Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) (43 page)

Tom lowered the map and looked towards Ellen, who had returned from the Gatehouse kitchen, mobile in hand. They had hurried from the dower house moments before, deflecting curiosity and concern, and now he was regretting letting himself to
be drawn into such a charged matter.
You must go to the police with this
—it had been on his lips in the dower house conservatory, but Ellen sussed his reluctance and repelled it. She had sought him out because he was a priest, a counsellor, an intercessor, because the authority of his office would lead her husband down the path of righteousness, to make his confession to the police. Tom understood her suffering. She did not want to be a wife who betrayed her husband, no matter what his crime.

“You must come with me and talk to him.” She had leaned towards him, her eyes beseeching. “You must. I can’t … I can’t bear to have my husband snatched away from me in front of His Lordship and pushed into a car.”

And now they were in the Gatehouse and there was no Gaunt to be had. Ellen stared at him numbly from across the room; he found himself once again prepared to summon the authorities. The phone in Ellen’s hand rang, piercing the tense atmosphere. “His Lordship!” She released a cry of dismay glancing at the screen. She let the instrument exhaust itself, then pressed fluttering fingers along the keys.

“He’s called several times in the last hour.” Surprise contended with concern on her plump features.

“Is Lord Fairhaven normally so … insistent?”

She gave him a sharp glance. “My husband is practised in anticipating every need.”

“Surely Lord Fairhaven has your phone number, too?”

“He does.” She reached into the pocket of her dark skirt. “But he hasn’t called me.” She looked from her mobile to Tom. “What can be so urgent?”

They were again jolted by Gaunt’s phone ringing.

“Give it to me.” Tom reached for the phone, his mind
struggling with a new and frightening possibility. “Hector,” he said without preliminaries, steadying his voice for the falsehood to come. “This is Tom Christmas. I’m sorry to say that Gaunt has taken ill quite suddenly. I’m with Mrs. Gaunt at the moment. How may we—”

Hector, whose surprise at Tom’s answering seemed to seep through the ether for a few seconds, cut him off with a fit of pique. Where was Gaunt? He was expecting him shortly to prepare preprandial drinks. And did Gaunt have the key to the wine cellar? Or Mrs. Gaunt? He had been looking for his copy of it earlier, intending to distract Dominic with a tour of his grandfather’s collection of vintage claret. Most vexing. As Ellen nodded agreement, Tom told him that Mrs. Gaunt would ascertain the location of the wine-cellar key, substitute for Gaunt with the drinks trolley, and follow, in due course, with the serving of supper. Hector rang off abruptly. Tom stared at the mobile. He ought to feel aghast. He would say Lord Fairhaven was pigheaded, if he were pressed on the subject, but this fulmination over domestic minutiae seemed outlandish, a contrivance, almost a ploy.

“Not a single word about Roberto,” he murmured as he handed the phone back to Ellen. “Hector must have been told by now.”

“I directed the police myself to His Lordship in the estate office.”

“Which is how you learned of Mr. Sica’s death.”

Ellen nodded. “But not of the manner.”

It crossed Tom’s mind: Was Gaunt protecting Hector? He tilted the map towards Ellen. “Is it possible your husband might go up onto the moor?”

She glanced at the map with mute incomprehension.

“Does he have walking shoes? Or a waterproof?” he added, conscious of the lowering sky in the window behind him.

“Mr. Christmas.” Ellen found her voice. “This isn’t a holiday for us. We have only our work dress. And …”

“And?”

“We’ve never taken a holiday in … wild places. Mick doesn’t care for them.”

Tom thought he knew why: Dartmoor, Exmoor, Bodmin Moor, Dark Peak—any might remind Mick of The Wrekin and the horror he witnessed that day. But he could see no such realisation dawn in Ellen’s eyes. She bent to sweep the cup into its saucer and the tray into her hand, for all this a creature of habit. Running his fingers along the edge of the map, he pondered his next question:

“Mrs. Gaunt, what would you say was the state of your husband’s mind when you left him here an hour ago? There had been … raised voices …?”

“We didn’t often row, Mr. Christmas.” Ellen’s face looked pinched. “He had put the kettle on for tea, but the water hadn’t boiled before I could bear it no more and left for the dower house with Madrun.”

Tom wasn’t sure this answered his question. “Your husband has certainly seemed the consummate professional, at least to me this weekend—”

“He’s never before been derelict in his duties.” Ellen moved to a side table to collect another teacup.

“—but these terrible events must be taking a toll, whatever blame might be attached to him. He’s told you the darkest secrets of his soul, Mrs. Gaunt. You’re ready to believe he
killed Lord Morborne. Roberto, too? What is the
it
you could not bear?”

“The weeping, the begging forgiveness, the whole horrid unimaginable story about poor, poor Kim! Everything.” She stared at him. The cups rattled on the tray. “I can’t
bear
what he’s done. I can’t bear what he
didn’t
do.”

“Fail to report—”

“Kim can’t be brought back, but her killer could have got what he deserved! Rot in gaol for years and years. All that time living not knowing who had done this terrible thing to my sister and married to a man who did.”

We have offended against Thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done
. The words of the Morning Prayer flooded his mind.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Gaunt, he can bear it no more himself. What he ought to have done. And what he has done.”

Tom turned again to the map. He imagined the man in his black jacket, striped grey trousers, and polished dress shoes trailing through the bracken and gorse, a peculiar figure next to hikers in their khakis and day-trippers in their short trousers. All that would be needed to complete the absurdity, he thought, noting a low, distant rumble of thunder, would be an unfurled umbrella. Glancing towards a half-stuffed umbrella stand in the hall, he gave a thought to a parishioner he had had in Bristol, a woman who under the duress of losing a young child to cancer went missing for several days until she was found by police wandering the Wednesday market at Wells emptied of any memory of how she had pitched up there.

And yet Gaunt had had the presence of mind to consult a map.

Had he bolted instead? But why not take a vehicle? The Gaunts, he knew, drove down to Eggescombe from London in a separate van, laden with provisions and goods for the family’s fortnight in the country. The very van was parked in the stable block forecourt. But of course the police and SOCOs had been everywhere at the stables. The Gatehouse gates themselves were closed against traffic. Gaunt was on foot, somewhere. The moor—he glanced again at the OS map—a good bet. With reluctance, he said, “I wonder—again—if we shouldn’t alert the police.”

“Please, no.”

“But Mrs. Gaunt, it was your intent in coming to me that we together should persuade your husband to go to the police, but as he seems to have vanished—”

“Please. Not the police, not yet. I can’t bear it.”

Tom bit his lip in indecision, looking at the pain in her eyes. Common sense decreed leaving this to the proper authorities, but his heart understood her mortification. How far could Gaunt have possibly got on foot? In under an hour? The only formally dressed man on the moor, he should be quite identifiable and easy to find. His eyes fell to the tray gripped in Ellen’s hands, drawn by a glint along its silver surface. He felt a jolt of surprise.

“Why—?” He stopped himself.

“Mr. Christmas?”

“Oh … it’s nothing.” He forced his eyes from the tray.
Why were there
two
cups of tea? Hadn’t Mrs. Gaunt fled the Gatehouse
before
the kettle had boiled?
Troubled by the implication that someone had joined Gaunt at the Gatehouse after Ellen and Madrun had left, he struggled to paste a reassuring smile on
his face. Suddenly, finding Gaunt—discreetly, alerting no one—took on a new urgency.

“I have a suggestion, Mrs. Gaunt. You go to the Hall and carry on as you would—or as best you can. I’ll find your husband and sort this out.”

But how?
He refrained from glancing down at his cast boot, his Welly manqué encumbering his right foot, lest he plant a seed of doubt in Ellen’s mind over his ability to carry out this task. Instead, he increased the wattage of his smile, which she returned with a tremulous one. After giving him her mobile number, Ellen gathered up her bag and together they exited the Gatehouse. In the gates’ shadow Tom watched her move down the road to the Hall; he pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on. No road crossed the moor at this deep south end; only bridleways and footpaths took people through the stark and melancholy landscape.

He had an idea.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Lucinda pushed her sunglasses to her brow.

“I might say the same.”

Lucinda peered at him, her eyes adjusting to the shadows under the arch of the Gatehouse entrance. She smiled coolly. Tom had watched her approach, some little urgency in her loping walk, aware that she did not see him. She was wearing a simple summer frock of creamy linen, the gathered waist of which emphasised her curves. It seemed an age ago he had
gazed at her with longing, had found her conversation amusing and attractive. He felt now detached from this creature who had stirred strong feelings, but not—he had to admit—from the feelings themselves.

“Hector asked if I might fetch Gaunt.” Her words echoed against the brick wall. “Trouble rousing him by phone apparently.”

“An unnecessary trip, I’m afraid. I spoke with Hector a few moments ago. Gaunt’s taken ill.” It seemed not such an untruth now. “Did you not pass Mrs. Gaunt on your way?”

“No, I … I took a shortcut.” She glanced towards the door to the Gatehouse apartments. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Gaunt? A touch of something—summer flu perhaps.”

“How very odd. He seemed well enough when he served us by the pool earlier.”

“I expect he thinks it’s his duty to carry on regardless. He seems to me rather the compleat servant.”

“We call them ‘staff’ now.”

“We?”

“Dominic and me. We spent the afternoon by the pool. Didn’t we say so at lunch? Well”—she gestured to the dull sky outside the curve of the arch—“we were by the pool until the clouds gathered, English weather being ever fickle.” Her eyes went again to the door. “Is there anything I can do, do you think?”

“For Gaunt?” Tom thought the offer faintly farcical. He doubted she ever betrayed much interest before in the well-being of “staff.” “Rest is all he needs,” he replied, wearying of this small talk. “You must know about Roberto.”

“Of course. Awful, isn’t it.”

“How did you learn?”

“That he had … died? Oh? One of the police detectives—the one with the skin problem …”

“Blessing.”

“—came and told us. When we were about to leave the pool.”

“An interview?”

“Well, not awfully official, I don’t think. The other one …”

“Bliss.”

“—wasn’t with him. I expect they’ll be wanting another of those sort of gang interviews later.” She grimaced. “I suppose Roberto’s dying has rather taken the wind out of their investigative sails. What a terrible coincidence.”

“Are you suggesting Roberto’s death was accidental?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I doubt it very much.”

“Oh … I see.” Lucinda pushed at her sunglasses, which were slipping down her brow. “Then who do you think killed him?”

“The same person who killed Oliver, I should imagine.”

“Oh, surely not. Such different … methods—if that’s the word. Means? Roberto was electrocuted, I gather. ‘Countess’s Toyboy Death Shock.’ ”

Tom ignored the quip. “Did the DS tell you he had died that way?”

“Of course. Who else?”

Tom looked past the arch to the road with impatience.
Where are Jane and Jamie?
He strained to hear their approach. “Hector is aware of Roberto’s death, yes?”

“I assume so.”

“But you just came from him.”

“Hector’s in one of his moods. The atmosphere is a bit strained. I was happy to get away.” She canted her head. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought he might come to the dower house to offer some sympathy to his mother.”

“Is that where you’ve been hiding all afternoon? Not from me, I hope.”

“Marguerite invited my daughter and me to tea.”

“I see.” Her mouth formed a moue. “I’ve told you why I’m here. You didn’t say why you were here, at the Gatehouse. Are you a doctor as well as a priest?”

“Mrs. Gaunt asked me to see her husband.”

“As bad as that?” She laughed. “Were you giving last rites?”

“Priests do perform other services.” He immediately regretted his words, for Lucinda’s laughter died suddenly. She looked at him sharply and asked: