Another Little Christmas Murder

by Lorna Nicholl Morgan

  ‘It’s nice of you to take so much trouble.’

  She was wondering whether, now that they were out of the way, Inigo might be climbing back into that room for any reason. She was relieved to find Theresa in the kitchen, vaguely poking at the fire, above which the large black kettle was steadily coming to boiling point. Dylis said, and it sounded rather as if she were handing over a prize:

  ‘Here’s Mr Ashley, Theresa. He’s not been feeling well, and could do with a cup of rea. It’s early yet, but I thought …’

  ‘I was just going to make it,’ Theresa said. She had a mink coat draped about her shoulders, and looked like a cinema star posing in her kitchen for the benefit of a photographer. ‘I’ve been to see how they’re getting on. It’s wickedly cold outside.’

  ‘It’s not too warm in here,’ Dylis said, quick to grasp the opportunity. ‘I think I’ll get my coat, too. Will you look after Mr Ashley?’

  Theresa turned, the poker held in one delicate hand. It may only have been coincidence, but her voice did not sound very pleasant as she said:

  ‘Yes, I’ll look after Mr Ashley.’

  Dylis did not stop for further altercation. She returned quickly upstairs, and was in time to meet Inigo on his way down. He had washed and combed his hair, and showed no trace of his recent exertions.

  ‘So much for housebreaking,’ he said. ‘Thanks for holding the fort, Dyl. You were marvellous.’

  ‘I felt like a fool. Did you find anything?’

  ‘I didn’t have much time. As far as I could see, there were no bodies tucked away anywhere. But what was the name of that oil you say disappeared?’

  ‘Quickease?’

  ‘No, the bottle you left up in my uncle’s room. Necktar, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Why?’

  ‘There’s a bottle of that, practically empty, in Ashley’s room. What do you make of that?’

  ‘At first guess I should say he lifted it from your uncle’s bedside table. You didn’t see any sign of the other?’

  ‘No, but as I say, I didn’t have much chance to look. D’you think the man could be a kleptomaniac, or something?’

  ‘Possibly. He said he’d been talking to Mr Howe. What part of the house is his room?’

  ‘A little farther on from yours.’

  ‘He was coming from that direction.’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to ask old Howe if he’s missed anything.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. I’m wondering whether there isn’t something between those two. They weren’t on visiting terms yesterday, and Howe wouldn’t even see Charlie this morning.’ And then, as another thought struck her: ‘Inigo! You don’t think anything can have happened to him, do you?’

  ‘Who, Charlie?’

  ‘No, Mr Howe. It seems funny to me that yesterday he was planning to walk home, and today he won’t leave his room or see anyone.’

  ‘He saw Ashley.’

  ‘We’ve only got his word for that.’

  ‘But what could happen to him? Raddle has the room next door, and he’s been spoon-feeding the old boy all day.’

  ‘So he says. But it looks very queer, all the same.’

  ‘Queer or not, I’ve no intention of climbing along any more window ledges to find out.’

  ‘Nobody asked you to. That was your own idea. But we could knock on his door and ask if he’s all right.’

  ‘And be greeted with one of his delightful speeches? Not me. Let Mr Howe work out his own troubles. I’m going back to the car. Where’s Ashley now?’

  ‘In the kitchen with Theresa.’

  ‘D’you think it safe to leave that man with anybody?’ Inigo asked, beginning to hurry down the stairs. ‘He might be dangerous.’

  ‘So might Theresa,’ Dylis said, following close on his heels. ‘She’s got the poker, and I don’t think she’d hesitate to use it.’

  Inigo, pausing in the hallway to retrieve the overcoat he had left there, remarked in a low voice:

  ‘I shouldn’t mention this oil business to anyone just yet. Let things take their natural course for a bit. I’ll be in as soon as I can.’

  It was only when they entered the kitchen, and Ashley, seated at the table, looked up with a faint smile, that Dylis realised the coat she was supposed to fetch was still hanging in her wardrobe.

  Chapter XIII

  Allowing events to take their natural course, at Inigo’s suggestion, Dylis found that they moved suddenly to a head. Darkness had fallen, and she and Theresa and Mr Ashley were still sitting round the kitchen table, when Charlie Best came in. Dylis was glad to see him. They had finished a not very companionable tea, and having exhausted all general topics of conversation, were smoking cigarettes in an even less companionable silence. Charlie, smiling through a film of grease and dirt, was like a beacon breaking up enveloping gloom.

  ‘Must get me a wash,’ he said, peeling off his coat and flinging it over the nearest chair. ‘Any tea going?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Theresa said, the picture of listlessness. ‘How’s the job?’

  ‘Almost done.’ He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and turned on the hot water tap. ‘You don’t mind me washing here? I don’t feel I can face the arctic regions upstairs.’

  ‘Just as you please.’ Theresa lighted another cigarette. ‘Has Vauxhall finished my car yet, do you know?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. Haven’t been able to get a word out of him. He’s not exactly a happy sort of fellow, is he?’ He had covered his face with soap suds and was rubbing vigorously. ‘Not that we’ve had much time for talking. It’s been the devil of a job, and I’ve got a crick in the neck that’s killing me.’

  Dylis had risen to add fresh tea and water to the pot. She said:

  ‘That’s what comes of knowing too much about cars.’

  ‘Or not enough.’ He finished his ablutions, put on his jacket and took a seat at the table. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he went on, ‘Here’s your chance to trot out your little bag of cures, Dylis. After what I’ve been through, I could do with a spot of massage by a beautiful lady.’

  ‘What you could do with and what you’ll get are miles apart,’ Dylis said. ‘Here’s your tea.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’ He took the cup and proceeded to stir in sugar. ‘You don’t mean to say you’re going to turn down an opportunity for practical demonstration? I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were a saleswoman.’

  ‘So did I, up to a couple of days ago. Have a sandwich.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ Theresa asked, looking from one to the other in bewilderment. Best grinned.

  ‘I’m trying to persuade our Dylis to massage my aches and pains away, but as you see, she’s crying off. Why, I don’t know, because she gave a wonderful harangue on the subject the other evening. But, of course, you weren’t there, Mrs Brown. You should have been. Old Howe went nearly mad, because he maintains no one would suffer with anything if they all followed his fresh-air-and-water diet. I’d like him to try crawling about under a car, and see what that did to him. He’s a horror. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t had something to do with giving me a pain in the neck. What was that stuff you recommended for necks, Dylis, some sort of oil?’

  ‘Oil?’ Theresa repeated, and now there was definite interest in her eyes.

  ‘A curative oil,’ Dylis said. ‘My firm sells those things.’

  She was not sure that she approved the direction in which this conversation was heading. She took a sideways glance at Mr Ashley and saw that he was lolling in his chair, looking tired and rather bored. Theresa, on the other hand, was staring at her intently across the table. Charlie Best was consuming sandwiches and drinking tea with immense satisfaction.

  ‘How very amusing,’ Theresa said, not looking at all amused. ‘I’d no idea you travelled in anything so practical.’

  Charlie Best was taken with a sudden spasm of laughter. He said, recovering and helping himself to a second cup of tea:


  ‘You don’t know the half of it. Dylis has almost cornered that particular market. You ought to hear her when she really gets going. She completely floored poor old Howe, and she had me so worked up I’d have chased out to the local chemist right away, if we’d been anywhere near civilisation. But since she refuses to go to work on me I’m thinking it was so much sales-talk.’

  ‘You’re not being very fair to Miss Hughes,’ Ashley pointed out. ‘She may consider you’re not a suitable test case.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Dylis said. ‘A crick is not the same as a stiff neck, by any means.’

  Best waved the point aside. ‘That’s just subterfuge. I’ve a good mind to try some of old Howe’s gymnastics, to prove how badly you’ve let down the faith of one of your admirers.’

  It was subterfuge, Dylis admitted to herself, and suddenly she was very tired of it all. She had intended to steer the conversation into a more general course, but now she was not going to try any more. At that moment she felt there were things she would like to do to Charlie’s neck other than curing it. She said:

  ‘Well, it seems I still have one admirer in this house, since someone knocked off a couple of bottles out of my sample case.’

  ‘More sales-talk,’ Charlie scoffed. ‘Why should anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Why, indeed? That’s just what I’ve been wondering.’

  There followed an uncomfortable silence, as she glanced quickly round the table. Ashley’s face was impassive, Theresa still looked at her with an expression between interest and perplexity, and Charlie Best lighted a cigarette. He said at length, no longer smiling:

  ‘You’re not serious, Dylis? It’s such a damned silly thing for anyone to do.’

  ‘Of course it is. So silly, that I wasn’t going to mention it, if you hadn’t brought up the subject. It’s the principle of the thing, or rather the lack of it, that annoys me. I’d have given the stuff to anyone who’d asked for it. I’m practically at the end of my trip, so it isn’t very important.’

  ‘In that case, there’s not much point in discussing it,’ Theresa said. She put up a hand to stifle a yawn, rose, and wrapped her mink coat about her shoulders. ‘I’m going out to see how the servants are getting on. They’ve been quite long enough, heaven knows.’ She reached up to a shelf and brought down a hurricane lamp, lighted it from the fire, and went out, looking incongruous in a graceful fashion. Ashley also rose then, and said:

  ‘I think I’ll see about that wash. The water’s hot now, isn’t it?’

  He was addressing Dylis, but Best answered:

  ‘Been hot all the time, old boy. Miraculously enough, it always is.’

  Dylis, avoiding Ashley’s eyes, began clearing the table, and continued to do so until he had left them. Her feelings towards Best had reached a pitch of exasperation when she dare not trust herself to speak. He seemed quite unaware of it, as he helped her remove cups and saucers and plates, and putting on his overcoat, remarked:

  ‘I’ll be getting back to the grindstone. Inigo will want his tea.’

  ‘Tell him to help himself,’ Dylis said. ‘I’ll leave the teapot on the stove. I’m going to have a one-woman strike in the drawing-room. This kitchen bores me.’

  Half-way to the door he paused to look back at her.

  ‘You’re not mad at me or anything, are you? I was only trying to cheer things up. Old Carpenter’s right, in a way. This place is getting like a hotel, a particularly frowsty one where everyone looks daggers at everyone else. I wish I knew what it was all about. There is a story in it somewhere, I’m certain.’

  ‘You get that car going, and never mind about stories,’ Dylis said. ‘I’ll leave the lamp on for Inigo.’

  She found the drawing-room in darkness, and the neglected fire burning low. She groped her way to the lamp, lighted it, drew the curtains, closed the door communicating with the dining-room, and put a couple of logs on the fire. She walked over to the bookcase, selected a volume at random, and sat down in an easy chair. Whatever games the others might be playing, she was determined to have a little relaxation. But at that distance the light was too dim for reading, and she did not fancy sitting within the comparatively cold vicinity of the single illumination. Neither did she fancy the book, on learning its title, The Loveliness of Yorkshire. She was quite prepared to believe that Yorkshire, under ideal conditions, could be lovely but was not in the mood to go into the question. She laid it aside and sat staring into the kindling fire.

  She was not surprised when Theresa joined her. She had not expected to be left in peace for long. And that little lady certainly did not look like a messenger of peace, rather was her face set in the expression Dylis had come to recognise as a cover for her more pointed remarks. Unsmiling, she flung her coat over the back of an armchair, and crouched down upon the edge of it. She said, with a casualness that did not deceive Dylis for a moment:

  ‘I’ve been thinking about those samples you say have disappeared. It’s not very important of course, but I don’t like things like that happening in my house.’

  Dylis eyed her with an indifference that was not assumed. She had reached the point when Theresa’s likes and dislikes no longer interested her. She said:

  ‘Neither do I. But since it is your house there’s not much I can do about it.’

  ‘Have you any idea when it happened?’

  ‘Some time between this afternoon and the first night I stayed here.’

  ‘I daresay it’s just someone playing a joke on you.’

  ‘Probably. There does seem to be someone about with a strange sense of humour, doesn’t there?’

  ‘There does. What makes it so difficult is not knowing one’s guests. Have you missed anything else? Any of your other samples, for instance? Only Mr Best was talking about stiff necks, and I wondered …’

  ‘If he did it? I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Is Necktar one of your products?’ Theresa asked, so suddenly that Dylis wondered if she had really intended to ask the question, or whether, having seen the bottle, her curiosity was too much for her. She said, also casually:

  ‘It is. We recommend it for massaging the neck.’

  Theresa leaned over and took a cigarette from the open box upon the table, and as an afterthought, offered the box to Dylis. She picked up a wooden spill, held it to the crackling logs, and lighted their cigarettes as carefully as if they were charges of dynamite. She asked:

  ‘I suppose you carry samples of that, too?’

  ‘I had one sample of it, but I haven’t got it now.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you said you hadn’t missed anything else?’

  ‘I haven’t. I used that one myself.’

  ‘Taking your own medicine?’ Theresa asked, with a laugh that was entirely forced. And this, Dylis decided, was where the gloves came off. She was not going to hedge any longer. Very deliberately, she said:

  ‘No, I very seldom have anything wrong with me. As a matter of fact, I used it to massage Mr Brown’s neck, a very short time before he died.’

  The effect of this statement was not remarkable, except that for a minute or so Theresa seemed to have some difficulty in breathing. She took the cigarette from her mouth, stared at the burning tip of it, and slowly put it back again. She said:

  ‘My husband? You mean you were actually with him before he died?’

  ‘I was. Up to half an hour before, if your statement as to the time he died is correct.’

  Theresa ignored this implied doubt of her veracity. She rose up from her chair and became several things at once, a child on the verge of tears, an outraged wife, a slighted hostess, a widow whose sorrow had been profaned. The outraged wife predominated.

  ‘You dare to tell me that!’ she burst out. ‘You were with him almost until the last moments of his life, and you kept it to yourself. You kept it from me, his wife, and from Inigo, his nephew.’

  ‘I may have kept it from you, his wife, but I told Inigo, his nephew,’ Dylis said. ‘Now suppose we cut out the
high drama, Theresa, and you tell me something. Where was Ledgrove between about two-fifteen and three-thirty on that morning? Because he wasn’t with your husband.’

  ‘How should I know? And why should I believe anything you say, a woman who would come between a wife and her husband?’ But she sat down again and looked at Dylis intently before adding, ‘You say you told Inigo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he tell me?’

  ‘I advised him not to.’

  ‘But why? I had a right to know. It was my place to be there if my husband needed anything. And what were you doing in his room? Was he conscious then, and did you speak to him? Don’t you see how important this is to me? What right have you to sit there, keeping these things to yourself?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you,’ Dylis said. She was, but in her own way. Theresa, she judged, was seriously disturbed about something. Not just the fact that another woman had been with her husband during his last moments of life. It went deeper than that. Her first spasm of indignation over, she looked as if she were waiting for a jury to bring in a verdict of guilty or not guilty. Watching her carefully, Dylis began to describe the events in the early hours of her first morning at Wintry Wold, but she did not get beyond her arrival in Mr Brown’s room, before Theresa interrupted:

  ‘But why didn’t you call me? He was dying, and it was my place to be there. I could have done something. I might even have prevented his death.’

  ‘He wasn’t dying,’ Dylis said. ‘He was able to hold a perfectly lucid conversation.’

  It had not been perfectly lucid as far as she was concerned, but she was not going to admit that just now. Beneath her façade of injured wifehood, Theresa was cracking up, and if there was anything to give away, she was liable to do it at any moment. She said, with a pathetic catch in her voice which the hostility of her eyes belied:

  ‘Tell me exactly what he said. I’ve the right to know.’

  ‘He said one or two things that puzzled me at the time. In the first place, he was very anxious to see Inigo, although I pointed out to him that it was past two o’clock …’