by Rhys Bowen
She paused, taking out a big checked handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Well, he had to cross a little stone bridge over Lovey Brook. It’s just one of them simple clapper bridges like you see around here made of big slabs of stone balanced on rocks, and they are not always very stable. So they reckon he’d drunk quite a bit last night and lost his balance, see. Fell into Lovey Brook and hit his head on a rock. Terrible tragedy, just before Christmas. And my poor auntie—knowing how he died, having gone to see that woman.”
I gave a sympathetic nod.
“And of course you know what everyone in the village is saying, don’t you?” She looked up at Mrs. Huggins, who had come in personally with the cup of tea, not wanting to miss out on anything, I suspect. Rosie brightened considerably, having now a larger audience. “Two deaths in two days? They are saying it’s the Lovey Curse, striking again.”
“The Lovey Curse?” Mummy looked amused.
Rosie beckoned me, my mother and Mrs. Huggins into a tight little circle. “You’ve heard about our witch, no doubt? Well, when she was being burned at the stake, she cursed the village, saying every Yuletide she’d be back to take her revenge. And sure enough, something bad always happens here around Christmastime.” She folded her arms with satisfaction. “You mark my words. It’s the Lovey Curse, all right.”
“What in God’s name is all this weeping and wailing?” Noel Coward appeared in the doorway, wearing a striped silk dressing gown, with a long cigarette holder between his fingers and a pained expression on his handsome face. “I thought I chose this place for peace and quiet.”
“There’s been a tragedy, Noel. Rosie’s uncle fell off a bridge last night and drowned.”
“Ah, the transience of life.” Noel gave a dramatic sigh. “Frightfully sorry to hear about your uncle, Rosie dear, but could you grieve more quietly, do you think? The muse was doing splendidly until a few minutes ago, when she fluttered out the window and simply vanished.”
“Do you want me to go looking for it for you, sir?” Rosie asked. “Some kind of pet bird, is it?”
Noel sighed again. “I shall return to my room, I think. Could you be an angel and produce some drinkable coffee, Mrs. Huggins?”
He was about to make a dramatic exit when my mother called after him. “Look who has come to visit, Noel. My daughter, Georgiana.”
He spun around. “Georgiana, of course! I thought the face looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place you. Lovely to see you, my dear. Are you just passing through?”
“No, I’m actually here for Christmas,” I said wickedly as I watched Noel struggling to hide his annoyance.
“She’s staying at Gorzley Hall,” Mummy corrected hastily. “They are going to have a frightfully jolly house party there, so I gather.”
“Well, bully for you,” Noel said. “Claire and I will be working. Slaving away, actually, but do come down for a drink sometime, won’t you?”
With that he stomped back up the stairs.
Mummy gave me a commiserating smile. “You mustn’t mind him. He’s awfully grouchy when he’s working. I’m glad you’re here, darling. We must have some girl time together.”
Mrs. Huggins was loitering at the kitchen door. “Does that mean my Queenie has come down here with you, my lady?” she asked.
I remembered that Queenie was her great-niece. “Yes, she’s here with me. I’ll send her down to say hello to you.”
“Is she proving to be satisfactory, my lady?”
I couldn’t tell the brutal truth that Queenie would probably never be satisfactory in her life. “She’s definitely improving, Mrs. Huggins,” I said.
“Well, that’s nice to know, isn’t it?” She beamed at me as she went back into the kitchen.
Noises outside indicated that a ladder had been found and that Bunty was attempting to go up the tree. “I should go,” I said. “I’m supposed to be gathering mistletoe.”
“I hope there is someone worth kissing at your party,” Mummy said. “Such a waste of mistletoe otherwise.”
I came out to find Granddad steadying the ladder while Bunty clung to it precariously. “I volunteered to go up for the young lady,” he said, “but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Quite right. No ladders at your age,” I said.
“I’m not over the hill yet,” he said. “By the way, what was all that fuss about in there? I heard weeping and wailing.”
“Rosie’s uncle was found drowned in a brook this morning. Rosie’s saying it’s the Lovey Curse striking again. Two deaths in two days in the village.”
“Hmm,” Granddad said. “You know what my old inspector would say about that, don’t you?”
“Well, in this case your inspector would be wrong, I suspect,” I said. “One man shot himself by accident and the other fell off one of those little stone bridges in the middle of the night after he’d drunk too much. I don’t think you can read a curse or anything else into that, can you?”
“Let’s hope not,” Granddad said. “I’d like a nice quiet Christmas, personally, with no complications.”
* * *
BUNTY HAD JUST climbed down, waving a sprig of mistletoe triumphantly, when a motorcar drew up.
“Oh, Lord,” Bunty said as several policemen got out. “I thought we’d seen the last of them.”
Chapter 8
One of the policemen headed straight for us. He was wearing a fawn raincoat and a matching fawn hat and had a droopy fawn mustache. If he’d had the words “detective inspector” tattooed to his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” he said, raising his trilby to reveal thinning fawn hair, neatly parted down the middle.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”
“I suppose you’ve heard this latest news. Two deaths in two days. And just when I thought I’d be getting time off to do some Christmas shopping with the wife, too.”
“But they were both accidents, surely,” Bunty said.
“Let’s hope so, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, let’s hope so,” he said. “But I have to wonder about Ted Grover. Not usually the type who goes stumbling around drunk, would you say? Holds his liquor pretty well, so I’ve been told. Which makes me ask myself whether one of them convicts might still be hiding out in the neighborhood and encountered Ted last night.”
“If I were those convicts I’d have headed for Plymouth as quickly as possible and boarded a ferry for France,” Bunty said.
“You would, no doubt, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, but then you’re a young woman of the world. Those criminal types would be lost on the Continent, not knowing how to parley-vous and all that. They’d stick out like sore thumbs and be caught instantly. If you want to know what I suspect, I suspect that they haven’t strayed too far. What’s more, I suspect that someone around these parts is hiding them.” He looked at my grandfather. “Now, take the folks who are renting this cottage, for instance. Moved in just around the time of the breakout, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but one of them is Claire Daniels and the other Noel Coward,” I said. “They’re supposed to be in seclusion, writing a new play together, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be harboring escaped convicts.”
“And how about you, sir?” the inspector asked. “Are you one of their servants?”
“I am Claire Daniels’s father, Albert Spinks,” Granddad replied stiffly, “and what’s more I was on the force for thirty years with the Metropolitan Police.”
The inspector took a step back, then stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Inspector Harry Newcombe. What a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ll be calling upon your expertise, if you don’t object. So you’ve been at the cottage these last few days. And I notice that the cottage garden looks directly onto the orchard where the man shot himself. So did you happen to hear a shot in the early hours of yesterday morning?”
Granddad shook his head. “No, I can’t say I did, but then, I sleep quite soundly. Have they ascertained the time of death?”
“No, I
haven’t had the doctor’s report yet,” the inspector said, “seeing that he was off delivering a baby at Upper Croft Farm on the moor, but we reckon it had to be early yesterday morning. I can’t imagine that anyone would go tramping through an orchard and climbing trees in the dark, so that would make it seven thirty or later. And it had to be before Sir Oswald went on his morning rounds with his dogs.”
“I was up by seven,” Granddad said. “But maybe I was shaving or getting the fires started and a little rifle like that doesn’t make much noise.”
“It’s strange that nobody heard the shot, though,” the inspector said. He patted my grandfather heartily on the shoulder. “It’s going to be a boon to have someone like you on the spot here. You’d be in the position to notice any strange goings-on in this village, wouldn’t you? My men can’t be everywhere and there are so many little villages like this where the blighters could be hiding.”
“These convicts,” Granddad said thoughtfully. “I did read something about the breakout when I was coming down on the train, but I didn’t take in the details. Local men, are they, then?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Two of them were entertainers of sorts—an escape artist turned safecracker; we reckon he picked the locks on their shackles—then a bloke who used to have an act in the music hall and the third one was a bank clerk who’d been involved in a railway heist. We reckon he was the brains. Quiet little man on the surface but absolutely ruthless. Slit your throat as soon as look at you.”
Bunty shivered.
Granddad nodded. “But none of them with connections around here?”
“Well, the bank clerk had a sister in Plymouth. You can bet we’ve got a close eye on her place. And of course that big heist was on the Penzance-to-London express, but further up the line in Wiltshire. You no doubt remember it.”
Granddad nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The money was never recovered, was it?”
“It was not. So the Wiltshire police will be keeping their eyes open near the spot where it happened. And both the entertainers had spent a fair amount of time in the West Country—played summer shows on the piers in Torquay and Weston-super-Mare. What’s more, this music hall bloke, Robbins, he was inside for swindling his landladies out of their life savings. And we reckon that he bumped off a few, including the last one down here in Newton Abbott.”
“Why wasn’t he hanged for murder, then?” Bunty asked.
“Got off on a technicality. Couldn’t actually prove that he pushed her down the stairs, so it was reduced to manslaughter and he got twenty years. Nasty bit of work he was, too.”
“But he’d have no reason to linger in these parts, would he?” Granddad asked.
“I wouldn’t if I were him. He was a Londoner. And they’d be queuing up to turn him in around here.”
Granddad shook his head. “In my experience there’s not much that gets past the locals in a village like this. If someone were hiding here, they’d know it.”
Inspector Newcombe sighed. “I reckon you’re right. And I am probably reading too much into a couple of unfortunate accidents. I don’t see how the first could be anything other than suicide, and the second—well, there’s no sign of a struggle. And those convicts—well, they’d have bashed someone over the head, wouldn’t they?”
“Have you dusted the rifle for fingerprints?” I asked.
The inspector seemed to be aware of me for the first time. “Ah, we’ve an amateur detective here, have we, miss? Like to read those Agatha Christie books, I’ve no doubt. They’ve turned half the population into know-it-alls.”
“I have had some experience with murder,” I said. “And if I were you I’d have checked the rifle for prints and also I’d conduct an autopsy on the body. That way you can be sure nobody else was involved.”
Inspector Newcombe gave me a patronizing smile. “If I were planning to kill somebody, young lady, I’d wait until he came down from his tree. If he was up a tree with a rifle, I’d feel rather vulnerable as I approached him.”
This was, of course, a valid comment and I nodded.
“Are you also staying at the cottage, miss?” he asked.
“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch, the king’s cousin,” Bunty said grandly, “and she’s staying with us at the hall.”
“Well, I never,” Inspector Newcombe said. “No offense, I hope, my lady. Honored to make your acquaintance, but I suggest you go back to the hall and have a nice Christmas celebration and you leave the detective work to the police.”
* * *
“OBNOXIOUS LITTLE MAN, isn’t he?” Bunty muttered as we retraced our steps to the hall. As we turned onto the village street the door of the general store opened and a strange-looking figure came out. He was so bulky that he almost filled the narrow door to the shop and he was dressed in bright motley clothing with a shapeless red hat on his head and a mop of unruly curls. He set off with a strange lumbering gait, like a giant in a children’s pantomime.
“Who on earth is that?” I turned to Bunty.
“Oh, that’s only Willum. He’s the village idiot. Every village has to have one, don’t they?” She laughed. “Actually, he’s the son of Mrs. Davey at the shop. He’s a bit simple, but quite harmless. Just wanders around, helping people for the odd coin occasionally. “Morning, Willum,” she called out.
He turned his innocent child’s face to us and touched his cap. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Did you hear the news? They are saying that Ted Grover from over Five Corners way fell into Lovey Brook last night. What were he doing walking across the fields in the dark, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Returning home from the Hag and Hounds,” Bunty said.
Willum frowned. “That’s what comes of drinking, don’t it? He should have been safely home with his mum like I am of an evening.”
“Quite right, Willum.” She chuckled. “Rather sweet, actually,” she added to me as we moved away. “Oh, and you’ll probably meet Sal at some stage. She’s our wild woman.”
“You’re making it up.” I laughed.
“I am not. We have our idiot and a wild woman to boot. Sal is one of those strange untamed creatures you find sometimes in the country. She lives up on the moor in a stone hovel, picks herbs, dances around barefoot in the moonlight. The locals swear she has magic powers—in fact, there is a rumor that she is a direct descendant of our witch. She’s tough, I’ll tell you that much. You’ll see her out in the foulest weather running around barefoot in a flimsy dress.” She glanced across at me. “Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t scared you off. Mummy says I mustn’t mention her or Willum or the unfortunate events to the guests or they’ll all want their money back.”
“I gather the first ones are arriving tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes, and Mummy’s not happy about it. She wanted everyone to arrive at the same time for the grand welcome, but the Americans insisted on coming a day early. Mr. Wexler cabled from the ship that they’d be arriving on the twenty-second to give them plenty of time to settle in, and that they were bringing their son as well, because he refused to be left behind.”
“Oh, dear, I hope they are not going to be difficult,” I said. “I’m afraid people with lots of money do seem to be rather arrogant.”
“Let’s hope that the presence of one who is related to the royal family will awe them into submission.” Bunty gave me a wicked grin. “Oh, Lord, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet Mr. Barclay now.”
A small man with hair neatly parted in the middle and a perfect little mustache was coming out of the church.
“Morning, Mr. Barclay,” Bunty called merrily.
“It is not a good morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Not at all. That dreadful Prendergast woman has absolutely no taste. You should see what ghastly things she wants to do with the decorations. And the vicar only wants the good old hymns. He shot down my version of ‘In Dulci Jubilo.’ Positively shot it down—after the choirboys have been practicing it, too. Oh, well, if he wants a boring midnight mass, he shall have o
ne.”
And he swept away with small mincing steps before I could be introduced. Bunty and I exchanged a smile. “He’s always upset about something,” she said. “Always complaining to the parish council and seething with indignation.” We approached the gates leading to Gorzley Hall. “So now you’ve seen what a strange lot we are. Hopelessly inbred, all crackers.” And she laughed.
Chapter 9
GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 21 AND THEN 22
As we were about to turn in to the drive an ancient motorcar drew up across the street and three birdlike old ladies were helped out by an equally ancient chauffeur.
“We’ve been shopping, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” one of them called excitedly. “Such fun. Almost forgot the crackers, and we were afraid that Hanleys would have sold out, but they hadn’t.”
“And your dear mother invited us again to join you for Christmas luncheon,” the second old lady called to us. “We look forward to it all year.” She turned for affirmation to her two companions, who were handing packages to the chauffeur. “And I hope you won’t forget to come caroling at our house. Cook has made enough mince pies to feed an army.”
With that they tottered like a line of ducklings into their house. I knew, of course, they could only be the Ffrench-Finch sisters.
“They are rather sweet, really,” Bunty said. “Never married. Lived here all their lives. How boring, don’t you agree? But they seem content enough. Of course, Effie, the oldest, bosses the other two around. They have a really good cook. Mummy’s tried to lure her away several times, but she won’t leave them.”
With that we continued up the drive toward the house. We spent a pleasant afternoon putting up holly and mistletoe. I thought that Bunty made a big fuss about the correct situation of the mistletoe sprig, as the only younger males were to be her brother and her cousin. I also made note of where it was so that I could avoid standing there. I really dislike being grabbed and kissed by aged colonels.
