However, he was not to have the chance of questioning her when the waltz she was dancing with Beechley came to an end, as he had planned. Benedict Grame had been absent for a few moments, but now he came back and it was obvious from the look of eagerness on his face that he had an announcement to make. He stood at the end of the room and held up his hand.
‘Listen, everybody, the village carollers have arrived. They’re under the command of the rector. He thought we might like to hear them as it’s Christmas Eve and brought them up here. It seemed to me to be an excellent idea and I’ve asked them inside. They’re waiting for us now.’
He led the way, and in a few moments they were all in the big room that housed the Christmas tree, making themselves comfortable in a wide semicircle around the assembled carollers, who were trying desperately to conceal their embarrassment at finding themselves the centre of attraction in what had for centuries been the ‘big house’ of the village. Although the old ruling family had long since passed from among them, something of the awe associated with it still lingered in the lofty rooms in which its members had held sway. There were coughs and shufflings. It was as though the ghost of the feudal system had suddenly and disconcertingly made them aware that they were under the roof of the lords of the manor.
Only the rector seemed unimpressed by the atmosphere. White-haired, benign, perfectly in character, he stood in front of his flock, waiting for the guests to settle themselves. The tips of his fingers were pressed together in the expectant attitude he adopted every Sunday in the pulpit of the ancient village church when the congregation came to the last verse of the hymn before the sermon and he prepared to begin his delivery.
Tremaine deduced that the carollers sprang mainly from the ranks of the village choir. He studied them idly and found himself counting them as they stood in front of the gaily decorated tree and being sorted now into treble, alto and bass. Seven, eight … he was confused by the manoeuvring for position, and had to begin again. There was a middle-aged lady of noble proportions at the piano. With the rector she made thirteen—no, fourteen …
His attention became fixed, no longer desultory. At the back, partially hidden by the branches of the Christmas tree, was a face he knew. The face of the man whom he had seen outside the house on his arrival. The face that had seemed to him then to hold a strange malevolence.
Like Lorring. The thought came into his mind hard on the heels of his recognition. It startled him with its concise impact, and he realized that it was strange that it had not occurred to him before.
Professor Lorring had looked in the afternoon like a man in whose heart hate was deep-rooted and his expression had been akin to that which this stranger had borne when he had encountered him outside the gates. Why? What possible link could there be between the distinguished scientist and this village caroller?
Someone had turned off all the lights except one that burned above the piano. The rector turned and raised his hand, and the pianist struck a warning chord.
It was an old carol they chose as their first. A beautiful, medieval hymn that somehow seemed in full keeping with the setting of the noble old house. It found a response in Mordecai Tremaine’s soul. It held a message of peace. Of peace and glad tidings and goodwill.
And yet he was not at peace. Like a cloudy barrier across his vision there was an image of those two malignant faces. He stared at the stranger. He could gaze at him without fear of being observed now, for he was in the shadows. He would appear as no more than a white blur, not to be distinguished from a number of similar blurs all turned in the same direction.
But his scrutiny told him nothing beyond the fact that there was no sign of that earlier disturbing expression in the other’s face now. He seemed to be concerned with nothing but the carol in which he was joining with every appearance of earnestness.
Not for the first time Mordecai Tremaine wondered whether a vivid imagination was causing him to see things that had no real existence. The other’s face had a natural darkness that gave him a saturnine appearance that might have no connection with his thoughts. All the carollers had taken off their outer garments when they had come into the house, and without the overcoat that had muffled him at that first meeting, and removed from the fantasy-laden setting of a gloomy winter afternoon and a snow-covered landscape lying under a fading light, he did not give such an impression of bulk. No doubt he had been well protected against the weather and had seemed much bigger than he really was.
The only thing about him now that spoke of more than ordinary size was his head. This was not so large that it was abnormal, but it was certainly noticeable. It was, Tremaine thought, a rather noble head. It had dignity and a certain proud poise. It was, in fact, an unusual head to find on the shoulders of a man who was apparently no more than a simple villager.
It was difficult to see the other’s features clearly, for he was at the rear of the singing group and was partially hidden by the branches of the tree. Black, thick hair surmounted broad features with wide nostrils and an expressive mouth. As he sang, with head held back, some trick of the light in association with the darkness of his jaw gave him the appearance of possessing a short pointed beard.
All through the first two carols Mordecai Tremaine kept his eyes upon the dark man. Was he becoming more sure of himself? Was he relaxing what had at first been a guarded attitude and beginning to look about him as if he wanted to impress every detail of the room upon his memory? Or was he reacting like the average villager who, after being awestruck by his introduction to new surroundings, gradually finds himself becoming accustomed to them and begins to display a natural curiosity?
Having failed to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion, Tremaine transferred his attention to his fellow guests. Benedict Grame was enjoying the whole thing and was sitting back in his chair blissfully content. Denys Arden was listening eagerly—the carollers undoubtedly sang well together and their voices blended perfectly in the lofty room—and Roger Wynton was deriving his pleasure from her happiness. Reaction among the others varied from the polite boredom of Rosalind Marsh, whom he caught stifling a yawn behind a graceful white hand upon which a single stone flashed, to the unconcealed antagonism of Professor Lorring whose expression was that of a man forced to endure the unendurable.
Tremaine glanced slowly along the ragged line of faces. Austin Delamere was plumply peaceful. His hands were folded over his stomach and he was lying back in his chair with his eyes half closed. He might, of course, have been taking advantage of the lull to think out some weighty matter of state, but the signs were certainly against it.
On the other side of Delamere, Harold and Evelyn Napier were seated. They were a colourless couple, pleasantly nondescript. Tremaine judged them both to be in the early forties. The husband was a plumpish, inoffensive-looking individual rather like a somewhat harassed edition of Delamere but without the politician’s elaborate air of importance. The wife was a soft-voiced shadow of a creature who had once been pretty and who still retained a timid, faun-like appeal and had a disconcerting trick of looking to her husband before making a reply to a question, as if seeking his support.
Tremaine had not exchanged more than a few words with them, and his enquiring mind had not yet been able to classify them with any satisfaction. They were apparently well established inhabitants of the district and yet they gave him the impression of being oddly out of place in it, as though they were town-folk doing their best to live up to a country estate and finding the process both difficult and uncomfortable.
Evelyn Napier had seemed reluctant to talk about their connections with the neighbourhood. Although there again, Tremaine admitted, he might have been allowing that over-sensitive imagination of his to lead him astray. Watching her now as she sat listening to the carollers, a little faded, streaks of grey infringing upon what had once been the soft brown of her hair, she reminded him of Charlotte Grame. There was the same suggestion of inhibition, the same nervous defensiveness.
When they
had been introduced he had made a commonplace enough opening gambit with a remark about the charm of Sherbroome village. She had agreed readily—even enthusiastically. And he had gone on, thinking she came of local stock:
‘I imagine your family roots go deep into its history?’
That was when her smile had become a mechanical thing that owed nothing to her emotions. That was when she had ceased to be natural and had revealed herself to be on her guard. At least—perhaps.
‘Oh, no,’ she had told him. ‘We haven’t been living down here very long.’
Delicately probing he had said:
‘You couldn’t have chosen a more perfect spot in which to settle down. I suppose that like most of us you were anxious for peaceful country life, away from the noise and bustle.’
‘That’s it,’ she had said eagerly—too eagerly. ‘Both of us had begun to find town life unbearable.’
And then Gerald Beechley had come up, and he had been left with the frustrating feeling that he had been on the verge of a discovery and had had opportunity snatched from him.
Evelyn Napier made a sudden movement. He thought at first that she had felt his eyes upon her, but she did not look in his direction. He saw that her left hand was feeling stealthily for her husband’s. Harold Napier felt her gentle touch. Tremaine saw him give his wife a smile and saw their hands come together.
It quickened his sympathy. His sentimental soul warmed towards them. He was romantic enough to believe firmly in the sanctity of marriage.
He shifted his attention from the Napiers and allowed his thoughts to dwell upon Lucia Tristam. It was a pleasant occupation. Mordecai Tremaine was an admirer of beauty wherever it was to be found.
She seemed to be listening eagerly to the carols. Lucia Tristam was a person who brought intensity to everything she did. It was easy to imagine her sweeping royally through life, undisturbed by thoughts of convention or what the rest of the world might say about her actions.
Perhaps she was the most intriguing personality in the room. Warm, vital and disturbing, the sort of woman who could set men on fire merely by looking at them in a crowded street.
Thinking that he had been studying her too long and too ardently, he looked away and found himself staring into the questioning eyes of Nicholas Blaise. The other smiled. There was approval in the smile. Evidently Blaise was satisfied that his request was bearing fruit.
The carols came to an end. After his official speech of thanks, Benedict Grame escorted the rector and his little band from the room, evidently to see that they were suitably refreshed before they went on their way. The dark man was the last to leave. Tremaine saw him hesitate in the doorway, saw him give a last, searching glance about him.
As soon as he could he took Nicholas Blaise on one side. The other gave him an expectant glance.
‘Things,’ he said, ‘are beginning to move. Am I right?’
‘Not,’ said Tremaine, ‘exactly. But I thought you might be able to give me some information. Is Mr. Grame in the habit of keeping fairly large sums of money in the house?’
‘He has a safe in his room in which he keeps various odd amounts, but it’s rare for him to have very much loose cash. Nothing worth stealing—if that’s what you mean.’
‘I didn’t say that was what I meant,’ returned Mordecai Tremaine evasively. ‘But since you’ve mentioned the point, is there anything worth a burglar’s visit?’
‘As a matter of fact there is. A diamond necklace.’
‘A family heirloom?’
The quickening of interest in Tremaine’s voice brought a smile to Nicholas Blaise’s face.
‘I’m afraid not. But it does possess certain sentimental associations,’ he added. ‘It’s intended to be a present. For Denys.’
‘For any particular occasion?’
‘Her wedding day.’
‘Does Miss Arden—Denys—know about this necklace?’
‘Yes. She’s tried several times to persuade Benedict against it. She’s told him it’s far too expensive a gift for him to give. But he’s made up his mind about it, and when Benedict makes up his mind over a thing you can’t change him.’
‘He’s very fond of Miss Arden, isn’t he?’
‘He treats her as his own daughter—you’ve probably seen it already. He’s been working on the necklace for years, collecting the stones and trying to get a perfect match.’
‘So it’s no secret?’
‘It’s a very open one. All of us in the house know about it. Gerald, Charlotte, myself …’
‘And Mr. Rainer?’
‘And Jeremy,’ agreed Blaise. His eyebrows went up. ‘You don’t mean—you’re not suggesting that Jeremy might want to steal it?’
‘Is the suggestion so unthinkable?’ said Mordecai Tremaine gently.
For an instant or two Blaise did not know what to say. But at last:
‘Not what you might call unthinkable,’ he said. ‘But I must confess that it isn’t one that would have occurred to me. After all, what reason could he have? He isn’t short of money and he’s as fond of Denys as Benedict himself. I’m certain of that. Why should he want to rob her?’
‘Perhaps he wants to rob her husband. You said that it was intended to be a wedding gift. And he doesn’t make any secret of his dislike for Roger Wynton.’
‘True enough,’ Blaise admitted. ‘But I can’t accept that as a sufficient reason. After all, they aren’t married yet. Suppose Denys marries someone else?’
‘In that case it wouldn’t be necessary to steal the necklace. Unless the next prospective husband happened to be equally disliked!’
Nicholas Blaise looked at him suspiciously.
‘I wish I could tell when you were pulling my leg. You aren’t seriously putting forward the theory that Jeremy might steal the necklace merely to damage Wynton’s interests? I don’t suppose Wynton’s a wealthy man, but he certainly isn’t a poor one. I don’t know what the necklace is worth. I dare say its value runs into thousands, but if it ran into millions it wouldn’t affect his wanting to marry Denys.’
‘You sound like the young man’s champion,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, and his eyes were twinkling. ‘Don’t get trying to read any significance into all this,’ he added. ‘The fact is that Mr. Grame keeps a valuable necklace in the house which he intends to give to Miss Arden as a wedding present when the time comes, and that everybody knows of its existence. Does “everybody” include the servants, by the way?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ returned Blaise. ‘I imagine that most of them have heard about it, though. There aren’t many secrets as far as they’re concerned. You know how such news spreads.’
‘Yes,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘I know.’
Despite the antagonism of Lorring and the boredom of Rosalind Marsh, the carol recital had undoubtedly brought an atmosphere of peace and goodwill in its train. The carefree spirit that had prevailed at dinner remained throughout the evening. Benedict Grame, his paper cap riding perkily on his bushy hair, circulated tirelessly among his guests, and as the gaiety grew so did his smile broaden and his schoolboy’s laugh sound more frequently.
It was not a protracted party. Perhaps that was why the merriment did not flag. It was a tradition, apparently, that there was an early retirement on Christmas Eve, as though to make up for the feasting that was to come on the succeeding days.
Mordecai Tremaine knew that he should be reacting to the general festivity; that he should be expanding mentally under its generous glow. But somehow he could never quite bring himself to the point of abandonment. He could never quite enter so thoroughly into the spirit of the gathering that he was able to forget everything but the satisfying sensation that he was enjoying himself in the way that one should at such a season. It was as though there was a barrier between his companions and himself. It was as though he stood watching them but could not join in their revels because he could not accept them as real.
He knew, of course, that the barrier was a mental
one. He knew that it existed only in his own mind, and that he could break it down if he made the effort.
When he was in his room and it was no longer necessary to display an interest or to make conversation, he tried to analyse his emotions. Why had he been unable to surrender himself to the gaiety of Benedict Grame’s Christmas party, a gaiety to which he had looked forward with such pleasant anticipation? What had been troubling his mind, stifling spontaneity?
The answer was an instinctive one. It had been because he was waiting for something. Because he knew that something was going to happen and because he was tensed to meet it.
He brushed the argument aside and when it still pursued him he tried to thrust it deep into the background of his mind. What was there that could happen? This was Christmas Eve, the night when peace and tranquillity lay quietly over the earth in spirit, just as the snow was lying outside, blanketing the scars made by man, and blending the whole landscape into a soft white pattern.
It was a night when joyous magic was abroad; the kind of magic for which mankind had so great a need and in which there was no fear. Why should he be so heavy with foreboding, so laden down with a dread he could not name?
He switched on the reading-lamp at the side of his bed and settled back against the pillows with Romantic Stories in his hand. Here was the anodyne. Here he would find balm for his soul. As literature it might be a subject for the scorn of the critics, but at least it was mellow and kindly. It offered love and romance and the humour and humanity that formed the mainspring of the world.
But he read without seeing and without understanding. Tonight at least Romantic Stories could not help him. He laid the magazine down and, moved by a sudden impulse, he slipped from the bed and went towards the window, pulling his dressing-gown around him.
He drew back the curtains, but the light behind him made it difficult to see out and he turned back and switched off the reading-lamp. The clouds were lying heavy across the sky, but as he looked the moon cleared and he saw the snow spreading fairy-like across the grounds of the house and the neatly hedged fields beyond. It sparkled with frost, and he could imagine how it would crunch beneath his feet were he to walk upon it.
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