Mistletoe Mystery (6 page)

What if, Philly thought, having gorged herself on too many
Hollywood movies, the boy had not been a boy at all? He might have been an
older man who could pass for a teenage boy. He might even have been a spy of
some sort. There were many problems in France in the sixties, as Philly well
knew from reading
The Day of the Jackal
. The boy spy, an Algerian
perhaps, might have killed the whole DuPont family then it was all hushed up by
the government.

She became so lost in her daydream, she almost forgot that
she had left Matt alone. When she went back to him, he had moved nearer to the
lake and had his back to her, looking into the distance. He was also talking
into his mobile phone.

“No,” he was saying firmly, “there’s no need to send anyone
else yet. I need to look around a bit more. I think the answer is in the attic,
but it’s locked…. I’m sure I can get the key... No, no … Let me play this out
my way, and then I’ll be able to give you all you want.”

Chapter Five

“You’re very quiet,” said Matt, as they walked back up to
the house. Philly had made sure that he did not know she overheard his
telephone conversation by slipping back behind the small tower and waiting for
him to come looking for her.

“I’m thinking more,” she said shortly. It was something her
godmother used to say when she was in one of her rare bad moods.

“Thinking about what? I hope it’s not me, because I’m not
sure I like the look on your face.”

Philly was not ready to tell him what she had heard. She wanted
to find a way to catch him out properly. Then she could have him arrested for
whatever it was he was up to. One thing of which she was certain, he would not
get the key to the attic, no matter how much he thought himself capable of
seducing her. Not that there was anything in the attic worth bothering about.
It was a matter of principle.

“There were loads of hearts with dates and time inside the
small tower,” she said. “I was thinking about the romance that led to them. I
wondered if it had anything to do with Dominic DuPont.” There, that was not
exactly a lie. It was exactly what she had been thinking before she overheard
the telephone conversation and realised that Matt was a sneak-thief.

It all made sense now. His sudden attraction to her. She had
known all along it was too good to be true. No doubt he saw the Robespierre
painting, heard about Bedlington Hall and decided she must be richer than she
said.

“You think she ran off with this guy?”

“It did occur to me yes, though that doesn’t answer the question
of why her family didn’t come forward.” Philly hoped she sounded plausible and
interested enough in Dominique’s story. In reality all she could think was that
her heart was beginning to break, despite all her best efforts to protect it.
Not that she would ever let him see that. If he knew how she really felt, then
it would give him power over her, and she would not allow that to happen. “Or
perhaps,” she said, unable to stop the bitterness flowing from her lips, “he
thought she was rich and killed her when he found out she wasn’t.” She searched
his face for a flicker of guilt, conscience, anything that might give him away.
He looked just as gorgeous as ever, which did not help her at all.

“Wow, that’s a big jump from clandestine meetings in a folly
at the side of a lake,” said Matt. “What would he stand to gain from that? I
mean, if they didn’t marry first so that he inherited all her wealth? Surely a
conman would just cut his losses and leave her heartbroken but alive.”

“Yes, that’s a good point. Unless he was really desperate.
He might have owed money to someone, and pitched all his hopes on her.”

“Then if he had any sense, he’d run like hell, without
stopping to look behind him.”

“You don’t know how desperate he was.”

“Nah, it doesn’t make sense, Philly. I’m not saying that she
didn’t meet some guy who killed her, but it would have been a crime of passion.
Or a suicide pact. Or maybe he was just a sicko. If he was a conman who found
out she had no money, then he would have switched his attentions to someone who
did.”

“You sound as if you know a lot about it.”

“I’ve met a few conmen in my time, yes. They’re not
generally the passionate type. Oh sure you get the odd one who has some other
psychological problem, and maybe kills his prey to stop her talking, but mostly
they’re the type who don’t waste time on cons that have come to nothing. They
move on to the next one.” She could not help noticing that his voice became
harder.

“So maybe he killed Dominique to stop her talking,” she
said, pressing on regardless. “Perhaps she found out about him and was going to
blow the whistle.”

“I still think he’d have cut and run. If she was the only
one who ever saw him, and if he used a false name, he could easily just
disappear. After all, if she had nothing, then he couldn’t be accused of taking
anything from her. He wouldn’t be the first guy to sweet-talk a girl. And if
she were rich, his plan wouldn’t have worked unless they married. Remember, she
was only seventeen. She hadn’t reached her majority so even if she had any
money in a Trust Fund, she would not have access to it.”

“So perhaps she refused to marry him and he became angry.”

“I guess that would work. I also guess you’re only thinking
your way through all this for the sake of the crime on the mystery weekend,
right?”

“Of course. Why else?”

But the more Philly thought about it, the more she thought
she would like to find out what happened to Dominique DuPont. It seemed to her
that the girl’s fortunes were somehow tied up in her own. Or perhaps it was
just a way of taking her mind off Matt.

She ought to order him out of the house immediately, after
what she heard, but something stopped her. Maybe she was every bit as foolish
as Dominique DuPont might have been, desperate to believe in a man who was
clearly up to no good. She had to admit there was a small part of her that
hoped she had misunderstood Matt’s telephone conversation. But she could not
ignore the fact that he had told the person on the other end of the line about
trying to get into the attic. Why? Was it possible there was something up there
that she did not know about?

She was reminded of the film
Gaslight
, in which
Ingrid Bergman’s psychotic husband, played by Charles Boyer, was desperate to
find some precious jewels belonging to Ingrid’s late aunt. They had eventually
been found sewn into a dress. Was there something like that in the attic of
Bedlington Hall? More importantly, was Matt as psychotic as the man in the
film? What lengths might he go to in order to find his heart’s desire?

Looking at his clean-cut American good looks as they walked
across the lawn, she found it hard to believe. Who knew what lay beneath the
surface of his lightly tanned skin?

Ingrid Bergman’s mistake in the film had been not trusting
anyone with her fears. Philly was made of stronger stuff than that. As soon as
she could, she would tell Meg and Puck what she had heard. There was safety in
numbers.

Except … she was pretty sure that Puck would turn Matt
straight out of the house, to protect Meg and Philly. That would be the right
thing to do, of course. So why did she hesitate?

Philly’s mind whirled. What could she do for the best? She
should turn Matt out herself, yet something stopped her. Not only was Dominique
DuPont’s story tied up with hers somehow, she felt that Matt’s story was too.
Everything from the moment they met had felt inevitable, including their actual
meeting on the steps of the auction house. It really was as if he stepped onto
the stage at exactly the right moment in Philly’s life. It could even be the
wrong moment, if he meant her harm. Even a bad guy has to make his entrance
sometime.

He was far too young to have known Dominique DuPont, but
maybe he knew the man who conned her. Or maybe he knew the girl’s family. Had
Dominique left something in the attic at Bedlington Hall besides her trunk? Or
perhaps, like the Robespierre painting, there was something else in the trunk.
Philly made a silent promise to check it thoroughly as soon as she had a
chance. It might have a secret compartment.

Meanwhile, her biggest question was whether to let Matt stay
in the house for another night. He had offered to leave that morning and she
kicked herself for not accepting the offer then.

As it turned out, she need not have worried.

Rachel Jenson had already arrived with the film crew when
Philly and Matt got to the house. She was in the kitchen with Puck and Meg,
drinking coffee and eating chocolate brownies. Her cameraman, Joe, was with
her. He looked as if he had eaten more than a few brownies in his time, but it
did not stop him tucking into the plateful that Meg put on the table.

“We just need some shots of the outside of the house, and
then around the main rooms,” said Rachel. “Then you can tell me all about your
Mistletoe and Mystery weekend.”

As she spoke, Matt received a message on his phone. “Hey,
I’m sorry,” he said to Philly. “I have to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yeah, yeah, my dad is ill. So I have to go to him. My mom
needs me.”

Philly searched his face for signs of a lie. Either he was a
very good actor, or he was genuinely distressed by the news. “Of course you
must go to him.”

“I promise I’ll be back in time for the Mistletoe and
Mystery weekend. If I’m still welcome, that is.”

With a kitchen full of people, Philly could not say anything
other than, “Of course you’re welcome. I … I hope your dad is okay.” She kissed
him on the cheek hesitantly.

After he packed his things, she watched him drive away with
a heavy heart. Had he realised she overheard his conversation and used the
telephone message as an excuse to get away? His fears for his father, as he
packed, had seemed real enough.

She noticed with an equally heavy heart that he did not kiss
her goodbye. As he disappeared into the distance, she was half-afraid and
half-hopeful that she would never see him again.

The rest of the day was taken up with filming. Philly, Puck
and Meg’s enthusiasm seemed to jump from them to Rachel and Joe, who did all
they could to help sell the Mistletoe and Mystery weekend.

“The film should go out on Monday evening,” said Rachel as
they saw her to the door. “Only the local news, I’m afraid, but it’s possible
the national stations could pick it up. I don’t want to be rude, but it depends
if it’s a slow news day.”

“I understand,” said Philly.

“On the other hand,” said Rachel, “the Dominique DuPont
thing might help it along. I Googled her before I came and it’s considered a
big mystery amongst true crime buffs. So who knows?”

“Thanks, Rachel. And you, Joe. Your help really is
appreciated. Perhaps you’d like to come and stay that weekend, if you’re not
busy. For free, of course.”

“You’re not going to make money that way,” said Rachel,
laughing. “But maybe we could come and film some of it, as a follow up story.”

“There must be brownies,” said Joe with a wink.

“There will be brownies,” promised Meg.

Puck kissed his sister goodbye, and when she and Joe had
driven away, he clapped his hands together. “I love it when a plan comes
together,” he said, in the style of Hannibal from the A-Team. He became more
serious. “Pity about Matt’s dad though. I hope he’ll be alright.”

“Yes, me too,” said Philly. With Matt gone, she decided
there was no reason at all to tell Puck and Meg about the telephone
conversation by the lake. They would probably never see him again. Let them
think he was a nice guy, and more importantly, let them go on believing that
she had not just made a complete and utter fool of herself over a conman.

The news report went out on the Monday, as Rachel had
promised. By Tuesday, the Dominique DuPont connection had earned it a few
seconds on the main news. By Wednesday morning, Philly, Puck and Meg were
inundated with telephone calls from people interested in attending the
Mistletoe and Mystery weekend. Within a few hours they had booked nearly every
room.

It was late Wednesday evening when Philly received the most
interesting call. It was from a well-spoken woman called Mrs. Cunningham, who
said she lived in Midchester. “I would love to attend your Mistletoe and
Mystery weekend with my husband,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “He was the vicar in
Midchester for many years, and we’ve done a bit of sleuthing in our time. But
my own interest is personal. I was a teacher at Bedlington in the nineteen
fifties and sixties, and I knew Dominique DuPont.”

“Really? That’s amazing,” said Philly. “I wonder … well
since you’re nearby, would it be an imposition for me to come and speak to you
about her? It’s not just for the story. I too have taken a personal interest in
her.”

“Of course you may, dear. I’ve spoken to lots of journalists
and crime buffs over the years. I’m not sure I can give you any clear answers
though.”

“That doesn’t matter. Just speaking to someone who knew her
would be interesting.”

“Come down in the morning at eleven. I’ll have the kettle on
ready.”

True to her word, Mrs. Cunningham was waiting in her trim
bungalow on the edge of Midchester. She was a well-groomed sprightly woman in
her late seventies, who could easily have passed for someone ten or fifteen
years younger.  It was clear she had once been very pretty. Her greying
hair showed hints of fiery red and her green eyes were sharper than a pin.

She had tea and a plate of scones waiting in the tiny
lounge, which was crammed with all manner of old furniture and books.

“We’re still getting used to how small this place is,” she
explained to Philly as she poured the tea. “The vicarage was a big old rambling
house. They let us live on in it for a while, since the new vicar bought a
house amongst the new builds. Or they were new builds then. They must be twenty
years old now. We moved here five years ago, and my first thought was ‘Where on
earth are we going to put everything?’ I still haven’t answered my own question
as you can see from the clutter. We’re magpies, Andrew and I. That’s my
husband. Every year we decide we won’t buy any more books, but then one trip to
a second-hand book shop and we’re back where we started.”