without a telephone still.”

  “They’ve arrested Wild Sal,” I said.

  “Wild Sal. Good God. So she was the one. I might have known. She is a direct descendant of the hag, after all.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “Since her arrest, there has been another death.”

  “Where?” She looked up sharply.

  “On the other side of Bovey Tracey, I think the inspector said. And it might have nothing to do with the other deaths. A farmer’s wife kicked in the head by a cow as she was milking.”

  “Well, that has happened before, hasn’t it?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley dismissed this. “Such unpredictable creatures, cows. I expect they’ll find that this one really was an accident and that Wild Sal is responsible for at least some of the others.”

  She gave me a nod of satisfaction, then bustled off again. Everyone fell upon tea with enthusiasm, then we didn’t do much before dinner apart from tackling a large jigsaw puzzle of a Dutch skating scene. Ethel and her mother were wearing gorgeous new dresses for dinner—Schiaparelli, if I was not mistaken—and I noticed Badger’s eyes light up when she came into the room. Perhaps the investment in this house party would pay off for the Upthorpes and they would get their daughter married into the upper classes. I put the subject of marriage firmly from my mind. It was too worrying to consider.

  After the previous night’s simple curry dinner, this was a lavish affair, befitting a grand house party. Smoked salmon followed by a rich oxtail soup and then pheasant for the main course.

  “What kind of bird is this?” Mr. Wexler asked, prodding it with his fork.

  “I was so disappointed that I couldn’t provide you with goose for Christmas Day that I decided to make up for it with pheasant,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Truly the most delicious of the game birds, I always think.”

  Nobody argued with that—the meat swimming in a dark brown gravy with mushrooms and tiny onions around it and thin crisps of potato to accompany it. We ate in near silence. The pheasant was followed by an apple crumble and clotted cream, then a local strong cheddar and biscuits. We passed a quiet evening playing records on the gramophone and one or two of us made an attempt at dancing.

  “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to dance tomorrow at the ball,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

  I went to bed and fell asleep straight away. I woke to see the moon shining on me and realized that I needed to face the long walk to the lavatory at the end of the corridor. As I came out of my room I stopped, staring down the hallway ahead of me. A figure in white appeared to be floating slowly down the dark hall. I wondered if this was a Gorzley ghost that nobody had seen fit to mention. Having grown up at Castle Rannoch, I wasn’t particularly scared of ghosts. We had plenty of them in the family, including my grandfather’s ghost playing the bagpipes on the ramparts—an apparition I hadn’t personally experienced. I crept silently behind the figure until I could see it was a woman with long dark hair spilling over the shoulders of a white nightgown.

  Then suddenly she stopped outside a door, put h
er hand on the handle and eased it open before going in. By now my eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the hallway and I saw who it was. It was Sandra Sechrest. I told myself that she had also been on a nocturnal walk to heed the call of nature, and felt like a fool, until I realized that the room she had slipped into so silently was not her own but Johnnie Protheroe’s.

  Chapter 27

  DECEMBER 28

  I’ve started counting the days until I can go home, which is silly because I’m with Granddad and Darcy and frankly I haven’t a home to go to.

  When I awoke the next morning I looked out at a landscape blotted out by mist and the first thought that came to me was, I wonder who is going to be killed today?

  The fact that this came to me so readily was shocking. How could I have possibly come to accept that one person would die every day in this little part of Devon? And anger flooded through me. Right there, as I stared out through the window at the ghostly bare branches of the orchard hovering in the mist, I made a decision. This could not be allowed to continue. Someone had to do something about it, and since the inspector was clearly incapable, it was up to me to use the expertise at my disposal and catch the murderer. I had my grandfather, with all his years of experience at Scotland Yard, and I had Darcy, who worked, I was sure, as some sort of spy. And I had assisted in a small way in some important cases. It was about time we did a little detective work ourselves.

  I was already dressed by the time Queenie appeared with a tea tray—more of the tea in the saucer than the cup, I have to say. Her good intentions to be a perfect maid were rapidly slipping back into her normal behavior.

  “Blimey, you’re already up,” she said. “I needn’t have bothered to come up all them stairs with the tea if I’d known.”

  “You came up the stairs because one of your duties is to bring your mistress her morning tea, whether she wants it or not,” I pointed out.

  She gave me a look as she put it down, none too gently, on the table. “Nasty old day,” she said, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home. Do you know what they’re saying in the servants’ hall? They’re saying that there’s a Lovey Curse and one person will get struck down every day until New Year. I tell you, it ain’t half giving me the willies.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry, Queenie. It’s only local people who are cursed,” I said.

  “Oh, well, that’s all right, then, ain’t it?” A beam spread across her round red face. I wished I could be as easily satisfied as she was.

  I came into the breakfast room to find Darcy sitting alone at one end of the table while the Rathbones and Upthorpes were busy working their way through enormous piles of kedgeree at the other. I slid into a seat beside him and he looked up, smiling. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Do you think you could possibly borrow Monty’s motorcar today?”

  “You want to escape for a tryst?” he asked, his eyes teasing me.

  I lowered my voice even though the distance between us and the other diners was considerable. “No, I want to help solve this ridiculous business before any more people are killed.”

  He looked surprised and a trifle amused. “You are suddenly turning into the Sherlock Holmes of Rannoch, are you?”

  “Darcy, be serious, please. The local detective inspector is a nice enough man but he’s quite out of his depth. You know a thing or two about questioning people and judging who might be lying, and my grandfather—well, he’s dealt with all kinds of gruesome cases during his years on the force. So I thought we might at least take a look for ourselves at the sites where these things happened.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be my aunt’s right-hand woman? Are you allowed to vanish for a day when you should be running skittles tournaments and things?”

  I regarded him frostily. “You sound as if you don’t want to come with me. Fine, if you don’t want a chance for us to spend time together . . .” I began to stand up. He grabbed my arm to hold me back.

  “Don’t be silly. You know very well that I’d love any chance to spend time with you. It’s just that I’m not sure we should interfere in local police business. We don’t know the people or the territory. I can’t see how we can be of any use whatsoever.”

  “Darcy, you haven’t spoken with Inspector Newcombe. I have. He admits that he is flummoxed. He’s been popping in on my grandfather asking for advice every two seconds. Of course he wants help, and if my grandfather had somebody to motor him around he might be able to solve this.”

  “Very well,” he said, looking around as if trying to make up his mind. “I suppose I could ask Monty, but I’m none too sure about the lay of the land around here.”

  “There are such things as maps,” I said. “I’ll ask Sir Oswald for one.”

  “So what are we going to do about this fancy dress ball if we’re gone all day? Aren’t we supposed to be creating costumes?”

  “I happen to know there is a whole row of costumes hanging in the attic,” I said. “I suggest you and I slip up there before the others and grab something.”

  “Slip up to the attic and grab something. That sounds interesting.”

  “Darcy!” I glared at him.

  “My, but you’re testy today,” he said.

  “Because I’m feeling really angry and frustrated that people are being killed and nobody is doing anything to stop it,” I said. “We have to help, Darcy. How many people will have to die otherwise before Scotland Yard sends someone down to take charge?”

  “I suppose the point is that from what we can tell, we have no evidence that any of the deaths was a murder.”

  “My grandfather says there is no such thing as coincidence. Do you really believe that so many accidents could happen in one small part of Dartmoor, with a death every day?”

  “I agree it does sound far-fetched. Unless you believe in the Lovey Curse.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not.” He gave a half-embarrassed laugh. “But I’m dashed if I can see how these deaths have anything to do with each other. I mean to say, if you were going to kill a chap, would you wait until he was up a tree? And the man who pushed that garage owner off a bridge was most likely the wronged husband, not an outsider. And if someone turned on the gas to kill the old woman, it was probably one of her sisters, tired of being bossed around.”

  “But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a clever killer with a motive we haven’t yet fathomed?”

  He put an arm around my shoulder. “Georgie, think about it—do you really believe we can do anything that the local police can’t?”

  I chewed on my lip, something I tend to do when I’m not sure of myself. “I just thought that if three of us put our heads together and looked at the sites in order, then something would occur to us.”

  Darcy stared past me, out the window, then he pushed away his plate. “All right then. I’ll go find Monty.”

  “We have to choose costumes first,” I said. “Come on. Let’s see if we can sneak up to the attic without being noticed.”

  Darcy gave a reluctant sigh, then took my hand. We crept up several flights of stairs, each one less grand than the one before, until we reached a set of steep wooden steps to an attic. The place was illuminated only by the light coming in from some dormer windows, and items covered in dust sheets looked ominous in the darkness. Having grown up in a really spooky castle, I’m not normally afraid of such things, but the way they stirred in the draft we let in was unnerving and I was glad I had Darcy with me.

  “Here they are,” I said and threw the dust sheet off a rack of costumes.

  “Let me see, what do I want to be?” Darcy examined them one by one. “Not a gorilla. Too hot. Caveman? I might fancy that. Then I could drag you across the room by your hair.”

  “Which, in case you haven’t noticed, is not long enough to do that,” I said. “Besides, there is no cavewoman outfit.”

  “You could be a second Wild Sal,” Darcy said. “Look at this airy-fairy outfit. I’m s
ure you could waft around if you wanted to.”

  I held it up. “I don’t think I’m the wafting type,” I said.

  Darcy was staring at the floor. “Someone else wanted to get first dibs on costumes, I see. Look at the footprints. Someone has been up here before us.” He pointed at the row of neat footprints in the dust.

  “Probably just Lady Hawse-Gorzley or one of the maids sent up to make sure the costumes were brushed and clean.” I put back the Wild Sal outfit.

  “Pity there’s no Charles the Second,” Darcy said, “because you could borrow some oranges from downstairs and be Nell Gwynne in this dress.” He held it out to me. “Rather a daring bodice, don’t you think? But then, Nell never did mind displaying her oranges.”

  I could see that we were getting nowhere. “Look,” I said. “How about this? We could go as gypsies. I’m sure there are red scarves and big golden earrings in the dressing-up box downstairs.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being a gypsy,” he agreed. “I’ve always rather fancied the outdoor life.”

  “Good. Then that’s settled.” I handed him an outfit with baggy trousers, lacy white shirt and black waistcoat. “Let’s go find Monty.”

  Darcy sighed and followed me down the stairs.

  Chapter 28

  DECEMBER 28

  A half hour later we had picked up my grandfather and were ready to embark upon a day of detecting.

  “We should start with the first death,” I said. “You don’t happen to know which tree in the orchard it was, do you?”

  “Haven’t got a clue, ducks,” my granddad said. “But we could take a butcher’s if you like.”

  “A butcher’s?” I asked.

  “Butcher’s hook—rhyming slang for look.”

  “I’ll never get the hang of rhyming slang,” I said. “It seems to take twice as long to say something as the actual word it represents.”

  “Ah, well, the object is that the toffs don’t understand what we’re talking about,” he said.” Rhyming slang and then back slang before it. Private language in a crowded city.”