Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  She thought about that, and decided there was some truth in the statement. And if it had been true yesterday, it was doubly true today, since, there was now a dead man upstairs. She wondered if anyone had yet broken the news to Mr Carpenter, and risking a rebuff, remarked:

  ‘It must have been a shock to you, Mr Brown dying so suddenly.’

  ‘Shock?’ He looked up at her for a moment and back at the fire. ‘Oh, yes, a very bad shock. Very bad, very sad. Still, we’ve all got to die some time. This house is enough to kill anyone. There’s only one thing to do when you’re in a place like this.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Get as tight as you can as often as you can, and never let the whisky out of your sight.’ With closed eyes he tossed back his second measure, shuddered, and refilled the glass.

  ‘Mr Carpenter,’ she said firmly, ‘that’s not the real reason you drink so much, is it?’

  ‘Eh? Drink so much? That’s a damned silly thing to say. I don’t drink nearly as much as I could.’

  ‘Is it because of Mr Brown?’

  He looked up at her again, a queer, sideways look, before returning attention to the bottle in his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Because of Mr Brown. That’s the idea. Poor old Brown. Good old Brown. As decent a man as ever walked the earth.’

  ‘I know,’ she said absently.

  ‘How d’you know? You never met him?’

  And that, she thought, was as far as the discussion should go. She said, moving to the door:

  ‘I think I’ll go and help Theresa. Will you light the lamp?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t. I like sitting in the dark.’

  She went out, without bothering to reply. She did not see why she should be the only one to observe conventions. If Mr Ashley came down now he could introduce himself, and spend an amusing interlude trying to get sense out of Mr Carpenter. She was becoming very tired of the whole business, and much as she liked Inigo, she wished they could have met under less trying circumstances. How pleasant now to be tucked away in a small but comfortable hotel, a good day’s business behind her and looking forward to another tomorrow. If she spent much more time loitering around Wintry Wold, her trip would not be anywhere near the success she had planned and Compton would be frankly triumphant at the fulfilment of his prophecy, and dear old Webber would be very disappointed.

  So absorbed was Dylis in her thoughts that she did not see Mr Ashley descending the stairs, although the lamps in the passage had been lighted, and was unaware of the proximity of anyone, until he overtook and spoke to her as she reached the door giving entrance to the kitchen. Then she started and turned, annoyed that her heart had again given a furious leap.

  ‘I wish people wouldn’t keep creeping about this house as if they were ghosts,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you all tramp around like the butler does? It’s so much more lively.’

  He said, as they entered the kitchen:

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Who else has done it?’

  ‘Mr Carpenter. He’s in the drawing-room now.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A friend of the Browns.’

  ‘What’s that about Mr Carpenter?’ Theresa asked, as she came in from the pantry. She was wearing, over her woollen outfit, a blue and white checked overall that made her look very young indeed.

  ‘Only that he’s in the drawing-room, sitting in the dark,’ Dylis said. ‘Can I help you, Theresa?’

  ‘You can open a tin of sardines and some salmon, my dear. I’m going to make sandwiches. So much more sensible for big, hungry men. I’m not very good with tins, I’ve such delicate wrists. Poor Mr Carpenter. He was absolutely shattered when I told him. Did you want something, Mr Ashley?’

  The latter was dressed in overcoat, hat and gloves and carried an electric torch. He said:

  ‘I thought I’d go out and give them a hand. I feel better now, having had a wash.’

  ‘Oh, good. You might tell them that tea will be ready in half an hour.’

  ‘I will.’ He went out, and Dylis, closing the door behind him, said:

  ‘How would it be if we were to eat out here, Theresa? It’s quite warm, and it’ll save carting things in and out.’

  ‘A very good idea. I shan’t want anything myself, but if the rest of you don’t mind …’

  ‘You ought to eat something,’ Dylis said, busy with the tin-opener. ‘You’ll make yourself ill, if you don’t.’

  ‘I couldn’t, my dear. Just now I feel as if I shall never eat again.’

  Dylis thought that might be due to her having already finished a meal in private, if the crumbs adhering to the top part of her pinafore were anything to go by. Unless, of course, she had deliberately put them there to give added effect to her childish appearance.

  Chapter IX

  Not only did they partake of tea in the kitchen, they also ate a light supper there. By the evening, they had cleared the whole length of the driveway and part of the road beyond, but as Inigo pointed out, it was then too late to attempt the journey to Cudge, since even if he reached there, it would be unreasonable to expect either the garage hands or the doctor to turn out at such an hour. Particularly the doctor, since for him it would not be a question of saving life, but merely to sign a confirmation of death. There was, therefore, only one sensible course open, to eat the meal that Dylis had prepared, snatch some well-earned sleep, and make an early start in the first light of morning.

  Theresa, after preparing tea, had retired to the drawing-room to sit with Mr, Carpenter, consigning the kitchen to the care of Dylis, who, nothing loth to see her go, was at the same time somewhat surprised to find herself in the position of head cook and bottle washer. She was still further surprised at the way the men, having put away their spades and shovels for the night, came in and settled down at the kitchen table so amicably. She supposed it was the result of working together in the common cause and in the teeth of a biting wind.

  Vauxhall, finding his domestic duties temporarily taken off his hands, gave up attempting to be a butler and became almost convivial, amusing himself and the rest of the company by a demonstration of card tricks. Inigo was, for the most part, silent, likewise Ridley, and Jackson the vanman, but Bob Snell kept up a running commentary on anything and everything, affording Dylis and Charlie Best much entertainment. Ashley, though still looking very tired, joined in the conversation from time to time. No one had mentioned it, but Dylis supposed that he would be found a room for the night.

  The only jarring note occurred when Mr Howe, with his secretary in tow, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, to enquire, somewhat acidly, what plans, if any, had been made for the evening meal. To which Inigo replied, as politely as he could, that they had already partaken of theirs, but if Mr Howe cared to help himself to anything he fancied, he was very welcome. He had, until then, completely forgotten the existence of Mr Howe, but refrained from saying so.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Howe said. ‘We have no wish to disturb you, and our wants being simple, we will satisfy them later when the atmosphere is free from cigarette smoke. I have spoken with Mrs Brown, and have agreed to accept her kind invitation of another night’s lodging, after which Raddle and I will start upon our trek for home.’

  ‘We’ve cleared the driveway,’ Inigo said. ‘And providing it doesn’t snow a few more feet in the night, we might be able to get something done to your car tomorrow.’

  ‘I thank you again. But I have no intention of waiting upon the vagaries of local mechanics. We shall walk, and Mr Best can bring the car along later.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift if I catch you up on the way,’ Best said magnanimously. ‘Have a sardine sandwich, Mr Howe, or a nice bit of tunny fish on toast. It’s the nearest we’ve got to a cod’s head.’

  ‘Young man, if I thought there might be a hint of levity in your remarks, I should no longer require your services. Come, Raddle.’

  ‘Lord save us!’ Best exclaimed, as the door clos
ed behind them. ‘If I get through without murdering that old devil I’ll deserve to be buried in the Abbey. And if I do ever get that car of his started and catch them up on the road, I’ll go right ahead and pass them at sixty.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if you pass them at five on that road,’ Inigo said.

  Bob Snell chuckled. ‘Proper old death’s ’ead, ain’t ’e? “Our wants is simple,” says ’e. I bet they are an’ all. I bet ’e tucks in a nice bit when you ain’t lookin’. That kind always does. Take advice from a fool, Guv’nor, and lock up all the grub when ’e’s on the loose.’

  But Inigo was not in the mood to take advice from anyone, neither did he care whether Mr Howe stripped the pantry bare or went supperless to bed. He was, he said, going to get some sleep, without further delay, and Vauxhall having agreed to stow Mr Snell and his mate away somewhere for the night, he and Dylis, along with Ashley and Best, left the warmth of the kitchen to plunge into the icy temperature beyond.

  Ashley, too, said he would be grateful to get a decent night’s rest, and Dylis was so tired she stayed only to say a brief good night to everyone, before making a dash for the stairs and her own room. Only one more night, she thought, as she lit the candles and looked about her with a sense of deep depression. Providing she did not meanwhile die of cold, this time tomorrow she would be tucked up in a cosy hotel. Well, if not cosy, at least an hotel, full of normal people doing normal things. There came a tap at the door, and opening it cautiously, she saw Inigo standing there, the inevitable oil lamp in hand. She was beginning to hate the smell of burning oil. He said:

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for getting supper, and for everything else you’ve done. I’m sorry it’s all so flat. I invited you here as a guest, and turned you into a general help.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘I expect it’s good for me. I can see now why Vauxhall and Ridley don’t smile sweetly upon visitors. That kitchen range …!’

  ‘I know. They’re not a bad couple of blokes, are they, when you get to know them? This place ought to be brought up to date. But I expect Theresa will sell it.’ He paused and they both looked and felt uncomfortable. He went on quickly, ‘I forgot all about your hot water bottle. Shall I get it now? I’ll only take a couple of ticks.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I just want to tuck up in bed and forget all about everything.’

  ‘Me, too.’ They were talking in hushed voices, which was unnecessary, because no one had yet retired. And since Mr Brown was dead, it could not make any difference to him whether they whispered or shouted. She had always regarded these outward gestures of respect to the dead as somewhat affected, until this moment. Now she discovered that it was an instinct, rather than a convention. Inigo said, with a fleeting smile:

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. But if you can’t sleep, knock me up and I’ll tell you a fairy story.’

  ‘I shall sleep,’ Dylis said. ‘Just let anyone try to stop me.’

  But something was stopping her, she discovered later, when she had been lying beneath her pile of blankets for a very long time, and getting more wide awake every moment. It was not the cold. She had been warmed by her sojourn in the kitchen, and had not noticed the absence of a hot water bottle tonight. It was not the wind, for it had dropped again, giving place to a lull that was curiously unsoothing. She was still tired, but each time she closed her eyes they had a tendency to open of their own accord, and her mind felt clear and watchful. She had heard the rest of the household moving about, coming upstairs, talking, saying good night in subdued voices, the creaking of somebody’s shoes as they went past her room, soft footsteps to and from the bathrooms, a man’s cough. And eventually silence descended upon the house, a silence in which anyone should be able to sleep.

  Suddenly she knew why she was lying awake. She was listening. Unconsciously she had been listening all the time, even after the house was quiet. Particularly after the house was quiet. She leaned out and reached for her watch, and saw that the hands pointed to 1.30 a.m. A nice time to be awake when everyone else was sleeping. And a nice wreck she would look in the morning, if she did not do something to counteract this ridiculous attack of insomnia.

  She put the watch under her pillow, relaxed her whole body, and forced her eyes to close. When she looked at the watch again it indicated ten minutes past two. She was surprised and indignant at the depth of her relief. What had she been waiting for, then? Someone to shuffle along and pause outside her door, or the sound of thumping …?

  Her heart gave a furious leap as from the passage came a low, sharp cry, a gasping sound, followed by silence. Without even asking herself what she was going to do, she leaped out of bed, flung on dressing-gown and slippers, fumbled for and found the torch which tonight she had placed conveniently upon the bedside table. This time she was not going to be content with surmises. She was going to get to the bottom of it.

  But if her strength of mind did her credit, it also served her a bad turn. In her eagerness to reach the door, she caught her foot in a few projecting strands of the threadbare rug, tripped, and fell headlong across the floor. Undaunted, she picked herself up, grabbed the torch which she had dropped in her confusion, made a dash for the door, wrenched it open and plunged out into the passage.

  Her single beam of light did not go very far in the way of illumination, but sweeping it like a searchlight this way and that, she was in time to see the figure of a man, in dressing-gown and slippers, bent almost double, and groping with one hand against the wall towards the bend in the corridor. As the light from Dylis’s torch reached him, he half turned his head, let out a low moaning sound and disappeared from view. Hot in pursuit, her enthusiasm again betrayed her. This time it was not the carpet, but something metallic that rolled between her feet, causing her for a split second to lose her balance. She recovered, stooped to investigate, and discovered it to be a small electric torch with a chromium case. Mechanically she picked it up and went on, moving with more caution. Around the bend, the passage was in darkness and deserted, all doors closed and not one with a light showing beneath. Carefully she walked on round another series of twists and turns, and reached the back staircase.

  Here she leaned against the wall and considered the position. The man in the dressing-gown had been real enough. So had been the sound that brought her out of bed. But was it he who had cried out like that? And who was he, anyway? She had not been near enough to catch a glimpse of his face, or to see any part of him clearly, but she had the impression that he was elderly, or ill, or both, or … well, that cry had sounded as if someone were being stabbed in the back.

  She looked over the banisters into the black well of the staircase. She looked up. Only Mr Brown was upstairs, and he was dead. At least, he was supposed to be dead. She realised suddenly that it is difficult to believe in the death of a person without clear evidence before the eyes. And she had not seen Mr Brown dead. She had only seen him alive, and that not so very long ago.

  Without making any definite decision on the point, she began to walk slowly upstairs. She moved the switch of the torch she had picked up, and found that it was working. That and her own made two pleasing circles of light upon the stair-carpet. She would have given a lot to be able to flood the corridors and stairway with good, sane light, to send it searchingly into all corners and alcoves. But mere lack of light was not going to drive her cowering back into her room, just as she had something concrete in place of all the mysteries and suspicions of the last twenty-four hours.

  She reached the landing of the next floor, but had some difficulty in finding her way, since previously she had approached via the main staircase. But this floor was not so very different from the one below, and in triumph presently she located the main stairway and the sharp bend to the right beyond which lay her objective. Yet around that bend she paused, for as on the previous night a dim light issued from beneath the door of Mr Brown’s room and she had not expected that.

  Her heart began to play strange tricks
again, and she could not make up her mind whether to march boldly up to the door and open it, or if it would be more seemly to knock. But if Mr Brown were dead, there could be no point in knocking on his door. Unless someone were in there with him. And while she stood hesitating, the issue was decided for her. There came a muffled sound from within, and she moved back quickly into one of those alcoves, the existence of which she had hitherto condemned.

  The door opened, and momentarily she saw Mr Ashley, fully dressed, complete with overcoat, scarf and gloves, silhouetted against the subdued light of the interior. Then he stepped into the passage and closed the door, and they were alone in the darkness with only a few yards between them. She was almost certain that he could not have seen her, but just the same she pressed as close as possible to the cold wall, until he had switched on an electric torch, and made his way to the head of the staircase with a swiftness and silence admirable considering the house was strange to him.

  She did not hear him descend, but creeping to a strategic position, she watched the bobbing light until it disappeared from view. She rubbed her hands together and found that they were damp, though cold. Without giving herself an opportunity to retreat, she moved quickly to Mr Brown’s room. She did not knock. She opened the door and glanced round. It was just as she had seen it on the previous night, the oil lamp burning low on the bedside table, but now there was no fire in the grate and the room was bitterly cold. She closed the door and stepped across to the bed. It had been re-made, the banked up pillows removed, and a sheet drawn up over the face of the occupant. She hesitated. It seemed wrong to disturb him. But she must know, she must find out what was happening in this house. If he were dead, he would want her to find out. There was something he had wanted to tell Inigo.

  Gently she drew back a corner of the sheet, and stood looking down upon the face of the man she had seen only once before. But now it was no longer fretful and anxious. It had a curiously mask-like look, remote in its pallor, and somehow, she felt, just a little reproachful. Unless she were being extraordinarily imaginative. She became aware that her eyes had a stinging sensation, and her breathing was difficult. She replaced the sheet and turned away.