Mistletoe and Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery

by Robin Stevens

  Hear what? I wondered. I clutched Daisy’s arm, and we stared at each other.

  ‘I was telephoned,’ said Amanda briefly. ‘The caller said that something had happened at Maudlin, on staircase nine. Let us in.’ She was standing up straight, jaw clenched and looking quite resolute, although still very pale.

  ‘Not the girls. They’ve been banned,’ said Mr Perkins, pointing at us.

  ‘Oh, that isn’t important now!’ cried Amanda. ‘Let us in, do!’

  Mr Perkins stared. Then he sighed. ‘I’ll let you in – but you’ll only be sent away again,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be here. The doctor’s only just arrived.’

  ‘Doctor?’ said Daisy, but neither Mr Perkins nor Amanda would answer her.

  We were waved through the lodge, and turned left to hurry along the row of archways, just as we had done before. There were no lights on in the windows above us – the college was asleep. Except, at the archway at the end, lights were blazing and the door of staircase nine was open. Our steps speeding up, we arrived in its glow.

  ‘Hello?’ called Amanda, peering upstairs. ‘Bertie? Where is everyone?’

  A head came popping over the banisters a few floors up. It was Michael Butler.

  ‘Price,’ he said – and was it my imagination, or was there a shake in his voice? – ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was telephoned,’ said Amanda. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Come upstairs,’ said Michael. ‘You’ll see. But don’t – don’t step in it, will you?’

  My heart beat fast.

  We raced up the stairs together – one flight, and then another. We were on Alfred Cheng’s landing, below Donald and Chummy’s – and as we came up the last few steps, I saw it.

  Spreading out at the base of the stairs and glinting in the light was a great pool of something reddish. I have been at enough crime scenes now – which is a strange thing to write, but it is true – to know what it was.

  Blood.

  2

  ‘Don’t step in it!’ Michael repeated.

  He was standing at the doorway to James Monmouth’s empty room, leaning against the frame as though it was the only thing keeping him up.

  ‘Where’s Bertie?’ asked Daisy. Her fists were clenched against her sides.

  ‘He’s in there,’ said Michael, pointing behind him. ‘Speaking to the doctor. Price, what are you doing? Why have you brought the girls here?’

  I felt Daisy relax. Bertie was all right, at least. But what had happened?

  ‘I couldn’t leave them!’ said Amanda, as though that explained anything. ‘I told you, I was telephoned. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m keeping watch on the situation,’ said Michael. ‘Someone has to. And as to what happened – well. You’ll see.’

  His voice was calm as anything, but I could hear a tremor behind it. I could barely look at him, though, because I was staring at that pool of blood. Was Donald seriously hurt? Was he dead?

  ‘Mr Butler!’ cried a voice. ‘Let me clean it away, please!’

  We all looked up. There was a man in the Maudlin College livery standing at the top of the stairs. He was old, grey-haired and burly, his face clean-shaven and rather round.

  ‘Moss, stay calm,’ said Michael Butler.

  ‘I can’t!’ cried the man, and I realized that this must be Moss the bedder. I remembered the little door I had seen between Chummy and Donald’s bedrooms – of course, he must live on the staircase as well. ‘Please! That blood – it’s too awful!’

  ‘Moss, leave it,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Good God, man, this is not the time.’

  At that moment, Bertie came out of the empty room. His shoulders were slumped, and he was pale. I saw, with a nasty shock, that there was blood on his hands, and on his slippers – the very same slippers I remember him having at Fallingford.

  ‘There’s nothing the doctor can do,’ he said, and his hands were shaking. ‘He’s gone.’

  Then he saw us, and Amanda. His face turned, if possible, even whiter. ‘Amanda – what are you doing here? Why are Daisy and Hazel—? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was telephoned,’ said Amanda again. ‘Someone called me. I thought it was you. Wasn’t it? What’s happened, Bertie?’

  Then someone came out of the door behind Bertie. He was short, with brown hair and pinstriped pyjamas. At first glance, I thought it was Chummy. I was sure it must be Chummy. But then I looked up at his face – and got the shock of my life. The person standing in front of me was not Chummy at all. It was Donald.

  ‘Where’s Chummy?’ I asked, before I could stop myself. ‘Why – why isn’t—’

  ‘Where’s Chummy?’ Bertie repeated. ‘He fell down the stairs. Chummy’s dead.’

  3

  I reeled. All along, we had been sure that Donald was the one in danger. He was the older brother, the heir. It was he who had been the victim of all the attacks. So why on earth had Chummy died? It was like that painting of a lady at her mirror which, when you stare at it, becomes not a lady at all, but a grinning skull.

  ‘He didn’t fall!’ said Donald sharply. I looked at him. He seemed shaken, pale – but there was something else about the way he was holding himself, something tense, almost excited. ‘He was caught by his own latest prank – a bit of fishing wire that he’d set up across the top of the stairs. He came out of his rooms and tripped straight down the staircase.’

  With a jolt, I remembered the wire that Daisy had found in Chummy’s rooms. In Chummy’s rooms – and in Donald’s.

  ‘Is that true?’ Daisy asked Bertie.

  Bertie nodded, looking ill. ‘Happened just after two this morning, but we couldn’t rouse a doctor until just now. We’ve left everything where it was – the police’ll have to come and look at it.’

  Bertie has good reason to know about police. He had been as much a part of what happened at Fallingford as we were, and although he does his best to be cheerful and don’t-care about it, I know it shadows him just as it does us. Fallingford really was one of our worst cases. It is the one that I still wake up at night thinking about, and the one that Daisy and I barely ever discuss, even nine months later.

  ‘Did you see the fall?’ Daisy asked. She was going into detective mode, I could tell.

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ Bertie said quickly. ‘I was in my rooms the whole time. Squashy, what are you doing here? Amanda, why did you bring them?’

  Something about the way he had given his alibi worried me. It did not seem quite right – it was so vague. A worm of worry threaded its way through me, and from the way Daisy looked, I could tell she was having the same concern.

  ‘I told you, I was telephoned,’ said Amanda. ‘Someone phoned our staircase in St Lucy’s to say that something had happened, and I took the call. I thought it was a prank at first, but I lay awake thinking about it, and then I decided I had to come and see. I had to bring the girls too – I couldn’t leave them on their own. I thought it might have been you, calling.’

  Bertie was looking bewildered. ‘I didn’t call!’ he said. ‘Butler called the doctor, and then I called the police, but that’s all. Are you sure the person was from Maudlin?’

  ‘Of course I’m not sure!’ said Amanda. ‘Those lines are always so bad, you know how it is. But whoever it was said they were here, calling from the coinbox phone on staircase nine, and that something dreadful had happened.’

  I got a little chill. A phantom caller – it almost sounded like a ghost story.

  ‘I’m surprised you came at all,’ said Donald. ‘Chummy said— I mean, aren’t you avoiding us?’

  Amanda flushed and stepped away from him. ‘I’ve been busy,’ she said.

  ‘Lots of essays still to do?’ asked Donald.

  They stared at each other, and my skin prickled. Essays, again! What was going on?

  ‘Wells is right,’ said Michael Butler. ‘I only telephoned the doctor. Moss, did you telephone Miss Price?’ Moss shook his head wordlessly. �
�So it must have been Cheng. Here, Cheng! Come out of your rooms!’

  I suddenly realized that the whole staircase was here, except one person – Alfred Cheng. His rooms were directly across from where Chummy had landed. Why was he not part of the group?

  Then Alfred’s door opened and he appeared, wearing a pair of gorgeous silk pyjamas and an annoyed expression.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you telephone Miss Price?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Tonight? Why would I do that? Have you all lost your minds?’ He scowled around at us.

  ‘I can’t believe you went back to bed,’ said Michael. ‘You really are a cool customer.’

  ‘We all have to sleep some time,’ said Alfred. ‘And what can I do? He’d already fallen.’

  ‘Cheng, Chummy is dead!’

  ‘And you’ve never seen a dead man before?’

  ‘I have,’ said Bertie. ‘That’s why I care.’

  ‘My uncle was shot last year,’ said Alfred. ‘Shot in the street. Death happens all the time. Why should I bother about one more?’

  It was a horridly cold thing to say, and it made me shudder. But then I remembered the argument we had seen between him and Chummy, how cruel Chummy had been, and I thought that perhaps I could understand why Alfred had gone back to his rooms, and why he was not sorry Chummy was dead.

  4

  The door to the room where Chummy had been taken opened again, and someone else came out, a doctor, with glasses and close-cropped silver hair.

  ‘Gone,’ he said briefly to Michael. ‘Nothing I could do. Too much blood lost. Even if I could have got here sooner – you said he fell just after two this morning – there would have been nothing to be done. A very unfortunate accident. You’ve called the police, yes? I do hate to distress you further, but they will need to look into the chain of events before I can allow the body to be moved, or sign the certificate.’

  ‘They’ve been called,’ said Michael. ‘The Master’s asked if you’ll go and speak to him, now that you’re done – he’s in his lodgings, just past the dons’ gardens and the library. I can take you there, if you’d like. Donald, you’d best come as well, as next of kin. Wells, will you look after everything while I’m gone?’

  Bertie nodded, and Michael led the doctor and Donald away down the stairs. Alfred withdrew back into his rooms, and Bertie, Daisy, Amanda and I were left alone, staring at each other. There was so much I wanted to ask – so much I needed to know – but I could not see how to begin.

  Then I caught sight of something. Moss the bedder had gone back up towards the top landing, and now he was kneeling down at the very top of the stairs, fiddling with something. It had to be the wire, I realized, the fishing wire that Chummy had tripped over.

  ‘Daisy!’ I said urgently. ‘Bertie!’

  Bertie spun round jumpily and then gave a shout. ‘Moss! Don’t touch that!’ he cried.

  ‘The wire can’t be left!’ said Moss. ‘What if someone else should trip over it?’

  I was horrified, and from the intake of breath Daisy gave, she was too. Evidence was being destroyed before our very eyes! I imagined the fingerprints that might have been there before Moss had gone to work.

  ‘They won’t!’ said Bertie, rushing up a few steps. ‘Do leave it, man, the police will need to see it to understand the accident. It’ll only be a few more hours. Leave it, I say!’

  ‘I only want to clear things away!’ said Moss, rather sullenly.

  I was suddenly very curious. I remembered Chummy and Donald’s rooms. They had both been ill-kept. Why should tidiness matter so much to Moss now?

  ‘If I’d seen it before I went to bed last night, I’d have taken it down,’ he went on.

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’ asked Daisy quickly.

  Moss blinked. ‘Half past twelve or thereabouts,’ he said. ‘All right! I’m leaving it.’ He stepped away, and I looked up and saw clearly what he had been working on. A thin, taut piece of wire was stretched across the top of the stairs. It was tied off against the upper banister on one side, and on the other was attached to a nail that had been driven into the skirting board. I moved a few steps up to stand by Bertie. From there, I could see that the nail looked new. I filed that away in my brain as something to consider.

  ‘Bertie,’ Daisy whispered, coming up beside us. ‘That fishing wire. Have you seen something like it before?’

  Bertie stared at her. ‘I … well. Promise you won’t say this to anyone?’

  We nodded.

  ‘All right. It looks like a throw-line. Must be Chummy’s. We’ve all got some just like it. Climbers use it to help chuck ropes up where they’re needed.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s Chummy’s?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Bertie. ‘Chummy set the prank, Squashy. He would have used his own line!’

  But Daisy and I looked at each other. Chummy had certainly had fishing line, we had seen that – but so had Donald. We had been wrong about who would be the victim. What else might we have been wrong about?

  5

  ‘I shall try the police station again,’ said Bertie. ‘Manda, you keep watch.’

  He clattered away downstairs, and we heard him telephone from the box outside his rooms. His voice rang up to us through the gap in the stairs.

  ‘Someone’s on their way? You’re sure? Yes, I know what day it is – but my friend is dead. Come on, man!’

  Poor Bertie! I thought. He was the sort of person who covered up his upset with anger.

  It all seemed so unreal. So much activity, in the dead of night. Could it still really be Christmas Eve today?

  But then the holiday part of me gave way to the detective. Someone was dead, right under our noses, and we were on the spot. This changed the case – it changed everything – but it was up to us to keep investigating it.

  As always, I am very glad to have Daisy as my partner in crime. In an instant she had rounded on Amanda.

  ‘What really happened? Tell me!’

  Amanda started. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to know why you woke us up!’ said Daisy. ‘What are we doing here? What are you doing here?’

  It was a very fair point.

  ‘I couldn’t leave you!’ said Amanda, folding her arms and glaring.

  ‘But we were asleep,’ I said slowly. ‘We would have been all right until later in the morning. And I didn’t hear you answer the telephone. The St Lucy’s phone is set up just like this one, right in the middle of the staircase, but I didn’t hear it ring, and I didn’t hear you talking to anyone. I didn’t hear anything at all until you knocked on the door and called to us.’

  Amanda looked flustered. ‘Of course you didn’t!’ she said. ‘Our telephone has a very quiet ring. I wouldn’t have heard it either, except that my rooms are just next to it. I spoke quietly too.’

  ‘Hum,’ said Daisy. ‘So – you woke up, and answered the telephone. At what time?’

  ‘At about half past two,’ said Amanda steadily.

  ‘All right, so then you went back to bed, got up again at six, woke us up too and brought us over here because you suddenly decided that the telephone call you received from a mysterious caller wasn’t a prank after all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amanda. ‘That’s what happened. Do leave me alone. It’s— I’m tired. There’s such a lot to do, and now Chummy’s dead—’ She broke off with a gulp, and I saw that tears were streaming down her face. Why was she suddenly so upset?

  Bertie came clattering up the stairs again. ‘Manda!’ he cried, when he saw Amanda’s tears. ‘Squashy, stop upsetting people! The police should be here any minute. And then you all ought to go. You can’t hang about. It’s nothing to do with you!’

  ‘It is!’ said Amanda and Daisy together. They both stopped and stared at each other.

  ‘I’m your sister,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I’m your friend,’ said Amanda. ‘You can’t be left on your own!’

  ‘Of course I
can!’ cried Bertie. ‘I’m older than you, Squashy. I don’t want you mixed up in this. I don’t want to be mixed up in this. Why do you all have to be so meddling?’

  Daisy and Amanda both looked very hurt.

  Then there was a shout from down below. ‘Mr Butler?’ called Mr Perkins. ‘Hello? The policeman is here!’

  6

  By now I thought I knew what a police investigation was: men in heavy greatcoats and hats, full of authority. But the policeman who climbed the staircase up to where we were waiting made me realize that I only really knew investigations led by Inspector Priestley, our policeman from Deepdean. This policeman was not an inspector at all, only a blue-coated bobby. He was bald and blue-eyed like a baby, his stomach straining out of his police jacket and his face flushed from the climb. He stared at us all and cleared his throat.

  ‘PC Cross,’ he said. ‘Good morning. I hear there’s been an accident. Who is in charge here?’

  ‘Mr Butler’s gone to speak to the Master,’ said Bertie. ‘He’ll be back soon. I’m Bertie Wells.’

  ‘Mr Wells, good morning. And – what are you three doing here?’ asked PC Cross, staring at Amanda, Daisy and me doubtfully.

  ‘The girls are all from St Lucy’s,’ said Bertie. ‘That’s my sister Daisy Wells, her friend Hazel Wong, and my friend Amanda Price.’

  ‘I was telephoned,’ said Amanda, as though that explained things.

  ‘And it was a – Mr Melling who fell down the stairs?’ asked PC Cross. He sounded as though he was ticking off items in a list in his head. He did not seem very sure of himself.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.

  ‘Then I am here to investigate Mr Melling’s death,’ said PC Cross. ‘Tell me how it happened, if you could.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Bertie. ‘A stupid accident! He set up a bit of fishing line across the top of the stairs as a prank, and then fell over it himself.’