Murder Goes Mumming (13 page)

“I shouldn’t be surprised if Cyril just won a few votes for the Quebec Libre faction,” Madoc murmured to Janet.

He and she had dropped to the rear of the procession and weren’t making more than the odd token effort to keep up with the hopping and skipping. Cyril stayed in the lead, cutting such outrageous capers that Rhys began to wonder if he was merely drunk or something more. Eventually the procession wound its way back to the Great Hall, where Ludovic was waiting to announce dinner. Roast suckling pig tonight, Squire had said. Rhys couldn’t say he was looking forward to it.

There was one big advantage in going to the table. Cyril seated with a full glass of wine in front of him was less obnoxious than Cyril in motion. He did clamor for Janet to sit beside him, but Rhys was having none of that.

“Janet has a previous engagement,” he said with a gentle but meaningful smile.

The Condryckes obliged him by the usual uproar of laughter, but Rhys could see wary looks exchanged, especially between May and Herbert. Cyril was making a real play for the lovely young stranger. He wasn’t going to get Janet, but his new-found opulence might lead him to think of buying himself a bride, and brides were apt to have babies.

Franny or Winny, whichever was the elder, must be in line to inherit Graylings some day. Donald would get it first, of course, assuming he outlived Cyril, but Donald had only a daughter. Maybe that was why he and Babs were countenancing Val’s romance with big, blond Roy who looked as if he could beget big, blond sons in the true Condrycke tradition.

Clara’s nonpresent son must be older than May’s boys but even he, being far away and not interested enough to come home for the holidays, would be a far better bet as heir than a woman who’d want to move in and take over Graylings without regard for the family. And Donald would surely be an obliging heir apparent.

Rhys thought he had Donald tabbed by now. He was indeed the sort who’d smile at the kid who ran the elevator. He’d be pleasant to everybody, because being pleasant was probably what Donald was best at. No doubt he held his position on the company board because the Condryckes were major stockholders and Donald was not a man to ask awkward questions or cast a dissenting vote at the wrong time.

Janet said she hadn’t seen him around the office much, probably because he was seldom there. He must serve on other boards where a distinguished name and an agreeable manner would be welcomed and his own company’s prestige thereby enhanced. He’d appear in the right places, make the witty little speeches bright young men like Roy wrote for him, and do a pretty good public relations job, all in all.

If Babs enjoyed the social whirl, as she gave every appearance of doing, she and Donald must lead an agreeable life together. They must value Graylings as a place to invite important people who’d like a weekend of hunting or fishing or boating or sitting at the bridge table with Ludovic bringing them drinks and Squire being gallant. Inviting amusing people like younger sons of famous conductors would add to the Graylings charisma. Rhys wondered at how many house parties his and Jenny’s names would get dropped during the next six months.

May and Clara, as well as Squire who clearly loved to shine, must depend on Donald and Babs to supply them with diverting company. There appeared to be so much warmth among the Condryckes and their spouses that guests would be charmed, as a rule. Last night, one would have thought Cyril was as well disposed as the rest of them; but that couldn’t be so or the man wouldn’t be doing all this spiteful crowing now regardless of what he’d got inside him.

Perhaps if one probed deeper, the other relationships weren’t any too harmonious, either. Those practical jokes they were so fond of springing on each other didn’t arise from the same kind of mutual respect and affection that existed at the Wadmans’. He couldn’t see Bert dropping a plastic lizard down Janet’s or Annabelle’s back, though he could easily see Bert getting crowned with a frying pan if he tried. Yet either of them would give Bert her last pint of blood if he really needed it.

Aunt Addie must have decided Rosa could spare her. She’d stayed on to dinner and didn’t seem to be suffering any lack of appetite. It was hard to believe a woman who could eat that much roast pork at night was in immediate danger of shuffling off her mortal coil, unless perhaps from acute indigestion. Rhys made a mental note never to have roast suckling pig served at his own festive board.

His Jenny was of the same mind. Having grown up on a farm, she knew animals were raised to be eaten and she wasn’t squeamish as a rule, but she did murmur to Madoc, “I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor little thing,” and left most of her helping for Ludovic to take away.

May noticed. “Don’t you like it, Janet?” she bellowed in a hurt tone.

“It’s just that I made such a pig of myself at tea I feel guilty eating one of my own kind,” she replied.

That got a great laugh. The Condryckes were really straining for mirth tonight. Squire was less chatty than usual, no doubt because Cyril was picking up everything he said and either contradicting or mocking him in a way that penetrated even the scarlet carapaces of May and Herbert. He was eating next to nothing but drinking everything within his reach; even water, although that was most likely by accident.

As on the previous evening, there was too much food and the meal lasted far too long. Dessert was mince pie, which both Madoc and Janet liked but could by then have done without. After that came a complicated savory made with little grilled fishes out of the bay. Fifine caught them in summertime on her hours off and salted them down in crocks for the winter, according to Clara. Janet, used to finishing her meal with the sweet and another cup of tea in the comfortable farm fashion, thought it sounded like a lot of bother for little result. She hoped Madoc wouldn’t expect his wife to fuss with this kind of culinary frippery.

May suggested coffee in the library again, but Cyril turned cantankerous. He was really drunk by now, but unfortunately not quite drunk enough. That nap after lunch and the wild careering through the house must have perked him up. He wanted coffee in the Great Hall with the Yule log blazing and everybody singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in the jolly old Merrie English tradition.

This was another poke at Squire, but everyone pretended to think he was being funny. Val, who’d decided which side her bread was buttered on, loudly seconded darling Unkie and the motion was carried.

“L
INE UP, EVERYBODY. NOW,
ah-one, ah-two …”

Cyril was braying like, as Bert Wadman would say, a jackass, conducting his none too willing chorus with a baton that would have been more suited to a pipe band. The stick was at least three feet long and had a heavy, ornate silver knob at one end and a silver ferrule at the other.

Janet, who’d maneuvered herself next to Miss Adelaide, heard the old woman catch her breath as the silver knob caught a glint from the battery lantern behind the Christmas tree.

“That’s Rosa’s cane he’s got. He must have gone into her room and taken it. I left it right beside her bed where she always kept it. Cyril, you mustn’t do that! It’s mocking the dead.”

“And what’s the dead going to do about it?” he mocked back. “You’d better be damned careful with that tongue of yours from here on in, Auntie dear. It’s my charity you’ve been living on all these years while Squire’s been playing Lord of the Manor, dealing out the dollars as if they belonged to him instead of me. No wonder he could afford to be so cursed generous. You and your Goddamned Christmas spirit!”

Cyril turned on his father, brandishing the cane as though to strike him down. Squire didn’t flinch.

“Cyril, as we’ve been trying to tell you all day, you do not understand the situation. You are in fact the titular owner of Graylings, but as long as I am alive and capable, I hold full administrative …”

“Hark!”

If Aunt Addie was doing it for effect, she couldn’t have chosen a more dramatic moment. Even Cyril froze with the cane in midair.

“It’s coming again. I can hear it.”

With one accord they broke formation and raced for the windows. Sure enough, there was the eerie glow, the blazing spires flickering against the uncertain background of the falling snow, so close tonight that it seemed they could almost reach out and touch the Phantom Ship of Bay Chaleur.

Val screamed. So did Clara. Aunt Addie, predictably, fainted. Madoc Rhys took one startled glance, then whispered to Janet, “Stay here with the others,” and melted backward out of the room.

Nobody but herself saw him go. They were all watching the ship as though they’d never seen it before.

“It’s never been twice in a row like this,” Squire muttered. “Never in all the years I’ve lived here.”

“It’s coming for you, Squire!” Cyril was hilarious. Surely it couldn’t have been only the liquor that was making him act so wild. “Go on out. I’ll open the door.”

“Cyril, don’t!”

Aunt Addie had revived, more quickly than the last time. “Don’t make a mockery. You’re tempting fate.”

Donald helped the old woman to her feet. She smoothed down her bunchy black velvet skirt and straightened her lace. “I’m going up to Rosa. You’d better let me take that cane, or she may come looking for it herself.”

Now what to do? Janet stood hesitating. Madoc had said they’d better look after Aunt Addie, but he’d also told her to stay here with the rest of the Condryckes. Which should she do? She took a tentative step toward the doorway, Cyril noticed and sprang to plant himself under the kissing ball, waving Granny’s silver-mounted cane like a great, beckoning finger.

“Right this way, Janet. I’m puckered and waiting.”

That settled it. She couldn’t leave the room without passing under the mistletoe, and not for anything in this world would she let herself be pawed by that leering, mouthing, flailing creature. Janet pretended she hadn’t heard and moved closer to the fire as if to warm away the chill the ship had brought to Graylings. Old Adelaide, though, walked right up and shook her head at her great-nephew.

“Cyril, you’ve got to stop this or something dreadful’s going to happen. Janet’s not for you. I told you that before. You’ve had your fair share and you’re not getting any more. Now come along to bed like a good boy or you’ll wake up to an empty Christmas stocking.”

Incredibly, Cyril turned to follow her. Squire looked at May.

“Don’t look at me,” she told him. “He’s your son. Sorry, Squire, but I’ve had all I can take of Cyril for one day. Come on, everybody, pull up your chairs to the fire and let’s get thawed out. Clara, Lawrence. Boys, do something about a chair for your poor old Mum. Come on back here, Babs. Aunt Addie can take care of herself.”

“I’m not going after her. I need to powder my nose, as we used to say before it was considered acceptable to mention bathrooms in society. Pour me a brandy and save me a place.”

There was a good deal of milling around for a while. Janet tried to keep track of who was where, but with the flickering firelight, the dim oil lamps with their chimneys sooted up from the drafts caused when the window curtains were drawn on account of the Phantom Ship’s second appearance, and the fact that the batteries in the lantern that had been illuminating the Christmas tree chose this inopportune time to run down, she had to give it up as a bad job. All she could do was find herself a place near the fire, make sure there was room beside her for Madoc, and wish to goodness he’d come back. She let Ludovic talk her into a tiny glass of Cointreau and was sipping at it when she heard Babs screaming from the hallway.

“Cyril, no! Have you lost your mind completely? She’ll freeze to death out there. Get away from that door! Oh, God, help! Quick, somebody, help me!”

“Good God!”

Donald was on his feet, running. Herbert, Lawrence, the whole flock of them charged after him. Janet got caught up in their midst, wedged in between Val who kept tripping over her long skirts and Squire, whose age and girth didn’t make for speed. She could hear Babs still screaming, pleading, struggling. Cyril was making noises like an animal. He must have gone totally berserk.

“She’s out there,” Babs panted when they got to her. “I can’t make him open the door.”

Cyril had his back to the thick oaken planks, still flailing away with Granny’s cane. Babs had a welt on her cheek. The elegant gown was half off her shoulders, her wig on the floor, her hair a mess. Donald and the other men waded in regardless of the heavy stick, wrestled it away from Cyril, hurled him away from the door, and wrenched it open.

“My God! You can’t see your hand in front of you,” gasped Lawrence.

“Get some lamps,” ordered Squire, back in charge now. “Hold my hand, Herbert. David, Lawrence, make a human chain. For God’s sake don’t let go. She must be right here somewhere. Val, open the curtains. Give us any light there is.”

There was something majestic in the old man as he wrapped the rabbit-trimmed velvet mantle around him and stepped forward into the slashing whiteness. The blast that came through the open door was straight from the North Pole, but nobody seemed to feel it. Clara and May were tending to Babs, who was in hysterics by now. Janet stood there holding a lamp, praying it wouldn’t blow out. They were all screaming, “Aunt Addie! Aunt Addie!”

Madoc rushed in from wherever he’d been, snatched the lamp, and thrust Janet out of the worst of the draft. It was probably not more than a minute but it seemed like eternity before the light picked up a black lump in the snow and Squire bent to scoop up the old woman.

“Change hands with me, Squire. You can’t carry her. For God’s sake hang on to me, Herb,” shouted Donald.

He picked up the old woman, her arms hanging stiff and her head lolling down, and the human chain dragged them inside the house.

“Get her to the fire, quick! Val, run up and fetch some blankets. Clara, bring some hot towels, hot-water bottles, any damned hot thing you can lay your hands on. Hurry.”

May was in charge now, hustling them back into the Great Hall, shoving a chesterfield so close to the fireplace it seemed the upholstery must go up in flames, laying Aunt Addie down on it, chafing her hands, ordering somebody to pull off her snow-filled shoes, her frozen skirt; screaming at Donald to put his coat around Babs and give her some brandy before she caught her death.