‘It’s up to you, Mordecai. Now that you’re here you’ve got to handle this——’
‘The police …’ began Tremaine, but Blaise took him up.
‘I know they’ll have to be brought here,’ he said. ‘But they’ll listen to you. And you can tell them the kind of things they’ll want to know. You can help them to find out who did it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Tremaine observed, ‘they will resent my interference.’
‘Why should they?’ Blaise said. ‘Your name needn’t be mentioned outside. If they’re allowed to take the credit surely the police aren’t likely to object.’ He caught Tremaine by the shoulders. His grip was strong and his fingers probed deep. ‘You know why I asked you here. It was because I was afraid for Benedict. It’s too late to save him now, but at least we can make sure his murderer hangs!’
Blaise was momentarily oblivious of the others. His eyes were on Tremaine, passionate and pleading.
‘Will you do it, Mordecai? Benedict’s lying there because of some foul creature who thinks he’ll go scot free——’
‘It isn’t Mr. Grame,’ said Tremaine gently.
Nicholas Blaise did not understand him for an instant, so much was he in the grip of his emotion. Then his eyes widened. He stared incredulously.
‘Not—Benedict?’ he said.
He went on his knees by the side of the dead man. He leaned over the better to see his face. His hand went out. Gently he moved the beard.
They saw him start back, heard his gasp.
‘God in heaven!’ he breathed. ‘It’s Rainer!’
9
NICHOLAS BLAISE came slowly to his feet.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand. I thought it was Benedict …’
He gestured towards the red robe the dead man was wearing. Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
‘When you saw Father Christmas lying there,’ he said, ‘you thought it was Mr. Grame because Mr. Grame likes to play the part of Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. But it looks as though for some reason Mr. Rainer decided to play it instead.’ He studied Blaise enquiringly. ‘Has he ever taken Mr. Grame’s place before?’
The other shook his head.
‘It’s the last thing I would have expected him to do. He thought the whole business was a little—well, childish. He wasn’t the kind of man to enjoy dressing up.’
Blaise was speaking mechanically, like a man who was doing his best to answer intelligently but who was unable to concentrate. He was trying desperately to preserve an attitude of calm, but it was clear that the murder had been a terrible shock to him.
‘I believe,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that there is a telephone in the library next door. Is there a police-station in the village?’
‘There’s a village policeman,’ said Blaise. ‘I’ll ring him now.’
‘He can pass the news on to his superiors,’ said Tremaine. ‘I imagine that he takes his orders from the police at Calnford.’
‘What about a doctor?’ Blaise was recovering now. He obviously felt that it was incumbent upon him to give a lead in dealing with the situation. ‘Should we send for the local man?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tremaine. ‘I’m afraid that there isn’t any doubt that Mr. Rainer is dead, and the police will bring their own surgeon.’
‘You don’t think,’ said Blaise, in the manner of a man who knew what the answer would be, but who felt that he must put his question—‘you don’t think it could have been an accident? Or—or suicide?’
‘That,’ said Tremaine, ‘we must allow the police to decide.’
‘Of course,’ said Blaise. ‘Of course. I’ll telephone the village.’ He turned away, took a step towards the door, then hesitated and glanced back at Tremaine. ‘Is there anything else we should do?’
‘No one must leave the house. We must be careful not to disturb anything. I think it would be wise to awaken the servants. Beyond that we can only wait until the police get here.’
Blaise nodded. He was making his way through the silent group around the door when Denys Arden appeared. She came face to face with him.
‘What is it, Nick? What’s happened?’
He did not answer, but his expression told her of the gravity of what had taken place. She stepped past him, her eyes wide with enquiry. She saw Charlotte Grame and Delamere, and from those two her gaze went to Mordecai Tremaine. And then she saw the sprawled thing on the floor.
‘Jeremy!’
She ran forward, and Mordecai Tremaine stepped quickly to meet her.
‘Don’t come any closer, Miss Arden!’ he said urgently.
‘But it’s Jeremy,’ she said. ‘He’s been hurt …’
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘Dreadfully sorry. But it would be better if you didn’t touch him. You see, the police——’
She did not allow him time to finish.
‘The police?’ Her wide eyes were suddenly horrified. ‘What have the police to do with it?’
‘Everything,’ said Tremaine quietly. ‘Mr. Rainer is dead.’
‘Dead …’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no …’
‘He’s been shot,’ said Tremaine. ‘Mr. Blaise has just gone to telephone the police.’
The sight of the agony in her face was torment to him. But she had to be told. And if it had to be done then it was well that it should be done quickly.
She stood swaying, one hand to her mouth. Rosalind Marsh and Lucia Tristam moved together to support her with gentle hands. It was strange, thought Tremaine, that such an instinctive sympathy should come spontaneously from them—from the cold beauty who seemed so aloof and unmoved, and from the vivid creature who seemed too full of primitive vitality to have within her the springs of pity.
The others watched. Lorring’s gaunt face might have been carved from stone. Gerald Beechley, his face now puffy and patchily red and white, had backed to the wall, a prey to his own sombre thoughts. The Napiers were standing hand in hand, a pathetic, frightened pair, afraid of some unnamed thing. Austin Delamere was still hovering over a Charlotte Grame in whom the mainspring of life had broken.
‘Come and sit down, my dear,’ said Lucia Tristam gently.
She slipped an arm about Denys Arden’s waist, and Mordecai Tremaine saw that the difference between them went deeper than surface appearances had suggested. Denys Arden was the hurt, bewildered child, seeking pathetically for consolation; Lucia Tristam was the mature woman who had known life and death and who possessed the richness of wisdom.
On Rosalind Marsh’s face was a look that softened it and gave it the virtue of compassion. He wished she would always look like that.
‘Denys!’
The cry startled them. It was a man’s voice, sharp with anxiety, and it came from the terrace outside. The french windows were pushed suddenly open. A figure shouldered its way into the room.
‘Denys! Are you all right?’
It was Roger Wynton. He had no eyes for anyone but Denys Arden. He went straight towards her and his arms went about her protectingly.
Mordecai Tremaine’s grey eyes blinked over his pince-nez, shadowed with speculation. How had Roger Wynton been able to make such a timely entrance? He was supposed to be several miles away, sleeping beneath his own roof. Quite apart from the fact that he could not have heard Charlotte Grame’s screams at such a distance, there had not been time for him to make the difficult journey along winding, treacherous roads. Still less had there been time for him to arrive fully dressed.
The inference was that he had been somewhere near at hand. It was an inference that brought suspicion with it.
Mordecai Tremaine knew that he was not the only person to whom the suspicion had occurred. Lucia Tristam was looking at Wynton in a manner that left no doubt as to what was in her mind. She did not speak, but after a moment or two her eyes went back to the dead man.
Roger Wynton wanted to marry Denys Arden. It was not in dispute that Jeremy Rainer had done his utmost to prevent the match. And n
ow Jeremy Rainer was dead.
Wynton himself seemed oblivious to the suspicions he had aroused. He had taken the girl into his arms and was trying to comfort her.
For the moment at least she found nothing strange in his presence. She yielded to him willingly, finding relief in the fact that he was there.
‘Oh, Roger,’ she said brokenly. ‘It’s Jeremy. He—he’s dead …’
He looked beyond her to where the dead man lay. His gaze went enquiringly to Mordecai Tremaine. He said:
‘You mustn’t think about it, my darling.’
He came further into the room, still supporting her. As he came nearer the light Tremaine saw his face clearly for the first time. There was an ugly mark down his cheek and there were traces of blood on his skin. The heavy overcoat he was wearing had been pulled back from his shoulders. One of the buttons had been torn away.
Tremaine said:
‘Did you stop him?’
Wynton’s head went up suddenly, as though something that had been driven from his mind had suddenly recurred to him. He said:
‘No. He let drive at me with a stick or a club of some kind. I was dazed for a moment or two, and by the time I’d got to my feet again he’d had too much of a start. But he can’t have got far. We must get in touch with the police at once!’
‘Mr. Blaise has gone to telephone them. Did you recognize the man who struck you?’
Wynton shook his head.
‘The moon had gone behind the clouds. Besides, he was too well muffled up. I managed to get one blow at him though. I may have marked him.’
A strange sound came to Mordecai Tremaine’s ears. A frightened, sighing sound. He looked slowly round. Charlotte Grame was sitting upright in her chair, displaying more interest in what was going on around her than she had so far evidenced. Her lips were half opened. She was gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that her whole frame was rigid. She was looking at Roger Wynton and there was terror in her eyes.
Tremaine did not think that anyone else had noticed it. Attention was fixed upon Wynton. Gerald Beechley took a step forward. There was a curious, almost feverish expression in his face. He said:
‘It’s strange you didn’t manage to see him clearly when you were close enough to hit each other.’
The accusation in his voice brought a flush to Wynton’s face. He swung towards Beechley.
‘What is there so strange about it?’
‘I would have thought you could have told us a little more, that’s all. You haven’t said yet what you were doing here.’
Gerald Beechley was no longer the jovial, bluff countryman. His manner was that of a snarling, vindictive creature, trying to incriminate someone else beyond the hope of redemption. As though, Mordecai Tremaine thought, he was driven by fear and was prepared to use any method to save his own skin.
Wynton reacted with a heightening of his angry colour. But it was significant that he did not offer any instinctive explanation as an innocent man might have done.
Mordecai Tremaine foresaw the violent scene that was dangerously near, and interrupted quickly.
‘I don’t doubt that Mr. Wynton has a satisfactory explanation for all his actions. We must leave it to the police to ask any questions that may be necessary.’
Fortunately the antagonism that had flared between the two men had no chance to develop. Voices sounded in the hall and a moment or two later Nicholas Blaise came back.
‘I’ve just seen Fleming,’ he said. ‘He’s gone to call the rest of the servants. The police will be here very shortly.’
He had recovered command of himself now. He spoke with the incisive tones of a man who was, in addition, beginning to master the situation. He caught sight of Roger Wynton, and his eyebrows went up enquiringly.
‘Mr. Wynton arrived a moment or two ago,’ said Tremaine. ‘He was involved in a struggle with someone who was outside in the grounds, but unfortunately he wasn’t able to stop him getting away.’
Nicholas Blaise stared hard at Wynton, doubt and suspicion clouding his face. He said slowly:
‘You mean—you actually laid hands on the murderer?’
‘I don’t know whether it was the murderer,’ said Wynton. ‘I certainly laid hands on someone.’
‘Did you see him leaving the house?’
‘I saw him in the drive. I’d heard the screams and I was on my way to find out what was happening. When I called out he started to run so I went after him. He gave me this.’ Wynton fingered his bruised jaw. ‘By the time I’d collected my wits there was no point in going after him in the dark so I came up here.’
‘That’s queer,’ said Blaise. ‘Damned queer.’ He stood in thought for a moment or two. Wynton’s story had evidently opened up an unexpected possibility to his mind. He turned suddenly to Charlotte Grame. ‘It was you who screamed, wasn’t it, Charlotte? Did you see anyone?’
It was the question for which she had obviously been waiting. She said:
‘No—no, I didn’t see anyone.’
Her voice was a tremulous whisper. She stared back at him, piteously anxious to be believed.
‘What did you see?’ said Blaise urgently. ‘What made you come downstairs?’
‘I—I couldn’t sleep,’ she told him. ‘I had a headache. I thought I—I heard noises. I came down with a torch. At first I didn’t see what it was. And then I stumbled over something, and when I looked down …’ Her voice faltered. ‘It was horrible … horrible …’
‘But there was no one else here?’
‘I—I don’t know. It was dark. And I was so terrified …’
Blaise leaned over. He took her by the shoulders.
‘You must think, Charlotte. You must try and remember. The police will be here soon and they will want to know. You’re sure you saw no one? You’re quite sure?’
‘The room was empty,’ she said. ‘Except for—except for——’
‘Except for the body?’
‘Except for—for the body. There was no one else.’
Austin Delamere spoke for the first time. He addressed himself to Blaise. He said:
‘If Rainer wasn’t taking Grame’s place, why hasn’t Grame decorated the tree as he usually does? Why hasn’t he been here? It’s almost half past two.’
‘He has been here,’ said Nicholas Blaise. ‘Look at the tree.’
He turned as he spoke and indicated the Christmas tree. The topmost bracket carried a small package neatly tied with coloured ribbon. Tremaine moved nearer so that he could read the name on the little card fixed to the bracket. It said: Jeremy.
‘Where,’ said Delamere shakily, ‘are the rest of the presents?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Gerald Beechley—‘perhaps Benedict still has them.’
It seemed as though it was not what he believed but what he wanted to believe.
Mordecai Tremaine had been a thoughtful and highly intrigued spectator. But he judged that the time had come for him to say what was in his mind.
‘Where is Mr. Grame?’ he interposed gently.
Nicholas Blaise spun round on his heel. Alarm and confusion had once more stripped him momentarily of his self-possession.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Benedict——’
‘He’s the only one,’ said Tremaine, ‘who hasn’t come down.’
It was a moment or two before Blaise replied. And then he said:
‘You don’t think—you don’t suppose anything has happened to Benedict, too?’
‘The only thing we can do,’ said Tremaine, ‘is to find out.’
It was Blaise who led the way to Benedict Grame’s room.
They did not have far to go, for it was in the main part of the house on the floor above them. The door was locked. Blaise hammered on it furiously.
‘Benedict! Are you there? Benedict!’
They heard stirrings from inside the room. In a moment or two the lock was turned and the door opened. Benedict Grame’s tousled head appeared. He blinked in the light, stupidly, like a
man just dragged from a heavy sleep and not yet fully awake.
‘What is it, Nick?’ he demanded querulously. ‘What’s all the din about?’
And then he saw the others crowding behind Blaise’s dressing-gowned form and the expression on his face changed.
‘What’s the trouble?’ he said. ‘Has anyone been hurt?’
‘It’s Rainer,’ said Blaise. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Grame stared at the younger man, and then he repeated the word, as though its significance had only just impacted upon his mind. ‘Dead? Jeremy? You mean there’s been an accident?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Blaise, ‘about an accident. He’s been shot. It looks like murder.’
‘Murder!’ The word came in a startled gasp. Benedict Grame stepped out into the corridor. There was no trace of sleep about him now. ‘Where is he?’
‘Downstairs,’ said Blaise. ‘In front of the Christmas tree. Dressed in your Father Christmas outfit.’
His tone was exaggeratedly noncommittal. But Grame was shaken. He could not speak for an instant or two. And then he passed his tongue over his lips.
‘It—it’s absurd,’ he said. ‘He can’t be. My things are here.’
There was a silence. It was a tense, oppressive silence, in which accusation slowly mounted. Benedict Grame looked around him. And then, abruptly, he went back into his room.
Nicholas Blaise made a movement as though to follow him, then changed his mind and stopped. It was seconds only before Grame reappeared. He was carrying a long red cloak over his right arm and in his hand was a white beard. His attitude was a mixture of challenge and appeal.
‘There,’ he said. ‘There. I told you they couldn’t be mine.’
The top button of his pyjama coat was undone and the lapel protruded untidily over his dressing-gown. He made an odd figure as he stood there with his wiry hair all ruffled, holding the cloak and the beard in front of him. But no one found him an object of humour. Tragedy was too painfully near.
Mordecai Tremaine edged his way towards the front of the group about the door. He said:
‘Did you ask Mr. Rainer to take your place in putting the presents on the tree tonight, Mr. Grame?’
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