Mistletoe and Murder

by Carola Dunn

  “Let me go! It was just in fun.”

  “Jemima,” whispered Belinda, slipping her hand into Daisy’s. “She doesn’t like Derek and me.”

  “The supernatural is not ‘fun.’ From playing the ghost, you may easily come to the deadly sin of attempting to raise ghosts and spirits.”

  “I hardly think so,” said Daisy, walking in. “A stupid bit of mischief, that’s all, isn’t it, Jemima? I have a word to say to you, young lady, but we don’t want to keep Mr. Calloway from his devotions.” She had noticed a pillow on the floor by the bed, indented by two knees.

  “I am sorry to hear you make light of this, Mrs. Fletcher. However, this is not the time for serious remonstrances. I shall speak to her parents in the morning and ask their permission to see if I cannot make her see the evil of her tricks. This is a troubled house. I shall pray for all within its walls.”

  Daisy was tempted to say, “Not for me, thank you,” but that would be a very bad example for the girls; and anyway, she was far too well brought up. “Good night,” she said instead, and beckoned imperiously to the ghost. She was her mother’s daughter in that, she thought ruefully. Even with bare feet and no night-dress under her dressing-gown, she could make a gesture imperious enough to bring Jemima slouching after her into Belinda’s room.

  Shutting the door, she moved to stand on the bedside rug, saying, “Belinda, get back into bed before you catch cold. Jemima, take your grandmother’s shawl off your head, if you please. Now tell me, why did you play such an unkind trick on a younger child who is a guest in your house? Why did you want to frighten Belinda?”

  “I didn’t care about frightening Belinda,” Jemima said sulkily. “I just wanted to make Mr. Calloway go away.”

  “Mr. Calloway? Why on earth … ?”

  “He’s upset everyone. He’s going to absolutely ruin Christmas! I suppose you’ll tell everyone what I did,” she snarled at Belinda.

  “No, I shan’t. I don’t carry tales.”

  “Mr. Calloway’s going to tell your parents,” Daisy pointed out. “You’ll have to explain to them what it was all about. Now you’d better get to bed. Off you go.”

  Jemima left through the door to the landing, which Daisy had left open. As she closed it behind her, the handle rattled slightly.

  “That’s what it was,” said Belinda. “That’s the noise I thought was chains. It must have been Mr. Calloway’s door handle, and I should think what woke me up was when she came in through Derek’s door.”

  “She came through Derek’s room?”

  “I think so. When I saw her, she was coming from that direction. Do you think he’s all right?” Bel started climbing out of bed.

  “You just stay put, young lady, and do your best to go back to sleep. I’ll see to Derek.”

  Daisy wondered if she’d find her intrepid nephew cowering under the bedclothes. She should have known better. He was fast asleep, sprawled on his back, the bedclothes around his waist. She pulled them up around his neck, tucked them in, and went back to her own room.

  Alec was as fast asleep as Derek. Of course, he’d worked hard all week and had had the exhausting task of bringing her mother plus children and puppy from London to Brockdene. Yet before their marriage he would have awakened at the slightest sound of distress from his precious daughter. Daisy sighed. She supposed it was flattering that, even dead to the world, he relied on her to take care of Bel.

  Icy feet against his thighs brought only an indistinct mutter as his arm closed around her again. Feeling wide awake she started to try to puzzle out what Jemima had really been up to, and what it had to do with whatever was going on with the rest of the Norvilles. But in spite of the subject’s fascination, within a couple of minutes she drifted off.

  When Daisy and Alec went down to breakfast on Christmas Eve, only Miles was in the dining room.

  “Your two are off somewhere doing something deadly secret,” he reported, as they helped themselves from the sideboard.

  “Not outside, I hope,” said Daisy, looking at the rain beating against the window.

  “I think not. They took the pup out for a quick dash earlier, then apologized profusely to her for shutting her up again, so I suspect they’re in the old house. I suppose they’re to be trusted not to do any damage?”

  “Oh yes, they’re good children.” Daisy sat down opposite the young man.

  “On the whole,” Alec qualified. “You did warn them to be especially careful, I trust?”

  “I told them Father would beat them within an inch of their lives if anything was broken. I remember the time I … Ah well, that’s water under the bridge. It’s about the only thing that really gets his goat. The Rev was fulminating against Jemima this morning, but Father didn’t seem to care a hoot. I don’t suppose you know what that was all about?”

  Daisy exchanged a glance with Alec, whom she’d told about the night’s adventures.

  “I see you know all and are not going to tell me,” said Miles. “Ah well, I’ll worm it out of Mother. She was pretty annoyed about Jemima’s shenanigans. Jemima’s been sent up to wind wool for Gran. I was asked to present Mother’s excuses for not being here when you came down. She’s gone to consult Mrs. Pardon about Christmas frolics, the Pardon being expected to cooperate for once because there’s a ‘Lady’ in the house, with a capital L. Said Lady is breakfasting in bed, I understand.”

  “Said Lady always does,” Daisy affirmed. “I hope Mrs. Pardon has assigned a maid to her full time. I’m surprised she didn’t bring her own woman.”

  “Lady Dalrymple gave her maid Christmas off,” said Alec, “assuming that Lord Westwood’s house would have plenty of well-trained servants.”

  “Plenty of housemaids.” Miles looked at Daisy. “Am I out of line, Mrs. Fletcher, if I say we’ve all been wondering why Lady Dalrymple chose to come to Brockdene for Christmas?”

  “I never attempt to explain anything Mother does,” Daisy said lightly. “Where is everyone else?”

  “The Rev’s in the Chapel, praying to be preserved from Gran’s idols. You haven’t seen them yet, have you, sir? I’ll take you up after breakfast, if you like. They’re rather magnificent.”

  “So Daisy tells me.”

  “Uncle Victor’s dragged a couple of gardeners out to cut a Christmas tree and some greenery. Flick … Oh, good morning, sir.” Miles jumped up as an elderly gentleman in a decidedly damp tweed suit came into the room.

  “Sit down, sit down, my boy, and finish your breakfast.”

  “Just a last cup of coffee. Will you have one? Mrs. Fletcher, may I present my grandfather, James Tremayne? Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, sir.”

  So this was the solicitor, Dora Norville’s father, who had paid for Miles’s schooling and now employed him. “How do you do, Mr. Tremayne,” Daisy said with a smile. “Don’t tell me you walked over from Calstock in this weather?”

  “Pooh, pooh, a bit of a breeze and a drop of rain, nothing to a countryman, Mrs. Fletcher, I assure you.” He stood on the hearth, his back to the fire, his steaming clothes releasing an odour of cigars into the room. “Now, the weather forecast is something different. I listened to it this morning on my wireless receiver. I have an excellent wireless set. They say this wind will grow to gale force in the course of the morning. That’s why I came over early.”

  “We’re quite sheltered at Brockdene,” said Miles, taking his grandfather a cup of coffee. “I dare say it won’t amount to much except for those at sea. But you’d better reckon to spend the night, sir.”

  “Perhaps so, perhaps so. I wouldn’t wish to put out Lord Westmoor’s guests.”

  “You won’t do that, Mr. Tremayne,” Daisy assured him. Her mother could not possibly have any greater objection to a country solicitor than she already did to a dark-skinned poor relation, and her host’s absence. “The more the merrier, especially at Christmas.”

  He beamed at her. “Just what I think, dear lady! And that reminds me, I brought the post with me, and there was a letter
for Lady Dalrymple, as well as one or two for your father, Miles. And the newspapers. They are on the hall table. Godfrey doesn’t take a newspaper, so I generally bring a couple when I come over. I expect you’d like to see the Times, Mr. Fletcher.”

  Alec agreed, though his usual paper was the Daily Chronicle, a shockingly liberal choice for a policeman. They chatted about the news of the day for a few minutes, until a maid came in and said to Daisy, “Please, madam, her ladyship wants to see you.”

  “Right-oh, I’ll go up in a minute. Thank you … ?”

  “Jenny, madam. Right away, madam, her ladyship said. Her ladyship’s in a proper state, madam, and I’m sure I hope ’tis not something I’ve done; but I weren’t trained up for a lady’s maid and that’s the plain truth of it.”

  “She’d have left you in no doubt if it were your fault, Jenny.” Regretfully Daisy abandoned what little remained of her sausage and toast. “Oh dear, what now, I wonder?”

  “I reckon it’s that letter, madam,” Jenny said, as they left the dining room. “Knowing Mr. Tremayne were come, and him sometimes bringing the post, I looked and saw it on the table when I were going up to get her ladyship’s breakfast things, so I took it up to her ladyship. She sent me to run her bath, and she were opening it when I left, and when I come back she were in a state.”

  “I’m sure it must have been the letter. Thank you, Jenny, you can go now. I’ll ring if you’re needed.”

  Hurrying up the stairs, Daisy wondered whom the letter was from and what on earth it said that was so upsetting it required her immediate presence. Surely not Violet! If anything had happened to her or the baby, she or Johnnie would have written to Daisy first and let her break it to their mother.

  “Mother, what … ?”

  “Daisy, how could you be so remiss, so utterly lacking in duty to your only parent, as to leave me to learn the truth from a stranger?”

  “Mother, I’ve already explained that Westmoor didn’t tell me he wasn’t going to be here for Christmas, though I gather he’s spent Christmas at Tavy Bridge for years. And I didn’t know Mrs. Norville was Indian, either.”

  “Indian!” Lady Dalrymple snorted and waved the offending letter. Sitting up in bed in a powder blue quilted satin bed-jacket, she was a study in outrage. “That is the least of it!”

  “Whom is it from?”

  “Eva Devenish. An utterly reliable source.”

  “Blast!” Daisy muttered. Lady Eva never invented gossip; she didn’t need to. She had at her fingertips every scrap of scandal which had shaken the aristocracy in the past five or six decades. No use Daisy trying to cast doubt on whatever she had raked up this time. “Lady Eva’s not exactly a stranger, Mother, even if she isn’t family. But how did she know you were here?”

  “I happened to run into her at Claridge’s, where I spent Saturday night, since your husband’s house is not suitable for inviting your mother to stay when she is in town. We spoke briefly, as she was rushing off somewhere—and how she manages it at her age I cannot imagine. There’s really something quite indecent about it—but I mentioned that I was to be Westmoor’s guest at Brockdene. If only she had had the common courtesy to enlighten me there and then!”

  “Enlighten you about what, Mother?”

  “I suppose you believe the Indian person is the widow of the sixth earl’s youngest son.”

  “Honestly, I never thought twice about whose widow she is.”

  “She’s not.”

  “If you want me to understand, you’ll have to be less oracular,” Daisy said, patience wearing thin.

  Momentarily, the dowager looked flummoxed, as if she wondered what “oracular” meant. She knew when Daisy was being unfilial, though. “I’m afraid being married to a policeman has not improved your manners, Daisy. Eva says it was all well known at the time. I was much too young to hear about it, of course.”

  “Of course, Mother,” said Daisy, less to redeem herself than in the hope of speeding the awaited revelation.

  “It was in the ’70s. Albert Norville was a subaltern in India. His commanding officer wrote to Westmoor, the sixth earl, that Albert was involved with a native woman and had even had a child by her. Naturally Westmoor summoned Albert home.” Lady Dalrymple scanned the letter to refresh her memory of the misdeeds of the unfortunate Albert. “His ship arrived in Plymouth some months later.”

  “He came?”

  “Naturally. In those days one did not lightly disobey one’s parents. According to Westmoor’s man of business in Plymouth, Albert called on him and learnt that his parents were in London, but his eldest brother, Lord Norville, was here at Brockdene. He announced his intention of sailing up the Tamar to win Norville’s support before he faced Westmoor.”

  “How on earth did all this become known?” Daisy demanded.

  “According to Eva, the sixth countess was a thoroughly indiscreet woman, even a trifle underbred. Of course, the shock must excuse a certain lack of self-control,” Lady Dalrymple said with conscious tolerance, “though I should never allow myself such latitude.”

  “What shock, Mother?”

  “They were both drowned.”

  “What! Who?”

  “Albert and his brother. The servants here reported that they quarrelled bitterly, and the sailors who took them down the river said they actually came to fisticuffs on the boat. They fell overboard and could not be saved.”

  “How dreadful!”

  “The middle brother became the seventh earl, and the present Lord Westmoor is his son. I shall write him a stiff letter, a very stiff letter indeed. I consider his conduct towards me unconscionable.”

  “He does seem to have gone a bit too far,” Daisy conceded.

  “He’s become downright eccentric since the War!”

  “But how did Mrs. Norville end up living here at Brockdene, Mother? Surely Lady Eva hasn’t left you in suspense.”

  “‘Mrs.’ Norville turned up in England some months later with two children, claiming to be married to Albert. She offered no proof, and the sixth earl didn’t believe her for a moment; but to keep her quiet he gave her an allowance and a home here as long as she made no claims. Can you imagine the scandal if the newspapers had got hold of the story?”

  “They would have had a field day,” said Daisy, trying to imagine the feelings of the unhappy girl, arriving in England with two little boys to find her husband dead and his family refusing to acknowledge her—always supposing Albert had actually been her legal husband. Surely she would have had some sort of proof, though. Perhaps he had just gone through some sort of Hindu ceremony with her.

  “I presume the earl left provision for her in his will,” her mother continued, “to save his heirs from any unpleasantness. But what possessed Westmoor to suppose I would consider the woman an acceptable hostess is beyond me! I have a very good mind to leave immediately.”

  “What an excellent idea, Mother. I’m sure you could spend a very comfortable Christmas at Claridge’s …” Daisy’s voice trailed off. She swallowed a sigh. “Only even if we could summon a boat to take you to Plymouth, the weather’s already foul and there are gale warnings on the wireless. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay.”

  6

  Everyone helped with the Christmas decorations. Even Lady Dalrymple.

  Once she accepted the impossibility of leaving in a huff, she had descended to the Hall. In her best grande dame manner she thoroughly enjoyed supervising the decking of it, as far as Daisy could see. Captain Norville was the moving spirit, nominally in charge, but the dowager sent him and Alec, his able assistant, rushing back and forth with ladders: this paper chain (turned out by the dozen by Derek and Belinda, with Miles sorting the rainbow colours for them) hung not quite symmetrically; that bunch of mistletoe was not perfectly centred over the doorway. The captain accepted her ladyship’s corrections with unfailing good humour. She seemed to have forgotten, however temporarily, that he was the illegitimate offspring of a Native.

  Meekly accepting he
r ladyship’s occasional condescending remarks, the native herself sat by the wide hearth. A noble fire burned there today, though its warmth was vitiated by the gale howling down the chimney. Mrs. Norville was turning scraps of wool into little dollies which Jemima hung on the Christmas tree. Daisy and Felicity tied ribbons and sweets on its branches and draped tinsel. Mr. Tremayne fixed the Christmas tree candles firmly in their little metal holders, while Dora Norville fussed over clipping them on safely.

  Her husband had fastened the silver paper star to the top of the tree. Thereafter he hurried about the Hall uttering cries of distress every time a nail holding some ancient weapon was required to do double duty for a paper chain or bunch of holly. Whether his presence counted as helping was questionable, but at least he was present.

  Everyone was present, except the clergyman.

  “Mistletoe!” The Reverend Calloway stalked through the door from the East Wing, his eyes on the green leaves and pearly berries dangling above him. “Do Druids worship here? And an evergreen tree? I scarcely believe my eyes! Why do you celebrate the holy birthday of our Lord with these pagan symbols?”

  “A Christmas tree is a pagan symbol, Mr. Calloway?” asked the captain, doubtful and anxious. “I’d never have guessed, I promise you.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Lady Dalrymple. “My good man, my uncle the Bishop saw no harm in Christmas trees. Your dogmatism is preposterous. And as for mistletoe …” A touch of pink tinted her cheeks, to Daisy’s astonishment. Mother blushing? “My late husband always insisted on mistletoe at Christmas.”

  “I’m sure if Lady Dalrymple has no objection, there is nothing more to be said.” Godfrey Norville cast a defiant glance not at the clergyman but at his brother, as Daisy was interested to note.

  “It’s all for the children, Reverend,” said Captain Norville, placatory now.

  “For our guests,” Mrs. Godfrey put in with determined brightness. “The old traditions are such fun, aren’t they?”

  “There’s another tradition which will be more to your taste, Padre,” said Miles. “We’re going to sing carols in the Chapel this evening.”