by Rhys Bowen
“I’ve been thinking about all these strange deaths,” he said. “That Inspector Newcombe thinks I’m some kind of Scotland Yard miracle worker, but I have to say I’m completely in the dark. Usually when there are a string of murders there is a pattern to them, but there is nothing to tie these together, nor, as far as I can see, any clues to point that they were actual murders.”
“I don’t think Inspector Newcombe is too hot at reviewing evidence,” I said. “I suspect he didn’t dust for fingerprints, make imprints of shoe soles, question witnesses. . . .”
“Hark at you.” Granddad chuckled. “You’re sounding like a proper copper. Young ladies of your station aren’t supposed to know about these sorts of things.”
“I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way,” I said. “Well, as far as we know there were no deaths yesterday, so let’s hope that they’ve stopped.” I turned as I heard a snatch of garbled “Good King Wenceslas” shouted loudly into the air. “Oh, look at Willum. Isn’t he sweet?”
And there was Willum, wearing a paper hat from a cracker, cavorting around the village green, interacting with a snowman.
“You’d better go inside,” I said to Granddad. “You’ll catch cold.”
“My chest is so much better down here,” Granddad said. “Feel as fit as a fiddle, me.”
He looked up as we both heard a distant bell. Not from the church this time, but constant and coming nearer. Then the ambulance came into view, making its way down the winding road. As it came into the village, the village bobby appeared from the police station. The ambulance slowed as it approached and the driver wound down his window.
“Nasty crash over at Gallows Corner,” he called out. “Van skidded off the road and went down that slope into the river.”
“People hurt?” the policeman called back.
“Only one bloke in the van—Skaggs, the butcher from town—and he was killed outright.”
The ambulance went on its way. Granddad and I looked at each other.
“It seems I was wrong about the deaths stopping,” I said.
“A motorcar crash might have nothing to do with the other deaths,” Granddad said. “Only too likely if someone was in a hurry on roads like this.”
For some reason I had to swallow back tears. “He was on his way to deliver geese to us this morning. He’d been told we needed them by nine o’clock, so he was probably driving too fast to get here. Poor man. And what about his family too, on Christmas Day. I’d better go and tell them at the hall what happened.”
Granddad nodded and put a big, comforting hand on my shoulder. “Happy Christmas, ducks. Don’t let it get you down. Whatever’s going on down here, it ain’t nothing got to do with us.”
As I walked back up the drive I was overtaken by the ancient motorcar containing the two remaining Misses Ffrench-Finch and Miss Prendergast.
“Hop in, do,” they twittered as they opened the door for me. “Much too nasty to walk today.”
I climbed up and squeezed in beside them. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s certainly treacherous underfoot.”
“We just heard an ambulance going past,” one of them said.
“I’m afraid there was an accident and a van went off the road,” I said. “Someone was killed.”
“How terrible,” Miss Prendergast said. “Was he a local man?”
“The butcher from town. He was delivering geese to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. I expect he was running late,” I said.
“Such a tragedy. On Christmas Day too,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said (I hadn’t quite worked out which was which). “So much sadness at the moment. That man from the garage falling off the bridge on his way home and our poor sister. We debated long and hard over whether we should join the festivities, but dear Lizzie said that Effie would not have wanted us to sit at home moping. Such a tower of strength, our dear Effie. How we miss her.”
“I’m so sorry for you,” Miss Prendergast said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I’ll always be here.”
“Most kind, my dear. You have been a great comfort to us. It was a blessing the day you moved into this village.”
We pulled up outside the house.
“I just saw the local wild woman.” I looked down the driveway, thinking that I saw a movement among the hedges.
“Wild Sal? Yes, one does see her from time to time,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said. “In fact, Cook tells me that she came to the back door on the night our dear sister died. Knocked on the door quite late and asked for food. Cook said it was snowing and she felt so badly that she brought her into the kitchen and fed her.”
The chauffeur opened the door. I alighted first and helped the old ladies out of the motor. But the cogs were whirring inside my head. So another person had been in the house that night after the front door was locked. And not only another person but one who was a descendant of the witch, and who had just given me a strange warning.
Chapter 21
CHRISTMAS DAY IN TIME FOR THE BANQUET
Any worries were put aside as we joined in the festivities. I delivered apologies from my mother and Mr. Coward to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. There were hot sausage rolls and sherry before the meal, then a gong summoned us through to the dining room, which looked absolutely magnificent, the table decorated with holly, Christmas crackers beside every place. To my intense relief I was not seated between any leg fondlers this time, but with Monty on one side of me and Mr. Barclay on the other. The vicar said grace and the feast began.
The first order of business was the pulling of crackers. This happened with a lot of popping and exclamations as contents went flying across the table, but everyone ended up with a paper hat, some kind of toy or game or musical instrument and a riddle. We put on the hats, which looked very silly indeed on most of us, then tried the riddles on each other as the first course was brought in: it was smoked salmon decorated with watercress and thin brown bread. Next followed a spicy parsnip soup and then the turkeys, three of them, resplendent and brown on platters, were carried in and expertly carved by the butler at a side table. They were accompanied by chestnut stuffing, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips and gravy. Conversation lagged as we ate.
“Well, I declare, this is better than any turkey I’ve eaten at home,” Mr. Wexler said at last.
“I had hoped to have roast goose as well,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “but the butcher let me down, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, but didn’t you hear that he met with an accident?” Miss Prendergast said. “His van went off the road and plunged down a slope. The poor man was killed.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went white. “No. I didn’t hear. How terrible. Now I feel awful for insisting that he come out this morning.”
“Not your fault, my dear,” Sir Oswald said gruffly. “Roads are icy. Could have happened to anyone.”
We tried to get back into our previous good humor.
“So, Colonel Rathbone, did you ever hunt when you had a house here?” Johnnie Protheroe asked. “I don’t recall seeing you.”
“Haven’t been home in the winter in years. When we do take home leave, it’s usually in the summer,” the colonel said. “We try to avoid the hot months in India.”
“Where exactly was your house?” Mrs. Sechrest asked.
“Over Crediton way,” Mrs. Rathbone said quickly.
“Strange that we never bumped into each other,” Mrs. Sechrest said. “Porky and I have lived in these parts all our lives.”
“Well, Devon’s a big county, isn’t it?” the colonel said. He turned to Mr. Barclay. “Splendid organ playing, by the way. I like an organist who thumps it out properly. And good old hymns too.”
Mr. Barclay nodded and smiled. He seemed out of his element here, looking around nervously. I deduced he must have come from a humble background and this was confirmed when he muttered to me, “It’s very grand, isn’t it? I’m always terrified of making a social faux pas, aren’t you?”
“I oft
en do,” I said. “I’m quite good at shooting my meat across the table when I try to cut it or slipping off my chair. And it’s usually when I have to dine with the relatives too.”
“Your relatives must be old-school sticklers then,” he said.
“Her relatives are the king and queen, Mr. Barclay,” Monty said, grinning as Mr. Barclay’s face turned puce.
“I had no idea. Nobody told me,” he gasped, then took a swig of his wine and promptly choked on it, spattering wine on the white tablecloth.
I felt rather sorry for him and tried to ask him about his own family. It turned out he had a twin brother who played the piano professionally. “He plays at concert parties and summer stock on the piers. My brother wanted us to do an act together called Pete and Pat, flying fingers at the ivories, but I was not prepared to sink to that level, even if he does make good money.”
When we were replete, the remains were cleared away and the Christmas pudding was carried in, flaming, with a sprig of holly on top.
“Hey, Ma, it’s on fire,” Junior shouted. “Should someone throw water over it?”
The countess gave him a withering look. “Don’t you dare,” she said.
The flames died down and Sir Oswald cut the first piece. “Watch out for all the damned silver bits and pieces that my wife insists on putting in it,” he said.
“Silver bits and pieces?” Mrs. Wexler asked.
“Old English custom,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There are always silver charms baked in the pudding. You’ll find a horseshoe, a thimble, a ring, a button, a boot, a pig, oh, and some silver threepenny pieces as well.”
“And what are they for?” Mr. Wexler asked.
“I’ll explain when we find them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
The pudding was served with brandy butter. After a couple of mouthfuls Ethel called out, “I’ve got the horseshoe.”
“Very good. That means good luck in the coming year,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“And I have a boot.” Mrs. Rathbone held it up.
“Very apt. It means travel, of course,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“Does it really? How lovely,” Mrs. Rathbone replied with what looked like a wistful smile.
Mr. Upthorpe and Johnnie found threepences, which meant money. Badger found the button, which made everyone laugh.
“The bachelor button, Badger. It means you’re not going to get married.”
“Thank God for that,” Badger said.
Suddenly the colonel, seated just across the table from me, turned red, his eyes bulged and he clutched his throat.
“He’s choking!” his wife shouted.
Badger and Johnnie leaped to his aid, thumping him on the back. My heart stood still. Was this the death that had been planned for today? I realized that I had been uneasy ever since the wild woman had given me that warning. The colonel was flailing now.
“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Rathbone screamed.
The other men at the table were now on their feet, standing helplessly as the flailing grew weaker and the colonel pitched forward onto the table, knocking over his wineglass and sending the contents flowing across the white tablecloth like a river of blood.
Chapter 22
STILL AT THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET
As we stared in horror, there was one thought going through my mind. Until now these deaths had not touched this house. The crash of the van had probably been just an unfortunate accident—someone going too fast around an icy curve. So were we now witnessing the death that had been selected for Christmas Day?
Johnnie grabbed the colonel around his ample waist and attempted to lift him from the table. As he did so something came flying out of the colonel’s mouth, landing on the table. The colonel gave a great gasping breath, coughed and sat up again.
“He’s all right. Thank God.” Mrs. Rathbone fought her way to reach him. “Oh, Reggie. You’re all right.”
“Don’t fuss, woman,” the colonel said. “Of course I’m all right.”
“One of those damned charms,” Sir Oswald said. “I knew you’d kill someone one day, Cammie.”
“You gave us all a scare there, old fellow.” Johnnie handed the colonel a glass of water.
“Something got stuck in my throat,” the colonel said.
“One of those charms, I expect.”
“Which one was it?”
Johnnie retrieved it from the table with his napkin. And he laughed. “The pig, old fellow. It means you’re a bit of a glutton.”
“Reggie, I keep telling you that you bolt your food,” Mrs. Rathbone said.
We all laughed and the tension was broken. The rest of us ate very carefully now and finally my teeth struck against something hard.
“Oh, look, Georgie’s got the ring,” Monty called out.
“Next to be married, my dear,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush or to meet Darcy’s eye.
The meal concluded, a little more subdued, with port, nuts and tangerines all around. We were just sitting with coffee in a state of stupor when Lady Hawse-Gorzley clapped her hands. “Everybody into the drawing room quickly,” she said. “I wasn’t watching the clock and we almost missed it. Hurry now.”
“Missed what?” Mr. Wexler said.
“The king’s broadcast. It’s almost three o’clock.”
We marched through to the drawing room. The radio came to life with much crackling and then a voice said, “His Majesty the King,” and the national anthem was played. We British subjects immediately rose to our feet. The Americans looked at us with amusement but then followed suit. We sat again as the king’s deep, ponderous voice came through the air, speaking slowly and carefully, greetings of goodwill from Sandringham to his subjects around the world. The others listened in rapt silence. I was conscious that he didn’t sound well. I thought of the times I had been with His Majesty at Sandringham, his favorite house, and he’d been sitting with his stamp collection at the table from which he was now broadcasting and a feeling of warmth and pride came over me that we were part of the same family.
“And to think that you actually know him,” Mrs. Wexler said when the speech ended. “I suppose you’ve actually been to those royal castles and palaces?”
“Many times,” I said.
“And what’s he like, your king?”
“A little fearsome to start with. Not very patient and likes everything done properly, but he’s essentially a kind man and he cares so much about England and the empire. I think he’s literally worrying himself to death.”
They tiptoed away from me as if I’d suddenly turned into someone new and dangerous.
Soon the older members of the party fell asleep in armchairs while we younger ones went for a walk.
“I think it’s going to rain,” Bunty said. “That’s good for the hunt tomorrow.” She turned back to me. “I hope you’re a good rider, Georgie. We went to look at Freddie’s stable this morning and his horses are decidedly frisky—and big.”
“I’m a pretty good rider,” I said modestly—my governess having drilled into me that a lady never claims accomplishments.
We walked across the grounds and up through the bare woods, pausing to look back on the house and the village. As I stared down at the orchard a thought crossed my mind so quickly that I didn’t have time to grab on to it. Something about the trees. I turned to stare at the neighbor’s estate behind us. Something about why those particular trees might be important.
Darcy fell into step beside me. “You look rather shaken up,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“That incident with the colonel,” I said in a low voice, not wanting the others to hear. “I thought he might be today’s designated death.”
Darcy gave me a quizzical look. “Designated death?”
“There’s been one a day since I arrived, except for yesterday. And the butcher’s van already went off the road today, killing him. So I thought that might have been a true accident and this was the death tha
t was planned.”
He took me aside so that we were standing together under the branches of a large fir tree. “What exactly are you saying, Georgie—that someone has been planning a death a day? For what reason?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And do you think these deaths are random people or intentionally selected?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them—a butcher, an old lady, a garage owner, a switchboard operator and the man who owned that estate. What could they possibly have in common?”
“Have the police ruled out that they were accidents?”
“I think the inspector is suspicious, but he has no proof, as far as I can tell, that any one of them was not an accident.”
Darcy frowned. “It may be that this part of the country is just going through an unlucky period. Serial killers don’t usually work this way, if that’s what you’re imagining. They want the police and the public to recognize their handiwork. They usually have a signature modus operandi—think of Jack the Ripper in London. A classic case. Always killed prostitutes in exactly the same gruesome way.”
I shuddered as he went on. “One of the ways they get a thrill out of this is believing that they are smart enough to outwit the police. So why kill in a way that makes it look like an accident?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t understand anything about it, Darcy. I’m almost ready to believe in the Lovey Curse. That strange wild woman gave me some kind of warning today. And she’s the direct descendant of the witch, isn’t she?”
“Georgie, come on.” He shot me an amused look. “That’s village superstition. You are a young woman of the world. You don’t believe in witches or curses.”
I tried to smile too. “It’s just that—I’m frightened. I can’t help feeling that it’s closing in on us and that eventually the killer will strike here.”
“Don’t worry.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.”
“That’s not the point, Darcy. I feel that somehow I must take care of everyone else. I feel that I have to solve the puzzle before it’s too late.”
