Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘I had better go and see how the dinner is getting on. Otherwise it may be spoilt.’

  ‘I’ll come, too. I can’t just sit idle, while you work your little fingers to the bone.’

  The kitchen proved to be a long, draughty room, with a cold stone floor and high curtained windows, but it boasted a large size in ranges which offered tremendous heat upon near approach. There was also a boiler for heating the water, emitting a strong smell of burning coke, a white scrubbed table, several wooden chairs, a china cabinet and rows of shelves holding cooking utensils.

  Upon one of the chairs in front of the table sat the man in the shiny mackintosh, with a newspaper, a bottle of beer, and a glass at his disposal. To judge by the pile of cigarette-ends in a nearby ashtray, he had been sitting there for a very long time. He looked up as they entered, remarked:

  ‘’Ope I’m not in the way, Ma’am,’ and went on reading. He had a broad, friendly face, and gave the impression that he did not much care whether he were in the way or not. Theresa said:

  ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ and having tied a dainty lace apron around her dinner dress, she picked up an oven cloth and made towards the stove. Dylis said:

  ‘Let me do that, I’ve nothing to spoil,’ and took the cloth out of her hand and opened the oven door. A smell of good roast lamb ascended to her nostrils, causing her inside to contract with longing.

  ‘The last of the fresh meat,’ Theresa said sadly. ‘If the tradespeople can’t get here tomorrow, we shall have to start on the tinned foods.’

  ‘Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,’ Dylis quoted. Some instinct made her glance up then, only to look away again, for the other woman was regarding her with a very strange expression. She closed the oven door and peered into the pots containing vegetables. They all looked overdone. She asked, ‘I suppose your husband has to have something special?’

  ‘He takes nothing, practically nothing,’ Theresa said. ‘Just little sips of brandy, and …’

  She turned as the kitchen door opened, and a man thrust in his head. He was middle-aged, with grey hair and a pallid face infinitely weary in its expression. Dylis did not recall having seen him before. He glanced quickly round the room and remarked, addressing Theresa:

  ‘The Master wants to see you. He says he’s hungry, and he’s being neglected. He wants to know …’

  ‘All right, Ledgrove, I’ll come at once,’ she cut in quickly, and ran across and almost pushed him out into the passage, closing the door behind them. Dylis stared at the closed door, her thoughts perplexed. The man at the table went on sitting there, as if unaware that he were not alone. The front door bell rang, and dropping the oven cloth, Dylis went with some speed to open it. The vagaries of this household were beginning to tell upon her usually stoical nerves.

  Chapter III

  It seemed to Dylis, as she opened the front door, that a positive regiment of masculinity flowed past her into the entrance lounge. There were Inigo and the stranger who had called for assistance, Vauxhall and Ridley, Mr Carpenter, and two others new to the party. Intercepting the servants as they were about to move off to their own quarters, Dylis said:

  ‘Mrs Brown and I have been keeping watch on the dinner. I hope it’s not entirely ruined.’

  The one called Ridley stared indifferently from eyes set very close to the bridge of a prominent nose. He remarked:

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ and he and his colleague departed, with much stamping of feet and rubbing of hands indicative of a recent tough fight against overwhelming odds. Without a word to anyone, Mr Carpenter slid past her and out into the corridor, trailing a dripping raincoat. He looked blue with cold. Inigo said cheerfully, taking her arm:

  ‘It was a waste of time. We couldn’t do anything useful. Their car seems to have everything wrong with it, but we can’t tell exactly what until the morning. So I’ve invited these gentlemen to put up here for the night.’

  He introduced them. The obvious head of the party, Mr Humphrey Howe, was tall and aesthetic looking, and might have been any age between fifty and sixty. His skin had a translucent appearance, and the hand which he extended with a regal gesture was white and well manicured. He wore his brown hair rather long, and Dylis had a shrewd suspicion that it was dyed. The other new arrival was his secretary, Mr William Raddle, who, lacking his employer’s age, height and general air of command, yet managed to identify himself with the other by standing close at his side, watching his face and unconsciously imitating his mannerisms. The one who had descended upon the house in the first place proved to be Charlie Best, free-lance journalist, as he himself insisted upon mentioning.

  ‘I expect you could do with a drink,’ Inigo said. ‘If you’ll give me your wet things I’ll take them out to the kitchen to dry. Will you show them into the drawing-room, Dylis? Where’s my aunt, by the way?’

  ‘Upstairs, with your uncle,’ Dylis said. ‘He sent for her.’ She was not over enthusiastic about playing hostess to three strange men in someone else’s house. It was all very well for Inigo to take so much for granted, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that Theresa was going to look down her childish nose upon this fresh invasion. But there was no alternative. The men had already divested themselves of their outer garments, which Inigo was bearing away with the smiling assurance of the accomplished hotel proprietor. She said:

  ‘The drawing-room is through here,’ and conducted them into its welcome warmth. Mr Carpenter had already ensconced himself in his former position, with a glass of whisky at his elbow. His feet were thrust out to the fire, and his eyes were closed. Neither did he show any sign of life when Dylis said to her enforced protégés:

  ‘Will you make yourselves at home? Mrs Brown will be down presently, I expect.’

  They might, or might not know who was Mrs Brown. She did not trouble to explain further. They murmured conventional phrases, and took seats within the circle surrounding the fireplace. Mr Howe said:

  ‘This is a beautiful old house, Miss Hughes. But stuffy.’

  His secretary murmured, ‘Quite.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Dylis said, ‘it seems pretty draughty to me.’

  She did not approve of this open criticism of a house whose doors had been opened, well, if not hospitably, at least opened. Especially a criticism so unjustified. For apart from those portions of it which were heated, it was quite the coldest house she had ever known. Charlie Best was eyeing her with veiled amusement. She was vastly relieved when Inigo came in, and began to dispense drinks all round. He said to her:

  ‘I suppose there’s no word from those garage people yet? About the van, I mean?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. The driver is still waiting in the kitchen.’

  ‘A pity. I was thinking if they did turn up they might do something to help our friends here, or at least arrange to send over a breakdown gang in the morning. But I expect they’ve closed down for the night. The roads are getting worse all the time. I wonder what’s happened to that other bloke who was supposed to be doing something about his van?’

  Dylis shrugged her shoulders, and looked with some disfavour upon the glass of sherry she had automatically accepted. It was exceptionally fine sherry, but she had no desire for anything further to drink. She wanted to eat. But no one else seemed to be of the same mind, and while they were drinking she felt she could not just sit and twiddle her thumbs. She remarked:

  ‘He’s probably packed up and taken a room somewhere for the night. And in weather like this, who can blame him?’

  ‘Well, if nothing happens by tomorrow,’ Inigo said, ‘one of us will have to get over to Cudge and see what we can do. I take it you’re in no desperate hurry, Mr Howe?’

  The latter, sitting bolt upright in his chair, one thin hand toying with a very small glass of sherry, took some pains to reassure him.

  ‘Mr Brown,’ he said. ‘I am never desperate, and I am never in a hurry. What I do, I do with method and precision. When I sent Mr B
est to enquire of your good selves whether you could assist us out of our dilemma, it was not because I had any special urgency to reach my home, nor because I feared that a night spent upon the open road would do me any material harm. It was solely due to the fact that Mr Best is a man with a living to earn, and I felt it incumbent upon me not to waste his time. At my invitation, he is accompanying me to my home, Higher Uplands, in the mountain district of Westmorland, where he is to study my mode of living and to report, in the form of an article, to such of his readers who are interested. I had a call to make at York, hence this somewhat circuitous route. My mode of living, Mr Brown,’ he continued with some emphasis, for Inigo looked as if he might interrupt at any moment, ‘is unique and, I may say, outstandingly beneficial to the health. Fresh air is the keynote and the mainstay of my existence. I’ve no doubt you have read at least one of my many books on the subject. I can strongly recommend Fresh Air Diet, Let Nature Do It and Whither the Worried World?’

  Inigo, drawing comfortably on a cigarette, agreed that fresh air was wonderful. Dylis and Best were also smoking, but neither Mr Howe nor his secretary were addicted to the habit. The secretary Dylis found particularly irritating. He was about forty, and had a puffy pink face, rather feminine in contour, childish blue eyes that stared roundly at anyone who spoke, and a habit of interjecting such remarks as, ‘Quite’, and ‘An excellent point, that’, into his employer’s discourse. He might have saved himself the trouble, for Mr Howe took no more notice of him than if he had been a statue.

  Charlie Best was not uninteresting. He, too, listened to Mr Howe with apparent respect, but there was a twinkle in his eyes and a slightly cynical twist to his mouth, suggestive that his thoughts were his own. Musing, Dylis came to the conclusion that his name was vaguely familiar. She might have seen it in a journal of some kind. She could not be sure.

  ‘Dried grass,’ Mr Howe was saying, ‘carefully stewed and eaten three times a day, is excellent for the heart and nerves. The heads of fish, particularly that of the cod, broiled in milk with a little salt and pepper, are stimulating to the brain. But it is to the nettle that we have to turn for some of our greatest benefits. I refer, of course, to the Great or Common Nettle, also the Small Nettle …’

  It appeared appropriate to Dylis that Mrs Brown should choose that moment to enter the room. She had added to her ensemble a tiny jacket of soft black marabout, that gave her the air of a cat about to seek the most comfortable place in which to sleep. Neither did she seem put out to find that the best places were already taken. She advanced quietly upon them as the men rose, all except Mr Carpenter, who was snoring with some abandon. Inigo made the necessary introductions, and she said, smiling:

  ‘Welcome to Wintry Wold, gentlemen. Vauxhall told me of your predicament, and of course I am only too glad to give you shelter for the night. But I’m afraid our hospitality will be a little rough. I was explaining to Miss Hughes earlier that the best part of the house is shut up now, as we have only two servants, and I expect my nephew has told you about my husband being so ill?’

  She was putting up a pretty good show, Dylis thought, and watched with a certain amusement as Mr Howe and his satellite assured her that they were accustomed to the simple life, and Charlie Best remarked that anywhere a dog could sleep, so could he.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind roughing it a little,’ she said, ‘I’ll give Vauxhall instructions. He’s laying the table for dinner now.’ She walked daintily round the circle and slid back a folding door which hitherto had escaped Dylis’s attention, being partly screened by Mr Carpenter’s chair. It communicated with a small room beyond, in which the versatile butler could be seen laying a long dining-table. She went on to explain, ‘We usually dine in here now. So much more convenient and cosy than the real dining-hall, unless one is doing entertaining on a large scale. Vauxhall, you need not lay a place for me. I shall take something on a tray up in the Master’s room.’

  Here she was interrupted by expressions of hope from her uninvited guests that they were not putting her out too much.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, returning amongst them. ‘You mustn’t think that. I don’t want anything to spoil the little hospitality I can offer. And I hope you won’t think it rude of me not to join you. But my husband is in such a weak state, you understand, and he can’t bear me to be out of his sight for long. He sent down a message just before you arrived begging me to go up to him.’ She glanced at Inigo, and her voice was unusually sweet as she added, ‘Of course, it was rather impulsive of my nephew to ask you to stay without consulting me, but he’s used to hotel life, where people come and go at all hours of the day and night. I can’t compete there, but I do hope you’ll make yourselves completely at home.’

  She smiled thinly upon them, and made what Dylis considered to be her best exit so far. A little while after, Mr Howe rose and said:

  ‘If I may make a point, Mr Brown, your ideas on ventilation in this house are far behind the times.’

  ‘Which times?’ Inigo asked. ‘These times, Victorian times, the Tudor period or the time of the Early Britons?’

  Mr Howe regarded him dubiously and walked over to the window. But it was shut and bolted, with a bolt that had long since rusted into immovable position. Momentarily defeated in his search for fresh air, he investigated the inner room, and discovered french windows behind the heavy velour curtains. In triumph he withdrew the bolt and flung one of them wide. Immediately a tornado of wind hurtled itself through the aperture, sweeping the curtains aside, flapping the corners of the white damask tablecloth and setting the pendant lamp in that room swinging to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows about the walls and ceiling.

  Inigo and Dylis stared at each other incredulously, Mr Raddle smiled and nodded. Charlie Best muttered, ‘Silly old fool!’ caught Dylis’s glance, and laughed. Vauxhall, putting finishing touches to the table, looked up from his task to say:

  ‘We’ll have that closed, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do mind,’ Mr Howe asserted. ‘Lack of fresh air is the basis of all civilised troubles.’

  ‘I’ve got troubles enough, without fresh air added to ’em,’ Vauxhall said. ‘We’ll have it closed.’

  He stamped across and reached out into the night, and it required all his strength to get the window shut and bolted again, having achieved which he stood with his back to it, glaring at Mr Howe an unmistakable challenge. Dylis’s feelings warmed towards him. Here was a man of sense and some strength of mind, even if he were a little eccentric. Recognising, perhaps, that a man-to-man struggle with a butler was far beneath his dignity, Mr Howe returned to the drawing-room and directed an accusing glance towards Inigo.

  ‘Your butler,’ he observed, ‘has the manners of a pig.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Inigo admitted. ‘But in these difficult times it’s a bold man who dare argue with a butler. Perhaps you’re not bothered with any servant problem, Mr Howe, but I assure you that my aunt would be grateful even for the services of a pig, if she could find one sufficiently domesticated.’

  They heard Vauxhall stamp out and bang the door of the other room leading onto the corridor, and Mr Howe said:

  ‘In my home, Mr Brown, we have no servant problem. My secretary, my sister and I share the housework between us. We have bare floors strewn with rushes, no glass in the windows to obstruct the air and collect dust, our beds and our chairs are of wood, easily kept clean. We eat three simple meals a day from wooden bowls which require little scouring. From which you will see that our advantages are many.’

  ‘Not the least of them being that you’re unlikely to be troubled with many visitors. If ever I find I’ve had enough of the hotel business, Mr Howe, I shall certainly follow your example. Another glass of sherry?’

  ‘Thank you, no. One glass of wine does a man no harm. Two glasses weaken his moral fibre, and three spell his ultimate ruin.’

  There followed an awkward pause. Dylis was trying not to laugh, and suspected that Inigo laboured under the same
difficulty. Charlie Best threw his smoking cigarette-end into the fire, and William Raddle sat moving his lips in soundless repetition of his employer’s last words. Vauxhall made another heavy-footed entrance, and appeared at the communicating door to announce,

  ‘If you people want any grub, it’s ready.’

  ‘And if you need any translation of that,’ Charlie Best said, in a whispered aside to Dylis as they went towards the dining-room, ‘he means dinner is served.’

  ‘I for one, am glad to get it,’ she whispered back. ‘But I don’t see any stewed grass for your two boy friends.’

  ‘They’ll survive,’ he said, and moved quickly to pull out a chair for her at the head of the table. She felt rather as if she were attending a committee meeting as she sat down, but when Vauxhall, who evidently scorned serving at table, slammed down the dishes and plates in front of her, she decided it was more like being the matron of a boys’ school. Inigo sat on her right and Best on her left, with Mr Howe and his secretary opposite each other farther down the table. As if by tacit agreement, they had left Mr Carpenter sleeping.

  The meal proved better than she had hoped. It was all somewhat overdone, but none the less edible, and privately she complimented Ridley on his ability, for she could not imagine Mrs Brown performing culinary operations in her dinner dress. There was a good Bordeaux to accompany it, which Mr Howe and his secretary declined. Indeed, true to their cult they ate but frugally of vegetables, deploring the fact that they were not only cooked, but overcooked. Nevertheless, conversation might have flourished amiably, had not Mr Howe, in a dissertation upon the ills of mankind, scornfully dismissed as harmful all so-called cures such as medicines and other antidotes. Here Dylis felt bound to call attention to the fact that any relief for sickness was good, although advertised brands were better, and those manufactured by Messrs Compton, Webber and Hughes were undoubtedly the best of the lot.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, young lady,’ Mr Howe expostulated, ‘that you seriously believe these oils and ointments and such rubbish as you sell can cure a body sick from the folly of its own wrong way of life?’