Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  A faint and familiar perfume had reached her nostrils, and glad to concentrate on anything that would turn her thoughts elsewhere, she made an effort to analyse it. Of course, it was the oil with which she had soothed away the pain in his neck. What had she done with the bottle? She frowned, trying to recall her actions, finding the memory blurred. She had not taken it back to her room. No, she had left it on the table. She went round to the other side of the bed and carefully inspected the medicine bottles and other items. The oil was not there, but the unpolished wood of the table had a fresh and pungently smelling stain of grease upon it, as if the bottle had been overturned. Someone must have upset it, and put it somewhere. Theresa, possibly. But if so, she must surely know that someone other than Ledgrove had been with her husband last night? Would she have guessed who that person was? Dylis tried hard to recollect, but could not be sure whether she had told Theresa the nature of her business. She rather thought not. In any case, it was more likely that Ledgrove had found the bottle. She searched everywhere, including the medicine chest, but could see no trace of it other than the stain upon the table.

  It came to her then that this was leading nowhere. From starting out to investigate a cry in the corridor, she had closeted herself with a man who was past telling anything, and become involved in a search for something that did not matter much one way or the other. What did matter was that somewhere in the house was the man who had uttered that disturbing sound, and Mr Ashley, whose behaviour was extraordinary, to say the least. Unless he, too, had heard the sound, and had come up here from the same motives as herself. But why should he be wearing his overcoat, gloves and muffler? Surely it was not so cold in his room that he went to bed fully dressed?

  She glanced again about the room, but could see nothing that might interest a stranger. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. She had the uncanny feeling then that perhaps he and she were not the only ones who had visited Mr Brown that night. Someone had lighted the lamp. Alert now, she made a thorough search of all likely places of concealment, but drew a complete blank.

  With stealth matching that of Mr Ashley, she left that ice-cold room, and turned her attention to those on either side. Ledgrove’s room was just as she had seen it last night. So was the bathroom. Yet a new suspicion was beginning to invade the confusion of her thoughts. She must tell someone about this. If she kept it to herself any longer, she would begin to think she had gone crazy.

  She had no difficulty in locating Inigo’s room. It was very much isolated, set at an odd angle on the floor below near the back staircase. She had passed it on her way up. She might have awakened him then, had she thought about it. Well, she could not think of everything. She tapped softly on the door and waited. She tapped louder, and waited again. She bent down and called through the keyhole:

  ‘Inigo! Are you there?’

  Of course he must be there. Where else was he likely to be? She was getting into the habit of saying the most insane things. It must be due to the lack of sleep. Yet she was startled when the door was flung violently open, and Inigo, in pyjamas and with bare feet, shot past her and began to dash madly up the corridor. She hissed after him:

  ‘Inigo! What do you think you’re doing?’

  In the light of her two torches, he looked fantastic. At the sound of her voice, he swerved, turned and came slowly back, rubbing a hand over his face and blinking. He said sleepily, ‘Is that you, Dyl? I was having a nightmare. I thought I was in a coffin, and someone was knocking nails into it.’

  ‘That was me knocking on the door. I wanted to talk to you. But for heaven’s sake go in and put something on. You’ll catch pneumonia.’

  ‘So will you,’ he said. ‘You’re shaking with cold.’

  ‘I’m not cold. I’m just upset.’

  ‘Why, couldn’t you sleep?’ He had taken her advice and returned to his room, and she followed, closing the door. He lighted the candles that stood beside his bed, thrust his feet into slippers, and wrapped himself in a warm dressing-gown.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘What’s more, I’m not the only person in this house suffering with insomnia.’

  ‘No? Well, let’s hear about it. But you mustn’t catch cold. Every time I get out of bed in this room I feel I’m in cold storage. Have an eiderdown.’

  He took it from the bed and wrapped it round her and she sat down in a wicker chair and accepted the cigarette he offered. By the number of ends piled up in the ashtray on the table, it appeared that he, too, had not been sleeping well. He still looked only half awake as he seated himself on the edge of the bed, and asked:

  ‘What’s the idea of the two torches? Have you been hunting ghosts again?’

  ‘I found one of them on the floor of the passage outside my room.’

  ‘What, a ghost?’

  ‘No, a torch. This small one. Look, Inigo, I didn’t come here knocking you up to try and make you laugh. It was about ten past two, and I hadn’t been to sleep, and I heard a cry out in the passage …’

  ‘What sort of cry?’

  ‘Well, it was kind of sharp, not very loud, and broke off suddenly, rather as if someone had been stabbed in the back.’

  ‘Did you ever know anyone who was stabbed in the back?’

  ‘Of course not. But I’ve a certain amount of imagination.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, Dyl. You’ve a lot of imagination, and that’s probably why you can’t sleep.’

  ‘But I can sleep,’ she said, with some indignation. ‘In an ordinary house I can outsleep anyone. But if you think I just sit up at night imagining things, then there’s no point in discussing it further.’

  ‘Now don’t get belligerent,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought your nerves might be on edge, that’s all.’

  ‘I never had any nerves until I came here. Do you want to hear this story or not?’

  ‘Yes, please. If people are crying out loud in the corridors, I suppose I should take an intelligent interest.’

  Already she had forgiven him for his veiled scepticism. It did sound rather tall, put into so many words, and she was beginning to doubt her own common sense, until she came to the part about Mr Ashley; She recounted that with triumph. But she was disappointed when Inigo asked, regarding her in perplexity:

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘I should think that was obvious. You’d better see Ashley and ask him what he was doing up there.’

  ‘But it was you who saw him. Why didn’t you ask him?’

  She found that difficult to answer. Sitting here in the dim candlelight, with Inigo watching her, puzzled and concerned, her nocturnal wanderings seemed ridiculous. And his concern, she felt, was entirely for herself, not in the least connected with anything that might be happening in the house. Impossible to explain the fear that had come over her when she had seen the light beneath Mr Brown’s door, or the moment of panic that had caused her to hide in the shadows when she saw that door open, and Ashley emerge. She did not remember ever being afraid of anything before, and she was not going to admit it now, especially in face of Inigo’s unhelpful attitude. She knew that in similar circumstances she might have taken the same view, but the knowledge did nothing to assuage her ruffled feelings. She began to be annoyed with him again. She said:

  ‘It’s not my house. If I’d asked him what he was doing, there was no reason why he shouldn’t ask me the same thing.’

  ‘That’s just what I mean. Then you could have cleared it up nicely between you.’

  ‘And left you to sleep in peace,’ she said bitterly. ‘But it still wouldn’t have explained the man in the dressing-gown who dropped his torch, if it was his torch, nor the sound I heard, nor the light being on upstairs …’

  ‘I can answer that one. Theresa told me she had left the lamp alight. She said it seemed so cold and dark up there. As for the man in the dressing-gown, there are plenty of people it might have been. Howe or his secretary, Charlie Best, one of the servants, they all sleep on this
floor.’

  ‘It didn’t look like any of them.’

  ‘But you said you weren’t near enough to see clearly.’

  ‘I wasn’t. But he was stumbling along, all huddled up, groping his way by the wall. And on the floor was the torch he’d dropped, or someone had dropped, and why should he hurry off like that when I shone a light on him?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of a woman seeing him in his dressing-gown. Some men are funny like that.’

  ‘And a lot of them aren’t,’ Dylis retorted. ‘Besides, he couldn’t have known I was a woman, because I was behind the light. Do you mean to say you’re just going to sit there and let people run about the house making noises, without doing anything about it?’

  ‘What do you suggest? That I go and knock up everyone and ask them if they’re all right?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For one thing, they’d think I was crazy.’

  ‘Not if it turned out that one of them wasn’t all right.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette-end, and sat staring ahead of him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing-gown. She could have screamed at his placidity. And then she recalled something his uncle had said, something about he and Inigo being too tolerant, until they found people out. That was all very well in the ordinary way of things, but what was the use of sitting around being tolerant, and finding out too late? She was further exasperated when he said:

  ‘Couldn’t it have been Ashley? The one who cried out, I mean? He might have been having a nightmare, like me, and …’

  ‘The man I saw was wearing a dressing-gown,’ she said. ‘A dark one of some kind, while Ashley had on an overcoat, a scarf and gloves. You may think I’m graduating for the nuthouse, but nothing will convince me that he dashed back to his room and changed, before going upstairs. Why should he?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I’ll ask him tomorrow, if you insist upon it. Though I can’t pretend I like it. I suppose, being in the hotel business, I’m used to people having funny ways. Back home, if guests wander about at night we don’t take much notice.’

  ‘This isn’t an hotel, it’s a house.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not my house.’

  ‘How do you know it isn’t? Did Theresa say anything about a will?’

  Ordinarily it would never have occurred to her to ask so blunt a question. But she was not feeling ordinary. She felt unreal, unnerved, and possessed of a longing to rouse Inigo to some kind of action. But she experienced a flicker of remorse when he turned melancholy eyes towards her.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We haven’t discussed anything like that. We’ve both been feeling too down to go into the material side of it. I naturally assumed that his estate, such as it is, has been left to her. Not that it matters. I wouldn’t want any of it, and neither would my father.’

  ‘But he was fond of you,’ Dylis persisted. ‘And he wanted specially to see you about something. He said so.’

  ‘Suppose he did? Where is all this leading us now?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. It’s been at the back of my mind all the time, and now it’s come to the front. I don’t think your uncle died naturally.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said I don’t think he died naturally. In fact, I think he was murdered.’

  Inigo did not move. He remained sitting there and staring at her, and with neither of them speaking the silence of the house crept in and enveloped them. Then mechanically he reached out for another cigarette and lighted it. He asked, between the first few inhalations:

  ‘Is there anything you know that I don’t, anything you haven’t told me?’

  ‘No, not as far as I can remember. I’ve nothing definite to go on, nothing that any reasonable person would regard as evidence. But I’m not feeling reasonable. Since this morning, or rather yesterday morning, I’ve had this idea and tried to argue it away, but it would keep coming back, until it’s become a certainty.’

  ‘But who would do a thing like that, assuming it were possible?’

  ‘I told you I’ve nothing definite to go upon. But it seems to me that Theresa is not quite the little angel she would have you believe.’

  ‘Theresa? But she’s so small.’ It occurred to both of them at the same time that it was her lack of physical strength he had queried, not her will to murder. He added hastily, ‘It’s preposterous, anyway. Why should she want to kill the old man?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unless he was going to alter his will in your favour.’

  ‘But apart from this property and the other, it must have been such a small amount he had to leave.’

  ‘If you read the newspapers, you ought to know that people commit murder for less than that.’

  ‘He was a sick man. He probably wouldn’t have lived so very much longer. And how would it be done? You’ve seen him tonight. He looked perfectly normal, didn’t he?’

  ‘How do I know? I haven’t made a study of it. A doctor would be able to tell, I expect.’

  ‘Exactly. And Theresa has sent for the doctor. So that rules that out.’

  ‘Does it? Suppose Ledgrove didn’t go for the doctor? We’ve only her word for it. And by the look of things, if he did start out he certainly didn’t get there.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t go, where is he?’

  ‘Say I’m mad if you like, but I’ve a strong feeling he’s somewhere in this house. It’s big enough. And I’ve another feeling, though less strong, that it was Ledgrove I saw staggering about in the corridor.’

  ‘You and your feelings,’ he said, and got up and began to pace to and fro. ‘I’m willing to believe that somebody’s mad, and I’m not sure that it couldn’t be me. This is worse than my nightmare. What makes you think it might have been Ledgrove careering about in a dressing-gown?’

  ‘Because from what I saw of him the first night I was here, he’s not exactly young and could look old in a poor light, and he stoops rather.’

  ‘But why should he cry out?’

  ‘I don’t know. Unless someone was after him and attacked him in the dark. Or perhaps he’s gone mad, or was mad all the time. He let out a very strange noise as he disappeared. And according to Theresa, it was he who found your uncle dead, although I left him alive only half an hour before.’

  ‘But why …?’ Inigo paused, and stood looking down at her in exasperation. ‘Dylis, you’re fantastic. I’m not going to listen to any more of this, not tonight. I’m going to take you straight back to your room and you’re going to sleep. And we’ll discuss it all tomorrow, if there’s anything to discuss. First thing I shall drive over and get that doctor …’

  ‘And right beside you will be Dylis Hughes. So far I’ve played the lone wolf and got a kick out of it, but Wintry Wold has done something to my nervous system.’

  ‘Right. You come along, too. I was going to suggest it anyway. We’ll pick up the doctor and Ledgrove …’

  ‘Providing he’s there.’

  ‘If he’s not, no doubt it will mean he’s gone into a drift or had some sort of accident, poor devil. In that case we’ll have to search for him.’

  ‘I should start with the house,’ Dylis said.

  ‘Before we follow up any of your theories, we’ll see what the doctor has to say.’

  ‘I know. And his decision will be final and legally binding. But don’t be surprised if it all turns out differently to how you expect. What about Ashley?’

  ‘I was coming to him. What shall I say? That you were hiding on the landing and consider that he was loitering there with felonious intent?’

  ‘Say anything you like, or nothing at all.’ She rose abruptly, flung the eiderdown upon the bed and walked to the door. ‘But if you don’t like hearing horror stories, you shouldn’t invite people to wake you up in the night.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, as she was on her way out. ‘I’m coming along, too.’

  ‘It’s all right, thanks. I know my way. If ever Theresa wants to open this as a show place, I’ll be gla
d to act as a guide.’

  ‘You’re being nasty,’ he said, following her out into the passage. ‘But I’m coming along to see fair play just the same. This fiend in a dressing-gown might take it into his head to whistle through his teeth or tweak your ear. You can’t be sure.’

  In injured silence she allowed him to accompany her back to her room, subduing the natural urge to point out to him the exact spot where she had found the torch and the corner where the disturber of rest had disappeared. She opened her door and thanked him coldly and was turning away, when he caught her nearest hand and held it for a moment between his own. He said:

  ‘I’m sorry if you don’t like me any more, Dyl, but I can’t help being me.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said, and snatched her hand away. But she smiled a little after she had closed the door upon him, and it was only when she was preparing to get back into bed, that she was once more assailed by a sense of misgiving. Suppose they started making noises in the corridor again? Without asking herself specifically whom she meant by ‘they’, she hastily procured a chair and wedged it beneath the doorhandle, and upon it she placed a miscellaneous collection of toilet articles, all of which could be relied upon to make a fine clatter should anyone attempt to intrude upon her.

  Somewhat ashamed of this action, for she had never done such a thing before, she blew out the candles, and then, upon impulse, went to the window, drew back the curtains and peered out. It was another dark night, dark and heavy with silence. She could not even make out the nearest objects in the grounds beyond. Impossible to believe that in a few hours it would be daylight. That, at least, would be a comfort. The whole character of the place seemed to change with the dawn.

  She was moving away when her attention was caught and held by a pin-point of light that had suddenly appeared some way off to the left. It was bobbing up and down spasmodically, as if held by someone whose progress was anything but smooth. She watched for a while, fascinated. The snow would still be thick out there. They had only cleared it in front and along the driveway. Again she felt triumphant and inclined to rush straight back to Inigo. But caution stayed her. By the time she had aroused him from his bed, the light would, in all probability, have disappeared, and he would have no doubt then that she was suffering from hallucinations. Better to go down and investigate herself. Better still, on second thoughts, to ignore it and turn in to bed. She was tired enough, and why should she spend her nights trying to unravel mysteries which Inigo did not consider mysteries at all? She would not even bother to mention this one, since he was so little interested. The light had disappeared now. She let the curtain fall back into position, yawned, and felt her way to the bed. It was wonderful to get beneath the warmth of the blankets, to pile the quilt on top and to stretch out in comfort. Let them all yell their heads off. She was not going to turn out again. She fell asleep.