Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 27
Nick replaces the clipping, closes the bag, and brings it through to Matilda.
‘Oh, Nick, thank you,’ she says, and he feels pierced by guilt.
‘I feel so silly … I thought … my daughter had a similar costume to Emily’s, and for a moment, in the sunlight …’
‘It’s all right,’ he tells her. ‘It’s completely understandable.’
Emily skids to a stop at the door. ‘Is she OK now?’
Matilda sits up and smiles at her. ‘I’m fine, Emily,’ she says. ‘It was a silly mistake, not your fault at all.’
Emily smiles tentatively. ‘I just wanted to dress up, cos it’s Christmas Eve.’
‘Perhaps we can play a festive game later,’ says David. He looks exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed.
‘Oh, I think there’ve been enough games,’ says Matilda. Her tone is cool, and Nick wonders if she’s talking about more than Monopoly and charades.
As he stands to make a pot of tea, the sound of shouting floats from upstairs.
‘I think that’s Auntie Violet,’ says Emily conversationally.
Nick hurries to the hall and hears distant bellowing. ‘… so stupid,’ Branson yells. ‘A rich, middle-aged man and you used me like …’ He moves away and Nick can’t hear his next words.
Violet screams, ‘You were happy enough!’
‘Not now I know you’re a goddamn serial killer!’
There’s a crash, Branson swears, and Violet screams, ‘I’m not! I’m not, I’m not! Why won’t you believe me? I never killed anyone!’
‘That note,’ Branson shouts. ‘You wanna tell me what that was about? What did Penny ever do to you?’
‘Nothing!’ Violet screeches. ‘And I didn’t write it because I didn’t kill her!’
A door slams and seconds later Branson appears, taking the stairs two at a time.
‘Sorry about that,’ he mutters, striding past. ‘Goddamn madwoman.’
Branson disappears in the direction of the dining room. ‘No breakfast?’ he calls, disappointed, seeing the empty table.
‘Afraid not yet,’ Nick tells him. ‘I’ll see what’s in the fridge.’
As Nick rummages through foil-wrapped packages, he thinks of Colt and winces in guilty pain. The sun is shining, the sky is a crystalline winter blue and the snow is beginning to melt – but it’s hard to imagine that Colt survived the night, unless he found shelter by dusk. The murders were committed by Violet, the evidence is irrefutable – unless someone put the firelighters in her drawer. But nobody other than he and Branson has a key, and he’s almost certain Branson is innocent.
He longs for the police to arrive. If only Lorraine’s text had made it. Now, they’ll be here until Christmas Day itself or beyond, waiting for the snow to melt. He can’t think about Harriet and Cara. Instead, as Nick fries bacon and cracks eggs into Colt’s enormous, well-seasoned iron frying pan, Catherine’s face floats in his mind. Where has he seen it before? If only he’d had time to read that clipping. Perhaps it’s none of his business … but until he knows for sure how and when Catherine died, his memory will scratch at him like claws on a closed door.
Lorraine appears as he’s plating up, and offers to take breakfast to Violet. ‘I’ll just tap on the door and stand back,’ she says. ‘Give me your key so I can lock her in again.’
‘No.’ Nick shakes his head. ‘I’d like to speak to her. I’ll take it up, if you can serve the others.’
‘She might attack you …’
‘She’s not a Minotaur. I’ll take my chances.’ Nick picks up the plate and a mug of tea and heads upstairs.
He taps lightly on the door.
‘What?’ calls Violet rudely.
‘It’s Nick. I’ve got your breakfast.’
‘Oh, I thought you were Branson.’
He unlocks the door.
‘Thanks,’ she says grudgingly.
‘May I come in?’
She shrugs, and steps aside. Nick perches on the desk chair as Violet sits on the bed and ploughs into her breakfast. She’s still wearing her silk robe. Nick wonders what she’ll do, now her funding source has dried up.
‘Violet,’ he begins, ‘are you quite sure Branson didn’t plant those firelighters?’
‘Yes.’ Violet nods soberly. ‘I am. The truth is, Nick, he bloody adored Penelope. I knew he’d never leave her, he was only with me because he was worried about losing his looks, and I flattered him. That first time in the pool house, he was really drunk, and I could see he regretted it right away. But I couldn’t bear to let him go. I was so lonely.’
‘Why? You’re young and pretty and vivacious …’ Nick feels like a maiden aunt, jollying her along.
Violet shrugs. ‘Always felt like an outsider. I’m not posh really, I just learned to sound it when I went to uni. I changed my name too: I was born Valerie. Little Val Evans whose dad owns the chip shop. I was clever and I got into publishing PR after I graduated. I soon realised they’re all called Saskia and Phoebe and go to their family estates in Berkshire for Christmas. I go to my dad’s council house in Merthyr Tydfil. Mum lives in Spain; we don’t get on.’
Nick wonders why she’s telling him all this. Violet looks up from her toast.
‘I’ve lost Branson. Everyone thinks I’m a murderer. I’m scared to death I’ll go to prison for something I haven’t done, so I want you to know the truth, even if you don’t believe me.’
Nick nods. ‘Go on.’
‘I could tell Branson was getting cold feet, but he was terrified of me telling Penny if he dumped me.’
‘He told me he liked you.’
‘Stockholm Syndrome.’ Violet half smiles. ‘When you become attached to your captors. I made sure he got everything he needed physically, but I was no match for Penny emotionally and intellectually. So I booked into Mistletoe Manor, knowing they’d both be here. I claimed it was a coincidence, and Penny believed me. Branson knew it wasn’t, of course.’ Violet pauses. ‘I thought we could sneak around, and I’d show him what he was missing.
‘The worst thing is, Nick, I liked her. She was so kind to me; we really were good friends. Despite the age gap, when I started at that job, she was my only friend. But then … something happened.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was years ago. I’d seen her at the office Christmas party, and she was fine. But then she didn’t reply to any of my messages over that Christmas, and when I saw her again in the new year, she looked … different. Older. She just said, “Something happened,” but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. Soon after that, she met Branson and married him at a registry office with two witnesses off the street. She didn’t invite a single person she knew. And next thing I heard, they’d moved to California and I didn’t have any friends left at all. Still don’t.’
Nick leans forward. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know. We kept in touch a bit on Facebook, and I invited myself to stay when I visited the US. And … well, you know what happened with Branson. I fell in love with him, and he didn’t fall in love with me. Nick, I know I’ve behaved appallingly, but I swear I didn’t kill anyone. I had no idea what was in that parcel when I unwrapped it. I was asleep when someone started that fire.’
‘But nobody else has keys to your room,’ says Nick. ‘The firelighters …’
‘I know. That’s what’s going to put me in prison, isn’t it?’ She stares at him, desperation in her eyes. ‘But I’m innocent. At least, I’m innocent of murder.’
‘Did you write that note to Penelope?’
‘No!’ Violet almost sobs with frustration. ‘I wouldn’t say “I know what you did”, because that’s just it. I don’t know what she did. Nobody knows – apart from the killer.’
40
Back in his room, where Jingle has covered his pillow in a light dusting of fur, Nick takes the phone from his pocket and scrolls to the Photos app. Catherine looks back at him, wryly amused, beautiful, alive. He could swear he’s seen her before … was she famous? Harriet would know. She has a mental map of who’s starred in what, going back decades. They’ll be watching a police procedural drama and Harriet will point at some constable with two lines of dialogue and say, ‘That indie film we saw at the Curzon three years ago! He was the brother!’ Nick has no such power of recall for faces.
He could ask Matilda, but she’s already had a shock today. He doesn’t want to compound her grief, and besides, he remembers, he’s not supposed to have seen the photo at all. Sighing, he slips the phone back into his pocket and heads downstairs.
The small group is gathered around the fire, discussing a way out.
‘Now the snow’s melting,’ says Alan, ‘we could try and make it to the gate. Flag down a car.’
‘The drifts are feet high still,’ Lorraine argues. ‘I want to get to our Jade’s by tomorrow more than anything, but I don’t want us to die of cold.’
‘Lorraine’s right,’ says Matilda. She’s holding a steaming cup of tea and nibbling a shortbread biscuit. ‘Best sit tight now, and wait for the police.’
‘Yes, but they still don’t know!’ Branson is frustrated. ‘They can’t come if they don’t know what’s happened!’
‘Perhaps we can try another text …’ David ventures. ‘They must be busy. I suppose the roads are still icy, and it’s Christmas Eve so they’re probably dealing with accidents …’ He trails off, and Nick sees a micro-expression flash across his face – it looks like sudden pain. Is David ill? He doesn’t want to probe in front of Emily.
‘David, can I borrow you for a second?’
Nick grimaces at his own choice of words, subconsciously absorbed from his old news editor. In Mark Niven’s case, they almost always heralded a bollocking. Nick was only on news for a year or so, thankfully. It wasn’t for him; he’s much happier on investigative features, where he’s been for the past six years. Six years … Nick can’t move. It’s as though someone has drawn back a muffling black curtain, and the view has opened up before him, changing everything.
He knows where he’s seen Catherine’s face.
They sit in the library. ‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ says Nick. ‘I know it’s early, but do you fancy a whisky? I found the secret supply in the kitchen cupboard.’
David smiles. ‘Not much to celebrate,’ he says sadly. ‘Still stuck here, Violet a murderer, three people dead. Four, if you count poor Colt.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of celebrating so much as toasting our ongoing survival,’ says Nick.
‘Actually’ – David looks away – ‘I don’t really drink spirits.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll stick to tea for now.’
Nick leans back in his wing chair. He’s sat in it so often the last few days, the cushions have moulded to his shape. He’ll almost miss it when they leave.
‘David, I need to ask you something.’
He looks up. ‘Fire away.’
‘Emily’s mum … your wife. You never said exactly how she died, and I wondered …’
David’s expression is puzzled. ‘I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.’
‘Humour me. I’m just curious.’
David sighs. ‘I said it was an illness because Emily was there. She’s always believed her mum was poorly and didn’t get better. She was too little to remember what happened.’
‘She wasn’t ill?’
‘No. She was perfectly healthy. That’s what makes it so awful.’
David blinks, and his long fingers beat a tattoo on the arms of the wing-backed chair. The silence extends.
‘Can you tell me?’
‘If I must. I can’t say I enjoy talking about it, and look, Nick, you mustn’t tell Emily. I mean it.’ David’s mild brown eyes look almost fierce.
Nick nods. Come on, just tell me.
‘Well.’ David rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘She died in a car crash. The other driver’s fault.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. She was an older mum; we’d gone through IVF. Emily was our miracle baby, as they call it. The thing was, she could have died too. Emily was in the back of the car. She was thrown clear and the police found her when they were called to the scene of the crash. She was still strapped into her car seat, lying in the snow, in the dark. If she hadn’t been wearing her little padded snowsuit …’
Tears spill down David’s face and he raises a hand to wipe them away. ‘You see why I don’t like talking about it?’
Nick does. He sees, too, why David is so protective of his only child.
‘She was only two,’ David says. ‘I never know whether it’s good or bad that she doesn’t remember her mother.’
‘Don’t you have any photos up?’
David shakes his head. ‘Too painful. I loved her so much. It’s easier just to focus on Emily, do everything I can to keep her safe.’
‘That’s why you moved abroad?’
David nods. ‘Too many memories here.’
‘I’m bloody sorry that happened, David. It’s very tough.’
He smiles, weakly. ‘I’ve got my little girl, though,’ he says. ‘She’s what matters now.’
MUM OF ONE DIES IN CHRISTMAS EVE CRASH
A Harrogate woman has died following a car crash on Christmas Eve. Katy Foley, 41, was travelling home with her daughter, 2, in the back seat.
According to an eyewitness, her Toyota Yaris was run off the road during the blizzard by a black Mercedes, which was ‘veering all over the place’, then drove away at speed.
Foley died at the scene. Her daughter was found unhurt, after being thrown clear of the vehicle.
The crash was reported to local police shortly before 6.30 p.m.
Sergeant Bill Ackerman said: ‘We are investigating the circumstances of this tragic incident and are keen to hear from any witnesses.’
He appealed for anyone with information or dashcam footage to contact North Yorkshire police.
It came in over the wires on Boxing Day that year, and Mark told him to write it up in the middle of a long, tedious shift, between a short filler on dwindling mince pie sales and something on a ‘snowmageddon weather-bomb’ hitting the North. Nick had wondered about the woman in the supplied photograph, had been struck by the loveliness of her face. He’d bashed out a quick piece, spared a brief thought for the little daughter, and moved on. Soon after, he transferred to features.
Alone in the library, after David’s departure, Nick takes out his phone and looks again at Katy Foley. It’s her. David’s wife, Emily’s mum … and Matilda’s daughter. Catherine.
For a moment, he is overwhelmed. Nick closes his eyes, and presses the heels of his hands against the sockets, until he can only see crimson shapes dancing frenetically in the darkness. He’d prefer to remain like this until the police come, but he can’t. He has to deal with it. He has to run upstairs and let Violet know that they were wrong about her.
David has returned to the drawing room, unaware of his revelation. Nick moves slowly to the window, his movements clumsy with shock, like somebody stumbling away from an accident. Outside, the sun is warming the snow, and the gutters are running with clear water, the drifts collapsing into themselves.
Very soon, they’ll be able to wade down the drive to civilisation. It’s time to bring it to a close.
As he returns to the drawing room, where it all began, Lorraine is holding up her phone in triumph.
‘Nick!’ she shouts. ‘It got through! The police are coming!’
The others are exclaiming, cheering, high-fiving.
Branson looks weak with relief. ‘Thank God,’ he murmurs, ‘thank God, now my poor wife can be treated with respect.’
If you’d respected her enough not to sneak off to Violet’s room … Nick thinks, but he catches himself. He’s made mistakes far worse than foolish infidelity. He’s sent an innocent man to his death, launched a witch hunt, got it all wrong … but now, finally, he knows he’s right.
Nick steps forward. ‘Listen,’ he begins, just as Lorraine cries:
‘Listen!’
Far in the distance, they can hear a familiar sound – rhythmic, eerie. As they stand in silence, it grows in volume. Sirens. The police are on their way, and soon, at last, they’ll be rescued.
Nick doesn’t have long. He holds up a hand. ‘Can someone go and fetch Violet? Quickly.’
‘I’ll go.’ Lorraine looks worried. ‘Hang on, will I be safe?’
‘I promise,’ says Nick. ‘Violet hasn’t killed anyone.’
There’s an outcry. ‘But you said …!’ ‘The firelighters!’ ‘She did!’
‘No,’ he tells them. ‘She didn’t.’
‘What is this?’ Alan sounds tense. ‘You’ve not come up with some cock-eyed new theory just before the police arrive, surely? If you don’t think it was Violet, leave it to the police, for heaven’s sake. You’ve been wrong every time so far. Much as you’d expect from a so-called journalist.’
Nick doesn’t dignify that remark with a reply.
When Lorraine returns with Violet, who looks washed out and red-eyed, her hair greasy and tied back, they take their seats around the fire. Nick is interested to see that once again everyone has taken the seat they chose that first night. It feels as though months have passed since then.
The sirens have reached the gate, and their slow whoop is a reminder that this is their last hour together. Soon, they’ll be parted, interviewed, driven away … it’s essential that everyone understands what really happened, before they tell their stories.
A ring of expectant faces turn to Nick. ‘Go on, then,’ says Alan. ‘Spit it out.’
He stands as they sit. He needs the room to pace and think as he talks.
