Mistletoe Mystery

by Sally Quilford

  “What are you saying exactly?”

  “I’m saying that I realise now that Dominique was not really French.”

  “So maybe she was a spy,” said Meg.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. There was something else. Something that happened tonight. It gave me an even stronger feeling that Dominique is amongst us.”

  “What? Here?” The two girls spoke together, sounding eager.

  “When you say amongst us,” said Philly, “are you suggesting she’s one of the guests? But who? Irene Bennett is too young, as are some of the other ladies. There is the woman whom Mr. Graham has taken up with. I’d say she’s about sixty-five or seventy, so it’s a possibility.”

  “I don’t mean physically amongst us, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Oh I’m being silly, I suppose. It’s just…”

  Before Mrs. Cunningham could finish, someone knocked the door. It opened and Matt popped his head in. “Is this the place for the midnight feast? Puck sent me with mince pies.”

  “Oh… I’d completely forgotten why we were here,” said Philly.

  “What’s happening?” Matt frowned, and looked towards the dustpan, which still had glass in it. The women had been so busy talking they had forgotten all about it.

  “The window as broken,” said Philly. “It seems that our prowler climbed over the roof and got in through the window.”

  Matt shook his head. “Impossible. Not just impossible. It’s crazy in this weather. One misstep in the snow, and they’d have slipped right off the roof.”

  “I know, but it’s the only explanation for the broken window. The snow was definitely disturbed outside the attic window. I don’t think it slipped off at all. I think it was accidentally kicked off when the intruder climbed out. They came down over the roof, broke this window so they could open the latch, and went out through the door. All the doors in the guests suites need a key to unlock them from the outside, but can be opened without a key from the inside. Look there are even dirty footprints on the floor.”

  Matt examined the area near the window. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it one little bit. Honey, isn’t it time you brought the police in?”

  “To do what? As far as I know, nothing is missing.”

  “Someone in the house is up to no good. Or maybe it was all a mistake. I don’t know. Maybe they went up to the attic just to be nosey and was too embarrassed to admit to being there after you screamed.”

  “And you really think we should bring in the police,” said Philly. Whatever else she had expected Matt to say, that was not it.

  “Yes, I do. I worry about you. Who knows what sort of madman, or woman, is skulking around the place at night?”

  “I’ll call them in the morning,” said Philly, looking Matt squarely in the eye. “But I’m guessing we just messed up their crime scene. If there is a crime.”

  “Just tell them of your concerns. They’ll probably only give you an incident number, but it’s something on file for if anything worse happens.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it, Matt,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

  “What? Yeah, my family deal in insurance. We know all the police procedures.”

  “Of course,” said Philly.

  Matt’s eyes narrowed, but he did not say anything.

  “We’ll have to move rooms for the feast,” said Philly. “I’ll put a sign on the door, redirecting them. It’s a pity though, because I wanted to be opposite the stairs.”

  “So that’s what this is about,” said Matt. “You want to make sure no one goes upstairs. Well, don’t worry about that. If I have to sit at the bottom of the staircase all night to keep you safe, I will.”

  It was on Philly’s mind to ask who would protect her from him, if he turned out to be a conman, but she bit her tongue. “Perhaps Puck could sit with you,” she suggested instead, merely to get his reaction.

  “Nah, he’s got enough to do. And so have you and Meg. I’m practically having a free holiday here. I might as well earn my keep.”

  “You’ve already done that,” said Philly, trying to be fair. “You’ve been a very good host.” It was true. He had been; beyond the call of duty.

  “I’ll keep watch tonight,” he said, emphatically.

  “Wonderful,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

  “Super,” said Meg.

  “Why, thanks.” Matt frowned, as if he did not quite trust their sincerity.

  The midnight feast turned out to be a rather sorry affair, mainly because the guests were still full from dinner and had drunk rather a lot. Most of them were tired and wanted to go to bed. By the time everyone had left, after spending five or ten minutes just to be polite, the only ones left in the room were Philly, Matt, Puck, Meg and the Reverend and Mrs. Cunningham. Naturally the conversation turned to their intruder.

  “I agree it is rather odd,” said the Reverend, after they had brought him up to date with everything that happened. “I’ve been thinking about young Harry, you know. Mrs. Bennett’s brother. They were called Johnson, by the way.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Johnson.”

  “I remember the night he was arrested. I had to go down and be his responsible adult at the station. His parents had a problem with the bottle, you know. Both of them. Very sad for the two children, of course.”

  “Oh yes, I remember now,” said his wife. “Do you know, I’d completely forgotten you going to the station.”

  “I remember because it was a couple of days before you found out you were having Michael, and I remember thinking that I hope our child doesn’t grow up as troubled as young Harry.”

  “So it was around the time Dominique disappeared,” said Philly, remembering what Mrs. Cunningham had said about Dominique’s disappearance coinciding with her finding out she was pregnant.

  The reverend nodded. “Yes, it was indeed. But it wasn’t the first time young Harry had been found on school premises. He’d had a couple of warnings about loitering, but they did not find anything on him on the prior occasions. It was only because he had a rather large amount of cash that they arrested him that time.”

  “Did you believe him when he said a man and woman had given him the money?” asked Matt.

  “I did and I didn’t. I sensed he was telling the truth, but I also felt that he was hiding something else. It was almost as if he was telling one small truth in order to hide a very big lie. It is a pity about that boy.”

  “Why?” said Philly. “He turned his life around and became a big businessman in Australia.”

  “Yes, so I’d heard. But I can’t see it myself. Harry was amongst a group of youngsters I used to mentor. Troubled kids from bad backgrounds. He didn’t have a business brain. Art was his thing. I used to wish he would concentrate more on it, but Harry was about making a fast buck, and art took too much time to perfect, I suppose. Do you remember, Meredith,” said the Reverend, turning to his wife, “when Harry did that fantastic copy of one of Raphael’s Madonna paintings for the church nativity play?”

  “Was that Harry?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

  “Yes.”

  “I honestly hadn’t realised, darling. You probably told me and I’ve forgotten about it. Along with too many other things, I’m afraid.”

  “You do okay,” said the reverend, patting her hand. “Another passion of Harry’s was the French Revolution. He was a bit too interested the machinations of the guillotine for my liking. I suppose all youngsters are fascinated by the macabre.”

  Philly opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, afraid she would seem stupid. Could it really be him? A teenage boy who became something of an anti-establishment hero?

  Matt was two steps ahead of her. “Robespierre.”

  “What?” said the Reverend and his wife.

  “Robespierre,” Philly replied. “The painting that I took to the auction was by Robespierre. But surely … No, it couldn’t be. Surely Mrs. Bennett would have recognised her own brother in the papers.”
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br />   “Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Irene Johnson, as she was then, was very young at the time. No more than five or six. Her parents died not long after Harry went to borstal, and she went to live with an aunty. If I remember rightly, Robespierre did not become prominent until the late sixties, early seventies. It’s a long time to go without seeing her brother, and even if she saw Robespierre and thought he looked a bit like Harry, she might not have connected the two.”

  “I must admit I didn’t,” said the Reverend, stroking his chin. “That’s if Harry did become Robespierre. From what I remember, Harry was dark haired. Robespierre had all that long blonde hair, didn’t he? Used to cover half his face if I remember rightly. And he spoke in that very affected transatlantic drawl, half-American, and half-English. Nothing like the local accent Harry had. Besides, it would never have occurred to me that Harry would be anything other than a petty thief. An attitude which I realise doesn’t say much for me.” The reverend looked rueful.

  “We can’t always be blamed for the impression we get of people, darling,” said his wife, putting a comforting arm on his shoulder.

  “Irene and Harry have had some contact though,” said Puck. “Because the Bennetts knew that Harry was a millionaire in Australia.”

  “Mrs. Bennett’s family probably only knew what Harry told them, presumably in a letter,” said Matt. “It isn’t as if they could just hop on a plane and go and check at that time. Flights to Australia weren’t as frequent or cheap as they are now. There was no Internet with webcams to keep families connected.”

  “Yes,” said the reverend, nodding, “and as the years go on, it becomes harder to get in touch with people again. There are many a time I’ve thought of telephoning some long lost relative or friend, and each time I give myself excuses for not doing it. What if they don’t want to hear from me? What if they don’t remember me? Plus that good old excuse of being little busy at the moment, so maybe some other time…”

  “I’m sure Harry would remember he had a sister,” said Philly.

  “Of course,” said Matt. “But it’s still difficult when you lose touch with someone. Especially if that person wants to lose touch.”

  “We don’t know that Harry was … is … Robespierre,” said Puck. “We’re just guessing.”

  “It seems likely though he must have been very young at the time,” Philly said.

  “He was about fourteen, I think,” said the reverend. “So, yes, very young. But who knows what was offered to him for his skills? He might have seen it as a way out of here.”

  “I didn’t think Robespierre was from Midchester,” said Meg. “I thought he was from a nearby town.”

  “He probably reinvented himself,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “So as not to draw attention to his real beginnings.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I don’t suppose we will ever find out,” said Philly. “He seems to have disappeared. Robespierre, I mean. He may even be dead by now. From what I can make out he was a man of his time, and might not fit into the modern art world. Though I suppose being a forger would not help.”

  “We can find out about Irene Bennett’s brother though,” said Matt. “We can just ask her.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Philly shook her head. “Mr. Bennett told her husband that she didn’t want to tell people. It might upset her if we ask. She’s a nice lady and I’d hate to cause her any pain.”

  “Then we just do a search on the Internet for Harry Johnson in Australia,” Puck said. “If he’s genuinely a businessman, he’s bound to turn up somewhere. Businesses need to advertise their wares.”

  “I’ve got a feeling there’ll be a lot of Harry Johnsons in Australia,” said Philly. “It’s a very common name. Even if we find him, it doesn’t answer the question of who is here searching the attic.”

  “Unless it is him,” said Matt. “Think about it. If he was forging paintings, involved in some sort of art scam, maybe some of the originals are hidden up there.”

  “But how could they be?” Mrs Cunningham asked, frowning. “I’ve already told Philly. We didn’t have the key to the attic. Only the family did, and they lived abroad.”

  “Did the Sandersons ever come here for anything, Mrs. Cunningham?” asked Philly.

  “No. At least not when I was here. I don’t think we ever met them. The leasing was done through an agent in London. It always seemed rather sad to me that they worked so hard to keep hold of this house, yet could not afford to live here.”

  “There are only a few small paintings up in the attic,” said Philly. “I took the Robespierre to the art dealer, and we’ve put a few others on the walls. I’m pretty sure they’re fake.”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, they are.”

  “How on earth do you know that?” asked Philly.

  “We deal in insurance, darling. So I have to know if what we’re insuring is the real thing.”

  “Of course,” said Philly. She still felt there was something else Matt was not telling her. Why would he make note of the paintings being fake? Unless it was just professional curiosity. Something he could not switch off.

  Worn out with talking it all through, and finding they only went around in circles, the group said goodnight. Matt walked Philly to her room.

  “You’re not really going to sit at the bottom of the stairs all night, are you?” she asked him.

  “Why not?”

  “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m not sleeping very well at the moment anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” He pulled her into his arms. “Every time I close my eyes I see a pair of beautiful blue eyes.”

  “Matt…” Philly stroked his cheek, wondering if now was the right time to tell him that she had overheard his telephone conversation.

  “What is it?”

  “Please don’t sit on the stairs all night.”

  “You say that as if you’re afraid of something.”

  Philly could not put her fears into words. If Matt were not trying to con her then he might be hurt by the intruder. If he was trying to con her, he had given himself a legitimate excuse for lurking around. All he had to say if he was caught was that he heard someone in the attic so went up to investigate.

  “I am afraid,” she whispered. “I’m afraid that the truth of all this is something that I won’t want to hear and I’m afraid that…”

  “What, darling? Tell me.”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. Remember to holler if you need me.”

  She needed him then, but until she could trust him, she had no plans to tell him that.

  Philly had put her pyjamas on when the idea came to her. The means of finding out the truth had been there all along. The only question was why she had not thought of it before.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Are you still here?” Philly asked half an hour later, going to sit next to Matt on the stairs. As far as she knew, he had not moved from that spot.

  “Yep. I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. There is so much going on in my head, I think it might explode.”

  “Yes, mine too.” Matt looked exhausted, and a little bit sad. His eyes were rimmed with dark lines, and it was obvious he struggled to stay awake.

  “Why don’t we go downstairs and get some cocoa? Then we can chat about things.” Philly suggested.

  “I’m supposed to be on guard.”

  “It’s a waste of time, Matt, I don’t think anyone is going to come up here tonight. Not after all the fuss of last night.” She took his hand. “Come on. I make good cocoa.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, following her down the stairs.

  “Does your dad mind you being here?” she asked, as she warmed milk on the stove. “I’m surprised he can spare you.”

  “I’m entitled to time off,”
said Matt, a little too abruptly for Philly’s liking. He went into the cupboard for the chocolate biscuits, and it struck Philly that he was not only familiar with the house, but the house was familiar with him in it. She told herself it was a dangerous feeling to have. She could not get used to him being there. Even though she wanted so much to be able to.

  “So what exactly does the job entail? Insuring art work and all that?” She leaned against the worktop. “Do you have to value them yourself or do you get someone in?”

  “A bit of both. What I mean is that we use valuers, but I also have a degree in art, so I know a fake when I see it.”

  “So there are no lost Rembrandts on my walls then?”

  “Nope. Sorry. Were you hoping there would be?”

  “Hell, yes. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about this place anymore.”

  “Philly, I know your godmother said to keep hold of the place at all costs, but try to remember it’s just a house, darling. A pile of bricks.”

  “It’s my pile of bricks.”

  “I understand that. Really I do. But my mom always says that it’s people who make a house. And this house would be nothing without you in it. So don’t go thinking that it’s the other way around. That you’d be nothing without the house.”

  “I don’t think that, Matt.”

  “Are you sure? I see you working yourself to the point of exhaustion here, and I can’t help wondering to what lengths you would go to keep it.”

  “I wouldn’t sell a forged Rembrandt as a real one, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Philly did not like the way the conversation was going.

  “No, of course I don’t think that. I … oh I don’t know. I just think that your godmother placed a terrible burden upon you.”

  “It’s only the same burden as she had,” said Philly. “She used to tell me that her father said the same thing. The house must be kept in the family at all costs. Her great-great grandfather helped build most of it, you know. So it isn’t just something they bought. It’s something they created with their own hands. I sometimes…”