‘I feel very much the uninvited guest, Miss Hughes. I know a traveller should be used to mixing in anywhere, and I don’t mind in a hotel, where I’m paying my way. But you can’t help feeling a bit awkward, landing up at a private house where someone’s just died. It was one of the family, I suppose?’
‘Mr Warner Brown, Mrs Brown’s husband.’
‘And this young fellow Brown, who’s he?’
‘Her nephew. By marriage, of course.’
‘I see. It’s confusing, meeting such a lot of people all at once. You don’t like to be rude and keep asking who they are, on the other hand I don’t want to put my foot in it, especially as Mrs Brown is so upset. I thought at first she must be the young fellow’s wife.’ He paused for a few minutes, offered her a cigarette, and went on: ‘There’s been a lot of sickness and death about here lately, they tell me, with the winter coming in suddenly like this. In my opinion, people ought to wrap up warmer. And I don’t say that just because I sell gentlemen’s underwear. It doesn’t make any difference to me whether they buy silks or woollens, but it’s the woollens I recommend this time of the year.’
Thrown thus into the company of a fellow spirit, Dylis felt moved to enumerate her own best-selling antidotes against winter chills, and they embarked upon a comfortable interchange of comments. At the end of fifteen minutes, they had mutually concluded that everyone, in the first place, should wrap up warmly against the cold, but if, despite all such precautions, sickness still descended upon them, then Compton, Webber and Hughes were the people to supply the remedy.
‘This Mr Brown,’ Ashley said. ‘He went suddenly, I take it?’
‘Very suddenly. During the early hours of this morning.’
‘Must have been pretty bad. The doctor was with him, I suppose?’
‘No. He had been here earlier in the day, that was yesterday, and Mrs Brown was expecting him again today. The valet went off this morning to notify him, but he hasn’t returned yet.’
‘Poor woman. I wish I hadn’t had to intrude. She’s got enough on her hands with all these people staying here.’
He looked so uneasy about it that she felt quite sorry for him, and hastened to say:
‘Well, the rest of us aren’t exactly invited. Young Mr Brown dropped in to see his uncle, which of course was all right, but he found me stuck on the road and brought me along with him. And the others just automatically followed. You can hardly drive a hundred yards on the roads just now without running into trouble.’
‘That chap who was helping with the car when we came up, not the journalist chap, the other one. Is he in the same boat, too?’
‘No, that was Vauxhall, the butler,’ Dylis said, and her companion became silent. Vauxhall had that effect upon most people, and in this instance she was glad of it. She did not mind talking shop with a fellow traveller, but had no wish to be reminded of the late Mr Brown. But presently Mr Ashley continued:
‘D’you know this part of the country well?’
‘No, this is my first visit.’
‘And the last, I should think. Times like this it seems to me that we Londoners would do well to stick to our native city.’
‘I’m not a Londoner. My people live in Worcester.’
‘Well, you look and talk like one. It becomes a habit, if you live there long enough. Compton, Webber and Hughes, Ludgate Circus. Am I right?’
‘You are,’ she said, somewhat gratified at his identification.
‘I can always tell, within a little, where people come from. It’s a knack I’ve taught myself. Very useful sometimes. Now this Mr Brown, the young one, I wouldn’t say he came from London. His clothes look sort of foreign, but he doesn’t speak with an accent. Would he live in these parts, by any chance?’
‘You’re wrong,’ Dylis said. ‘He lives in Switzerland. He’s only over here on a business trip.’
‘I was right about his clothes. Those Continental tailors …’ He shook his head, as if the thought of them increased his sense of fatigue. His own clothes, Dylis considered, were not so much to shout about. He was not exactly shabby, but his suit had a woe-begone appearance as if, like himself, it were very tired. The result, probably, of a night spent within the confines of a car. Still, it seemed to her not in the best of taste to criticise the clothes of one’s host. But then the manners of everyone at Wintry Wold left much to be desired, including her own. She might not criticise her host, but could it be anything but bad manners to regard with suspicion every movement of her hostess? Perhaps there was something in the atmosphere of the house itself that brought out these latent hostilities.
Charlie Best came in just then and announced that he had not seen Mr Howe, but his secretary was in the kitchen preparing a trayload of dry biscuits, cheese and water, which they proposed to consume upstairs, where the air was much fresher than down below.
‘It certainly is,’ Dylis agreed. ‘The air in my room this morning was like blocks of ice.’
‘Mr Howe?’ Ashley echoed, further wrinkling his already furrowed brow. ‘I haven’t met him, have I?’
‘You’ve been spared that pleasure,’ Best said, with undisguised relish. ‘Mr Howe and his secretary live on dried grass, cods’ heads and draughts of pure water, tucked away in an eagle’s nest up in the mountains. We were on our way to the said nest when, thank God, the car broke down. This house is not exactly civilisation par excellence, but it’s Paradise compared to what I, as a hard-working journalist, am about to go through in the interests of my readers.’
‘It wouldn’t be Mr Humphrey Howe, would it?’ Ashley asked. ‘The one who believes in nature first, last and always?’
‘It would and it is. Why, d’you know him?’
‘I’ve never met him. But I’ve read his books, all of ’em. He got me once, when I was younger and more impressionable. I took one of his courses, the one where you rig up a sort of trapeze in the open air and fling yourself to and fro, day in, day out. I lived on a diet, too.’
‘What happened?’ Dylis asked, with some interest. She could not imagine him doing anything of the kind. He looked too settled, too stable, ever to have been a Howe disciple. But there was a ring of truth in his voice when he said:
‘I got bronchitis. And my wife never stopped chipping me about it.’
It seemed to Dylis the first occasion she had found to indulge in laughter for a very long time. Even so, their mirth was subdued, and they stopped short when the door opened again, half expecting to see Theresa’s frowning countenance. But it was only Inigo, come to tell them that lunch was nearly ready.
‘We’ve turned it into a curry,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t very much meat left over, but there’s plenty of spaghetti, so you can fill yourselves up with that.’
‘How do you like being assistant chef to Ridley?’ Dylis asked.
‘Oh, we get on all right. We’d have done better still if friend Raddle had not been dithering about out there. By the hungry way he was eyeing our concoction, I should say that man’s just longing for a square meal.’
‘He won’t get that while old Howe is around,’ Best said. ‘I bet there isn’t enough food in his hide-out to feed a hungry mouse. To which he would doubtless reply that in his house there is no mouse problem.’
They were reaching the end of another round of drinks when Vauxhall slid back the communicating door and thrust in his head from the dining-room. Attaining new heights of politeness, he began:
‘If the lady and gentlemen are ready …’ and paused, looking round at them in some embarrassment. Then with a hasty reversion to his usual style, he added, ‘The hash is up.’
Chapter VIII
By mid-afternoon, Inigo was again agitating for action. They had sat over lunch rather longer than they had intended, or even realised. For Mr Ashley, despite his tired aspect, had a fund of amusing anecdotes and a way of telling them that held attention. And smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in front of a blazing fire was a pleasant occupation, particularly in relation to
the blinding snowstorm that had once more taken possession of the outside world. Dylis, lying back in her chair, taking little part in the conversation, felt inclined to indulge the sense of drowsiness that had descended upon her. But presently Theresa joined them, dressed for the afternoon in a frock of soft blue wool with an angora jacket to match, her hair arranged, her face refreshed from sleep.
‘You’re looking better,’ Inigo said. ‘We’ve been taking it easy, too, but it’s time I got to work on that car.’ He roused himself, yawned, and glancing towards the window added, ‘I’d better work fast, by the look of the weather.’
‘It’s terrible,’ Theresa said. ‘I do hope nothing’s happened to poor Ledgrove. But perhaps he’s staying over at Cudge until the doctor can get away.’
She had left the door open, and round it now sidled Bob Snell. He stood just inside the room, surveying them with his customary grin.
‘’Ope I’m not intrudin’,’ he said. ‘But them garage chaps are taking their time, so I thought if anyone ’ere ’as got a car that works, we might clear up some of this ’ere snow and get it goin’. The way I look at it, see, if we don’t do somethin’ pretty quick, we’re goin’ to be stuck ’ere until Christmas. My matey, ’e wouldn’t care, but the chap we works for, ’e wouldn’t like it at all.’
‘I was just about to say the same thing,’ Inigo said. ‘If we all give a hand it shouldn’t take long. Can you spare Vauxhall and Ridley, Theresa?’
‘But of course, dear. I’d be glad to help myself but I haven’t the strength, particularly just now. But I don’t mind getting tea, and dinner if necessary …’
‘I’ll take over the kitchen,’ Dylis said. ‘You’d better rest, Theresa.’
‘So thoughtful of you, my dear, but really I can’t just be idle. And I want to help all I can. Let me see, there will be Vauxhall and Ridley, you, Inigo, Mr Best, Mr Ashley, Mr Snell, and … and the other one …’
‘Jackson,’ Snell volunteered, ‘if you was referrin’ to me mate. ’E’s not me reg’lar mate, Jackson ain’t, and between you and me I’ll be glad to get on me way and say good riddance to ’im soon as I can. Fair gives me the ’ump, ’e does. Not a laugh, not a smile. You’d think ’e was at a funeral.’ Theresa looked at him sharply, and he added, ‘Sorry, lady, no offence meant, I’m sure.’
‘How’s your foot?’ Inigo asked, tactfully leading the conversation to a safer topic. ‘You strained it, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, that. It’s all right now, Guv’nor. Nothin’ to make a fuss about anyway. Just let me get back into me old box of tricks, that’s all I’m worryin’ about.’
There was a general move, but Ashley, remaining in his chair, asked:
‘Don’t you think we might give the break-down gang a while longer? They’ve had plenty of work to do on the roads, I daresay.’
‘Break-down nothin’,’ Bob Snell said. ‘They’ve broken down theirselves, most likely, or that old farmer lost himself. What I says is …’
‘If you don’t feel up to it, old man,’ Best cut in, ‘why don’t you rest up, and take a turn later. Sitting up in a car all night isn’t funny.’
‘Thanks, I think I will.’ Ashley yawned, and leaned back in his chair, the one which Mr Carpenter had occupied the night before. That chair, Dylis thought, must have specially soporific qualities. Best went on:
‘I’ll look in and see if I can dig out old Howe, and Raddle. This ought to be just their lark, working in the lovely fresh winter breezes.’
But it transpired that Mr Howe was in the throes of dictation and refused to be disturbed, even for the health-giving occupation of snow clearance. Grumbling at what he described as nothing short of chicanery, Charlie Best returned from his mission, and the party set out to accomplish its self-imposed task. Theresa, who had gone out to instruct her servants, came back to the drawing-room and sank down upon a silk-covered pouffe by the fire, and an oppressive silence settled upon the house, broken only by the sound of the elements, and the noises that filtered in from where the men were working with spades and shovels.
‘I don’t envy them,’ Dylis said at last. ‘It’s terribly cold out there, enough to freeze you to death.’
She was looking at Theresa, upon whose face the flickering firelight was reflected, and she was amazed to see there a fleeting expression of horror. She had not credited the girl with so much feeling. It was gone in a moment, leaving only a brooding look as she said:
‘Please don’t talk about it. Every time I think of Ledgrove, I blame myself for having let him go. But you can’t always be resonsible for another person’s actions, can you?’
Dylis, who had temporarily forgotten Ledgrove, was further surprised at the note of serious appeal behind the question. She said:
‘Of course not. If anything happens to him, you can hardly be blamed for it.’
‘I’m glad you think that.’ She sighed and shook her head. Dylis offered her a cigarette, and thought as she did so that it was a novel situation to be sitting by the fire, comforting Theresa, of all people. Mr Ashley appeared to have gone to sleep. Dylis asked:
‘What made him go on foot? I should have thought it would have been better to try and make it in one of the cars. You did say you had two?’
‘He can’t drive,’ Theresa said. ‘Oh, why don’t people ever see what’s best for them?’
‘They don’t know, until it’s too late, I suppose.’
She seemed a different person to the one who had greeted them the night before. Much of her poise had gone, and there was a helpless look about the nervous movements of her hands. She still peered at herself occasionally in the nearest mirror, but now it was more of an enquiring, rather than a self-satisfied glance. Mr Ashley, coming to life with an obvious effort, remarked:
‘It must be pretty lonely here in the usual way of things, Mrs Brown. Unless you did a lot of entertaining?’
‘No, we never had many visitors. My husband did not care for company.’
‘Shouldn’t take to it much myself, I’m afraid. Give me a couple of pubs and a decent cinema, every time.’
‘One gets used to it. And the surrounding country is lovely in the spring and summer.’
‘All right if you’re too old to do anything but make daisy chains. Personally, I prefer a bit of life, travel, getting around. What do you say, Miss Hughes?’
She had it in mind to say that he was being supremely tactless. Mr Brown had not been so very old, but old enough to make it sound like a direct implication. But of course, he was not to know that. Theresa saved her the trouble of replying by rising languidly and saying that she would go and see about tea.
‘Why don’t you sit down for a while?’ Dylis suggested. ‘There’s no hurry, and we can get the tea together.’
‘No, please. I would much rather be doing something. My mind won’t let me rest.’
‘I wonder if I might have a wash?’ Ashley asked apologetically. ‘I hate to trouble you, but being half-awake all night …’
‘Of course. It was very discourteous of me not to think of it. I’ll show you the way.’
‘Don’t bother, Mrs Brown. I can find my way all right. I’m used to getting about in strange places.’
‘This is a particularly strange place,’ she said, with a wan smile. ‘People get lost all the time.’
Dylis remained sitting there, after they had gone, watching the shadows gradually take possession of the room, for the day had been unusually dark, and dusk was setting in early. But it was not the pleasant dusk often associated with winter evenings and the romance of firelight. It had a certain eerie quality, as if the shadow of Deathleap Scar were creeping slowly forward to engulf the house. The wind, the falling snowflakes, seemed part of a deliberate plot to hold prisoner the inmates of that house, and the silence within was unrestful, vastly disturbing.
Mr Ashley had been gone so long she began to think he must have lost his way in that labyrinth of passages upstairs. She recalled Theresa’s remark, ‘People get lo
st all the time’. Now what had she meant by that? Dylis pulled herself up sharply. This was sheer nonsense. Surely she was not developing into one of those nervous people who cannot be left alone for five minutes, and who read all kinds of things into the most ordinary remarks? Apparently she was, for when it occurred to her that the draught behind her back was due to someone having opened the door silently, she leaped to her feet and faced about almost with a single movement.
A man stood there, and the room had become so dark now she could not see his face, and for no sensible reason her heart was beating violently. Then he stepped farther into the room, and by the light of the fire she saw that it was Mr Carpenter. Even in that dim illumination he looked terrible, his eyes heavy-lidded and half closed, his face drawn, his hands shaking.
‘All alone, Miss Hughes?’ he asked, and his harsh voice brought her back to a sense of reality. Annoyed with her brief attack of nervousness, the triteness of the question irritated her, and she was about to retort acidly. But she refrained, and merely said:
‘Yes, the others have gone out digging.’
‘How d’you mean, digging?’ he asked sharply, and she reflected that his nerves were no better than hers. In fact, everyone in this house seemed just a little on edge, with the possible exception of the two vanmen and Charlie Best. Perhaps it was always like this just after someone had died.
‘Shovelling away the snow,’ she said. ‘They want to get one of the cars started, so that Mr Brown can drive to the nearest garage.’
‘Oh.’ He walked across and went into the dining-room, and returned with the whisky decanter and two glasses. He sat down in his usual chair and asked, ‘Going to have a tot with me?’
‘No, thank you. We shall be having tea soon. Don’t you want any?’
‘No, I hate it.’
‘Well, you might like to eat something.’
‘Food? What would I want with food?’
‘People do eat, occasionally.’
‘Not me. Not unless I’m driven to.’ He drank down half a glass of neat whisky, replenished the glass and put it on the table at his elbow. He stretched his shaking hands towards the fire and rubbed them slowly together. ‘This house is like a morgue,’ he complained.
Another Little Christmas Murder Page 10
