Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 10
Donal silently pours Branson a coffee from the silver pot and slides it towards him.
‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through,’ he says gently. ‘Are you all right, Destiny?’ he adds, glancing at the half-grapefruit on her plate.
‘I suppose so,’ she says grudgingly. ‘Considering.’
‘Will there be anyone worried about where you are?’ Nick asks.
Destiny shrugs. ‘If they are worried, so be it,’ she says gnomically.
He thinks again of the outfit she wore as she arrived – the tiny, soaked ballet shoes and the flimsy fabric. Who doesn’t wear a coat and boots to go out in the snow, even if they are teaching a yoga class?
He’s about to ask her, and risk more sulking, when Lorraine asks, ‘Where’s Violet?’ with sudden fear icing her tone. ‘We’re all here except for her.’
‘I can check,’ offers Donal. ‘She’s probably just getting ready.’
Nick feels a sinking sensation in his chest. Surely not another one. Donal is heading for the door when they hear light footsteps in the corridor, and Violet appears, still in her silk dressing gown. There’s a murmur of relief.
‘Oh my God, the most horrific night.’ She addresses the room like an actress commanding a key scene of the play. ‘I thought every tiny sound was the murderer coming for me. I finally conked out at dawn, and then I overslept. Sorry if I scared you all.’
‘Just glad you’re here now!’ calls Alan, eyeing her slim figure. Nick glances at Branson, crouched over his coffee, and is surprised to see that the expression on his crumpled face is not so much one of relief, but anger.
During their subdued breakfast, during which Emily secretly feeds Gaia pieces of sausage under the table and Nick silently cheers her on, Violet nods at him, her hands wrapped round a cup of Earl Grey tea.
‘Want a chat about my movements?’ she asks, almost flirtatiously, then sees his face and drops the sparkling-ingénue act. ‘Actually, Nick, I’d like to talk with everyone here,’ she says more soberly. ‘It means we’re all on the same page. I don’t fancy these leftovers,’ she adds, surveying the ravaged remains of the breakfast buffet. ‘Donal, could you bring me a croissant?’
Slightly taken aback, Donal agrees and hurries off. Nick wonders who will pay for all this largesse afterwards. He’s now feeling hopeful that after last night’s lack of violence, the murderer has achieved his or her aim – and that it was, in fact, all about Penelope.
Unless you get close to the truth and they come for you, says a small voice inside him. You’ll be leaving Harriet and Cara forever, because you couldn’t leave it alone and wait for the police … but all the same, he has to try.
The snow is higher still against the long, paned window, the flakes tracing frosted patterns against the glass. The others sit quietly, as if waiting for the show to start as Violet sets her cup down and folds her arms.
‘Ready, detective?’ she asks.
Nick feels embarrassed. He doesn’t want an ‘us and them’ atmosphere, with himself cast as the heavy-handed detective, everyone else the secretive suspects. He’d much rather have spoken to Violet alone. He’s aware, however, that suspicions are drifting and re-forming like murmurations of starlings, and it’s essential to demonstrate that he’s got nothing to hide.
15
‘Fire away,’ Violet says. ‘I mean, I didn’t kill Penelope, obviously, but I do understand that you need to talk to us all.’
‘Thanks.’ Nick feels almost grateful to her, after Destiny’s open hostility. ‘It must have been so upsetting to open the star.’
‘Oh my God.’ Violet stares at him with wide grey eyes. ‘It was horrific. I keep thinking about it – getting her blood on my hand. I feel it’ll never come off, like Lady Macbeth. I’ve had about nine showers, and it still doesn’t feel enough.’
‘Hideous.’ Lorraine shudders. ‘It can’t have been any of us, surely?’
‘You think someone’s hiding in the manor, Lorri?’ asks Alan scathingly. ‘Creeping about all night and crouching in the laundry basket all day?’
‘Oh God, don’t.’ Lorraine gives a theatrical shudder. ‘No, but I mean, there’s the chef …’
Branson nods. ‘I’d like to get a handle on him, for sure.’
Nick fears a lynch mob building and swiftly turns to David. ‘What made Emily think of the Secret Santa idea?’
‘It’s just something we do at work, at our surgery in Durban,’ David says.
‘Durban?’’ repeats Destiny. ‘You don’t live in England?’
He shakes his head. ‘We moved to South Africa when Emily was a baby, after … Anyway, it’s fun. Well, it was. All the surgery staff join in and Emily takes part. We try and match the person with the present …’
‘So when did the gold parcel arrive on the coffee table, do you think, Lorraine?’
She sighs. ‘It must have been when we were all racing about, looking for our gifts, I suppose. I didn’t really notice because everyone just threw theirs on to the pile.’
‘Any idea where the gold wrapping paper came from?’ Nick asks. She shakes her head, and Violet shrugs.
‘I asked Donal, but he said it was new to him.’
Has Donal been looking for traces of the wrapping paper in their rooms? Surely the killer wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave any scraps. Did they take the paper the note was written on, too?
Nick suddenly remembers the pen he slipped into his pocket yesterday.
‘David,’ he says, wary of alerting Emily to adult dissent. She’s poking bits of egg under the table and, judging by the sounds emerging, Gaia is grateful. Nick lowers his voice. ‘The pen you gave me during the Secret Santa …’
David looks alarmed. ‘It was Donal’s, I think,’ he says. ‘It was just sitting on his desk, in the hall.’
Nick removes the pen from his jeans and studies it. It’s slim, silver, with a rollerball tip. He uncaps it, and makes a stroke on the paper serviette before him.
‘Black ink,’ he says.
David meets his eye. ‘It was in the hall,’ he repeats. ‘I suppose anyone could have used it the previous night, and put it back.’
‘Or it was another pen altogether,’ says Nick. But this one belongs to Donal, the man who is now smiling professionally as he presents Violet with a croissant, butter and a minuscule pot of jam.
Nick turns to her. ‘Did you know any of the guests before you arrived?’
‘God, no.’ Violet laughs. ‘Like I said, I’m only here because I was meant to be spending a couple of days with my … well, whatever he is.’ She trails off.
‘Married?’ Destiny asks. Clearly, she lacks Nick’s compunction when it comes to embarrassing Violet.
Violet glances around the group, and nods. ‘’Fraid so. It’s hard being a woman who wants a decent man,’ she says sadly. ‘They’re all snapped up by thirty, and single men my own age are total idiots.’ She blows gently on the surface of her tea.
Nick notices Lorraine and Alan exchanging a glance, but he can’t read its meaning. The others are staring fixedly at their laps, or into their coffee.
Nick waits.
‘It’s just … well, I’ll be honest with you, I’m mad about him, and I thought he was about me, but with Christmas coming, he seemed to be cooling off a bit. It’s such a familyish time, isn’t it? Everyone’s safe in their little sparkly nests, pretending like crazy that everything’s wonderful. It’s tough for the rest of us.’
‘So you booked the trip here?’
‘Yes. I was desperate to see him before the holidays, and I thought he’d like it. He loves old-timey British stuff, and I know you’re all judging me, but honestly, he’s not happily married. He just feels guilty and he’s not ready to leave her yet. They don’t even sleep together any more.’
Nick almost groans. Does Violet not realise what a steaming pile of married-man effluent she’s wading through? Perhaps not – she’s young, and clearly optimistic.
‘So when did you arrive to meet him?’
‘The afternoon of the day you got here. Day before yesterday,’ Violet says. ‘He was supposed to be coming in time for dinner, and staying with me for two nights, but …’
The snow, perhaps, thinks Nick. Or, just as likely, he changed his mind.
‘I just thought it would be so festive and lovely to be together,’ she says. ‘Snow, and open fires, and Christmas decorations …’ She trails off.
‘Where are you going for Christmas?’
‘My dad’s, in Wales,’ she says. ‘He’s OK but my step-siblings are much younger than me. They drive me nuts. So I was sort of relying on having some happy Mistletoe Manor memories to get me through it.’ She flashes a crooked smile. ‘That turned out well, didn’t it?’
Lorraine raises an eyebrow and asks, ‘Did you know Penelope at all?’
Violet shakes her head. ‘Of course not – I told you, I’d never met any of you. I just thought it looked like a nice, cosy hotel, so I booked.’
‘Did you chat to Penelope that evening?’
‘Not about anything. Just “Hello, where are you from?” type stuff. She mentioned that they’d come from LA, so I asked her about that. She said she’d married Branson and they’d moved there almost straight away after the wedding. She seemed to love it there … Said it was “the perfect escape”.’
Branson looks away, his expression haunted.
‘Escape,’ Nick repeats. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘Oh, I think she just meant in the sense of a sunny getaway, you know, not being stuck in freezing old England. God help the poor woman.’
A silence falls as Donal collects plates and stacks cups on the trolley. Nick excuses himself and slips into the hall. He needs a moment to think. He’s surprised to find that Violet follows him out.
‘I need to ask you something,’ she whispers, standing by the cold grate. A draught whispers through the space, and she shivers.
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think Branson killed her?’
‘He seems pretty grief-stricken,’ says Nick quietly. ‘I’m not sure anyone can act that well. But he certainly had the opportunity.’
‘It’s always the husband,’ says Violet. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
Nick wonders how many more people will say that to him before they discover the killer – and whether, in this case at least, they might be right.
Only Destiny and Gaia are in the drawing room when he returns from fruitlessly checking his phone signal again. Jingle is perched on the arm of the sofa, rhythmically kneading its worn velvet, but Nick hasn’t the heart to stop him. The cat’s lamp-like yellow gaze is fixed on the dog, who is lying on the hearthrug with one wary eye half open.
‘Where is everyone?’
Destiny waves a vague hand. ‘Gone to their rooms, I think. Lorraine said she was going to pack – she’s convinced the police will come today,’ she adds scornfully.
‘Don’t you think they will?’
‘Look at it, Nick.’ Destiny gestures impatiently to the snowy windowpane. ‘I nearly died out there the other night. I was hallucinating. I collapsed. It’s ten times deeper now, and they don’t even know we’re here.’
She’s right, he knows. Their best hope is that the snow will stop falling and begin to melt, or that someone will manage to reach the broken phone mast and fix it.
‘What were you planning for Christmas?’ he asks her. ‘I assume you live nearby.’
‘I don’t do Christmas. It’s a capitalist frenzy. Buy, buy, buy, watch TV for days, eat till you’re sick, drink till you’re unconscious. It actually disgusts me. There’s no spirituality, no grace.’
He thinks of the Hogarthian scenes of excess he jostles through on his commute home in December, and accepts that Destiny might have a point.
‘Gaia and I usually go on retreat,’ Destiny goes on. ‘A friend has a cottage up near Hebden, and she’s away for the whole month, so we hole up. I practise gratitude, meditate, read. I do some soul-writing, take long, mindful winter walks. It’s good for the spirit; you should try it.’ She sighs. ‘I know you think I’m a credulous idiot, Nick, but trust me, I’ve been through some dark stuff and my approach to life now is a great deal healthier than the usual Western-world “blot it all out with food, drink and drugs” solution.’
‘I know it is,’ Nick says. He finds himself feeling a grudging respect for her, despite her lack of humour and her loathing of his profession. ‘Look, while you’re here,’ he continues, ‘do you have any thoughts on what happened to Penelope, or why? I’m interested in everyone’s perspectives, anything you might have seen or heard.’
‘If I knew anything, I’d have said so,’ Destiny says. She urgently pats her knee for Gaia to jump up, as though she can’t manage a mildly stressful conversation without the little dog on her lap. Jingle watches the crooning and cuddling for a moment, then stalks towards Nick and settles down on his knees. He feels both peculiarly honoured and calmed by the vibrating purr emanating from the cat’s warm body.
‘Which room are you in?’
‘Why?’ She glares at him.
‘Because I’m trying to work out where everyone was the night Penelope was killed. If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll ask Donal,’ he says, irritated.
‘Fine. I’m in Elm. It’s on the same corridor as Hawthorn, three doors down, but I didn’t hear a thing. I wear ear-plugs at night.’
Nick sighs, inwardly. Another one. ‘So the first you knew of her death was …’
‘Exactly when you knew of it. When Violet unwrapped that disgusting Christmas parcel and you all ran to check on her.’
He nods. ‘Am I right in thinking the two of you had never met?’
Destiny rolls her huge brown eyes, and the hand stroking Gaia’s head speeds up. ‘You know perfectly well that we hadn’t. I was soaked through, probably about to come down with pneumonia—’
Nick longs to remind her that pneumonia is caused by a virus or bacteria, not getting caught in the snow, but can only imagine the ringing accusations of mansplaining that will follow. He nods sympathetically.
‘You were teaching a yoga class in this weather?’ he asks, thinking about the driving snow, the relentless darkness.
Destiny shrugs. ‘It’s my main income. A couple of people said they’d try and make it, so …’
‘Where do you teach?’
She shoots him an irritated glance. ‘What does it matter? It’s not as if you’d know it.’
Nick nods. ‘Just curious. You didn’t have a coat or boots on …’
‘I left home in a hurry,’ she says. ‘It’s not a crime.’
No, thinks Nick. But it is very peculiar.
‘So, Penelope …’ he says. He’ll come back to Destiny’s outfit later.
‘Penelope was very kind. I’m shorter than she is – was,’ Destiny corrects herself, closing her eyes in sorrow, ‘But we were about the same size. I went up to her room, and she got some things out of the wardrobe, I shut myself in the bathroom to put them on, went and hung up my wet things in my own room, and that was it.’
‘Did you talk at all?’
‘“This might fit. Try this jumper”,’ says Destiny. ‘In-depth communication like that.’ She seems determined to be unhelpful.
‘You didn’t ask her about her stay here, or Christmas plans?’
‘She was going to Devon to see her family. But you know that.’
‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to harm her?’
‘Obviously not.’ Nick waits for her to say, But it’s always the husband.
To his surprise, she blinks hard, then says, ‘I have my eye on Donal, you know.’
‘Any reason?’ He expects her to say, I received an ancestral heart-message, or, He makes Gaia’s ears twitch when he enters her sacred space, but Destiny pauses, and says, ‘He’s too calm. The rest of us are scared to death. Yes, we’re all dealing with it in different ways, some are crying, some have shut down, some are seeking comfort in alcohol. You’re coping by intellectualising the problem.’
Nick feels momentarily glad that Harriet isn’t here, nodding violently: Because that’s what he always bloody does!
‘And,’ Destiny goes on, ‘everyone’s responses are very normal in the face of trauma and threat. Except for Donal’s. I haven’t seen him shed a tear, or lose his temper, or even look upset. He just carries on like a First World War officer in the trenches, being brave and stoical. I’m telling you, it’s not normal.’
‘He was a bit irritated with me last night. I asked him a few things and he shut my questions down.’
Destiny raises a perfect black eyebrow. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’
‘You think I should speak to him again?’
‘If you want to find the killer, I think you should speak to all of us, as many times as you need to,’ says Destiny. ‘I did another spread with the cards when I went upstairs last night. I asked them where we’d find the murderer, and do you know what they said?’
Nick shakes his head. She’s going to tell him anyway.
‘Close to home.’
‘But we’re all trapped in the same place. Where else would we find them?’
Destiny sighs. ‘Mistletoe Manor’s not our home, is it? It’s Donal’s, though.’
‘It’s Colt’s, too.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
Nick thinks about the charismatic young chef, his honesty and openness.
‘Honestly? No.’
‘Well, all we have at the moment is instinct,’ says Destiny. ‘And mine is that you need to keep a very close eye on Donal. Because whether or not he killed Penelope, I’m certain he’s got something to hide.’
16
The others trickle back in gradually, and Nick is surprised to see Emily holding David’s hand, her face blotchy with tears.
‘What’s wrong?’ he mouths, and David pulls a regretful expression as he seats himself.
‘Go and see Gaia,’ he murmurs to his daughter. ‘Look, she’s on the rug. I bet she’d like to play.’
