Murder for Christmas

by Francis Duncan

  Nicholas Blaise had still made no leading comment but there had, after all, been little opportunity for confidences. The conversation had been too general. But today … Mordecai Tremaine hummed a little tune as he went down to breakfast. Today might bring results.

  As it happened, Blaise was already busily engaged with Benedict Grame, apparently arranging details of the Christmas festivities. But there were compensations. Perhaps because she was also an early riser and they were for a few moments the sole occupants of the breakfast-room, perhaps because her eager youth made an appeal he could not resist, he gravitated towards Denys Arden. And perhaps because she sensed in him a sympathetic spirit, she smiled at him and was ready to act as his guide.

  ‘This is your first visit, isn’t it?’ she said, as they finished their meal. ‘Let me show you round.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like better,’ he said truthfully. ‘Provided that young man of yours doesn’t object.’

  ‘Roger won’t be over this morning,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact——’

  She broke off. The colour came into her cheeks. Mordecai Tremaine said:

  ‘Things aren’t too—easy. Isn’t that so?’

  She looked at him doubtfully and he added quickly, before she could reply:

  ‘I know I sound like an inquisitive old busybody, so I won’t be offended if you give me a well-deserved snub.’

  His rueful tone made her smile—as he had intended it should. She said:

  ‘Everyone knows about it, so there’s no point in pretending to be annoyed. Jeremy—my guardian—doesn’t like Roger. That’s why he isn’t coming over this morning. I asked him not to. Roger’s quick-tempered and so is Jeremy. I didn’t want them to have another row with the house full of people here for Christmas.’

  ‘Another?’ Mordecai Tremaine looked grave. ‘It’s as bad as that, is it? I’m sorry.’ He knew that he was approaching uncertain ground and he gave her a speculative glance over the top of his pince-nez. He said, ‘Has Mr. Rainer given you any reasons for his objections?’

  To his relief she was not angry with him. Her face puckered into a frown. He thought it gave her a piquant air that increased rather than detracted from her charm.

  ‘That’s the baffling part of it,’ she told him. ‘He doesn’t seem to have any objections. At least, not definite ones. It’s just that he doesn’t like Roger and he won’t make any attempt to improve things. If I knew what he had against him I might be able to do something to clear up whatever misunderstanding there might be. But this is so—so maddeningly negative. It makes me feel frustrated.’

  She was unaware of it, but in that moment she betrayed herself. If Mordecai Tremaine had not observed the signs on the previous evening he would have known then how much she was in love with Roger Wynton.

  She seemed to sense what he was thinking. She blushed. And then she took his arm and said quickly:

  ‘You don’t want to have your holiday ruined by listening to all my troubles. Come along, let me show you the sights.’

  Mordecai Tremaine enjoyed his morning. The rambling old house would have fascinated him even had his guide been the most senile of antiquarians. Denys Arden was genuinely in love with Sherbroome, and she had the happy talent of being able to communicate its romantic spell to others.

  She showed him the tower in which Sir Gervase Melvin had been murdered by his cousin after a quarrel over cards during the wildness of the Restoration. She took him into the spacious chamber in which Queen Elizabeth had slept. They pushed open the eerily creaking door of the cobweb-infested room under the roof in which the lovely Lady Isabel had been kept prisoner for two years and from which she had flung herself to her death on the terrace below when news had been brought to her of the murder of her lover by her father.

  They walked down the gloomy corridor along which her frail ghost was reputed to glide. Relegated to these lumber regions, generations of Melvins stared at them from their painted canvases.

  ‘I often wonder,’ the girl observed, stopping beneath the gilt frame from which Sir Rupert Melvin, hand on sword, with wide, cavalier brow and dark beard, looked proudly down, ‘what the family felt at having to give up this house and all it stands for. There aren’t any actual Melvins left now. Uncle Benedict bought the property through the lawyers representing a distant cousin who was the nearest surviving descendant. But after all those centuries of ownership there must still be a tremendous feeling of tradition. Apparently this man who eventually sold it—Latimer, I believe, is his name—was too poor to live in the house, but he used to come here every summer and camp in the grounds. He wouldn’t sell until circumstances forced him to.’

  ‘It must have been a bitter blow,’ agreed Tremaine. ‘It’s rather sad to think of a proud family coming slowly to oblivion. I certainly wouldn’t like to think I was the last of a great line, compelled to sell what was left of my inheritance.’

  They examined the inevitable priest’s hide and the girl showed him how to operate the secret panel that formed the entrance.

  ‘There’s nothing secret about it now, of course,’ she told him. ‘But there’s a legend that in the sixteenth century a priest was hidden there for a year and never discovered, despite the fact that the house was searched without warning on several occasions.’

  ‘It’s a horrible thought,’ said Tremaine, peering into the darkness of the hide. ‘Just imagine having to live like a hunted beast for all that time, going to earth whenever there was danger.’

  The hide was situated under the big room on the ground floor adjoining the library and could apparently be reached either from this room or from the library itself. It was one of the first places they examined and they did not spend a great deal of time over it, which was why Mordecai Tremaine suggested making a further exploration of it when they came to the end of their tour of the house.

  However, when they came back to the oak-panelled room with its wide french windows, they discovered that a transformation scene was in preparation. Benedict Grame and Nicholas Blaise, aided by Fleming, the butler, who contrived to bring dignity even to the task of acting as a draping board for Christmas trimmings, were busily putting up an array of decorations.

  Blaise saw them as they came in and waved a hammer in cheerful greeting.

  ‘Hullo, you two! Come to lend a hand?’

  Tremaine looked around him. Holly and mistletoe had been hung about the room and gay silver streamers ran from wall to wall. In one corner stood a large Christmas tree. It was firmly entrenched in a big wooden tub, and a tall man standing on tiptoe would only have touched the topmost branch with his outstretched hand with difficulty.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ said a voice, and he saw Benedict Grame beaming at him through the branches from a step-ladder on the other side of the tree.

  ‘This is Uncle Benedict’s special effects department,’ said Denys Arden. ‘Wait until you see the Christmas tree in all its glory. He always does the decorations himself.’

  ‘Nothing like it,’ boomed Grame’s hearty tones. ‘Christmas only comes round once a year. It’s up to us to make the best of it!’

  Perched on the step-ladder, blue eyes bright in his seamed face, he reminded Mordecai Tremaine of an older edition of Mr. Pickwick. A Mr. Pickwick who had lost his comforting contours and developed something of a grizzled appearance, but who had nevertheless retained his schoolboy’s enthusiasm. It was, he thought, fortunate that there was no lake in the grounds. Otherwise Benedict Grame would be rounding up his house-party and suggesting an afternoon’s skating. And Mordecai Tremaine knew sadly that with his pince-nez flying one way and his legs another he would not present the most dignified of pictures.

  Grame peered dangerously over one of the upper branches of the tree, a piece of trimming trailing from his mouth.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to see much of you so far,’ he said indistinctly. ‘You know how it is. Can’t leave everything to the servants. Must lend a hand oneself. Hope you haven’t b
een bored.’

  ‘I’ve been enjoying myself tremendously,’ said Mordecai Tremaine with obvious sincerity. ‘Miss Arden’s been showing me over the house. I love these old buildings.’

  ‘It’s certainly full of history,’ returned Grame. ‘And you couldn’t have had a better guide than Denys. She knows more about it than any of us. But you’d better take care,’ he added mischievously. ‘Don’t go spending too long in any of the haunted rooms, otherwise you’ll have young Wynton after you!’ He glanced enquiringly down at the girl. ‘By the way, my dear, where is that young man of yours this morning?’

  ‘I told him not to come over,’ she said. ‘I—I thought it would be better if he waited until this afternoon.’

  ‘This afternoon! When I was younger …’ Grame was beginning, and then he pulled himself up. ‘Sorry, my dear. I suppose it’s Jeremy. That stony-hearted old curmudgeon’s been making things awkward again, has he? He’s been telling Roger to keep …’

  Denys Arden was making desperate signs to him in an effort to stop him going on with his tirade. There was a look of appeal in her eyes. Benedict Grame saw it at last and his voice trailed away. He coughed violently and became very busy behind the tree.

  The tension in the atmosphere was unmistakable. Mordecai Tremaine turned his head slowly and cautiously. Jeremy Rainer had come into the room. He was standing in the doorway five yards away.

  In the cold morning light his greyness and his grimness seemed intensified. His shoulders were hunched. His features possessed a gauntness more pronounced than it had been upon the previous evening. He presented a soured, forbidding appearance as he stood facing them.

  Mordecai Tremaine felt uncomfortable. It looked as though he was going to be the unwilling spectator of a family scene. He hated domestic squabbles. They jarred upon his sentimental soul.

  But Jeremy Rainer did not make the comment he might have been expected to make. He gave no sign that he had overheard Benedict Grame’s remarks. His whole attention was fixed upon the tree. He was staring at it as though it held some deep significance for him.

  As the only person, apart from Fleming, who was outside the emotional drama, Mordecai Tremaine decided that it was up to him to do something. He said, addressing Grame:

  ‘Miss Arden and I did intend to have a thorough exploration of the priest’s hide, but we don’t want to hinder your activities so I think we’ll leave it till later.’ He turned to the girl. ‘What do you say to a brisk walk before lunch? Just to work up our appetites!’

  She snatched at the suggestion with relief.

  ‘I’d love it,’ she told him, and her eyes gave him his reward. ‘I’ll just run up for a scarf.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ he said. ‘I’m getting too old to take risks!’

  Jeremy Rainer stepped aside to allow them to pass. His manner was quite natural. He smiled at Denys. To Tremaine he said:

  ‘Don’t let her take advantage of you! She’ll walk you off your feet if you let her!’

  ‘My marathon days are over!’ said Tremaine.

  He smiled back, but he knew that there was no real affinity between them. There was a chill bleakness in the grey depths of the other’s eyes. He went by him with a feeling of relief that the situation had not developed as he had feared and with the conviction that Jeremy Rainer would be a bad man to have for an enemy.

  5

  JUST AS Mordecai Tremaine was going down the main steps with the girl a car came up the drive. It stopped in front of them. A man climbed out of the driving-seat. A burly, red-faced man. Denys Arden said:

  ‘Hullo, Uncle Gerald. Been catching up on your Christmas shopping?’

  Tremaine thought that Gerald Beechley had seen them approaching, but judging by the other’s sudden start as the girl spoke to him he had been unaware of their nearness. He had been in the act of taking a brown paper parcel from the car. He thrust it hastily back on the seat and turned to face them.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Denys. Yes, I’ve been making some last-minute purchases.’

  She tried to peer into the interior of the car, but he shifted his position adroitly so that he blocked the doorway.

  ‘Can we see what you’ve brought?’ she asked. ‘Or is it a secret?’

  Beechley seemed awkward and disconcerted. His eyes flickered uneasily away from the girl’s laughing face.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said at last, ‘it’s—it’s something for Benedict.’

  Tremaine was standing by the offside front wheel of the car. Through the windscreen he could see the brown paper parcel propped up on the driver’s seat. It was loosely wrapped, and where the paper had been pulled aside he could see a piece of bright red cloth.

  Gerald Beechley became suddenly aware of his gaze. He turned quickly and, stretching an arm through the lowered window, tugged the paper back into position over the cloth.

  Denys Arden gave him a curious look but she did not comment on his action. Instead, she said gaily:

  ‘Well, we’re supposed to be going for a stroll before lunch. See you later.’

  ‘Enjoy yourselves!’ Beechley called after them, with a return of his usual jovial manner.

  They reached the end of the drive, and for the first time Tremaine noticed the lodge situated to one side of the main gates and partly screened by trees. It did not appear to be tenanted. The windows were bare of curtains, and the whole place had an air of neglect.

  They turned right along the road. The girl said:

  ‘I wonder what Uncle Gerald’s been up to?’

  Mordecai Tremaine, who had been pondering that very thing but had hesitated to ask questions, accepted the invitation eagerly.

  ‘He seemed very anxious to prevent us seeing what he’d bought,’ he remarked.

  ‘I tried to get a good look at that parcel,’ said the girl, ‘but he was standing in the way.’

  ‘It was cloth of some sort. I caught a glimpse of it where the paper was torn away.’

  ‘It’s probably something to do with one of Uncle Gerald’s practical jokes. There’s no knowing what he and Uncle Benedict will get up to at Christmas. Last year Uncle Gerald spent Christmas Eve pretending to be the ghost of Lady Isabel and frightened poor Aunt Charlotte to death. She wouldn’t speak to him for nearly a week afterwards.’

  ‘Why do you call him “Uncle” Gerald?’ asked Mordecai Tremaine curiously. ‘He isn’t really related to you, is he?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she told him. ‘Nor is Uncle Benedict. But I’ve always thought of them as my uncles. Jeremy and Uncle Benedict have been friends for as long as I can remember, and when Daddy died and Jeremy became my guardian we were in Uncle Benedict’s company so often that I automatically regarded him as my real uncle.’

  ‘Are Mr. Beechley and Mr. Grame related?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No—they’re just very old friends. But Uncle Gerald counts as one of the family now, although Aunt Charlotte is Uncle Benedict’s only actual blood relation.’

  ‘Aunt Charlotte?’ murmured Mordecai Tremaine reflectively. ‘That’s the middle-aged lady, isn’t it? She struck me as being a rather difficult person to sum up.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked the girl, and he shrugged.

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ he admitted. ‘She puzzles me. I thought I saw her in a tea-shop in Calnford yesterday afternoon, but apparently I was mistaken. It seems that she was with Mrs. Tristam at the time so she couldn’t possibly have been there.’

  He was searching, as he spoke, for some reaction on Denys Arden’s part that might give him a clue as to why Charlotte Grame had lied so obviously. But she was not looking at him and he could detect nothing unusual in her manner.

  ‘I feel rather sorry for Aunt Charlotte,’ she said slowly. ‘She seems like someone who hasn’t been able to get the best out of life and feels vaguely frustrated and unhappy. She must have been quite pretty when she was young. I can’t understand why she never married. Poor dear, she’s rather helpless at times! It’s a go
od job she has Uncle Benedict to look after her. As far as that goes,’ she added, ‘it’s a good job for both of them that Uncle Benedict is as generous as he is.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Gerald. Uncle Benedict looks after them both.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Mordecai Tremaine hesitantly, ‘that Mr. Beechley hasn’t any money of his own?’

  ‘Not as far as I’ve been able to find out,’ she said frankly. ‘Uncle Benedict always seems to pay his bills for him and, of course, it doesn’t cost him anything to live here.’

  They walked in silence for a few moments, and then Tremaine said:

  ‘It’s a great pity about your guardian.’

  It was significant that despite the sudden change of subject she knew what he meant. Mordecai Tremaine found it equally significant—and queerly gratifying—that she replied frankly and without hesitation.

  ‘I don’t know quite what to think about Jeremy. It isn’t like him to act so unreasonably. And it all started so suddenly. I can’t understand what made him change.’

  ‘You mean that your guardian hasn’t always disliked Mr. Wynton?’

  ‘Oh, no. At first Jeremy and Roger were on very good terms. It wasn’t until about six months ago that Jeremy began to find fault with him. It seemed to happen overnight. That’s what makes the whole thing so baffling.’

  ‘Did they have a sudden violent quarrel?’

  ‘No. Unless Roger doesn’t want to tell me about it for some reason. And I can’t believe that’s the case. He’s always acted as though he’s just as puzzled as I am. I’m sure it’s Jeremy who’s at fault,’ she said, with spirit. ‘He’s been behaving strangely for a long time—and not just over Roger. I’m sure there’s something on his mind.’

  ‘In what way has his behaviour been strange?’ asked Mordecai Tremaine.

  There may have been a trace of overeagerness in his manner. Whatever the cause she seemed to withdraw a little.