Authors: Carola Dunn

Mistletoe and Murder (15 page)

BOOK: Mistletoe and Murder

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The sun coming in through the south-facing windows shone on the gleaming rows of weapons hanging on the walls. From here they were even more impressive than from below, where most were hung above Daisy's eye-level, so that she had to crane her neck to study them. They were a vicious-looking lot. Really, given the availability of instruments of death, it was quite surprising that murders weren't a regular occurrence at Brockdene.

She was about to turn back, when Tremayne and Miles came through the door at the far end of the Hall.

Miles was saying vehemently, “No, I don't believe for a moment that she would have helped the blackguard, except inadvertently, by telling him about Calloway.”

“You don't think she might have taken the knife to show him?” Tremayne was obviously worried. “Because if so, she's in serious trouble, whatever her intent.”

“Why should she? It isn'tâwasn't of any particular interest. I shouldn't have thought it was at all the sort of thing a girl would take to a rendezvous with her lover, though admittedly I haven't much experience in that line.”

With one arm missing, he probably assumed no woman would look at him twice, Daisy thought. She doubted he
was correct. He was intelligent, charming, quite good-looking, gentlemanly. He would have a respectable and generally well-remunerated profession. Equally to the point, the slaughter in Flanders had left England with a huge imbalance between young men and women, so that bachelors were in high demand. Miles had no need to despair.

While these thoughts crossed Daisy's mind, Tremayne was saying, “I expect you're right, my boy, if canoodling is anything like it was in my day. Felicity wouldn't have taken the knife with her unless she wanted to use it on him â¦ or wanted him to use it.”

“Which, I repeat, I do not credit for a moment.” Miles stopped as they separated to walk on either side of the central table. He turned to face his grandfather, his back to Daisy. “What really troubles me, sir, is that if no obvious murderer had turned up, it would not have surprised me in the least to discover that Jemima killed Calloway.”

“Jemima!” The elderly man leaned heavily with both hands on the table. His expression was deeply distressed but not startled. “She's a child still! But one need not specialize in criminal law to know that such things happen. Do you think she's â¦ unbalanced?”

“I confess I've sometimes wondered. Mother seems to consider her merely normally awkward for that age, and she must be a better judge than I â¦ mustn't she?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Dora knows best.” Tremayne straightened, relieved.

“All the same, sir,” Miles went on, “I don't think it's healthy for Jemima to go on living here as if nothing has happened â¦ after what
has
happened. After all, she wished Calloway dead, and he is dead, nastily. We can't brush that
under the carpet. It seems to me she ought to go away to school, to learn how other girls behave. If you can see your way to coming up with school fees, I shall of, course, reimburse you as soon as I'm able.”

“Bosh, as Felicity would say. Jemima's my granddaughter as well as your sister. I don't say I approve of education for women, but I dare say there are schools which concentrate on teaching conduct and manners, and Jemima could certainly profit from lessons in both.” Tremayne started walking again. “To tell the truth, I wish now I'd sent Felicity to school for a year or two. She'd have made friends, been invited about no doubt. She wouldn't have taken up with that unspeakable bounder and â¦” He and Miles passed through the doorway to the stairs, beyond Daisy's sight and hearing.

For an alarmed moment she wondered whether they had spotted her and were coming to ask just what she thought she was doing. No, they must have come into the old house for a purpose, which was surely to speak to Godfrey. Daisy wished she could hear what they said, but deliberately creeping up to eavesdrop was rather different from happening to overhearâand happening to stay put and overhear more than she need.

Oh dear, perhaps she too needed a few lessons in manners and conduct! But if she hadn't profited sufficiently already, for her school had definitely concentrated on both, then it was probably too late, she decided. Jemima, on the other hand, really needed most the company of normal girls her age, as Miles suggested.

So Miles had suspected Jemima of murder, and Mr. Tremayne had suspected Felicity of complicity in murder. The worst of murder, Daisy thought, was less the death itself than the shadows it cast on the living.

W
hen Daisy, still hunting the children, stepped out through the front door, she saw Jemima standing a few yards away, gazing down the terraces.

“Jemima, have you seen Derek and Belinda?”

Jemima gave her a blank, inimical glance, shrugged, and turned away.

If they were outside, Nana would be with them, her hearing probably the sharpest of the three. Daisy let loose the piercing whistle Gervaise had taught her, seldom employed because thoroughly unladylike. “Nana!” she called.

A yip answered her. From the top of the long flight of steps at the far end of the terrace the puppy bounded towards her. She had something in her mouth, which she laid at Daisy's feet, looking up with eyes bright in the expectation of praise. When Daisy declined to accept the well-chewed, disgustingly sodden wad of blueish grey rag, Nana picked it up, unoffended, and pranced ahead back towards the steps.

As she approached, Daisy spotted Belinda's ginger and Derek's tow-head near the bottom of the flight. They were
sitting on the bottom step, so absorbed in sorting through a heap of rubbish on the ground before them that they didn't notice Daisy's arrival. A couple of empty potato sacks lay beside the heap.

Daisy paused at the top, wondering what on earth they were up to. Behind her the gravel crunched. She looked round to find Jemima had followed her.

Once again she had that nervous feeling that she didn't want to be at the top of anything while the girl was behind her. She started down the steps, enquiring, “What have you got there?”

Two animated faces turned up to her.

“Clues!” said Derek portentously.

“We wanted to help Daddy,” Bel explained. “We didn't get in the way, honestly. Daddy and Mr. Piper went across the Tamar to Devon, and Uncle Tom's in the house. We were in the woods.”

Daisy could only wish she had repeated yesterday's prohibition against going into the woods and made it clear it was separate from the instructions not to get in the way.

“We borrowed a sack, Aunt Daisy, and went to look for clues. Nana's a ripping bloodhound. She found this.” Derek presented for Daisy's inspection an ancient boot, laceless, the sole dangling from the upper by one or two remaining nails. “It's our best clue. We think an escaped convict, or maybe a deserter, was living in the woods and Mr. Calloway saw him and he was afraid he'd give him away so he killed him.”

“And then he started to run away, but the sole of his boot came off so he couldn't run.”

“So he took it off and Nana found it,” Derek concluded triumphantly. “She found this, too.” A sardine tin. “And we
found a couple more tins. Where did you put them, Bel? Oh, here they are. Look, the labels are all gone and this one's rusted right through the bottom, so the man must have been living there for simply ages. And a broken beer bottle.”

“We buried that so no animal would cut itself,” Bel said, “but Derek marked the place in case Daddy wants to dig it up for fingerprints.”

“D'you think Uncle Alec'll want this, Aunt Daisy?” Gingerly, by one corner, Derek held up a filthy, stained cloth, ragged and so faded its original colour could have been anything. “It's pretty foul.”

Nana disagreed. She dropped one rag in favour of the other, which she seized and ran off with. Derek and Belinda gave chase, tally-hoing and view-hallooing as they galloped along the terraces.

Jemima clumped down the steps from the top, where she had been watching and listening. “What rubbish!” she said scornfully, poking the boot with her toe.

Ignoring her, Daisy cheered on the pursuers and the pursued. Nana headed back towards her. Dropping the revolting object at her feet, the pup turned to sniff at the boot, then went to sniff around the as yet unsorted heap of junk. Belinda and Derek arrived, panting. Derek reached down to retrieve the rag, but Nana grabbed it first and dashed off again.

Derek groaned. “She'll prob'ly bury it.”

“Never mind, let her have it,” Daisy advised. “I doubt if it's a vital clue. What else have you got?”

“Rubbish,” Jemima said again. She went off back up the steps.

“Why doesn't she like us, Mummy?” Belinda asked anxiously.

“I don't think she likes anyone much, darling. Don't let it worry you. Is that a pair of eye-glasses I see?”

“Yes.” Derek abstracted a celluloid spectacle frame, minus lenses, from the pile and balanced it on his nose. One earpiece was missing. “Bel found it. I don't think it's a clue, though.”

“Why not? Perhaps the escaped convict was shortsighted.”

“These wouldn't have been much use to him then. He couldn't have seen well enough to kill Mr. Calloway or run away or anything.”

“I think we ought to keep them for Daddy,” said Belinda stubbornly.

“All right, we will. But look at this cigarette packet, Aunt Daisy. It'll tell Uncle Alec what brand of cigarettes the murderer smokes.”

The packet looked as if it had been in the woods for several weeks, at least. The Woodbine label was almost indistinguishable, and Woodbines were the most popular cheap cigarette. But Daisy said, “Yes, keep that for him,” and she sat on a step and watched while they went through the rest of the heap. Not only did she not want to be a wet blanket, it was always possible they really had found something useful. Alec was always saying one never could tell what might be significant.

Nothing turned up, though, that looked to her in the least useful. Spreading out one sack, the children laid out on it the oddments they had decided to keep. The rest they put back into the other sack to take round to the Kitchen
Court to the dustbin. Derek had just heaved it onto his shoulder when they were hailed from the top of the steps.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher!” Tom Tring doffed his hat, his bald dome gleaming in the fitful sunshine. He came down, with the peculiarly light tread which accorded so ill with his bulk. “Hello again, Miss Belinda, Master Derek. What have we here?”

Eagerly the children explained their hunt and showed him the bits and pieces. He examined each, his small brown eyes twinkling. Nana rushed up to greet him, muddy feet and muzzle mute evidence of the burial of her rag. Belinda grasped her collar before she could besmirch the sergeant's splendid green-and-maroon suit.

“Sit,” she said severely. “You're going to have to have
another
bath before you can go in the house.”

“I expect it'll wear off if she runs around a bit,” said Tom. “You've a fine collection here. Put them somewhere safe for the Chief to see, won't you?”

“Don't take them into the house!” said Daisy.

“We'll put them in Nana's scullery. Come on, Bel.”

They bundled their clues into the second sack and raced off, Nana lolloping alongside. “Wash your hands!” Daisy called after them.

Tom winked at Daisy. “Don't do no harm,” he said, stroking his moustache. “I dare say we'll have young Derek joining us in the CID before too long.”

“Don't tell his father! Maybe by the time Belinda's old enough, they'll see the sense in having a few women detectives,” Daisy retorted.

“Ah.” That was Tom's multi-purpose monosyllable. “I'm off to the chapel to try for dabs. That way, is it?”

“I'll show you. You've been talking to the servants,
haven't you? Did you find out anything useful?”

“Not from that lot. They knew Miss Norville was carrying on with Mr. Cedric Norville right enough, but none of 'em could say whether he came over on Christmas Eve. Someone down at the Quay might know, they said. I'll leave questioning them till I hear from the Chief, though. Now there's one interesting thing I did find.”

“What's that?”

Tom waited until he had followed Daisy through the tunnel under the lane before he answered. Emerging beside her, he said, “Dabs on the murder weapon. There's a couple of little 'uns, could be a small woman but more likely a child.”

“Derek! It was his knife.”

“Could be. I'll have to fingerprint him to be sure.”

“He'll be thrilled to death,” Daisy said dryly. “Could you possibly fingerprint Belinda too, to be fair?”

Tom's moustache twitched as he grinned. “For sure. The prints could be hers, after all. But that'd better wait for the Chief, too.”

“Yes. You'll have to check Jemima's, too.”

“The younger daughter? She's known to have handled the knife?”

“No,” said Daisy, troubled. “Not as far as I know, though she may have when the children showed it to Godfrey. Mr. Godfrey Norville. You'd have to ask them, or rather the Chief will.”

“Mr. Godfrey Norville touched it?”

“Probably. He examined it. As did Captain Norville, though I can't recall whether he handled it. I expect the Chief will remember.”

“There's what looks like a man's prints on the haft, but
blurred and not in the right position for stabbing, whichever way â¦ Here, hold on, Mrs. Fletcher!”

“I'm all right,” Daisy said, but rather faintly. His words had summoned up the picture she had hitherto managed to hold at bay: the knife raised, then plunging down into the unsuspecting man's back. Feeling sick, she sat down on the bench Tom had steered her to, under the arbour by the carp pond.

He stood looking down at her. “The Chief 11 give me a flea in the ear for upsetting you,” he growled, “and quite right, too.”

“Bosh!” said Daisy, perking up. “I shan't tell him, and you're not to. He'd give
me
a flea in the ear for meddling. I'm quite all right, truly. It was just a momentary vision â¦” She concentrated on the vigorous check of his jacket. “Is that a new suit? I don't recall seeing it before.”

“Christmas present from the wife.”

“It's spectacular,” she said sincerely, remembering the equally mountainous Mrs. Tring, whom she had met at her wedding.

He grinned again. “Takes the bad lads' minds off who's inside it, at least for a moment. Long enough, sometimes. Now you sit here, Mrs. Fletcher, till you feel well enough to go back to the house.”

“I'm perfectly all right now. I'll walk a bit farther with you. You know,” Daisy continued as they passed the dovecote, “if the fingerprints on the knife do turn out to be Derek's, then the question arises again: How did Cedric Norville get hold of it?”

“Ah,” said Tom.

“Won't the Chief have to prove how he got it?”

“It'd help the case, but all that's absolutely necessary is
to prove that he could have, that it wasn't impossible. Young Derek left it on the hall table?”

“Not exactly. That is, it wasn't exactly his. Alec didn't explain?”

“He didn't have time to go into details. Why don't you tell me about it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

The sergeant was hugely entertained by the story of the children's discovery of the knife. He regarded it as further evidence that Derek was cut out for a detective's life.

“So you see,” Daisy finished, “it really belongs to the house, but Godfrey Norville didn't think much of it. He told Derek to leave it on the hall table.”

“And no one knows when it disappeared. I asked the servants, of course, but it seems none of âem even knew it was there in the first place. They gave the table and the stuff on it a once-over with a feather duster before her ladyship arrived, but it's not their place to tidy the family's belongings. 'Specially as they didn't reckon Lady Dalrymple' d have much cause to hang about in the hall. A pretty state of affairs!”

“It's an odd household, though normally it seems to run quite smoothly.”

“The Chief said the staff don't have hardly anything to do with the family?”

“They're Lord Westmoor's servants, employed to take care of his house and possessions. The family have to pretty much fend for themselves. I'd better tell you all about it.” Starting with the Indian marriage, Daisy worked her way via the sixth earl's willâleaving old Mrs. Norville with a home and now-insufficient allowanceâto a thumbnail sketch of each family member. She and Tom Tring reached the chapel just as she finished describing Jemima. “And
then there's Mr. Tremayne, Mrs. Godfrey's father.”

“The solicitor?”

“Yes. Don't tell me Alec already told you all this!”

“No, no, he just warned me there's a lawyer about. That's a great help, Mrs. Fletcher. I've got a much better idea of what's going on.”

“Not that it'll be much use to you if Alec arrests Cedric Norville, as seems probable.”

“Ah,” said Tom, “there's many a twist between handcuff and wrist.”

BOOK: Mistletoe and Murder

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