Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 23
‘No.’ David’s voice shakes. ‘I think I put them in my bedside drawer. I can check.’
‘Nick has Donal’s keys,’ says Alan suddenly. ‘They’re in his pocket. He carries them everywhere. Like a jailer,’ he adds, his tone bitter. ‘Why are we all listening to this bloke when he could well be the killer?’
‘He tried to save her,’ says Colt coldly. ‘We both did.’
‘That’s what you claim,’ mutters Alan.
‘Look, Alan.’ Nick gathers his strength. ‘We’re all under suspicion until the police get here. Not one of us trusts the others. We just have to accept that. I don’t see what else we can do.’
David meets Nick’s gaze with a wretched expression. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispers. ‘I can’t believe somebody would do that.’
‘Any ideas who it might have been?’
David shakes his head. ‘I really liked her, Nick,’ he murmurs. ‘I know she was a bit woo-woo, but we had so much else in common. I thought, when we got out, I’d ask her to dinner …’ He blinks back tears. ‘I thought perhaps she liked me, too.’
‘I’m so sorry. David, could you check for those pills? I think we need to know if Destiny was sedated.’
Reluctantly David releases Emily’s hand. ‘I’ll look.’
When he returns, he looks distraught. ‘Nick, they’re gone. The whole pack is empty. Someone was in my room. They’ve taken them and left the packet.’
‘Any other meds gone?’
‘No. Just the sedatives. I haven’t looked at them since yesterday.’
David could be lying of course, but Nick doesn’t think he is. Besides, he’s certain that David couldn’t have left their shared mattress, sedated Destiny and set the fire before returning in the handful of minutes Nick was asleep.
‘Who has access to your bedroom?’
David shakes his head. ‘Only someone with a key.’ He gives a small, uneasy smile. ‘I guess that would be you.’
‘Yes.’ Nick sighs. ‘But I know I didn’t do it. So someone else must have one, too.’
The air is still thick with an oily, acrid mist, despite the open windows. Nick feels he’ll never get the reek from his nostrils, that it will follow him wherever he goes after this. If he ever gets out.
The others are quiet, though Violet is lying down, crying quietly into her pillow, an empty space in the bed beside her. Nick almost wishes Branson would comfort her, but he’s across the room, an inert lump beneath the bedclothes. Colt has gone back to his own room, and Matilda is barricaded into hers.
Nick stares at the moulded ceiling through the smoky haze, running over events in his mind. At six, unable to lie still beside a lightly snoring David any longer, he tiptoes from the room and makes his way upstairs. He soon finds what he’s looking for: a round plastic shell on the ceiling, near the corner leading to Violet’s room. He can’t reach it, but he doesn’t need to. Nick can see already that the smoke alarm has been smashed, its wires dangling uselessly beneath the casing.
He’s certain David didn’t kill Destiny; he was right beside him. That brings him back, once again, to Lorraine, Alan and Colt. He’s discounting Matilda and Emily, too old and too young; neither of them would be physically capable of stabbing Penelope or strangling Donal. Besides, the idea of either one being a killer is absurd. Is he allowing Colt’s charm and charisma to override his suspicions? Is he afraid of being racist, or classist, a typical London liberal, bending over backwards to exonerate the man with least to lose? As Jingle looks on with mild contempt, he makes a decision. As of now, nobody’s off the hook.
By seven, they’re all dressed. Nobody has slept, and a pall of exhausted disbelief hangs over them, along with the remnants of the smoke.
‘I’ll sort out the breakfast,’ says Nick.
‘Can’t eat,’ whispers Lorraine. ‘We have to get out of here today,’ she adds shakily. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
Violet turns red-rimmed eyes to her. ‘None of us can. I don’t trust a single morsel of food or drink in this place, I’d rather starve.’
Nick thinks again of Matilda’s poisoning. In the melee of the fire and another death, it’s been overlooked. But that was the one murder attempt that failed, another one with the killer’s sick, festive hallmark. It wouldn’t hurt to have one more look …
In the kitchen, Nick goes through the spice cupboard again, feels behind the tins, rummages amongst and into the packets. Of course, there’s nothing to say the evidence would be in the kitchen. It’s a wild goose chase, he knows that. He thinks of the paintings in each room, the berries glowing white above the beds. Berries. For God’s sake, Nick, says Harriet’s voice. You don’t keep berries in the cupboard if you want to preserve them. You keep them in the fridge. And that’s where he finds it, a small phial the size of a test tube, hidden in the recess behind the boxes of Christmas cheese.
Nick palms the glass container and draws it out to examine under the harsh overhead kitchen light. There are five mistletoe berries, neatly aligned like peas in their pod. There’s a space where the missing sixth should be.
34
One day till Christmas Eve
‘I’ve never seen this in my life, man.’
Colt stands by the sofa in the drawing room, a specimen in a glass case as eight faces stare at him.
‘They were in the fridge, at the back.’
‘Right, so anyone who has access to the kitchen could have put them there. Which is literally everyone, including you.’
Colt’s right, he knows, but like Donal, Nick has always been a believer in the Occam’s razor theory. The most obvious solution is generally correct.
‘Colt, it doesn’t look great.’
‘I don’t give a crap what it looks like.’ Colt meets his gaze, hurt and anger in his eyes. ‘I have no reason to kill any of you! You think I want to be trapped in this pit, watching folk get picked off like rabbits? You think I want to be suspected by a bunch of posh assholes who think they’re better than me because of my funny Yorkshire accent and my skin colour?’
‘Now, hang on a minute—’ begins Alan.
‘That’s not why—’ Nick interrupts, and Colt snorts.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Colt, it’s because of several things.’ Nick holds up his hand and checks off his points. ‘One, you know the manor really well. You may have copied the keys or have access to—’
‘Except I didn’t.’
‘Two,’ Nick goes on, ‘it’d require someone strong to stab Penelope like that. She was tall and muscular, and if she’d fought back …’
‘So that’s you, David, Branson, Alan …’
‘I’m half your size!’ Alan shouts furiously.
Colt shrugs. ‘You’re still a bloke. Just about.’
‘Three, Donal’s death. It would have been easy for you to follow him down the stairs and then garrotte him with the wire. He was obsessed with you.’
‘He was obsessed … What?’ Lorraine repeats, astounded, and Nick remembers that he’s kept Donal’s secret – perhaps in a bid to offer the tragic young man some dignity in death.
‘He was gay,’ says Colt. ‘He liked me, apparently.’
‘Well, maybe you were revolted by that,’ says Violet. ‘Perhaps you couldn’t cope with a gay man working alongside—’
‘I’m gay too, love,’ says Colt. ‘So I doubt it was that.’
‘Perhaps he was competition,’ says Branson triumphantly. ‘Or perhaps you were ashamed of your feelings …’
‘What, I felt so uncomfortable with my own sexuality that I immediately had to murder anyone who fancied me? Get to …’ Colt swears, disgusted.
‘You did tell me you hate Christmas,’ Nick says. ‘The killer obviously does, too. And then there’s Destiny—’
‘Nick.’ Colt leans forward, fury in his expression. Nick is uncomfortably aware that Colt is younger, fitter and bigger than he is. ‘Do you honestly think I killed three people because I don’t like Christmas? Even the effing Grinch didn’t go that far.’
Lorraine snorts and Nick almost smiles. He wishes he didn’t like Colt so much.
‘Matilda was poisoned though,’ he says. ‘And you were cooking that day.’
‘Like I said before – why would I poison an old lady?’ Colt shakes his head and glares around the group. ‘You know what? I’ve had enough. I’m out of here.’
Nick is barely standing before he hears Colt’s boots banging a tattoo on the parquet. There’s a pause – has he gone to the kitchen? – and then, a few moments later, the echoing slam of the vast front door.
Branson and David leap to their feet as Violet cries, ‘He’ll freeze out there!’ and Alan mutters:
‘There goes the murderer.’
‘We don’t know that—’ starts Nick, but Matilda holds up a hand.
‘Perhaps we do, Nick,’ she says. ‘Colt’s got boundless opportunity, he’s been alone while we’ve all been together … For every murder, he can’t account for where he was. And the berries … one of them was used to try and poison me.’
David takes the tube from Nick and examines it. ‘They really are mistletoe berries. My God.’ He looks at Nick. ‘Someone who hates the manor and everyone in it,’ he says quietly. ‘Someone filled with rage and resentment.’ He shakes his head, blinking back the sudden glint of tears.
‘Colt was in trouble with the police when he was younger,’ Nick says reluctantly. ‘He’s not had an easy life.’
David stands and makes his way to the hall, and opens the door to the pre-dawn darkness. Nick and the others follow, drawn by the brightening cold beyond the smoke-choked manor house.
Colt has the spade again and he’s already several yards away, cutting out a path for himself with speed and grace. All the same, it will take him hours. Colt is wearing a cheap padded bomber jacket, and has no hat or gloves.
‘Guy’s gonna freeze to death,’ says Branson. Nick silently agrees. Colt is digging in the direction of the woods to their left rather than towards the drive and the gates. Does he know a shorter route to the road? Or is he planning to hide there, and evade the police when they finally show up?
David nods. ‘Hypothermia will set in when he stops exercising his muscles, and his core temperature drops. It can happen fast, and if he lies down in the snow …’
They fall silent.
‘We have to get him back,’ says Nick.
‘But if he’s the killer’ – Branson puts a meaty hand on Nick’s arm – ‘and we’re pretty sure he is … he’s now angrier than a polecat. Particularly with you.’
Nick has an uncomfortable feeling that Branson is right. If Colt really has planned it all, Nick is almost certainly his next victim, because he’s the only one getting in the way. Occam’s razor.
The alternative is leaving Colt to die out there.
‘We have to get him back.’ Nick turns to the others. Alan has joined them in the hall, and Lorraine, too, is peering out, shivering in the cold air.
‘I’ll go,’ Alan says unexpectedly. ‘I’m a business owner; I know how to reason with cocky young lads.’
Nick doubts any of the ‘cocky young lads’ on Alan’s payroll are murderers, but he smiles slightly. ‘Go for it.’
‘I’ll need boots.’
‘There’s some wellies in the cupboard under the stairs,’ says Lorraine. ‘I think they keep them for guests.’
Booted, Alan pulls on his expensive-looking wool coat and sets out after Colt. ‘Don’t follow me,’ he tells Nick, Branson and David quietly, ‘but when I get him back, you three must overpower him, then we’ll lock him in one of the bedrooms, keep an eye on him.’
Nick feels a shudder of revulsion. How has it come to this? Bringing Colt down, locking him up like an animal … who do they think they are? There’s no arrest, no charge, yet they’ve appointed themselves judge and jury.
‘Look …’ he begins, but it’s too late. Alan is wading through the narrow channel through the drift of snow towards Colt, raising his voice.
‘Hey!’ he calls. ‘It’s no use, you know. The police are coming!’
Colt ignores him. He’s digging robotically, a relentless rhythm of bending and straightening, cutting and throwing snow behind him. A spray of ice catches Alan in the face.
‘Oi! You can’t get away!’ Alan is gaining on him, slithering and stumbling. ‘Come back to the house, mate, and we’ll let the police sort it.’
‘I’m not your mate.’
‘Fine, but look, you’ll die out here.’
‘Not as fast as you will.’ Colt’s straightened up; he’s holding the spade in both hands, a weapon.
‘Come on, there’s no need for this.’ Alan holds his hands up and backs away, almost falling on a discarded lump of snow.
‘There’s every need. Get away from me.’
‘Look, I just think …’
‘I don’t give a crap what you think, little man. Scared … little … man.’
With each word, Colt jabs the spade towards Alan’s chest and he whimpers in fright.
‘Colt, I’m sorry,’ Nick calls. ‘Please don’t do this, you’ll die out here.’
‘Nick’s right,’ Branson shouts. ‘The police will get here soon, and then they can investigate properly …’
‘Sooner die in the snow than die in prison for something I never did.’ Colt violently jabs the spade again, and Alan skips backwards, hurrying to the safety of the porch.
‘If anyone else fancies a go …’ Colt raises the spade.
‘Oh, Colt, come back, love,’ shouts Lorraine. She’s standing on the doorstep in her jeans and silver ankle boots, arms wrapped around her fluffy reindeer-appliqué jumper as she shivers. ‘We can sort this out. There’s no need to be like this.’
‘Is there not?’ Colt’s bitter laugh floats back to them through the still air. They watch as he digs on, miles to go, the woods a distant smudge of black and white.
Nick feels a sick grief that he’s caused this. As long as he lives, Colt’s despair will remain on his conscience – whether the young man is the killer or not.
Matilda’s appearance when they finally assemble in the dining room is reassuringly normal. She’s dressed as smartly as usual, in a cream cashmere dress with a holly-leaf brooch. Her hair is brushed and curled, and her diamond earrings are clipped on. Only her expression gives away her distress.
‘I barely slept,’ she murmurs. ‘One just goes over and over it. Senseless. Vicious. Poor little Deborah.’ Her blue eyes dampen and she fishes a cotton handkerchief from her patent-leather bag. ‘I’m sorry …’
Matilda sinks into the armchair by the fire, and sobs. Violet rushes to her side and cradles her, and Lorraine crouches beside her.
‘It’s too much for a woman of your age,’ Lorraine murmurs. ‘You’ve been so brave, Mattie, but everyone has their breaking point.’
‘I think I’ve reached it.’ Matilda gives a watery smile.
Nick looks around at the group’s pinched, exhausted faces and soot-stained clothes. His own jeans are stiff with dirt and smoke.
‘Not long till we’re rescued now,’ he says hopelessly. ‘We just have to get through the last few hours until the police come.’
‘Oh, the police, the police!’ shrieks Violet. ‘I feel as if I’m in some awful play where everyone waits for rescue, day after day, and nobody ever comes!’
She sinks on to the couch, sobbing. This time, Branson puts an arm around her and keeps it there.
Nick feels the claustrophobia of despair grip him. What would Harriet suggest? He stands. Her calm voice in his head instructs him simply to go and make a pot of tea.
Crossing the icy hall to the kitchen, its deep red walls now stained black from last night’s smoke, Nick pauses. He opens the front door, expecting a further gust of snowflakes, another icy blast.
He stands on the step in wonder. The drifts are still high, the drive still buried under an avalanche and the trees still bending under their burden of snow. But the air is changing. Now the temperature is cold, but no longer arctic. All around him, he can hear the drip and tinkle of melting ice falling from the gutters. As he watches, a chunk of snow slides from the roof and crashes through the drift beneath. The sky is chalk blue, and a hard white sun is rising over the woods.
He breathes out slowly, leaving a plume of steam hanging in the fresh morning air. For the first time in days, Nick feels hope.
Hardly daring to try, he raises his phone to see if he can get a signal, but there’s nothing. Still, if the thaw has begun, by the end of the day they could try the car again. Back inside, he heads upstairs. Nobody picked up the keys he dropped, so he retrieves them. If they don’t want them … Jingle emerges from beneath the Christmas tree, where he’s been playing with a fallen bauble, and follows him up. The air in the bedroom carries the tang of smoked kippers, although the window’s been open all night. Nick leans out, allowing the weak sun to bathe his face.
He lets the cat nest in the pillows while he showers, scrubbing off the smoke and grime, watching black water swirl down the plughole.
‘We need to eat,’ Lorraine says as they assemble downstairs. ‘No wonder we’re all beside ourselves. Maybe there’s some sealed bread in the freezer, for toast.’
‘I don’t feel hungry,’ says Matilda.
‘I don’t either.’ Emily is wearing a green corduroy skirt, red tights and a white jumper. There’s something of the Christmas elf about her and Nick is forcibly struck by the terrible incongruity of a child forced into bearing witness to this very particular hell.
Perhaps Matilda feels the same, because she touches Emily’s round cheek and says, ‘Would you like to bring Gaia, and come to look at my photographs again?’
Emily nods. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Emily, you really should have some breakfast …’ David begins, but she shrugs him off.
‘I will later,’ she says. ‘I want to see the little girls in the pictures again.’
David gazes helplessly after his daughter like a man abandoned.
