by Rhys Bowen
With that we continued up the drive toward the house. We spent a pleasant afternoon putting up holly and mistletoe. I thought that Bunty made a big fuss about the correct situation of the mistletoe sprig, as the only younger males were to be her brother and her cousin. I also made note of where it was so that I could avoid standing there. I really dislike being grabbed and kissed by aged colonels.
* * *
THE DECORATIONS WERE complete, apart from the tree, which would be decorated by the guests on Christmas Eve. Then after a fairly simple dinner, by their standards, during which Lady Hawse-Gorzley got through rather a lot of wine, I went to bed early. I must have slept in rather late and I woke with a start to see Queenie looming over me.
“Morning tea, my lady,” she said. “Guess what? It’s been snowing all night. It looks lovely out there.”
I sat up and examined the scene with pleasure. The pine trees beyond the orchard and then on Lovey Tor made the scene look almost alpine. To the left smoke was curling up from the chimney of my mother’s cottage. “It does look lovely,” I agreed. “Perfect for Christmas.”
“Good food here, eh, miss?” she said, setting down the tray. “Will you be wearing your tartan skirt and the jumper again?”
“No, I think the gray jersey dress and my pearls. The Americans will expect me to look like royalty.”
“Yer gray dress and pearls?” Queenie said. “Won’t you be a bit cold in that?”
“No, the house is actually quite warm,” I said. “You can put them out while I go and have a bath. Let’s hope the bathroom is free at this hour.”
“I thought I might pop down and visit my auntie ’ettie after breakfast, if that’s all right with you,” she said, handing me my robe.
“Of course. She asked after you.”
Reluctantly leaving the warmth of my bed and taking a good swig of tea, I slipped on my robe. I had just assembled my sponge bag and towel and was halfway down the hall when I heard a violent hammering at the front door. I paused, looking down from the gallery with unabashed curiosity. Was this the first visitors arriving so early?
The aged butler went to the door and I heard a young woman’s voice, thick with the local accent, saying, “Oh, Mr. Dickson. Terrible news. It’s Miss Effie. We just found the gas turned on in her bedroom and Miss Effie stone dead. We don’t have a telephone in the house so Miss Florrie sent me to call the doctor—though what he can do, I can’t imagine. Stone dead, she were, God rest her poor soul.”
This outburst brought Lady Hawse-Gorzley through from the dining room. “What’s going on, Dickson? What’s this all about?”
“It’s the girl from the Misses Ffrench-Finch, my lady,” Dickson said, his voice wavering a little with emotion. “It seems that one of the ladies has been found dead in her bed, and this girl wishes us to telephone for the doctor.”
“How awful. I’m so sorry,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Come on in, my dear. What a shock for you. Which of the Misses Ffrench-Finch was it?”
“Miss Effie,” the girl said, swallowing back a sob that rose in her throat. “I don’t know what the other two are going to do without her. She was always the strong one, the one who bossed us all around.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley put an arm around her shoulder. “Well, she was no longer young, was she? I suppose it was her heart?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Like I were telling Mr. Dickson, we found the gas turned on for her gas fire, but no flame lit. She must have been breathing that gas all night.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley sprang into action. “Dickson, please telephone Dr. Wainwright and tell his receptionist he is wanted immediately at the Misses Ffrench-Finch. I had better come over right away, hadn’t I? I imagine there is chaos.”
“Well, ma’am, Miss Prendergast is already there. I expect she’d be comforting Miss Florrie and Miss Lizzie. She just happened to be passing on her usual morning walk, so she went straight inside and was her usual efficient self. But of course she doesn’t have a telephone neither, so that’s why she sent me here.”
I didn’t wait a second longer, but headed straight back to my room. Queenie hadn’t got around to laying out my clothes. “I thought you was taking a bath, miss,” she said when confronted. I didn’t have time for explanations and hurriedly put on the kilt and jumper I had worn the day before, then ran down the stairs and along the drive to catch up with Lady Hawse-Gorzley. The snow now lay several inches deep and I wished I had taken the time to put on sturdier shoes.
“You heard the ghastly news, I take it,” she said, hearing my footsteps behind her. “They must have made a mistake. The poor old thing probably died in her sleep from natural causes. It wouldn’t be like Miss Effie to forget to light the gas or to turn it on by mistake. She’s the efficient one of the three. She was the one who looked after the other two and kept them in line.” She sounded genuinely upset. “It’s not right,” she added. “Three deaths in three days. We’ll have people really start to believe in the Lovey Curse and then my guests will all want to go home.”
“I’ve always heard that bad things come in threes, haven’t you?” I said to her. “Three deaths in a row is not unprecedented, especially as they are all so very different. Perhaps we’ll find there was a malfunction with the gas fire. Perhaps the wind blew out a low flame. All kinds of simple explanations.”
She looked at me as if she had only just realized to whom she was speaking. “Lady Georgiana, I really can’t expect you to get involved in our local unpleasantness. Why don’t you go home and have breakfast? I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“I thought maybe I might be able to help,” I said.
“Well, all right. Won’t say no. Could use the company. Dashed awful, isn’t it?”
We were just crossing the road when I heard my name being called and saw my grandfather waving. “Just been out to get the morning papers,” he said, striding toward us. “Mrs. Huggins likes her Daily Mirror and Mr. Coward likes the Times and I like a morning walk. Lovely down here, ain’t it? Smashing, eh?”
“Yes, it’s lovely,” I said.
He picked up something in my manner. “Why, what’s the matter, love?”
“One of the old ladies who lives in this house has just died in suspicious circumstances. This is Lady Hawse-Gorzley. You met her daughter yesterday.” I turned to her. “This is my grandfather. He used to be in the Metropolitan Police. Perhaps it might be a good thing if he came with us.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked worried. “Surely we’re only dealing with another ghastly accident, aren’t we? You yourself just said that deaths come in threes.”
“I said bad things come in threes,” I corrected. “And I hope we are just dealing with a ghastly accident. But it couldn’t hurt if my grandfather came with us to take a look.”
“But the ladies won’t be ready to receive gentlemen callers at this hour,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley exclaimed in horror. “They may still be in their night attire.”
Granddad laughed. “I’ve seen worse than night attire in my thirty years on the force,” he said. “Still, I won’t come in if I’m not wanted.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley relented. “It might be useful to have a trained professional eye on the scene. And I suppose the police will have to be called eventually.”
We went up the path to the front door. It was a solid, square Georgian house in local Devon sandstone and was of pleasing proportions. The type of house the old wool merchants built for themselves when wool meant prosperity. We found the front door still ajar. Lady Hawse-Gorzley pushed it open and we were met in the front hall by a frantic-looking housekeeper. Her apron was on askew and her hair an unsightly mess.
“Oh, it’s you, Lady Hawse-Gorzley. What a terrible thing to happen. Poor Miss Effie. We sent the girl to telephone for the doctor.”
“Dickson is helping her do so at this moment,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “This gentleman is a former detective from Scotland Yard. He may be able to throw some light on what happened.”
> “Throw some light,” the woman said. “There was something wrong with that gas, that’s all. What else could there be?”
We went up a broad curved staircase and were met at the top by Miss Prendergast, who was trying to give an impression of being calm while clearly being considerably agitated.
“Thank God somebody else has come,” she said. “What a terrible business. I didn’t believe it when the maid ran out in hysterics. But I’m afraid it’s true. See for yourselves.”
She opened the door to a bedroom. The faint odor of gas still lingered, but the windows were wide open and an ice-cold breeze blew in. I glanced at the small white figure in the bed. She looked so tiny, so frail. I looked away hurriedly and rather wished I hadn’t come. What had made me think I could be of any use?
Granddad looked around. “I don’t know how she managed to kill herself in a big room like this with the windows open,” he said.
“Oh, no, I opened the windows,” Miss Prendergast said quickly. “Everyone here was in such a state, they hadn’t even thought to do so. So it was the first thing I did. I turned off the gas and opened the windows or we might all have suffered the same fate as Miss Effie. They were shut tightly. The smell in here was horrible. Poor woman. It had to have been a malfunction. Either that or one of the servants turned it on and forgot to light it properly. Of course, you’ll never get her to own up to it now.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley sniffed contemptuously. “That’s what comes of sleeping with the windows shut. Nasty, unhealthy habit. Good fresh air never hurt anyone.”
“Well, that’s the strange thing, ma’am,” the housekeeper said. “Miss Effie usually slept with her window open, and the door open too. Miss Florrie is prone to nightmares, so Miss Effie kept her door open in case her sister cried out in her sleep.”
“But they were both closed last night?” I asked.
She nodded. “They were indeed. I suppose it was snowing and she didn’t want the snow to come in. And maybe the wind blew the door shut.”
“Then maybe it was a gust of wind that blew out the fire,” I suggested.
“Yes, that would be it,” Miss Prendergast agreed. “Temperamental things, gas fires. I won’t have them in the house.”
Granddad was prowling the room, not touching anything, but checking. “This lady—she hadn’t given any signs of being depressed or worried lately, then?”
The housekeeper, who had been lurking close to the doorway, gave a little cry. “Suicide, is that what you’re suggesting, sir? Never. Not Miss Effie. She was the one who kept this place going. Had us all on our toes and took good care of her sisters. No, she’d never have left them in the lurch.”
“Did you have any visitors at all yesterday evening?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley asked.
The housekeeper shook her head firmly. “Oh, no, ma’am. The ladies never entertain in the evenings anymore. It’s an early dinner, then bed for all three of them. They might manage a little game of cards after dinner, but not for long.”
“I must have been one of the last visitors, then,” Miss Prendergast said. “I was here for tea and Mr. Barclay stopped by so of course he was asked to join us. Most awkward, since Mr. Barclay and I have not seen eye to eye on the decorations. Miss Effie was most tactful about it. Smoothed things over wonderfully. It was a knack of hers. Oh, and when we were leaving Willum arrived, didn’t he, Mrs. Bates?”
“That’s right. The ladies had asked him to come over and bring down the decorations from the attic for them. He brought them all down and then helped us bring in the Christmas tree. It’s all there in the drawing room. They never decorate it until Christmas Eve. It’s their tradition.”
“So after Willum nobody came?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley persisted.
“No, ma’am. I believe we locked the doors when Willum went.” She stopped talking at the sound of a car drawing up outside. “Oh, Lord,” she groaned. “It’s that policeman. He was here the other day. Nasty bullying way with him. Made our girls quite upset, scaring them with talk of convicts hiding out in the sheds.”
There was thumping on the front door. One of the maids must have answered it because we heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Quite a little party we have here, I see,” Inspector Newcombe said, coming into the room. “I was at the police station in the next village when the call was put to the doctor, so Gladys on the switchboard saw fit to try to locate me. Bright girl, that one. She said the old lady gassed herself?”
“Not deliberately, sir. Miss Effie would never do that,” the housekeeper said. “Something went horribly wrong somewhere. The windows were shut; the door was shut. That wasn’t right.”
“Are you sure you’re not reading too much into this?” He went across to the body and leaned down over it. “A lady of her age—it could just as easily have been heart failure.”
“But the smell, sir. There was this gas odor something terrible,” Mrs. Bates said.
“It only takes a little gas to leave a bad smell,” he said. “Maybe there was a small gas leak.”
“The gas was turned on,” Miss Prendergast said firmly. “I had to turn it off myself before I could even get into the room to open the windows. Somebody had turned it on, by accident or intention we don’t know.”
“This is all I need,” Inspector Newcombe said. “At this rate my family is not going to see me at all over Christmas, and as for buying presents . . .” He rubbed angrily at his mustache. “Now the rest of you go on home, please. I don’t want you touching everything.”
“Nobody has touched anything except for my turning off the gas and opening the windows, which I’ve already told you.” Miss Prendergast gave him a withering look. “But we will leave you to it. I’d question those housemaids if I were you. I wouldn’t be surprised if one was slipshod in her duty—thought she had lit the gas properly but didn’t wait to see.”
“Well, that’s a rum do,” Granddad said as we came down the stairs. “Three deaths in three days. Talk about coming to the country for peace and quiet!”
Chapter 10
THE HOME OF THE MISSES FFRENCH-FINCH
DECEMBER 22
There were policemen standing outside the house, or I think I might have persuaded Granddad to join me in a little snooping around outside. Unfortunately the snow now covered any footprints that might have shown that someone climbed in through that open window. I wasn’t sure who or why. Perhaps one of those convicts came in to grab supplies and Miss Effie saw him and he stifled her and then made it look as if the gas was to blame. I wished the police would hurry up and catch them or that they were already far, far away. I didn’t think I’d linger close to Dartmoor Prison if I ever got out.
“I’m not sure what to do now,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said as we left Granddad and Miss Prendergast and made our way back to Gorzley Hall. “Tomorrow night when the guests arrive we are supposed to go sing carols around the village. But wouldn’t be seemly, would it, with poor Miss Effie lying there and her sisters grieving.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Take the guests to find the Yule log instead.”
She brightened up. “Excellent idea. I’m so glad you’re here, my dear. You’re sensible. So is my daughter. No hysterics, no nonsense. I hope you both make good matches. Do you have a young chap in mind?”
“Not really,” I replied, blushing.
“I rather feel Hortense has her eye on her cousin. Not sure of the legality of that. Also not sure if it’s him or the title she wants more.” She managed a weary smile. “And I would appreciate it, my dear Lady Georgiana, if you did not mention our unfortunate events to the guests when they arrive. They might find the news . . . unnerving.”
I nodded, thinking that I found the news of three dead bodies in three days a trifle unnerving myself. Not that they could be in any way connected—such different kinds of deaths and all explainable as accidents. Myself, I was inclined to believe in the Lovey Curse.
As soon as I took off my coat I went back upstairs. “Que
enie,” I called. “Where is my gray dress?”
Queenie opened my wardrobe and shut it again hastily. “Remember you said that dress was a bit long? You said it wasn’t quite fashionable?”
“Yes.” A feeling of dread was creeping over me.
“Well, it’s not too long anymore,” she said and produced from the wardrobe a dress that was now about a foot shorter than when I last saw it.
“My dress. What did you do to it? You didn’t cut it off, did you?” I could hear my voice rising dangerously.
“Oh, no, miss. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. It was just that . . . well, I saw this thread hanging down and I yanked on it and the whole thing started to unravel. Lucky I stopped or it would have turned into a jumper.”
“Queenie,” I wailed. “Is there no piece of clothing of mine that you haven’t tried to ruin? That gray dress is the only smart winter item I own, apart from my suit, and I can’t wear a suit in the house. Now I’ll have to look like a schoolgirl in my tartan kilt all week.”
“I could try knitting it back up for you,” she suggested hopefully.
“Of course you can’t knit it back up. I honestly don’t know why I keep you. You know I can’t afford to buy new clothes.”
She was now turning those big cow eyes on me, brimming with tears. “I’m awful sorry, miss. I didn’t mean no harm.”
“You never do, Queenie. But the dress is ruined all the same.”
“It might not be too very short,” she suggested. “You did say hemlines are up this year.”
“Yes, but not up to midthigh!” I held the dress up against me. “Well, there’s nothing to be done. I’ll just have to wear what I wore yesterday. And please do not touch my dinner dresses. Don’t try to clean them or iron them. I’d rather wear them crumpled. I don’t want to find there is a big hole or the nap has been rubbed off the velvet.”
She nodded bleakly. “Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said.