Mistletoe Mystery

by Sally Quilford

  “You’re a good girl,” said Mrs. Bennett, tapping Philly on the arm. “We’ll put a blanket against the gap for now, shall we?”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. And if you’re cold there are more blankets in the closet opposite your room. I think there are some hot water bottles in there too, so do make use of them.”

  “Philly,” said Matt, when the Bennetts had gone upstairs. “You can’t keep giving money away like that, sweetheart.”

  “But if they’re unhappy with the house, Matt, I have to put things right.”

  “They didn’t say they were unhappy. They just told you what happened. I’m sure they had no thoughts of getting a refund until you mentioned it.” He reached up and stroked her cheek. “I just don’t want to see you conned, that’s all, darling.”

  “Don’t you?” said Philly, feeling as if she might cry at any minute. If he did not want to see her conned, what was he doing there? His interest in the attic was every bit as strong as the other intruders. Philly felt unsafe in her own home, and as much as she wanted to trust that Matt would care for her and keep her safe, she truly believed that the only person she could trust was herself.

  “Philly,” said Meg, rounding the corner of the stairs, looking harassed. “The wine cellar key, sweetheart…”

  Dinner was a suitably festive affair, with everyone getting into the Christmas spirit. The food was plentiful, and tasted wonderful. Afterwards they all sang carols in the ballroom, where it turned out that Matt played the piano very well. If he was a conman, he was a very talented one. However, when he started to play a medley of nineteen fifties jazz, it did increase Philly’s fears that he was just a little bit too good to be true.

  Philly and Meg had arranged small presents for everyone. Nothing fancy, just pamper sets for the ladies and shaving foam and aftershave for the men. Not having expected presents at all, the guests were delighted, especially when Puck dressed up as Santa to hand them out. Soon a queue of women were lining up to sit on his knee and whisper their Christmas wishes to him. Judging by the embarrassed expression on his face and the way his eyes widened from time to time, some were a little on the risqué side.

  “I think they all want Santa in their stocking,” Meg whispered to Philly, causing both to fall into a fit of giggles.

  “For goodness sake, go and rescue him, Meg,” Philly chuckled. “The poor boy looks terrified.”

  “Nah, I’ll let him suffer a bit more,” said Meg, winking. “It’s good for his soul.”

  “I wish we’d known,” said Mrs. Cunningham, kissing Philly and Meg on the cheek. “We’d have brought you something. Andrew and I will be sure to treat you when it’s really Christmas.”

  “Oh no, there’s no need for that,” said Philly. “Really. It just seemed strange to have a Christmas party and not give out presents. And I’ve had a great idea for later on tonight.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

  Philly had meant to keep it a complete secret, but as she considered Mrs. Cunningham a friend, she was eager to tell her. “A midnight feast! We’ve got so much food left over, and once we’ve had everyone dancing for a while, they’re sure to be hungry again.”

  “How wonderful! You must let me help.”

  “That would be great, thank you. We’re going to hold it in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. That way if anyone is tired, their own room will be a sanctuary. But don’t tell the others yet,” Philly urged. “I want it to be a surprise. In fact, I’ve pushed a note under everyone’s door, which they should get when they go up to bed. It says Midnight feast, Room One.”

  had already decided to do the midnight feast, in an attempt to put off prowlers and intruders, but had not worked out where. The Bennetts complaint had reminded her that Room One was not only empty but also directly opposite the junction of the staircase. She had not put guests in it, due to its proximity to both staircases. It made it rather noisy late in the evening as everyone was making their way up to bed.

  During the feast, she could leave the door open and keep an eye on the stairs, for at least part of the night. That was if anyone was foolish enough to try the attic again. She half-hoped, half-dreaded they would.

  As Philly thought of her plans, the piano fell silent, and Matt went to the music system, flicking a switch. The ballroom was filled with the sound of nineteen-sixties rock ‘n’ roll; the music having been chosen especially to depict the era in which the Monique drama took place. As most of the guests were of that age, they smiled delightedly and were soon jigging around the room.

  “Oh, do you remember this, Frank?” asked Mrs. Bennett, grabbing her husband’s hand.

  “How could I? I’m too young,” he replied, grinning. Nevertheless, he danced happily with his wife, whilst their friend, Mr. Graham, took a turn with another lady. She had come to the weekend alone too, and it seemed they were getting on very well.

  “An autumn love affair,” said Mrs. Cunningham, smiling. “How wonderful.” Reverend Cunningham came over and took his wife’s hand and they showed that they also knew a few moves on the dance floor.

  Everyone seemed to be having a good time, except Stan Scattergood, who sat in the corner alone. He had not gelled well with the rest of the guests, seeming to set himself apart from them. Even though Philly did not like him very much either, as the hostess she felt she ought to make a little more effort with him. He was hard work though, so she made a mental note not to beat herself up too much if she failed to bring him out of himself.

  “Would you like to dance, Mr. Scattergood?” she asked.

  “I would not.”

  “Okay, well is there anything I can get you? A drink? Some more food?”

  “I’m perfectly happy here, alone.” Scattergood emphasised the last word, making it clear he saw Philly’s presence as an intrusion.

  Not one to give up so easily, Philly sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry you’re not happy, Mr. Scattergood. I don’t mean to be rude, but it makes me wonder why you came. This is obviously not your sort of weekend.”

  “No, you’re right, it isn’t. All these idiots playing at being sleuths. Most people don’t see what’s right under their nose.”

  Philly followed the direction of his eyes to the dance floor, wondering who he was talking about. “So why did you come?”

  “A whimsy I suppose. Wanting to relive an old life. Now I realise you can’t go back. Not really.”

  “An old life? You’ve been here before?”

  “Ay, a long time ago. You’re like her, you know. Same pretty blue eyes.”

  “Sorry? Like who?”

  “Robyn Sanderson.”

  “You knew my godmother? Why didn’t you say?”

  “Because you didn’t need to know. It’s not as if me and you are anything to do with each other.”

  She had to give Mr. Scattergood his due. He was honest, albeit brutally so. “Well, no, but I’m always happy to meet her friends. I didn’t know any of them, you see. It was like … Oh I don’t know. Like Aunt Robyn had a separate life to the one she occasionally shared with me. I was at boarding school most of the time. When I was with her, it really was just us. Tell me about her, please. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Scattergood visibly relaxed. “Like I said, you’re a lot like her. She always wanted to include people. Be everyone’s friend. Bit silly, sometimes, but there you are. That’s why it was so hard for her.”

  “What was hard for her?”

  “She changed after you came along. Settled down a bit. She said she didn’t want to live the old life. That included seeing her old friends. Bit tough on us.” Mr. Scattergood took a drink from his wine glass. He had not really answered Philly’s question.

  “Yes, I realise it must have been hard for her, suddenly struck with a child to care for. I’m sorry if you resented my appearance on the scene. Did … I know this is a rude question, but did you love her?”

  “We all did. It was impossible not to. Look, I’m not blaming you
, alright. She did what she had to do, and she never regretted it. I just wish she’d let us in a bit. We might even have been able to help her. Not that she wanted our type of help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Let it go now. It’s in the past. Don’t pay too much attention to a miserable old goat like me, Philomela.”

  “You really did know my godmother, didn’t you? No one else here knows my full name.”

  “It means nightingale, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So can you sing, Miss Nightingale?”

  “Actually I can.”

  “Do you know that old French song? I can never remember the French version. Edith Piaf sang it. Something about no regrets.”

  “Non, je ne regrette rien? Yes, Aunt Robyn taught it to me.”

  “Ah, that’s the one. It was her theme tune, that song. Robyn always said she would regret nothing, and I don’t think she ever did. You asked what would make me happy. It’ll make me happy to hear you sing that.”

  “Okay,” said Philly. “Erm … perhaps tomorrow, because everyone is dancing now.”

  “You’re not getting out of it that easily,” said a voice behind her. She had not realised Matt was listening. “I know the tune. It’s one of my mom’s favourites. Your wish is our command, Mr. Scattergood.”

  Before Philly could argue, Matt had switched off the music. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, tapping on a glass to get their attention. “It seems we have a songstress in our midst. Please put your hands together for Miss Philomela Sanderson.”

  “I’ll get you for this,” Philly said through gritted teeth as she followed Matt to the piano. She hated her full name and tried never to use it.

  “Hey,” he said, as he sat down. “If Mr. Scattergood ends the evening with a smile on his face, you’ll be thanking me.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean for telling everyone my proper name.”

  “It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  “Good, then we’ll start.” Matt began to play the opening bars of the song.

  Despite her misgivings, as soon as Philomela heard it, she wanted to sing. Music had always had that effect on her. She did not sing to the standard heard in the West End (as many a director had told her during auditions for shows), but she did have a pretty enough singing voice. Luckily the song was one of those where, even if people did not think they knew it, as soon as they heard the tune, they recognised it. She sang it once in French, then in English, much to the delight of the guests.

  When she had finished, there was a rapturous round of applause and calls for an encore. Philly refused gracefully. The song had stirred up disturbing emotions in her, remembering her godmother, and the few precious moments they shared together.

  As if Matt understood, he started playing one of the livelier songs from Oliver, gesturing Puck, who had taken off the Santa suit, to join him in a rousing chorus of Consider Yourself.

  Philly looked across to Mr. Scattergood. He was not exactly smiling, but he was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. He looked back at Philly and raised a thumb, still not smiling, but nodding. She had made him content, but in a very emotional way.

  Scanning the room, to watch everyone join in the song playing, Philly saw Mrs. Cunningham sat in a corner with her husband. She seemed pensive again, involved in a discussion with her husband that clearly disturbed them both. The reverend stroked his wife’s hair, and although Philly was not much of a lip reader, she sensed he was saying, ‘Try not to worry about it, darling.’

  It was an hour later that Philly, Meg and Mrs. Cunningham went upstairs to sort out Room One ready for the midnight feast.

  “Are you alright, Mrs. Cunningham?” asked Meg when they were at the top of the stairs. “You seem tired. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “What? Oh yes, dear. I’m fine. I just don’t have the energy I used to have. But I think Philly’s idea is wonderful.”

  “Well if it gets too much for you,” said Philly, “You let me know. There isn’t much to do. I want to check the radiator mostly.”

  Philly opened the door and went in, to be met by a severe blast of cold coming from the window. The curtain were drawn, but blowing open. Flicking on the light, she took a few steps forward.

  “Careful!” said Mrs. Cunningham, grabbing her arm.

  Philly stopped short. On the floor in front of the window was a pile of broken glass.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It’s impossible,” said Philly, sweeping the broken glass into a dustpan. She had quickly explained to Mrs. Cunningham what had really happened on the previous night in the attic. “Climbing down there would be deadly. Especially in the snow.”

  As well as the broken glass, a row of dirty footprints stained the carpet near to the window.

  “I thought I heard glass breaking in the night,” said Meg. “I suppose I assumed someone had dropped a tooth mug.”

  “I heard it too,” said Philly. “So did Mr. and Mrs. Bennett. Whoever it was must have climbed down, then broken the window here to open the latch. But the attic window is at the back of the house. They’d have had to go up over the roof first. It’s a wonder they didn’t kill themselves.”

  “The only other explanation would be ice falling from the roof and blowing into the window,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “However, that doesn’t explain the footprints, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Philly put the dustpan on the bedside table for a moment and rubbed her forehead. A headache began to form behind her eyes, and she longed again for an empty house and the solitude of her own bedroom. “I still don’t understand how whoever it was managed to hide from Matt and Puck. Unless they were in one of the trunks.”

  “That seems the most plausible explanation,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Who do you suspect?”

  Philly and Meg exchanged glances. “Well … it doesn’t matter because we were wrong,” said Philly. “He was downstairs all along.”

  “And who is this mysterious he?” asked Mrs. Cunningham. “Come along, dear, narrow it down for me a little.”

  Philly went over and shut the door, in case of eavesdroppers. Then she went over to sit on the bed with Meg and Mrs. Cunningham. “A few weeks ago, I overheard Matt telling someone on the phone that he wanted to get into the attic. It seemed imperative.”

  “Matt?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Matt Cassell. But Philly, I thought you and he were … well, involved, as the young call it nowadays.”

  “I don’t know what we are,” she replied, sadly. “I wanted to trust him but it’s so hard, knowing what I know. We were going to set a trap for him, you see. That’s how I came to lose the key to the attic in the first place. Normally it’s with all the other keys.”

  “But he seems such a nice, genuine young man and you make a lovely couple.”

  At that, a tear rolled down Philly’s cheek. “Oh don’t, love,” said Meg, putting her arm around her friend. “I know you’re hurt, but if he’s conning you, he’s not worth it.”

  “Yes, but even you and Puck say he seems straight up,” said Philly. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “I tend to follow my heart in these situations,” said Mrs. Cunningham, patting Philly on the shoulder. “What does your heart tell you?”

  “I don’t know. It seems to change its mind rather a lot. One moment I want to trust him, because he’s so lovely to me, and to everyone else, then I remember what I overheard and I’m not sure about him anymore. I can’t decide if I’m dancing on air or wading through treacle half the time. I do know he wants to get into the attic, and it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve played that phone conversation back in my head, it still comes out the same.”

  “Yes,” said Meg, “and we let him get in the attic last night. Alright, he was with Puck, but it was an excuse to have a look around.”

  “Hmm…” Mrs. Cunningham murmured. “There is certainly something st
range going on here.”

  “Mrs. Cunningham, please don’t take this the wrong way,” said Philly, “but is it at all possible anyone at the school was engaged in criminal activity? I don’t mean you, of course.”

  “Why not me?” Mrs Cunningham smiled. “If you’re going to suspect that handsome young man downstairs, why not a doddery old woman?”

  “You’re anything but doddery!”

  “And you’re too kind, dear. But in answer to your question, I wasn’t aware of anything going on at the time. Oh, we’d get the occasional prowler around the place at night. Usually young men from the village, wanting to tempt the girls out to play at night. There were rumours that during rationing the cook had something going on with the butcher, but that was well before my time. And of course there was the night Harry was arrested.” Mrs. Cunningham paused. Philly and Meg waited, sensing that Mrs. Cunningham had not finished yet. “It’s been a strange experience, being here again. I know I’ve already told you that. All the things I suddenly remember about my time here. But that’s not the strangest thing. I’ve had a distinct sense all weekend that Dominique is among us, trying to send a message.”

  “A ghost you mean?” said Meg, looking alarmed.

  “No. Well, yes, actually. But not in the ghosties and ghoulies and long legged beasties sense. More like a telepathic presence. Just last night, Meg, when you spoke in the French accent, I was struck by how awful it was. I’m sorry, dear, I don’t mean to be unkind. You’re a lovely girl.”

  “I’m not offended,” said Meg. “I know it was rubbish.”

  “You did your best.” Mrs. Cunningham reached out and patted Meg’s knee. “And it did give us all a giggle. But it was also helpful to me, because it made me realise something I’d never realised at the time. I think having Monsieur De Lacey here helped make up my mind.”

  “About what?” asked Philly.

  “It was about Dominique’s accent. It had never occurred to me at the time. Our discussions were rare, although we occasionally discussed books we’d both read. I suppose I wasn’t really taking much notice then. Not to mention the fact that no one was very well travelled in those days, and we didn’t get all these foreign stations on television. We didn’t get to hear many French accents. What I’m trying to say is that Dominique’s accent was all wrong. Perhaps not as bad as Meg’s, but wrong all the same. I see that now.”