Amanda gave a bark of laughter. Her face was very pale and drawn, and her fists were clenched.
What would she say? What would we do if she said yes?
‘You stupid – why, you idiotic child! Kill Chummy? I was too busy writing his essays. Yes, I hated him, but he was paying me money. Cambridge isn’t cheap, and my parents aren’t wealthy like yours. I needed it. Why would I want to kill him, and make the money stop? And I didn’t even have time to look after you properly. When would I have the time to kill anyone?’
I let out a breath with a gasp. My face felt on fire.
‘But why were you going back to Maudlin now?’ asked Daisy.
‘I wanted to speak to Bertie,’ said Amanda. ‘Like I told you, I know about what happened at Fallingford earlier this year and I thought he might be worried. I didn’t want him to be alone.’
It was such a ridiculous thing to be doing that it felt real. And her mentioning Fallingford was like a secret password. I realized that Bertie truly trusted her, even if he did not love her back. He had told her what had happened last Easter. Daisy turned to me, and I saw that she had understood the same thing.
And that was when we all heard Bertie shouting.
For one odd moment I thought I must be imagining it. We had just been talking about him, after all. But no, there was his voice, calling, and as Amanda and Daisy both turned their heads towards the noise I saw his slender figure running over the bridge towards us, through the unbroken snow.
His feet were caked in white, and he was not wearing a hat. That was the thing that struck me first. He was waving his arms.
‘Hoy!’ he shouted. ‘You! There! I need— Wait. Squashy? Manda? What are you doing out here?’
‘We’re talking!’ Daisy shouted. ‘We needed some fresh air. What’s up?’
‘Squashy,’ Bertie panted. ‘It’s … it’s Maudlin. I telephoned Harold, and then you, but … you didn’t answer, so I came … to get you. I need you. Something’s happened. Someone else is dead.’
1
We ran back to Maudlin together. It was the middle of the night, but the little door in the gate was hanging open. When we ducked inside, Mr Perkins’s cubby was empty and abandoned, its light still burning. Something was terribly wrong.
When we reached it, the door to staircase nine was open as well, and a chaos of male voices was echoing down the stairs. Up we went, so fast I was dizzy. Where were we going? Whose rooms would it be? But we kept on going up – all the way to Donald’s door.
Inside was utter confusion. Alfred was there, shouting, and so were Michael, Moss and Mr Perkins. Donald was slumped on his sofa, wrapped in a silk bathrobe. There was another magnificent spread in front of him: sliced chicken and chutney and bread and a Christmas cake. I thought he must have eaten so much that he fell asleep, and wondered how he could manage to sleep through such a row. And then I looked again at the scene, and my eyes did another switching trick, and saw the truth.
Donald was not asleep. He was not moving at all. His eyes were slightly open, and so was his mouth. Cake crumbs were spilling out of it, there was icing on his lips, and there was a smell that I knew very well, a bitter almond tang that made my mouth wither.
Donald was not asleep. Donald was dead.
Once again, the pieces of the mystery were flung up into the air, coming down in quite a different shape. Donald had been our best suspect after Amanda. We knew he had lied to the police about Amanda’s call. He had means, motive and opportunity, and he had been behaving awfully since Chummy’s death. How could he be dead now?
There was a drumming of feet on the stairs behind us, and I turned to see George, Alexander and Harold rushing towards us.
‘Bertie!’ cried Harold, moving to stand next to him, his eyes full of concern. ‘Are you all right? We came as soon as we could after you telephoned. Oh, look at him! It’s true!’
‘He took dinner in his rooms,’ said Moss. ‘I came to take the things away and found him like this!’ He looked genuinely upset.
‘Where did that cake come from?’ Daisy asked, narrowing her eyes at the remains on the table.
‘It was an early birthday present,’ Moss explained. ‘It arrived for Mr Donald this afternoon.’
‘When?’ asked Daisy. ‘After we’d gone? But—’
‘Do be quiet, Squashy!’ said Bertie, and Daisy closed her mouth – but she widened her eyes at me, and I could tell that she had plenty more to say.
‘Tomorrow’s birthday party will have to be cancelled,’ said Alfred. And suddenly, without any warning, he burst out laughing.
I felt rather sick. It was such a nasty thing to do. Two people were dead, and Alfred was going out of his way to show that he did not care. He had gone back into his rooms after Chummy’s death, and now he was laughing about Donald’s.
PC Cross appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily and looking bewildered. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘All these years without a death, and then two at once.’ He nodded at Mr Perkins. ‘Thank you for the prompt telephone call, I’m glad I could be on the scene so swiftly. Has the doctor been called?’
‘It was another accident,’ said Bertie, ignoring PC Cross’s question. But I knew that was not true.
‘Smell the cake!’ hissed Daisy in my ear. I stepped forward, leaning over the table, and sniffed. At first I only smelled marzipan, but then I got a tang that was too sharp to be marzipan.
Almonds.
Almonds meant cyanide.
Donald had been poisoned.
I looked at Daisy, and George and Alexander. We had to discuss the case – it had just taken a most frightening turn. Donald could not be the murderer, and so the real killer was still on the loose. It was up to us to work out who it was, and there were not many suspects left.
‘This does look like an accident,’ said PC Cross. ‘I must make sure I am thorough, though. Please stay here, everyone, and I will interview you all in turn. Who saw Mr Melling last?’
‘I haven’t seen him for hours,’ said Bertie. ‘I was at dinner with Cheng. Butler was there as well.’
‘You found him?’ PC Cross asked Moss.
‘Half an hour ago,’ said Moss, tears in his eyes. ‘I wanted to make sure he was all right. What will happen to me now?’
PC Cross did not answer. He was frowning around the room. ‘Where is the doctor?’ he asked. ‘And – didn’t I ask you children to stay away?’
‘I called them!’ said Bertie. ‘I want them here!’
I caught George’s eye.
‘We’ll go outside!’ he said at once.
All four of us slipped out into the corridor, closing the door. I had eaten a slice of Christmas cake just a few hours ago, and the memory of its almond scent, after what we had just witnessed, was making me feel ill.
‘Meeting!’ Daisy whispered. ‘Quick!’
‘Why don’t we go to the rooms opposite Alfred’s?’ asked Alexander, glancing behind him.
‘But … Chummy’s body!’ I said.
‘It’s been taken away,’ said George. ‘Didn’t you hear PC Cross say it would be? Nothing to worry about.’
‘Bother!’ said Daisy. ‘I mean – excellent. To the room!’
2
We all slipped down to the second landing and into James Monmouth’s rooms. Alexander pushed the door closed behind us and clicked on the light. I thought I would be all right, now that the body had gone – after all, there was nothing left but clean, papered walls – but somehow the dust sheets still thrown across furniture made my skin crawl.
‘Oh, Hazel!’ said Daisy, noticing me shiver, and she marched over and began whirling sheets off their chairs and sofas. I jumped every time, but it turned the room from a collection of ghosts into nothing more than a living room, newly done up.
‘Thank you,’ I said quietly to Daisy, as she came back to stand next to me, and she winked at me.
‘All right!’ she said. ‘Detectives! Attend, please.’
‘Hold up,’ said George. ‘You led the meeting last time. Isn’t it our turn?’
‘Oh, let Daisy do it!’ said Alexander.
‘We’re equal partners in this,’ said George calmly. ‘It’s certainly our turn. Alex, get out your notebook. I call this meeting to order.’
Daisy wrinkled her nose at him, but all the same I could tell she was pleased to have someone who she could argue with as an equal.
‘Donald is dead,’ she said, and I could tell that the meeting would have two leaders after all. ‘He’s been poisoned with cyanide in that Christmas cake! Hazel and I both smelled it. So what do we know?’
‘I never thought Donald would be the next victim!’ said Alexander. ‘I was sure he was the murderer, weren’t all of you? Now it has to be Amanda!’
‘But it isn’t her!’ I said. ‘It’s true that she’s a climber, but she didn’t do the last murder, and she didn’t do this one either.’
We told the boys what we had heard – from both Amanda and the student whom Aunt Eustacia had asked to look after her, Harriet. Amanda had not left St Lucy’s all afternoon, and we had been with her ever since. And according to her, she had not been further than Bertie’s rooms the night before.
‘But she might still have done it!’ objected George. ‘You’ve only got her word, and her friend’s!’
‘Yes, but—’ I thought hard. ‘No! This murder – the cake – rules her out. Moss said that it was a present, left outside Donald’s rooms this afternoon, didn’t he? Well, it must have been put there after PC Cross came and asked all those questions after lunch time. Amanda couldn’t have done it in the early afternoon, because she was with Harriet all afternoon until dinner. After dinner we were watching her, and when we went outside we saw that the snow on the bridge between Maudlin and St Lucy’s hadn’t been trodden in by anyone apart from Bertie. She didn’t have the opportunity. She’s out of the picture.’
‘She certainly is!’ said Daisy. ‘So we’re still after a murderer, and a very cunning one. To have left out poison in a present like that! Of course, if it wasn’t Christmas, we could solve the mystery quite quickly. There are only a few chemist’s in Cambridge with poison books – for people to note down their names when they buy poisonous things – and all we’d need to do is go into them and read the entries.’
‘But it is Christmas,’ said George. ‘And we can’t wait!’
‘I know,’ said Daisy, pleased. ‘But really, we don’t need very long. If the same person killed both Chummy and Donald – and I can’t imagine there can be more than one murderer running around Maudlin – then we’ve got to go back over what we know about the first murder to help solve the second. And we’ve only got one more good suspect for that: Alfred. All we need to do is prove that he did it.’
I knew, logically, that she must be right. If we could solve Chummy’s murder, then we would solve Donald’s murder too. Alfred was the most likely suspect. Except … something had been bothering me, something rather embarrassing. I did not like Alfred at all. He was rude and unkind and grabbing. But if our history together had made me become part of Daisy’s family, then I was tied to Alfred by history also. I might show my most English side in England, or try to, but meeting George, and seeing the way he approached life, had reminded me that the Hong Kong part of me was just as important. Alfred was a part of my home, and that mattered to me. I would never get in the way of justice, of course not, but were we sure that Alfred was to blame? And until we were, was I not bound to suggest other ideas?
‘I don’t think it was him,’ I said. ‘I think it was … Michael Butler.’
3
‘Hazel!’ said Daisy. ‘We’ve practically ruled him out! He couldn’t have gone all the way up the stairs to set the trap without either Alfred or Moss hearing him.’
‘Yes!’ said Alexander. ‘George and I tried walking all the way from the bottom of the staircase in our stockinged feet after you’d gone, and PC Cross still came out and caught us halfway up. It can’t be done.’
‘It’s only a theory,’ I said. ‘But we have to consider all the options until we’re sure, don’t we?’
‘Very true,’ said Daisy, pursing her lips. ‘However—’
‘D’you know what we haven’t had time to do, though?’ asked George suddenly.
‘What haven’t we had time to do?’ asked Daisy.
‘Recreate the exact moment of the first crime,’ said George. ‘Harold came to get Alex and me before we could do it this afternoon. We know how and when the murderer set the trap, but what about Chummy’s movements? We know he must have come back from his climb, gone out of his rooms and tripped down the stairs. But why? Why did he leave his rooms at two in the morning? And why, when he did, was he moving so quickly that he couldn’t simply put out a hand against the wall and stop himself when he caught his foot? He must have been going at almost a run to fall so hard.’
‘He went out to …’ Daisy paused. ‘Goodness!’ she said. ‘He can’t have been on his way to bother Donald again if he was going down the stairs, could he? Donald’s rooms are just across the landing – but Alfred’s rooms are down the stairs from Chummy’s. More evidence pointing to him!’
‘But why at two in the morning?’ asked George. ‘What could Chummy have needed to go and see Alfred about at that time? And why so fast? Think about it! We didn’t find a note, did we?’
‘No! But … something might have made him cross?’ suggested Alexander.
‘What, though?’ asked George.
We all pondered.
‘Here, let’s pretend we’re in Chummy’s rooms, and I’ll be Chummy,’ said George, going to the living-room window. ‘He comes back from his climb, swinging onto the windowsill from the drainpipe, and closes the window behind him. He leaves marks on the sill as he gets down, just like— Wait! Look at this!’
‘What is it?’ I asked, going to stand next to him. Daisy and Alexander crowded in behind me. I ended up quite crushed against Alexander’s shoulder, almost dead from embarrassment.
‘No one’s using this room,’ said George. ‘And it’s all newly painted. So why are there dirty marks on this windowsill?’
I squinted at where George was pointing. It was true: there were dark scuff marks on the freshly painted sill and the wall directly underneath it. I glanced around and saw that the rest of the room was pristine; the decorators must have only just finished their work a few days ago.
‘Perhaps the students come in this way sometimes, when they’ve been climbing,’ said Daisy dismissively. ‘Anyway. This isn’t the room we ought to be focusing on. It’s the one above it! Carry on with the reconstruction.’
‘All right, so Chummy gets into his room, and stands there for a moment. Then he sits down and …’ George paused. ‘Why didn’t he take off his shoes?’ he asked. ‘I would, if I’d just come in from the outdoors. Alex, pretend you’ve just got into the room. Sit down.’
Alexander rather gingerly sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace. I knew he was remembering what had only recently been lying there, and did not blame him at all for feeling squeamish.
‘What do you see?’ asked George.
‘The fireplace,’ said Alexander. ‘The wall. The window. The desk’s too far away to the right, really.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Daisy. ‘What made him get up and rush out of the door, before he’d even managed to take his shoes off? Did he hear something?’
I could tell she was frustrated.
‘But no one’s said they heard anything on the staircase before Chummy fell,’ I said. ‘Amanda’ – I thought back – ‘Amanda said she heard a scream, and then a crash as Chummy fell.’
‘No, Hazel, that’s not what she said,’ said Daisy. ‘What Amanda said was: I was woken up by a clattering noise, the most dreadful yell and then a horrid crash. So we have to account for—’ She froze. ‘Detectives!’ she gasped. ‘I have just seen it! At last! How could we all have been so stupid? I know why there are marks o
n this windowsill, and where the wood came from. I know why Chummy left his rooms!’
4
We all stared at her expectantly. I felt a rush of excitement. The solution was almost in our hands, hovering just out of reach, but drifting closer every second.
‘Climbing,’ said Daisy. ‘Listen! Climbing’s gone all the way through this case. Chummy was a climber. The fishing line that was used to set his trap was a climbing line. The murderer must have climbed as well. So why didn’t we think that climbing might have been used to kill him? Imagine it. After the trap is set, the murderer waits – not in their own rooms, but in this room, James Monmouth’s rooms, which they know is empty for the hols, just below Chummy’s. They’ve got this window open, so they can hear the rattle of the drainpipe as Chummy goes back into his rooms. He comes from the roofs, remember, so he wouldn’t go past anyone else’s window. As soon as he’s inside, and his window is closed, the murderer shins up the drainpipe, a length of wood in their coat pocket. They jam it across his window – they would have already measured it, to make sure it’s exactly the right length to fit across the windowpanes, so the window can’t be opened – and then they knock.
‘Chummy looks up from the sofa. Either the curtains are open, or he goes to the window and opens them. He sees the murderer, staring in at him. He tries to push open the window itself, but he can’t because of the wood! I think the murderer must have taunted him – made faces, something like that. Then they pop away out of sight.
‘Chummy’s annoyed. He loves playing tricks, so he must not have liked being the subject of one. And of course he hates that he can’t open the window to follow. So he turns and rushes out of the door, downstairs, to catch them up before they reach their rooms. And he pitches headfirst down the stairs.’
‘All the murderer would have to do then is knock the bit of wood away into the garden, climb back down to the empty room – explaining the scuff marks on this newly painted windowsill, from their feet when they scrambled back inside – and rush out into the staircase, moments after Chummy’s fall. In the confusion, no one would notice that they came from James Monmouth’s rooms, and not their own. Daisy, that’s genius!’ cried George. ‘I believe you’ve got it!’
Mistletoe and Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery Page 16