Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 19
Nick rubs his face and heaves a long sigh. He allows himself to think about Harriet. He’s imagining her arms around him, her thick tangle of hair brushing his cheek, when he’s jerked upright by the sound of violent coughing from Matilda’s room. It sounds as though she’s choking.
Heart thumping, Nick automatically reaches into his pocket for the keys, then he remembers. ‘David!’
There’s no reply to his shout. Why did he agree to hand them over? There isn’t time to run downstairs, Matilda is gasping and spluttering on the other side of the door.
‘I’m coming in!’ he calls, then he lifts his foot and kicks hard alongside the lock. The door is solid, panelled oak. It was built to last. He kicks again and feels a shooting pain sear through his ankle. This time, the lock splinters and, after a final, agonising kick, the door flies open.
28
Matilda is slumped against the pillows, wheezing. The violent choking has stopped, but she’s still comatose. Her eyes are closed and she shows no awareness that someone’s just kicked her bedroom door in.
Nick hurries to her side, hoping she won’t wake up and scream at the sight of him.
He lifts her fragile wrist from the bedspread and measures her pulse. To his relief, it seems steady. Her breathing is gradually quieting, and her cheeks have a little colour. Nick lets out a long breath.
‘Matilda,’ he whispers. He wants her to turn on to her side, so she won’t choke again. ‘Mattie.’
There’s no response. Nick gives her shoulder a light shake, but Matilda remains unconscious. Is she in a coma? He wonders if he should fetch David, and turns to see him hovering in the doorway. ‘My God, Nick, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t hear you shout – a few of us heard you kicking the door, though. Is she …?’
‘She’s still here,’ Nick says. The adrenalin hit has drained away, leaving him shaken.
‘Look, go and have a breather,’ David suggests. ‘I’ll stay here, check her vitals, and take my chances that she’ll survive.’
‘If she doesn’t …’
‘She will.’ David is firm. ‘Go on, you look done in. I’ll leave the door open.’
David hands Nick the keys, and settles in the small, striped armchair across from the bed, and Nick returns the chair he’s been sitting in to his own room. As he’s about to leave, he hears a small movement around the corner leading to Laburnum, Violet’s room. Jingle, he thinks, waiting to see the cat appear. He could do with the comfort of stroking him.
Nick waits, puzzled, but the noise comes no closer. He wonders if the cat has simply settled down in the corridor. He creeps to the door and peers round. There’s no sign of Jingle. As he scans the shadows, a door opens further down and Violet steps out backwards, still speaking to somebody inside.
Branson? Nick flattens himself against the wall, straining to hear, but her whispers are low, and the replies equally muted. He hurries back to his room in time to slip inside before Violet passes. Nick waits for a moment after she’s gone, and is rewarded by the click of a bedroom door and footsteps. He’s expecting to see Branson’s bulk hurrying towards the stairs. Instead, Nick sees that Violet’s companion is much smaller and slimmer than the American.
As he watches through the spy hole, light catches the passer-by’s profile – and Nick is startled to see that it’s Destiny.
Downstairs, despite his puzzlement, and his concern for Matilda, Nick makes his way to the small sitting room with the butterflies, sinks on to the chaise, and falls asleep almost instantly, dreaming of Harriet. She’s calling, ‘It’s easy, Nick, you’re just not looking the right way!’ but he’s on a bicycle and it’s wobbling along an icy towpath. He’s gaining speed, going faster and faster until the scenery is a blur and Harriet’s shouts are distant cries, he’s ringing his bicycle bell frantically, then he hits a bump and shoots upright, gasping, before he plunges into the water.
Jingle is sitting on his chest again, violently licking his paws as his bell tinkles. Destiny has clearly given his collar back.
‘What time is it?’ Nick asks the cat, who only gazes at him, a gnomic creature from a different plane. The fire has died, and while the shutters are open, outside it’s now dark, and the room is cold. Evening again. The day after tomorrow will be Christmas Eve, and Nick can’t contemplate not being home by then. If he has to, he thinks fiercely, he’ll walk back to London.
In the hall, where the tree looks more melancholy than ever, merely an echo of festivity with its drooping branches and sparse decorations, Nick is relieved to hear the low hum of talk drifting from the dining room. Nothing disastrous has occurred in his absence and, according to the clock above Donal’s desk, as he still thinks of it, it’s just after five.
He wonders whether to check first on Matilda, but as he stands irresolute in the hall, David appears, holding Emily’s hand.
‘Hello, Nick,’ she says. ‘I got to hold Gaia while Destiny had a bath.’
‘And now we’re going to the library to find a jigsaw.’ David smiles down at her.
Nick wonders how much he can say in front of Emily.
‘Is Matilda …?’
‘Up and about,’ says David to Nick’s surprise. ‘Much recovered – she’s in the drawing room; she wants to thank you.’
‘Here he is,’ Violet calls as Nick enters the room.
Heads turn and Matilda half rises from her chair. She looks frail but improved, her hair brushed and styled into its usual chic white bob, a touch of make-up, her dress a smart royal blue with a brooch in the shape of a glittering snowflake.
‘I’m so glad you’ve recovered,’ says Nick, relief coursing through him at the sight of her.
‘Mostly thanks to you.’ Matilda smiles, reaching for him and clasping his wrist in her warm, papery hand. ‘David told me you broke in when I was choking. I’ve no memory of it, I’m afraid, but I can’t thank you enough.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Nick feels embarrassed. ‘Besides, you were OK, thankfully. I just checked on you and then David came up.’
‘But you see, I might not have been.’
Violet compresses her lips. ‘I’m not prepared to risk eating another thing that man cooks,’ she says. ‘I was already suspicious, but now …’
Destiny nods. ‘We don’t want to be poisoned,’ she says. ‘And we’re starting to think the murderer might be Colt.’
Having held a summit meeting earlier, Violet and Destiny explain they are ‘scared’.
‘We went over everything,’ Violet says. ‘And we both think it can’t be anyone else. You need to tell him, Nick. We’re doing our own cooking from now on.’
The two of them seem to have gone from sceptical enmity to supportive sisterhood in an afternoon. Perhaps because they’re of a similar age, they’re finally finding comfort in one another, he thinks. Adversity creates strange bedfellows.
Nick makes his way to the kitchen with a heart as heavy as his footsteps, longing for a reprieve. He knows everyone is a suspect, he’s aware that anyone can be convincing when it comes to avoiding a lifetime behind bars – but he simply cannot imagine Colt writing that note, folding the paper, sealing the expensive envelope and delivering it to his victim. No more can he envisage the chef carefully detaching the Christmas star from its branch and tiptoeing to Penelope’s room, or using something as camply ludicrous as a string of fairy lights to strangle his colleague. Everything Nick knows about Colt suggests he’s fair, humorous, decent. But he was in trouble with the police, says a small voice in his mind. He had a difficult upbringing … Petty crime, he reminds himself, is not the same as a calculated programme of murder.
Taking a deep breath, Nick steels himself and taps lightly on the door of the kitchen.
There’s nobody there. The door to the outhouse is closed, and Nick remembers with a shudder the two bodies that lie just beyond. Quickly, he opens the huge catering fridge and scans the contents, running his eye over drawers of vegetables, shelves of carefully wrapped meat and cheese. He turns to the larder, studies the rows of labelled spices, tins, jars …
‘What are you doing?’
Nick starts violently and a jar of chilli flakes drops from his fingers and smashes on the tiles.
‘Great,’ says Colt, from the doorway. ‘It took me fifteen minutes to clear up all the broken glass in the dining room. Thrilled to start again.’
‘I’ll clean it up.’
‘Nah, you won’t. I’m on it. But I’m wondering why you’re fossicking through my cupboards.’
‘I … Matilda was poisoned. She’s been ill all afternoon.’
Colt looks stunned. ‘What do you mean, “poisoned”? Everything I cook is fresh, I’ve got certificates for food hygiene coming out my ears …’
‘No.’ Nick longs to escape. ‘We think it was deliberate. Probably mistletoe berries.’
‘Jesus! Is she all right?’
‘Thankfully, yes. But now … well, some of the others are refusing to eat food you’ve cooked for dinner. They’re scared.’
Colt deflates, pulling out a chair and throwing himself into it.
‘You all think I did it.’
‘You prepared the lunch.’
‘And you all ate it. So why weren’t you poisoned too, Nick? Could it be that whatever was up with her is nothing to do with what Mrs Mannering ate?’ Colt closes his eyes and takes a long breath. ‘You know what? If I was a psycho, would I be so bloody daft as to poison someone?’ His voice rises. ‘Do you really think I’d be sending food out of the kitchen that might kill one of you? Because it’d be pointing straight back to me, wouldn’t it, Nick?’
‘I agree with you,’ he says. Colt looks broken, on the verge of tears. ‘But Lorraine and Violet are insisting they cook their own food, Matilda won’t eat—’
Colt radiates righteous fury. ‘Tell you what, the minute the Feds get here, they’ve got free rein to search my kitchen, my bedroom, my boxer shorts and my bank account. Good luck to ’em. And when they’ve done that, and found nothing, I’m off. I’m going abroad,’ he adds. ‘Why’m I even staying in this cold, miserable country? I’ll get a job in Spain. I might go to Bali. But I’m not sticking around this bloody morgue to be accused of murdering old ladies.’
Nick opens his mouth to speak, but finds he has no answer.
Colt rips at the waist ties of his white apron, and chucks it on the floor.
‘Kitchen’s all yours,’ he says. ‘Knock yourselves out. And good luck finding the bastard, because while you’re all trembling with fear about a bacon roll, they’re probably planning the next murder.’
He shoulders past Nick, out of the kitchen, and strides down the corridor.
Nick sags against the door frame. He’d feel exactly the same in Colt’s position. He makes his way back to the dining room, and tells the others they’re free to use the kitchen to make dinner.
‘Thanks, Nick.’ Violet beams, and Destiny gives him a grateful nod.
‘The thing is,’ he adds, shame over Colt’s treatment coursing through him, ‘you still don’t even know if you can trust each other.’
They’re interrupted by a slam that sounds like the front door – but it can’t be, Nick thinks, it’s pitch-black, the snow is several feet deep or more on the porch, there’s no getting past the drifts that encircle the manor.
He hurries to the hall, followed by Branson, Lorraine and Alan, and flings open the huge door.
A few feet away, illuminated by the porch light, Colt is digging with the spade Nick last saw by the outhouse. He’s kicked and shoved his way into the drift by the door, and he’s now a frenzy of activity, chopping at the frozen banks, flinging chunks of impacted snow as ice showers behind him. Nick’s heart sinks.
‘Colt,’ he calls. ‘Mate. Look, you can’t make it – it’s night, it’s miles to the gate. Come on, we can talk about this.’
Colt swears and keeps digging. He’s young, fit, athletic – but even he is already tiring. The relentless push and lift of heavy snow will be making his muscles burn, thinks Nick; he’s got maybe another half-hour in him, panting with exertion in the freezing air, and then he’ll be forced to give up.
Nick turns to the others. ‘Give us a minute,’ he says apologetically. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘There’s nothing you can say that we can’t hear …’ snaps Alan, but Branson puts a hand on his arm.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Nick’s right. The guy can’t make it.’
Reluctantly, Alan and Lorraine turn back inside.
‘Colt,’ Nick says again. ‘Please. You’ll die of exposure and exhaustion out here. I promise if you come back, I’ll support you. I don’t think you killed anyone.’
‘Why not?’ Colt’s voice is a ragged shout. ‘Everyone else does. Why would you believe me?’
‘I just do.’
Nick’s old editor flashes through his mind. ‘Never trust your instincts. Trust the facts.’ Is he being an idiot, because Colt is so likeable? None of them seems like a killer, he reminds himself – but somebody is.
‘Look, I just don’t want you to get hypothermia …’
Colt turns to face Nick. ‘Better than being stuck with that bunch of hypocrites. Ooh, the chef, he’s so scary,’ he mimics. ‘He’s big and black and from Yorkshire, he might be a murderer.’ His voice cracks. ‘I’m scared too!’ he bellows. ‘I don’t want to be killed by some lunatic with a festive grudge! I don’t want to be found with tinsel stuffed down my throat or a poisoned chocolate Santa in my hand! I’m young, I want to bloody live my life!’
He throws down the spade, shoulders heaving with emotion.
‘I know you’re right. I know I can’t escape. But it was worth a try to get away from this bunch of …’ His voice peters out, his hands hanging empty at his sides. ‘Sod it.’ Colt kicks the spade aside and strides back towards Nick. ‘I’m going for a hot shower. They can all make their own food now, the ungrateful bastards.’
Nick turns and watches Colt take the stairs two at a time. The door to the attic stairs slams after him, and a moment later, Nick hears the hiss and boom of the old pipes as water begins to run.
Now they not only have a murderer in their midst – they’re a cook down, too. A wave of despair crashes over him. How long will it be until rescue arrives?
29
Outside the drawing-room window, snow is falling heavily again, to general despair. ‘I thought it had stopped!’ cries Violet, slamming the shutters together. ‘It’s like a curse!’
‘It seems it’ll just go on forever,’ agrees David. ‘I planned to find somewhere else for me and Emily to spend Christmas, but it’s getting so close now – I may have to just look for a flight home as soon as we get Wi-Fi. Still no sign of it.’
‘Though I expect the police will want to speak to us all,’ murmurs Matilda, ‘so that might hold things up a bit.’
David shakes his head. He looks exhausted. Nick wonders what long-term effects these terrible few days will have on them all. He remembers Matilda earlier, saying ‘the snow lasted for months …’ and shudders. They’ll get out soon, he thinks. They must.
The drawing-room hearth is dead and wood is running low. Nick lays a small fire in the cold grate and crouches over it, blowing gently on the flames. He’s reminded of his father: old-fashioned and emotionally austere, but he cared about his family. Nick remembers how he’d always rise first in winter and light a fire, so it would be warm when he and his mum got up. When Nick was twelve, his dad taught him to do it himself. He also taught him the art of reasoned argument. Not much of that around here, he thinks wearily. But when in doubt, logic is always the best route. The first rule of journalism, he remembers: Who, what, where, when, why?
Never mind how the killer does it, or what they’re using as weapons, Nick tells himself, it’s time to think about why.
He stares into the small, licking flames, considering. Nick is still convinced that the initial motivation was to punish Penelope, and that the ritual nature of the method, its sinister twist on Christmas joy, is serving some deep psychological purpose for the murderer.
He turns to Branson, who is miserably stacking and restacking the draughts from a set Emily found in the library.
‘Listen,’ he says quietly, ‘could Penelope have upset someone at Christmas in the past? Had an affair, maybe, when she was with her ex?’
Branson looks horrified. ‘I can’t see Penny ever doing that. She was loyal to a fault.’
‘But if she did,’ chips in Destiny, eavesdropping, ‘maybe the man she had an affair with was furious when she ended it. Or perhaps his wife found out.’ She gazes around the group. ‘It could be one of us.’
‘It couldn’t,’ says Branson. ‘You’re the only single woman here, and obviously, she’d have recognised the man she had an affair with.’
‘What about Nick?’ Violet says. ‘Perhaps he—’
‘I’m happily married and twenty years younger,’ says Nick. ‘I assure you, it’s not me. Look, it begins with Penelope,’ he says. ‘Unlike me, Destiny or Lorraine and Alan, she was expected to be here, on the way to Devon.’
It occurs to him that if she grew up in Harrogate, the family must have moved at some point. It was a long way to go. Could they have been escaping some scandal? Or maybe they just wanted to retire somewhere warmer. That’s the trouble, he thinks. Everything and nothing is suspicious.
I know what you did.
Perhaps whatever Penelope did happened before she met Branson, and the American doesn’t even know about it. If only Nick knew the identity of Penelope’s ex-husband. Did she leave him for Branson? In which case, he’d have reason to be angry. But to wait six years, lure her to a hotel and murder her in a blizzard? Could he have paid one of the others to do it? Nick wonders. He tries to imagine David, gentle dad and worried GP, stabbing Penelope for money, and almost laughs. Destiny was on the way to teach a yoga class, as far as they know. Could all her woo be an act? Might she and Penelope have known each other from long ago?
