Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 4
David exchanges a glance with Nick – one that clearly says, ‘It’s not worth arguing, mate,’ and Nick agrees. It’s too early. He fills a roll with cheese and takes a seat beside Matilda. Violet glances around the table. ‘Where’s Penelope?’
Branson shrugs. ‘She’ll be down soon, for sure. She was up late last night, watching the damn snow, worrying about getting out today.’
‘It’s not looking likely, is it?’ says Alan. ‘Us blokes should do a recce, see if we can find some spades, start digging.’
‘Perhaps the police …’ begins Matilda, and Alan barks a laugh.
‘They’ll be dealing with stranded motorists with hypothermia and ambulances stuck in drifts. They won’t be fretting about a luxury hotel miles from anywhere, trust me.’
Nick silently agrees.
‘It’s so boring,’ sighs Emily. David smiles at her.
‘Perhaps we can think of a game to play indoors.’
Emily studies the bread roll on her plate for a moment. ‘I’ve had a good thought!’ she announces. ‘I’ve got a Christmas game we can play!’
‘Oh please, no more charades,’ says Violet wearily.
‘Twister?’ asks Alan hopefully, to a quelling look from Lorraine.
‘No!’ Emily makes them wait, like a reality contest host announcing the loser. ‘Secret Santa!’
There’s a pause. ‘We only have presents for our family with us,’ says Lorraine to David frostily. ‘Why would we have brought them for strangers? I’ve got a mango-scented Yankee Candle in the boot for gifting emergencies, and that’s it.’
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘You explain, Emily.’
‘We find things, all around the house. And we wrap them and give them to each other.’
‘I don’t think …’ Donal begins.
‘Oh, we don’t have to keep them,’ David says quickly. ‘It’s just for fun. Like a treasure hunt, to see what catches our eye and lets us match the gift to the recipient!’
‘I think it sounds quite a laugh,’ says Lorraine unexpectedly, and Destiny agrees.
‘Yes, why not? Gaia loves finding things.’
‘Well, I’d ask you to keep out of the staff rooms …’ says Donal uneasily, and Lorraine laughs.
‘Of course we will! It’s not as if there’d be anything interesting in there anyway. It’ll be fun, love,’ she adds to Emily, surveying the less than enthusiastic faces around the breakfast table. ‘What are the rules?’
‘We all choose a person to give something to, then you get half an hour to find something you can wrap up, then we all open them and find out why you’ve chosen the present you have for the person,’ says Emily, smooth as a radio announcer. Clearly, this is something she’s done before.
Convoluted games make Nick’s head hurt. They remind him of endless hours playing Trivial Pursuit on dreaded festive visits to his grandparents’ house, with questions written before he was born about people and places he’d never heard of. ‘Come on,’ his exacting, geography-teacher grandfather used to snap, ‘you must know this!’ The mantelpiece carriage clock would tick loudly into the silence as they waited. Nick once heard a single pine needle drop from the Christmas tree as he racked his brain for the word ‘Zambezi’.
Now, he smiles weakly. He’ll just wrap up a tooth mug or something – what else are they going to find?
‘We don’t have any wrapping paper,’ he points out, feeling a sliver of hope that the idea might be abandoned.
Donal has come back, with a fresh pot of tea. Nick wonders if he ever sleeps.
‘No problem,’ says Donal, ‘we’ve got plenty in the back storeroom; people have left it behind over the years. I’ll fetch some.’
‘Yay!’ says Lorraine, and claps her hands. Emily looks marginally happier, and Nick feels guilty for being so joyless. But right now, he should be pitching all his New Year Long Read ideas to the features meeting, back at the Globe’s shiny London office that overlooks the Thames. Instead, Maya Hudi, the 25-year-old wunderkind who recently joined from The Times, will be presenting hers, to general delight and enthusiasm. Sometimes, Nick feels very old.
Back in the drawing room after breakfast, the shutters are open, but snow has blown against the window, and the light inside is cold and flat, despite the fire Donal has lit. He’s placed a drift of differently coloured wrapping paper on the vast oak coffee table and, helpfully, several rolls of Sellotape.
‘On your marks …’ says Lorraine, who has clearly appointed herself Mistress of Ceremonies, alongside Emily. ‘Pick a name from the jar – they will be your recipient – take the wrapping paper and some tape to your bedrooms, then you’ve got half an hour to find and wrap your Secret Santa present. Ready … steady … Go, ho, ho!’
Lorraine snatches up paper and gallops off in a blur of white trousers and sequinned sweatshirt. Alan, today in a zip-up Fair Isle cardigan, follows, and David encourages Emily to choose some paper decorated with snowmen. For himself, he takes a dull tartan.
‘What about Penelope?’ Nick asks Branson as they trudge towards the stairs. ‘Does she enjoy games?’ Even as he asks, he can’t imagine it and Branson shakes his head.
‘Nope. She prefers to read. Booker Prize, literary fiction … if it’s got a miserable-looking woman on the cover, she’ll read it. She’s probably in bed reading right now. I’ll leave her to it.’
Nick puts the wrapping paper on the desk in his room, which is freezing again. Outside, fat goose feathers of snow are still spinning down. His boots haven’t quite dried out, and his jeans retain a hint of damp. Nick removes the unused tooth-mug from the basin, then, struck by a thought, heads to the wardrobe. He slung his wet jacket in and closed the door last night, but now, just as he’d hoped, he sees there’s a small fridge behind the other door. Inside is a selection of miniatures, a can of white wine and a Toblerone. He experiences a moment of happiness almost on a par with Cara’s birth. Nick’s not a big drinker, but knowing he can hide in his room with booze and chocolate makes everything infinitely better.
Feeling generous, he takes a brandy from the shelf, puts the little bottle in the tooth mug and wraps them both in plain red paper. He writes ‘BRANSON’ on the parcel, and spends the next twenty minutes trying and failing to find a phone signal.
The guests gather downstairs again as the gold mantel clock chimes nine thirty. It’s still early and, as yet, there’s no sign of Penelope. Perhaps she’s avoiding them all, thinks Nick – and could anyone blame her? Not everyone enjoys manufactured fun at breakfast time. In fact, hardly anyone does. But Emily is cheerfully gathering their small, badly wrapped parcels and heaping them on to the low table in front of the crackling fire. The air smells of woodsmoke and coffee, and for a moment, despite everything, Nick feels almost festive.
‘Well done, all,’ Lorraine calls as they seat themselves. Nick notices that everyone has chosen the same position they sat in last night. Amazing how quickly people learn a routine. Perhaps there’s a feature in that …
‘Nick,’ Emily says, ‘first present for you!’
He makes a show of excitement, because she’s watching, her eyes alight. It’s from David, judging by the tartan paper. Nick unwraps it to find a smart black ballpen. He recognises it as the pen Donal used to check him in.
‘Fabulous!’ says Nick. ‘You know me well.’
‘So who was it?’ beams Lorraine. ‘Own up!’
‘Me,’ says David shyly. ‘I thought, with Nick being a journalist …’
Nick feels oddly touched by the gesture.
Matilda opens a small pocket mirror from Lorraine. ‘Because you’re so well put together,’ Lorraine explains. ‘I thought, for little touch-ups on the run … It’s mine,’ she adds, ‘so no need to give it back.’
‘Well, thank you, Lorraine, dear,’ says Matilda. ‘I shall treasure it.’
Violet receives a lemon from Branson and shoots him a confused glance.
Branson shrugs. ‘You like G & T,’ he says.
Nick wonders when she said so – as far as he remembers, last night she was drinking whisky cocktails and wine, like everyone else.
There’s a convivial atmosphere building. David receives a Victorian book on household ailments from Destiny, and seems genuinely thrilled. ‘I found it in the library,’ she says, and smiling, she opens Emily’s present, a little compass which Nick remembers seeing on Donal’s desk – ‘Because you couldn’t get to your yoga and this will help!’ – while Alan is gifted a small plastic ball containing a bell. He regards it, puzzled.
‘I thought you could practise golf with it!’ calls Violet. ‘Jingle said I could borrow it.’
To general laughter, Branson opens Nick’s present. ‘You’re a gentleman and a scholar, sir,’ he shouts, opening the brandy and making a show of slugging it into the tooth mug. Matilda looks disapproving.
Lorraine opens a small, expensive shower gel. ‘This is already mine,’ she says blankly.
‘Well, as usual, I didn’t know what to get you,’ says Alan, and they all shriek as Donal comes in to pour more coffee.
Emily is last. Her face shining with excitement, she opens a dog lead from Matilda. ‘Destiny might let you take Gaia for a walk when the snow stops,’ she says, and Emily looks thrilled.
‘I mean, sure, if I can come too,’ says Destiny, cuddling the dog to her. ‘It’s just she’s my emotional support—’
‘What can happen to you if an eight-year-old girl takes her for a walk?’ asks Matilda, quite kindly. ‘Surely you can manage your unruly emotions for ten minutes, Deborah.’
‘Destiny,’ she mutters as Nick tries not to smile.
‘Oh!’ Violet leans over from her seat on the sofa and lifts a parcel. ‘There’s another one, look.’
She holds up a shining, flat, gold-wrapped parcel, the size of her hand. There is no name written on the paper.
‘Own up!’ she calls expectantly. ‘Who did an extra one?’
‘Maybe it’s for Gaia!’ says Emily, but there’s general head-shaking.
‘Finding one present was hard enough,’ murmurs Branson.
‘Donal? Is it from you?’ Nick asks.
‘Not me. I was with Colt, sorting out the lunch menu. We’re a bit low on rolls; we’ll need to defrost some for lunch.’
‘Go on then, Violet,’ cries Lorraine. ‘Don’t keep us in suspenders, open it!’
‘I love a good mystery!’ says Violet, using a long, manicured nail to slit the paper.
She pulls out a gold metal star with five sharp points, and holds it up to show everyone. ‘The Christmas star!’ she says. ‘We must put it on top of the—’
Lorraine screams. Heads turn in shock.
‘What on earth—’ begins Matilda; then she sees what Lorraine is looking at.
6
One of the star’s points isn’t gold. It’s a dull crimson, as though it’s been dipped in paint. But as they stare, it becomes clear that it’s not paint at all.
‘That’s … is it …?’ Lorraine manages, and Violet turns the star round to examine, immediately dropping it as it smears her hand.
‘Oh my God!’ She holds her hand away from her body in horror. ‘Is this a joke? Does someone here think this is funny?’
David is on his feet, shepherding Emily from the room.
‘What? What is it, Daddy?’ she asks, craning her neck to see.
‘I think I heard mewing. We need to find Jingle. Come on …’ David urges her away.
Nick wonders if he’ll be the same kind of dad to Cara – alert, kind, protective. He hopes so.
In the drawing room, there’s uproar. Branson is shouting, ‘What the hell kind of gift is that?’
Violet looks as though she’s about to pass out, and Alan has his arm around a shuddering Lorraine. ‘Can’t stand the sight of blood,’ he mouths.
‘My goodness,’ says Matilda to Nick. ‘Someone’s got a peculiar sense of humour.’
Alan reaches to pick up the fallen star.
‘Don’t,’ says Nick. ‘Fingerprints.’
The others stare at him, aghast, and Violet gives a strange, high giggle.
‘You think this is a crime?’ she demands. ‘Come on! It’s just a horrible joke.’
But Nick is looking at Branson. The handsome older man is pale, his forehead is clammy, and he’s gazing fixedly at the stairs.
‘If none of us is injured …’ he says. ‘Penny.’
Donal extends a hand to Branson. ‘Give me your room key.’
‘I don’t …’ Branson pats his pockets. ‘I musta left it up there.’
‘I’ve got mine,’ says Donal, patting his pocket. He runs to the hall then takes the stairs two at a time. Nick follows, with Branson and Alan. The others gather in the hall.
‘Would you like a hug?’ Destiny asks Lorraine, and she nods tearfully. The two women cling together as Matilda and Violet stand rigid and fearful by the drooping Christmas tree.
There was no star on its top branch yesterday, Nick realises, but there’s no time to think about what that means. Donal has drawn to a halt by a panelled door in the corridor on the other side of the stairs from Nick’s room.
He knocks, tentatively.
‘Hello? Mrs Mitchell?’ There is silence behind the door.
‘Could be she’s put her earplugs in and gone back to sleep,’ says Branson. ‘She sleeps like the dead with those things.’
Nick glances at him, and the older man’s bravado drains away. Branson closes his eyes, bracing himself.
‘Go on,’ Nick tells Donal. ‘Or do you want me to do it?’ He pictures Penelope sitting up, still half asleep, shocked at the intrusion.
Donal shakes his head. He fits the key into the lock and turns it, pushing the door open. The room is dark, the shutters closed, but the vanity light shining from the bathroom illuminates a human shape in the double bed.
‘Penny!’ Branson shouts. ‘Wake up, honey!’
She doesn’t stir.
Nick moves towards the bed. ‘Let me check,’ he says. He’s thinking about the time he did a first aid course, that if Penelope’s really hurt, he knows how to make a tourniquet, he can staunch the blood, he can …
Donal folds back the shutters and grey light spills into the room. Now, the men can see that Penny is lying on her back. Her left arm is flung out as if in greeting, her right hand a claw on the pillow. Her eyes are open, her mouth a rictus of fear – and in her neck there’s a wound so deep, Nick involuntarily turns away, but not before he sees the blood soaking into the pillow, the spatters across the bedspread. She has clearly been dead for several hours.
‘Branson, Alan, out of the room,’ he says urgently. ‘Don’t come any closer, go and find David right now. We need a doctor.’
‘She’s my wife!’ storms Branson. ‘I need to see what’s …’ He steps nearer and sees the damp red pillow, the spray of arterial blood.
‘Oh God, no,’ he whispers. He collapses against the wall. ‘Penny, no.’
‘Come on, mate,’ Alan half lifts him and pulls him from the room.
A woman’s voice floats from below. ‘What’s happening? Is she OK?’
Nick takes charge. ‘Donal, could you go and break the news to the others, please? Alan, can you ask someone to look after Branson downstairs, then find David, and I’ll stay with the bo—with Penelope.’
Donal nods as he heads for the door, and Nick feels profoundly grateful for the young man’s swift grasp of the situation.
‘We need to try and find a way to call the police,’ Nick adds. The scene is surreal: the old-fashioned bedroom, the red blood, the falling snow. He should be at the office near Blackfriars Bridge right now, eating a festive Tesco meal deal, typing up his notes, thinking about last-minute presents for Harriet.
‘I’ll ask everyone to try their phones again,’ says Donal. ‘The landline’s dead, and the Wi-Fi seems to be out.’
‘Yes, it wasn’t working last night when I arrived,’ says Nick. ‘Could you maybe have a look at the box, just to make sure a wire hasn’t come loose?’
‘Sure,’ says Donal, already on his way out. ‘But I think it’s the snow. There’s a mast up on the moors, it’s probably been damaged in the blizzard.’
Nick knows he’s right. He’s just finding it hard to believe that in a world where basically everything runs on Wi-Fi, AI and tech, they can’t get an urgent message to the police.
Somebody is wailing downstairs. Nick can hear gasps of horror, the sound of a woman sobbing. Donal has done his duty, then. Perhaps Nick should have taken on that horrible task, but the truth is, he doesn’t know who to trust and someone needs to stay with the body and ensure it’s not moved. Clues, he thinks. Forensics. Nick scans the room. The shutters were closed when they came in, but the curtains were open – that may mean nothing, of course. On Branson’s side of the bed, there’s a mobile phone, clearly out of battery, and a half-empty glass of water. Nick bends to sniff it, and inhales that ferric tang he recognises from his own bathroom tap. He straightens up, feeling foolish. It’s not as if she was poisoned – it’s perfectly clear how she died.
On Penelope’s bedside table, there’s a lamp, switched off, and a book – The Testaments by Margaret Atwood. She doesn’t seem to have got far with it, judging by the bookmark placement. Nick feels a sharp pang of sorrow that now she’ll never finish it. Beside it is a lavender-silk eye-mask – why wasn’t she wearing it? Did she rip it off when she heard a noise? Nick looks more closely at the polished surface. There’s an almost invisible trail of fine, white dust.
Surely not drugs. Neither Penelope nor Branson seems the type. Some kind of vitamin powder? It suddenly strikes him why it looks familiar – it’s the dust that comes from ripping open a thick envelope. He sees their sunny kitchen last summer, Harriet tearing open a thick cream envelope, scanning a wedding invitation. His heart sinking, knowing he’d need a new suit, they’d need to buy a present … the ripped envelope made just that kind of fine dust on the worktop.
Nick crosses to the metal waste bin, under the desk. He shouldn’t touch anything … he creates a makeshift mitten from the bottom of his T-shirt and gently pulls it out. There’s the envelope – thick, white, torn open, a single P in black ink on the front. And beside it, next to an apple core and a crumpled information leaflet about Castle Howard, there’s a leaf of plain white paper, screwed into a ball. Nick pinches it by the corner, holding it through his T-shirt, and pulls it out, unfolding the creases. These five words, too, are in black pen, printed in neat capitals:
