“Best thing for ‘em,” said Mr. Scattergood, who had been so quiet up until then, Philly had almost forgotten he was there. She was glad to see that he at least took his flat cap off to come in to dinner. “Kids today are spoiled rotten.”
“But we are not talking about kids today,” said Monsieur De Lacey. “We are supposed to be in nineteen sixty-three. Is this not so?”
Philly could not help noticing a certain animosity between Mr. Scattergood and the suave Frenchman. Two more different men she could not imagine. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.
“I bet the girls at this school were spoilt,” said Scattergood. “Little madams, the lot of them, living off daddy’s riches.”
“Mrs. Cunningham has already told us that some of the girls went on to be very successful.”
“Yeah, some. But I bet the rest didn’t. I bet they all married lords and rich men, and never got their hands dirty in their lives.”
Matt smiled, disarmingly. “Are we to take from this that your role is that of a staunch socialist who would bring down the system, Mr. Scattergood?”
“Too right it is. But it says on my card that I’m the cook.”
“We’ll have to be careful you don’t poison us all and overthrow the state then.”
“Don’t give me ideas, young man. You Americans are all the same.”
“Bravo, Mr. Scattergood,” said Reverend Cunningham, clapping his hands. “A very convincing performance of an ardent communist.”
It was clearly a joke to try to lighten the mood, yet the more Philly thought about it, the more she wondered whether there was a real element of play acting to Mr. Scattergood’s performance. Except she would have sworn it had nothing to do with what it said on his card.
“Yes,” she said, clapping her own hands. “You’re a real find, Mr. Scattergood. We’ll have to employ you as a regular on these weekends.”
“You’d be better off selling this house,” said Scattergood. “Let them turn it into a block of flats so that more families can live in it, and not just you and a couple of your equally privileged friends.”
Philly felt her cheeks flame. She knew that she was privileged to own such a wonderful house, but Mr. Scattergood could not possibly know how difficult it was to pay for the upkeep or that Meg and Puck were far from being privileged. She wanted to rise to the defence of her friends, but felt it would be inappropriate in front of all the other guests. Just because Scattergood behaved badly, it did not mean she had to.
“Maybe you got a bit too much into character there, Scattergood” said Matt, his voice sounded strained, and somewhat dangerous. His fingers tightened around his wine glass, turning his knuckles white. “And maybe you owe the young lady an apology, since you’re a guest in her house.”
Scattergood glared at Matt, but was resolutely out-glared. “Of course, sorry Miss Sanderson. I get a bit carried away sometimes. I meant no offence.”
“None taken,” said Philly, smiling tightly. Matt’s defence of her had been even more shocking that Scattergood’s verbal attack. It churned up her emotions in ways she found disturbing. “Shall we all take coffee in the drawing room? Then we can hear some more stories and maybe watch the first part of our mystery.”
“Wow,” Rachel Jensen whispered to Philly as they were leaving the dining room, “This is turning into an interesting weekend. I wish we’d been recording old Stalin over there. As you said, he’s a real find. I didn’t know people like him still existed.” Rachel nudged Philly and winked. “I could say the same about your handsome American headmaster. With those looks they’re going to love him back at the television station. I reckon if you can persuade Matt to do more of these weekends, you’ll have women breaking down the doors to get in. That’s if the channel don’t snap him up. I reckon he could just stand in front of the camera all day, giving that smile and talking about the weather, and the female populace would still be enthralled.”
“We only have the very best at Bedlington Hall,” Philly quipped, deeply concerned that the lovely Rachel Jensen really did seem to fancy Matt. It would solve all Philly’s problems if he reciprocated, but that did not mean she wanted it to happen.
***
“Our story begins in early nineteen sixty three,” said Matt, standing with his back to the fireplace. As the fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the dimly lit room, the guests sipped their coffee and listened avidly. Puck had come from the kitchen to join them, his role that of one of the schoolchildren, looking comical in a blazer and short trousers, with a black school cap sitting on the back of his head. “It is a time of Cold War and the Space Race,” Matt continued, “with America and Russia vying for supremacy in both. It would be another six years before man stood on the moon, but the excitement of the challenge enthused everyone. Science fiction had prospered throughout the nineteen-fifties, particularly in films like The Day The Earth Stood Still, and it led to questions about life on other planets.”
“Ooh, I like that one,” said Mrs. Bennett. “Michael Rennie. They don’t make them like him anymore.” Her husband shushed her, but Matt gave her his most charming grin.
“I love that film too,” he said. “Much better than the recent remake.” Philly wondered at his ability to disarm people with a few well chosen words, and a dazzling smile. He had also quickly weighed up his largely middle aged audience, knowing just what references would appeal to them. “Britain has finally recovered from World War Two, heading into an age of prosperity. A group of young men who had been honing their craft in a club in Germany just burst onto the music scene. I am, of course, talking about The Beatles.”
“I had a huge crush on Paul,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Still have.”
“Oh it was Ringo for me,” said Mrs. Bennett. “He wasn’t as pretty as the others, but he reminded me of my husband.”
Mr. Bennett harrumphed in the corner and muttered something about playing the drums better than Ringo Starr. “Let the man get on with his talk,” he said, grumpily.
“I don’t mind,” said Matt. “It all adds colour to the proceedings, and helps us to get to know each other. Where was I? Oh yeah, The Beatles. So that was the larger picture. We know bring you to the smaller picture. A boarding school in Shropshire. Not one of the top seeded schools, but still a good school, teaching the children of the nouveau riche. Before Bedlington Hall was a school, it had been a military hospital during the war, for officers recuperating from dreadful injuries. In between times it had been owned by a Colonel Trefusis, who had died mysteriously.”
This was something that Philly had learned from Mrs. Cunningham.
“My husband and I found his killer, you know,” the vicar’s wife had said. “But it was a long time afterwards. It was how we met.”
“Many years before that, during Victorian times, it had been owned by Lord and Lady Bedlington,” Matt continued. “Before passing into the hands of the Sanderson family at the turn of the century. They could not afford to live in the Hall, so went to live cheaply abroad whilst they leased the hall to the hospital and then the school.” He went quiet for a moment to give people time to digest what he had said. He caught Philly’s eye and mouthed ‘how am I doing?’
She put her thumb up in appreciation. He was doing very well. “And it is into this picture we introduce seventeen year old Dominique DuPont.” At his words, the door flew open, causing everyone to jump. A plain looking girl walked in. Meg had done her hair up in pigtails, covered her face with freckles, and plumped out her tummy with cushions, looking nothing like Philly’s normally pretty friend. ‘Dominique’ stood silently, illuminated by the light from the hall, whilst Matt finished his monologue.
“Dominique, as you can see, was a plain girl, lacking in social graces. She does not make friends easily, and guards her food parcels as if her life depends on eating the entire contents. One teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, feels sorry for her and tries to reach out to the girl, but everyone else considers poor Dominique to be tiresome.” Matt’s voice l
owered in tone, adding more drama to his words. “One morning, Dominique disappeared. Completely. And not just Dominique, but all her belongings. It was as if she never existed. For years afterwards, girls at the school would say they had seen her. Some believed they heard her moving about upstairs long after she had gone.” Matt became more business-like for a moment. “Just to be clear, the events of this weekend are entirely fictional. We do not know what happened to the girl. Your task this weekend, ladies and gentleman, is to come up with a solution for Dominique’s disappearance drawn entirely from your imaginations. And now…” Matt gestured with his hand, “Let our story begin.”
The lights in the room became brighter. The guests looked at each other, wondering who could have done it, not realising that Puck had a remote control unit in his blazer pocket.
“Oh this is good,” said Mrs. Bennett.
“We’ll see,” said Mr. Bennett.
Dominique walked forward and stood in front of Matt. “Monsieur Cassell, I weesh to speak wiz you.”
“Not now, Dominique. As you can see I have guests.” Matt rubbed his cheek awkwardly, as if caught off guard.
“No, it eez important zat I speak wiz you now.”
Monsieur De Lacey chuckled and sipped his coffee. Philly winced, guessing he was laughing at Meg’s dreadful French accent. She was sure her friend had been practising. The effect was less Catherine Deneuve, and more Allo Allo.
“Eet will be bad for you, if you do not speak wiz me,” said Dominique.
“Are you threatening me, Dominique?” asked Matt.
Dominique turned around and addressed the room. “I am threatening all of you. I have ze secrets.”
“Are zey hidden in ze portrait of ze Madonna wiz ze big…” Frank Bennett could not get any further because his wife nudged him fiercely.
“Behave!” she said. He slumped in his seat, looking glum.
“Ah,” said Dominique, truly in character, “You may mock me, Monsieur Janitor, but I have ze secrets about you too. I know where you go on ze Saturday night.”
Mr. Bennett looked a bit taken aback, his eyes darting upwards to where Dominique stood in front of him. The room was filled with uncomfortable coughs and embarrassed chuckles, until the other guests realised it was indeed a joke and part of the entertainment. It took Mr. Bennett a few seconds longer to get the joke. “You watch yourself, Madam-moiselle,” he said, in a jocular fashion. His voice became lower and deeper, sounding like the man who did the movie trailers, but he could not stop his lips from twisting into a grin as he spoke. “I don’t make threats, I make promises.”
Philly’s eyes widened in surprised. She had expected Mr. Bennett to be difficult. She smiled with relief when she saw him nudge his wife and say, “It’s a bit of a laugh, all this pretending, innit?”
Dominique pointed around the room. “I know ze truth about all of you, and I will tell if you do not leesten to me. Something bad eez going to ‘appen…”
She flounced out of the room, and was rewarded with a round of applause.
“And that,” said Matt, “was the last time anyone saw Dominique in public. Some girls saw her go into her bedroom at night, but she did not turn up for breakfast the next morning. What happened to her? That is up to you. The clues are out there, so you’re welcome to start hunting for them as soon as you are ready.”
Philly looked around the room at apt faces. Things were going so much better than she ever dreamed. Even Meg’s dodgy BBC sitcom accent had not dampened their enthusiasm. After a moment’s silence, everyone started chatting avidly.
Philly’s alighted on Mrs. Cunningham. The old lady looked sad and confused, shaking her head at her husband. Philly went over to her.
“I hope it hasn’t upset you, Mrs. Cunningham,” she said quietly.
“No, dear that’s not it. It’s just that … oh do you know how it is when you only realise something long after the event.”
“You mean about Dominique’s disappearance?”
“No, that’s not it. I think it’s Monsieur De Lacey being here that has brought it to mind. That and your fellow actress’s awful French accent. Oh please don’t think I’m being rude.”
“No, not at all. It was a little bit rubbish. She hasn’t had time to practice,” Philly added, feeling she could defend her best friend.
“I’m not complaining. Only noticing.”
“What is it, darling?” asked Reverend Cunningham.
Mrs. Cunningham shook her head. “I need to think about it a bit more. To collect my thoughts. I could easily be misremembering.”
“Oh for goodness sake, darling,” said the Reverend. “You know darn well that when people say things like that in films they end up dead. So out with it.”
Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “I hardly think anyone is going to kill me for it now. After fifty years there’s no one left to care about poor Dominique … except me.”
“And me,” said Philly, with the pang of guilt that was becoming all too familiar. She began to wonder whether using Dominique’s disappearance as the basis for their story was a good idea. After all, it was a human being they were dealing with. But mostly, Philly had become fond of Mrs. Cunningham and did not want her to be distressed. It was a dangerous game, playing around with the past. It was possible that the wrong people would be hurt by it.
Almost as if she had wished for it, she felt a comforting arm on her shoulder, and turned her head to see Matt smiling down at her. “I think that went great,” he said, smiling.
Chapter Nine
“I wish I could stop liking him,” Philly said to Meg, later that night. Meg had brought her a mug of cocoa. They sat on the edge of Philly’s bed, chatting. “And I should be getting you this,” she added, pointing to the cocoa. “You’re the one who did all the hard work.”
“It wasn’t so hard,” said Meg, “talking in a lousy French accent and behaving like a typical over-emotional teenager. It certainly takes me back. Matt worked hard tonight, didn’t he?”
“Yes he did.” Philly struggled to erase the memory of his bemused face when she had dashed up the stairs before he could kiss her goodnight.
“We know what you mean about him though, love,” said Meg. “Me and Puck were just saying that we like him despite anything. I suppose that’s the mark of a true conman. People like them even whilst they’re being conned.”
“You don’t think I could have mistaken the phone call, do you? Maybe he meant something different.”
“I thought you distinctly heard him say he wanted to get into the attic and it would get the person on the other end of the phone what they wanted.”
Philly sighed. “Yes, that’s what I heard, and it’s no good fooling myself otherwise. We’ll have to try to find time to plant the attic key.” She reached into the pocket of her blue satin nineteen fifties style dress, and then in the other pocket, becoming frantic. “It’s gone.”
She jumped up off the bed and looked around the floor, then threw some of the covers off the bed, also lifting the pillows. “It’s gone, Meg. I had it, I’m sure I did.”
“You didn’t take it out when you changed out of your jeans then forgot to put it in your dress pocket?” said Meg. She also stood up and began scouting the floor and the bed for the key.
“No, I didn’t. I knew these pockets were too shallow for that key, but I liked the dress.” Actually, she had worn it in the hopes that Matt would like it. And he had, whispering that she looked beautiful when she arrived in the dining room, then adding that it would look even better with pink plimsolls.
“Come on, we’ll retrace your steps. It’s bound to be around somewhere.”
“He put his arm around me,” said Philly, sadly. “When I was seeing to Mrs. Cunningham. He put his arm around me. Perhaps he saw it sticking out from my pocket and took it.”
“It might not be that,” said Meg. “It’s not as if it was on prominent display, like we intended to leave it. I’m sure you just dropped it. Come on, let’s go and look for i
t, otherwise you won’t sleep for worrying.”
The two friends went downstairs. Most of the guests had gone to bed but a couple were in the drawing room, having late night drinks. They could hear them discussing the case and the clues found so far, and stood by the door trying to work out the best time to go in and disturb them.
“So we have her trunk, thrown in the shrubbery,” said old Mr. Graham.
“That’s not exactly disappearing without a trace, is it?” said Mr. Bennett. Mrs. Bennett had retired some time ago.
“I suppose not,” said Mr. Graham, “but it’s interesting that they have the actual trunk here, isn’t it? A real piece of criminal history there. I wonder that the young lady doesn’t sell it to the Black Museum.”
“What is this Black Museum?” That was Monsieur De Lacey’s voice.
“Oh it’s where the police keep all the gruesome finds from murders,” said Frank Bennett, salaciously. “Got some right good stuff down there, they have. I took our Irene down for our last wedding anniversary.”
“Very romantic,” said Monsieur De Lacey, dryly.
“Our Irene loves that sort of thing,” said Frank, defensively. “You should see all the books she’s got on murders. Other women read Mills and Boon. My wife reads about Jack the Ripper. That’s how I knew she’d prefer this to Majorca.”
“How did you come to learn of this place?” asked De Lacey. “I believe it is not your first visit.”
“Nah, we come to the last one. It wasn’t as good as this time, I’ll tell you. They seem to have got their act together. Anyway, our Irene used to go to school here.”
“Here?”
“Well, no, not here at Bedlington Hall. In the village at Midchester.”
Philly and Meg exchanged surprised glances. That was something they did not know.
“Did she know Dominique?” De Lacey asked Frank.
Mistletoe Mystery Page 8
