Mistletoe and Murder

by Carola Dunn

  “It’ll maybe come to that, lad. I bain’t a detective, and I don’t pretend to be a detective; and what with the ’olidays, no one’s going to be out repairing telephone lines for a couple o’ days.”

  “What about a doctor?” Alec asked, professional instinct asserting itself again.

  “My grandfather was right,” Miles told him. “Dr. Hennessy’s gone to relatives in Exeter for Christmas. Sergeant Tilton rang up Saltash and asked them to send Dr. Clay, but at best it’ll be a few hours before he can get here.”

  “Aye, if zo be ’e’s at ’ome. Now I’ll thank you, zir, and Mr. Miles, to be leaving me and Redkin to take a look.”

  “Willingly. Here’s the key,” said Alec, wondering how much evidence they would manage to destroy between them. He and Miles set off up the path. “Thank you for preserving my incognito, under what must have been considerable temptation.”

  “It was difficult when Tilton started talking about calling in Scotland Yard. Will you really not take a hand, sir? I can’t believe those two oafs have the slightest idea what they’re doing. They’re used to miners fighting outside the pubs on a Saturday night, and the odd tinker stealing a hen. You don’t suppose it was a tinker did it, or some passing tramp?” Miles finished hopefully.

  Alec wondered how good a look the young man had taken at the knife hilt protruding from Calloway’s back. Considering the effect on him of finding the body, he had probably not examined the weapon closely enough to recognize it, if, indeed, he had ever been shown the children’s discovery.

  “I refuse to speculate,” Alec said. “I’m on holiday. Let’s try to put the whole thing out of our minds for the moment and enjoy our Christmas dinner.”

  Dinner was more festive than might have been expected in the circumstances. The children, including Jemima, had not been told of Calloway’s death. Bel and Derek, chattering about their Red Indian adventures, didn’t seem inclined to question his absence. Jemima, caught in that awkward space between childhood and adulthood, made some gloating remark about the clergyman missing the turkey and was firmly put in her place by her mother.

  For the children’s sake, most of the adults tried to be bright and cheery. In this they were aided by the wine, which Godfrey, reminded by Dora, produced from behind the four-foot door in the library.

  Daisy was too busy keeping an eye—between forkfuls—on Belinda and Derek to pay as much attention as she would have liked to the rest of the company. She wished she had watched everyone that morning, instead of concentrating on children and presents. Surely the murderer, awaiting discovery of his crime, must have behaved differently from normal?

  Now, as far as she could see, Felicity and Miles seemed pretty much unaffected, she lively with an ironic edge, he more good-natured though equally quick-witted. Jemima was sulking, but that was nothing new.

  Their mother was jolly, the doggedness behind the enthusiasm more evident than usual. Godfrey Norville could not at the best of times have been accused of conviviality. His mind appeared to be elsewhere, his thoughts of a distressing nature, natural in the circumstances. Victor Norville did a better job of hiding his chagrin at the wreck of his plans, but now and then a shadow of gloom overcame even his genial nature. Old Mrs. Norville, always quiet, was perhaps a shade quieter. After so many years of ostracism, the sudden raising and then dashing of her hopes must be hard to deal with.

  Mr. Tremayne was preoccupied. Daisy didn’t know whether he had been let in on the secret purpose behind Calloway’s advent, but as a lawyer he must be well aware that the clergyman’s death could mean nothing but trouble for the Norvilles.

  The prospect spoiled no one’s appetite. Turkey, chestnut stuffing, parsley-thyme-and-onion stuffing, sausage forcemeat, bread sauce, brussels sprouts and peas, roast potatoes and gravy were followed by trifle and a Christmas pudding flickering with blue flame. The captain served the pudding. He made sure Belinda and Derek each got a sixpence in the tiny helpings they each had in the hope of just that. Nor would he let Daisy make them eat what they had taken.

  “After all, it’s Christmas,” he exclaimed. “Now where’s that gigantic box of crackers Master Derek brought with him?”

  There were enough crackers for everyone. Captain Norville persuaded even Lady Dalrymple to pull one with him, and to put on the paper hat and blow the tiny silver whistle she found in hers. The sharp snap and the faint smell of gunpowder gave way to the reading of mottoes.

  By the time all had been read, the children were restless. Daisy sent them out to play, reminding them to stay away from the woods. The adults retired to the library for coffee.

  It was there that Sergeant Tilton found them. He sidled into the room, cap in hand, looking distinctly sorry for himself. “Beg pardon, ladies and gents,” he said, “for int’rupting on zuch a day as this; but I ’as to ask a few questions, zeeing this do be a case o’murder.”

  “Murder?” Lady Dalrymple raised her eyebrows in displeasure. “This is quite the most badly regulated household it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.”

  “Zorry, ma’am,” said the miserable sergeant.

  “Alec,” said her ladyship commandingly, “presumably you can deal with this person. If one must have a police detective in the family, the least he can do is to make himself useful!”

  9

  “Scotland Yard!” Tilton, otherwise rigidly at attention, turned his cap round and round in nervous fingers. His eyes flickered around the entrance hall, to which he and Alec had retreated, as if noting every escape route.”Detective Chief Inspector! Why didn’t you tell me, zir?”

  “Because I had … have no intention of trespassing on your territory, Sergeant. If it wasn’t for my mother-in-law blowing the gaff …”

  “Ah,” said Tilton, enlightened.

  “Do sit down, man. It’s Christmas, I’m on holiday, and in any case the Met has no business in Cornwall unless your Chief Constable calls us in. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Tilton perched on the edge of a lyre-back chair. “But the Chief Constable’s away for Christmas.”

  “He would be!”

  “And you ’eard me, zir; I can’t get ahold o’ the detective branch in Bodmin to request assistance. I were already thinking o’ telephoning Scotland Yard. We don’t ’ave murders ’ere, zir, barring young Jackie Levitt that got stabbed outside the Boot Inn back in ‘02, and that were a fair fight. ’Zides, I bain’t used to dealing wi’ the gentry, ’zepting motoring offences and zuch. Won’t you give us an ’and, zir?” he pleaded.

  “Not without express authorization.” Alec sighed deeply. “I suppose, in the circumstances, the least I can do is to accompany you back to Calstock. You can ring up the Yard, and should authorization be forthcoming, I’ll be on the spot to send for my men.”

  “Aye, zir!” The sergeant started up, eager to go.

  In the meantime, the trail would be growing cold, Alec thought, but no colder than if he left Tilton to struggle on unaided. It was already more than twelve hours since Calloway was attacked, he reckoned. He sighed again. “What a way to spend Christmas afternoon!”

  “I missed me dinner,” Tilton said reproachfully, “likewise Constable Redkin that I left guarding the chapel.”

  “Great Scott, my dear chap, so you did. We’ll stop by the kitchens and have them put together something you can eat as we walk, and send up something for the constable. ‘If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,’ but a few minutes is neither here nor there. And I’d better put on my boots.”

  He left the sergeant in the kitchen and went up to change into outdoor clothes. In the bedroom he found Daisy on the same errand.

  “So sorry about Mother, darling,” she said. “Whoever would have guessed she’d practically boast about having a ’tec in the family? That really set the cat among the pigeons. Godfrey was inclined to take your ‘deceitfulness’ amiss, but Miles pointed out you could hardly have known beforehand that there was going to be a ‘crime wave�
� at Brockdene. Mr. Tremayne said it would be just as well to have a competent detective in charge. I take it you’re going to Calstock to ring up the Yard?”

  “Why should you take anything of the sort?” he retorted irritably.

  “Miles told me about the sergeant not being able to get in touch with his superiors. I’ll walk with you. I need the exercise after that dinner, and there’s tea and supper to come. Miles and Felicity will keep an eye on the children.”

  Alec gave in. He wasn’t on duty yet, after all, and half the point of a holiday was to have time to spend with Daisy. They picked up the sergeant and set out.

  It was a beautiful afternoon. At first the path led through woodland, with glimpses of the Tamar between the trees. Sergeant Tilton had turned gloomy again when he discovered Daisy was going with them. He tramped ahead, wheeling his bike with one hand, a sandwich in the other, so she and Alec were able to hold hands and talk privately.

  “You were saying something,” Alec said, “at the chapel, when we were talking about the possibility of Calloway changing his mind. You said, ‘That was why …,’ and then the clock chimed and your mind instantly turned to dinner.”

  “I must say Mrs. Pardon did us proud,” Daisy mused. “I wonder what sort of poor excuse for a Christmas dinner the Norvilles get when Westmoor hasn’t landed them with his unwanted guests.”

  “What were you going to say?” Alec asked patiently. “‘That was why’ what?”

  “Let me think back. Oh, I know. That was why Calloway went to the chapel, to pray for guidance because he couldn’t make up his mind. Didn’t you hear him talking about it?”

  “No. Who did?”

  “Felicity was there. Her father, I think. Miles? I can’t remember. Jemima. But they would have talked about it later, I’m sure. They probably all knew.”

  “I suppose so. So any of them could have followed to ask him if he’d made a decision and attacked when he said he wouldn’t swear to the wedding. It sounds a bit berserker. The sensible thing would be to wait and see if he changed his mind again. You know, Daisy, the logical murderer would be someone who’d be done out of an inheritance if the marriage were proved. Who is Westmoor’s heir?”

  “His son, of course. Heir apparent rather than heir presumptive. No one could displace him.”

  “He has a son? Bother!”

  Daisy was suddenly uncertain. “I think so. Of course, what with the War, I didn’t have to do the social season, so I didn’t get to know all those sorts of people. I’m sure I’ve met a daughter or two though.”

  “Daughters are beside the point.”

  “Don’t let Bel hear you say that, darling. I bet Sergeant Tilton knows. Westmoor’s a local bigwig, after all. Tavy Bridge—his principal seat, as they say—is somewhere near Tavistock.”

  “Devon? Two counties involved. I haven’t a hope of staying out of the business then.”

  “I’ll ask Tilton whether Westmoor has a son.”

  “No, don’t do that. The Norvilles must know. If I end up taking over, I don’t want to give the local police unnecessary cause for speculation about the family.”

  “That’s a point,” Daisy agreed. “Anyway, I can’t see how a putative heir-presumptive-who-is-not-Westmoor’s-son could have found out about Calloway. He and the captain landed in Plymouth just a couple of days ago and came straight to Brockdene.”

  “That’s a point,” said Alec, with a smile. “Look, there’s a heron.”

  The path had descended a hill, crossed a bridge over a small stream running into the Tamar, and now bordered a marshy area along the river. They continued past a pair of the ubiquitous lime kilns and a couple of cottages, then under an arch of the spectacular railway viaduct. Calstock spread up the hillside from the Tamar, a grimy tin, copper, and arsenic mining town and river port.

  Walking along the narrow, winding main street, they saw a house with a gleaming brass plaque announcing:

  TREMAYNE & WEDGE

  SOLICITORS

  Notaries Public

  Commissioners for Oaths

  “They look quite prosperous?” Daisy remarked interrogatively to Sergeant Tilton, who had slacked his pace to rejoin them.

  “Aye, doing nicely enough. Mr. Tremayne’s partly retired nowadays, picks and chooses his clients, he does. Young Mr. Miles’ll take over the partnership when he’s done wi’ his articles. Copes pretty well, does young Mr. Miles, considering. Here we are then.”

  Leaning his bicycle against the wall of the small police station, he led the way inside. He ushered Daisy into a waiting room at the back and firmly closed the door before tackling the telephone in the front office.

  Daisy was left to cool her heels for what seemed an age. She tried to put her mind to the mystery of Calloway’s murder, but without further evidence she had reached a dead end. When gazing out of the window palled, she picked up a copy of the Sporting Times which someone had left lying on a table. Since it was a week out of date, and she had no interest in “The Pink ’Un” at the best of times, it did not hold her long.

  Her patience expired. She opened the door a few inches to hear Alec say, “I’m sorry, Tom. My most abject apologies to Mrs. Tring. And I’m afraid I’m going to spoil Piper’s Christmas, too. Will you get on to him?”

  So Alec had sent for his team. He was in charge of the case. Daisy was not sure whether to be sorry, because of his ruined holiday, or glad, because she had a much better chance of worming information out of Alec than Sergeant Tilton.

  “Yes, the mail train to Plymouth,” he was saying. “It leaves Paddington at some ungodly hour of the night, but I need you as soon as possible. Enough time has already been wasted. Then the local to Calstock, and someone here will show you the way to Brockdene. All right, Tom, I’ll see you and Ernie in the morning. ’Bye.” He hung up. “You can come out now, Daisy.”

  Unabashed at being caught eavesdropping, Daisy emerged from her seclusion. “Where’s Sergeant Tilton?”

  “He was called out on a domestic assault. He rang up the Yard, and they ran the Cornish CC to earth. I gather he wasn’t pleased to have his jollifications interrupted. In fact, he was only too delighted to pass off the responsibility, so I’m ‘It.’ Let’s get back to Brockdene.”

  “You’re not going to wait for Tom and Ernie before you start asking questions, are you?” Daisy asked as they set out.

  “If you’re fishing to be asked to take notes, it would be a help,” Alec admitted. “As long as no one objects, of course. Is there anyone we can absolutely rule out? Not counting Lady Dalrymple and the children, of course. Old Mrs. Norville, I suppose. I can’t see her traipsing up to the chapel at midnight. Mr. Tremayne must be about the same age, but he’s a spry old fellow.”

  “With even less motive than the rest. You know, I’m a bit surprised he let his daughter marry a man whose legitimacy was in doubt.”

  “I dare say he despaired of getting her off his hands.”

  “Don’t be beastly, darling. She can’t help her teeth, and I suspect her manner, which I’ll admit is rather grating, is a product of years of marriage to a wet fish like Godfrey. I think she was quite keen on coming to live at Brockdene. In its way, it’s a step up for a country solicitor’s daughter.”

  “All right, but that doesn’t exactly provide Tremayne with a motive for doing away with Calloway. As far as motive is concerned, Victor Norville seems the best bet, but how ever hard I try I can’t see him, however angry, stabbing an unarmed man in the back. He’ll have to go to the top of my list, though.”

  “What about opportunity?” Daisy pondered. “Anyone could have followed Calloway up to the chapel unseen, and as we all went to bed about eleven, no one is likely to have an alibi for midnight. Except Godfrey and Dora, and it doesn’t count when it’s husband and wife, does it?”

  “It’s not quite that simple,” Alec said, “but naturally a wife’s evidence in favour of her husband doesn’t usually bear a great deal of weight. As you say,” he added gloomily, “a
nyone else could have gone to the chapel unnoticed, and no one can be expected to produce an alibi for the middle of the night.”

  “You don’t think it was a passing tramp, I take it, who hoped Calloway had money on him?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not, darling? Were his pockets full of money untouched?”

  “I didn’t check. The weapon rules out a tramp or that other popular canard, an escaped lunatic.”

  “You never told me what he was stabbed with. I suppose it was one of those dire weapons hanging in the Hall.”

  “I’m not sure you really want to know, love.”

  “It wasn’t one of those? What was it, Alec? Of course I want to know!”

  “I’m pretty sure it was the seaman’s knife Bel and Derek found.”

  “Not really? Gosh, how frightful! Don’t for heaven’s sake let them find out.”

  “Do you know what they did with it after they showed it to us?”

  “Derek said they showed it to Godfrey Norville. He wasn’t very interested, but he told them to leave it on the hall table—the East Wing entrance hall—so they did.”

  Alec groaned. “The hall table. Anyone could have picked it up.”

  “Absolutely anyone at all,” Daisy agreed. “And the chances are no one would have noticed it was missing, unlike the historic stuff in the Hall, so it could have been taken any time.”

  “Oh, for a butler with an all-seeing eye. Oh, for a parlour maid who listens at doors and a lady’s maid who knows all her mistress’s secrets. It’s an odd household and no mistake. I’m not at all sure where to start unravelling it.”

  “If the knife isn’t still lying there on the table, hadn’t you better make sure the children didn’t take it? If they put it somewhere else, it might be possible to work out who could have retrieved it from wherever it was, if you see what I mean.”

  “I’d rather keep them out of things altogether, though they’ll have to know Calloway’s dead. I’m sorry young Jemima was there when Tilton announced that it was murder.”