Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 22
Destiny looks delighted. ‘It’s so good holistically,’ she murmurs, gazing into David’s eyes. Nick wonders again if there could be something developing there, but surely David isn’t Destiny’s type? He’s so fretful and ordinary-looking. Then again … perhaps she needs someone she can boss about. And perhaps he likes to be bossed.
He watches them for a moment as they stand together, chatting enthusiastically about the joy of exercise while Emily arranges stuffed toys on her designated bed. Matilda looks up from her playing cards as Destiny laughs at something David says, and puts a hand on his arm. David smiles into her eyes. What a cosy scene they must make, Nick thinks, the snow falling outside and the little group at the fireside, engaged in their old-fashioned pursuits. It doesn’t change the fact that somebody in this manor is a murderer.
32
‘I think I’m ready for bed,’ says Matilda, covering a yawn with her hand. It’s almost ten, Emily is drooping, and Branson is staring silently into the fire as Violet concentrates on her book. Nick pretends not to see the tears snaking down her pale cheeks. Is it grief that her love affair with Branson is over – or guilt? Nick feels as close as he’s ever come to despair. It will stop snowing eventually, they’re not in Narnia, but what else will have happened by then? How close will he be to a confession from the murderer? Because right now, he feels he’s never been further away.
He helps David arrange the mattresses and bedding in the drawing room while the others change and wash. The lack of deaths since Donal’s strangling has led to a false sense of security, Nick suspects. The general consensus seems to be Donal knew too much – the rest of us know nothing, so we’re safe. Nick is the obvious counterpoint to that reassuring belief, and Branson and Violet know it. So do Alan and Lorraine, and Colt, too. All his key suspects, sharpening their knives … but he can’t give up now.
If Violet’s sleeping nearby he can at least watch over her and Branson. He isn’t planning to close his eyes tonight. She finally settles into bed alongside Destiny, turning away from Nick and David, her face buried in the pillow. Gaia spins three times and settles into the gap between their still bodies. Nick’s rather sad that there’s no sign of Jingle; he has begun to find the cat’s presence a great comfort. David is awake alongside him, though Emily’s eyes have fluttered closed.
Matilda has consented to stay downstairs tonight, after her ‘funny turn’ as she refers to the poisoning. ‘I doubt I shall sleep particularly well,’ she says, wrapped in her red woollen dressing gown, her face shining with cold cream. ‘Still, safety in numbers, I suppose.’
‘You OK?’ Nick asks David quietly.
‘Not really. It’s not so much what’s already happened, it’s not knowing what’s coming next.’ David swallows. ‘If I lost Emily, I’d die. I’d have nothing to live for.’
Nick wants to say something reassuring, but he understands. If Harriet were gone, and it was just him and Cara …
‘You won’t lose her,’ he says eventually, and David gives him a sad smile.
‘I’ll do anything to keep her safe. Whatever it takes.’
‘I’d feel the same way.’
In this spirit of mutual understanding they fall silent, though Nick remains uncomfortably aware of the breathing, the coughs, the whispers in the darkness. Somebody knocks over a glass of water with a crash and swears, and a lamp is switched on while it’s mopped with a pillowcase. The fire is burning down, and the outside chill is creeping into the drawing room. Nick tries to read on his Kindle app for a while – an airport thriller – but he can’t focus. He finds himself obsessively checking the phone signal, and scrolling to the still-unsent message he had hoped would save them. The slow hours crawl by.
He’s still awake at 1 a.m., and the fire has died altogether. It’s freezing in the room, and it occurs to Nick that the firewood basket is empty and he’s no idea if there’s any more. That was Donal’s job. He feels a stab of sadness, thinking of the polite, unhappy young man whose remains are still lying just behind the kitchen. He shifts as quietly as possible to a sitting position, intending to go and fetch a blanket from his bedroom. He may be killed en route, but he’s prepared to risk it for a little warmth.
‘Nick!’
The whisper comes from the next bed, and he turns to see Destiny half-sitting, a waterfall of hair over her face.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she hisses. ‘It’s so cold. I’ve been meditating on a soul journey in the desert, but I can’t stop shivering.’
Lorraine stirs. ‘Can’t sleep either. I’m going back to our room. At least it’s got a radiator. Wake up, Alan, I’m not going on my own.’
Matilda glides past, her face a pale moon in the darkness. ‘I shall lock my door and take my chances,’ she murmurs. ‘That mattress is like a box of eggs.’
‘Look,’ says Nick. ‘Shouldn’t we all stay put, where we’re safe? I can bring down more bedding.’
‘It’s the energy in here,’ says Destiny. She gives a small shudder. ‘It’s so toxic.’
‘Probably Branson’s fags,’ says Alan.
Destiny ignores him, gathering Gaia and her duvet. ‘I’m off, and I’m locking my door. Goodnight.’
David and Emily are still here, as are Violet and Branson, albeit in separate beds. With those two under his surveillance, Nick feels reasonably certain that the others will be safe.
He fetches the chenille throw from the sofa and rolls over in the makeshift bed, determined to stay awake until dawn.
It’s still dark. Around him, sleeping bodies breathe steadily. Violet coughs in her sleep. Nick must have drifted off for a moment or two, reassured by the silence, warmed by the extra blankets. He glances at his watch – 3.45 a.m. Hours of night yet to endure.
What woke him? He stares into the darkness. Nick sits up, checking that Branson’s bulk is still in bed. He’s in the same position he was in when Nick fell asleep just a couple of minutes ago, on his back, like a crashed skydiver. The fire is long dead, but he can still smell the smouldering wood, a nauseating reek of acrid smoke. It seems stronger than before – perhaps the darkness has sharpened his senses … He sniffs the air again, suddenly alert.
It isn’t coming from the hearth, it’s coming from the hall. Nick’s first thought is that someone has lit the fire out there – but it’s not Christmas Eve yet, it’s not time for the Yule log to be lit. He pulls on his jeans and uses the torch on his phone to pick his way to the entrance hall. There’s nothing in the vast fireplace, but out here, the smell is stronger, even more unpleasant. Has someone lit a fire in one of the bedrooms? Nick looks up the stairs, and as he does so, his breath stops in his throat. Thick, grey smoke is curling from the corridor where he sleeps. The corridor which now appears to be on fire and where, he realises, Destiny is currently locked in her room.
‘Fire!’ Nick’s bellow could be heard three fields away. ‘Wake up! Fire!’
He looks around and sees the old-fashioned dinner gong, half hidden behind the Christmas tree. He grasps the mallet and whacks it as hard as he can against the brass disc, causing a reverberation that booms through the building.
Branson and David come stumbling out of the drawing room, half dressed. Nick points to the smoke now obscuring the dim corridor upstairs with an impenetrable fog.
‘What’s happening?’ Violet shrieks.
‘Fire! Get Emily wrapped in a duvet and outside. Now!’ Nick has never seen David so urgently commanding.
‘Come on.’ Nick beckons the two men. ‘We have to get everyone out.’
Already, Lorraine and Alan have appeared on the landing, exclaiming in horror. Lorraine almost falls downstairs in her haste to escape, and Alan isn’t far behind, rushing down like the coward he is, as Nick, David and Branson race up.
‘You fetch Colt and Matilda,’ Nick shouts to the others. ‘I’ll get Destiny.’
He turns, pulling his T-shirt up over his mouth, and plunges into the thick gouts of smoke pouring down the landing. It’s impossible to know where he is in the fog, but he can hear crackling as he nears the source of the fire, and there’s an ominous orange glow.
‘Destiny!’ he yells, but the shout is lost as he chokes. He crouches low, his breath rasping. Nick straightens and grasps the door handle. The brass sears his palm and he snatches his hand away, swearing. He steps back and aims a violent kick at the lock, but the Georgian door is solid hardwood. It holds firm against his efforts, and he almost sobs with frustration. Nick digs into his jeans pocket and finds the keys. It’s impossible to see anything, his eyes are streaming and his breath is coming in short gasps. He tries inserting one, but he can’t get his burning hand close enough to turn the key.
‘Mind out!’
Colt shoves him aside, and karate-kicks the lock with all his strength. Something splinters, the door flies open and a sheet of bright flame billows towards them.
Nick races to the window and flings up the sash. The conflagration is raging by the bed, and the desk and chair are engulfed by flames. He once interviewed a fire service chief who told him that cold air helps to dampen a fire. As the snow gusts into the bedroom and smoke pours out into the night, he hopes to God the guy was right. He turns to see the silhouette of Colt, his arms bare, dragging at something heavy …
‘Help me!’ he yells through the smoke, and Nick gropes blindly through the dark, choking fog. Destiny is lying in the bed, unmoving. He grasps her legs as Colt lifts her under the arms, and together they stumble from the room, slamming the door behind them in an attempt to contain the fire.
‘Water,’ Nick gasps, as they lay Destiny in the dark corridor that’s still thick with smoke. ‘For the fire.’
‘Bathroom,’ shouts Colt and, as he turns, David looms through the haze, his face smeared with soot, leading Matilda who is coughing violently but alive. Freezing air pours from the open front door of the manor, and as the smoke dissipates, Nick sees the huddle on the step, their faces turned towards him in anguish like a Biblical painting.
‘Look after Destiny,’ he tells David, and he and Colt sprint back to Destiny’s room where the fire is still raging and has reached the bed, turning the blankets to glowing lace, devouring the pillows. If the manor burns down … Nick can’t think about that. They’d find a way to survive, he tells himself. They’d have to. He turns on both basin and bath taps, and rips off his T-shirt, soaking it and tying it over his face. Colt does the same, then Nick snatches up the metal waste bin and fills it, running to chuck it over the bed. Colt has disappeared but as Nick fills the bin, again and again, he returns carrying a bulky red fire extinguisher.
‘No effing idea how to make it work,’ Colt shouts, and Nick grabs it from him, squeezes the handle and sprays foam at the dressing table, as Colt takes over water duties. He chucks and refills, chucks and refills, and it seems they’re getting nowhere. The carpet is smouldering, and Colt grabs the shower attachment over the bath and aims it, spraying an arc of water into the room. It won’t reach the furniture, but the carpet flames sizzle and die. Nick feels a burst of hope, aiming the foam at every fresh outbreak of flame, every glowing ember.
After what feels like hours, but is probably only minutes, between them they extinguish the last licking tongue of fire. Both of them are panting, choking inside the damp cloth around their faces.
‘Destiny,’ Nick whispers hoarsely, and they stumble back down the corridor.
Branson and David have carried her downstairs, and she’s lying in the soot-stained bedclothes she was wrapped in when they found her.
The front door is still open, and Violet is crouched on the step in the snow, hugging Emily, as Lorraine sobs into Alan’s chest and he robotically pats her shoulder. The smoke is hanging in a swathe at the ceiling like morning mist, though the worst of it has drifted into the night through the open doors and windows. The temperature inside must be below freezing.
‘Is she …’ begins Nick, pulling down his face covering and gasping a lungful of fresh air. David shakes his head.
‘I tried everything,’ he says dully. ‘Everything. But the smoke inhalation … she’s so small.’ A tear runs down his cheek, a bright trail through the soot. ‘I tried so hard, Nick.’
33
Silently, they gaze at Destiny’s little body, the cascade of hair obscuring her smoke-blackened face. A sudden sob lurches through Nick. For a moment, he puts his head in his hands, steadying his breath. He feels a hand on his arm. Colt.
‘We did our best,’ he murmurs. ‘You were a hero, mate.’
‘No more than you were.’
‘Where’s Gaia?’ Lorraine suddenly cries. ‘The dog, where is she?’
The group falls silent in shared horror. ‘I’m sorry, Lorraine,’ begins Branson. ‘She must have been—’
He’s interrupted by Matilda, emerging from the drawing room wrapped in a blanket and clutching something to her chest.
‘She’s all right,’ she says quietly. ‘I found her. She was hiding under the sofa.’
‘But how did she …’ Nick begins, as Colt says:
‘But the door was locked.’
‘She must have run out when you kicked it down,’ says Branson. ‘The smoke and the confusion – she saw her chance and she escaped. Emily …’ He raises his voice slightly, and the child turns from Violet’s embrace. Nick sees that she’s trembling with cold and shock. ‘Can you cuddle Gaia, please?’ Branson asks her. ‘She needs a friend right now.’
Emily nods, and takes the small, sooty dog from Matilda. She sits on the step, hugging the little creature as though she’ll never let her go. David joins his daughter and pulls her to his chest.
It’s so cold. Nick looks at the empty hearth in the hall, and something jolts in his brain. He turns and runs up the stairs, back to Destiny’s room. Nick snaps on the overhead light. The room resembles the set of a horror movie, one wall charred beyond recognition, wallpaper hanging in strips, and the bed blackened and soaked. Only the painting of an elm tree over the bed remains untouched, the mistletoe berries shining from its branches like stars on the darkest night. Nick shivers convulsively as he searches, scanning the carpet, wondering where he’ll find it, whether there’ll be any trace left. And here it is, half-kicked under the bed in their frenzy to rescue Destiny – a damp, carbonised lump, almost unrecognisable. The festive symbol of good company and good cheer. Nick looks at the charred remains of the Yule log and feels only despair.
What’s the end game? he wonders. Is the killer simply a psychopath, enjoying wielding the power of life and death? Was Penelope the intended target and the others collateral, owing to their suspicions? But if that’s the case why is he, Nick, still here? He’s made no secret of his amateurish sleuthing. Or does each victim represent something to the killer? Then there’s the insane Christmas theme to the killings …
Harriet likes to apply psychology when she’s discussing their friends’ relationships and Nick is tuning in and out. ‘Sam’s emotionally unavailable because of his absent father,’ she’ll say, or, ‘Izzy was an eldest child – that’s why she takes responsibility for everything, it’s classic.’
What’s the psychology here? Someone who is desperate to make a point. A bid for attention – but not for themselves. For their message. Someone, he thinks, who hates Christmas, who has perhaps suffered a terrible loss or life blow at this time of year, who for some reason blamed Penelope. Someone who’s unobtrusive, helpful, who can steal keys without being seen, who is strong enough to kill a fit young man and whose conscience is frozen over with hatred, or vengeance. Someone who plans long in advance, a spider spinning a web to draw the victims close enough to kill.
The smoke has drifted away into the frozen night. Colt has gone to check the damage to the other upstairs rooms, and for now, Destiny’s body has been gently carried to the back office, the door locked. ‘I said a prayer for her,’ Branson offers. It doesn’t seem much for a young woman’s life.
Nick’s in the library with the others. It’s the only room that doesn’t reek of smoke. Matilda has insisted on returning to bed. ‘I can’t bear it,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘I need to be on my own for a while. That poor girl …’ Lorraine took her upstairs. She reported back that the radiators were all on, and it was ‘warming up a bit’, though Nick wonders if they’ll find Matilda blue from hypothermia by morning.
‘I just think, Nick, this person won’t stop till we’re all dead,’ Lorraine says now. In her shock and grief, she’s adopted a hectoring tone, as though Nick has personally sanctioned the killing spree. ‘Little Destiny! All she’s ever done wrong is be a bit annoying. And the fire could have killed every one of us if you’d not woken up.’
He’s aware of the truth of Lorraine’s words, but equally, he feels strongly that Destiny was the intended target, the Yule log another carefully chosen weapon in the killer’s twisted, festive war.
Violet is in shock. She’s pressing her hands together, rocking back and forth, pale as milk and breathing stertorously. Branson is avoiding her yearning, wide-eyed gaze. Alan and Lorraine have pulled their chairs together in a rare show of unity.
‘Can any of you remember the last time you saw the Yule log in the grate?’ Nick asks.
Branson closes his eyes. ‘I think yesterday morning. I was heading upstairs and saw the log there. I thought: Why are we waiting for some crazy-ass tradition when people are being killed and we’re freezing? Just light the goddamn fire.’
‘Somebody did,’ says Violet. She gives a high little laugh, and he shoots her a look of irritable concern.
‘Now I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there last night,’ Nick says. ‘So the killer evidently planned it all in advance.’
‘But how did Destiny not wake up?’ Alan demands. ‘How did the killer even have a key to her room?’
‘I think she was sedated,’ says Nick. ‘David, do you know what happened to the sedatives you offered Destiny?’
David is sitting on an armchair beside the one Emily is now sleeping in, holding his daughter’s limp hand. Gaia is lying across Emily’s lap, sooty and wide-eyed.
