Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 11
Reluctantly, Emily crawls over and strokes the dog, still sniffing. David leans in, his voice low.
‘I had to tell her,’ he says. ‘Everyone’s so indiscreet, they were all talking about the murder at breakfast – Emily’s a bright child. She’s been asking questions.’
‘You told her Penelope was murdered?’
David shakes his head, horrified. ‘No, no – I said she’d died during the night, that we weren’t sure how. But I told Emily she should stay close to me, and I suppose she’s seen enough on TV to put two and two together. Now she’s convinced there’s a “bad man” at Mistletoe Manor, and says she won’t sleep. You try and do the right thing …’ He sighs heavily. Nick feels deeply sorry for him.
‘Might Matilda be able to help, do you think? They seem to have a bond.’
Nick glances over to the honesty bar, where Matilda is pouring herself a modest glass of sherry. Her scarlet dress glows in the pale, snow-filtered light of the drawing room.
‘Maybe.’ David rubs a hand across his face. He looks shattered. ‘I don’t think anything will really help until we can get out of here.’
‘Where will you go for Christmas now?’
‘Back home, I suppose,’ David says. ‘If I can get us on a flight. Though it’s not much of a Christmas for her, is it? That’s why I booked us in here – I thought it might be a bit jollier for Em than being stuck at home with me as usual.’
Nick wonders if David had plans in Britain over Christmas – do they return every year, perhaps to see relations? He’s about to ask, but David puts a hand over his face and gives a deep, shuddering sigh. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s just … it’s hard to know what to do for the best.’
Nick feels for the guy, as well as Emily. David’s doing all he can, and his Christmas is in ruins.
‘We’ll try and make things OK for her while we’re here,’ Nick says. ‘Play board games. Act normal.’
‘That’s kind.’ David gives him a weak smile. ‘Onwards and sideways, eh?’
They both look up as Matilda returns.
‘Good morning, Nick,’ she says, lifting her small, lead-crystal glass to him. The sherry twinkles amber in the firelight. ‘I know one shouldn’t drink at my age, but after what’s happened … needs must. Will you join me?’
‘Why not?’ Nick stands. ‘David?’
‘Go on then.’ There’s a complicit atmosphere of indulgence between them as Nick pours two small glasses. How strange, he thinks, that we’re still drawn to our little festive traditions, even under such hideous circumstances.
‘Now, Nick.’ Matilda leans forward. ‘I believe you’ve been asking all sorts of questions of everyone.’
His heart sinks. Is she about to suggest he’s out of line? If so, he’s going to have to argue. She smiles at him.
‘I’m feeling rather left out,’ she says. ‘Can I be interviewed, too?’
He laughs with relief. ‘Of course. In public or private?’
‘We could go into the small sitting room at the back,’ suggests Matilda.
‘There’s a sitting room?’ Destiny asks, annoyed. ‘I had no idea. It might be perfect for my morning meditation.’
Matilda looks sceptical. ‘It’s not awfully large. It’s rather a nice little room if one needs a retreat from the hurly-burly of the drawing room, though.’
Matilda knows Mistletoe Manor well, Nick realises. She’ll be a very useful person to speak to.
‘Have you got a few minutes now?’ he asks, and she rises stiffly, carrying her sherry, and leads him from the drawing room and back out into the icy hall.
‘I wonder why Donal doesn’t light the fire in here?’ he asks as she shivers at the sudden change in temperature.
‘The Yule log,’ says Matilda, indicating the large, dry branch in the grate. It looks dusty and etiolated. ‘It must only be lit on Christmas Eve. An old tradition, I believe.’
He wonders again why it can’t simply be set aside while a normal fire is lit, but she’s leading him past the drooping Christmas tree to the other side of the stairs, through a door he’d assumed concealed a large cupboard, and into another red-carpeted corridor. The air smells of faded potpourri and lavender wax, and the old doors here are unpainted, with small, brass-framed labels written in faded, copperplate handwriting: ‘Housekeeper’s Storeroom’, ‘Laundering’.
‘This is the part of the manor most guests don’t know about,’ Matilda explains. ‘But we are certainly permitted to use the sitting room.’
She opens a door on the left and leads him into a cosy space containing a striped sofa and two sagging green armchairs. The fireplace holds nothing but an embroidered fire-screen, but the radiator in the corner is clanking, and the air is warm. Nick glimpses their faces in the gilt-framed, age-spotted mirror above the mantelpiece as they sit, and wonders who else has been reflected in the century or more since it was hung there.
The light, brocade-papered walls are hung with framed collections of tropical butterflies pinned to black velvet, each one labelled by a spidery, long-dead hand.
‘Now,’ says Matilda, ‘what would you like to know? As I said, I’m afraid I may not be able to tell you a great deal – as you’re aware, us elderly ladies do suffer with our hearing.’
‘Well.’ Nick feels ridiculous, his hulking frame crammed into a dainty armchair, this vulnerable widow who hoped for a quiet Christmas forced to answer his questions like a thuggish suspect. ‘I’m sorry your Christmas has been wrecked,’ he says.
Matilda smiles. ‘When you get to my age, Christmas isn’t a great excitement, you know. I’m a bit beyond striped stockings on the mantelpiece and “Has he been?”’
Nick laughs. ‘But you were hoping for a pleasant break.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Matilda thinks for a moment. ‘It’s Emily I feel sorry for, really. Children remember every Christmas, don’t they? For adults, they all tend to blur into one.’
‘I don’t suppose any of us will forget this one.’
‘No, perhaps not. I suppose you’ll want to know if I knew the Mitchells, or if I hold a terrible grudge against Americans or something, won’t you?’
‘Did you know them?’
Matilda shakes her head. ‘I’ve never met them in my life. This year, I don’t know anyone, although of course I’ve met the staff in previous years. I was surprised to see Donal and Colt still here actually; I thought they might have moved on.’
‘Any reason?’
‘No, no.’ Matilda sips her sherry. ‘Just that they’re young, and they’re stuck out here in the countryside.’
‘I had the impression they like it that way,’ says Nick. ‘So who was here when you arrived?’
‘Nobody,’ Matilda says promptly. ‘I got here first, the day before you all turned up. I rather enjoyed having the place to myself, and of course, it hadn’t yet started snowing. I was planning a little walk down the riverbank, perhaps a trip to Haworth and a potter around the Brontë parsonage … but it wasn’t to be.’
‘There were no other guests?’
She shakes her head. ‘I imagine the previous people had already gone home for Christmas. And once the snow set in, the rest of the staff did too.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘Only Carol, the housekeeper. The waiters are an ever-changing bunch.’
‘What’s she like?’ Nick wonders whether Carol, who has keys to every room and must know the place inside out, might need to be added to his list of suspects. He forms a brief mental picture of Mrs Danvers in Hitchcock’s film of Rebecca, triumphantly gazing from the upstairs window as she creates havoc.
‘Oh, she’s a dear little thing. Only in her thirties, mum to twin daughters and a little boy,’ Matilda says. ‘I see her bobbing about with her cloths and polish, but she doesn’t live in, of course, she’s down in the village. We were talking about Christmas – she was setting off for Scotland the day I arrived, to spend it with family. I do so hope she arrived safely in all this snow,’ she adds fretfully.
Nick mentally crosses Carol off the list. ‘How did you meet Penelope?’
‘I don’t know – I think they were just there at lunch. Yes, that’s right – it was before Donal had pushed the tables together, and I was dining on my own. They came in and I said hello, of course. It was just beginning to snow so we talked about the weather – they’d driven from the airport in a hired car, I think.’
She taps her oval, pink-shellacked nails on her knee, trying to remember.
‘Yes, Penelope said how warm it was in LA in December, and mentioned that they were going to Devon to see her boy. I said it was a long way in the snow, and she said she wasn’t looking forward to the journey. Then Donal came in with menus and so on, and we ate separately, and I suppose they went to their room and the others began to turn up through the afternoon.’
‘Did you overhear what they were talking about at lunchtime?’
She gives him a quizzical look. ‘I’m not in the habit of eavesdropping, young man. I was reading my novel.’
Nick sighs inwardly. ‘I assume you didn’t hear anything that night?’
‘Not a thing. I usually have a small nightcap at around ten, and I sleep like the de—’ She stops. ‘I’m sure you know what I mean.’
‘When you were finding your Secret Santa gift, did you see anyone else?’
‘I saw Branson coming out of a room,’ she says. ‘I assumed it was his own, but it’s not where Penelope was found.’
‘Yes, he explained that they sleep in separate rooms because of his snoring. He was in Rowan.’
Matilda widens her pale eyes. ‘Oh no, he wasn’t,’ she says. ‘He was coming out of Laburnum. That’s on quite a different corridor – it overlooks the gardens.’
Nick stares at her. ‘Did he have anything with him? Anyone?’
‘Not that I could see. But he was glancing about, as though he’d prefer not to be seen. When he saw me coming, he seemed quite normal.’
‘Perhaps he was just looking for Violet’s gift.’
‘Yes, perhaps he was,’ says Matilda, but she sets the remains of her sherry aside, and her expression is unusually troubled.
Lunch is a subdued meal, with quiches and salads laid out for them. ‘Not very festive, is it?’ Lorraine grumbles, piling coleslaw on to her plate. ‘You want massive stews and pies at Christmas, not flaming picky bits.’
Nick wonders if the food currently consists of whatever ensures Colt doesn’t have to visit the outhouse again. He can’t blame him, if so.
‘Now then, Nick,’ says Alan, stabbing a fork in the air, ‘we’ve been wondering about a telly. None of us have one in our rooms, but it’s hard to believe a place this size hasn’t got a single one.’
‘I was thinking the same,’ Nick agrees. ‘Perhaps I can have a look round after lunch, see if Donal has any suggestions. Even a radio might be useful.’
‘Good man.’ Alan nods, satisfied. ‘This snow can’t go on for much longer.’
‘I mean, it can,’ says Destiny, pouring herself a glass of water. ‘Climate crisis is happening right now, Mother Earth is crying in pain as we burn and pillage …’
‘You don’t believe in that, do you?’ Violet asks scornfully. ‘It’s long been proven that climate change is a myth. Weather is a natural cycle; it’s not this great disaster everyone seems to—’
‘Oh, really? Then how do you explain the vast numbers of climate refugees, burning deserts, biblical floods?’ Destiny snaps. ‘How do you explain the disastrous forest fires across Australia and California?’
‘Funny, I’ve been to California quite recently,’ says Violet. ‘Everything looked perfectly fine to me.’
‘Ladies!’ David leans across, distressed. ‘We can’t start falling out; we have to pull together. It’s the only way we’ll get through this. Can we simply agree to differ?’
‘It’s hard to agree to differ with an idiot,’ says Violet under her breath, but Gaia barks shrilly as Donal returns with a platter of sliced Christmas cake, and Destiny doesn’t hear her. They turn from each other, and talk moves on to where Lorraine and Alan’s daughter will think they are, how worried she’ll be, and how they’ll make it up to her and the kiddies when they finally reach her house. It seems to involve a lot of expensive gifts.
Matilda is at the far end, reading her novel. Marking Time by Elizabeth Jane Howard – Nick’s mother-in-law loves her books. He wonders if Harriet will go to her parents’ if he’s not back by Christmas Day. But he will be, of course. He can’t allow fear to creep in.
As he chomps through the cake, having picked off the marzipan (You’re like a child, says Harriet in his head. So fussy), Nick is aware of something niggling at him. Something about Violet …
California. She was in California ‘quite recently’. He must ask her why she was there. Could she possibly have known Penelope after all, he wonders – and could Penelope have hurt her in some way? I know what you did.
17
More than twenty-four hours since the body was found, and he feels no further on in his investigations. Perhaps he should back down, Nick thinks gloomily, let someone else have a try.
But first, he’ll turn the place upside down and find a TV. He’s on his way from the dining room, about to begin the search, when Donal pokes his head out of the office and beckons to him.
‘Listen,’ says Donal in a low voice, ‘I might have found something.’
Nick stops, his heart thumping. ‘What?’
Donal glances behind Nick, to where Lorraine has bent to stroke Jingle. ‘Can’t say now,’ he says. ‘Meet me in the library in twenty minutes.’
‘OK. Donal, are there any televisions in the place?’
Donal pulls a face. ‘Never seen one. Another thing the owner doesn’t like, apparently. Me and Colt just watch films and stuff on our phones.’
‘Mind if I have a look round, see if there’s a radio or something?’
‘Be my guest. But I doubt it.’
Donal retreats into the office, and Nick trudges upstairs. Should he have agreed to meet Donal alone? If he’s the killer, the library is tucked away enough to muffle a shout or scream. Perhaps Nick should enlist David to come with him – but he won’t want to leave Emily and put himself at risk. He feels cowardly for even considering that the slight young man, who has only ever shown him consideration, could be plotting his murder – but despite Destiny’s questionable take on spirituality, her reading of him seems accurate. Donal does appear to be wearing a mask of bland politeness at all times. Even in the face of murder.
Upstairs, Nick tries a few door handles, but all the guest rooms are now locked. Hardly surprising, with a killer roaming the manor. The unoccupied rooms he looks into are empty of anything but their slightly dusty furniture, though each, he notes, has a painting over the bed featuring mistletoe.
The others have once again gathered around the drawing-room fire, so he should have free rein to search further. Nick passes Penelope’s room, and sees the door that must lead to Colt’s room and perhaps other staff quarters. It’s unlocked, and opens on to a narrow flight of polished, uncarpeted oak stairs.
He treads quietly upwards, and emerges on the second floor of the manor, which is clearly not designed for guests. The corridor is laid with cheap, grey office carpet, there’s a naked bulb in the harsh overhead light and, unlike the lavish landscapes and portraits which line the guest areas, here the white walls are bare.
With a stab of guilt, Nick tries the handle of the room nearest the stairs, which he guesses belongs to Colt. It opens on to a small, square room, containing a single bed with a blue-striped duvet. There’s a 1960s French film poster Blu-Tacked to the wall, and on the desk beneath the window is an iPad, a couple of phone chargers, a half-empty can of Red Bull and a scatter of toiletries. In the bin, there’s a crumpled cigarette packet and a handful of receipts. Nick picks one out and smooths it, but it’s only from the local garage a few days ago, for crisps and soft drinks. Quickly, wondering what he expected, he tosses it back.
There’s no thick paper or envelopes, and certainly no traces of gold wrapping paper. In the little chest of drawers, there are a few clean chefs’ whites and checked trousers, a spare pair of kitchen Crocs underneath, and a tangle of boxers, jeans and T-shirts in the laundry bag shoved behind it. There’s no trace of blood – it’s a neat, minimal bedroom belonging to someone whose life is largely lived elsewhere in the building. Nick feels a wash of hot shame and leaves quickly, clicking the door shut behind him.
The next door leads to a cleaner’s closet, stacked with mops and bulk supplies, and another further down must be Donal’s room, Nick realises, as the door is firmly locked. The last door, at the end of the corridor, opens on to a storeroom.
Labelled boxes and moth-proof bags – ‘Cushions’, ‘Old towels’ – are stacked high against the windowless walls, looking very much as if they’ve been there for years. There are a couple of broken chairs, a rolled Persian rug and, he notices, an old, splintered tea-chest labelled ‘Christmas decs and costumes’.
Nick lifts the lid away and peers in. Coils of dulled silver tinsel, a few dusty baubles too heavy to hang on the tree, and a couple of costumes that look as though they were made for a long-ago nativity play: one with feathered wings and a silver-foil halo. Whatever the killer wore to stab Penelope, he or she didn’t hide it up here. And there are no televisions or radios, either. Sighing, Nick replaces the crate’s lid and returns to the back stairs.
As he opens the door to the guest corridor, he stops. Someone is walking away, towards the other end. The light is dim, but he can see it’s a man – thick-set, tall. Branson.
Nick watches as the American turns the corner at the end, passing Rowan without a glance. Nick hurries after him, treading as lightly as possible on the parquet, practising an expression of friendly surprise, should Branson turn and spot him. At the end of the corridor, Nick stops and flattens himself against the wall, feeling ludicrous, like a child playing cops and robbers. He peers round the corner. There’s now no sign of the other man, so Nick heads down the corridor, checking the doors. Outside Laburnum, he pauses and leans towards the panelled door. He can hear voices inside – Branson’s gravelly rumble, and a higher-pitched tone, which sounds upset.
