Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  As she was struggling against this unpleasant thought, she reached the mantel, located the matches and hastily lit the candles. To her relief, the room was empty, and she stood for a moment, straining her ears to catch the suggestion of any further movement. She was not particularly given to nervous excitement, had slept in many strange rooms up and down the country without even going through the formality of looking in the wardrobe in search of marauders. But this was different. She was not going to have people shuffling about outside her door without knowing the reason why.

  Grasping the candlestick, she crept to the door, and suddenly flung it open. As far as she could see, there was nothing at all outside. She stepped into the passage, peering left and right, but it appeared to be empty. Neither could she hear anything, except the creaking noises of an old house beset by a high wind. Baffled, she went as far as the staircase, looked carefully down and up, saw nothing, heard nothing unusual, and returned slowly to her room, on the threshold of which she paused. On the left and right were other rooms the doors of which proved to be locked. And it was only then that she made a survey of the floor, and discovered that the threadbare corridor carpet was laid just as far as her door and not an inch beyond, so that the footsteps of anyone approaching from the other side would be heard upon the polished flooring, to become instantly muffled when they reached the carpet.

  So relieved was she at this logical explanation, that the shuffler, whoever he might be, was immediately forgiven. Indeed, she felt annoyed over what she considered her own stupidity, particularly when she found that her forehead was damp with sweat, although she was shivering from the intense cold. What utter nonsense, she thought, to be put out by anything so trivial. If she were not careful, she would be imagining all kinds of absurd things.

  Even as she stepped back into her room, she thought she heard a thumping sound. Just to reassure herself, she stopped to listen. She did hear a thumping sound, coming from somewhere above. It was probably a window become unlatched and swinging in the wind. But it did not sound like a window, nor like a door, nor like anything accidental. It was a steady thump, thump, thump, slow and muffled, more like a signal.

  Now this, Dylis decided, was getting more annoying every minute. Did the people in this house never go to bed and stay there? First they shuffled and then they thumped, there was no knowing what they would be up to next. Well, she might be only a stray guest, but she was not going to put up with it. Two could play at thumping. To confirm the enormity of their conduct, she went back into her room, consulted her watch and discovered that it was well past two o’clock in the morning.

  Casting a shrewd glance around, she selected the poker as the time-honoured and most likely weapon of attack or defence. Not that she thought she would need it. A few words of reprimand should be sufficient to quell whoever had disturbed her night’s rest. But it was as well to take no chances, and even a strong-minded woman feels vastly encouraged when her powers of persuasion are enforced by a poker.

  With this aid to combat clutched in her right hand and the candlestick in her left, she swept majestically along the corridor, and up the staircase to the next floor. Arrived there, she paused and listened. The thumping was still going on at short intervals, and appeared to come from the right, beyond a sharp bend in the passage. She made her way thither and found her surmise to be correct, for a dim light showed beneath one of the closed doors and from here the thumping undoubtedly emanated. She rapped softly upon the panelling and waited. The thumping ceased, and a man’s voice, weak and throaty, called:

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  He sounded singularly out of temper. She entered, to discover a large bedroom, furnished in antiquated style, with a vast four-poster bed predominating. The remains of a fire smouldered in the grate, and in the bed, partially propped up by pillows, lay an elderly man with nearly white hair, a dressing-gown wrapped about his shoulders, his thin hands playing a nervous tattoo upon the coverlet. Beside the bed was a small table, on which reposed a lighted oil lamp, heavily shaded, an array of bottles and medicine glasses, and a walking stick, the top of which was swathed in fabric. The last item Dylis had no difficulty in identifying as that most likely to be used for thumping purposes. The elderly gentleman would, she thought, be Mr Warner Brown. The poker in her hand had become not only redundant, but frankly ridiculous. She stood just inside the room, trying to think of something to say. Mr Brown saved her the trouble by demanding:

  ‘Who the devil are you? I want Ledgrove.’

  That, at least, gave her an opening. She moved nearer, hoping she did not look too much like a bad dream, and began:

  ‘I’m Dylis Hughes. I’m staying here the night, and I heard you thumping, so I came up to see what it was all about.’

  ‘Never heard of you,’ he interrupted. ‘Are you a friend of my wife?’

  ‘Well, in a way. But you see …’

  ‘Go away and leave me alone. My neck aches and I can’t sleep. I want Ledgrove. Where is he?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But I’ll find him for you, if you’ll tell me where he’s likely to be.’

  ‘In his room, of course. Next door. Where else would he be?’

  ‘I’ll go and call him,’ she said, and went quickly to the door. She had no wish to be involved in an argument with a sick man in the early hours of the morning. Although, upon consideration, Mr Brown did not look so very sick, nothing like Theresa had said. His face was pale and rather haggard, his eyes extraordinarily dark like those of Inigo. But he seemed to be in full command of his senses. She went out, and found that to the left was a bathroom and to the right a room with the door ajar. She knocked, and receiving no reply, took a few steps inside and looked round. It was a very ordinary room, plainly furnished and apparently lacking an occupant. The bed had obviously not been slept in, but in this room, too, a small fire burned in the grate. She looked beneath the bed, and in all possible places of hiding, for she was beginning to believe that the inmates of Wintry Wold were not bound by normal rules of conduct. She returned next door to announce:

  ‘I’m sorry, but your valet is not in his room. Where else might he be?’

  Mr Brown ran a hand over his hair and looked perplexed.

  ‘How the devil do I know? He’s never left his room before, not to my knowledge. When I want anything, I thump, and in he comes.’

  She thought now that the missing valet was probably responsible for the shuffling. He must have gone down for something or other, but if so, he was a long time returning. Perhaps he was down in the kitchen, making himself a pot of tea. Playing watchdog to Mr Brown must be an arduous business. She asked diffidently:

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ the invalid said morosely. ‘Something woke me. All these noises, people coming and going. Who are you? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  She placed the candlestick and the poker on the ground and sat down on the edge of his bed. She was getting tired of being asked that question. Even though he were sick, there was no need to be so crotchety about everything.

  ‘I can’t sleep, either,’ she said. ‘First I heard someone shuffling past my door, or rather, they seemed to get stuck halfway, and I went out to see who it was. Then I heard you thumping … I can’t imagine ever getting to sleep again. I’ve already told you who I am. I came with your nephew, Inigo …’

  ‘You did what? Why wasn’t I told? Where is he? I knew it, I knew it all the time. When I sent Ledgrove … Did he get my letter? Where is he, I say? Go and fetch him.’

  ‘It’s gone two o’clock,’ Dylis said. ‘I expect he’s asleep.’

  Mr Brown leaned forward, peering at her with an expression between resolution and appeal.

  ‘Now listen, young woman. This is a serious affair. Did you, or did you not, come here with my nephew?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Well … he’s big, with dark hair and eyes, something like yours, and he laughs
a lot, and he’s got a sort of cleft in his chin. He likes snow, and he lives in Switzerland …’

  ‘Good enough. That’s him all right. Did he get the letter I sent him to the Playfair Hotel in London?’

  ‘I don’t know about the hotel, but he did mention something about a letter. You asked him to come along and bring a friend.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mr Brown’s eyes gleamed with more excitement than the occasion seemed to warrant. ‘And you’re the friend. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, in a way. But …’

  ‘Good. Then go and fetch him.’

  ‘Now look, Mr Brown. It’s past two o’clock in the morning and everyone’s asleep.’

  ‘They’re not, I tell you. If they were I shouldn’t be so restless. You’re not asleep and I’m not asleep and Ledgrove isn’t asleep, and there are a good many other people not asleep if all this clammering and hammering is anything to go by. Now you go and get my nephew and come straight back here. I’ve got to see him immediately. There’s not a moment to lose.’

  He must be mad, Dylis thought, or at least delirious. What in the world could he want to discuss with Inigo at this hour? Perhaps Theresa was right, after all, in not wanting him to be excited. Yet his eyes, although bright, did not look like those of a man whose mind was wandering. Whatever the reason for his strange request, perhaps it would be as well to humour him.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said, and her heart contracted a little when she saw his expression of gratitude. Retrieving her candlestick and poker, for she had no way of knowing what lunatic she might meet on the way down, she left him and went on her mission as quickly as she could without danger of tripping over loose bits of carpet and odd stairs scattered about the passages. It was not until she had reached the floor below that it occurred to her she had no idea as to which room Inigo occupied. He might be anywhere either on this floor or the one above. She was certain now that neither he nor Theresa had mentioned it. She could hardly go stumbling into each of the rooms to find out, nor did she favour the course of promenading the passages with the cry, ‘Calling Mr Brown.’ Yet somebody ought to take over the responsibility. She did not see why, as a guest, she should be saddled with the whims of an invalid. It was really Theresa’s job, but again, where was she? She had said that she might snatch an hour or so. It seemed as if she were prepared to snatch the whole night, and at Dylis’s expense, into the bargain. She had not explained in which part of the house she was accustomed to sleep. Surely above, somewhere near her husband? But Mr Brown had not asked to see his wife, he wanted to see his nephew.

  There remained Ledgrove. Now there was a man who ought to be able to help her. But finding him would entail a search of the whole house, and where would she begin? The bathrooms? She investigated those and found them empty. The kitchen? She made her way to the back staircase leading direct to the servants’ quarters and peered down. All was dark below, but that was nothing to go by. Ledgrove might be in the kitchen with the door closed. Treading carefully, for this way was new to her, she went down and began her search, half expecting to see the man in the driver’s cap still sitting at the table. But the room was silent and empty, the kitchener remained warm and the boiler hot, having been stoked for the night. The cigarette-ends had been removed, the washing-up cleared away, the whole place looking as if it belonged to a thoroughly well-ordered establishment.

  She stood for a few minutes thinking, warming herself by the boiler. The present whereabouts of Ledgrove was a mystery which she did not feel disposed to probe further. She had done what she could, and had no intention of spending the rest of the night searching odd corners. Perhaps she had missed him on the way down, and he had since returned to Mr Brown’s bedside, in which case she was certainly wasting her time. And this house was too full of rustling and creaking and rattling noises to encourage even the stoutest spirits towards any nocturnal adventure that was not strictly necessary.

  Returning to the floor above, it came to her that if Ledgrove had not yet put in an appearance, it might be as well to try and get the restive invalid to sleep. She would then feel justified in getting back as quickly as possible to the solace of her own bed, and in the morning Inigo could take over his own responsibilities. She was beginning to feel strong resentment towards that young man for daring to sleep, and soundly she had no doubt, while she was left alone to work out circumstances which were really no concern of hers. True, she had earlier offered to take turn in sitting with Mr Brown, but only because Theresa had emphasised the seriousness of his illness. Now, it seemed, he could be left for long intervals to the attention of anyone who might be about.

  As for Theresa … Dylis directed towards her hostess some very hard thoughts as she went back to her own room, and withstanding the temptation to leap straight into bed, opened her sample case and selected a bottle of Necktar. If she could relieve the pain of which Mr Brown complained, he might be persuaded to sleep the more easily. Abandoning the poker and its implications in favour of the role of ministering angel, she left her room once more with some misgiving, for it seemed to her that the atmosphere was getting colder, if that were possible.

  Ledgrove had not returned, she found upon reaching the sanctuary of Mr Brown’s apartment. The latter was lying back with eyes closed when she entered, but on hearing the rustle of her movements he sat upright with some force, and demanded:

  ‘Have you got him? Where is he?’

  She smiled, in spite of her rising irritability with the whole episode. Anyone would think that she carried Inigo round in her pocket, ready to be produced on request.

  ‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said. ‘When I got downstairs I found I didn’t know which room he has. Of course, I could have hammered on all the doors, but it would mean disturbing the whole house.’

  Mr Brown appeared to be thinking about that, and encouraged by his quietness she moved round to the other side of the room, put the candlestick upon the floor and the bottle of oil on the table. In the additional light he looked a little less haggard, but his eyes and hands were still restless. He said, half to himself:

  ‘No, that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.’

  She did not know whether he were referring to the disturbance of the house or to some other plan he had been contemplating. He added, looking up at her:

  ‘And you didn’t see Ledgrove? Nor anyone else?’

  ‘Not a soul, I’m afraid. I went down as far as the kitchen, too.’

  ‘Everything quiet, eh?’

  ‘Apart from rattling doors and windows, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ The intensity of feeling he put into that one word caused her a vague feeling of discomfort. What had he imagined she might find downstairs, if anything? She glanced across at the closed bedroom door, shrouded in shadow, and almost wished that she had taken the precaution of locking it. No, that would not do. She must not allow herself to be infected by the morbid fancies of an invalid. It was, she supposed, the result of a disturbed sleep, the strangeness of her surroundings, and this wretched lamp and candlelight, the unreal quality of which gave her the feeling that she and the man sitting up in bed were completely cut off from the normal world. She suggested, trying to sound bright and easy:

  ‘If you can tell me where I might find Mrs Brown, I could call her and perhaps she could sit with you for a while?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t want her disturbed if she’s sleeping. Ledgrove will be back in a minute. He’s bound to be back. Can’t think what’s keeping him.’ He was silent again, and then suddenly reaching out a hand towards her, he asked, ‘Young lady, will you promise me something?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Bring my nephew to me first thing in the morning. First thing, you understand? No delays. Find him and tell him I must see him immediately. It will be better that way, better than getting him up in the night. You promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ she said. ‘Now, how about you getting some sleep?’

  ‘If only I could,’ he said patheti
cally. ‘If it weren’t for this infernal pain in my neck … Ledgrove knows what to do for it. Where is he?’

  That gave Dylis her cue. With quiet confidence she sat down on the edge of his bed, and began to tell him, in her soothing, let-me-help-you voice, of the beneficial properties of Necktar, a sample bottle of which, by miraculous foresight, she happened to have beside her on the table. He listened at first in some surprise, then gradually, as she became more eloquent, the drawn anxiety of his heavy brows relaxed a little, and he regarded her with new interest. And when, with a competent gesture, she rolled up her sleeves and uncorked the bottle, preparatory to giving a practical demonstration, he submitted meekly, unwound himself from the dressing-gown beneath which he wore an old-fashioned night shirt, and allowed her to massage his neck with the precious oil, the smell of which, as she pointed out, was unusually fragrant to the nostrils. Indeed, he was forced to admit, when she had completed her ministrations, that her claims were not unjustified, for whatever the curative properties of the oil, her skill as a masseuse was considerable. He said, as he wrapped himself round again and leaned back upon the pillows,

  ‘That’s better. Yes, that certainly does feel better. Who did you say you are?’

  She told him for the third time, and he nodded as if he had at last absorbed the information.

  ‘How well do you know my nephew?’

  ‘As well as I ever shall, probably. I only met him tonight.’

  ‘Only tonight? I thought you said you were a friend of his? You did say you came here with him?’ He looked at her reproachfully, and with just a touch of suspicion.

  ‘So I did.’ She recounted briefly her meeting with Inigo, and the circumstances of their arrival at Wintry Wold. He eyed her intently as he listened. He said then:

  ‘Good enough. It’s a pity you’re not a man, though. I thought he’d bring a man.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d think, and I told him so, but it didn’t make any difference.’