Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 3
Sometimes, he and Harriet describe their pesto pasta eaten in front of Netflix in Roly’s florid style to amuse themselves. Nick is struck by a pang of homesickness.
He and Harriet have been married for five years, together for eight. He fell in love with her when he pulled a muscle during a game of rugby, and she was his assigned physiotherapist. She came into the blue-curtained cubicle with her cloud of dark hair and eyes the soft silver of a Scottish loch in winter, and he thought, Oh, it’s you.
Harriet grew up in the West End of Glasgow, ‘the posh bit’, as she calls it, and she takes no nonsense from anybody – least of all Nick. He looks at the tapered candles on the dining table now, and thinks of their winter wedding at the journalists’ church, St Bride’s. Harriet wore a red velvet dress, and carried ivy and white hydrangeas. It snowed as they came out of the church, spinning flakes mingling with the white rose petals thrown by the guests. Nick had been filled with joy.
Now, other guests, people he doesn’t know at all, are seating themselves along the table, faces shadowed in the candlelight, and there’s a small commotion as Penelope and Destiny appear in the doorway and Gaia leaps from Violet’s grasp, scratching her arm in her enthusiasm to reach her owner. ‘My angel,’ croons Destiny, who is now wearing a burgundy cashmere jumper, skinny jeans that are almost billowing on her tiny frame, and running trainers. Her long, dark hair is combed back and her cheeks are no longer deathly pale. She has a beautiful face, Nick realises as he sees Alan and Branson politely and subtly vying to sit beside her. She reminds him of a deer, with her slight body and huge brown eyes. She looks as though she could bolt away at any moment, as she murmurs, ‘I’m actually vegan,’ to Donal, who disguises his horror with a professional nod.
Nick’s seated between Penelope and Lorraine, opposite Branson. He notes the guests have naturally arranged themselves with couples parted to sit beside strangers and the traditional man-woman seating order – even young Emily is sitting next to David, and opposite Violet. Nick wonders where her mother is. Perhaps they’re divorced, and it’s David’s turn to have his daughter for Christmas. He shudders inwardly at the idea of sharing Cara with Harriet, living in a soulless rented flat close to the office, taking her on trips to McDonald’s and museums, straining for conversation once a fortnight with a child who’s growing up and away from him. He resolves never to let it happen. As soon as he gets home, he’s going to make more effort, take more of the burden from Harriet. Stop moaning about how exhausted he is when she’s had Cara all day.
‘Penny for them,’ booms Branson across the table, raising his glass of dark wine. Nick wonders if they could hold an entire conversation in clichés without Branson realising, but thinks better of it.
‘Just wondering how long until the snow stops and I can drive back to London,’ says Nick. ‘My baby daughter …’
‘Oh, you have a daughter!’ Branson nods as if they have something profound in common. ‘Penelope’s son Peter’s down south and we’re intending to visit for the holidays. Now I’m wondering how safe it will be to drive on your roads. You don’t have the monster snowplough trucks we do in the States.’ He laughs sympathetically at the sorry state of England’s roads. ‘Of course, it’ll be me doing the ice-road driving,’ he adds. ‘Penny always prefers to be the passenger, don’t you, honey?’
Penelope ignores his barb, and leans towards Nick. ‘What is it that you do for a living, Nicholas?’
‘Call me Nick,’ he says. ‘Only my boss calls me Nicholas.’
‘When he gives you a rocket, huh?’ Branson chuckles. Nick smiles, already weary.
‘I write features for a newspaper.’
‘Better be careful what I say!’ Branson looks delighted with his joke.
‘That must be interesting,’ says Penelope. ‘Is that what you were doing when your car broke down?’
Grateful for normal conversation, Nick tells her about his week with the homeless, and she nods politely.
Donal returns, pushing a trolley laden with rattling soup bowls, which squeaks as he wheels it to the table. Again, Nick thinks of how Harriet would nudge him and murmur, ‘Two soups?’ – referencing the Julie Walters sketch. It occurs to Nick that there’s often nothing so lonely as being trapped amongst polite strangers.
‘Lentil and tomato,’ Donal announces, delivering soup to each place, and laying a bread basket of warm rolls in the centre. The scent is enough to make Nick feel weak with longing. For a moment, the bread, the reaching hands, the soft light at the long table remind him of Da Vinci’s painting of The Last Supper. He and Harriet went to see it on a trip to Milan early on in their relationship, and, he remembers, she turned to him in the cool space of the old convent and said, ‘Imagine knowing it was your last. How could you eat?’
There are no such qualms here. Even Emily is carefully spooning up her soup, as David butters a roll for her. He seems to be a very attentive dad, thinks Nick. But perhaps a little lonely.
Nick finds himself talking to Lorraine about his plans for Christmas.
‘Just the three of us … quiet, really,’ he says, his heart yearning to be home as he thinks of it.
‘Ooh, that’s no fun. We’re the opposite,’ says Lorraine. ‘Our Jade always has a houseful. Big roast, all the trimmings, massive pork pie buffet and kitchen disco on Boxing Day, all the kiddies running round … one big happy family!’
‘Well, let’s hope we all get to where we’re going in good time,’ says Penelope. ‘I’m not a great fan of snow at the best of times, and it shows no sign of stopping.’
There’s a lull in the conversation and Emily hears her. ‘Can I look?’ she asks David and he nods. The group watches indulgently as Emily runs to the long shutters and unhooks them, folding one back to see outside. There’s a security light fixed to the back of the manor, and in its stark beam, huge flakes are still falling with hypnotic speed.
‘It’s up to the windowsill!’ she calls breathlessly. ‘Look!’
‘Oh now, don’t exaggerate, poppet …’ begins David, rising to join her. ‘I doubt it’s that high – Oh!’ He turns back to the table. ‘She’s right, it really is.’
He helps Emily rehook the shutters and they return to their seats.
‘Thing is, Nick,’ David says quietly, ‘it really doesn’t look as if it’s stopping. I’m not sure when you’ll be able to get away.’ He takes his phone from his pocket and jabs at the weather app. ‘Not loading.’ He tries another app, then gives up. ‘Maybe there’s a TV and we can see the weather on the ten o’clock news. Anyway, it could be that we’ll all have to bed in for a couple of days.’
Nick’s heart sinks. He’s never been good with feeling trapped, not a fan of caves or tight spaces. Being stuck in a manor house with food and wine on tap might sound more than acceptable on paper, but Harriet’s already climbing the walls, Cara must surely be missing his presence in her life, and his boss is expecting him back tomorrow for the big New Year features meeting. He’ll run out of small talk within hours. Still, he reassures himself, by morning the blizzard will surely be over. Once the snowploughs have been, he’ll be back on the road, and he’ll never have to think about these people again.
4
Donal returns with plates of chicken wrapped in Parma ham and roast potatoes. In front of Destiny, he places a bowl of steaming chickpeas. ‘Colt – Chef made you this,’ he says.
She studies the dry pulses. ‘Is there any dressing?’
‘I’ll ask.’ Donal hurries away.
The meal limps on. Nick speaks to Matilda about Cara for a while and, when Donal has collected the plates (Destiny did not receive dressing), to Penelope about the extreme weather. ‘I certainly don’t believe it’s climate change,’ she says sharply. ‘I well remember building a snowman as a child, and the snow was easily up to my knees back then.’ Nick refrains from pointing out that children’s knees tend to be lower down than adults’.
‘It’s bad, at any rate,’ he says. ‘David was saying we might be stuck here for a while.’
‘Oh dear God.’ Penelope shakes her head irritably. ‘Surely not. Peter’s expecting us in Ilfracombe, he’s doing a PhD at UCL and he’s gone down there early to stay with my parents. We can’t possibly expect them to manage, they’re over eighty!’
‘So am I,’ says Matilda steadily. ‘And I’m not quite dead yet.’
‘No, I didn’t mean …’ Penelope is embarrassed. ‘But they’re much feebler than you are: my mother had a fall in the autumn and my father’s quite frail.’
‘Perhaps Peter can help them out, then,’ says Matilda. ‘He sounds very clever.’
‘Oh, he is.’ Penelope nods. ‘He’s doing wonderfully well, though of course he’s benefited enormously from our support.’
Matilda smiles. ‘Such a great help, to have generous parents.’
‘Do you have children?’ Penelope asks.
‘Daughters,’ Matilda tells her. ‘Quite far away these days, sadly.’
Donal returns to ask if cheese is required. ‘I’m afraid Colt hasn’t had time to make a pudding,’ he adds, and Alan groans stagily.
Cheese is brought, more wine is drunk, and David stands. ‘Right,’ he announces cheerily. ‘Time to get this one up to bed. It’s long past time.’
‘Oh, Daddy, no, don’t make me,’ says Emily. ‘I want to watch the snow.’
‘There’ll be plenty of it tomorrow,’ says David, holding out a hand to her. Gaia emerges from beneath the table and sniffs at the little girl’s ankles.
‘Oh, it must be cos of Jingle,’ she says, ‘I smell of cat! Density, can Gaia come up to bed with me?’
‘Destiny is my name,’ she corrects Emily, seriously, as everyone laughs. ‘I’m afraid not, Emily, I need her with me. She’s my emotional support dog.’
Nick looks away. It feels cruel to mock when Destiny is clearly not gifted with a sense of humour.
The adults wave goodnight to Emily in avuncular fashion, and Branson stands up, yawning hugely. ‘Better turn in ourselves,’ he announces. ‘Looks like we might be digging our way out tomorrow, guys. We’ll need a good night’s sleep.’
The others push back their chairs, throw down napkins, swig the dregs from their glasses.
Donal is in the hall again, waiting to bid them goodnight. There’s now a large, unlit log in the fireplace, Nick notices.
‘The Yule log,’ says Donal, following his gaze. ‘Not to be lit until Christmas Eve – an old Mistletoe Manor tradition.’
It occurs to Nick that a break with tradition might mean a warmer hall, but Donal adds, ‘Breakfast is at eight,’ and turns away. Nick wonders whether to mention the Wi-Fi problem, but already his fellow guests are sweeping him along towards the stairs, and the moment passes. With horror, he realises he hasn’t yet rung Harriet.
‘Donal!’ he calls, urgently. ‘Did you find the phone? I can’t get a signal.’
‘I did, it was in the library.’ Donal gestures to a plug-in hands-free telephone behind the desk. ‘You’re welcome to use it.’
Sagging with relief, Nick dials Harriet’s mobile. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, it’s me …’ he begins, aware that Branson is standing a couple of feet away, apparently waiting his turn. ‘The snow’s terrible, the car broke down, and I’ve found a hotel in Yorkshire to stay in overnight, it’s called—’ There’s a click on the line and the connection disappears. Nick shakes the handset as if it’s a broken toy.
‘It’s gone.’ He turns to Donal and Branson. ‘It’s stopped working.’
Branson grabs the receiver and listens, as if he needs proof that Nick’s not lying.
He thrusts it at Donal. ‘You better get this fixed pronto, son, we need to let Pete know the deal.’
‘I think it’s the telegraph wires,’ says Donal. ‘If the lines are down because of the snow, I’m not sure I …’
Nick’s optimism withers away. He can only hope that Harriet will hear enough of his message to understand he’s safe, and let his boss know what’s happened. A pang of homesickness grips him, thinking of Harriet lighting the red tapered candles to welcome him home, and waiting in vain for the sound of the car engine. As for Cara … he longs to feel the soft little weight of her in his arms, and kiss her fuzzy head. He has to get home tomorrow, no matter what.
As they head upstairs, Nick wonders once again how he’s found himself in this peculiar hotel with its motley collection of guests – and quite how quickly he might be able to dig his way out in the morning.
It’s too hot in the bedroom. Nick wakes at four from a hectic dream, sweat pouring from him under the tightly tucked covers, and staggers to the radiator. It’s pumping out heat; the room feels like the tropical pavilion at London Zoo. He feels deep regret over the extra glass of red wine he drank with the cheese – his entire body is a dehydrated husk. He turns the old-fashioned metal wheel on the radiator, and is relieved to hear ticking and clanking from within. Wide awake now, he crosses to the window. Nick unhooks the panelled wooden shutter and peers out to see thick snow still falling. The ground seems higher, somehow, the window lower … it’s the snow, he realises. It’s now drifting halfway up the front door, and almost covering the ground-floor window below his room. There’s no chance he’ll escape tomorrow if it doesn’t stop soon. Maybe not even then. He’ll miss the meeting, Harriet will be worried and annoyed, he won’t see Cara … Nick gulps water from the bathroom tap, though the taste is unpleasantly ferrous, returns to bed, kicks off the covers and lies, wakeful. By five, he’s drifting back into sleep, and he isn’t sure if he hears a noise – the rattle of a door, perhaps, or just the old pipes banging somewhere else in the house. Maybe it’s Jingle, he thinks hazily, comforting himself with the thought of a contented cat going about his nocturnal business. Two hours later, he wakes again, crosses to the window, and finds it’s still snowing.
5
Four days till Christmas Eve
The guests are tired at breakfast, and Destiny is wearing a white towelling dressing gown, the style of which Nick recognises from his own wardrobe. It looked thin and scratchy and he didn’t put it on after his shower. There’s a cold buffet laid out on the long sideboard with miniature packs of cereal, yoghurts, rolls, sliced cheese and cold meats.
‘You’d think a hotel like this could lay on a cooked breakfast,’ mutters Alan, resentfully piling his plate with cheese.
‘Oh, shush,’ says Lorraine. ‘When we get to Jade’s, it’ll be fry-ups all the way. Anyway, this is better for your heart.’ Looking at Alan’s groaning cheese plate, Nick feels less convinced.
Destiny is at the table, wan and beautiful, with a small plate of the tomato slices that were laid out to accompany the cheese.
‘Do you think any dairy has touched our plates?’ she asks Alan worriedly. He laughs.
‘If it hasn’t, I’m suing under the Trades Descriptions Act,’ he says, indicating his toppling selection of European cheeses.
‘Oh no.’ She puts her knife down. ‘I can’t eat next to that, I’m vegan.’
Alan pantomimes an eye roll at the others. ‘Our Jade went vegan when she was fifteen,’ he says. ‘Lasted all of three days, till Lorri made her a bacon butty.’
Polite laughter ripples down the table, and Destiny looks furious.
‘Do you think these gentle beasts give of their burden willingly?’ she demands. ‘Or do you not realise that dairy cows are kept in a constant state of debilitating and unwanted pregnancy, then killed the moment their reproductive organs are too weak to sustain another foetus?’
Alan swallows. ‘Well, we’re each of us entitled to our opinion,’ he says. ‘England’s a free country, thank God, and I haven’t been arrested yet for my Sunday roast. Though with the bloody wokerati on the rise, it can only be a matter of time!’
Branson chortles appreciatively and Lorraine says vaguely, ‘Well, I suppose it’s an issue of respect, really …’ as the conversational waters close over again.
Matilda is fully coiffed and dressed, today in navy blue with a sapphire brooch in the shape of a snowflake pinned to her cardigan. She raises an elegant hand to David as he and Emily come into the dining room.
‘Coffee, Destiny?’ asks Branson, proffering a cup. ‘Might be the only thing that gets you through the day at this rate.’ He guffaws, and she half smiles and shakes her head.
‘I don’t drink caffeine.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ mutters Alan, performatively swigging from his own cup. Destiny shrugs.
‘I learned to appreciate the vessel that houses my soul,’ she says. ‘You don’t trash a precious temple, so why would you do the same to the human equivalent?’
‘My precious temple was trashed long ago,’ says Violet, overhearing, and Lorraine shrieks with laughter. Branson glances irritably at her and David checks to see if Emily is listening, but she’s gazing out of the window.
‘I want to play in the snow!’ she says excitedly, but David looks worried.
‘It’s too deep, poppet,’ he tells her. ‘You can’t build a snowman: it’s up to the windowsills.’
She runs across to the window, but in contrast to last night’s excitement, she’s downcast to see the whiteness pressing against the glass.
‘Is all that white stuff snow?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ David tells her. ‘It snowed very, very hard during the night.’
‘And it’s still coming down,’ adds Matilda. Emily seems to be on the verge of tears, and Matilda adds, ‘If you like, you can come to my room later and look through my photograph albums.’
Emily smiles tentatively and Matilda twinkles back at her.
‘I take them everywhere with me,’ she adds to Nick. ‘Nice to have a memory of happy times. Much better than silly little snapshots on a phone.’
Matilda is clearly not the iCloud type, he thinks, and Destiny looks up, interested. ‘I don’t have a mobile phone either,’ she says. ‘People have no idea what they’re doing to their brains. The 5G roll-out killed all the birdlife in its path and the government has suppressed the findings, so imagine what it’s doing to us.’
