Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  ‘Only in and out of cars,’ Dylis said. ‘But I’d like to try.’

  ‘Why don’t you come out to Switzerland some time? We’ll be glad to put you up. No charge to our friends.’

  ‘Are we friends already?’

  ‘Naturally. I look at it that if you meet someone in the middle of a blizzard and you get along all right, well, then you’re friends. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I think I’d feel normally friendly towards anyone who rescued me out of a night like this.’

  ‘Not necessarily. You might loathe the sight of them. How do you feel about me?’

  ‘I don’t feel capable of giving an unprejudiced opinion at the moment,’ she said.

  He laughed and resumed his singing, in a pleasant voice that sounded as if he used it quite a lot. The road was getting worse at every stage of their progress, and the car, buffeted by the wind and with everything weighted against it, seemed as if it were fighting a losing battle. But the driver was in no way concerned. Feeling grateful that she had not fallen in with a pessimist, and anxious to reciprocate, Dylis asked, ‘Would you care for some chocolate? Or an apple or a sandwich? They’re all on the back seat.’

  He laughed again. ‘No, thanks very much. I’m hoping we’ll get dinner shortly. But if not, and we’re marooned on the lonely highway, we’ll demolish your stores piece by piece. What are you doing, careering about the country in that two-by-four contraption of yours?’

  ‘I’m a commercial traveller,’ Dylis said, with less warmth in her voice, resenting his description of her recent mode of conveyance. She had been about to offer him some brandy, but promptly decided that he was a strong man and in no need of it.

  ‘No, really? I can’t see much of you, but you’re a bit out of character, aren’t you? What do you find to sell in the Yorkshire Dales at this time of the year?’

  ‘This happens to be the beginning of our best season. Ointments, rubbing oils, everything to cure rheumatism, stiff joints, coughs, colds, aches and pains. We’re a firm of manufacturing chemists. Compton, Webber and Hughes. I’m Hughes.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ He indulged in a shout of laughter. ‘Part of the firm, eh?’

  ‘Sole representative. I’ve done some pretty smart business today. It may sound callous, but the winter setting in suddenly like this sends up our sales with a bound.’

  ‘I bet Compton and Webber will be bucked. What are they, men or women?’

  ‘Men,’ she said. ‘If you’d lived longer in England, you’d know more about our products. In a quiet way, we’re famous.’

  ‘Not so fast. I do know something. I sat for an hour on a station just lately, waiting for a train, and there was an advert, showing an old gentleman sitting in a bath, massaging himself with something or other, and a rhyme underneath that said something like, “Rub-a-dub-dub, one man in a tub …” I can’t remember the rest of it, although I read it through about seventeen times.’

  ‘That was my idea. Rubbitin ointment is wonderful for stiff joints, if applied while taking a hot bath …’

  ‘All right, I believe you. So you’re publicity manager as well? You’ve got a nice little job, Miss Hughes. And while we’re getting acquainted, I’d better tell you that my name’s Brown. Now it’s your turn to laugh.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because when I say “My name’s Brown”, everyone always does. It usually takes me quite a long time to convince them. I suppose, being such a general sort of name, they think I’m pulling their legs.’

  ‘But someone’s got to be called Brown. The Brown families can’t stop having children just so that the name won’t be too common.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you,’ he said. ‘You’re so practical. Except in the matter of cars.’

  They lapsed into silence then. Dylis, warm and comfortable now save for the wetness of her stockings, realised that she was hungry, and hoped that the Browns were people who indulged in hearty dinners. She glanced at her gold wrist-watch, given to her as a present from Compton, last Christmas. Its luminous hands pointed to 8.25. Her thoughts turned to Compton, who had not wanted her to undertake this journey. He was the cautious one of the firm, always looking for trouble and quite often finding it. She smiled a little at the recollection that he had once wanted to marry her. Webber was different. He was all for going ahead and getting things done, loud in his praise of her smallest success, sympathetic over the most minor of her misadventures. It was he who had introduced her and her modest capital into the realm of business. He would see nothing amiss in her spending the night with the family of a man whom she had met on a lonely road. Dear old Webber. Her smile deepened as she remembered that he, too, had wanted to marry her.

  She had sunk into a reverie, and almost forgotten the man at her side, when he said:

  ‘We’re nearly there now,’ and turned off the road and into an even narrower track that seemed as if it were going to plunge off the surface of the earth altogether. ‘This road goes right past the house and along to Deathleap Scar, and joins up with the Pass on the other side.’

  ‘It sounds intriguing,’ she said, slightly yawning. ‘But I think I’ll put off further exploration until the spring.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s wonderful then. By the way, have you got a Christian name?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ she said, and gave it.

  ‘Good. I thought they might have called you something fancy like “The Intrepid”. But my uncle is very much one of the older generation, and I didn’t want to have to say to him, “Uncle, meet Hughes”. I’m Inigo. You can laugh at that, too, if you like. Most people do.’

  But Dylis no longer felt like laughing. She was suddenly very tired, and the thought of meeting two strange people and probably more was becoming increasingly distasteful. But it was too late now. And presently, when they turned in through open gates set in a high stone wall, and ploughed their way along a driveway deeply embedded in snow, she made a conscious effort to get a grip upon her usually capable faculties. The drive wound along between thickets of trees and shrubs, heavily overgrown, sparkling as they caught the headlights. Inigo Brown, peering through the windscreen, said:

  ‘It looks a bit neglected, doesn’t it? This used to be quite a show place. But Uncle’s getting on now, I suppose. Must be over sixty. What the hell’s that?’

  They had emerged from the drive and were cautiously approaching the house, and he jammed on his brakes just in time to avoid cannoning into the back of another vehicle blocking the way. At the same time he swung the wheel and they hurtled into a deep drift of snow collected at the edge of the clearing. The car stopped at a lop-sided angle, and he switched off the engine.

  ‘That’s that,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing any more digging out tonight. Let’s go and see what idiot left that thing there.’

  But when they alighted and moved off, heads bent against the still driving storm, there was nothing to be seen by the combined light of their torches but an enormous van standing slantwise to the broad frontage of the house. It bore no name, had no lights switched on, and appeared to have been there for some hours to judge by the snow that covered it.

  ‘I suppose they’re not moving out?’ Dylis asked hopefully, still being possessed by a strong desire to avoid further strange company. She could not see much of the house, but a dim light etched drawn curtains in a window to the left of the porch they were approaching. It looked a large window, and appeared to be a large house. Her companion said, raising his voice to be heard above the wind:

  ‘If you’re still worrying about anything, put it out of your mind. If we were marauding strangers, they couldn’t refuse to put us up on a night like this.’

  He gripped her arm and hurried her up the broad steps and into the shelter of the porch. He flashed his torch round, disclosing a door of immense and solid proportions, located the old-fashioned bell, and used his strength upon it. Dylis stood just behind him, feeling the cold whistling around her legs, and not liking a
nything. They had not long to wait. Within the space of a few minutes there came the tapping sound of wooden heels upon a wooden floor, and the door was flung open. A woman’s voice exclaimed:

  ‘Come in! Come in, quickly!’ And thus bidden, and with the force of the wind behind them, they did not pause to question the effusiveness of her welcome, and were literally blown into a small entrance hall, without illumination save for a soft light radiating through an open door on the left-hand side. The front door slammed behind them, and automatically they stepped through into a large, square-shaped entrance lounge, from the ceiling of which was suspended an old-world oil lamp, its soft rays diffused by a shade of delicate rose. The woman followed, and Dylis observed with interest that she was very small, young, and dressed in an exquisite rose velvet dinner gown. Furthermore, she was staring at them in sheer incredulity. Dylis looked from her to Inigo Brown, and was surprised to find that he was younger than she had thought, not much older than herself, probably. He was smiling as he said:

  ‘Shocking night, isn’t it? I’m Inigo, Mr Brown’s nephew, and this lady is a friend of mine, Dylis Hughes. We’ve just dropped in to see my uncle.’

  He paused there, obviously waiting for the girl who had admitted them to say something. But she went on looking from one to the other, her small, beautifully kept hands playing with the rose chiffon handkerchief she carried. They must, Dylis thought, be giving a party, and this was one of the guests. But why should she open the door to visitors? Surely a house this size should have a butler, or someone of the kind. Then the girl’s face brightened with a conventional smile. She said:

  ‘Why, Inigo! Of course, your uncle has often spoken about you. This is a surprise! I’m his wife, your aunt Theresa.’

  Chapter II

  Dylis gave up then. She just stood by, smiling feebly as the young woman who claimed to be Mrs Brown stood tip-toe on her little, high-heeled shoes and kissed her newly found nephew on either cheek. Inigo Brown had eyes so dark and thickly fringed it was impossible to fathom what he might be thinking. His smile was easy and tolerant. He took one of his hostess’s hands and shook it warmly. He remarked:

  ‘An unexpected pleasure, Aunt Theresa. Sorry to bust in on you like this. Are you having a party?’

  ‘My dear, no.’ Again she looked from him to Dylis, and hesitated before adding, ‘Your uncle is too ill for that kind of thing. But you must be dead with cold and fatigue. Take off your things, both of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and I’ll call one of the servants.’

  She walked quickly across the parquet flooring and disappeared through another door on the opposite side of the room, and her nephew turned to regard Dylis with close attention. He seemed satisfied, for he said:

  ‘The last time I got to know a woman in the dark, I swore I’d never do it again. But you can’t always be unlucky, as this occasion proves. Here, let me take your things.’

  ‘As far as you’re concerned, I’m still in the dark,’ Dylis said, as he helped her out of her coat. ‘Where did you find an aunt like that?’

  ‘I didn’t find her. I’ve never seen her before. We knew my uncle got married some time ago, because he wrote and said so. He told us he’d met a little woman who had made him the happiest man on earth. It sounded a bit far-fetched to me, but I begin to see what he means. She’s a real slice of Hollywood, isn’t she?’

  ‘And then some,’ Dylis said. She was wondering why a girl with Theresa Brown’s looks should marry a man over sixty. He must be very wealthy. She sat down on a wide settle before the glowing log fire. It was a pleasant room, panelled in oak, with thick skin rugs upon the polished floor. Everything had an air of great antiquity, including the oil lamp. Inigo said, spreading his hands to the warmth:

  ‘I’ve stepped up one. I bet Compton and Webber haven’t an aunt like mine.’

  Dylis refrained from replying, for the door had opened again, and Mrs Brown returned, followed by a man pushing a trolley loaded with wine and spirit decanters and an array of glasses. But though Dylis felt a quickening interest at the sight of such welcome refreshment, it was the man in charge of it who caught and held her attention. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with dark hair growing low on his forehead, a resolute face full of character of a rather doubtful kind, and an air of ferocious concentration. If this were the butler, his clothes were singularly out of keeping. He wore a black leather lumber jacket buttoned up to the chin, and corduroy breeches with gaiters after the style of a gamekeeper. With more force than elegance, he wheeled the trolley across the room, kicked into position one of the rugs he had displaced, favoured the two guests with a scowl, and withdrew. Mrs Brown said, with the charming smile of one woman to another:

  ‘So difficult, the servant problem, isn’t it? Out here we find it impossible to keep anyone but menservants, and they won’t always stay. Women find it far too lonely. I can quite understand that, of course. Young single women want picture palaces and such things. There’s nothing to interest them in the wilds of Yorkshire. Were it not for my husband, I might spend more time in town myself. But he loves this part of the country, and really I’ve come to love it, too. What will you drink, Miss Hughes? Whisky, sherry, a dry Martini, perhaps?’

  ‘Sherry, please,’ Dylis said, reflecting that the servant problem in these parts must indeed be acute, if butlers had kicked over the traces so far as to appear in breeches and gaiters. Or perhaps it was an old Yorkshire custom. Not knowing that country, she found it difficult to decide. Inigo, leaning against the carved oak mantel, his hair still wet with melted snow, said:

  ‘Make mine a whisky, please, Auntie. Isn’t Uncle Warner joining us?’

  She had settled down upon a damask-covered pouffe, from where she dispensed the drinks with dainty gestures. Looking up as she handed him his glass, she said, with a sorrowful shake of her head:

  ‘I’m afraid not, my dear. He’s far too ill to leave his bed just now, poor darling. I expect you heard that he had pneumonia? I nursed him through that. The doctor advised me to send him to hospital, but how could I let him lie in a horrible bare ward, all alone? I’m sure he would never have recovered. Even the doctor had to admit I was right, when he saw how quickly Warner got better, under my care. But you know how obstinate he is. He would get up before his time, and then down he went again with a relapse, when this awful weather set in. I’ve hardly been near my bed for the last fortnight, and the danger is not over, by any means.’

  ‘Is anyone with him now?’ Inigo asked. ‘I’d like to go up and see him. Might be able to cheer him on a bit.’

  ‘My dear, I’m afraid it’s impossible for you to see him tonight. He’s far too ill to see anyone, except myself, of course, and Ledgrove, his valet. Ledgrove is with him now. We take it in turns by day and night to watch at his bedside.’

  Somewhat uncharitably, Dylis thought that she did not look as if she had missed much sleep lately. Her young face was smooth and unlined, her eyes bright, the shadow on their lids due solely to artificial application. Neither did the role of nurse warrant such an elaborate toilet. She wore her hair parted on one side and hanging in ringlets rather childishly about her face. Her hands bore many rings beside the single gold band that denoted her married state, and all of them looked expensive. Perhaps she was arrayed thus to encourage Mr Warner Brown in his struggle for life. Dylis doubted it. There was something brittle and unsympathetic in Mrs Brown’s personality, something which the pleasantness of her manner failed to hide. She smiled but rarely, and when she did, it was an expression designed to show her teeth to the best advantage.

  Sipping her sherry, and listening only half-heartedly to the conversation, Dylis observed that about the room were many mirrors, and from the position she had taken, Mrs Brown was able to scrutinise herself from various angles, which she did, with many surreptitious turnings of her head, and sly glances appreciating her own reflection. Yet it was of her husband that she continued to speak.

  ‘I don’t know whether you will be able to se
e him in the morning, Inigo. I hope so. The doctor was here earlier today, and said that on no account must he be in any way excited. Rest and peace is what he needs. The doctor may be coming again tomorrow. He said he would, if he could possibly manage it. But, of course, transport is so difficult at the moment, and he has so many calls to make. Everyone in the district seems to be sick with something. I try to remember that my husband is not the only one.’

  Inigo finished his drink and put the empty glass upon the mantel. He said:

  ‘I don’t want to do anything to upset him, naturally. I’m too fond of him for that. But I wish there were something I could do. Couldn’t I sit up with him tonight, and give you a chance to get some sleep?’

  Mrs Brown languorously closed her eyes and opened them again, as if the effort of thinking were almost too much for her weakened state.

  ‘Seriously, I would not advise it. Although he is under my care, I dare not go against the doctor’s orders. And you mustn’t worry about me, my dear. Women are so much more cut out to bear with illness than men. Another sherry, Miss Hughes?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dylis said. And partly from curiosity and partly from politeness, she added, ‘Can I help in any way? I’ve had a little experience at nursing. I even took a course of massage at one time. It must be wearing for you, having so much responsibility.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, my dear, and I do appreciate it. But really I’d rather manage things my own way. We all have our burdens to bear and this is mine, although I hope it is only a temporary one. And you must be tired after your journey. I’ve told one of the servants to prepare rooms for you and Inigo. Most of the house is shut up now, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable. You’ve not yet had dinner, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ Inigo said. ‘It’s an awful time to descend upon you with an appetite, but don’t trouble about us. Any old thing will do.’