Mistletoe and Murder

by Carola Dunn

“Mr. Fletcher? But I thought your mother was … Oh, I beg your pardon!”

  “Yes, my mother’s the Dowager Lady Dalrymple,” Daisy said ruefully, “but I married a Scotland Yard detective. Lord Westmoor didn’t mention it? If the others don’t know, please don’t tell them. Alec much prefers to be incognito when he’s on holiday.”

  “Of course. He’s at Scotland Yard, is he? There’s not much criminal law in our practice.”

  They talked about different aspects of the law until Godfrey and Dora Norville and Jemima came in. Old Mrs. Norville and Felicity soon followed, and they all went along to the dining room.

  A maid waited on them, with Mrs. Pardon hovering in the background to direct her. It was obvious the maid was not accustomed to waiting at table. It was equally obvious that the Norvilles were not accustomed to being waited on. Jemima even got as far as stacking several empty soup plates before Felicity noticed and said, “Don’t do that, you little ass!”

  “I’m not an ass! I’m not, I’m not! Mummy, tell her not to call me an ass.”

  “That was uncalled-for, Felicity. Jemima was just being helpful. Now that’s enough from both of you. What will Mrs. Fletcher think of your manners?”

  Mrs. Fletcher studiously ignored the fracas, turning to Godfrey Norville with a question about the variety of swords, sabres, and rapiers hanging in the Hall. With excursions into halberds, pikes, spears, partisans, and still more exotic pole-arms, these kept her busy throughout the meal. He gave her far more information than she could possibly use about the various implements chosen by different eras and nations intent upon slaughter. She was glad she hadn’t brought her notebook, or she wouldn’t have managed a single mouthful.

  The meal was “good plain cooking.” Presumably Lord Westmoor employed the cook to feed his servants, not the relatives for whom he showed so little regard. The ingredients were all fresh, though, produced on the Brockdene farm, a treat in themselves compared to the limp offerings of London shops. In any case, after living on eggs, cheese, tinned soup, and sardines during her years of independence, Daisy was not inclined to be fussy.

  After the meal, Jemima was sent to bed and the others returned to the library for their coffee. Daisy asked about the Brockdene farms and the lime kilns down at Brockdene Quay. Mr. Norville knew nothing about them and obviously wasn’t interested.

  “I can explain the workings of the kilns,” said Miles. “They used to fascinate me when I was a boy. As I’d never seen a factory, they were my idea of ‘dark, Satanic mills.’”

  “They are rather dark and Satanic, aren’t they?” Daisy agreed.

  “And I used to help on the home farm in the summer, but that was before the War, so I’m afraid my information’s a bit rusty.”

  “I expect things haven’t changed much. What do they grow, or is it mostly animals?”

  “I remember bottle-feeding lambs in the spring,” said Felicity.

  They talked for a while; then Miles excused himself to study some papers he had brought home. Mrs. Norville took up her crochet-work. Mrs. Godfrey suggested bridge.

  That should please the Dowager Viscountess, Daisy thought. Before she had to confess that she did not play (she had, in fact, carefully avoided learning), Felicity said, “Oh no, Mother, I think I’ll go for a bit of a stroll. I could do with some fresh air.”

  “It’s December; you’ll catch your death.”

  “Bosh! It’s a beautiful night and I’ll change into something warm.” Without further ado she went off.

  Mrs. Godfrey watched her with a frown. “Girls!” she said to Daisy. “Always moody. I’m sure I never had such trouble with Miles.”

  Overhearing, Miles said with a grin, “I was away at school, Mother, and then in the army. I was deprived of the opportunity to trouble you. What Flick wants is something to keep her occupied.”

  “What Felicity wants is to go up to London to do the social season, and there’s no chance of that!”

  “I expect she’s happier in the summer,” Daisy said tactfully, “when it’s easier to see other local young people.”

  “Oh yes, there are always plenty of tennis parties, and picnics, and drives to the seaside, with friends and friends of friends. She was hardly home a single day last summer. But that makes one anxious, too. I never knew just whom she was meeting.”

  Daisy had no consolation to offer. She was relieved when Mr. Norville called her over to examine the plans of the fifteenth-century, pre-pendulum clock in the Chapel. Not that she understood his explanation of its mechanism; her school had not considered science a suitable subject for young ladies.

  She retired early, intending to get up early so as not to waste daylight. If it was sunny again, she might even try a few indoor photographs. She had brought magnesium powder for flashes, but she hated using it. In her experience, it tended to either fizzle or explode in clouds of smoke. A long exposure was much easier to cope with, though she still often ended up with over- or under-exposed pictures.

  When she went down in the morning, she found Miles already at breakfast.

  “A hot breakfast,” he said cheerfully, waving at the row of spirit lamp—warmed dishes on the sideboard, “in your honour. I wish you’d come and stay more often! Try the sausages, they’re home-made.”

  “Mmm, they smell delicious.”

  Halfway through her meal, Miles had to leave her to walk into Calstock to the office. “It’s Saturday, so I’ll be back at midday,” he told her, “and then four days free! We’ve been given a holiday on Monday, Tuesday is Christmas, of course, and Boxing Day is a Bank Holiday. Your people arrive tomorrow?”

  “Yes, in the afternoon.”

  “It’ll be fun having children around for Christmas. I’m off. Cheerio, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Daisy finished her breakfast without seeing any of the others and went through to the old house. Taking notes and noting questions to be asked, she moved from the Old Dining Room, into the Chapel, then back to the Punch-Room with its miniature wine bins, now empty. Thence stone stairs, steep and narrow, led to the White Room in the Dutchman’s Tower.

  Above the White Room was the Drawing Room. With windows on three sides, it was flooded with light. The most prized items here were the two cushions sat upon by King George III and Queen Charlotte when they came to breakfast in 1789, but they weren’t exactly picturesque. The most photographable piece was the Italian writing cabinet with the secret drawers. Daisy contemplated trying a shot, but if the naked figures came out well enough to distinguish, her editor would probably balk at printing it.

  A quick foray up to the two small bedrooms in the top of the Tower showed each so full of a four-poster bed as to make photography impossible. The Hall and Dining Room must be sunny by now, though, and both were worth a photo or two. Daisy went back down.

  The rest of the morning she spent taking photos in the Hall and the Old Dining Room. At lunch, she asked the questions she had noted down, which the ever-helpful Godfrey Norville answered with his usual flood of information. He was winding down when the tramp of boots was heard in the corridor.

  “Not too late for lunch, I hope, Mr. Calloway,” cried a hearty voice. “Come in, come in, my dear fellow. You must be as sharp-set as I am.”

  “Uncle Vic!” Felicity sprang to her feet.

  The door swung open. A big, weather-bronzed, bearded man in a gold-braided jacket filled the doorway. “Mother, here’s your wandering son come home again. How are you, my dear?” He strode in and bent to kiss his mother, then stood with his hands on the back of her chair, looking around with evident satisfaction. “Your servant, Dora. Felicity, my word but you’re a young lady now and no mistake! Jemima, come kiss your old uncle. Well, Godfrey, how do you go on, old man? And Miles, my dear fellow, it’s good to see you again.”

  A babble of greetings answered him. As far as Daisy could see, everyone was pleased to see him, but no one seemed to notice the man who had taken his place in the doorway.

  The man Victor Norville had addressed a
s Calloway was an elderly clergyman, a tall, thin figure in black with a dog-collar. His yellowish face, set in stern lines, bore an expression of resigned weariness. He seemed an odd companion for the genial captain.

  Victor Norville’s voice, accustomed to battling gales and crashing waves, cut through the babble. “Dora, I’ve brought a guest. He won’t upset your housekeeping too much, I dare say.”

  “We already have a guest, Victor,” Mrs. Godfrey pointed out. “Mrs. Fletcher, as you will have gathered, this is my brother-in-law, Captain Norville.”

  The captain engulfed Daisy’s hand in his own. “Happy to make your acquaintance, ma’am. My sister-in-law’s guest is a sight prettier than mine! No offense meant, Calloway—you can’t deny it! Mother, Dora, Godfrey, this is the Reverend Calloway, who’s come all the way from India with me.”

  By then, Felicity and Jemima had set two more places at the table. Daisy liked the look of Captain Norville, but she excused herself to go back to work, not wanting to cramp the family reunion.

  As she left, Miles stopped her to say he had brought a couple of letters for her from the Calstock post office. She picked them up from the cluttered hall table: an oil lamp; a pair of leather gloves; several candlesticks with remains of candles of various heights; a man’s handkerchief, clean and neatly folded; two library books; a jar of spills and another of pencils; a week-old Times.

  One of Daisy’s letters was from Violet, forwarded from St. John’s Wood in Belinda’s careful handwriting. The other was from Alec. He must have written it very shortly after Daisy had caught that ghastly early morning train to Plymouth.

  Tearing it open on her way up to her room, she prayed that no rash of murders had called him to the other end of the country, putting paid to his holiday after all.

  She scanned his clear, firm writing, and as she dropped into a chair by the window she actually laughed aloud in relief. His mother had decided to spend Christmas with her sister in Bournemouth! Daisy would have only her own mother to cope with.

  But what had Vi written for when they would see each other tomorrow?

  A moment later she put down her sister’s letter with a sigh. Johnnie didn’t think Violet was well enough to travel. Derek was devastated. Well, Belinda would be equally devastated, and Daisy was going to have to cope with Mother without the able assistance of the “good” daughter Violet had always been.

  “Blast!” she said. She moved to the writing table to pen a reply to her sister. Having finished it, she realized that it probably wouldn’t be posted till the day after Boxing Day, unless she walked into Calstock herself. “Oh, blast! Oh, well, back to work.” Turning to the typewriter, she made notes of Godfrey Norville’s answers to her questions.

  The housekeeper had better be told that the Frobishers and Mrs. Fletcher senior were no longer expected. Daisy went to find Mrs. Pardon, running her to earth in the Kitchen Court.

  “Well, I don’t mind saying, madam, it’s a great relief. I was going to have to put someone in the old house, which isn’t at all convenient, there’s no denying.”

  Daisy took the opportunity to investigate the complex of kitchens, store rooms, sculleries, and laundry rooms around the court, still in use though coeval with the old house. Then she made her way to the Red Room.

  Above the Punch Room, the Red Room had been part of the solar in mediaeval times. Its huge four-poster was hung with crimson drapery, hence the name. The tapestries on the walls were particularly spectacular, especially a more-than-lifesize battle scene, but there were also three charming panels of children at play. Reluctantly, Daisy decided the light was too dim for photography, but the South Room, the other part of the partitioned solar, would be brighter with its big windows onto the Hall Court.

  Daisy went through. Here hung more splendid tapestries, and well lit now, but to Daisy the most interesting feature of the room was what they hid—the squints Felicity had described.

  The far-right corner must overlook the Chapel. Pulling back the arras, Daisy was delighted to find a closet big enough for two or three people at a pinch, and the promised opening through the wall. The worshippers above would be visible to the priest, but not to the congregation, thus preserving the ladies’ modesty, Daisy supposed.

  She crossed the room to find the peephole onto the Hall. As she pulled aside the tapestry, she saw that someone was there before her, an obscure figure in the shadows.

  And from the Hall beyond came the voices of two angry men, raised in a shouting match.

  4

  Alone, Daisy might have succumbed to temptation, against every precept of ladylike behaviour drummed into her at an early age. With someone else already present, eavesdropping was out of the question, alas, especially as that person was turning towards her.

  She backed out, with a word of apology. Jemima followed, into the room’s brightness. She looked upset.

  Daisy wasn’t surprised. Though she hadn’t heard what they were shouting, she had recognized the disputants’ voices. With Godfrey Norville’s she was by now familiar, and the stentorian second could only be his brother’s. The amity of the captain’s return had not lasted long.

  “Are you all right, Jemima?” she asked. “I heard your father and uncle arguing, but I don’t suppose for a minute it had anything to do with you, did it?”

  Jemima gave her a sullen glare. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear what they said.” She ran from the room.

  Daisy was pretty sure the girl was lying, but after all it was none of her business. With a shrug, she decided to take a proper look at the Hall squint later. She turned to consideration of the South Room’s furnishings, including a walnut escritoire with—according to Godfrey—secret drawers, like the one in the Drawing Room. Frustratingly, she failed to find a single one.

  By the time she finished, the light was fading fast and she was in need of a cup of tea. She returned to her bedroom for a wash and brush up. Then she went along to old Mrs. Norville’s sitting room to find out whether the tea ceremony had returned to its accustomed place.

  Mrs. Norville was just setting the final stitches in her piece of embroidery. “Tea in the library again,” she said in answer to Daisy’s enquiry.

  “I hope buzzing up and down those stairs isn’t too much for you?”

  “Not at all, my dear.” The old lady gave her the sweetest smile. “On the contrary, I’m sure it’s good for me. Godfrey and Dora do tend to keep me wrapped in cotton wool, however often the doctor swears there’s nothing wrong with me bar a few aches and pains, the tribute one pays to old age.”

  “Mother?” Captain Norville blew into the room like a fresh sea breeze. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher! What, no tea? Has the custom of the house changed since I was last at home?”

  “Tea in the library today, Victor dearest, in honour of our guests. Come in, come in, Mr. Calloway,” she invited the clergyman, who had come with the captain but paused on the threshold. “I shall be with you in just a minute.” She tied a last knot, folded the cloth, and started to put away her needle and silks.

  But the Reverend Calloway was staring in horror at the colourful images scattered about the room. “Pagan idols!” he exclaimed. “My life has been spent in fighting these demons. I did not expect to find them worshipped in my own country. Madam, better you had remained a heathen all your days than to accept our Lord and then renounce Him!”

  “Poppycock!” cried the captain. “My dear sir, my mother is as Christian as you or I, or Mrs. Fletcher there. I gave her these gewgaws myself, just as mementos of her homeland. Ornaments they are, nothing but ornaments, I assure you.”

  “Indeed.” Calloway gave him a hard, suspicious look. “I trust you are right, Captain. But this is most disturbing.”

  Mrs. Norville looked quite frightened. Daisy decided it was time to stick her oar in.

  “I find the chap with the blue face particularly jolly,” she said brightly. “It rather reminds me of Picasso’s blue period.”

  “Picasso?” Calloway asked, fro
wning.

  “Pablo Picasso, the French painter. Or is he Spanish? Too, too fearfully modern, anyway. Gosh, do let’s go down to tea. I’m simply parched.”

  She practically forced the clergyman to accompany her, leaving the Norvilles to come together. While she went on chattering inanely about modern art—a subject with which she was not widely acquainted but hoped Calloway was less—she wondered what on earth had possessed Captain Norville to bring the grim missionary home with him.

  From what she had seen of the captain, Daisy was sure he had been motivated by a kindly impulse. Perhaps he had thought Mrs. Norville would like to talk to someone who had spent his life in India. More likely Calloway had nowhere to go for Christmas, and Victor Norville had not considered that he might throw a blight over the festivities. Maybe that was what Victor and Godfrey had quarrelled about.

  As on the previous day, Godfrey Norville didn’t come in for tea. With no interaction between the brothers to observe, Daisy was foiled in her hope of finding out more about their squabble. She wondered whether it was responsible for the tension, almost excitement, she sensed in the rest of the family.

  It was nothing she could put her finger on. They just seemed more vivid, more like oils than the pastel watercolours they had been yesterday. Perhaps the enlivening presence of Captain Norville was enough to explain the change. And, of course, Christmas was nearly upon them, with more unknown and therefore interesting guests arriving tomorrow.

  Daisy hadn’t yet informed either Mrs. Norville or her daughter-in-law about the reduction in numbers, so she went ahead and told them now.

  They were expressing their regrets when Calloway burst out, “Travelling on Sunday! When I left England, decent people did not travel on Sunday for pleasure, only if forced by circumstances. Things are sadly changed!”

  Daisy suspected his memory was at fault, but she said politely, “When did you go abroad, Mr. Calloway?”

  “As soon as I had taken orders. I was called to minister to the heathen, and in that field I have laboured for over fifty years.”