Murder for Christmas

by Francis Duncan

  Tremaine regarded her doubtfully.

  ‘What I’m after?’ he echoed, in an attempt to collect his thoughts.

  She came closer to him.

  ‘If you were to be frank with me,’ she said in a low voice, ‘perhaps I could help you. It might be to our mutual advantage.’

  There was a sound from the shadows at the end of the hall. It startled her and she drew away from him.

  ‘I’ll have to run up to my room,’ she said, in a voice that was obviously designed to be overheard. ‘I’m in urgent need of running repairs!’

  As she went up the stairs Tremaine turned slowly to gaze at the newcomer. It was Fleming—a middle-aged, dignified figure, whose trained poker face revealed nothing. He walked through the hall, evidently on some errand connected with his duties, with a subtle unobtrusiveness that implied that he neither saw nor was seen.

  It would, thought Tremaine, be enlightening to get behind the mask of the upper servant and contact the real man. He recalled the incident of the morning when the butler had been helping Benedict Grame to decorate the Christmas tree and Jeremy Rainer had made his appearance. Fleming had given no sign that he was aware of the tension in the air, and yet he must have known what was going on.

  There was a leather-seated chair in the hall, partly concealed in the gloom of a recess under the stairs. Tremaine sat down to meditate and he was still there some twenty minutes later when Gerald Beechley came back.

  The big man looked as though he had received a shock and had not recovered his self-control. He was muttering angrily to himself. He was only a yard or two from Tremaine when he realized that the hall was not empty. A sullen antagonism came into his face. He pushed past without speaking, but the glare he gave was eloquent enough.

  ‘Not in the best of tempers,’ Tremaine murmured to himself.

  He waited until the ostentatious slam of a door told him that Beechley had gone, and then he went quickly towards the room from which the other had come.

  He had expected to find Benedict Grame. His host turned sharply at his entrance. The blue eyes surveyed him keenly. The bushy eyebrows had the air of having been brushed the wrong way. Grame looked like a man who had taken part in a somewhat undignified scene.

  Mordecai Tremaine was not surprised. The telephone conversation he had overheard earlier and Gerald Beechley’s attitude in the hall had acted as unmistakable signposts. Beechley was pressed for money. He had approached Benedict Grame. And he had been rebuffed.

  Benedict Grame was awkward in the presence of his guest.

  ‘Have you seen Gerald?’ he asked.

  His manner was so clumsy that it was painfully obvious that he was trying to hide something.

  ‘I saw him in the hall a few moments ago,’ said Tremaine. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he added, apparently guilelessly, ‘I thought he was with you. Did you want him?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Grame hastily. He was obviously casting about in his mind for some means of changing the subject. He said, after a pause: ‘I hope you haven’t been too bored. I’m afraid I haven’t had as much opportunity of talking to you as I would have liked.’

  ‘I’m enjoying my stay immensely,’ said Tremaine. ‘So far I’ve found it most interesting.’

  The bushy eyebrows went up in an arc.

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Does it seem a strange word to use?’ Tremaine smiled. ‘I’m a student of human nature. Don’t forget my hobby!’

  Grame’s slightly puzzled features relaxed.

  ‘There isn’t a very fruitful field for an amateur criminologist here. We’re all painfully law-abiding! Unless you like to make a special study of Delamere. I accept no responsibility for politicians.’

  But despite his attempt to appear lighthearted, there was a suggestion of weariness in his manner. He gave the impression of being an ageing and inwardly worried man. Tremaine thought of Nicholas Blaise and the subject of their conversation that morning. There seemed here to be confirmation of what Blaise had said—at least in so far as his belief that Benedict Grame had something on his mind was concerned. But Nicholas Blaise had said nothing about Gerald Beechley being the cause, and it was Beechley who appeared to be the reason for Grame’s present dejection.

  For an instant or two Tremaine suffered from the temptation to take advantage of his companion’s existing mood to put a leading question to him. Perhaps Grame might unburden himself if he approached the matter boldly now that the ground had been prepared. But the thought of his promise to Blaise held him back. If Grame took offence at his probing it might put Blaise in a difficult position. Regretfully he decided against a frontal attack. Instead:

  ‘I haven’t seen your sister about this afternoon,’ he remarked. ‘Has she gone into Calnford?’

  ‘Charlotte? Heavens, no! She’s in her room—resting. I can’t recall the last occasion when Charlotte went as far as Calnford. She very rarely goes out. She spends a great deal of time in her room. Too much, I’m afraid. I often wish I could get her to mix with people more.’

  ‘She seems very reserved.’

  ‘She always has been. She’s always had a horror of leading anything that might be called a social existence, and the idea of marriage just seems impossible to her.’

  The sentimental part of Mordecai Tremaine’s soul that was the driving force behind his love of Romantic Stories and similar literature stirred protestingly.

  ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘Really, a great pity. I should imagine that she was quite a beauty as a girl. She’s still a good-looking woman.’

  ‘Charlotte could have had her choice,’ said Grame. ‘But she’s always acted as though love and marriage were something repugnant. I’ve done what little I could, of course, but I haven’t been able to influence her. She’s gradually become more and more shut in upon herself—almost a recluse. That’s why I was so glad when she and Lucia—Mrs. Tristam—became so attached to each other. They’ve been together a good deal lately, and the difference in Charlotte has been striking.’

  ‘Mrs. Tristam’s an unusual woman,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘She has a vivid personality. I can understand your sister being attracted by her.’

  Benedict Grame did not say anything, but it was almost possible to see pride inflating him. There was no doubt about the extent of Lucia Tristam’s conquest.

  Tremaine looked at him understandingly.

  ‘If you’ll forgive my making such a comment,’ he said, ‘and put it down to the remark of a candid friend, you haven’t been having too easy a time.’

  ‘You mean my flock have been difficult to handle?’ said Grame wryly. ‘Perhaps they have at times, but after all, I’ve enjoyed the feeling that I’ve been holding things together. And there have been compensations. They know that they can trust me and confide in me. But this is Christmas and you’re here to enjoy yourself! This is no time to be dragging make-believe skeletons out of dusty cupboards!’

  It was on that note of banter that their conversation finished. Mr. Pickwick was himself again, radiating youthful enthusiasm and eager that the right atmosphere of Christmas cheer should be abroad among his guests.

  But when he was alone once more Mordecai Tremaine found himself probing beneath the surface of Benedict Grame’s cheerfulness, and what he found did not support the outward appearances. Despite the other’s attempt to seem undismayed, it was clear that he was finding it difficult to preserve the illusion of harmony in his household, and to maintain the pose of the benevolent ruler of a happy if slightly unorthodox family.

  Tremaine experienced a surge of sympathy for his host which was all the more real because of his own sentimental soul. He, too, was a romantic. He, too, liked to feel that all was well in the best of worlds. That was why he had warmed towards Benedict Grame; why he had taken so mellow a view of the other’s eagerness to create the atmosphere of the Dickensian Christmas, and had appreciated the warmhearted simplicity that lay behind the gesture of the decorated Christmas tree.

&nbs
p; Benedict Grame wanted to be the benevolent despot. He wanted to be the friendly, solacing figure to whom his protégés would come when they were in trouble and who was always ready to give them his advice and help.

  And he had discovered that whilst the theory was rosily attractive, the reality was prickly with thorns.

  His mind was still dwelling on Charlotte Grame and the difficulties she presented for her brother when he realized that she was crossing the hall towards the stairs. Before he had recovered from the mild shock of the coincidence she was halfway towards the first floor. He took a step forward.

  ‘Miss Grame!’

  She did not turn and he thought she could not have heard him. He called again and this time he knew that she was deliberately pretending deafness for she quickened her pace. She reached the head of the stairs and vanished from his sight.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. Alice in Wonderland occupied a favourite corner in his heart and the expression was dear to him.

  The frail and nervous Charlotte’s reaction had not altogether surprised him, for although he had not perhaps expected her anxiety to reveal itself quite so plainly he knew that she was in dread of finding herself alone with him. The afternoon was, however, fated to produce yet another intriguing incident and one that was to give him an entirely new field of speculation.

  It occurred when the grey winter light was giving way before the darkness and the shadows were creeping ever more greedily through the house. Tremaine had been sitting at one of the windows, gazing out over the snow and allowing his thoughts to drift. He came out of his musings to discover that he was both cold and stiff, and that the gloom had stolen upon him.

  The notion came to him as he rose to his feet to take another look at Benedict Grame’s Christmas tree. He had no precise reason for the impulse; it sprang from some instinctive source within him.

  He was growing familiar now with the layout of the house and he found the big room in which the tree had been placed without difficulty. The door opened soundlessly under his touch. The french windows had not been curtained and in the half-light he could see the gaily decorated tree standing against the wall, its spreading branches carrying tiny silver lanterns and festoons of tinsel.

  It made a brave show, even in that gloomy setting. Under the glow of the electric light and with a merry party atmosphere to breathe a warm vitality into its gift-laden arms it would possess the magic of fairyland. Benedict Grame had undoubtedly succeeded in creating his cherished illusion where the tree was concerned.

  There were no gifts upon it as yet. They would come later when Grame put on his robes of office and made his nocturnal visit in the role of Santa Claus. But Tremaine could dimly make out the brackets, each with its square white name card, showing where the gift for each guest was to be hung.

  Usually one associated a Christmas tree with a children’s party, but even mature adults who had believed themselves long past such things could derive pleasure from Grame’s handiwork. It was so spontaneous a gesture, so intimately bound up with the sentiments of peace and goodwill. Mordecai Tremaine smiled a little wistfully. He was not a bachelor from choice. It would have been good to have had children so that one could have watched their eager faces as their eyes fell upon such a tree as this.

  And then he realized that he was not alone in the room.

  There was a man sitting in a deep chair in the shadow of the wall between the two sets of french windows, directly facing the tree. A man who sat with such rigid stillness that he did not seem to be there.

  It was Professor Lorring. Tremaine saw the high-domed forehead, the hooked nose and the prominent cheekbones as he peered through the gloom and, accustomed now to the greyness, his eyes made out the other’s shape. He did not think that Lorring had seen him. His entrance had been so quiet, and the other’s attention had seemed to be fixed with such a strange intensity upon the tree in front of him.

  Mordecai Tremaine watched for a moment or two and a shiver went through him. He was glad Lorring did not know he was there. For upon the other’s gaunt features was an expression of sheer malignant ferocity that it was not good to witness upon the face of a human being.

  7

  DINNER HAD indubitably been a success. It was as if each of those present had decided to make a personal contribution to the gaiety in an attempt to give Benedict Grame the kind of Christmas Eve they knew he wanted.

  Mordecai Tremaine looked around the crowded table and smiled benignly. Crackers had been exploded and gay paper hats distributed. A carnival air reigned over the relics of the feast.

  Austin Delamere was behaving as though he had been released from the restrictions of officialdom and was determined to forget that he was a man with a future. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that a Napoleon hat was tilted rakishly over his left eye: his plump hands were waving animatedly as he explained some obviously humorous point to a Charlotte Grame who had regained the strained air of excitement she had revealed on the previous evening. Her eyes were bright and the high colour was back in her cheeks in two vivid patches.

  At the head of the table Benedict Grame sat beaming. He showed quite frankly that he was revelling in the sight of his guests giving way to the Christmas tradition. His was the unashamed delight of the small boy who sees his party going with a swing.

  Even Jeremy Rainer had lost his frozen greyness and was talking with a lightheartedness that vitalized his dour features and gave him the carefree appearance of a man whose mind was unclouded. It might, thought Tremaine, not be entirely unconnected with the fact that he was seated next to Lucia Tristam. One would need to be icy indeed to remain unthawed by the warmth of the magnificent Lucia’s colourful personality. With her green evening gown contrasting under the light with her luxuriant and superbly coiffeured auburn hair, her beauty tonight was dazzling.

  The only exception to the rule of exhilaration was Professor Lorring. As had been the case on the previous evening, the scientist had eaten in an ostentatious silence, his head lowered, oblivious to the conversation around him.

  Several times Grame had attempted to draw him out, but he was seated too far from the other to make a sustained effort, and Lorring was apparently determined to remain uncommunicative. Tremaine saw Nicholas Blaise regarding the scientist thoughtfully, and it was not difficult to guess what was in his mind. In Lorring’s attitude he was finding what might be a significant factor as far as Benedict Grame’s uneasiness was concerned.

  After dinner chairs were pushed back and rugs and carpets rolled into corners. Dance music was provided by records, but the atmosphere was informal enough by now to make that disadvantage a very minor one. Mordecai Tremaine found himself dancing with Denys Arden and liking it more than a little.

  ‘I didn’t see you about this afternoon,’ he remarked, as he steered expertly past a chair jutting into their path.

  ‘No, Roger and I went out for a long walk,’ she told him. ‘We didn’t get back until late.’ She added, ‘You dance marvellously.’

  ‘You sound surprised. Do I look so very old and feeble?’ he said, with mock dismay.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. But you’re not a bit like I expected.’

  He peered over the top of his pince-nez in the manner that always made him look most harmless and that in reality was a warning that he was most to be feared.

  ‘What did you expect?’ he said, and he added softly: ‘And why?’

  At first she did not appreciate the significance of the second question.

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ she said. ‘Someone much more official looking. Someone hawklike—almost frightening. I suppose it’s because Sherlock Holmes always comes into my mind when I think of a——’

  She broke off quickly, as though she had only just realized where her frankness was leading her. She coloured and pretended to be suddenly interested in the music to which they were dancing. But Mordecai Tremaine was not to be so easily shaken off.

  ‘When you think
of a what?’ he prompted gently, and when she did not reply he said: ‘It wouldn’t be a detective, would it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said unwillingly. As though she felt called upon to explain, she said, ‘You are one, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, in a way,’ said Tremaine. ‘I’m interested in criminology but I haven’t any official position. But who told you about my little hobby?’

  She hesitated. He had the impression that she was seeking in her mind for an assurance that in telling him she would not be incriminating anyone.

  ‘It was Roger,’ she said at last. ‘He mentioned it several days ago—when we heard you were coming. He saw your name in the newspapers in connection with a murder case.’

  ‘Publicity,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘seems inseparable from murder. It’s very regrettable. I hope the knowledge hasn’t caused any embarrassment.’

  She looked at him suspiciously, but the mild eyes only half concealed by the pince-nez betrayed nothing of what he was thinking.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to feel that my presence here was causing anything in the nature of—well, of constraint. Who else besides Mr. Wynton knows my dark secret?’

  ‘Only Jeremy, as far as I know. But that’s because I haven’t talked to anyone about it. I imagine that Nick and Uncle Benedict know.’

  ‘How did your guardian react to the news?’ he asked her casually.

  He could tell from the instinctive look of defence that came into her eyes that he had touched upon a sensitive spot. But at that moment the music stopped and before he could follow up his advantage Roger Wynton had come up to them and the opportunity had gone.

  He decided to turn his attention to Charlotte Grame and looked around for her so that he could ask her for the next dance. Whether she saw him and guessed his intention he could not tell, but an interchange of glances took place between her and Gerald Beechley and the big man reached her first.

  Mordecai Tremaine smiled. Charlotte Grame was becoming an exciting fish to play. She was making it more obvious than ever that she had something to hide.