Frozen in Crime

by Cecilia Peartree

  Chapter 10 Frozen in time

  It was as if the house was frozen in time, Christopher thought as they went through the green baize door to the kitchen and, presumably, the servants’ quarters. A cold, musty air about the interior and scary-looking family portraits lining the corridor contributed to this impression.

  He still wasn’t sure how pleased Amaryllis’s friend Mal had been to see them. His eyes had flickered over them in a resigned sort of way, and he had been slow to offer hospitality. Of course, he had probably been in the middle of planning some exotic quest when they arrived, and he wouldn’t be pleased to have this process interrupted by people on such a prosaic errand.

  Christopher wondered uneasily if they should have called Jemima to tell her where they were before going inside. Or even contacted the police to confess they had cut their way through the fence? But he wasn’t even sure why he felt vaguely suspicious. Except that Mal’s presence here was incongruous, to say the least. Was he an old family retainer? Was his father a family retainer? Did he know the owner from the army or some local organisation? Was he a burglar who had broken in while the family were away for Christmas?

  Amaryllis was chatting away to Mal, not apparently sharing any of Christopher’s qualms.

  ‘So I don’t suppose you’ve got another orphan of the storm here?’ she was saying. ‘Only his wife’s getting quite anxious about him, and we should let her know if -’

  ‘There’s nobody here except me - and now you,’ said Mal, cutting her off in mid-sentence. He sounded brusquer and more bad-tempered than he had been back at the Queen of Scots. But Amaryllis persisted.

  ‘We wondered about searching the grounds for Dave as well, in case he’s lying somewhere unable to get up. But of course, that was when we thought there might be a whole party of people here to help. I suppose we’ll have to leave it to the police and hope they come along soon.’

  ‘The police know you’re here?’ said Mal.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Amaryllis. ‘But they know we’re out looking for Dave.’

  Christopher wondered if there was some reason why Mal didn’t want the police up here. He had got out of the Queen of Scots quite quickly that afternoon too, when Mr Smith had come in with the constable. He began to try and picture Mal with a balaclava over his head. Would his eyes look bigger and darker in those circumstances? He had noticed Mal had a limp too. Some heroic war injury, Christopher caught himself thinking with a trace of disdain which embarrassed him even although he knew the others couldn’t read his thoughts. Well, Mal couldn’t anyway. He had always been unsure about whether Amaryllis could.

  They went through another door and arrived in a massive kitchen with a small range-type cooker at one end, and lots of old pots and pans hanging from the ceiling and from hooks. Apart from the cooker, which was an Aga or Rayburn or some other trendy brand, the whole place seemed to have been left as it was since Victorian times. A massive old kitchen table was almost completely covered with scruffy-looking maps or plans.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mal, sounding a bit more hospitable. ‘You must be frozen solid. At least you can get warmed up before you go out in the cold again.’

  So he was planning to get rid of them as soon as he reasonably could? Christopher’s unease increased. It seemed as if the man must have something to hide: most likely the fact that he had no right to be here. Of course, neither did the two of them, but they did have an innocent explanation, even if they had cut a hole in the fence which definitely counted as trespass or criminal damage or something.

  ‘Nice neat hole in the fence, by the way,’ said Mal as he crossed to the sink to fill the kettle. ‘I always admire people who damage things neatly.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ said Christopher, staring at him.

  He laughed. ‘Ask your friend here.’

  Amaryllis frowned. ‘Alarms? Cameras? Both?’

  ‘I happened to be watching the screens as you came along. I was curious to see what you’d do… I’d have done the same. Biscuit?’

  He had reached into a cupboard and brought out an ancient-looking tin decorated with some sort of royal wedding picture. Did the fact that he could go straight to the biscuit tin mean he was less likely to be a burglar? Christopher wasn’t sure. Mal could have checked out the cupboards before they arrived. In the intervals between watching the security screens and doing whatever else he was doing.

  There were ordinary-looking mugs with stripes, and a non-matching plate for the biscuits. The coffee was instant. Unless this really was the servants’ quarters, the owner of this big house didn’t live in the lap of luxury. But then, just keeping up this kind of place must take a lot of resources. There probably wasn’t any money left over for interior design, coffee machines or fine china.

  As Mal measured out the coffee, poured on the hot water and got milk out of the fridge, Christopher noticed Amaryllis studying the maps on the table. Apparently absent-mindedly, she got out her phone and took some pictures of them before Mal turned round again. Smartphones must be a godsend to spies, Christopher mused. They didn’t even make much of a sound when they took photographs.

  ‘I’ll get these out of the way,’ said Mal a moment later, folding them together quickly and moving them to one end of the table to make room for the mugs and the biscuit tin.

  Christopher sipped at his coffee, although it was too hot to drink. He had an almost irresistible urge to jump up and get out of the place as soon as he could, but without arousing suspicion on Mal’s part, of course. Amaryllis, on the other hand, seemed completely relaxed. She made idle conversation about the house.

  ‘So, are all the rooms habitable?’

  ‘What do you think? It isn’t a ruin. People have fought very hard over the centuries to keep it standing.’

  ‘How many rooms altogether?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lost count. There are fifteen bedrooms, for a start. Then there are reception rooms downstairs - some of them are parlours, some are small sitting-rooms. A dining-room big enough to hold a banquet, of course. A small ball-room…’

  ‘Is it open to the public at all?’ said Amaryllis casually.

  Christopher decided her questions weren’t idle at all, but were definitely leading somewhere. Was she trying to establish whether Mal belonged here or not? He certainly seemed to know his way around, unless he was making up all his answers, which was always a possibility.

  ‘Not really,’ said Mal. ‘The owner likes his privacy. But the gardens are famous for their snowdrops, so they open a few times in early spring. Mid-January, February, that kind of time.’

  Christopher desperately wanted to ask Mal what he was doing in the house, but he was slightly wary of this former soldier with his grand plans and his inspiring past. He could probably kill with one blow, and there was no telling which side Amaryllis might be on in a fight. Well, he hoped she would rally round to protect him, of course, but he was conscious of a lingering doubt about that in some remote corner of his mind.

  ‘Another biscuit?’ said Mal, waving the tin in front of Christopher with a smile that was either warm and friendly or devious and sinister, depending on how you looked at it.

  ‘And what about the rest of the grounds?’ Amaryllis enquired. ‘Is there a swimming-pool? Or a croquet lawn? A deer park?’

  Mal laughed and held up his hand to stop her. ‘Enough! Yes, there’s a small deer park. Stables, round the back. No swimming-pool - did you seriously expect one in this climate?’

  There was a pause in which Christopher drank the rest of his coffee very quickly, and hoped Amaryllis would do the same so that they could leave.

  ‘Any more questions?’ said Mal. ‘More coffee? Or do you want to get on your way?’

  ‘Is there a reasonable mobile signal up here?’ said Amaryllis. ‘We’ll need to phone someone for help with the car.’

  ‘It should be ok,’ said Mal.

  He showed no sign of wanting to keep them there, and he seem
ed to be trying not to give the impression of hustling them out the door, but Christopher sensed that he did want rid of them. Of course, if he was a burglar - and that was still possible if he had hurriedly memorized the number of bedrooms and the list of outdoor amenities - he must be waiting to leave too, with his swag. There should be some way of challenging him about that without either committing a major social faux pas or running into danger, but Christopher couldn’t immediately think of it.

  ‘We’d better get on, then,’ said Amaryllis. ‘If you do see Dave anywhere about - he’s big and elderly, but don’t tell him I said that - please could you let the police know? In Pitkirtly?’

  ‘I certainly could,’ said Mal. ‘But I doubt if he’d be able to get on to the estate. Not without wire cutters.’

  He smiled as if to indicate that there were no hard feelings, and showed them out.

  After they had gone down the front steps, taking their time because there was a layer of ice everywhere, Christopher breathed out at last.

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘He seemed very much at home,’ said Amaryllis in a neutral tone.

  ‘You don’t sound too sure of that.’

  ‘I’m reserving judgement,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want to break in round at the back? See if you can find out any more?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He isn’t up to anything. If we’d asked, we would probably have found he’s the gamekeeper’s son and he’s house-sitting for the laird or something. What else could it be, with his history?’

  ‘What, his history of swanning around Afghanistan with a rifle, you mean?’ said Christopher.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you know - maybe he needs the excitement. Maybe he misses the adrenalin rush of being in danger. He could easily have broken into the house - for kicks or because he needed the money.’

  ‘Look! - there’s a deer!’ said Amaryllis, ignoring him and pointing over to the left. He peered into the night. A shadow moved in the distance. It could have been a deer, a fox, a rabbit, a tiger, anything.

  ‘Why did you photograph the maps?’ asked Christopher.

  She shrugged. ‘Because they were there.’

  It wasn’t much of an answer; there must be more to it than that. He resolved to follow it up later – if he remembered, what with Christmas and the weather and everything.

  They plodded back towards the gates. There were two men just outside, standing patiently at the far side as if they were waiting for a bus.

  ‘Oh, great, that’s all we need,’ said Amaryllis crossly.

  As they got closer, Christopher saw that the men were Charlie Smith and the young constable he had had with him at the Queen of Scots. They were swathed in layers of police clothing and looked about twice the size they had done earlier.

  ‘Have you found Dave yet?’ he asked hopefully.

  They shook their heads in unison, the snow on their hats causing a minor blizzard.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Amaryllis.

  ‘Oh, we wanted to see Lord Murray. But he isn’t answering his phone,’ said Chief Inspector Smith.

  ‘He isn’t there,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s just one of the gamekeeper’s sons. House-sitting.’