‘It was bound to come,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Once the police had been called in it was inevitable.’
Rosalind Marsh laughed. It was a harsh sound that had despair in it.
‘What a fool I was,’ she said. ‘What a stupid, unthinking fool. I believed that you were in it, too. I even thought that you might help.’
‘Did you speak to Lorring?’
‘No. He isn’t the kind of man you can speak to.’
‘What about the others?’
‘The others?’ Her lip curled. ‘It was hopeless. It’s been going on too long. They’re all afraid.’
‘Even Delamere?’
‘Delamere most of all. There was only Jeremy. Only Jeremy I could depend upon. And you know what happened to Jeremy.’
‘Yes,’ said Mordecai Tremaine quietly, ‘I know what happened to Jeremy.’
They did not speak again during the remainder of the journey back to the house. When they reached it Rosalind Marsh went up to her room and he did not attempt to detain her.
The inquest seemed to have broken the tension under which the house-party had been living and had replaced it with a feverish relief. Since no one had been directly accused they had all acquired a brittle gaiety. The conversation was inclined to be unnaturally bright.
Behind the façade, Mordecai Tremaine reflected, there was one thought dominating their minds. The desire to get away. There was nothing to keep them now. They would make their excuses to their host and depart, nursing their secret fears, but hugging also the sense of security that distance would bring them.
As soon as he was able he took Nicholas Blaise to one side.
‘Can you spare a few moments, Nick?’
‘Of course.’ Blaise followed him as he led the way into the room where Jeremy Rainer had died and closed the door behind them. His dark face was curious. He said, ‘You’re on to something?’
Mordecai Tremaine said:
‘Yes, Nick, I’m on to something. There’s an entrance to the secret hide in this room. Do you know how to operate it?’
Nicholas Blaise nodded.
‘Why, yes. It’s simple enough when you know where to look.’
‘The other day,’ said Tremaine, ‘Denys Arden told me about the hide. We were going to explore it more fully, but when we got back to it Benedict Grame and yourself were decorating the Christmas tree in here so we didn’t do it, after all. I take it that no one else would have been likely to have used it?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s only a curiosity now. It doesn’t lead anywhere.’
‘Open it, Nick,’ said Mordecai Tremaine urgently.
Obediently Blaise moved across to the wall. His hands searched familiarly over the panels. There was a click. Mordecai Tremaine took a torch from his pocket and flashed the beam into the darkness behind the wall.
‘There,’ he said. ‘There!’
In the hide the dust and cobwebs were thick. But just within the entrance, on the topmost step of a flight of stairs leading down below the house, it was patterned and disturbed.
There were no definite footprints, but it was clear enough that someone had been standing there, and very recently.
Nicholas Blaise gave an exclamation.
‘You’re right, Mordecai! There was someone here!’ His eyes had a sudden burning eagerness in them. ‘Who was it? Do you know that?’
Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘But there’s more yet, Nick.’
Blaise closed the panel that formed the entrance to the hide. He followed his companion once more, and this time Tremaine led him to the long, gloomy corridor running along the top floor of the house where the lumber-rooms were situated. Portraits of forgotten generations of Melvins peered down at them from the walls. Mordecai Tremaine switched on the electric light. He stopped before the painting of a man in the dress of a cavalier.
‘Sir Rupert Melvin—about the middle of the sixteenth century. Notice anything, Nick?’
Nicholas Blaise said, puzzled:
‘No—what should I notice?’
For reply Mordecai Tremaine reached up his hand. His palm covered the lower part of the face of the man in the painting, hiding his beard.
‘Do you see it now?’ he said.
A wrinkle of perplexity appeared in Nicholas Blaise’s forehead.
‘There’s something,’ he said. ‘I’ve a queer feeling that I’ve seen him before.’
‘You have,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Here. On the night Jeremy Rainer was murdered.’
Blaise stared at him, clearly unable to comprehend. Tremaine said, peering over the pince-nez:
‘It isn’t quite as crazy as it sounds. When Benedict Grame bought this house did he actually meet the previous owner?’
Blaise thought for a moment.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t think he did. The solicitors handled all the details.’
‘I imagined,’ said Tremaine, ‘that that was probably what happened. All Grame or yourself knew was his name—Latimer.’
He pushed open the door of the room opposite to which they were standing. It was the room from which the unhappy Lady Isabel was reputed to have flung herself to her death long before even the time of the cavalier in the portrait. He went slowly to the window. Just outside it was a low stone balustrade and beyond he could see the ragged patchwork of fields stretching away from the house. They looked surprisingly far off. Here at the very top of the building there was an uninterrupted view for many miles.
‘It must be a dreadful thing,’ he said, ‘to be faced as Latimer was faced with the necessity for selling the heritage that had been held by his family for centuries. He held out as long as he could. Even although he could not afford to live in the house he refused to sell. He used to come here during the summer and camp in the grounds.’
Blaise nodded.
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘I remember it now. Of course we never saw him. He didn’t come after Benedict had bought it.’
‘How he must have hated it,’ said Tremaine. ‘At one time all the land we can see from this window must have belonged to his ancestors and now circumstances had forced him to relinquish even the house itself into alien hands. It must have made him bitter. It did make him bitter. I think he felt he was entitled to revenge himself on the people whom he considered had usurped his rights.’
‘You mean,’ said Nicholas Blaise, ‘that it was Latimer who was in the hide?’
‘Yes. He came with the rector’s carol party. The rector knows him, of course, and when Latimer heard that the carol singers intended to come up here on Christmas Eve he asked if he could join them. No doubt the rector thought that it was a case of sentiment, and that he wanted to get inside the house again without drawing attention to himself, and he naturally agreed. He didn’t dream that Latimer had any other reason or that he had stayed behind after the rest of the party had gone. That’s why he was so obviously startled when we spoke to him the other morning.
‘Latimer’s real purpose wasn’t so innocent. He probably knew all about Benedict Grame’s Christmas parties and came down here a few days ago with the deliberate intention of getting inside the house somehow and seeing what he could lay his hands on. The visit of the carol singers offered him the ideal opportunity, and once he was inside the rest was easy. He merely had to slip away from the others and wait for a chance to get into the hide. He knew that he could stay there undetected for hours if necessary. It’s obvious that whoever made use of the hide must have known all about it and how to operate it.’
‘What put you on to him?’ said Blaise.
‘At first it was mere chance. When I arrived here Latimer was standing outside the gates. It was plain from his face that he wasn’t just an ordinary passerby. He was looking towards the house, as though he had some terrible personal animosity for the people living here. I suppose that made me pay more than usual attention to him, and when Denys Arden brought me up here and we saw the portrait
s I noticed the resemblance. I didn’t connect the two straight away but the thing stayed in my mind, and when I saw Latimer again among the carol singers I began to think about him seriously. I’d already heard the name of the man who used to own the house, and when the rector told me that this fellow had the same name it was obviously more than coincidence.’
Nicholas Blaise was staring out of the window. His dark, nervous features bore a look of concentration. He turned round suddenly. He said:
‘The necklace! That’s the motive, Mordecai! He came here after the necklace!’
‘He may have come with that intention, but he didn’t steal it,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. The big oak chest he had noticed on his former visit to the room was still against the wall. He seated himself upon it. ‘Latimer’s story isn’t the only one in this case, Nick. When you start looking for the main thread in a murder enquiry you find yourself getting involved with all sorts of other odd things. That’s where I want you to help me. You can probably fill in some of the details I’ve only been able to guess at. You can tell me, for instance, about Charlotte Grame. She wants to get married. And Benedict Grame doesn’t approve. Am I right?’
Nicholas Blaise looked uncomfortable. But he said at last:
‘I don’t suppose there’s much point in trying to hide it any longer. She’s in love with that fellow Brett. The chap who was at the inn. They were planning to run away together.’
‘Ah!’ Mordecai Tremaine gave a sigh. He said: ‘I saw them in Calnford. I knew there must be something between them when Charlotte denied it. Mrs. Tristam’s in it, too, isn’t she?’
‘She’s been trying to persuade Benedict to change his mind. She’s on Charlotte’s side. When you spoke to me before I felt that I couldn’t say too much in case it got back to Benedict’s ears and made things even more difficult for Charlotte.’
‘When I heard her scream on the night of the murder,’ said Tremaine, ‘she gave herself away. She was screaming so frantically, not because she was unnerved at having discovered Jeremy Rainer’s body, but because she wanted to warn someone. She said she couldn’t sleep and went downstairs to investigate strange noises she’d heard. But she wasn’t in her dressing-gown as you might have expected. She was fully dressed.
‘She was fully dressed because she was running away with Brett. He was waiting for her outside the house. She screamed so desperately because she was warning him to get away. Brett was the man Roger Wynton tackled. When we saw him in the inn he still carried the marks on him. It was because she had to see him, because she had to tell him what was happening and to find out whether the police suspected him that she went down to the village so furtively that afternoon.’
There was respect in Nicholas Blaise’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is what happened. Charlotte told me. I suppose she felt she had to tell someone and she’s always given me her confidences. She made me promise not to reveal it to a soul. She came to my room that night to tell me she was running away. I knew the reason why she was fully dressed, but you see, I couldn’t—I didn’t have the right to explain to you.’
‘I don’t think it matters now,’ said Tremaine slowly. ‘Neither Brett nor Charlotte Grame had any hand in the murder. The fact that their elopement was planned to take place on the night Rainer was killed helped to confuse the issue, but the parts they played are clear enough.’
He paused. He pushed the pince-nez back into position. He said:
‘That’s two people accounted for. Now let’s try and deal with the rest of the house-party. If we eliminate everyone who wasn’t guilty it will make the murderer stand out more plainly.’
‘I take it,’ observed Blaise, ‘that we can discount Roger Wynton and Denys? They’re not among the suspects. Who’s next on your list?’
‘The man who stole the necklace,’ said Tremaine. ‘Gerald Beechley.’
‘Gerald?’ Shocked surprise was in Blaise’s voice. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be without definite proof. He’s been losing money and his book-maker’s been pressing him for settlement.’
‘But he’s been hard up plenty of times before this. He had only to go to Benedict.’
‘He did. And Grame refused to help him. I saw Beechley’s face just after their interview and it was plain what had happened. Beechley was desperate. He had to get money from somewhere, and he thought of the necklace. Perhaps he told himself that even if he was suspected, Grame wouldn’t risk a scandal. He went to Grame’s room and luck was with him because Grame wasn’t there, and taking the necklace was easy.
‘And then his luck wasn’t so good. The murder was discovered. He realized that if it became known that he’d been out of his room and that he’d stolen the necklace, there was every possibility of his being accused of having killed Jeremy Rainer. And he’d have no alibi.
‘Besides, he’d bought a Father Christmas outfit in Calnford and he was wearing it that night. He knew that if that fact came out he’d really be up against it. That’s why he’s been shutting himself in his room and soaking himself in whisky. He’s been scared to death of finding himself under arrest for murder.’
‘Gerald was wearing a Father Christmas outfit?’ said Blaise. His voice was mystified. ‘But why? Why on earth should he want to do that?’
‘I don’t think,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘he did want to. He did it because Benedict Grame told him to do it and because he was afraid to refuse.’
Nicholas Blaise lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
‘This is getting too deep for me, Mordecai. Why should Benedict want Gerald to go wandering about the house wearing a Father Christmas outfit?’
‘Think back, Nick,’ said Tremaine. ‘Why did it take Benedict Grame so long to make his appearance, despite the fact that Charlotte was screaming at the top of her voice right underneath his room? It was because he wasn’t there. He waited until everybody had gone downstairs and he could get back without being seen, and then he deliberately stayed in his room until you went up for him to make it appear that he’d been there all the time.
‘Telling Gerald Beechley to wear a Father Christmas outfit was done with the object of safeguarding himself if anyone had happened to find out that his room was empty and started asking questions. Beechley was intended to be mistaken for him—I did it myself, as a matter of fact, when I happened to look out of my window and see a Father Christmas on the terrace—so that if it was discovered that his room was empty he wouldn’t have to betray where he really was. I dare say Beechley suspected something of the sort, and that was why he chose that particular time to go after the necklace.’
Blaise was making an obvious effort to absorb the significance of what his companion was saying, despite his undoubted bewilderment.
‘Where was Benedict?’
‘With Lucia Tristam,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, and Blaise stared at him almost open-mouthed.
‘With—with Lucia?’
‘Yes. With Lucia. He could hardly admit that. Nor,’ added Tremaine drily, ‘could she. No wonder she’s been on edge all the time. It was a distinctly awkward situation for her, wasn’t it? Jeremy Rainer murdered and Benedict Grame missing from his room at the vital time, and both of them in love with her and known to be jealous of each other. Once the police began to suspect Grame’s alibi she knew that she’d be forced to confess in order to save his neck.’
‘So that was why it was,’ said Blaise. ‘That was why Benedict didn’t come down straight away.’
His long fingers were intertwining. He was evidently labouring under a suppressed excitement, like a man who had at last seen a clear path through the darkness encompassing him.
‘I’ve got it, Mordecai!’ he said. ‘I can see all of it now. Latimer came here as you said, breathing revenge and out to take what he could. He waited in the hide until Benedict had placed all the presents on the tree, and then he came out and stripped them off. He’d almost finished when Jeremy came in from the lodge through the fren
ch windows. He was wearing a Father Christmas outfit—we’ll have to find the reason for that—and Latimer thought it was Benedict come back. You see, Mordecai! He thought it was Benedict!
‘He’d been caught in the act of robbery by the very man he hated most, the man who’d bought the house that had been his. It must have been the last bitter dregs to his cup. He saw red for a moment, grappled with Benedict and killed him. And then he realized what he’d done and rushed out across the lawns, blindly trying to get away!’
A little breathlessly Nicholas Blaise finished. Tremaine adjusted the pince-nez that had all but reached the end of his nose. His air of harmless benevolence had never been more marked.
‘You’re getting near the truth,’ he said. ‘It’s quite true that Jeremy Rainer was killed by mistake, and that it was Benedict Grame who should have died. But it wasn’t Latimer who killed him.’
The look of elation faded slowly from the other’s face.
‘Not—not Latimer?’ he said. ‘Then who did kill him?’
‘You did, Nick,’ said Mordecai Tremaine quietly.
18
THERE WAS a moment’s silence. An incredible, painful silence. And then Blaise said unsteadily:
‘I don’t think that remark was in very good taste, Mordecai.’
Tremaine rose slowly from the big chest upon which he had been seated.
‘Murder,’ he observed, ‘isn’t in very good taste, either.’
He lifted the heavy lid of the chest. He rummaged through the items it contained—an assortment of lumber that had evidently been pushed inside and forgotten over the course of the years. At the bottom, where it had been hidden from sight, was a small sack. With a murmur of satisfaction he took it up and tipped out its contents—coloured twine, decorated paper and a collection of articles that included a wristlet-watch, a fountain-pen, a jewelled brooch and a leather toilet case.
Nicholas Blaise was breathing more quickly now. His dark eyes held a furtive uncertainty and a dreadful, dawning fear.
‘What are those things?’
Mordecai Tremaine closed the lid of the chest.
Murder for Christmas Page 23