A Christmas Gathering

by Anne Perry

  Conversation resumed. He ate rather than join in. It was strange to glance around the faces and realize that almost certainly one of these people had shot at him during the night. Since the shooting had begun in the orangery, the assailant seemed unlikely to be an intruder. It could, of course, be a servant, but that also seemed unlikely, given that a servant would not so easily ascertain Iris’s or Narraway’s movements. Cavendish? Dorian Brent? Allenby? James was an unlikely suspect, unless he’d acted out of some crazed jealousy that meant he was completely unhinged. Had he any idea that his wife worked for a secret department of the government? Was Narraway ruling him out only because he seemed so innocent? That would be unwise. He knew better than that.

  James himself broke that reflection by appearing in the dining room looking disheveled and distressed. His face was flushed and his thick hair untidy. “I can’t find Iris,” he said before anyone could ask him. “I’ve looked everywhere I can think of.”

  Amelia was startled, but she composed herself immediately. “Could she have gone for a morning walk in the garden?” she said soothingly. “It is very pleasant, if a little cold.”

  “For this long?” he said desperately. “I’ve been looking for her…perhaps it is not as long as I think….” He looked confused, desperate.

  “It is cold,” Vespasia agreed. “Have you looked to see if her coat is missing?”

  James steadied himself a little. “Her shoes,” he replied. “Her outdoor shoes are still in the cupboard.”

  Narraway felt the cold touch him, not on the outside of his skin but deep inside him. He put down his fork and stood up. “I’ll come and help you look.”

  Vespasia pushed her chair back and stood also. “I’ll come, too, just in case she is not well…or is in any distress.” She took Narraway’s arm.

  Actually, he was glad of that because he was suddenly afraid. He had heard Iris leave the orangery, but where had she gone?

  Narraway and Vespasia left the room and no one made any attempt to stop them, although there were awkward murmurs, trying to soothe away unnecessary concerns.

  As soon as they were beyond the dining room, Vespasia turned to James. “Where have you looked, precisely? The servants’ quarters? Whom have you asked?”

  James made a visible attempt to control himself. He looked very young and fearfully vulnerable. “I asked the chambermaid, one of the footmen, Mr. Cavendish’s valet—whom I passed in the corridor—and the tweeny maid I met on the stairs,” he replied.

  “That seems very thorough,” Vespasia agreed. “But her outside shoes are still in the wardrobe?”

  “Yes…”

  “The conservatory?” Vespasia suggested. “It is very pleasant there, and dry underfoot….”

  “For an hour?” James’s voice rose in pitch and his panic was only too clear. “I’ve looked for her for an hour.”

  Narraway’s first thought was that James did know the work she did, and that was why he was so afraid. “The orangery,” he said. “I’ll go and look there….” He turned and walked away without explaining why he had made the suggestion. He thought he had heard Iris leave last night, but could she have gone back? Why?

  With barely a moment’s hesitation, Vespasia and James were on his heels. It was a long walk, first to the conservatory, and then to the far end of it, into the wider, higher orangery, a luxury few houses had.

  He threw the door open and stepped in, the now-familiar smell engulfing him, and with it the sharp remembrance of last night. He looked around.

  “Oh! Oh, dear…” Vespasia did not scream—she never did, whatever the circumstances—but the distress was sharp in her voice. She moved forward and bent down near the concrete edge that abutted some of the orange trees, and that was when Narraway saw the foot under the branches of one of the larger trees.

  For a moment, he could barely draw in his breath. Then he went to Vespasia’s side; kneeled next to her; and drew the heavy, low-hanging branches aside. Iris was lying half on her back, two scarlet welts across her bare shoulders, one extending to her neck. Her eyes were closed and he could see no movement at all. A bruise spanned the side of her forehead. He felt his own breath choke in his chest.

  James let out a cry of horror and grief.

  Vespasia touched the backs of her fingers to Iris’s neck, then looked up at Narraway. “She’s still breathing,” she said. “But only just.” She turned to James. “Go and get the first warm coat you can find. I suggest the garden room. And Victor, you had better get the first manservant you encounter to come and help you carry her inside. Perhaps you would fetch the housekeeper as well. I dare say she’s a practical person…they usually are.”

  James was still standing, as if frozen. Narraway took him by the arm. “Come on, there’s no time to waste. Fetch anything you can find to wrap around her.” He grasped the young man’s arm and pulled him until he came to life and swung round, barging out of the door back into the conservatory and breaking into a run.

  Narraway followed him, bent on finding the housekeeper, whatever she was doing, and getting help.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Iris was lying in the housekeeper’s bedroom, wrapped in blankets and watched over by one of the maids, a middle-aged woman of great calm. The local doctor had been called and done all he could for her. She had not regained consciousness, and he was uncertain that she would, but she seemed to be resting quite easily and breathing regularly. The maid had instructions to remain with her at all times. If she needed to leave for any reason, she was to ring the bell and wait for a replacement. There was nothing else that could be done…except wait.

  Narraway told one of the footmen to stand watch outside the door.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said gravely. “Sir…”

  “Yes?”

  “I heard gunshots last night, sir. At the time I thought it was poachers. They shoot in the woods around here sometimes. Not far, as the crow flies. I—I know the bootboy heard them, too. He told me, but…I didn’t like to say….”

  “I understand,” Narraway said quietly. “I’m sure you’re right about poachers. Sounds can seem so near in the night. Don’t worry about it. Now, please look after Mrs. Watson-Watt.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Amelia came round the corner of the passage. She stopped in front of Narraway, ignoring the footman. “Shouldn’t we put her in her own bed?” she asked anxiously, for once all awareness of herself vanished. “She will be far more…” She searched for a word and could not find it. “It’s what she’s accustomed to.”

  “No,” Narraway said immediately. “She should not be left alone at all.”

  “But—”

  “Lady Amelia, someone did this to her,” Narraway said sharply. “It was to kill her, which he may yet succeed in. We must not—”

  Amelia stiffened. “Are you suggesting that one of my servants…?”

  He kept his patience with difficulty. “No, I’m not. Possibly it was someone who broke in, but more likely it was one of us.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Now she was really angry, the color burning up her face. But she was also frightened. “What do you imagine gives you the right to come as a guest here and make appalling accusations like that? You are the only person here that I do not know! But I have given you the benefit of the doubt, because I cannot imagine Vespasia would marry someone who was not fit to…be in decent society.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Although, as they say, there’s no fool like an old fool!”

  Narraway wished he could have hit her hard enough to knock her over. Instead, he looked at her icily. “Her Majesty elevated me to the House of Lords because I rid her of a certain kind of vermin. I’m a human rat-catcher, shall we say. And clearly you are in need of one…however much you may dislike it.”

  She swung her hand back, and before
she could bring it forward and slap his face, he caught her wrist and held it hard, deliberately hurting her.

  “An unpleasant thought,” he said very quietly. “But it looks as if you have at least one rat in the house, Lady Amelia. You are lucky that Iris is still alive, and may well regain consciousness. It is not yet murder. I intend to see that it never is. Therefore, she will stay here, where there are people coming and going all the time. Maids, footmen, the cook, the housekeeper, bootboy, and anyone else who has sharp eyes and ears. Is that understood?”

  “And who gave you the right to give orders in my house?” she demanded, but her voice shook with far more than anger. She lashed out in defense of everything she had. “You are a guest here! And that only because you have married above yourself!”

  “Anyone who married Vespasia would be marrying above himself,” he replied. “I have suspicions that there is much we don’t know behind the attack on Mrs. Watson-Watt; and as I am a former head of Special Branch that gives me the right to take charge of this affair. Do you want to challenge that? Or would you rather we get to the bottom of this affair first, keep it discreet, and present it to the authorities when we have the answer? A fait accompli?”

  Amelia snatched her hand back, rubbing her wrist and glaring at him with cold eyes. “Take charge in my house? I shall see what my husband says.”

  “Good idea,” Narraway agreed. He was certain Cavendish would not argue.

  * * *

  However, he was mistaken.

  “We must call the police,” Cavendish replied without hesitation. They were standing alone in the chilly morning room. The fire had not been lit; and the room had a closed, unused feel to it, in spite of the luxury it offered. But it was the one place they could be certain of not being interrupted.

  “And tell the police…what?” Narraway kept his tone calm with difficulty. “That Iris was in the orangery alone in the night, and one of the other guests attacked her and almost caused her death? May yet still do so, since we don’t know if she will survive. And if she does, she will probably be able to tell us what did happen.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Cavendish responded. “Someone must have broken in. That’s the obvious answer.”

  “And what?” Narraway raised his eyebrows. “Gone to the orangery to steal a ripe orange, if he could find one? At Christmastime? You think the authorities will believe that?”

  Cavendish’s face flushed. “I don’t know what the hell she was doing in the orangery. Presumably a tryst with someone…”

  “Who just happened to break into the orangery?” Narraway said incredulously.

  “If it was a tryst, then by definition it was arranged,” Cavendish said. “Don’t be a fool!”

  Narraway realized miserably that such a thing was not impossible, from Cavendish’s point of view, at least. And probably anyone else’s who did not know the truth. In a way, it was exactly what had happened. She had gone there, by arrangement, to meet Narraway, just not for a romantic tryst. How was he going to get out of this? He had two possible courses. One was to allow Cavendish to bring the local police in, with all the accompanying scandal, and draw everyone’s attention to the whole event, which would be disastrous to the Home Office and everyone’s reputations, especially if Iris did die. He did not even want to think of that. Alternatively, he could tell Cavendish an outline of the truth. It might not turn out well, but there was at least a chance it could.

  Memories of Normandy crept over him like a deepening shadow. It was happening all over again. He had a taste in his mouth as bitter as gall.

  “Cavendish…” He swallowed. “I’m obliged to tell you something that you probably would prefer not to know, but I have little choice.”

  “Can’t it—” Cavendish started to protest.

  “No.” Narraway cut him off before he could finish.

  Cavendish looked at Narraway more directly, studying his face and seeing the gravity in it. “This had better be important, man! I can’t think of any…” He stopped. “All right, what is it?”

  Narraway struggled with how he was going to explain this, giving Cavendish as little information as possible. It was a case of making the best of a bad job. And he must be quick. Cavendish’s patience was about to snap at any moment. “It’s a Special Branch matter,” Narraway began.

  “What?” Cavendish looked incredulous. “Don’t be absurd! This is a Christmas house party with a few people maybe you don’t know but Vespasia does. Don’t make an ass of yourself, man…more than you can help! God! You are a bloody outsider….”

  “It is a Special Branch matter,” Narraway repeated between his teeth. He hated this. He could feel the blood beating in his temples with the tension. This was Cavendish’s house and, were Narraway in his place, he would have called the police both to guard himself and his family from the appearance of being involved and to prevent any further attack. “We must uncover the identity of Iris’s attacker ourselves,” he hurried on.

  “Someone tried to kill her,” Cavendish said bitterly. “Special Branch is your only claim to success, and we can’t check on that. It’s all secret. You are little more than a jumped-up bloody policeman, and you can’t do that effectively, or we wouldn’t be in this mess. Are you saying you know who it is?” Cavendish was standing in the middle of the carpet, tense, as if he was about to let fly with some physical violence, even if only to relieve the rage boiling up inside him.

  “I’m sorry,” Narraway said. “It’s an important—”

  “Using my house was your idea?” Cavendish demanded. His face was twisted with disgust. “I presume Lady Vespasia has no part in this…this squalid affair?”

  “It’s not squalid!” Narraway snapped. “I don’t know what makes you think it is! It is merely the passing of information, but secretly, through a middleman, so the principal parties are not seen to meet.”

  “Well, obviously you did it badly, since they did!” Cavendish said contemptuously. “It’s past time you retired. You’ve evidently more than lost your touch, and this is a damned disaster!”

  Narraway felt the heat burning his face. Cavendish was right. He had lost his touch, except that Cavendish could not know it. But this was not the beginning of a decline, it was history tragically and terribly repeating itself. Narraway felt invaded by it, worn away from the inside. “It’s not a disaster yet. Iris is still alive.”

  “For how long?” Cavendish said savagely. Then his expression changed to incredulity. “My God! You want her kept here as bait! You want to capture your damned traitor and vindicate yourself, to hell with what happens to Iris! Or to the rest of us!”

  It must look like that to him. Narraway could even see his point. It was like ice to his heart that Vespasia might see it that way, too, even for an instant.

  Cavendish stared at him, outrage mottling his cheeks.

  “Iris will be safe now,” Narraway replied. “We will see that there are people with her every minute.” Should he tell Cavendish the rest? He could not force his cooperation. He had to appeal for it. One of the guests here was to blame. Or very possibly two. “She doesn’t have the information anymore. I think that is fairly obvious. The danger is to someone else….”

  “Whoever took it from her?” Cavendish asked.

  “Probably.”

  The violent emotion was clear in Cavendish’s face, but he controlled it with an effort Narraway could plainly see. “Well, that at least explains why the Home Secretary nudged me into inviting Lady Vespasia, so you came along as well. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. I thought he was asking me as some kind of favor to Lady Vespasia. That doesn’t alter the fact that someone tried to kill Iris. Is whatever this is about worth her life?” His face darkened again. “How dare you do this in my house! Damn you!” He took a deep breath and swallowed, then went on in a quieter tone. “I suppose there’s no point in cursing you; you’re
just the messenger boy. Look at you, at your age, carrying out errands like this…and at Christmas. God in heaven! What have we come to? Do I have to concede, or else be accused of not wanting to serve my country?”

  “Yes,” Narraway agreed. He kept his temper in check with the greatest difficulty. “That’s about what it amounts to, because that’s what it is. And for the record, the traitor is someone you invited, too, or Iris wouldn’t be lying unconscious in your housekeeper’s bedroom.”

  “I find that hard to believe of my friends. Whoever it was, he was following you, no doubt!”

  “Since I was the last to arrive, that seems unlikely.”

  “Then I should blame whatever idiot is senior to you.” Cavendish swallowed. “As I said before, you’re only the lackey.”

  “I prefer ‘frontline soldier,’ ” Narraway said dryly. “Coming from a man who’s no more than a bystander. But if ‘lackey’ makes you feel better, by all means use it. Just don’t bring in the police yet, and leave—”

  “What?” Cavendish’s eyebrows rose. “You to clear this up? Really? Is there any chance you will be through by Easter?”

  “I hope so. There are not many possibilities. It is either Dorian Brent, Rafe Allenby…or you. That shouldn’t go beyond the new year,” Narraway replied, with a certainty he did not feel.

  Anger rose up Cavendish’s face and something else perhaps…maybe alarm, as if he feared it might really last so long.

  Narraway smiled. “Perhaps with your assistance it will be less?”

  “And how do you propose I explain what you suggest to my guests?” Cavendish asked. “Shall I tell them Lord Narraway has it all under control? That it is unnecessary to call in the regular police, whose profession it is to deal with attempted murder…or if the poor girl dies, actual murder?”

  Narraway knew he was cornered. “If she recovers, she may tell us who it was,” he began.