Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  Also by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  Murder in Devil’s Hollow

  Talking of Murder

  The Death Box

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-7515-6771-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1947 Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  Copyright

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter I

  As she drove, Dylis Hughes sang to herself, a habit of hers not confined to any special occasion. Which was as well, for her present circumstances, to the majority of those who knew her, would have appeared to warrant bewailing rather than singing. But then the majority of her acquaintances, Dylis reflected, were pessimists. Regarding all or any of her plans they seemed to take a morbid pleasure in telling her, ‘You’ll never do it, Dylis, or if you do, you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Why don’t you take my advice, and wait?’

  Or, with a friendly but foreboding shake of the head, ‘I can’t think what you see in running round the country alone. Aren’t you ever going to settle down?’

  To the last question, Dylis had no answer. For the present, she was reasonably content to run round alone, in a little two-seater car, the age and deficiencies of which were the despair of garage hands wherever she called for mechanical aid in England, Scotland and Wales. Particularly Wales. With the loyalty of the true owner-driver, Dylis failed to see why they made so much fuss about the unreliability of her vehicle. In her opinion, all vehicles were unreliable, and therefore it was better to contend with the faults she knew, rather than procure a new one, and start getting to know it all over again. In her brief career as a commercial traveller, the car had served her well. It might break down many times on her tour of the roads but, as she frequently pointed out with quiet triumph, it always got her home. Neither had she ever experienced a serious accident.

  It was, then, in her usual spirit of optimism that she had set out, one December afternoon, upon the road to Reeth from Richmond, in Yorkshire. She had completed a successful morning’s business, capping it with an excellent lunch, and had planned, after a visit to a prospective customer in Reeth, to spend the night there. But then it had occurred to her that by pushing on the same day, she could probably reach her next objective, the little town of Raggden, before nightfall, and thus be all ready for another day, bright and early in the morning.

  She had, of course, been warned about the roads. Winter had descended upon Yorkshire with startling coldness that year, bringing with it the threat of frozen pipes and farms and hamlets cut off from their neighbours, for a heavy fall of snow lay everywhere, burying the smaller hills and making the lonelier tracks impassable. But a little hard weather had no terrors for Dylis. She was warmly clad, her car had been overhauled in Richmond, and a spirit of exhilaration urged her on, despite or perhaps because of the awful predictions of the pessimists.

  For this was her first adventure into the wilder parts of Yorkshire, and the impressive grandeur of the Swaledale country demanded exploration. But towards the close of the afternoon she was forced to admit that the pessimists were, for once, somewhat justified. The roads were not only bad, they were incredible. Her car, upon which she normally expected to do a comfortable forty miles per hour, between towns, gradually dropped speed until it was behaving most uncomfortably at ten. Her feet, encased in soft leather boots lined with sheep-skin, had ceased to feel like feet, and seemed to have turned instead to lumps of stone. Nevertheless, her spirits still kept at an admirable level. The scenery was worth such minor inconveniences.

  In its wildness, it became more breath-taking every mile of the road she travelled. She had passed stretches of gaunt, snow-covered moors, fascinating in their desolation, hills rising starkly above the frozen valley, farmhouses austere in their isolation, walled in by stone to protect them against the bitterness of the winter wind. She had glimpsed the snowy heights of mountains, bleakly defined against the background of the fading sky, bringing to her the desire to get acquainted with their stern loneliness, if only she had the time.

  But in the gradually dying light the sky had become more and more overcast, the mountains and the nearer hills turned misty grey and finally disappeared from view beneath the darkness of night, and Dylis became aware that she was upon a very lonely road, the turns and twists of which were quite unknown to her, while it seemed to climb ever upward without arriving anywhere. But she went on singing. After all, if she did not reach Raggden that night, she could put up somewhere else. Her quarters might not be so comfortable, but it would be an experience. She would stop at the next hamlet and have tea, then if it appeared impracticable to drive farther, she was bound to find someone who would provide her with a bed, and breakfast in the morning.

  Her headlights were working, that was something. Not infrequently, they gave up altogether when the going was rough. All things considered, the car was behaving remarkably well. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind, when the road zigzagged with startling suddenness, and she was confronted with a road so steep that even her optimism was quenched at sight of it. But not for long. Smoothly she changed gear, and began to creep slowly up, the headlights playing on the glittering snow, the air getting keener every minute. The engine had developed noises that sounded ominous to her attentive ear, but as long as she reached the top … She did, to find that the road narrowed considerably and then forked right and left, with no indication as to which way she should take. Neither appeared to be much more than a track, and the car engine was now emitting noises so horrible that she dare not stop to consult her map.

  She chose the left, but had not gone more than a mile or so before she bitterly regretted the impulse. For this road was even worse than the last. It climbed and dropped at irregular intervals, threw stones and boulders in her path, and generally spread itself to trip the unwary traveller. To add to her difficulties, snow had begun to fall: great flakes whipped against the windscreen by a wind so ferocious that the little car rocked beneath its fury. The windscreen-wiper worked but sluggishly, and with her hands seemingly frozen to the wheel, she strained her eyes to fathom what further horrors the night had to offer. At this rate, she would be lucky if she arrived anywhere before midnight.

  Reaching a point where the road widened abruptly and seemed to bend back upon itself, she halted with stern resolution. She must, she decided, have taken the wron
g road. She would go back and investigate the other. It certainly could be no worse than this one. At least, she hoped not. Her hands were so numb she had difficulty in reversing the vehicle, and when it did consent to move it behaved in a fashion quite unpredictable, running backwards up an incline in the bend of the road, there to repose, sunk deeply on one side into a bank of snow. The noise of the engine died down, and all was silent save for the shrieking of the wind.

  Dylis sat for a while, thinking hard thoughts about mechanical contrivances. She pressed the self-starter several times, and nothing happened. Mustering all her philosophy, she buttoned her camel-hair coat, gathered up her torch and climbed cautiously out to where she hoped the road might be, to sink immediately up to her calves in snow. From a careful, all-round inspection, it was not easy to see how the car was to be extricated from its present position without help, and help, in this place of solitude, was not to be reasonably expected. The headlights revealed the land rising steeply on one side, and appearing to slope off into infinite space. At the back of the car the light from her torch showed nothing but a void filled with whirling snowflakes. They touched her face like icy fingers, and quickly covered the shoulders of her coat, and the hood she had pulled over her head. There was a sound of desperation in the moan of the wind as it hurled its way across the surrounding heights.

  With resignation, she climbed back into the car, closed the door and fastened the window against the biting blast. She pulled off her gloves and rubbed her hands until the circulation improved. She was not without solace. Upon the passenger seat reposed a bag of apples and some sandwiches which she had picked up earlier in the day. There was also a slab of chocolate, and tucked away in the side pocket of the car was a half-bottle of brandy, supplied by her firm against emergency. She consulted with herself as to whether this could be called an emergency, and decided that it could. She withdrew the cork and poured herself a measure in the little metal cup packed for the purpose. She lit a cigarette and meditated.

  More than ever she felt that this solitary stretch of road was unlikely to yield any kind of assistance. It had that look about it. On the other hand, she did not much relish the idea of abandoning the car and her belongings, and walking along the other road in the hope of finding habitation. Indeed, to judge by the blizzard that had now set in, walking anywhere would be a great mistake. Far more sensible to stay where she was until morning. She would miss her dinner, as she had already missed her tea, but the chocolate would prevent her from getting too hungry.

  To prove her point, she ate a piece, followed by an apple and a sandwich. She felt much better. The brandy had warmed her, right down to her toes. Her feet were human again. The intense cold outside and the effect of the falling snow in the glare of the headlights made her drowsy. She closed her eyes.

  Time had ceased to mean anything, but she guessed she must have been sitting there for a considerable while, for her body was stiff and cramped, when above the wind there came to her ears the unmistakable sound of a car coming steadily up the road along which she had driven. She saw the lights a few moments later, as they heralded the approach of the vehicle around the bend. And mingled with the combined noise of the wind and the engine, she heard a man’s voice singing, ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes’.

  So surprised was Dylis that she made no movement to attract attention. But the progress of this other car was slow, and as it rounded the corner its lights cut across hers, the driver drew in on the opposite side of the road, and called through the open window.

  ‘Hallo, there! D’you want any help?’

  It seemed impossible to Dylis that this was not a mirage, called up by the urgency of her imagination. If the car had gone right by, she would just have continued to sit there, unbelieving. But the voice was human enough, and with a swift return to the practical she clambered out, accepting with equanimity the coldness of the snow around her thinly-stockinged legs.

  ‘I want a lot of help, please,’ she shouted back. ‘That is, if you’re any good at digging cars out of snowdrifts.’

  ‘I’m better than good, I’m wonderful. I’ve dug myself out twice today, already. This is a borrowed car, and I’m pledged to return it intact.’

  He alighted as he spoke and tramped across towards her, and she saw that he was a large size in men, hatless and wearing a heavy overcoat, the collar turned up about his ears. His car did not appear to hold any other occupants. He paused, taking in her predicament, and rubbed his chin with a gloved hand.

  ‘Where were you trying to get to?’ he asked.

  ‘Raggden. Well, that was my original idea. But I don’t know this part of the country and …’

  ‘You’re on the wrong road. You should have forked right a few miles back. But I doubt whether you’d get there tonight, anyway, with the roads as they are. It’s miles beyond Cudge.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter particularly. I’d be glad to put up anywhere, if I could only get the car started again. Do you think you could help me move her?’

  ‘Frankly, no. I wouldn’t risk it on a night like this and without any rope. In daylight I could try giving her a tow …’

  He moved towards the rear of the car and she would have followed, but he waved her back.

  ‘But you haven’t even tried,’ she said, impatience getting the better of politeness.

  He was floundering about in the snow, apparently looking for something. He brought out and flashed on a torch to aid him.

  ‘I’ll tell you where you are,’ he said. ‘You’ve backed up with a few inches to spare on the edge of Harry’s Hole.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘I never knew him personally, but there’s an ancient legend in these parts about a bloke named Harry who landed himself in a hole, and that’s it. There’s a sheer drop below of about three hundred feet, so I don’t suppose he got out in a hurry. Neither would you, if you’d overshot the mark.’

  Dylis thought about that for a while, and the more she thought, the less she liked it.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t told me,’ she said at last. ‘I could have gone on sitting there quite happily until morning. Now …’

  ‘You’d better come with me. I’ll just put a wedge against the wheels if I can find something large enough. Have you got anything you want to bring with you?’

  ‘My case. It’s in the back. And my handbag, and a few little things.’ She opened the car door and began to gather her belongings, trying not to think too much about Harry and his hole. If this man would take her as far as the nearest village or hamlet, she could find lodging for the night, and work out the car’s destiny tomorrow. She did not like the idea of leaving it, though. She hesitated as, his task accomplished, he came round with her suitcase in his hand. She was clutching the bag of apples and sandwiches, the chocolate, her handbag and case of samples. She said, ‘I think perhaps I ought to stay. How do I know the car will be all right?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think there’s much chance of anyone pinching it.’ His tone suggested that he did not see in it any foundation for the mother-love of its owner. ‘And I can’t go off and leave you sitting on the edge of a precipice in the midst of a howling blizzard. It’s not sense. Anything might happen.’

  He took her arm, and reluctantly she slammed and locked the door and went with him across to his more sumptuous vehicle. He helped her in, stowed her possessions upon the back seat, climbed in beside her, and they sat for a few moments, shaking the snow from their clothes and hair, and laughing with relief at having escaped from the driving elements. She began then:

  ‘If you could put me down where I can get a room for the night …’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing on this road,’ he cut in. ‘You can get to Raggden this way eventually, but it makes a detour through Deathleap Pass. It’s a good job you didn’t get as far as that, because it’s dangerous, even if you know it.’

  ‘Well, where are you going, then?’

  ‘I was just going to tell you. I’m
on my way to my uncle’s place, Wintry Wold. It stands about half a mile off this road, before you get to Deathleap Scar, and the Pass is a bit higher up. Why not come along? My uncle and aunt will be glad to put you up.’

  She thought it did not sound very cheerful, not much better than sitting on the edge of a precipice. And her independent nature shied at the prospect of forcing herself upon strangers. Still, she could hardly expect him to go out of his way to find her more orthodox accommodation, especially on such a night. He went on:

  ‘As a matter of fact, I had a letter from the old man, asking me to drop in and to bring a friend. I don’t quite know what he meant by that. Probably thought I might find it tedious on my own. Or they may be having a party, I really don’t know. It’s years since I’ve seen him, and I’ve never met his wife. But if I bowl in with you it will be perfectly all right.’

  This airy dismissal of formalities did nothing to reassure her, but she said:

  ‘Well, I’ll be glad to come if you’re sure they won’t mind. But your uncle probably meant a man friend. What made you come alone?’

  ‘I haven’t so many friends in England.’ He had already started the car, which was a powerful one, designed to stand more wear and tear than her own sorrowful specimen. Even so, in comparison to the speed it should have commanded, their pace up the hill was negligible. ‘My people live in Switzerland. They’ve an hotel there, which I help them to run, not far from Geneva. My mother’s health isn’t too good, and the climate suits her. I came to London recently, on business for my father. I’ve a few friends there, but none of them were keen to face Yorkshire in winter. One of them was decent enough to lend me a car, though.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Yorkshire in winter?’ Dylis asked. ‘I think it’s grand country. I was getting a big kick out of it, until I fell foul of Harry and his wretched hole.’

  ‘I agree. I spent a lot of time here with my uncle when I was a youngster. But everyone doesn’t think the same. I suppose some people feel the cold more than others. I love snow. Can’t have too much of it. We have a wonderful time during the season. Ever done any climbing?’