Murder Goes Mumming

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “I only tell what I see,” said the old woman. “I never know what’s coming and sometimes I don’t see things you’d think I ought to. Like poor Rosa, for instance. I could have sworn she was meant to outlive me. Well, the ship will be coming for me next, I shouldn’t wonder. You young things have your fun while you can. I think I’ll go back to Rosa for a while.”

  Chapter 9

  BABS AND CLARA EXCHANGED looks. “Oh, dear,” Clara sighed. “I only hope she doesn’t go spreading doom and gloom in front of Squire.”

  “She’ll probably stay upstairs a good bit today,” Babs consoled her sister-in-law. “I suppose Aunt Addie is taking Granny’s death harder than the rest of us. At her age, one would tend to get that ‘me next’ feeling.”

  Donald made an odd little noise. “You know, I’d quite forgotten Granny’s name was Rosa. Clara, do you remember the time Cyril said, ‘Every Rosa has its thorns,’ and she hit him with her cane?”

  “Must have been over the head,” said May, who’d come in just in time to hear her brother’s boyhood reminiscence. “Where was I, I wonder?”

  “At school, most likely. That wasn’t too long after Mother died, when Clara and I still had the governess, I forget which one. We did go through them rather fast. Either they couldn’t stand Graylings or we couldn’t stand them.”

  “And Cyril had been sent home again, I suppose, because his headmaster couldn’t stand him,” Clara added rather nastily. “What’s this costume you’re cooking up, Janet?”

  “Nothing much, really. It’s just a silly idea I had.”

  “The sillier the better,” May assured her. “Wait till you see Herbert and the boys and me! Speaking of the menfolks, how long do you suppose they’re going to keep nattering in there? Fifine’s coming to a slow boil about lunch and my tongue’s hanging out for a drink.”

  “So is Cyril’s, I’m sure.” Clara really was in a mood today. “But you know what Lawrence is like once he gets started on the party of the first part and the party of the second part. Squire must be in a proper swivet by now.”

  “Drag him under the mistletoe and we’ll elect Janet to kiss him out of it,” May advised.

  “Oh, my God,” cried Babs. “We’ve forgotten to hang up the kissing ball. Where is it, quick?”

  A frantic scurrying ensued. At last May unearthed a handsome ball of boxwood and mistletoe tied with red velvet ribbons that Clara took well-deserved credit for having arranged. Roy was sent back to get the ladder he’d just taken away and a hot dispute over where to hang the ball this year was in progress when the meeting at last broke up.

  If Squire was in a swivet, he didn’t show it. He looked the embodiment of Christmas Present as he stood with a glass of Rainwater Madeira in his hand directing the placement of the kissing ball. When it was hung to his satisfaction, everybody cheered and drank one of the toasts the Condryckes were so addicted to. Roy had got the ladder nicely folded and was about to take it to the woodshed once more when Cyril stopped him.

  “Wait a minute. I think the ball would look better in the doorway.”

  “You know what happened the last time we did that,” May objected. “Somebody was always reaching up with the poker or something and batting it off the hook.”

  “Yes, Granny kept hitting it with her cane. I think we should hang the mistletoe there in memory of Granny.”

  Cyril’s eyes were glittering. He appeared to be oddly strung up. Rhys wondered if something had happened at that meeting or whether Cyril was already one over the eight.

  Squire didn’t like this. For a moment it looked as if Cyril was about to get a blasting. Then the father got his benignity back.

  “Of course, Cyril, if it’s important to you. Roy, would you mind?”

  Roy was clearly beginning to mind, but there wasn’t much he could do except pretend he didn’t. He climbed back up and retrieved the ball he’d spent so much time getting arranged to everybody’s satisfaction. Cyril then fussed around for quite a while deciding precisely where in the doorway Roy should hang the ball. As soon as it was placed and the ladder taken away, he jumped up, took a mighty swipe, and sent the kissing ball hurtling across the room almost into the Christmas tree.

  “Ha! Score one for my side. Stick it back up there, Roy. How about a drink, Herb?”

  “How about lunch?” May got her brother in a neat armlock. “Everything’s on the table and you two will be under it if you don’t quit swilling and get something into your stomachs. Leave the ladder, Roy, in case Cyril changes his mind again. Val, run up and tell Aunt Addie we’re sitting down now, will you? Ask her if she’s coming or if she’d rather have something on a tray.”

  “Dangerous things, trays,” said Cyril. He must surely be drunk. “Granny had one, and look what happened to her.”

  All the Condryckes began talking about other things and surging toward the dining room. Herbert put a toy lizard down Clara’s back. She screamed in a gratifying way, then managed to divert Cyril’s attention by putting the lizard in the drink he was still carrying.

  “Haven’t seen one of these in my glass for quite a while.”

  He swung the rubber toy around by its tail and spun it neatly into the midst of a handsome centerpiece of Christmas greens Babs had arranged for the table. “Down with the demon rum. Come on, Janet, sit by me and we’ll play kneesies.”

  “No you won’t.”

  Madoc grabbed his intended and placed her firmly between himself and Lawrence. “One false move and I’ll sue you for alienation of affections. Lawrence will handle the case, I’m sure. Anyway, Janet’s already received the gypsy’s warning about being lured away by richer and handsomer men. Your aunt says she’s stuck with me for keeps.”

  “Aunt Addie had better watch out or I’ll send the Phantom Ship after her. All right, Janet, you had your chance and you muffed it.”

  Cyril picked up his wine glass and waved it over his head. “Come, Ludo, fill the flowing bowl until it doth run over. For tonight we’ll merry, merry be, tomorrow we’ll be sober. You will, that is. I shan’t. Drink, drink, drink to the eyes are—whatever eyes are.”

  “Bloodshot, in your case,” said his sister. “Shut up and eat.”

  “What’s all this garbage about getting me to eat? Something up your sleeve, Maysie? A pinch of arsenic, for instance? I think I’m going to get myself a taster. How about it, Lawrence?”

  “Yeah, Uncle Lawrence would make a good taster.”

  That was Winny, and it was virtually the only remark Rhys had heard him utter so far. His brother poked him in the ribs and they got into a sit-down boxing match which their father ordered them to stop.

  “Let them alone,” said Squire indulgently. “Boys will be boys.”

  “These two won’t be for much longer unless they straighten up and fly right,” Cyril contradicted his father. “Do you two care to start acting like young gentlemen for a change, or would you rather start walking to Dalhousie?”

  “Who’s going to make us?” Franny demanded, ignoring his own father’s glare.

  “He who has been sucker enough to foot your bills up till about two seconds ago,” Cyril replied. “Shape up or ship out, lads. The gravy train is no longer running. Ludovic, my glass.”

  “Cyril, I don’t think you fully understood the ramifications of what we’ve been discussing,” Lawrence began. “In point of fact, you do not …”

  “In point of fact, I do, my dear brother-in-law. If you don’t agree, I’m sure I can find myself a lawyer who does.”

  “Herbert, where do we keep the Mickey Finns?” said May. “All right, Cyril, your nephews will now kiss the hem of your garment in abject apology. Or would you prefer to have them wait till they’ve finished eating, in case of gravy stains? Ludovic, for goodness’ sake keep ’em coming till he’s drunk himself either sociable or insensible, which in Cyril’s case would be synonymous. Right, you old soak?”

  She ruffled her brother’s hair affectionately and squawked her parrot at him. Cyril gav
e her a wobbly nod.

  “Good effort, May. I’ll unravel your name from the scarf I’m knitting.”

  “Thank you, brother dear. Anyone for ham? Better grab it quick before Uncle Cyril says you can’t have any more.”

  “Oh, Uncle Cyril wouldn’t begrudge little Vallie a weentsy slice.”

  His niece gave him a smile that would have been more effective if Uncle Cyril hadn’t had his eyes closed. He was undoubtedly at the passing-out stage by now. Everybody was eager to make it known they realized he was and that allowances must be made accordingly.

  “I’m afraid Cyril feels the loss of his grandmother terribly,” Babs murmured to Madoc, who happened to have her on the side where Janet wasn’t. “People do show odd reactions to stress sometimes, don’t they.”

  Rhys agreed that they did and expressed the opinion that Cyril would feel better after he’d had a little nap. In fact he thought Cyril was feeling pretty rosy already. It would be interesting to find out what had gone on behind that library door this morning. Thanks to Ludovic’s attack of confidentiality, he thought he could guess. Squire might have brought up his sons in the not unnatural misapprehension that their father was the actual as well as the acting head of Graylings. Perhaps Cyril had only this morning learned, as a result of whatever legal formalities Granny’s death had made necessary, that he himself was the true and lawful heir. Whether in fact he had the right to turn off his kith and kin at will was debatable, but considering that Cyril must be well over fifty years old and probably missing on a cylinder or two from chronic alcoholism, one could understand why he might now be feeling vindictive and inclined to throw his weight about.

  Janet touched Madoc’s arm. “Do you suppose we could borrow some snowshoes and get out for a little while?” she murmured. “It’s not snowing all that hard right now and I’d love a breath of fresh air.”

  “Good idea, love. So should I.”

  Under the circumstances, it might be tactful of them to make themselves scarce for a while. They could stay close to the house. Then there’d be no danger of losing themselves even if the snow did come on heavily all of a sudden. He passed on Janet’s request to Babs, who was all for it.

  “There are lots of skis and snowshoes in the woodshed. You just go down the long hall and through the door at the end. All the outbuildings are connected by covered sheds so they can be got at without going outdoors, winters being what they are up here. If you get cold, just come in any door you can find and walk through. There should be people around who could set you straight if you get lost in the barns, except that most of them can’t speak English, or won’t.”

  “That’s all right, Janet and I can make ourselves understood in French if we have to.”

  In fact Janet was almost as fluent as Madoc, thanks to Annabelle and her many relatives. Rhys quite liked his future sister-in-law and all the Duprees he’d met so far. It was a damned shame they hadn’t taken their chances on Marion Emery’s hospitality and gone to meet brother Pierre and his tribe instead of the Condryckes. He’d a far sight rather be sitting at the kitchen table with Bert right now having a modest tot of rum than drinking this excellent claret and wondering what new disaster was going to strike next.

  At any rate, now that Cyril was peacefully slumbering with his chin propped on May’s shoulder, Squire was back in charge and misrule happily restored. Herbert was showing Val how to make castanets out of two spoons. Roy was laughing a good deal at her efforts so that everybody could see what nice, white teeth he had. Clara was telling a screamingly funny story about some local club she belonged to. At least there was a good deal of screaming, so it must be funny.

  Clara had a malicious sense of humor for one who dressed in such demurely subdued taste. Rhys could picture her at the club meeting, perhaps wearing the same brown and beige ensemble she had on now, smiling politely and sipping her tea while she stored up her fellow members’ little follies for her family’s amusement.

  She and Lawrence lived in one of the neighboring towns, it appeared, but spent most of their weekends at Graylings now that their own young had flown the nest. There was a married daughter down in the States, and a son making his fortune in the oil fields out around Banff. Neither of them could get home for the holidays, for reasons their parents managed to extract a fair amount of humor out of.

  Clara must have started a good deal earlier than her sister to raise her family. She was evidently Squire’s baby, and May next oldest to Cyril. The mother having died young, May had stepped into a quasi-maternal role, as witness her present solicitude for the plastered Cyril. He didn’t know how lucky he was. A sister like Gwen would have left him to drown in the gravy after the way he’d been acting before he committed the final breach of passing out at the luncheon table.

  May had no doubt been gently discouraged by Squire from setting out to seek her fortune. He couldn’t have remarried himself so long as Granny was alive without jeopardizing his position at Graylings, and that boundless energy of his daughter’s must come in handy around a place this size. May did appear to be a competent housekeeper and a bit of a diplomat in spite of her clothes and her voice. That hoydenish manner might well be an outlet for frustration, or else a valiant though nerve-wracking way of fighting back at the cold and the solitude. There were many kinds of courage, and human personalities could be a very mixed bag.

  Finding a husband couldn’t have been any cinch for May. Had Herbert come here to be steward, as Squire so grandly called him, and then fallen in love with the stay-at-home eldest daughter? Or had the job been used as bait to lure and keep him here? And was it in truth May he cared for, or a soft berth on a lavishly run estate? Herbert got paid well, no doubt, for whatever services he rendered. Squire could afford to be generous, since it was not his own substance he was dispensing. Perhaps that was why Cyril had started twisting the knife so viciously. It must have been a shock to learn he’d spent his lifetime drinking up his own estate instead of his father’s. Rhys pushed back his chair and politely declined the offer of a cigar in the library.

  “I have to take the little woman for an airing. Janet and I thought we’d put on snowshoes and stroll around the house. We still haven’t seen what Graylings looks like from the outside, you know.”

  “So you haven’t. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask whether you went so far as to charter that helicopter just to come up here. We’d be terribly honored if you did,” said Squire.

  “No, I’m afraid we only hitched a lift with a friend,” Rhys confessed. “He’s going to pick us up, by the way, in case you’ve been wondering how we’re to get back.”

  “Not too soon, I hope?”

  “Actually I’m not quite sure. Either tomorrow afternoon or the morning after, I believe, if that fits into your plans. It will depend a bit on the weather, of course.”

  “Please feel free to stay as long as you like. We do have an emergency CB radio if you want to get a message through and the telephone lines aren’t working.”

  “I thought you might. This place is fantastically well equipped.”

  “Has to be. We never know when or for how long we’ll be snowed in, being off the main track as we are.”

  “But you have your own plow?”

  “It’s not up to heavy roadwork. We use it mostly to keep the drives open and the barns clear. You and Janet would do better to stick to the plowed areas. That way you can’t get lost.”

  “I expect we shan’t stay out long in any case. Come on, love, let’s get changed. Anyone care to join the party?”

  Chapter 10

  NOBODY TOOK MADOC UP on his invitation. That suited him and Janet just fine. They put on the heavy clothes they’d traveled in, and found the woodshed where every kind of snowshoes from wide bearpaws to long, slim racing types were hanging. Madoc chose the reliable bearpaws from force of habit, while Janet picked out a pair that looked like her oldest nephew’s because those were the ones she usually borrowed.

  It was not paralyzingly cold out
. There was no wind to speak of, so the snow didn’t drive into their faces like ice-coated bullets. By local standards, this might have been considered a fairly agreeable day. Madoc gave Janet a hand up over the drifts, and they started their walk.

  “Let’s keep near the house and just circle around it,” Madoc suggested. “Storms off the water can be tricky. I’ve a hunch we shouldn’t stray far.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Janet hadn’t made any move to withdraw her mitten from his, as why should she? “It will be getting dark soon anyway, and I’ve got to do something about our costumes for tonight.”

  “Jenny, you’re not expecting me to make an ass of myself?”

  “No, darling. I thought you could wear your dinner jacket and carry a little stick for a baton, and go as your father. I’ll make myself a tinsel crown and pretend I’m the Queen Mum.”

  “Leave it to you!”

  He laughed and managed to kiss her though snowshoes are not well adapted to togetherness. “Shentlemen in the basses, a little more glissando in the catenzass, if you pleass.”

  “Is that how your father talks, like a real Welshman?”

  “Dearest, he is a real Welshman.”

  “And which are you?”

  “I’m Canadian. The only one in the family, as a matter of fact. Dafydd and Gwen were both born in London.”

  “But I thought Dafydd was in his thirties and Gwendolyn about my age.”

  “That’s right. Gwennie’s only twenty-two. An infant, like you.”

  Madoc would be twenty-eight next month. High time for a man to settle down and start a family of his own. “Father’s always had to shunt back and forth a good deal. He’d park us in Wales with his uncle when he was on tour and we weren’t off at school or at the house in Winnipeg, so I grew up almost as Welsh as the rest. Uncle Caradoc always made a thing of having Welsh spoken in his home.”

  “Shall I have to learn?”