Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. He always was an impulsive youngster. Friendly and impulsive. Like me. Easily taken in, too tolerant. We’re anybody’s fools until we find them out. Then we’re slow to forgive. Sometimes we never get over it.’

  He had closed his eyes, and spoke so softly she had to bend her head to catch the words. She took his hand and put a finger on the pulse. It was slow but regular. She wondered just how rational or otherwise his mental state might be. His fingers closed round hers, and he asked:

  ‘You’ve met my wife? What do you think of her?’

  ‘Well …’ It was a difficult question to answer. So far, her opinion of Mrs Brown had not reached any great height. On the other hand, if that enigmatical young woman had spent many nights like this, some of her peculiar ways might be excused. Caution and a little temporising seemed to be indicated. ‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Is she?’

  A strange remark, Dylis thought, coming from the man who had married her. He opened his eyes for a moment, and she saw in them such a terrible sadness that she was startled. But only for a moment, before he closed them again and appeared to be drifting off to sleep. She sat very still, hoping he had settled down for the night, but just as she thought he really was asleep, he murmured:

  ‘All men are fools. I shall be glad when it’s over.’

  She felt inclined to endorse his sentiments, but remained silent, and the room became so quiet, apart from the moaning of the wind outside, it was almost oppressive. Only then did she become conscious of the old-fashioned clock upon the mantelpiece, solemnly ticking the minutes away. Its hands indicated 3.15 a.m. A whole hour of her sleep gone, an hour spent chasing ghosts and shadows. But she no longer felt restless or irritable. A strange sympathy seemed to flow between her and the man whose breathing was gradually developing into that of the contented sleeper.

  She went on sitting there for another fifteen minutes, but there was still no sign of Ledgrove. Unless he were busy rifling the wine or whisky decanters, she could not imagine where he might be. She had not thought it necessary to carry her investigations as far as the drawing-room. Her own eyes were beginning to close with fatigue, she longed for the warmth and comfort of her bed.

  She rose at last, gently disengaged her hand, and seeing that Mr Brown continued to sleep undisturbed, she turned the wick of the oil lamp low, picked up her candlestick and retreated to the door. He looked very peaceful now. He ought to sleep for hours. With a last reassuring look at him, she went out, closing the door quietly, and with some haste negotiated the stairs and regained the security of her room.

  Her bed was cold, and the hot water bottle no longer radiated much in the way of comfort. So that it was some time before she recaptured any degree of relaxation, and when she did achieve the solace of sleep, it was peopled by haunting fantasy.

  Chapter V

  The wind had dropped by the time Dylis awoke later in the morning. A ghostly light came filtering round the edges of the drawn curtains, and reaching out for her watch she discovered that it was just after eight o’clock. She viewed with much reluctance the prospect of rising, particularly in relation to the night’s events, which she considered a good enough excuse to remain in bed for a while longer. Then remembering loyally that disturbances or no, Compton, Webber and Hughes must go on, she rose and put on her dressing-gown and slippers, drawing in her breath sharply at contact with the freezing atmosphere of her room.

  With the cessation of the wind, the house had abandoned its groaning and creaking noises, but there were vague sounds denoting that she was not the only one astir. In the light of morning, these seemed natural enough, and with her thoughts now turned to her own affairs, an investigation of current weather conditions was imperative.

  She walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Light flooded in, light of a blinding, bluish-whiteness, and the scene outside was awe-inspiring. Her room was in the rear of the house, and from her vantage place she looked down upon a vast undulating mass of snow, beneath which lawns and paths and flower beds had completely disappeared, and the smaller shrubs and outhouses were almost buried. An enormous barn, some fifteen feet high, rose darkly against the white background, the snow massed in a steep bank against its grey stone walls. And in the distance, dwarfing the surrounding heights, towered a hill of immense proportions, rugged and sombre, despite its snowy outline, looking like a threat to the comparatively small belt of cultivation about Wintry Wold. This Dylis took to be Deathleap Sear, and standing there in contemplation it occurred to her forcibly that the name was not without point. A wild and desolate spot, mocking the habitations of man.

  Her hands being in imminent danger of freezing, she gathered up her toilet requisites and made all speed to the nearest bathroom. It had ceased snowing for the time being, that was something. She had better make plans for her departure before it started again. First she must get bathed and dressed, then find Inigo and tell him of his uncle’s request. After which her own affairs could take precedence.

  Enjoying the delightful heat of the water, she congratulated herself on having refrained from arousing her fellow inmates from their beds the previous night. For in the prosaic light of morning, Wintry Wold had lost much of its sinister aspect, and appeared merely as a large, shabby old house, very much neglected. The bathroom, she observed, was not over-clean. A good scouring would do it the world of good. But she had other and better things to tackle than the cleaning of bathrooms. The memory of her poor old car left out in the cold all night worried her not a little. Still, she was only one of many. Local garages would probably find themselves inundated with anxious travellers, as soon as they opened their doors this morning.

  She felt refreshed and at ease with herself as she left the shelter of the bathroom to make a rapid return journey. But round the first bend in the passage she encountered Inigo, who came racing up the main stairs, fully-dressed and with a ready smile at sight of her. He said:

  ‘Hallo. I was just coming to see if you were awake and wanting tea or anything. Our autocratic servants have never heard of room service. Was the water hot for your bath? I had one earlier, in fact I was bathed and shaved by seven-thirty. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘If you’ll give me time to get my mind functioning I’ll tell you,’ Dylis said. ‘I should certainly like some tea, the water was excellent for my bath, and I did not sleep well. Did you?’

  ‘Perfectly, thanks. What was wrong with you?’

  ‘Before we go any farther, where did you sleep last night?’

  ‘Same room as I used to have, just at the top of the back staircase. I switched my things over, with Theresa’s permission. I like it there. Why?’

  ‘Only that in the night, or rather early this morning, I was charging about the house trying to find you.’

  He burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me for a long time. Why didn’t you stand and shout? I’d have come like a shot.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she said, suddenly annoyed with him again. He looked so fresh and pleased with himself. ‘Do try and be serious for a moment. The fact is …’

  She had glimpsed Theresa descending the stairs, and instinctively paused, sensing that a description of her nocturnal adventures might not meet with the approval of her hostess. Inigo turned and looked up, and they both stared in consternation. For Theresa, clad in a long black velvet housecoat with a jacket to match, was clutching the balustrade as if for support and dabbing at her eyes with a black chiffon handkerchief. On the bottom stair she came to a halt and looked at them uncertainly. She was very pale, her long curls dishevelled and even more childish in their disarray. She appeared to take a grip on herself then, and said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Inigo, that your uncle is dead.’

  There followed a silence, during which they continued to stare their incredulity. Dylis was the first to recover, partly because her mind refused to accept
the bald statement. She burst out:

  ‘But surely that’s impossible? He was all right …’ Again she paused, purely by instinct. But Theresa did not apparently notice anything unusual in her remark. She said indifferently:

  ‘He was all right last night, I know. At least he seemed so. He was asking for food. But, of course, that’s not always a good sign.’

  Inigo was looking very distressed. From its former lightheadedness, his face had taken on an expression of deep anxiety, an expression that reminded Dylis of his uncle. He asked:

  ‘But how on earth did it happen? I know he was pretty bad, but surely people don’t just die off like that?’

  Theresa dabbed at her eyes again, a gesture which Dylis viewed with a certain suspicion, for her eyes, though moist, were not overflowing with tears.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know what to think. I sat up with him the first part of the night, after all, as I couldn’t sleep, and when I went to bed Ledgrove took over. Warner was sleeping then, and looked so very peaceful, I thought there could be no harm in leaving him. And I was so tired, absolutely exhausted. Ledgrove had great difficulty in waking me. He came to my room about four o’clock this morning, or a little after, I think it was, and told me that the Master had passed away in his sleep. You can imagine my absolute horror. If only I’d been awake, I might have been able to do something. Or if not that, at least I should have been with him.’

  Here she paused and swayed a little, and Inigo put out a hand to steady her, while Dylis asked:

  ‘When did Ledgrove first notice he’d gone? Was he actually sitting with him when it happened?’

  ‘No … no, I don’t think he was. My mind is so confused I can’t think clearly, but I believe Ledgrove said he left my husband’s room for a while, as he was sleeping, and when he returned …’ She broke down again, and Dylis, vastly uncomfortable, tried to force her doubts to the back of her mind. But they would keep crowding back, and she felt bound to enquire:

  ‘Where is he now? Ledgrove, I mean.’

  ‘He’s gone to fetch the doctor. He started before it was light. Oh, I know it wasn’t a sensible thing to do. I told him it would be much better to wait until the doctor arrived. He said he would come today, if he possibly could. But Ledgrove was so fond of his master and so very upset, and nothing would stop him.’

  ‘And is that all Ledgrove had to say?’ Dylis persisted.

  ‘Please, not now, my dear. I don’t feel I can discuss it further. This is a terrible blow to me.’

  From her pocket she brought a small smelling-salts bottle and sniffed at it delicately. Inigo asked:

  ‘May I go up?’

  ‘But of course, dear. I’ll go with you.’

  He looked at Dylis enquiringly, but she shook her head. She had sustained too much of a shock to feel capable of staring into the dead face of Mr Brown, whom she had seen so recently alive. Furthermore, she wanted time to think. She watched them ascending the stairs, Theresa leaning on Inigo’s arm, and heard her say:

  ‘Of course, he was not a young man, and he was seriously weakened by illness. I suppose a collapse under such circumstances is not so surprising. But the doctor will be able to tell us more …’

  Dylis returned to her room, and began absently to dress. There were several points in this unexpected event that both puzzled and disturbed her. Theresa had said that she sat up with her husband the first part of the night, and then went to bed. That must have been round about two o’clock, for it was past two when Dylis appeared upon the scene. But why, since he was supposed to be taking over, did Ledgrove not sit with the patient instead of shuffling about the house, and where was he all that time while she was with Mr Brown?

  She knew, for a fact, that he had not returned before three thirty, because that was the time when she had left Mr Brown sleeping. Presumably, he had resumed his post of duty between then and four o’clock, at which time he discovered that the invalid was dead, and reported the matter to Theresa. But what had happened in that short interval to cause Mr Brown to die? For she was prepared to take an oath that he was merely sleeping, and that quite comfortably, when she last saw him. She had, of course, heard of people dying in their sleep. Perhaps it came as a shock merely because she had never before experienced anything of the kind. And although her acquaintance with him had been brief, she had liked Mr Brown. She realised that now, and a sense of depression weighed upon her at thought of his sudden departure from life. He had been so eager to see his nephew, and now Inigo was up there, but too late to do him any good.

  She experienced a further pang over the reflection that it had been in her hands to find Inigo before his uncle died. Perhaps the old man had realised he was going, hence the urgency of his request. No, that would not do. He must have expected to live until morning, because he had seemed quite content to wait until then, when she had assured him that everyone was asleep. Startled by the inferences of that conclusion, she slowed down the process of dressing while pondering upon it. But she was ready, and about to leave her room, when Inigo tapped on the door, and asked if he might speak to her.

  ‘Of course, come in,’ she said, and when he entered she saw that his depression matched her own. But she was glad to see him. She wanted to get some of these mysterious details sifted before they became an obsession with her. He said listlessly, ‘Well, that’s that. Theresa says she’s sorry now she didn’t let me see him last night, but how was she to know anything like this would happen? She was right, of course. She was only acting under doctor’s orders. Still, I wish …’

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ Dylis interrupted, ‘I saw your uncle last night, and although I’m not a professional nurse, he looked surprisingly well to me.’

  ‘Now what can you possibly mean by that?’ He regarded her with a somewhat hurt expression, as if he had caught her playing a particularly stupid joke upon him.

  ‘I’m just going to tell you,’ she said, and did, and he flopped down upon the nearest chair and lit a cigarette, and listened with many a dubious shake of his head.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t dream it?’ he asked, when she ended her narrative with her return to bed at three-thirty. ‘It all sounds a bit incredible to me.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of dreaming,’ she retorted, yet trying to exercise patience. ‘What’s more, I can prove it. Your uncle said he had written you a letter. Well, you told me that. But he also said he had sent it to you at the Playfair Hotel, in London, and you didn’t tell me that was where you had been staying, did you?’

  He frowned, thought for a moment, and said: ‘No, I didn’t tell you that. All right, then. So you saw my uncle and he seemed reasonably well and asked to see me. But why in the middle of the night? He couldn’t have felt too good to have asked anything so extraordinary. I know it’s not your fault, but I do wish you’d managed to call me.’

  ‘That’s what I knew you’d say. It’s what I’ve been saying myself, over and over again. But it’s no use now. I couldn’t possibly guess he was going to die so soon. He didn’t look like a dying man. And when I told him I couldn’t find you without arousing the whole house, he was quite reasonable about it, except that he made me promise to bring you to him first thing this morning.’

  He looked up at her as a sudden thought struck him.

  ‘But why didn’t you mention any of this to Theresa?’

  ‘That’s a bit difficult to explain. For one thing, she might think I’d been interfering in her affairs, and somehow I felt I wanted to discuss it with you first. I did think of calling her last night, but your uncle said no, I mustn’t disturb her. And that’s one reason why I don’t think he could have been feeling very ill.’

  ‘But he was expecting Ledgrove,’ Inigo said. ‘He probably thought his valet could do as much for him as Theresa and he knew she needed her rest.’

  ‘That’s just another thing that doesn’t make sense. Where was Ledgrove? Surely if your uncle was as ill as all that
, he wouldn’t have gone off and left him for over an hour. And I’ve just thought of something else. Your uncle didn’t expect that any one should actually sit with him. All he said was that Ledgrove slept next door, and when he wanted him, he thumped.’

  ‘His mind must have been wandering. Anyway, Ledgrove ought to be back presently, and then we can ask him exactly what did happen. Not that it makes any difference now.’ Inigo rose, threw his cigarette end into the empty fireplace, walked to the window, and stared out. ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘I don’t like the idea of Ledgrove having gone off to the doctor alone. The roads must be terrible, if our drive is anything to go by, and he’s getting on in years, Theresa tells me. He might easily slip and break his neck. Why the devil didn’t they get me up, and I’d have gone?’

  ‘Well, why?’ Dylis asked.

  ‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. Theresa said she was so upset she didn’t know what she was doing. Ledgrove insisted on pushing off, with a lamp to light the way, and all she wanted was to be quiet for a while. I can understand that. I was fond of the old boy, too. D’you mind telling me again what he said to you? I’m being an awful nuisance, but apart from the shock of it, there’s something about this business that worries me.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Dylis said. She walked up and down the room, partly to warm her rapidly chilling blood, and partly to aid concentration. Throwing back her mind, she tried to reiterate, as accurately as possible, every detail of her conversation with Mr Brown. But it was not an easy task. At the time, anything he had said had not struck her as being sufficiently important to memorise. The unaccountable movements of Ledgrove and her own desire to get back to bed had been foremost in her thoughts.

  ‘This stuff you used to massage his neck,’ Inigo said. ‘It’s all right, I suppose? He didn’t get cold while you were doing it?’

  Indignation welled up in Dylis then. She could bear any criticism of her own actions. Indeed, she and Inigo had already gone through the routine of self-accusation, supposition, attempted philosophy and ensuing depression common to people full of regret for something unforeseen. But that any aspersion should be cast upon a product of Compton, Webber and Hughes was unthinkable. She told him so, in an icy address lasting some five minutes, at the end of which he said, with the glimmer of a smile: