The Twelve Clues of Christmas lg-6

by Rhys Bowen

  “Blimey, yes. Bob’s yer uncle then.”

  And she waddled out, leaving me to sit up in bed, enjoying the sound of the bells and the white stillness of the landscape outside my window. Then I put my hand to my neck to feel for my pixie. My fingers closed around him, and I shut my eyes, remembering that kiss. It was indeed a good Christmas.

  Queenie was back in no time at all.

  “Happy Christmas, my lady,” she said. “Cook sent up a mince pie instead of biscuits this morning.”

  It was warm from the oven and I savored it.

  “What will your ladyship be wearing?” Queenie asked, clearly trying to be on her best behavior.

  “I believe I’ll wear my Christmas present from my mother—the rose cardigan and the long silky skirt and the scarf, with my white silk blouse,” I said. “Oh, and Queenie—that cardigan is made of cashmere. On no account are you to attempt to wash it, scrub it, iron it or do anything else to it. Is that clear?”

  She nodded. “Sorry about the jersey dress, miss,” she muttered. “I feel like a fool. You know what my old dad used to say, don’t you?”

  “Various things, if I remember correctly—that you were dropped on your head at birth or that you must be twins because one couldn’t be so daft.”

  She grinned. “You got it. That’s exactly what he said.”

  I got up and went to the dresser, retrieving a package. “Happy Christmas, Queenie,” I said. “Servants should officially receive their Christmas boxes tomorrow, on Boxing Day, but I think I’d like you to have it now.”

  “For me, miss?” Her eyes opened wide.

  “It’s nothing very special,” I said. “You know I don’t have much money.”

  She opened it. It was a black cloche hat to replace the shapeless felt flowerpot she usually wore. She was embarrassingly grateful and wiped away tears. “Oooh, miss, I ain’t never had anything so lovely before. Honest, I ain’t. You’re such a lovely person. I’m so lucky.”

  Oh, dear, when she said things like that I realized that I could never sack her, however awful she was.

  Washed and dressed in my new finery, feeling delightfully stylish, I went down to breakfast. Apart from the Wexlers I was again the first one down and I helped myself from a splendid array of dishes. The breakfasts at Gorzley Hall had been more than generous every day but this Christmas spread outdid them. Bacon, sausages, kidneys, eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, smoked haddock—everything one could possibly want. I tried not to take too much, knowing the Christmas banquet that was to follow.

  While I was eating the other guests filed in, one by one, and Christmas greetings filled the air. Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared when we were all seated to wish us a happy Christmas and to inform us that there was something special in the small sitting room as soon as we had finished eating. Like eager children we filed through to see an impressive snow house sitting on a low table. For those of you who have never seen a snow house, it is made of cardboard to look like an old-fashioned house and is liberally decorated with cotton wool and sparkles to look like snow. Oh, and it’s full of presents.

  Lady Hawse-Gorzley removed the chimney.

  “Lucky dip,” she said. “Red ribbon means for a man, white ribbon for a woman.”

  We dipped, one by one. The presents were all rather mundane—boxes of handkerchiefs and writing paper, appointment books and journals. I was lucky enough to pick one of the latter as I have always kept a diary and this one was particularly grand with a purple leather cover and a lock and key. We thanked her and she smiled, but I could tell she was distracted. As people drifted away I went up to her.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “You seem a little worried.”

  She frowned. “It’s that dratted butcher. He hasn’t delivered the geese as he promised. Cook has the stuffing all ready and is waiting to put the birds in the oven. You did tell him that I needed those birds by nine o’clock at the latest, didn’t you? And now it’s almost ten.”

  “It could have snowed again overnight, making the roads difficult,” I pointed out.

  “The trouble is we’ve no way of knowing. The telephones are still not working. I suppose we have enough turkeys to go around, with the stuffing and everything, but I did want those geese.”

  “I suppose I could go out and shoot you a couple of swans from the pond,” Sir Oswald said, with deadpan seriousness. “Would they do instead?”

  “Don’t be silly, Oswald,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley snapped. “That’s not even amusing.”

  “Why, are swans not good to eat?” Mr. Wexler asked.

  “Nobody’s ever tasted them,” Bunty said, giving him a withering look that he could be so clueless. “Swans are reserved for royalty. In the old days killing a swan was punished by hanging. I don’t think they’d hang us anymore, but it’s still an offense.”

  “Fancy that. How quaint,” Mrs. Wexler said. “You have the quaintest laws over here.”

  “That’s because some of them date back to the Middle Ages and nobody has bothered to repeal them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Those of you who are going to matins should think of getting ready.”

  “Have my car brought around, Humphreys. I do not intend to walk through the snow,” the dowager countess said to her companion, who scurried off like a frightened rabbit.

  “Hopeless creature. Don’t know why I put up with her,” the countess commented before the companion was out of earshot.

  “Maybe we could hitch a ride with you, Countess,” Mr. Wexler said.

  The countess regarded him through her lorgnette. “I always think that one should walk whenever possible,” she said firmly. “Had there not been snow on the driveway I should have never considered wasting petrol and using the car.”

  “But since you are using it,” Mrs. Wexler said, giving her what she hoped was a winning smile.

  The countess did not return the smile. “Those two young people of yours will grow up fat and idle if you mollycoddle them,” she said. “What your son needs is a good boarding school. Cold showers in the morning and cross-country runs before breakfast.”

  “That’s positively barbaric,” Mrs. Wexler said, putting an arm around Junior’s shoulder.

  “Ah, but it made us what we are today,” the countess said, smiling at last. “Rulers of half the world.” She nodded to the Wexlers. “I will see you in church.”

  As she went out I caught Darcy’s eye and moved closer to him.

  “Isn’t she marvelous?” Darcy muttered to me.

  “Come with me,” I said and, taking his hand, I led him from the room.

  “Is this a repetition of the other night?” he asked, his eyes challenging mine. “Are you leading me to your bedroom again?”

  “Don’t keep reminding me of that.” I blushed.

  “Oh, I think I’ll enjoy reminding you of it for a long while yet.”

  We reached an alcove beside the front hall. I turned to face Darcy. “I wanted to give you your Christmas present,” I said. “And bear in mind I bought this before I knew you were part of this house party.”

  I handed him the little box. When he had taken off the wrapping I saw the grin spreading across his face.

  “Great minds think alike,” he said as he opened the box to reveal the pixie.

  “I wanted to give you something, and I thought you needed luck more than most people.”

  “How true that is,” he said. “I could really do with a streak of luck right now. My father has become so difficult. One can’t even have a civilized conversation with him. He’s all set to sell off the last of the family treasures and won’t listen to me. I just feel so frustrated, watching everything my family stood for gradually disintegrate and not able to do a damned thing about it.” He stopped and managed an embarrassed smile. “I shouldn’t go piling my troubles on you, especially not on Christmas Day.”

  “I feel the same way,” I said. “I’m no longer welcome at what was my home and frankly I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “Two
orphans in the storm,” he said. “Maybe we should do what you suggested in your moment of drunken wisdom—run off to a desert island together and to hell with the whole thing.”

  “I don’t like coconuts very much,” I said. He wrapped me in his arms and laughed.

  * * *

  LADY HAWSE-GORZLEY SUMMONED us together again before the churchgoers set out and announced that we should make plans for the Boxing Day hunt in the next village of Widecombe. She hoped she’d be able to supply enough horses for all those who wanted to take part.

  “Not us, thank you,” Mrs. Wexler said firmly. “Hunting is a barbaric sport, from what I’ve heard. Tearing poor little foxes to pieces.”

  “They’ve probably never ridden a horse in their lives,” the countess said in a stage whisper.

  “I think I’m a little old for that kind of thing,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but I’m sure my husband won’t turn down a chance to hunt, will you, Reggie?”

  “I should say not,” Colonel Rathbone said heartily. “Tallyho and view halloo and all that. It’s what England is made of, don’t you know.”

  “I don’t think we’re up to hunting, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Upthorpe said, “but we’d certainly like to come along and watch you set off. I’ve never actually seen a hunt. I bet the young men look really handsome in their red coats.”

  “Pink,” the countess said sharply.

  “I thought the coats were red.” Mrs. Upthorpe looked puzzled.

  “They are, but we call it pink.”

  “Why call them pink when they’re not pink?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

  “I’m sure the explanation is lost in the mists of antiquity,” Lady H-G intervened before this could go any further. “Oswald will run you over in the estate car. His leg is playing up again. Still recovering from an injury and the doctor has forbidden hunting.”

  Sir Oswald nodded gloomily. “Blasted quack. What does he know?” he muttered.

  “I shall enjoy watching you set off,” the countess said. “Remind me of the good old days when I had the finest seat in Hertfordshire.”

  For some reason the Wexler children found this amusing and were given a ferocious look by the countess. “I shall, of course, be delighted to offer Mrs. Rathbone a place in my motorcar,” she said, making it quite clear that she was snubbing the rest of the spectators.

  “And I take it you’ll be riding your own horses, won’t you, Captain Sechrest?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said quickly, still trying to keep unpleasantness from developing.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Captain Sechrest said. “We’ll pop over to our place first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drop you off at your place in the morning in the Armstrong Siddeley,” Johnnie said. “I have to pick up my own nag.”

  Mrs. Sechrest said, “Thank you, Johnnie, how kind,” at the same time as her husband muttered, “Not at all necessary. Have my own vehicle.”

  Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked around. “So let’s see, that leaves the colonel, myself, Monty, Darcy, Bunty—how about you, Badger?”

  “I’m not the world’s most brilliant rider.” Badger’s freckled face turned pink. “But I’ll give it a go.”

  “Jolly good. That’s the spirit.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley nodded with approval. “And Georgiana—you hunt, don’t you?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Adore it, if you can find me a mount,” I said.

  “I think we can. We’ve Sultan if Oswald’s not coming, and Star is still game if a little plodding, isn’t he? And then there are Freddie’s horses. I did approach him about borrowing his extra mounts for our guests before the tragedy, and they’ll need exercising by now. Monty, dear, you might take Darcy and go over there this morning to see what’s what. Tell the groom we’ll want them brought round by eight thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my hunting pinks,” Colonel Rathbone said. “Didn’t know about the hunt, y’know. Can’t ride without them. Dashed bad form.”

  “I’m sure Oswald will lend you his jacket, won’t you, dear?” Lady H-G said firmly. Sir Oswald didn’t look too sure but smiled wanly.

  “And I don’t have my hunting jacket either,” I said. I had brought jodhpurs because one always does.

  “You can wear my old jacket,” Bunty said. “We’re about the same size and it’s not too shabby.”

  “Thanks awfully.” I made a mental note that she was being a frightfully good sport about Darcy.

  Having sorted out the universe again Lady Hawse-Gorzley sent the churchgoers off, found jigsaw puzzles and board games for those who were not planning to hunt, and sent the hunters off to sort out mounts. I took the opportunity to go to wish my nearest and dearest a merry Christmas.

  The going was treacherous underfoot with melted snow now turned to ice and I wondered if the hunt would be allowed to take place under such conditions. I was concentrating on not slipping and falling on my bottom when a figure loomed out of the hedge in front of me. I started as I found myself looking at a wild-looking woman—hair unkempt, flowing green skirts and, to my utter amazement, bare feet. She blocked my path, staring at me.

  “Happy Christmas to you,” I said uncertainly, unnerved by two eyes, green as a cat’s, that stared at me unblinking. “You must be Sal. I’ve heard about you.”

  “You want to watch yourself, miss,” she said with her deep West Country burr. “Or you might come a cropper.”

  Then she darted through the hedge and was gone.

  Chapter 20

  I went on my way, a little shaken. I hadn’t really believed in Wild Sal until now, but she really existed and, what’s more, she had just given me some kind of warning. Had she only meant that the ground was treacherous underfoot or was she hinting at something more sinister?

  I could hear Mr. Barclay thumping out the organ as I passed the church for my mother’s cottage. Good smells of roasting fowl and sage stuffing greeted me from the kitchen as my grandfather opened the front door, and I came through to the sitting room to find my mother and Noel Coward around the fire. I was given a grand welcome for once as they were all remarkably in the Christmas spirit. Even Noel Coward was wearing a ridiculous paper hat on his head.

  “My dear child,” he said. “How good of you to come and visit our humble estate, when I’m sure you have a million and one things to amuse you at the big house. Tell me, what’s it like there—very feudal? Do the peasants all tug their forelocks?”

  “You’ll see for yourself if you come to Christmas luncheon today.”

  “Ah, I think Claire and I have decided not to accept the kind invitation, if you would give our apologies. It does become so tiring being adored and having to act like one’s public persona when the real Noel is a shy and retiring sort of chap.”

  I laughed. “I don’t believe it for a second.”

  “I am stung, wounded. Claire, your daughter has inherited your own brutal honesty.”

  “I must say, that outfit looks good on you, Georgie. The cardigan suits you better than it ever did me.” My mother opened her arms. “Come and give your mama a Christmas hug. And Noel tells me I was terribly stingy with my gifts yesterday. Passing on a few old clothes, he called it. He said a big fat check would have been more in order. I pointed out that I’d already promised a shopping spree the moment we’re both back in London.”

  Noel sighed. “Then I suppose the generous uncle act is up to me.” And to my delight he handed me a couple of five-pound notes.

  “Golly. Thank you very much,” was all I could stammer.

  “And I’ve got a little something for you too, my love,” Granddad said. “It’s nothing grand like that, but I wanted you to have a little gift on Christmas Day.”

  I opened the wrapping and inside was a snow globe with a charming little village inside and A present from Devon inscribed around the base.

  I laughed. “It’s perfect,” I said. “A lovely souvenir of my visit here.”

  “So you’ve got the hordes arriving for the Christmas banquet, have you?” Gra
nddad asked.

  “Yes, I believe Lady Hawse-Gorzley invites half the village. Oh, by the way, I just saw Wild Sal. She really exists.”

  “Does she?” Noel Coward looked interested. “I’ve been dying to meet her.”

  “She’s very strange indeed. Walks around barefoot and just stares with these piercing green eyes.”

  “Well, she is supposed to be the descendant of the witch who was burned here,” Mummy said. “Isn’t this place fun? I keep telling Noel he should scrap what we’re doing and set his play in a crazy village like this one.”

  “Not much of a comedy at the moment with all these deaths,” I said.

  “Let’s hope there isn’t another one,” Granddad said. “Did you hear the ambulance go past about an hour ago? It hasn’t come back yet.”

  “Oh, no. I suppose driving conditions are terrible today. It’s so slippery out there.” I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting back, I suppose. I’m expected to help entertain and church will soon be over.”

  “Have a sherry before you go back,” Mummy said.

  “I shouldn’t, thanks. I rather fear that the wine will flow copiously for the rest of the day, and I’m still recovering from the carol singing the other night. I believe it must have been the old ladies’ elderberry wine.”

  They all began to chuckle.

  “We have a confession to make about that carol singing,” Noel said at last. “Your mother made the punch and put a generous amount of rum in it. I tasted it and thought it needed something and added a bottle of vodka. The result, I’m afraid, was rather lethal.”

  “It was the final blow for me, I’m afraid. I was blotto for the rest of the evening.”

  I went around and hugged them, one by one, then stepped out into a stiff cold breeze. The clouds above Lovey Tor were heavy and looked as if they might produce more snow any minute. My grandfather walked with me down the path.

  “I’ve been thinking about all these strange deaths,” he said. “That Inspector Newcombe thinks I’m some kind of Scotland Yard miracle worker, but I have to say I’m completely in the dark. Usually when there are a string of murders there is a pattern to them, but there is nothing to tie these together, nor, as far as I can see, any clues to point that they were actual murders.”