Mistletoe and Murder: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery

by Stevens, Robin

  Daisy beamed, and gave a small bow.

  I could see it in my head, and I could see that it was right. It answered so many questions – it was so neat and perfect. My heart skipped. But if the murderer was a climber, it could only be one person.

  Alfred.

  Everything fitted.

  ‘You really think he did it?’ I asked, swallowing.

  I imagined what would happen to Alfred if we accused him of murdering two Englishmen. Would he be given the opportunity to explain himself? Or would PC Cross and the rest of the police, and a jury and judge, simply look at the colour of his skin and make up their minds on the spot?

  ‘I think he’s the most likely suspect,’ said George.

  ‘But what if we are wrong?’ I asked. ‘Once we’ve accused him, we won’t be able to take it back!’

  ‘That is very true,’ said Daisy. ‘PC Cross is a terrible clodhopper. So?’

  ‘Think about it!’ I said. ‘What if it were me? Or … or George? We’re not British, Daisy – at least, not in the way you are, or Chummy or Donald. Would we be given a chance to defend ourselves if we were accused of a crime? Would we be listened to properly?’

  ‘Neither of you would ever kill anyone!’ said Daisy.

  ‘But what if we were suspected?’ I asked. ‘I don’t just mean killing someone! What if we were accused of … of stealing? Or lying? We could argue, and try to prove that we were innocent – but they might not believe us. We have to be utterly sure before we say it’s him!’

  I knew I was speaking the truth. British people were always waiting for the moment that proved we were not like them. We could study Britishness at the best schools, like I had, or we could even be born British, like George – but we did not look right, and deep down, everyone knew that meant we could never be right. It made me feel quite lost, for a moment. I have grown up wishing I could be absolutely English. That was why I had come to Deepdean. But now that I am nearly fifteen I see that, sometimes, being absolutely English is not the perfect thing to be.

  ‘That’s a stupid thought, Hazel,’ said Daisy angrily. ‘Stop it at once.’

  ‘Hazel’s right,’ said George. ‘We have to be sure. Nothing matters more than the truth. At the moment, even though we think Alfred is the most likely suspect, either Alfred or Michael might be guilty. Let’s search Alfred and Michael’s rooms for clues, while we know they are upstairs with PC Cross. We have two suspects, and there are two societies. Here, let’s toss a coin. The winning society is allowed to choose their suspect, and they must follow them to the conclusion. Are you in?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daisy, eyes sparkling. I knew she wanted to pick Alfred.

  George put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a bright new shilling. ‘Heads we take Alfred, tails you do. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Daisy, bright with the challenge. ‘Do your worst!’

  The coin flew up in the air, and we all watched it spin. It landed on the stone floor with a crack and a silver flash, shuddered and lay still. We all peered down at it.

  It was heads.

  5

  ‘We’ve lost,’ said Daisy to me heavily. ‘Alexander and George have the guilty suspect!’

  We were sitting in one of the cubicles in the bathrooms opposite Michael Butler’s rooms. Daisy was on a rickety little chair, and I had perched on the side of the bath, its tap dripping. It had clawed feet, and a sort of industrially clean smell, and cold came off it in waves.

  ‘We haven’t!’ I said, pulling out this casebook. ‘Not yet. Let’s lay out the facts before we go in there and search. We need to be methodical about what we are looking for.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Daisy said, sounding entirely unconvinced. ‘Go on then. Get out your casebook, and let’s begin. Case for Michael Butler being the murderer. I’ll summarize and you can note it all down.

  ‘Well, we already know that Michael couldn’t have gone up the stairs to set the trap for Chummy without being overheard – even if we’re right about the murderer using James Monmouth’s rooms, he’d still have had to walk up two flights – so that’s no good to us. Let’s concentrate on the murder of Donald instead. The facts are these: some time after we left staircase nine, someone left a present of a poisoned Christmas cake outside Donald’s rooms. I smelled almonds, and I know you did too. It all does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it? Poisoned with a slice of Christmas cake. If you read it in a book you’d never believe it.

  ‘All right, let’s pretend that it was Michael. He went up to Donald’s rooms before dinner, leaving the cake. But, Hazel, we’ve got that same old problem. Michael’s all the way at the bottom of the stairs. How could he get up to Chummy and Donald’s floor without being noticed? He’d be taking a terrible risk. And … why would he do it? He didn’t hate Donald, did he?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I said, rather desperately. ‘What about the means? Michael could have got cyanide from a chemist.’

  ‘He could indeed,’ said Daisy. ‘I know how easy it is to buy it. There was a wasps’ nest in the drawing room a few years ago, and Chapman had to pour cyanide solution on it. He bought it from the Fallingford chemist’s, a whole bottle of it. He didn’t do it very well, poor thing: he breathed in the fumes and Hetty had to end up helping him – otherwise he would have offed himself. All Michael – or Alfred – would have to do would be to add their names to the poison book. Of course, Alfred would be far more noticeable. If a Chinese man went into a chemist’s and asked for poison, he wouldn’t be forgotten in a hurry!’

  I felt rather ill. We were supposed to be making the case for Michael, but Daisy could not seem to stop suspecting Alfred.

  ‘All right,’ said Daisy. ‘What about Michael’s motive? If he did it, it can’t be simply that he didn’t like Donald, or Chummy. There are very few people in the world, no matter where they are from, who would kill someone, kill two people, because they didn’t like them very much. He has nothing to gain by their deaths, and as far as we know, he didn’t even know them before this year! And even if he was the person who discovered the essay scam – why wouldn’t he simply turn Chummy in to the Master? It doesn’t make sense.’

  I sighed, and Daisy did too, like an echo.

  I put my hand in hers, comfortingly, and she held it so tightly that my bones clicked.

  ‘We can’t give in!’ I said. ‘Let’s do as we agreed and go to Michael’s rooms. We can look around while he’s upstairs with PC Cross. You never know!’

  ‘I suppose you never do,’ said Daisy, sighing even harder. ‘Watson, you really are a brick.’

  But as I made new notes about our suspects, I did not feel much like a brick at all.

  6

  I was nervous as we pushed on the door to Michael’s rooms – would it be unlocked? – but it swung open quite smoothly, and inside the space was quiet and dark. Daisy clicked on the electric light and it illuminated a sitting room exactly like Bertie’s: a sofa in front of a fireplace, with a window to the left and a desk to the right. The window looked out onto the dons’ gardens, and Daisy went to it and peered out nosily.

  ‘The snow’s covered everything,’ she said. ‘Bother!’

  I was looking around the room itself. It was rather untidy – or, rather, it was tidy, but quite dirty. There were wisps of dust and dirty smudges on all the surfaces. I saw a little scrap of a label – B-O-C-K— I read – on the floor. I nudged Daisy, and she picked it up, narrowing her eyes. She tucked it away in her pocket,but I was not sure whether it was a clue, or merely a bit of waste paper. It looked as though this room was Moss’s lowest priority. It also did not look at all festive. You would hardly know that Christmas was almost here. There was no tinsel, or boughs of greenery, not even a present. Michael really was poor – no wonder he lived at Maudlin.

  There was a stack of books above the desk, all quite scholarly, and some framed pictures of short, brown-haired people with snub noses who I supposed must be Michael’s family. I looked at them and thought how alike
everyone seems to become, in pictures. I am always being told that Chinese people all look the same, but to me, English people are just as similar.

  I began to flick through the papers on the desk. Then I saw something that made my heart jump in my chest.

  ‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘Look, this is one of the essays Amanda wrote for Chummy! This means Michael must be the person who knew about what was going on!’

  Daisy leaped up and came over to me. ‘How odd!’ she said. ‘So it is! But if Michael was the person who found the essays, why hasn’t he reported them to the Master yet? Why are they still here?’

  ‘Perhaps he was going to, after the holidays?’ I suggested. But there was something about that which did not sound quite right to me. Michael was so sensible and grown up. Why would he hold something like this back?

  ‘You don’t think he was blackmailing Chummy?’ I asked uncertainly.

  ‘He does need money,’ said Daisy, turning and waving at the room. ‘Look at everything – old and second-best! It could be that. But if he wanted to blackmail Chummy, then he’d have even less reason to kill him, or Donald. He doesn’t stand to gain by their deaths, does he? Oh, perhaps he thought they weren’t behaving like good Maudlin students! Remember how he shouted at Bertie?’

  ‘Daisy, that’s unlikely!’ I said, raising my eyebrows and going back to flicking through the books. Then I froze. ‘Ssh!’ I hissed. ‘There’s someone outside …’

  We both listened, and heard the unmistakable clumping sound of PC Cross walking down the stairs and out into the snow. He must have finished his questioning! Everyone would be back in their rooms soon. We had to hurry!

  Daisy turned away from the desk and quickly began rootling about in the fireplace. Her hands went black to the elbows and her nose was smudged. At that moment, she did not look ladylike at all.

  ‘Something might be here,’ she said. ‘Fireplaces are excellent hiding places, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Aunt Eustacia will murder you if you come back all covered in soot,’ I said. ‘Hurry, Daisy – he could be back any minute!’

  ‘Aunt Eustacia loves snooping as much as I do,’ said Daisy. ‘Never mistake that. And anyway, perhaps everyone will go straight to Midnight Mass – Bertie always does, at home.’ She sounded calm. ‘Nothing, nothing … wait! What’s this?’

  She sat up. In her hands was a little book. It looked quite black at first, but as she wiped at it we saw that it was titled with dim gold letters.

  ‘It’s a Bible!’ I said.

  ‘Odd,’ said Daisy. ‘Why would someone hide a Bible in a fireplace, so close to Christmas?’

  ‘Perhaps Michael has renounced religion?’ I asked. ‘He is at university, after all.’

  ‘Hazel, no one renounces the Church of England,’ said Daisy, raising her eyebrows at me. ‘That would be – oh, I can’t explain, it just isn’t done.’

  ‘I suppose you’d know,’ I said.

  ‘I would,’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s see. Why would Michael hide this?’ She opened it and began flicking through. ‘No, it’s perfectly ordinary. Nothing written on it, no pages missing.’

  ‘Look at the title page,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it’s stolen too.’

  Daisy’s eyebrows went even higher. ‘If you like,’ she said. Then her face changed. ‘Hazel!’ she said. ‘It is stolen! Look at this, how funny! It’s Chummy and Donald’s Bible! Their name’s here, handwritten on the title page – look, Melling. It’s one of those special family Bibles with the family tree in the front – we’ve got one at Fallingford. Look, there’s Chummy and Donald’s names, and their parents, and—’ She stopped.

  I got a shiver down my spine, a wriggling feeling all along my skin. ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘Their grandfather had a brother,’ said Daisy. ‘A younger one. He got married young, to a Sophia Lamb, and they had a son, Henry Melling. He married someone called Amy Butler, and they had a son called Henry Michael Melling in May 1905. They divorced just after this Henry Michael Melling was born, look, in 1905. Hazel, how old would you say Michael was?’

  ‘Thirty,’ I said.

  ‘What if – what if Amy Butler began going by her maiden name again, after the divorce? She’d have called her son the same thing. And she wouldn’t have wanted to call her son by her ex-husband’s first name, either, so she might have begun calling him by his middle name.’

  ‘Michael Butler,’ I breathed. ‘If it is him – that makes him Chummy and Donald’s cousin!’

  I suddenly realized something that I should have noticed long before. Family had been running through this case, just as much as climbing. I remembered Daisy saying Christmas is quite the worst time for family, Aunt Eustacia telling us about how an entail sends all the relatives wild, imagining what would have to happen to leave them in control of the money, and Michael himself saying Christmas is the worst time for family. Makes me glad it’s only me and my mother – no one else to argue with.

  ‘Hazel, look at this family tree – there aren’t any other relatives living. Now that Chummy and Donald are dead, everything goes to this person, this Henry Michael Melling. We said Michael didn’t have any motive. But this gives him all the motive in the world! We know how rich Donald would have become, if he’d reached his twenty-first birthday. He didn’t, by a few hours, and neither did his brother Chummy. That means that Donald couldn’t buy that mine of his, and Chummy couldn’t start spending any of the money either. All of it goes to this Henry Melling. And if Henry Melling is Michael Butler – why, it explains the whole case!

  ‘Haven’t we kept saying how oddly undirected the pranks, or murder attempts, really were? Donald and Chummy were climbing together. They were both near the stone when it fell. They both drank the mistletoe. Either of them might have been pushed into the pond – they looked the same in their black caps and gowns. And although it was Chummy who fell down the stairs, Chummy who was coaxed out of his rooms, it really wasn’t out of the question that Donald might have come out of his rooms in the middle of the night to use the loo, and fallen. We assumed, because Chummy died first, that he was the real target and we had been wrong about Donald being the victim – but if it was both of them, everything makes so much more sense! It didn’t matter who died first, only that they both did, and before Christmas. I suppose that when mistletoe and the pond didn’t work on Donald, Michael went out to get cyanide – they couldn’t both fall down the stairs! Remember when we saw him in town on Monday? That must have been the moment when he got the poison, and the cake as well! Do you know, while we were shopping on Monday, I observed Cambridge’s chemists’ – just as a precaution, you understand. A detective never knows what may be of use.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s a Bocking chemist’s on Rose Crescent,’ said Daisy. ‘Licensed to sell poisons. Doesn’t that fit with the bit of paper I just found? Now, let’s see, what about the Bible? Michael must have found the Bible when he came across the essays that Amanda had written for Chummy – of course it would have been in Chummy’s rooms. Michael would have realized who he was, and what he needed to do to get the money. Of course, he couldn’t destroy the Bible, he’d need it later, to prove who he was. But he realized how dangerous it could be to him if it was discovered. If he’d turned Chummy in, Chummy might have connected the missing Bible with the missing essay, and realize who Michael was. So he hid it up here. It makes sense!’ She thrust the Bible into my hands.

  ‘But, Daisy,’ I said, clutching the Bible in both hands in my excitement. ‘We’ve still got a problem. Michael doesn’t climb! He couldn’t have got up to Chummy’s window, or all the way up the stairs without being seen! It doesn’t work, Daisy. It has to be a red herring.’

  ‘Bother!’ cried Daisy, sitting back on her heels. ‘Oh, bother! Pipped at the post! You’re right, Hazel. We can’t get around that fact. The trap had to be set by a climber. And Michael doesn’t climb. At least—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice. ‘What are you doing in my room?’

/>   7

  We both wheeled about in horror. It was Michael Butler. He stood in the doorway, looking puzzled and not particularly threatening. His hair was uncombed and he was wearing a smoking jacket. There was even a small pen smudge on the end of his nose … his short nose. Snub, like Donald’s. His hair, just a few shades lighter than Chummy’s. I had said that all English people look alike to me. It was only now I saw that I had stumbled upon the truth without even realizing it.

  If Michael was Chummy and Donald’s cousin, he would get all their money. It was the sort of motive that made more sense than anything. Money matters. Although I did not understand that when I was young, I have seen it clear as anything many times since Daisy and I began to be detectives. Not having it makes you want it fiercely, and having some of it makes you hungry for more and more. Michael was not rich – this room proved that.

  But could someone kill their own family to get it? I thought about my little half-sisters. I think my mother expected me to hate them, because they are only half my blood, but the truth is that the half does not matter. They are my sisters, the only ones I know, and I could not love them any more than I do. But if I had grown up not knowing them? Perhaps I would care less then. And if I was not me, but Michael Butler, who was cold to the students he looked after and shouted at people when they stepped in front of his bicycle in the street?

  All that thinking, though it takes a long time to write, happened in only the few seconds it took for Michael to step forward, out of the doorway, towards where we were standing.

  ‘What are you doing in my rooms?’ he asked. His voice was calm and chiding. We were naughty children, and we were about to be sent away.