Mistletoe and Murder

by Carola Dunn

  “I’ll show you, darling. You haven’t explored the old house yet, have you?”

  “No,” he grumbled, “and I’m not likely to have a chance now. But I’d rather you stayed here and headed off any attempt to tell Godfrey about Felicity’s misdeeds. I don’t need a note-taker for the amount of information I’m getting from these interviews. Tell me how to find Godfrey.”

  She gave him directions. “If the children are still there,” she said, “you’d better send them to me. It’s nearly time for their supper, anyway.”

  Crossing the Hall, Alec had scanned the display of weapons on the walls, looking for a gap. Polished blades glinted in the wavering lamplight. Nothing was obviously missing, but it was hard to be sure. He wondered whether there were—or had been—any seaman’s knives on show. The maids who polished them would surely know. It was something for Tom to ask about tomorrow. He had a way with female servants, in spite of his deep devotion to Mrs. Tring.

  But Derek’s knife was gone from the hall table. It was almost certainly the murder weapon.

  Would that rule out the man Alec and Miles were now lying in wait for, or might Felicity have taken it to show him, perhaps to illustrate the amusing tale of the children’s adventure? Or might she have taken it with every intention of his using it to kill Calloway? Or might she have killed Calloway herself?

  If she was in love with Cedric Norville, she might have wanted the clergyman out of the way for Cedric’s sake. But if she expected to marry him, she might have murdered for her own sake. It was infinitely preferable, Alec supposed, to be a countess than to be merely the sister of an earl, to find herself once again and forever a poor relation.

  At this point in his musing, Alec had reached the Drawing Room. There was no sign of the children, but Godfrey was there, seated at a small Queen Anne writing-desk on a mahogany stand.

  Apologizing for disturbing him, Alec noticed that the sheet of writing paper in front of him was blank. “I hope Belinda and Derek haven’t been a nuisance. Where have they got to?”

  Godfrey gave him a vague look. “Got to? Belinda and Derek? Oh, they wanted to know about secret drawers. I told them to try the walnut escritoire in the South Room. Mrs. Fletcher was asking them about the seaman’s knife they found. It’s really of no value, of no importance whatsoever. It doesn’t matter if they have lost it. There is no need to search for it.”

  Alec didn’t tell him the knife had already been found, in Calloway’s back. It had been a mistake to disclose that tidbit to Miles and Felicity. Still, with any luck they’d keep it under their hats for the children’s sake. If the murderer was the only other suspect who knew, he just might say something which would give him away.

  Coming to the question of alibis, Godfrey Norville had no more than anyone else, since his wife had taken a sleeping powder. No sounds of doors or footsteps in the night had roused him from his slumbers. He expressed indifference towards Calloway’s diatribes, seeming far more upset by his son having withheld his knowledge of the death of Westmoor’s heir.

  “I take no newspapers because I am in general uninterested in news of the modern world,” he said, “but Miles should have known that that would interest me. The earl is my first cousin, after all. I can scarcely believe that Miles was so inconsiderate, so secretive. To think that Victor could have been Lord Westmoor’s heir, and I after him!”

  The fuss Godfrey Norville was making now quite justified Miles’s reticence, Alec thought. He thanked the man, returned to the East Wing, and asked Tremayne to join him in the dining room.

  The old man was clearly upset by the mess his daughter’s family had got themselves into, but he remained a canny lawyer. Though he obviously would have liked to claim to have lain awake all night and thus to be certain Miles had not left the room, he forbore. He refused to give his opinion of Calloway or to say whether he had been told of the clergyman’s purpose in coming to Brockdene. He would not even specify his reasons for not telling his daughter about Lord Norville’s death.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I shall walk into Calstock and attempt to telephone a colleague in Plymouth who has something of a criminal practice. I fear I may not reach him because of the holiday, but I must insist that you take no formal statements until Butterwick is able to be present.”

  “I cannot compel anyone to give me a statement, sir,” Alec pointed out.

  “I fear I ought to have forbidden everyone to give you any information at all until then, but my position is invidious. I am a servant of the law and must not obstruct the police. I am also under suspicion, as are all members of my family. Yet I cannot believe any of them committed this horrible crime! Why should they?”

  And he had no more motive than the rest for that horrible crime. Alec had let him go and called in the captain. Of all the family, he seemed the most likely to have murdered Calloway.

  Captain Norville had slept like a babbie, confident that the good Lord would tell the reverend gentleman to do what was right, which was, obviously, to swear to the marriage he had performed.

  “Aye, I would have been cross as a bear with a sore head if he’d told me he’d changed his mind, but not a cross word would I have said, for there was always a chance he’d change it back. You learn patience at sea, Fletcher, especially in the sailing ships where I learnt my trade. The wind and waves are fickle, but I’ve always got where I was going in the end.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now,” he sighed. “There’s no fetching a man back from heaven.”

  He didn’t sound like a murderer, but Alec again recalled the ready fists when Tremayne had stopped him rushing into the chapel.

  And now Alec was back at the chapel, awaiting the arrival of the suspect with by far the best motive for murdering Calloway. The stars shone down through the leafless branches. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. The nip of frost in the still air made Alec long to stamp his feet and beat his hands together, but the slightest sound would carry far on a night like this, with no breeze to rustle the bushes.

  Longing for his overcoat, left off so as not to hamper his movements, he hoped they would not have long to wait, less for his own sake than for Miles’s. Cold could trigger excruciating pain in the phantom limb of an amputee.

  No breeze, but a rustle came from the carpet of autumn leaves on the far side of the path. Alec stared, straining to see by the faint starlight. No figure appeared. Had Cedric Norville spotted them? If he stood behind a tree he’d be quite safe as long as he kept still. The carefully laid trap would turn into a test of endurance.

  Another rustle. A badger strolled across the path, its black-and-white striped face obvious once it had left the striped shadows under the trees. Alec almost laughed aloud: Mr. Brock of Brockdene, come to see what was going on in his domain.

  The badger raised its long muzzle, sniffed the air, and scuttered off among the trees. The waiting recommenced.

  It seemed an age, but the manor’s Chapel clock had chimed no more than two quarters when Alec heard the regular crunch of footsteps approaching along the path from the Quay. A dark figure in a trench-coat and golf cap passed Alec and turned towards the chapel.

  “Felicity?”

  Miles stepped out from behind the chapel, his electric torch beam playing on the newcomer. “Norville? You’re Cedric Norville, aren’t you?”

  Cedric flicked on his own torch, shining it on Miles’s face. Alec, approaching stealthily from behind, saw his shoulders slump. “And you’re Miles Norville. I suppose Felicity sent you to tell me she’s givin’ me the bird. Funny, I’d have expected her to have the guts to do her own dirty work.”

  Gripping the young man’s arms from behind, Alec enquired, “Does that go for murder, too?”

  12

  Alec had a bloody nose, which took his own, Miles’s, and Cedric’s handkerchiefs to stanch. It was entirely his own fault for not immediately announcing himself as “Police,” he assured the apologetic Cedric.

  At least he had managed
to hang on to the young man while being assaulted. Cedric had quieted down as soon as the magic word was pronounced and, pending explanations, they all went into the chapel to apply first aid. Miles was not happy about entering the place, but Cedric showed no reluctance whatever. A clear conscience or no conscience?

  If he knew of the murder, even if he had not taken an active part, surely some consciousness would be apparent in his voice. Alec, lying flat on his back on a pew with the chief suspect’s handkerchief pressed to his nose, wished he had daylight to see Cedric’s expression.

  Apologies over, his tone was indignant now. “What the deuce is a policeman doin’ here? I don’t need a copper to warn me off if Flick’s handin’ me my hat.”

  “I gather you wouldn’t be particularly surprised to hear Biss Dorville does’t wa’t to see you agaid.” Alec felt ridiculous interrogating a suspect when he couldn’t speak properly, nor look the man in the eye.

  “No.” Cedric sighed and sat down on the pew, at Alec’s feet. “That is, she … she said there wasn’t much point in marryin’ me because I wasn’t goin’ to be an earl after all. I didn’t believe she really meant it. Girls say these things, you know, just to tease. I thought she was actually quite fond of me.”

  “Why were you dot to be ad earl after all?”

  “Oh, because her uncle brought home a missionary chap from India who could prove her grandmother … I say, old chap, this isn’t quite the thing. I mean, discussin’ a lady’s—er—misfortunes, don’t you know. And what’s between me and Miss Norville is, frankly, none of your affair.”

  Cautiously Alec sat up and lowered the handkerchief. “I’m afraid it is my affair, Mr. Norville,” he said.

  “Look here, dash it, I can see that Norville here might have somethin’ sharpish to say to me on the subject, but …”

  “Miss Norville claims she didn’t tell you about the Reverend Calloway, the missionary from India.”

  “Flick said that?” Cedric’s voice was full of astonishment. “But why the deuce would she say anythin’ at all? That’s what I don’t quite get. Dash it, I never will understand women.”

  “Mr. Norville, I am Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of the Metropolitan CID. I have a number of questions to put to you, which can more easily be accomplished up at the house. I must request that you accompany me thither.”

  “Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard? I say, what’s goin’ on here? Righty-ho, I’ll come along quietly, if only to find out what’s up!”

  Miles, who had admirably obeyed Alec’s instructions to keep his mouth shut, led the way. Alec appropriated Cedric’s torch and took the rear, keeping the light shining on his captive’s back. If Cedric was aware of the murder, he was a very cool customer indeed. He had not only returned to the chapel the next night but had volunteered the admission that he knew Calloway’s purpose in coming to Brockdene.

  He had the motive; the means was not impossible; opportunity had yet to be delved into. Yet his manner made it difficult to see him as the murderer, or even accessory to murder.

  As they turned through the gate into the valley garden, Alec saw a lantern bobbing down the path towards them. So much for his hope that they would get back to the house before Felicity came out, or that her parents would stop her leaving. All the same, he hoped it was Felicity and not her father, come to wreak vengeance on his daughter’s secret lover.

  A moment later, the lantern-bearer spotted Miles’s torch. “Ceddie? Darling, you simply mustn’t come up to the house, tonight of all nights! You can’t imagine what’s …” Felicity’s voice trailed off. She must have seen two men’s figures silhouetted against the light of Alec’s torch and realized that a third person had to be carrying the torch. “Who’s there?” she called sharply.

  “Alec Fletcher, Miss Norville, and your brother, and a friend of yours.”

  “Sorry, Flick, they bagged me neatly. What’s all the … ?

  “You haven’t arrested Cedric, have you, Mr. Fletcher?” The bobbing lantern started to move faster, Felicity dimly visible behind it. “I told you he wasn’t here last night!”

  “You also told me he wasn’t coming tonight,” Alec pointed out dryly. “Miles, please escort your sister back to the house.”

  “No! I want to know … Oh!”

  The lantern described an arc, followed almost simultaneously by a crash and a splash. Flickering flames showed a pool of paraffin spreading from the broken glass towards the tumbling streamlet where Felicity floundered.

  Cedric dashed forward, ripping off his trench-coat. He almost slipped and fell, but recovered his balance and ran on to smother the flames with his coat and his gloved hands. More cautiously, Miles hurried after him, his torch pointed towards his sister. Upper half bedraggled, lower half sodden, she crawled out of the stream, aided by Cedric once he was sure the fire was out.

  “I think I’ve sprained my ankle,” she said. “Oh hell!” And she burst into tears.

  Alec was old-fashioned enough to disapprove of women swearing as much as he disapproved of men swearing in the presence of women (though he had long since ceased to wince at Daisy’s occasional “Blast!” and had been known to utter the odd “Damn!” within her hearing). However, Felicity had ample cause for her language and her tears. As a modern young woman, she would probably regret the latter more come morning.

  Alec couldn’t even offer her a handkerchief. The three he had on him were all bloodstained.

  Shivering, dripping, sniffling, in pain, her lie exposed, her lover—for all she knew—arrested for murder, she hopped up to the house supported on either side by Cedric and Miles. Alec followed close behind, close enough to hear that the only words exchanged were, “Watch out for the steps!” and the like. He bore the trench-coat, which stank of paraffin and scorched wool.

  Not his most successful operation ever. Fortunately, as he had not actually made an arrest, he could leave the details out of his report.

  As Alec closed the front door behind them, Daisy came out of the library, looking sleepy. She took one look at them, opened her mouth, closed it again, took a closer look at Alec’s face, opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said, “There’s a thermos flask of cocoa in the library, darling. Let’s get you into a hot bath quickly, Felicity. Miles, will you help her upstairs, please?”

  Blessing her, Alec ushered Cedric into the library. In the looking-glass over the hall table he had seen the daubs of dried blood on his upper lip. Now he hastily wiped them off with a spot of spit on the least bloody handkerchief. Meanwhile, Cedric stooped to put a couple of logs on the dying fire.

  He politely waited until Alec had finished his ablution before asking plaintively, “Look here, sir, what exactly is the matter? I can’t believe I’m about to be arrested by Scotland Yard for meetin’ Miss Norville secretly.”

  “Did you meet her last night?” Alec waved him to a chair by the fire, poured cocoa for each of them, and sat down opposite.

  “No.” He perched on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, all anxious attention, a lock of fair hair flopping over his forehead. His face was too round to be called handsome, but its ingenuousness might well appeal to a strong-willed young woman such as Felicity. “I couldn’t make it.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Oh, just a family party,” Cedric said airily, his manly frankness suddenly turned to shiftiness. He leaned back in an attempt at nonchalance. “Christmas Eve and all that, don’t you know.”

  Alec did know. The children had woken him at dawn with their Christmas stockings. It was now after midnight. His Christmas holiday had been ruined. He was fed up.

  “Where?” he snapped.

  “Er … at home.” Cedric was lying. Could he be at once a brilliant actor and a rotten liar?

  “Who was there?”

  “Oh, just family.” Under Alec’s stare, he elaborated: “The parents, my brother, my youngest sister.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Er … yes.”

  “
No guests to keep you up late, then. You could easily have slipped out unseen after everyone retired and rowed across the river, as you did tonight.”

  “No, dash it, I bally well couldn’t!”

  “How many of your family had you told about the Reverend Calloway?”

  “None. I’d have had to say how I found out, and that would have set the cat among the pigeons, I can tell you! The pater would have hit the ceiling if he’d found out I was keen on Miss Norville.” Now he was telling the truth, Alec judged.

  “So you were the only one who knew you were about to be disinherited,” he said.

  “Yes, and that’s another thing that would have made the pater hit the … I say, has somethin’ happened to the Reverend ? Is that what all this is about?”

  “Mr. Calloway was murdered last night.”

  Cedric Norville looked stunned, unprepared for this blunt statement despite his dawning surmise. “Murdered! Oh, lord, you did say somethin’ about murder when you grabbed me. You think I had somethin’ to do with it?”

  “You and your family had the only apparent motive for preventing his testifying to Mrs. Albert Norville’s marriage.” Alec saw Miles come in. He stopped quietly by the door and Cedric didn’t appear to notice his arrival. Alec went on, “You have admitted to knowing that such was his purpose in coming to Brockdene.”

  “Yes, but … I say, didn’t you say Flick denied tellin’ me about this clergyman chappie? By Jove, she was tryin’ to protect me! I knew she didn’t mean all that bosh about not marryin’ me because I wasn’t goin’ to be an earl.”

  “But now you are going to be an earl,” Alec pointed out.

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose I am. Calloway’s dead?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Dashed if I can keep up with the fellow. He only just arrived and now he’s … murdered. You’re not suggestin’ Flick—Miss Norville—did him in, are you?” he added belligerently.