Murder for Christmas

by Francis Duncan

  She shook her head.

  ‘No—Roger said he can’t give a description that wouldn’t be guesswork because it all happened so quickly. But he did tell me something over the telephone this morning that he hasn’t told the police.’

  ‘About last night?’

  ‘Yes. He saw Jeremy. He said it was about half an hour after we were all supposed to have gone to bed. He saw him come out of the house and go down the drive to the lodge. It isn’t occupied now. He went inside and was there for about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Did Mr. Wynton speak to him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was there.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When Jeremy went into the lodge he was wearing his ordinary clothes, but when he came out he was wearing the Father Christmas cloak. Roger said that he went straight across the lawn and up to the french windows. That was the last he saw of him until—until he rushed into the house after Charlotte screamed.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not until the screams. That was when Roger saw someone hurrying towards him. He tried to stop him but he was knocked down and stunned for a few moments. There didn’t seem any hope then of catching whoever had attacked him, and he thought the best plan was to come up to the house and find out what had happened.’

  Mordecai Tremaine silently considered the information he had been given. And then:

  ‘Why,’ he said, ‘didn’t Mr. Wynton tell the police that he’d seen your guardian?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask that,’ she said. ‘I’d rather explain it to you than to the superintendent because I think you’ll understand. It was on my account. Roger didn’t want to say anything about—Jeremy until he’d had an opportunity of telling me first.’

  ‘Very human,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘but very unwise. I’d like to talk to your young man, my dear. He’ll have to tell the superintendent everything, of course, but I think I can guarantee,’ he added, with a confidence he did not feel, ‘that in view of the circumstances the police will overlook his not having told them earlier.’

  Her look of gratitude warmed his heart and steeled him for the encounter with Superintendent Cannock.

  ‘Thank you,’ she told him. ‘I knew you would help us.’

  Her trust in him was so obvious that he felt he must repeat his earlier warning as an insurance against what might happen later.

  ‘You won’t forget,’ he said, ‘that nothing must be concealed? No matter what it may mean?’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ she returned, and she left him with the feeling that Roger Wynton was an exceedingly lucky young man.

  Mordecai Tremaine hoped that fate would be kind to her. His vision, although sympathetic, was not limited by the illusions of love, and he knew that Roger Wynton was in a highly suspect position. If only in view of his known antagonism towards the dead man the police could not take the risk of accepting his story at its face value. He was likely to be confronted with a series of awkward questions, and it remained to be seen whether he could provide the right answers.

  If not … Mordecai Tremaine considered the alternative unhappily. If not there would be a grim and sudden ending to romance.

  12

  ALL THE MORNING the police were busy in the house and grounds. There was no doubt that Superintendent Cannock was conducting his campaign with efficiency. His men were courteous and as unobtrusive as the situation would allow, but they gave the impression of being part of a remorseless machine that would leave nothing to chance.

  Wrapped in her fur coat Lucia Tristam was standing on the terrace by the main steps. Ostensibly she had gone outside in search of fresh air, but Mordecai Tremaine, who had been studying her for the past few minutes, knew that she was more concerned with the movements of the detectives who were working near the open french windows of the room in which Jeremy Rainer had died.

  His voice insinuated itself softly into her thoughts.

  ‘They are a little frightening, aren’t they?’

  He could not see her face, but he knew from the sudden tenseness that came into her attitude that she was trying to hide her emotions from him. She turned slowly.

  ‘Why should they be?’ she said coolly, and superficially her manner was as casually self-possessed as it had been when she had been lying so brazenly on Charlotte Grame’s behalf. Only the glint of ironical humour was missing from her eyes to betray her real state of mind. Lucia Tristam was no longer amused.

  ‘They look so—so inevitable,’ he said, watching her. ‘I’d hate to watch them at work if I had anything to hide. I’d feel too scared. I’d be imagining every moment that they were uncovering my secret.’

  ‘Imagination,’ she said, ‘can sometimes be a curse. Fortunately you and I haven’t anything to hide, have we?’

  The green eyes met his own challengingly. They possessed a hard brilliance this morning, as though they were diamonds reacting to the frosty light.

  ‘Haven’t we?’ he said, echoing her tone.

  She did not allow herself to be drawn, although it was obvious from her expression that she knew what he was trying to do. She looked away from him, out over the lawns. Despite the fur coat pulled around her he could yet admire the grace of her figure and feel that superb quality in her, both vital and voluptuous, that could drug men’s senses. For a moment or two he was almost glad that the blood was no longer running so strongly in his veins.

  ‘Jeremy was a strange man,’ she said musingly. ‘I wonder if any of us really knew him?’

  ‘He was a jealous man,’ Mordecai Tremaine observed, and once again he knew that he had touched her, for she could not conceal the fact that she was on her guard.

  Was it fear that lay behind her eyes? It was certainly something akin to fear, and yet he did not think that fear provided an entirely satisfactory explanation.

  ‘I’m glad that at least two people don’t find it too cold to venture out of doors!’

  The voice was unexpected and near enough to startle. Tremaine turned hastily to find Benedict Grame at his side. The other’s approach had been silenced by the snow.

  He realized that it was the first time he had seen his host at close quarters for more than a moment or two since Grame’s dressing-gowned figure had appeared in his bedroom doorway in the early hours of the morning. He had had no opportunity of studying him when he had looked into the dining-room and had said good morning to Delamere and himself as they had been finishing breakfast.

  His tone was surprisingly cheerful. A certain amount of it was, no doubt, due to the natural anxiety of a host to ease matters for his guests, but he was undoubtedly far removed from the badly startled man he had been when Nicholas Blaise had pounded on his door. He looked confident. More than that, thought Mordecai Tremaine curiously, he looked almost as though he was enjoying the situation.

  That was absurd, of course. It must be some trick of the light playing across the lined face that was adding the glint to the blue eyes and the ironic twist to the bushy eyebrows. Benedict Grame could surely find no cause for humour in the present situation, with his best friend murdered, and with the responsibility for a houseful of uneasy guests sitting heavily upon his shoulders.

  ‘I couldn’t stand it inside, Benedict,’ said Lucia Tristam. ‘I simply had to come out for a breath of air, despite the cold.’

  Grame nodded understandingly.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a depressing Christmas for you. I’ve been trying to find everyone to offer my apologies for the way things have turned out.’

  She laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘It’s all right, Benedict. No one is likely to lay this at your door. We all know how you feel.’

  Her voice held a caressing note. It was, Mordecai Tremaine thought, a note a man might be flattered to hear when such a woman was speaking to him.

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Grame, ‘that I’m at such a disadvantage. Quite apart from the fact that the police have taken charge
of the house I can hardly go ahead with the arrangements I’d made for entertaining you. I hope you won’t find things too difficult.’

  Once again Mordecai Tremaine had the impression of a false note being sounded. Benedict Grame looked as he might have been expected to look. His words were such as he might have been expected to use. And yet the effect of truth was not there. Benedict Grame was behaving as he ought to behave, but it was not the way his heart was inclined.

  Tremaine made use of his most benevolently harmless expression. He said:

  ‘Have the police discovered any clues?’

  There was genuine surprise in the blue eyes.

  ‘I thought,’ said Grame, ‘that you would have known that before any of us. In fact’—he spoke more slowly, as though anxious to employ the right words—‘in fact I was about to put that very question to you.’

  ‘There are opportunities open to you that are denied to the rest of us,’ said Lucia Tristam. Her voice sounded urgent. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do to help find out who killed Jeremy Rainer? As long as the murderer goes free innocent people are bound to be under suspicion.’

  Benedict Grame shook his head gravely from side to side.

  ‘It was a dreadful tragedy,’ he said. ‘Poor Jeremy! I feel I’ll never rest again until his murderer has been found.’

  ‘You knew him perhaps more closely than anyone else,’ said Tremaine. ‘Can you offer any theories? Can you, for instance, think of anyone who might have had a motive for killing him? Anyone connected with his past?’

  Grame did not reply at once. He seemed to be anxious to give the impression of a man who was speaking reluctantly.

  ‘Not his past,’ he said. ‘But——’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s been so obvious,’ said Grame, ‘that I don’t suppose I can do young Wynton any harm by speaking. You know how things are between Roger and Denys. For some reason Jeremy was dead against it. I’m fond of Denys and I did what I could, but it only seemed to make matters worse. Jeremy could be completely unreasonable at times. When he took a dislike to anyone it was impossible to argue with him, and he certainly made it plain that he didn’t like Wynton.’

  ‘So you think,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that Roger Wynton killed him?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Grame quickly. ‘The fact that he was here last night does seem rather odd, of course, but I’m sure he has a satisfactory explanation. My feeling is that it’s better to state these things openly rather than have a situation where everybody is talking about them secretly and nobody has the courage to come out with them. I think it’s in Wynton’s interest that nothing should be held back.’

  ‘When a man is innocent,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘it undoubtedly is the best policy.’

  Benedict Grame nodded. He seemed to be deep in thought. At last he said:

  ‘Has Gerald said anything to you?’

  Mordecai Tremaine showed his surprise. He blinked over his pince-nez. He said:

  ‘I haven’t seen Mr. Beechley this morning. Should he have said anything to me?’

  ‘Well, I thought he might have done,’ said Grame awkwardly. ‘I don’t see what point there could be in concealing it——’

  ‘What Benedict is trying to say,’ interposed Lucia Tristam, ‘is that Gerald bought a Father Christmas outfit in Calnford yesterday. An outfit like the one Jeremy was wearing when he was found.’

  ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Lucia,’ said Grame. ‘After all, you know Gerald. There’s no telling what he’s likely to do. He’s always been fond of his practical jokes. It’s just that I thought he might have seen the wisdom of telling the police, or—or someone—in view of what’s happened.’

  Mordecai Tremaine was recalling how he had encountered Beechley just outside the house on the previous day and how the other had quite obviously done his utmost to prevent Denys Arden or himself from seeing what he had bought. And he was recalling the glimpse of red cloth he had caught before Beechley had hurriedly pulled the covering paper back into position.

  So it had been a Father Christmas outfit he had bought. It had been one like that in which Jeremy Rainer’s dead body had been clad. It was, he thought, decidedly interesting.

  Benedict Grame shivered suddenly.

  ‘This is no place for me,’ he announced. ‘Coming inside, Lucia?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’m rapidly turning into an icicle,’ she told him.

  When they had disappeared inside the house Mordecai Tremaine moved slowly along the terrace. He was well served by fate, for just as he reached the open french windows a few yards away Superintendent Cannock came out. He looked wryly at Tremaine’s muffled figure.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.

  His tone was an encouragement. It said that he was still approachable and that his earlier mood had not been succeeded by an official coldness.

  ‘It’s hardly a happy Christmas morning, I’m afraid, Superintendent. I don’t suppose your wife appreciates your having to spend it like this. If you are married,’ he added.

  ‘I am,’ said Cannock. ‘But fortunately she’s used to the trials of a policeman’s household.’ His broad face lost its smile. He said seriously, ‘Anything interesting?’

  Tremaine nodded.

  ‘A little. Rainer was seen outside the house last night not long before he was killed. Roger Wynton saw him go into the old lodge by the entrance gates.’

  He told his companion what Denys Arden had said. Cannock listened thoughtfully, a frown upon his face.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me all this before and save me a great deal of trouble? I’ll have to talk to that young man.’

  His tone was forbidding. Mordecai Tremaine said hastily:

  ‘I’ve more or less offered myself as security that you won’t do anything drastic. I think he’ll tell you all you want to know if you send for him.’

  A faint smile appeared in the depths of the brown eyes.

  ‘Cherchez la femme, eh?’ Cannock murmured softly. ‘The young lady’s been at work on you, has she?’

  Mordecai Tremaine felt himself colouring and was annoyed. He tried to change the subject.

  ‘Have you—have you found anything?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve been having a look around,’ said Cannock. ‘But why don’t you come inside?’

  It was an invitation for which he had been hoping. Having received it Mordecai Tremaine accepted it eagerly.

  The room was still a more or less true reflection of the image in his mind. The Christmas tree, incongruous in the morning light, still bore its gay decorations. The steps were still standing against the wall. The chair upon which Charlotte Grame had sat was still where she had left it. Only the body was missing. The polished floor in front of the tree no longer carried that ominous heap of red.

  Mordecai Tremaine looked curiously about him.

  ‘Have you found the gun?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ returned Cannock quietly. ‘We found it an hour ago in Jeremy Rainer’s room.’

  ‘In Rainer’s room?’ Mordecai Tremaine’s pince-nez seemed to be on the very edge of disaster. ‘Where was it hidden?’

  ‘We discovered it,’ said Cannock carefully, ‘under one of the pillows on his bed.’

  ‘Any finger-prints?’

  ‘Several. I’ve already had them checked. They’re all Rainer’s.’

  Mordecai Tremaine assimilated this second surprising item of information. He said:

  ‘Jeremy Rainer’s gun and Jeremy Rainer’s finger-prints. That makes it look like suicide. Except …’

  ‘Except,’ agreed the superintendent, ‘that it’s a very unusual suicide where a dead man walks upstairs and slips the gun under his pillow and then walks back down again and lies on the floor ready to be found. The doctor swears that he must have been killed instantaneously. The bullet lodged in his heart. Incidentally it struck him very low in the body, under the ribs in fact, and travelled almost vertically upwards through the thoracic cavity. It wo
uld have needed a miracle for him to have walked a yard after he was hit, quite apart from the fact that he would have wanted a pretty intense motive to make him do such an apparently crazy thing.’

  ‘Suppose it was suicide, after all? Suppose somebody found him and deliberately took the gun away to make it look like murder?’

  ‘And then spoiled the whole effect by leaving the gun in Rainer’s own room with his finger-prints on it?’ The superintendent shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ admitted Mordecai Tremaine.

  He walked across to the tree. The pathetic remnants of the shattered bell still hung from its branch; particles of it still glittered on the floor. He peered into the big wooden tub in which the tree was set. There was an indentation in the soil and he leaned over to study it more closely.

  He looked up. The brackets with the names of the guests upon them were still in position. Something caught his attention. He peered upwards, but it was difficult to see clearly, and after a moment or two he fetched the wooden steps from their place against the wall and climbed up so that he could make his investigation more easily.

  There was something tied to the branch bearing the bracket with Jeremy Rainer’s name on it. It was a piece of thin but stout twine, dark green in colour and hardly distinguishable against the background of the tree. It ran back over a stouter branch a few inches higher, its other end dangling downwards. Tremaine reached over and examined it. It looked as though it had been cut.

  Superintendent Cannock was watching him with interest.

  ‘What have you found?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Tremaine slowly. He said, as he descended the steps, ‘I suppose the gun you found is the one that killed Rainer?’

  ‘The ballistics people will want to play about with it, of course, but there isn’t much doubt about it being the right one.’