The Twelve Clues of Christmas

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY RHYS BOWEN

Royal Spyness Mysteries

HER ROYAL SPYNESS

A ROYAL PAIN

ROYAL FLUSH

ROYAL BLOOD

NAUGHTY IN NICE

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

Constable Evans Mysteries

EVANS ABOVE

EVAN HELP US

EVANLY CHOIRS

EVAN AND ELLE

EVAN CAN WAIT

EVANS TO BETSY

EVAN ONLY KNOWS

EVAN’S GATE

EVAN BLESSED

THE

Twelve Clues of Christmas

Rhys Bowen

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.

Copyright © 2012 by Janet Quin-Harkin.

The Edgar^® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

All rights reserved.

FIRST EDITION: November 2012

In memory of my father,

Frank Newcombe Lee,

whose family came from Devonshire,

not far from Tiddleton-under-Lovey.

As always I’d like to thank John for his input and editing skills (even though we almost come to blows each time). I’d like to thank my wonderful editor, Jackie Cantor, for making my life so easy, and my equally brilliant agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe, for taking such good care of me. It is a pleasure to work with you all.

And this book is also dedicated to Sandra Sechrest, who lent her name to one of the characters in this story.

Chapter 1

CASTLE RANNOCH

PERTHSHIRE, SCOTLAND

DECEMBER 14, 1933

Weather: cold, dreary, bleak.

Atmosphere here: cold, dreary, bleak.

Outlook: cold, dreary, bleak. Not in a good mood today. I wonder why. Could it have something to do with the fact that Christmas is coming and it will be utterly bloody?

Ah, Christmas: chestnuts roasting; Yule logs crackling merrily; tables groaning under roast goose, turkey, mince pies and flaming plum puddings; carols and mistletoe; goodwill to all men. I’m sure there were some houses in Britain where this was going to be the case, in spite of the depression—just not at Castle Rannoch, on the bleak Scottish moors, where I was currently trapped for the winter. No, I was not snowed in or being held prisoner. I was there of my own volition. I happen to be Lady Georgiana Rannoch, sister to the current duke, and that bleak castle is my family home.

There is actually no way to make Castle Rannoch festive even if one wanted to. Firstly it would be impossible to heat those cavernous great rooms no matter how many Yule logs you piled on the fire, and secondly my sister-in-law, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, commonly known as Fig, was in full austerity mode. Times were hard, she said. The country was in the grip of a great depression. It was up to us to set an example and live simply. We even had to endure baked beans on toast as our savory at the end of dinner, which shows how dire our situation had become.

It is true that times are hard for the Rannochs, even though we’re related to the royal family and my brother inherited Rannoch Castle and a London house in Belgravia. You see, our father lost the last of his fortune in the great crash of ’29, then went up on the moors and shot himself, thus saddling poor Binky with horrendous death duties. I had my allowance cut off on my twenty-first birthday and have been struggling to keep my head above water ever since. Not that our situation is as dire as those poor wretches in the soup lines. I was supposed to marry well, to one of those chinless, spineless and half-imbecile European princes, or, failing that, become lady-in-waiting to an elderly royal aunt.

So far I had chosen neither of the above, but as Christmas approached and the wind whistled down the hallways of Castle Rannoch, either option began to seem more desirable than my present situation. You might wonder why I stayed in such dreary surroundings. It had started through the famous Rannoch sense of duty that had been rammed down our throats since birth. We’d been raised with stories about ancestors like Robert Bruce Rannoch, who had kept fighting when his arm was hacked off in battle and merely changed his sword from his right hand to his left. I don’t think my sense of duty was that strong, but it was definitely there.

You see, that summer, in London, my sister-in-law, Fig, had given birth to a second little Rannoch. Although she looked as if she had the constitution of a cart horse, she had been rather ill. She had gone home to Scotland to recuperate and had actually begged me to come to keep her company (which shows how jolly sick she was!). I, being a kindhearted soul, had agreed.

Summer had turned to autumn and there were the royal relatives at Balmoral to visit, house parties, grouse shoots—all of which we hoped might bring Fig out of her blue funk. But she had remained languid and depressed, hardly showing any interest in little Adelaide—yes, that was what they named the poor child. Adelaide Gertrude Hermione Maude. Can you imagine saddling any poor baby with such monstrosities? They hadn’t even come up with a good pet name yet. One could hardly call her Addy or Laidy, could one? Then she’d be Lady Addy or Lady Laidy and that wouldn’t do. To date she was addressed as “baby,” or occasionally “diddums.”

And so I had stayed on. Nanny coped admirably with little Adelaide, Fig lolled about, getting more and more petty and bad tempered, and Binky wandered the grounds looking worried. I was starting to wonder how long I could endure this, when things were decided for me. Fig’s mother, Lady Wormwood, arrived to take charge. It only took an instant to see where Fig’s pettiness and bossy nature came from. If Fig was a trial, Lady Wormwood was utterly bloody. (Yes, I know a lady is not supposed to use words like “bloody,” but in describing Lady Wormwood the adjective is actually rather mild. Alas, my education was sadly lacking. If I knew stronger words, I’d have used them.)

She had been in the house for about a week when I came back from a walk to hear her strident voice saying, “It’s not healthy, Hilda.” (She was the only person who called Fig Hilda, being responsible for the ghastly name.) “It’s not natural for a young girl to shut herself away like this, doing nothing all day. Does she not think at all about her future?”

I froze in the entrance hall, shielded by a suit of armor. I expected Fig to leap to my defense and tell her mother that I was only shutting myself away at Castle Rannoch because she had begged me to stay with her. Instead I heard her saying, “I really don’t know what she thinks, Mummy.”

“She can’t possibly expect that you’ll go on supporting her. You’ve done your duty and more. The girl has had her season, hasn’t she?” (People like Lady Wormwood pronounced the word “gell”). “Why isn’t she married? She’s not bad looking. She has royal connections. You’d have thought someone would have taken her off your hands by now.”

“She’s already turned down Prince Siegfried of Romania,” Fig said. “I don’t think she has any idea about duty. The queen was really angling for that match. They are Hollenzollern-Sigmaringens, you know. Related to the queen’s family. And Siegfried was a charming young man, too. But she turned him down.”

“What on earth is she waiting for—a king?” Lady Wormwood asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s not as if she’s next in line to the throne, is it?”

This was true. I had been thirty-fourth until Adelaide was born. Now I had been relegated to thirty-fifth.

Fig lowered her voice. “Between ourselves, she’s mooning after some disreputable chap called Darcy O’Mara. Absolutely rotten sort.”

“O’Mara? Son of Lord Kilhenny?”

“That’s the one. Their family is in a worse state than ours. One gathers his father has had to sell off the family seat and the racing stables to cover his debts. So there are no prospects in that quarter. This O’Mara chap has no fortune and no career. He’ll never be able to support a wife.”

“Well, she wouldn’t be allowed to marry him anyway, would she?” Lady Wormwood’s voice echoed around the great hall. “They are a Catholic family. As a member of the line of succession she’d be barred from marrying a Catholic.”

I took an involuntary step back, knocking into the suit of armor and just managing to grab the mace before it clattered to the floor. I knew that the royal family was not allowed by British law to marry a Catholic, but surely that didn’t apply to me. It wasn’t as if I’d ever find myself queen, unless a particularly virulent epidemic hit or invaders wiped out numbers one through thirty-four. Not that Darcy had asked me to marry him. In fact, we did not even fit the traditional concept of sweethearts. When I was with him it was bliss, but most of the time I didn’t even know where he was. I certainly didn’t know how he earned his living. He appeared to be another young man-about-town, spending his days in idle pursuits like most peers’ sons, but I suspected he was also employed by the British government as some kind of spy. I had questioned him on several occasions but he remained enigmatically mum. When I last heard from him he was on his way to Argentina. I felt a lump come into my throat.

“The girl needs taking in hand, Hilda.” Lady Wormwood’s voice boomed again. “Make it quite clear to her that she is expected to do her duty like everyone else. None of us mooned around waiting for an unsuitable chap, did we? We married whom we were told to and got on with it. Such a stupid notion that one marries for love.”

“Hold on a minute, Mummy,” Fig interrupted. “I’m jolly fond of Binky, you know. I consider myself very lucky in that department.”

“Nobody is saying that love doesn’t come later in some cases,” Lady Wormwood said. “If I remember correctly you had a distinct crush on the local curate until we set you straight. So will you speak to the girl, Hilda, or shall I? Give her an ultimatum—tell her you can support her no longer and it’s up to her to find herself a husband right away.”

I couldn’t stand there for another second. I turned and pushed open the front door, stepping out into the full force of the gale that had begun brewing during my walk. It had started to snow, a driving kind of sleet that stung like needles then stuck to my clothing, hair and eyelashes, but I didn’t care. I walked, faster and faster, away from the house and out into the storm. As I walked I concentrated on my anger, to keep my fear at bay. How dare she! Castle Rannoch was my ancestral home, not hers. She couldn’t turn me out. And then the fear began to creep in . . . if they did turn me out, where would I go? God knows I’d tried to find ways to support myself, but with the world in the grips of a great depression even those with qualifications and experience were standing in bread lines. And then the bigger fear—the real fear. What if I couldn’t marry Darcy? Was I waiting for an impossible dream? Hadn’t I better start facing reality?

The snow turned to blizzard, coating me in a white blanket and making it hard to breathe. Well, one thing was sure—I was not going to conveniently die in a storm just to please Fig and her mother. I turned around and made my way back toward the looming black shape of the castle. Since my presence was no longer appreciated, I’d not stay any longer. I’d have my maid, Queenie, pack my trunk and we’d leave for London in the morning. I had become rather good at camping out in our London house. My grandfather was nearby and my friend Belinda always seemed to have exciting things to do. And who knows, Darcy might be returning to London any day now. It was time for me to take my life into my own hands again.

Chapter 2

As I entered the front hall I was greeted by Hamilton, our aged butler. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, my lady,” he said. “I had no idea you had gone out in this inclement weather. Let me help you out of your coat.”

As a well-trained butler he appeared not to notice that I was leaving a large lake of melted snow around me on the tiled floor. Instead he removed the coat with deft hands. Nor did he ask what had possessed me to go tramping out in a blizzard in the first place. “No doubt you’ll want warming up,” he said in his light Highland voice. “I’ll have Cook send you up some cocoa with brandy in it right away if you’ll go through to His Grace’s study.”

“My brother’s study?”

“Yes, my lady. You’re wanted on the telephone, and I believe it’s rather more private on the extension in there.” He gave me the hint of a knowing smile.

My heart did a flip. It was Darcy. He was back in England and I was going to see him again after all. I sprinted with unladylike haste across the great hall, my footsteps sending up a clattering echo not unlike the time Murdoch Jamie Rannoch rode his war horse into the castle and up the stairs on returning from battle, having heard a rumor that his wife was in bed with the steward. The rumor proved to be right and Murdoch Jamie dispatched both of them on the spot with a wield of his trusty claymore. We Rannochs can get rather hotheaded where love is involved.

I was so breathless by the time I picked up the receiver that I could hardly gasp out, “Hello?”

“Darling, is it you?” came a feminine voice.

My first thought was that it was my friend Belinda Warburton-Stoke, one of the few people I knew who called me darling. But then I realized that the voice was deeper, smoother, sexier, polished by years on the London stage. “Mummy?” I replied. “What’s wrong?” In my impecunious world the telephone was used only for the direst emergencies and I hadn’t spoken to my mother in months.

“Nothing’s wrong, darling,” she said indignantly. “I was just looking forward to a chat with my only child.”

“Where are you calling from?” The line had that hollow crackle of long distance.

“I’m in London, darling, where I hoped I’d find you.” She sounded peeved now, as if I were deliberately avoiding her. “What on earth are you doing up in Scotland at this time of year? My God, it must be bleak.”

“It is, rather,” I agreed. “I’ve been keeping Fig company.”

“From choice?” She sounded horrified.

“More from a sense of duty, I suppose,” I said. “She’s been awfully down since she had the baby and Binky begged me to stay on and cheer her up. He’s been rather at a loss for what to do for her, poor chap.”

“I’d have pushed her off a cliff long ago if I were he,” Mummy said.

“Mummy, you’re terrible.” I had to laugh. “Anyway, I had hoped that going down to London for Christmas might cheer her up, but you know Fig. She’s sure it’s cheaper to stay in Scotland rather than open up the London house. So we’re stuck up here. But what about you? What are you doing in London? I thought you’d be looking forward to a jolly German Christmas with Max.”

“Max is having the jolly German Christmas. I’m not,” she said. “He’s gone to spend the holiday with his aged parents in Berlin and he thought it wiser that I not accompany him, since they are very prim and proper and don’t know about me.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “I thought he was anxious to marry you.”

“He still is,” she said, “but he thought this wasn’t the right moment to spring me on the old folks. And frankly I’m delighted to have a chance to spend Christmas in England for a change. I’m already looking forward to carols and Yule logs and flaming plum pudding and crackers.”

A wonderful picture floated into my mind—Mummy and I sharing Christmas with all the trimmings at a swank London hotel. Glorious food, glamorous parties, pantomimes . . .

“Are you at the Ritz?” I asked.

“At Brown’s, darling. I had this great desire to be horribly English for once and they are so lovely and old-fashioned. What’s more, they’ve conveniently forgotten that I’m not a duchess anymore, and one does so enjoy being called Your Grace.”

“You were the one who walked out on Daddy,” I reminded her. “You could still have been Your Grace if you’d wanted to.”

“Yes, but it would have meant spending half the year on those ghastly Scottish moors, wouldn’t it? I’d have died of boredom. At least now I’m having fun.”

With a great many men on all six continents, I wanted to add but didn’t. My mother was one of the first of the notorious bolters, having left my father for a French racing driver, an Argentinian polo player, a mountain climber, a Texas oil millionaire and most recently a wealthy German industrialist.

“So you’re going to be spending Christmas at Brown’s Hotel, are you? Or do you think you may come up to Scotland to visit us?” Of course I was angling for an invitation to join her in London, but I was too proud to come out and say it.

“Come up to Scotland? In winter? Darling, I’m very fond of you, but wild horses wouldn’t drag me to Castle Rannoch in winter. Perhaps you could pop down to London when I’m back in the new year and we’ll go shopping and do girlie things.”

“Back? I thought you said you were spending Christmas in England.”

“Yes, darling, but not in London. Don’t laugh, but I’m off to a village called Tiddleton-under-Lovey of all things. Isn’t it a divine name? I thought Noel was making it up when he told me. It sounds as though it comes straight from one of his plays, doesn’t it?”

“Noel? You mean Noel Coward?”

“Is there any other Noel, darling? Remember I mentioned earlier this year that he wanted to write a play for us to star in together? Well, he’s demanded that we hole up together over Christmas and work on the dialogue. Imagine, little moi in a play with Noel. Utter heaven. Of course he’ll hog the limelight and give himself the best lines, but who cares?”

“Will Max approve of your holing up with another man?”

She laughed. “Darling, it’s not another man. It’s Noel.”

“And what about your going back into the theater? Will Max approve of that?”

“Max can like it or lump it,” she said breezily. “I’m not Frau Von Strohheim yet, and anyway Max wants me to do anything that makes me happy. And I’ve been away from the theater for too long. My public still yearns for me.”

I could find no response to this except to wonder how a mother with such supreme confidence in her own wonderfulness managed to produce a shy and awkward daughter like me.

“Where is this Piddleton-under-Lovey?” I asked.

She gave another tinkling laugh. “Tiddleton, darling. Not Piddleton. In Devon. Tucked at the edge of Dartmoor, one gathers. Noel chose it because of its name, I’m sure. You know what a wicked sense of humor he has. But also because it was featured in Country Life as one of England’s most charming and quaint villages. He’s rented a thatched cottage on the village green and promises me roaring fires and hot toddy and all the delights the countryside has to offer.”

“It sounds lovely.” I tried not to sound disappointed.

“I’d invite you to join us, darling, but it really is a working holiday and Noel insists that he wants no distractions. He can be so intense when he’s creating. He’s already slaving away furiously in his London flat and naturally he’s left all the domestic details of this Tiddleton-under-Lovey business to me. I’m supposed to come up with a good cook who can produce plain old-fashioned English food and someone to look after us, which means, I suppose, that I’ll have to abandon Brown’s and go down to Devon ahead of him. I can’t see any staff I’d hire in London wanting to go down to Devon in the bleak midwinter, can you?”

If I’d known how to cook, I’d have volunteered for the job myself. But since my repertoire didn’t go beyond toast, boiled eggs and baked beans, I didn’t think I’d prove satisfactory.

“Anyway, I must toddle off, darling.” Mummy cut short my thoughts. “I’ve a million and one things to do. Should I order the hamper from Fortnum’s or Harrods, do you think? I seem to remember I was rather disappointed in Harrods last time—terribly bourgeois in their choices.” (This from someone who was raised in a two-up, two-down house in Barking where luxury consisted of an extra helping of chips on Saturday night.) “So have a lovely Christmas, won’t you, my sweet, and afterwards we’ll meet in London and I’ll treat you to a lovely shopping spree as a Christmas present. All right?”

Before I could say good-bye the line went dead.

Chapter 3

STILL CASTLE RANNOCH

Blizzard still continuing.

I came down to dinner with what I hoped was a confident and jaunty air. I was not going to let Fig and her mother know that I had overheard their conversation.

“Beastly day,” I said as I took my place. “Did any of you go out?”

“Absolutely not,” Fig said. “I have to be careful that I don’t catch a chill after all that I’ve been through.”

“Nobody in their right mind would go out in weather like this,” her mother added.

“I went for my usual walk,” Binky said in his jolly fashion, oblivious to the fact that he had just admitted to not being in his right mind. “It wasn’t too bad. Blowing a bit hard, but one expects a good stiff blow at this time of year. You didn’t go out riding, did you, Georgie?”

“Of course not. I would not expose Rob Roy to this weather, poor thing. But I did tramp around the estate a bit this afternoon before I was nearly buried in the blizzard. One does need some exercise, doesn’t one?” I gave Fig a swift glance. She frowned. “So have you decided what we’re going to do about Christmas?” I went on cheerfully. “Don’t you think it would be more fun in London? It’s so remote up here and nobody will come to visit.”

“On the contrary,” Lady Wormwood said, “we are expecting the rest of our family to join us. Hilda’s sister, Matilda, and her husband and daughter. I believe you met them in France earlier this year.”

Oh, God. Not Ducky, her lecherous husband, Foggy, and their dreadful daughter, Maude!

“Maybe you can help Maude with her French lessons again while she’s here,” Fig said. “You two became great chums, I remember.”

In fact, it had been a case of mutual loathing. I cleared my throat. “Ah, well, I don’t think I’m going to be here after all. I’ve decided to go down to the London house, if it’s all right with you. There are parties and things going on, and I know you all want me to meet a suitable chap, don’t you?”

There was a silence you could cut with a knife, punctuated only by the clink of silver spoon against tureen as the footman ladled out soup.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, isn’t it, Binky?” Fig said.

“Is it?” Binky looked up from his soup, clueless as usual. “If that’s what Georgie wants to do I think it’s a splendid idea. Young thing like her needs her Christmas parties, what?”

“Binky!” Fig’s voice developed a knife edge to it. “We discussed this before, remember? We decided it was far too expensive to open up the London house in winter, even with the small amount of coal and electricity that Georgiana would use. So I’m afraid you’re stuck here with us, Georgiana, and you can make yourself useful for once keeping Maude amused.”

With that she turned her attention to her cock-a-leekie soup.

I sat fuming, but could find nothing to say. I wanted to remind her that I had only come here in the first place because she had begged me to keep her company. I had only stayed on so long because Binky had begged me to do so. Surely they owed me something for my months of enduring Fig. But she didn’t seem to think so. Rannoch House was the property of the current duke and I no longer had any claim to it. In fact, nothing belonged to me. I began to feel like a Jane Austen heroine. I was stuck in Scotland with relatives who didn’t like me and didn’t want me there. Frankly, I couldn’t think of a worse Christmas ahead, but I also couldn’t think of a way to escape from it.

Then a lovely idea popped into my head. I’d stay with my grandfather! That would shake them up. You see, my mother’s father is a retired Cockney policeman who lives in a little semidetached house in Essex with gnomes in the front garden. All the years I was growing up I wasn’t allowed to meet him. I had since made up for those years and I adored him.

I took a deep breath. “Then I think I may go and stay with my grandfather if the London house isn’t available to me.”

Spoons clattered. Someone choked.

“Your grandfather?” Lady Wormwood said in the same tones Lady Bracknell used regarding a handbag in the Oscar Wilde play. “I thought your grandfather had been dead for years.”

“Her mother’s father,” Fig said coldly.

“Oh, her mother’s father. I don’t believe I ever met him.”

“You wouldn’t have met him,” Fig said. “He’s not . . . you know.” Then she lowered her voice and muttered, “N.O.C.D.” (which is upper-class shorthand, in case you don’t know, for “not our class, dear”).

Binky was looking rather red around the gills. “I say, Georgie. Your grandfather’s a decent old stick and all that, but it’s simply not on. We’ve been into this before. You can’t stay in a cottage in Essex. Think of the embarrassment to Their Majesties if the press found out about it.”

“Anyone would think it was the Casbah or a den of ill repute,” I said hotly. “Anyway, how are they going to find out? It’s not as if the society reporters follow me around the way they do my mother. I’m nobody. Nobody cares if I stay in Belgrave Square or in Essex.”

Suddenly I felt tears welling at the back of my eyes, but I was not going to allow myself to cry in public. “I’m over twenty-one so you can’t stop me from doing what I want to,” I said. “And if Their Majesties are embarrassed by my behavior, they can give me an allowance so I don’t have to live as a penniless hanger-on all the time.”

With that I got up and walked out of the dining hall.

“Well, really, such hysterics,” I heard Lady Wormwood say. “Takes after her mother, obviously. Bad blood there.”

* * *

I HAD JUST reached the top of the first flight of stairs when the lights went out. This was a normal occurrence at Castle Rannoch, where electricity was a recent addition to a centuries-old building and the wires were always coming down in gales. Thus we had candles and matches all over the place. I felt my way up the last two steps, then along the wall until I came to the first window ledge. There, sure enough, was a candle and matches. I lit the candle and continued on my way. Outside, the wind was howling like a banshee. Windows rattled as I passed them. A tapestry billowed out to touch me, making me flinch involuntarily. I had grown up in this environment with stories of family ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night and usually I took them all in my stride. But tonight even I was on edge.

The hall went on forever with darkness looming before and behind me. My candle flickered and threatened to go out every few yards. There was no sign of another living soul although the house was full of servants. I realized that they must all be at their supper down in the depths of the servants’ hall. At last I reached my door. As I stepped into my room a great gust of wind blew out my candle. I felt my way to my bed, knowing there were more matches on the bedside table. As I reached out for the bed my hand touched cold, flabby flesh. I stifled a cry as a white shape rose up at me, looming larger and larger until it seemed to fill the room.

“Bloody ’ell?” muttered a voice.

“Queenie?” I demanded and fumbled to light my candle. My maid stood before me, hair disheveled, cap askew, blinking in the candlelight.

“Cor blimey, miss,” she said. “You didn’t half give me a nasty turn there. Scared me out of me ruddy wits.”

“I scared you?” I tried not to sound too shaky. “How do you think I felt when I touched a cold hand when I was expecting to feel an eiderdown? What were you doing on my bed?”

She had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. “Sorry, miss. I came up after me supper to put your hot water bottle in and I just sat down for a minute on the bed and I must have nodded off.”

“I’ve told you before about lying on my bed, haven’t I?” I said.

“I know. And I didn’t mean to, honest. But I get so sleepy after all that stodge they feed us in the servants’ hall. I swear we’ve had stew and dumplings three nights in a row.”

“You should be glad you have enough to eat,” I said, trying to sound like a mistress putting her servant in her place. “When I was in London you should have seen all those poor wretches queuing up for soup. You have a job and a roof over your head, so you should work harder to make sure you keep them.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I do try, miss,” she said. “Honest I do. But you know I’m thicker than two planks. You knew that when you took me on.”

“You’re right, I did.” I sighed. “But I had hopes that you might improve, given time.”

“Ain’t I improved at all, then?”

“You still haven’t learned to call me ‘my lady’ and not ‘miss.’”

“Strike me pink, so I ain’t.” She chuckled. “I try, but when I’m flustered it goes right out of my head.”

I sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Queenie? My sister-in-law is badgering me every day to get rid of you.”

“Spiteful cow,” Queenie muttered.

“Queenie. You’re talking about the Duchess of Rannoch.”

“I don’t care who she is, she’s still a spiteful cow,” Queenie said. “And ungrateful too, after all what you’ve done for her. Staying up here, month after month, because she wanted company, and now she turns on you like this. If I was you I’d get out while the going is good and leave her to get on with things by herself.”

“I may just do that,” I said. “Can you find me another candle? I want to write a letter.”

“Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said, instantly happy again. “I’ll go and take the one out of her bathroom—then just see how she likes going to the lav in the middle of the night in the dark.”

“Queenie, you’re incorrigible,” I said, trying not to laugh. “There’s a perfectly good candle on top of my chest of drawers. Then tomorrow morning I want you to bring my trunk down from the attic.”

“Are we really leaving, then?”

“Maybe. But I want to be ready, just in case.”

The candle was lit and Queenie departed.

I started to write the letter. Dear Granddad . . .

Then I paused, my pen in midair. Was it even right to ask him if I could stay? He had very little money himself and his health had not been the best lately. The last time he wrote to me his bronchitis had returned, aggravated by the London fog that crept out across the marshes into Essex. In truth I worried about him. At least Mrs. Huggins, his next-door neighbor, would be taking care of him and making sure that he ate well. She had designs on marrying him, I knew, but I wondered if he was more fond of her cooking than he was of her. In fact . . .

I gasped as a flash of brilliance struck me. A wonderful thought had entered my head, so wonderful that I hardly dared to think it. Mrs. Huggins was a good plain cook and she and Granddad had acted brilliantly as housekeeper and butler one time when I’d needed to produce servants for a visiting princess. I sat there in the darkness, waiting until I heard everyone go to bed. Then I tiptoed down to Binky’s study and picked up the telephone. I knew that Fig would have a fit if she knew I was making a trunk call, but for once I didn’t care. This was more important.

“Brown’s Hotel,” came the polished voice at the other end of the line after what seemed like hours of waiting for the operators to make the necessary connections. I asked to speak to the former duchess of Rannoch.

“I cannot disturb Her Grace at such a late hour,” said the voice sternly. “It wouldn’t be seemly.”

I wondered if this was a polite way of saying that my mother was not occupying her bed alone. It wouldn’t be the first time. “This is her daughter, Lady Georgiana Rannoch, calling on a matter of great importance,” I said. “So if you could possibly see if Her Grace is still awake?”

He was instantly gushing. “Yes, yes, of course, my lady. Please hold the line and I will try to connect you.”

I waited, thinking of the minutes being added to Fig’s telephone bill. At last an agitated voice said, “Georgie darling? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mummy, but I just had an absolutely brilliant idea for you.”

“I was sound asleep,” she said.

“You’ll be glad that I telephoned. Listen, you know Granddad’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Huggins cooks decent plain food,” I said. “I thought you could ask her and Granddad to come down and run the cottage in Tiddleton-under-Whatsit for you. They were frightfully good at playing butler and cook when I had to entertain that German princess.”

“I can’t ask my own father to wait on me,” she said. “Besides, he’d never do it. He’s too proud.”

“Persuade him, Mummy. I know you can if you try. It would be a perfect solution for both of you. You wouldn’t have to look around for suitable servants and have people in the house you didn’t know. He’d benefit from fresh air and country living. London in winter is so bad for his chest.”

“It would make things awfully simple, wouldn’t it? And give me more time for shopping. I’d have to put it to him in the right way, so that he felt he was being invited and not as a servant.”

“You could suggest that Mrs. Huggins come and cook for you and naturally she wouldn’t want to travel alone so you suggest that you pay his way to accompany her. You know what he’s like. He hates not being busy, so he’d be bringing in the firewood and that sort of thing without being asked. And then you hire a local girl to clean, and bob’s your uncle, as he would say.”

My mother laughed that wonderful bell-like laugh that had enthralled theatergoers for years. “You’re becoming as devious as I am, darling. All right. I’ll do it. And by the way, guess who I saw going into the Café Royal this evening? None other than the delicious Darcy.”

“Darcy? But I thought he was in Argentina.”

“Not any longer, obviously. I’m sure it was he. Nobody else has those roguish black curls—so very sexy.”

I wanted to ask if he was alone, but I couldn’t make myself. “Then I expect I’ll be hearing from him in due course,” I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned, “although he won’t come up to Scotland, I’m sure. Fig is so jolly rude to him.”

“Then escape to London and meet him in a hotel, darling. You’d have a blissful time.”

“Mummy, you’re not supposed to suggest things like that to your unmarried daughter. Besides, think what the royals would say if they got word of it.”

“Oh, bugger the royals,” Mummy said. “It’s time you stopped trying to please other people and started living for yourself. I always have.”

* * *

IT WAS ONLY when I climbed into bed and curled into a tight ball in an attempt to bring back life to my frozen feet that I realized what I had done. I had condemned myself to spending Christmas with Fig and her family.

Chapter 4

STILL CASTLE RANNOCH

DECEMBER 15

Stopped snowing, at least for a while.

I was awoken in the morning by loud bumping noises and muttered curses. Queenie appeared and instead of bringing in my morning tea she was dragging my trunk.

“Here you are, miss,” she said. “Your trunk like you wanted. I hope I got the right one. It does have your name on it.”

I sat up, my breath coming out as steam in the freezing cold of the room. “Yes, it’s the right one, Queenie, but I’m afraid I won’t be going anywhere after all.”

“Ruddy ’ell, miss. You mean I got to take it back up all them stairs again?” she demanded.

“Just leave it for now and go and get my tea,” I said. “I’ll feel better when I have something warm in my stomach.”

“You should see what’s going on downstairs, miss,” she said, pausing to look back from the doorway. “Apparently them people what we stayed with in France are coming to stay. You know, the stingy ones what only had one piece of cheese and crackers for their dinner?”

“It was lunch, Queenie,” I corrected. “Remember I told you that people of my class eat luncheon in the middle of the day and dinner at night.”

“Well, whatever it was, there weren’t enough food to feed a ruddy hamster,” she said bluntly. “I expect they’re coming here for Christmas so they can eat your brother’s food instead of their own.”

“That’s not for you to comment on,” I said. “You must watch what you say. If my sister-in-law ever heard you, I really would be forced to sack you. You realize that.”

“Sorry, miss. My dad always said my big mouth would get me in trouble, if something else didn’t first.”

“So the servants are getting their rooms ready, are they?” I asked. “That must mean they are arriving very soon.”

“It’s a pity you aren’t going away after all,” Queenie said. “I don’t see a very happy Christmas shaping for us.” With that she made a grand exit.

I got up and went over to the window. The world was covered in a blanket of white, apart from the black water of the loch, which lay mirror-still reflecting the crag and the pine trees. For once the scene looked almost like an Alpine picture postcard and I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of the fun I’d have building snowmen and going sledding with little Podge, my nephew. He was almost five years old now and splendid company.

When I came down to breakfast, however, I learned that Podge had developed a cold and was not to be allowed out in the snow. “But you can take Maude out tobogganing when she comes,” Fig added, as if that were an incentive. Maude probably wouldn’t want to do normal things like tobogganing, I thought. I’d never met a drearier child. Nor a worse know-it-all. I looked up as Hamilton came in with the morning post on a salver.

“Anything for me, Hamilton?” I asked hopefully. If Darcy was back in London, surely he would have written. . . .

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Only a letter for His Grace and some magazines.”

Magazines were better than nothing, I supposed. I took Country Life and The Lady and went to curl up in an armchair by the fire in the morning room, which was the only room in the house that became passably warm. I flicked through the pages, trying not to feel anxious and depressed. Every page seemed to show pictures of jolly Christmas house parties, hints on how to decorate with holly and mistletoe, amusing cocktails for New Year’s bashes. . . . I put down Country Life and thumbed idly through The Lady. I was about to put it down when some words leaped off the page at me: Tiddleton-under-Lovey.

It was an entry in the advertisements column. Wanted: young woman of impeccable background to assist hostess with the social duties of large Christmas house party. Applications to Lady Hawse-Gorzley, Gorzley Hall, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, Devonshire.

I stared at it as if mesmerized. What an astounding coincidence. Here was a place I had never heard of before and now it had come up for the second time in two days. That ought to be a sign from heaven, surely. As if I were destined to go there. My breath was coming in rapid gulps. I could escape from Fig and be paid for it. It really did seem too good to be true, an answer to a prayer. I was about to rush to the writing desk and send in my application when I felt a warning siren going off in my head. Maybe it was too good to be true. I had come up with brilliant ways to make money before and they had all turned into disasters. I couldn’t face a repetition of the escort service fiasco, and I had never heard of Lady Hawse-Gorzley.

I went back into the breakfast room, where Fig and her mother were working their way through the Tatler, making catty remarks about the society pictures.

“Does either of you know anyone called Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.

They looked up, frowning. “Name sounds familiar,” Fig said.

“Sir Oswald, I believe,” Lady Wormwood said. “Only a baronet. West Country people, aren’t they? Why, what have they done?”

“Nothing. I read the name in The Lady and I’d never heard of them. Just curious, that’s all. Interesting name, don’t you think?” I wandered out of the room again, trying not to let my excitement show. They were legit. Lady Wormwood had heard of them. West Country people. Now I just hoped that I wasn’t too late. Heaven knew how long our copy of The Lady had taken to reach us up in the wilds of Scotland. There were probably hundreds of applications from suitable young women winging their way to Gorzley Hall at this very moment. I decided I needed to act fast. I was about to make a dash to the telephone when I decided that wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all. It might fluster and embarrass her. The correct method would be to write to her on Castle Rannoch writing paper, crest and all, but it would be too slow. Drat and bother. Suddenly I brightened up. I could send her a telegram. I’d learned about the effectiveness of telegrams when I was in France, and all the best people sent them.

“I’m going into the village,” I said, popping my head around the breakfast room door. “Does anyone want anything?”

Fig peered at me over the Tatler. “How do you propose going to the village in this weather? You’re certainly not taking the motor and I don’t want MacTavish to have to drive you.”

“I suppose I could ride,” I said.

“I thought you said it would be criminal to take your horse out in this weather,” Lady Wormwood said with the smirk of someone who is scoring a point.

“I could walk if necessary. It’s only two miles.”

“Through snowdrifts? Dear me, it must be urgent.”

“It’s probably a letter to that Darcy person,” Fig commented. “Am I right?”

“Not at all,” I said. “If I can’t have the car I’d better start walking.”

“Dashed slippery out there. Who is going out walking?” Binky asked, appearing in the doorway.

“I am,” I said. “I have to go to the village and I’ve no other way of getting there.”

“I’m going in myself later,” Binky said. “If you don’t mind sticking around a bit, you can ride in with me.”

Fig glared at him as if he had let the side down by actually wanting to help me, but it was his car, after all.

“Thank you, Binky.” I beamed at him. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

I went upstairs and worked at composing my telegram. Would it make me seem too eager and pushy? I wondered. But then other girls in more southerly climes would have had a couple of days’ head start on me, and Christmas was rapidly approaching. I had to take the risk. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled again and ended up with:

COPY OF THE LADY JUST REACHED ME. HOPE I’M NOT TOO LATE TO APPLY FOR POSITION. SENDING MY PARTICULARS BY POST. GEORGIANA RANNOCH.

Of course anyone who sends telegrams on a regular basis would know that this amount of verbiage would cost me a fortune. I blanched when Mrs. McDonald at the post office-cum-general store told me the amount, but Binky was hovering and my pride would not let me take it back for rewriting. Besides, I didn’t actually know what I could have left out. So I handed over the money, hoping that it would result in a paid position shortly. I realized there had been no mention of money in the advertisement. Perhaps the only recompense was to be the joys of a big house party. Ah, well, no matter. Anything would be better than a house full of Fig’s relatives.

I waited all that day and all the next, sinking further and further into gloom. I was too late. Some other young woman of impeccable background would be enjoying the delights of that big house party while I ate baked beans on toast and dodged Foggy’s grabbing hands. Then the next morning a miracle happened. Hamilton appeared with the post while we were at breakfast.

Fig took it. “Oh, something for you, Georgiana,” she said. “Who do you know in Devon?”

I snatched the letter and went out of the room to read it. “It will be a rejection,” I kept muttering as I opened the envelope. Instead I read:

My dear Lady Georgiana:

I was overwhelmed to receive your telegram. I had no idea that someone of your rank and status would ever consider gracing our small house party in the Devon countryside. We would be more than honored for you to join us. As mentioned in my advertisement, your duties would only be those of a young hostess, making sure that the younger guests have a good time. Could you be here by the twentieth and stay until after the New Year?

I hardly like to discuss remuneration, but of course we will cover your traveling expenses as well as the fee for your services. I think you’ll find us a jolly crowd and we’ll have a really gay Christmas.

Yours sincerely,

Camilla Hawse-Gorzley

I bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

“Queenie, I need my trunk again. We’re going away!” I shouted.

“Cor blimey, miss,” she muttered. “Now I suppose you want me to go back up all them stairs and get the ruddy trunk out of the attic again.”

Chapter 5

ON MY WAY TO TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY

DECEMBER 20

I’m delighted to say that Fig was seriously miffed when I told her I had been invited to a house party for Christmas.

“But you don’t know anybody in Devon,” she said.

“I know all sorts of people,” I said. “I just don’t mention them to you.”

“Well, if that doesn’t take the cake,” she snapped. “And Maude was so looking forward to seeing you again, and having more French lessons too.”

I smiled sweetly. “I expect you’ll all survive without me. Do give my love to Foggy and Ducky.” Then I made a grand exit. I can’t tell you how good it felt.

* * *

I ALSO CAN’T tell you how excited I was when I got my first glimpse of Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Queenie and I had traveled on the night express to King’s Cross and then across London in a taxi to Paddington. I glanced out the taxi window as we inched our way through the London fog, wondering if Darcy was still somewhere close by and I had no way of contacting him. I had actually received a postcard on the day I left Scotland. It said, I gather you’re celebrating Christmas with the family. I’ve also been roped in for a family do. But I hope to see you in the new year. Happy Christmas. Love, D. It was so frustrating. He wrote Love, D, but did he mean it? And why hadn’t he telephoned me if he was back in Britain? Some of the time I felt hopeful about a future with him and then chance remarks like my mother’s dashed those hopes. If you loved somebody, didn’t you want to be with her? At least to telephone her to hear her voice? I tried to face the fact that Darcy really was not good husband material, even if I were allowed to marry him. He was one of those men who could not be tamed or made to want to settle down.

I was glad to board the Great Western Railway at Paddington Station and leave the depressing cold and grime of London behind. We had to change trains in Exeter and then take a branch line. The little train huffed and puffed its way beside a lively stream with snow-dusted hills on one side until it reached the small market town of Newton Abbott. The Hawse-Gorzley chauffeur was waiting with a splendid, if rather old, Bentley. As we set off through the country lanes the sun was sinking in a red ball behind the hills. Rooks were cawing as they flew home to their trees. On a great sweep of upland moor I saw a line of Dartmoor ponies silhouetted against the sunset.

We came around a bend and there it was, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, nestled under a snowcapped tor. Was that rocky crag the Lovey? I wondered. It didn’t look very loving to me. Or was it perhaps the noisy little stream that passed under the humpback bridge as we approached the first houses? On one side of the village street was a small row of shops and a pub called the Hag and Hounds—complete with a swinging pub sign depicting a witch on a broomstick with baying dogs below her. On the other side was a pond, on which glided several graceful swans, and a village green. Behind this were some thatched cottages and the square tower of a church. Smoke curled up from chimneys and hung in the cold air. A farmer passed, riding a huge cart horse, the clip-clop of its hooves echoing crisply in the evening air.

“Stone me, miss, it looks just like a ruddy picture postcard, don’t it?” Queenie said, summing up my thoughts.

I wondered which of the cottages was to be occupied by my mother and Noel Coward. I wondered if my grandfather had consented to come and my heart leaped with hope. Christmas at an elegant house party and my loved ones nearby. What more could I want? Darkness fell abruptly as we drove between a pair of tall gateposts, topped with stone lions, and up a gravel drive. Lights shone out of a solid, unadorned, gray stone house, its severe façade half covered in ivy. This then was Gorzley Hall. It didn’t exactly look like the site of an elegant house party—more Bennet residence than Pemberley, but who was I to judge by appearances?

We drew up at the front entrance and the chauffeur came around to open the door for me.

“My maid will help you with the bags,” I said, indicating to Queenie that she should stay, even though she was looking apprehensive. Then I went up to the front door. It was a massive studded affair obviously designed to keep out past invaders. I rapped on the knocker and the door swung open. I waited for someone to come then stepped gingerly into a slate-floored hallway.

“Hello?” I called.

On one side a staircase ascended to a gallery and I spied a pair of legs in old flannel trousers up on a ladder. They belonged to a stocky chap with shaggy gray hair, wearing a fisherman’s jersey, and he was wrestling with a long garland of holly and ivy.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

He spun around in surprise and I saw that it wasn’t a man at all but a big-boned woman with cropped hair. “Who are you?” she demanded, peering down at me.

My arrival wasn’t exactly going as I had expected. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “If you could please go and tell Lady Hawse-Gorzley that I have arrived. She is expecting me.”

“I am Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she said. “Been so dashed busy that I completely forgot you were coming today. Come up and grab the other end of this, will you? Damned thing won’t stay put. It looked so simple in Country Life.”

I put down my train case and did as she requested. Together we secured the garland and she came down the ladder. “Sorry about that,” she said, wiping her hands on her old slacks. “I don’t want you to think we’re always this disorganized. Had a hell of a day here. Police tramping all over the place, not letting the servants get on with their work. That’s why we’re so behind. Must have the decorations up, y’know. First guests arriving day after tomorrow.”

She led the way back down the stairs, then stuck out a big hand. “Well, here’s a pretty first introduction to Gorzley Hall, what? Camilla Hawse-Gorzley. How do you do? Dashed good of you to muck in like this. Nearly had a fit when I saw my little advertisement answered by the daughter of a duke. You should have seen the other applications I got—their ideas of impeccable background and mine weren’t at all the same, I can tell you. Parents in trade, I shouldn’t wonder. So you were an answer to our prayers and here you are.”

She beamed at me, making me realize she wasn’t as old as I had first thought. “Well, don’t just stand there. Take off your coat. Come on through and have a sherry, then I’ll give you a quick tour of the house. Brought a maid with you, I expect?”

“Yes, I brought my maid.” I realized it was going to be hard to get a word in edgewise.

“Jolly good. If I can round up Martha, she can show the girl where you’re sleeping and take up your things.”

She rang a bell furiously. “Damned girl is probably entertaining the policemen in the kitchen. Got too much of an eye for the other sex, that one. Going to come a cropper, you mark my words.”

While she was talking she had led me through to a comfortable-looking drawing room with armchairs and sofas set around a blazing fire in a hearth almost the size of our one at home. Lead-paned bay windows looked out across an expanse of lawn. The walls were wood paneled and the ceiling had great beams running across it. What’s more, it was delightfully warm. Lady Hawse-Gorzley motioned me to sit in one of the armchairs then went over to a table in the corner and picked up a decanter. “Sherry all right for you? Or would you prefer something stronger? A brandy maybe, after your travels?”

“No, sherry would be lovely, thank you.”

“Always have one myself before dinner. I suppose the sun has to be over the yardarm, wouldn’t you say? What time is it, by the way? Damned grandfather clock has given up the ghost again. It’s been in the family since 1743, so I suppose one can allow it the odd temper tantrum, but dashed awkward time for it.”

“It’s about five thirty,” I said, consulting my wristwatch.

“Is it, by George? A little early for sherry, but in the circumstances, I suppose we can bend the rules, what?” She poured two generous glasses and handed me one. “God, how the time has flown today. I don’t know how we’re going to get everything ready for the guests in time. Those damned police tramping around all day.” She perched on the arm of a nearby chair and knocked back her sherry in one gulp. “Like another?” she asked, and looked surprised that I hadn’t yet started mine. “Come on. Drink up. Do you good.”

I knew that good breeding did not allow one to ask too many questions, but I was dying of curiosity. “Lady Hawse-Gorzley, you mentioned that the police had been here all day. What exactly have they been doing?”

“Tramping all over the place and upsetting my servants, that’s what. Damned impertinence. All because our stupid neighbor had to go and kill himself in our orchard. Of all the inconsiderate things to do, especially when he knew I had people coming. Still, that was par for the course with him. Didn’t care a hoot about anybody but himself.”

I tried to digest this while she knocked back a second sherry. “Your neighbor killed himself? Committed suicide, you mean?”

“I hardly think so. If you wanted to kill yourself you probably wouldn’t bother to climb a tree first, would you? Not unless you wanted to fall and break your neck, and our fruit trees aren’t that big. No, the police think it was an accident. Carrying a loaded rook rifle with him, somehow slipped or knocked the gun and it went off in his face.”

“Had he come onto your property to shoot rooks then, do you think?”

“Wouldn’t have thought so. The big elm by the church is where the rooks go to roost for the night. He could have stood in the churchyard, fired with his eyes closed and not been able to miss at dusk. No, my husband agrees with me—it was probably designed to be another of his practical jokes. Going to rig up the rifle so that it went off when someone walked past, or maybe aiming it to shoot at one of our windows—that’s what the inspector suggested.”

“He was aiming to kill one of you?”

“No, just give us a nasty scare. That was young Freddie’s stock in trade. M’husband reckons that he wanted to pay us back because Oswald found him shooting grouse on the moor the other day. I mean to say—everyone knows the grouse shooting season ends on the tenth of December. And there he was, bold as brass on the eighteenth. Gave him a damned good talking-to. Obviously he didn’t like that and decided to get back at us.”

She took another swig of sherry. “Inherited the property behind ours from his father a few years ago. Still hadn’t married and amused himself by being absolutely bloody to his neighbors. In his thirties but still acted like a ten-year-old boy.” She paused and sighed. “Still, I wouldn’t have wished an end like that for the poor chap. He might have turned out all right if he’d married and had to settle down.”

She broke off at the sound of footsteps outside and several blue uniforms passed the window.

“Ah, they are finally off home,” she said. “I told them they were wasting their time looking for clues on my property. Quite clear the fellow shot himself while trying to rig up some kind of trap. Had the wire with him. Fool. Well, let’s hope that’s the end of it. The last thing I want is to have my guests greeted by policemen all over the place. I was worried they’d all cancel when they read about the breakout last week.”

“Breakout?”

She looked up in surprise. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about it! I thought it was in all the newspapers. There have certainly been enough pressmen hanging around here.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. It takes a long time for news to reach us in the wilds of Scotland.”

She leaned closer. “Three convicts escaped from Dartmoor Prison, only a few days ago. Supposed to be model prisoners and they were part of a gang working in the quarry. It was all very well planned. They lingered behind on some pretext, hit the guard over the head with a rock and made off over the moor. They were shackled, of course, but apparently one of them made his living as an escape artist. Two of them were entertainers of some sort, but they were all nasty pieces of work. History of violent crimes.”

“And they haven’t caught them yet?” I glanced up nervously at the window. It was now completely black outside with no lights showing anywhere.

“Not seen hide nor hair of them. We’ve had men with dogs up on the moor, police checkpoints along all the roads, and not a sign of them. We think they must have had a vehicle waiting on the nearest road and were whisked away before anyone could sound the alarm. Which means they are well away from here, thank God.” She stood up. “I tell you, it’s been a hell of a business. Quite upset m’husband. He’s a quiet man, is Sir Oswald, doesn’t say much. But I could tell it upset him, especially as he was the one who found the blighter slumped in our apple tree today.”

As if on cue I heard the sound of boots in the hall and a big, florid man came in. He had a face like a British bulldog, all jowls and sad eyes. And he was wearing an old tweed jacket that made him look more like a tramp than a lord of the manor. “Well, they’re finally off, then,” he said. “What a bloody business. What did the blighter think he was doing? If he hadn’t shot himself I’d have wrung his bloody neck.”

“Language, Oswald. We have a visitor.”

He broke off as he saw me sitting there. “Oh, hello. Who’s this?”

“Georgiana Rannoch, y’know, sister to the duke.”

“Are you, by George? What on earth are you doing here?”

“She’s graciously agreed to join our little house party,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, giving me a warning frown that I failed to understand.

“So you’ve been invited to join this bun fight, have you? Idiotic idea, if you ask me. No good can come of it.”

“I’m sure Lady Georgiana will enjoy herself like everyone else and we’ll all have a splendid time,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied with great vehemence, all the time glaring at her husband.

He stuck his hand into his pocket and produced his pipe. “Can’t think why. Dull as ditch water down here,” he said, going over to the mantelpiece to find a match. “I’d have thought you’d be hobnobbing with your royal kin at Sandringham.”

“I wasn’t invited,” I said. “And anyway I’m sure it will be loads of fun here.”

“Well, we’ve got our share of excitement, as it turns out. You heard the ghastly news, I suppose.”

“I told her about the escaped convicts and about the man managing to kill himself in our apple tree.”

“It was a pear tree, as it happens,” Sir Oswald said, “but it makes no difference. The local bobbies were full of bright ideas. Suggested he might have come into our orchard to poach pheasants. Utter rubbish, I told them. You don’t shoot pheasants from trees. They are ground birds. Idiots, the lot of them. And you don’t shoot pheasants with a rook rifle either. No, it’s quite obvious to me that he was rigging up some kind of stupid trap. He had the wire with him. Then his weight broke a branch, he slipped and the gun went off in his face. Nasty way to go, but the blighter had it coming.”

He looked down at himself. “God, I look a sight, don’t I? Been out with the damned police all day. Dinner at the normal hour then?”

“If the servants have managed to cook it and set the table while being cross-questioned by police all day,” Lady H-G said.

“I’d better go and change.“

Lady Hawse-Gorzley got to her feet. “And I should give Georgiana a tour of the house and show her where she will be sleeping so that she has time to freshen up and change for dinner. Come along, my dear. This way.”

She led me on a whirlwind tour—lovely old dining room with a polished table running the length of it, library, morning room, music room and at the back even a ballroom with the air about it of being long out of use. Lady Hawse-Gorzley chatted incessantly like one who hasn’t had company for a long time, which made me wonder why she had suddenly decided to have a large house party this Christmas.

“So how many guests are you expecting?” I asked when she paused momentarily for breath. “You said a large party.”

“Let me see.” She stared out across the expanse of the ballroom as if trying to picture people in it. “Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone. Charming couple, just back from India, you know. Looking forward to a good old-fashioned English Christmas again. Then there are Mr. and Mrs. Upthorpe from Yorkshire, with their daughter, Ethel. He owns some kind of large factory up there. Trade, I know, but delightful people nonetheless.”

She paused to take a breath. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Wexler from America with their daughter. Most looking forward to some lively transatlantic conversation, I can tell you. And then there is someone I’m sure you already know. The dowager countess Albury and her companion. Do you know her? No? I’m surprised. She’s someone who has moved in the highest levels of society, but maybe not in your time.”

While she talked she ran her finger over a couple of marble statues, looking for dust, adjusted sprigs of holly in vases and then led me out of the ballroom again, talking over her shoulder. “And then a couple of local friends—Captain and Mrs. Sechrest. He’s a navy man. You’ll like them. And Johnnie Protheroe. You can’t have a party without Johnnie. Life and soul of any gathering. Most amusing. Let me see—that makes thirteen, doesn’t it?” She stopped her forward progress and turned back to me with a fleeting worried look. “Oh, dear. I’m glad I’m not superstitious or that would be unlucky, wouldn’t it? But then, I haven’t counted you and you can count as a guest, can’t you? So that would make fourteen. And the rest are family, brought in to boost the numbers.”

I wondered why she wanted to boost the numbers, since it was already going to be expensive to feed that many guests. Was there a requisite amount of guests needed at a house party? But she had already gone on ahead, out of the ballroom, down the hall and back to the stairs, while hurling out a commentary as she passed. “M’husband’s study and the land office on your right. And servants’ quarters through that door. Kitchen, laundry, all that kind of thing. Haven’t seen a servant in hours. Hope the police haven’t arrested them or scared them all off.”

Then she set off up the stairs at a lively clip.

“Where did your things go? I wonder. Did someone take them up for you?”

“I expect my maid was shown where to put them.”

She turned back. “I’m so glad you brought a maid with you. Of course you would. Of course. Well, she’ll be jolly useful. She can help the female guests with their attire. I don’t suppose they’ll all think of bringing maids with them. Of course they won’t. I don’t have a personal maid any longer. Had to let her go. It’s not as if I need help getting dressed and Martha handles the washing and cleaning admirably. So here we are.”

We had gone along a main corridor, lined with family portraits, hunting scenes, with old china vases adorning the deep windowsills. I saw that this must have been the original manor house and that wings had been added on either side to make an E shape. The walls were also oak paneled with all kinds of nooks and crannies. At the moment I observed this, Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, as if reading my mind, “Perfect place to play sardines, don’t you think? I’m hoping for some splendid game nights.”

She turned in to one of the side wings now and paused outside a door. “I’ve put you in here. Not quite as big as the main bedrooms but should be all right. We’re camping in this hallway ourselves for the duration. Given over our bedroom to guests, y’know.”

Then she flung open the door. I was expecting to see a spartan room like the ones we had at school. Instead it was a pretty room, little and old-fashioned with roses on the eiderdown, a matching dressing table skirt and curtains, a white wardrobe, a white chest of drawers and a fireplace waiting to be lit.

“It’s charming,” I said.

“Used to be my older daughter’s,” she said. “She’s married now. Lives on the Continent. Can’t drag her back to England for love or money. Will it do, do you think?”

“Absolutely. It’s lovely,” I said. “Much nicer than my room at home.”

“Is it, by George?” She looked pleased. “Oh, and I see your maid has unpacked your stuff. Dashed efficient girl, is she? French?”

“No, she’s English,” I said, not wanting to reveal Queenie’s normal lack of efficiency or that I’d probably find she’d hung up my stockings and shoved my ball dress into a drawer.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to dress for dinner,” she said. “We’re not usually that formal when it’s just family, but over Christmas we’ll be going the whole hog. Living up to the spirit of the thing, y’know. You’ll hear the first gong at quarter to eight for sherry.”

And with that she left me. It was only when I looked in the mirror that I realized I was still wearing my hat. I grinned to myself as I sat down. This was a good place. The house had obviously seen better times, that was clear. So had the Hawse-Gorzleys. Which made me wonder why they had chosen to embark upon such a lavish house party this year and who these guests were, coming from Yorkshire and India and even America to be part of it.

Chapter 6

GORZLEY HALL, TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY, DEVON

DECEMBER 21

Good dinner last night. I think I may have fallen on my feet here!

I awoke to find Queenie standing over me, with a tea tray in her hands.

“Morning, my lady,” she said. “I’ve brought your tea.”

I sat up, examining her closely to see if she had been bewitched overnight or whether someone else was actually impersonating her.

“Are you feeling quite well, Queenie?” I asked.

“Yeah. Never felt better,” she said. “I like it here, miss. Them servants don’t look down their noses at me. In fact, I’m the only lady’s maid what is in residence at the moment so the cook asked me if I’d prefer to have my meals brought to my room or I’d like to eat with the rest of them. How about that, eh?”

“And what did you say?” I took a sip of deliciously strong hot tea.

“I said I wasn’t too proud to sit down with the rest of them. And she said good, ’cause they were going to be run off their feet with this house party.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley has asked that you assist the other ladies who will be coming,” I said. “You can do that, can’t you? I do hope you won’t let me down and do anything too dreadful.”

“Oh, no, miss. I’ll be real careful, I promise. I won’t set anyone on fire or nothing. I’ll stay away from candles.” (This because she had set her former employer on fire with a wayward candle.)

“I am glad to hear that, Queenie. I’ll be wearing my Rannoch tartan skirt and my green jumper today.”

“Bob’s yer uncle, miss. It’s going to be a lovely day.”

I got out of bed and went over to the window, to find that my room faced the orchard where the body had been found. What a strange thing to have happened. I stared down at the bare trees, wondering which one he had been climbing and what exactly he’d intended to do. They weren’t very big trees. Had he really been intending to aim the rifle at one of these windows—at this one, maybe? I shivered and turned away. Well, I wasn’t going to let the accidental death of a man I didn’t know spoil my Christmas.

I came downstairs to find the front hall taken up by the most enormous Christmas tree, which four men were attempting to raise into place while being bossed around by Lady Hawse-Gorzley.

“Morning. Slept well?” she barked up at me. “Splendid. Breakfast in the dining room. Can’t stop now or they’ll smash the chandelier.”

I went through into the dining room to find places set at one end of the long table and a good smell coming from a number of silver tureens on the sideboard. I was just filling my plate with kidneys and bacon and wondering if it would be greedy to add some kedgeree to the mix when a girl came into the room. She was wearing riding breeches and a hacking jacket and her face was glowing as if she’d just come from the cold air.

“Hello,” she said, looking at me curiously. “Who are you?”

“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said, wishing that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had let a few more people know I was coming so that I didn’t have to keep on explaining myself.

“Oh, you’re the famous Lady Georgiana, are you? Mother’s done nothing but talk about you. She’s frightfully excited. You count as a coup.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes, I mean it’s close to claiming you have royalty at your party, isn’t it?” Her face lit up. “I say, isn’t your mother Claire Daniels? Used to be a famous actress? Well, the village is buzzing with the rumor that she’s come down here for Christmas. Is that true?”

“I gather it is,” I said. “But nobody’s supposed to know. She’s working on a new play with Noel Coward.”

“Noel Coward? I say. How frightfully exciting. That livens up our dull little corner of the world a bit, doesn’t it? Is that why you agreed to take up Mother’s little offer?”

“Partly,” I said. “And partly because I wanted to escape from an even duller place than this.”

“Can there be anywhere duller?” She laughed. “I’m Hortense, by the way. The daughter of the house. Sorry I wasn’t here last night. I was staying with friends in Exeter.”

Hortense Hawse-Gorzley, I thought. What on earth made people choose such names for their poor children? She must have read my thoughts because she grimaced. “I know. Dreadful name, isn’t it? But I’m usually called Bunty. Don’t ask me why. No idea.”

“And I’m Georgie,” I said.

“Jolly good. I was dreading we’d have to go through the title and formality stuff. I hate that, don’t you? I suppose it’s because I don’t have one. Complete envy.”

I laughed. “You wouldn’t find my current situation very enviable.”

“Really? I should have thought you’d have a frightfully glamorous life—balls and parties and chaps lining up to marry you.”

“Hardly lining up. There have been a few, but they were all half imbecile and utterly awful. I wouldn’t have turned down a halfway decent offer.” I noticed her gear. “Have you just been out riding?”

“Yes, I have. Splendid morning for it. Do you ride? Stupid question; of course you do. You’ve probably got stables full of oodles of horses.”

“Not oodles, but I do have a horse at home.”

“Better than the ones we have here, I’m sure. We used to have splendid horses, but of course that’s all past now. I gather the family used to be quite rich once. Tin mines in nearby Cornwall. But they closed and Daddy invested the last of the money in America. Right before the crash of ’29, as it happened. So we’ve been in reduced circumstances ever since. But I shouldn’t be talking about it. Mummy doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Your family eats a good deal better than mine does,” I said, sitting down with my heaped plate.

“Ah, well, we have the home farm. We live on what we can grow and raise most of the year. And Daddy is building up a breeding herd of Jersey cows. Lovely clotted cream, as you’ll soon find out.”

She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “If you like I’ll show you around the village after breakfast.”

“I think I’m supposed to be helping your mother,” I said. “Doesn’t she have masses to do before the first guests arrive?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to actually do anything.” She grinned. “You’re just supposed to be yourself. Lend authenticity to the whole charade.”

“Charade?”

She lowered her voice and whispered, “They’re all paying guests, my dear. Only don’t for God’s sake let her know that I told you. It’s Mummy’s brilliant idea to make some money. Ye Olde English Christmas with ye olde aristocratic family. Apparently some people are prepared to pay a lot for that.”

So now it made sense—the diverse guest list and Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s flustered preparation for them. And that was why she wanted a young woman of impeccable social background.

“It should be rather fun, actually,” Hortense, or rather Bunty, went on. “Better than the usual dreary Christmases we’ve been having lately. My brother’s arriving tomorrow and bringing an Oxford chum and Mummy’s invited a cousin who is absolutely dreamy and we’ve been promised a costume ball as well as all the usual village festivities, which are rather amusing in their way.” She paused and a worried look came over her face. “Oh, Lord. I hope they won’t cancel the village things because of what happened to poor old Freddie. You heard, did you, that our neighbor Freddie Partridge shot himself on our land yesterday? I quite liked him, you know. At least he wasn’t boring like most people around here. And he played some jolly good tricks on people. I loved it when he bunged up the pipes of the church organ with dead rooks and the organist pumped harder and harder and suddenly they all came flying out all over the congregation. Mr. Barclay, the pompous little chap who plays the organ, was furious. But then, it’s very easy to upset Mr. Barclay. He takes himself far too seriously.”

While she talked she had managed to consume large amounts of food. She got up to refill her coffee cup. “I think my father really wanted me to marry Freddie, so that he could get his hands on all that extra land. Now I’m not sure who will inherit it. I don’t think he had any close relatives.”

At that moment Lady Hawse-Gorzley came in, pushing back her hair from her face. “Oh, there you are. You girls have met, I see. Splendid.”

“Is there something you’d like me to help you with, Lady Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.

“We could use more holly and some mistletoe too, if you girls would like to take a basket down to the churchyard. I want the whole place decorated with greenery—festive atmosphere in every room, y’know. Oswald has gone out looking for the Yule log.”

“Yule log?” Bunty laughed. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”

“Nonsense. It’s part of the traditions of Christmas. We’ll go out with the guests on Christmas Eve and have one of the horses drag in the Yule log. If only it snows we can put it on a sledge and drink hot toddies and sing carols as we bring it home.”

Bunty shot me a look. “While the happy peasants dance in the snow and tip their forelocks, I suppose.”

“Don’t be facetious, Bunty. I’m counting on you to get into the spirit of the thing. So off you go and bring back as much holly and ivy as you can carry. And you might see if the vicar could spare us some more candles. We’ll need an awful lot, especially to light the ballroom for the costume ball.”

“We do have electric light, Mummy.”

“Yes, dear, but candles are so much more atmospheric, aren’t they? A masked ball by candlelight. Think of it.” And she looked quite wistful.

“Come on, then, Georgie,” Bunty said. “I’ll find some shears and off we go.”

“And could you possibly stop at Dickson’s cottage and tell him I’d like to go through things with him later this morning, if he doesn’t mind?”

Bunty turned to me. “Dickson’s our former butler. He grew so ancient that he had to be put out to pasture, but we dust him off for formal occasions. He’s an old dear, actually. Almost like one of the family.”

I put on my coat, hat, and gloves and we set off down the driveway. We stopped first at the gate cottage, where we were shown into a spotless little room and Bunty gave her message to the former butler. He looked extremely elderly and frail, but was dressed formally with stiff collar and black jacket, as if ready to spring back into action again. When she introduced me he gave a correct little bow.

“What an honor, my lady, that you would choose to grace our little corner of England. And how is the health of their dear majesties?”

“I haven’t seen them since Balmoral but they were well then, thank you.”

He sighed with relief. “One does worry so much about His Majesty’s chest,” he said. “Given the current behavior of the Prince of Wales. Tell me, have you actually met the American woman?”

“Yes, I have,” I said. “Many times.”

“And is she . . .” He paused, searching for the right words.

“As dreadful as they make out?” I smiled at his embarrassed face. “Oh, yes. Quite as dreadful.”

“I feared as much. The boy was always weak. Still, one hopes that he will buck up and do the right thing when the time comes.”

Privately I didn’t share his optimism, but I nodded and smiled and we took our leave. As we came out of the gates and into the village we noticed several groups of villagers, standing in tight knots, talking animatedly. A cluster of men outside the pub glanced furtively in our direction, then went back to their chatter. There was something unnerving about this, a tension in the air as if something was being plotted. Bunty didn’t seem to notice there was anything odd in their behavior.

“So here’s the sum total of Tiddleton-under-Lovey,” she said. “One pub, two shops, one school, one church on the green and a few cottages.”

“What about that nicer house beside the school?” I asked. “Is that where the schoolmaster lives?”

“Oh, no, he has a cottage on the Widecombe road. That house belongs to the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Three elderly sisters who have lived there all their lives. Their father left them quite well off and they never married. We used to call them the Three Weird Sisters and spy on them when we were growing up. You’ll meet them over Christmas, I’m sure. Mummy always invites them to Christmas lunch.”

“And what about the pub?” I asked, looking at the sign swinging in the chill morning breeze. “The Hag and Hounds? What’s that about?”

“Local history.” Bunty grinned. “We had a local witch, you know. Back in the 1700s. They wanted to catch her and bring her to trial, but she escaped onto the moor. They chased her to the top of Lovey Tor with a pack of hounds and then burned her at the stake. We have a festival to celebrate it every New Year’s Eve. You’ll be able to see just how primitive we are down here in Devon. This way.”

And she turned from the street to the path around the village green, then stepped through the kissing gate into the churchyard. Rooks rose cawing and flapping.

“Damned nuisance,” she said. “They peck out the eyes of newborn lambs, you know. So let’s see where there might be any good holly left.”

As we made our way between ancient gravestones the church door opened and a woman came out. She had spinster written all over her, the sort of woman one always sees coming out of churches and doing good works. She wore an old fur coat that might have been “good” once and a shapeless hat and those strange lace-up shoes that old women seem to favor. And she came toward us, head down against the wind, holding her hat on with one hand.

“Good morning, Miss Prendergast,” Bunty said and the woman started in surprise.

“Oh, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, you gave me a start,” she replied in a breathless, twittering little voice. “I was completely lost in thought. I have just been working on the church flowers for Christmas. I was planning to surround the crèche with holly but Mr. Barclay told me absolutely not. He said that holly did not grow in the Holy Land and thus it would not be authentic. Really, he is such an objectionable man, isn’t he? An absolute stickler for detail and always insists on his own way. I’m sure our Lord wouldn’t mind being brightened up with some nice red holly berries around him.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Bunty said. “And may I present our guest Lady Georgiana Rannoch. Georgie, this is Miss Prendergast.”

“How do you do,” I said.

She looked stunned. “Oh, my goodness. It’s almost like having royalty visit the village, isn’t it? Delighted to make your acquaintance.” She bobbed an awkward half curtsy. “So you’re here to enjoy the splendid festivities Lady Hawse-Gorzley has planned, are you? I am so looking forward to them myself. Lady Hawse-Gorzley has been kind enough to invite me to join you for the Christmas banquet. Such a treat when one lives a simple lonely life like mine. But I mustn’t keep you.”

And she went on her way.

“Another weird woman?” I asked.

“No, she’s no weirder than the average village spinster. A bit twittery and rather nosy, I suspect. And she’s a relative newcomer, too. She moved here about five years ago. Looked after her aged mother somewhere like Bournemouth. When the mother died she sold the family home and bought that cottage next to the church. Used to come here on holiday as a child, one gathers. And I must say she’s proving to be an asset. Every village needs a willing spinster, don’t you think? Always volunteering for good deeds.”

We found some good holly bushes and started cutting branches. Isn’t it interesting the way they always love to grow near graves?

“We still have to find mistletoe,” I reminded Bunty.

“I don’t really see why.” She gave me a grin. “I’m not sure there will be anybody for you to kiss, apart from old colonels whose mustaches will be frightfully spiky.”

“Nonetheless, your mother asked for some. And didn’t you say you have a dreamy cousin coming?”

“I didn’t say there was nobody for me to kiss,” she replied with a wicked grin. “I believe I saw some on the big tree next to the middle cottage. Yes, look up there. I hope you’re good at tree climbing.”

We came to the big elm and saw there was indeed mistletoe growing from an upper branch.

“I suppose I’d better go up,” Bunty said. “Mummy would never forgive me if you fell and broke your neck. Here, give me a leg up.”

I was just hefting her off the ground when she looked down the path, squinted into the sunlight and said, “Hello, who is this?”

I looked too. A small round silhouette was coming up the path toward us. He recognized me at exactly the same moment I recognized him.

“Blimey, strike me down with a feather,” he said, his face lighting up. “What the dickens are you doing here?”

“Granddad,” I said and rushed to him, leaving Bunty suspended in the tree.

Chapter 7

“Granddad, you came! I am so glad.” I hugged him fiercely, feeling the familiar scratchy cheek against mine.

“Well, I couldn’t very well let Mrs. Huggins travel all this way on her own, could I?” he said. “She ain’t been no further than Margate before. But what on earth are you doing here? Did your mum invite you and not tell me?”

“No, she doesn’t know I’m here. I’m actually helping out at the house party at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence.”

His little boot-button eyes twinkled. “You know I always say there ain’t no such thing as coincidence, don’t you?”

I laughed uneasily. “Yes, well, we’re both here and it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas. I take it Mummy is already in residence?”

“So is that Coward bloke. Bit of a poofta, isn’t he? And awfully fussy. Likes his eggs boiled three and a quarter minutes, not three, not three and a half.”

I laughed, then heard a slithering sound and saw Bunty lowering herself from the tree.

“Oh, sorry,” I called. “I’ve just had a lovely surprise. Come and meet my grandfather. Granddad, this is Bunty Hawse-Gorzley. She’s the daughter of the house where I’m staying.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Granddad said, holding out a big meaty hand.

Bunty looked surprised, but was too well-bred to comment. “Lovely to meet you too,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but we’re getting mistletoe from your tree.”

“Not my tree, ducks. Take all you want.”

“I should go inside and say hello to my mother.” I turned to Bunty. “Maybe my grandfather can help you see if there is a ladder in the shed. That will be easier than trying to climb the first bit.”

I knocked lightly and went into the cottage. It was everything a cottage should be and I could tell why Noel had chosen it. Big beams across the ceiling, brass warming pan on the wall, fire crackling merrily in the hearth, copper pots hanging over the kitchen stove. All it needed was a spinning wheel and a white-haired old lady to complete the picture. Instead there was my mother, curled up like a cat in an armchair by the mullioned window, reading Vanity Fair. She looked up and those lovely blue eyes opened wide.

“Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”

“That’s a nice welcome, I must say.” I went across the room to kiss her cheek. “How about, ‘Hello, darling daughter, what a lovely surprise to see you’?”

“Well, it is, but I mean—what are you doing here? I told you Noel and I were going to be working and there’s actually no room and—”

“Relax, Mummy. I’m staying at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence that we’re in the same village. I just came down to say hello.”

Relief flooded over her face. “Well, in that case, lovely to see you, darling.” And she kissed my cheek in return.

“Everything all right? All settled in?” I asked her.

“Splendid. Noel’s up in his room, pounding away at his typewriter. Your Mrs. Huggins is doing very well, in spite of Noel’s food fads, and we’ve found a local girl, Rosie, to come and clean for us. At least I hope she’s coming to clean. She should have been here by now.” She glanced at her watch.

I looked out the window and saw a woman break away from one of the tight knots of gossipers and hurry in our direction with a worried expression on her face. It occurred to me that perhaps the gossip was because the villagers had found out about my mother and Noel Coward.

The front door was flung open and the woman came in. “Awful sorry I’m late, ma’am,” she said in a broad Devon accent. “I know I said ten o’clock, but I were that upset—I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, ma’am.”

“About the man who killed himself yesterday? Yes, we were told about that.”

“No, ma’am. Not about him. ’Tis Ted Grover I’m talking about. He were found drowned in Lovey Brook this morning.”

Mummy sat up. “And who is Ted Grover?”

“He were my uncle, ma’am. Owned a big garage just outside Bovey Tracey. Doing awfully well, he were. Owned charabancs and gave tours of the moor. And now he’s gone.” She put her red, work-worn hands up to her face and started to sob noisily. Mummy put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Rosie. I’ll have Mrs. Huggins bring you a cup of tea.”

“What happened to him?” I asked as Mummy headed for the kitchen, calling, “Mrs. Huggins!” in strong theatrical tones.

“Well, he was always popping over for a drink at the Hag and Hounds,” Rosie said. “Leastways everyone knew why he came to this pub and not the Buckfast Arms, which was right next to his garage. And it weren’t the quality of the ale either. He and the publican’s wife were sweet on each other, you see. They’d meet out behind the pub and then he’d cut back across the fields to his place, thinking that nobody saw him. Of course we all knew about it—well, in a village everyone does, don’t they?”

She paused, taking out a big checked handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Well, he had to cross a little stone bridge over Lovey Brook. It’s just one of them simple clapper bridges like you see around here made of big slabs of stone balanced on rocks, and they are not always very stable. So they reckon he’d drunk quite a bit last night and lost his balance, see. Fell into Lovey Brook and hit his head on a rock. Terrible tragedy, just before Christmas. And my poor auntie—knowing how he died, having gone to see that woman.”

I gave a sympathetic nod.

“And of course you know what everyone in the village is saying, don’t you?” She looked up at Mrs. Huggins, who had come in personally with the cup of tea, not wanting to miss out on anything, I suspect. Rosie brightened considerably, having now a larger audience. “Two deaths in two days? They are saying it’s the Lovey Curse, striking again.”

“The Lovey Curse?” Mummy looked amused.

Rosie beckoned me, my mother and Mrs. Huggins into a tight little circle. “You’ve heard about our witch, no doubt? Well, when she was being burned at the stake, she cursed the village, saying every Yuletide she’d be back to take her revenge. And sure enough, something bad always happens here around Christmastime.” She folded her arms with satisfaction. “You mark my words. It’s the Lovey Curse, all right.”

“What in God’s name is all this weeping and wailing?” Noel Coward appeared in the doorway, wearing a striped silk dressing gown, with a long cigarette holder between his fingers and a pained expression on his handsome face. “I thought I chose this place for peace and quiet.”

“There’s been a tragedy, Noel. Rosie’s uncle fell off a bridge last night and drowned.”

“Ah, the transience of life.” Noel gave a dramatic sigh. “Frightfully sorry to hear about your uncle, Rosie dear, but could you grieve more quietly, do you think? The muse was doing splendidly until a few minutes ago, when she fluttered out the window and simply vanished.”

“Do you want me to go looking for it for you, sir?” Rosie asked. “Some kind of pet bird, is it?”

Noel sighed again. “I shall return to my room, I think. Could you be an angel and produce some drinkable coffee, Mrs. Huggins?”

He was about to make a dramatic exit when my mother called after him. “Look who has come to visit, Noel. My daughter, Georgiana.”

He spun around. “Georgiana, of course! I thought the face looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place you. Lovely to see you, my dear. Are you just passing through?”

“No, I’m actually here for Christmas,” I said wickedly as I watched Noel struggling to hide his annoyance.

“She’s staying at Gorzley Hall,” Mummy corrected hastily. “They are going to have a frightfully jolly house party there, so I gather.”

“Well, bully for you,” Noel said. “Claire and I will be working. Slaving away, actually, but do come down for a drink sometime, won’t you?”

With that he stomped back up the stairs.

Mummy gave me a commiserating smile. “You mustn’t mind him. He’s awfully grouchy when he’s working. I’m glad you’re here, darling. We must have some girl time together.”

Mrs. Huggins was loitering at the kitchen door. “Does that mean my Queenie has come down here with you, my lady?” she asked.

I remembered that Queenie was her great-niece. “Yes, she’s here with me. I’ll send her down to say hello to you.”

“Is she proving to be satisfactory, my lady?”

I couldn’t tell the brutal truth that Queenie would probably never be satisfactory in her life. “She’s definitely improving, Mrs. Huggins,” I said.

“Well, that’s nice to know, isn’t it?” She beamed at me as she went back into the kitchen.

Noises outside indicated that a ladder had been found and that Bunty was attempting to go up the tree. “I should go,” I said. “I’m supposed to be gathering mistletoe.”

“I hope there is someone worth kissing at your party,” Mummy said. “Such a waste of mistletoe otherwise.”

I came out to find Granddad steadying the ladder while Bunty clung to it precariously. “I volunteered to go up for the young lady,” he said, “but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Quite right. No ladders at your age,” I said.

“I’m not over the hill yet,” he said. “By the way, what was all that fuss about in there? I heard weeping and wailing.”

“Rosie’s uncle was found drowned in a brook this morning. Rosie’s saying it’s the Lovey Curse striking again. Two deaths in two days in the village.”

“Hmm,” Granddad said. “You know what my old inspector would say about that, don’t you?”

“Well, in this case your inspector would be wrong, I suspect,” I said. “One man shot himself by accident and the other fell off one of those little stone bridges in the middle of the night after he’d drunk too much. I don’t think you can read a curse or anything else into that, can you?”

“Let’s hope not,” Granddad said. “I’d like a nice quiet Christmas, personally, with no complications.”

* * *

BUNTY HAD JUST climbed down, waving a sprig of mistletoe triumphantly, when a motorcar drew up.

“Oh, Lord,” Bunty said as several policemen got out. “I thought we’d seen the last of them.”

Chapter 8

One of the policemen headed straight for us. He was wearing a fawn raincoat and a matching fawn hat and had a droopy fawn mustache. If he’d had the words “detective inspector” tattooed to his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” he said, raising his trilby to reveal thinning fawn hair, neatly parted down the middle.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”

“I suppose you’ve heard this latest news. Two deaths in two days. And just when I thought I’d be getting time off to do some Christmas shopping with the wife, too.”

“But they were both accidents, surely,” Bunty said.

“Let’s hope so, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, let’s hope so,” he said. “But I have to wonder about Ted Grover. Not usually the type who goes stumbling around drunk, would you say? Holds his liquor pretty well, so I’ve been told. Which makes me ask myself whether one of them convicts might still be hiding out in the neighborhood and encountered Ted last night.”

“If I were those convicts I’d have headed for Plymouth as quickly as possible and boarded a ferry for France,” Bunty said.

“You would, no doubt, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, but then you’re a young woman of the world. Those criminal types would be lost on the Continent, not knowing how to parley-vous and all that. They’d stick out like sore thumbs and be caught instantly. If you want to know what I suspect, I suspect that they haven’t strayed too far. What’s more, I suspect that someone around these parts is hiding them.” He looked at my grandfather. “Now, take the folks who are renting this cottage, for instance. Moved in just around the time of the breakout, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but one of them is Claire Daniels and the other Noel Coward,” I said. “They’re supposed to be in seclusion, writing a new play together, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be harboring escaped convicts.”

“And how about you, sir?” the inspector asked. “Are you one of their servants?”

“I am Claire Daniels’s father, Albert Spinks,” Granddad replied stiffly, “and what’s more I was on the force for thirty years with the Metropolitan Police.”

The inspector took a step back, then stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Inspector Harry Newcombe. What a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ll be calling upon your expertise, if you don’t object. So you’ve been at the cottage these last few days. And I notice that the cottage garden looks directly onto the orchard where the man shot himself. So did you happen to hear a shot in the early hours of yesterday morning?”

Granddad shook his head. “No, I can’t say I did, but then, I sleep quite soundly. Have they ascertained the time of death?”

“No, I haven’t had the doctor’s report yet,” the inspector said, “seeing that he was off delivering a baby at Upper Croft Farm on the moor, but we reckon it had to be early yesterday morning. I can’t imagine that anyone would go tramping through an orchard and climbing trees in the dark, so that would make it seven thirty or later. And it had to be before Sir Oswald went on his morning rounds with his dogs.”

“I was up by seven,” Granddad said. “But maybe I was shaving or getting the fires started and a little rifle like that doesn’t make much noise.”

“It’s strange that nobody heard the shot, though,” the inspector said. He patted my grandfather heartily on the shoulder. “It’s going to be a boon to have someone like you on the spot here. You’d be in the position to notice any strange goings-on in this village, wouldn’t you? My men can’t be everywhere and there are so many little villages like this where the blighters could be hiding.”

“These convicts,” Granddad said thoughtfully. “I did read something about the breakout when I was coming down on the train, but I didn’t take in the details. Local men, are they, then?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Two of them were entertainers of sorts—an escape artist turned safecracker; we reckon he picked the locks on their shackles—then a bloke who used to have an act in the music hall and the third one was a bank clerk who’d been involved in a railway heist. We reckon he was the brains. Quiet little man on the surface but absolutely ruthless. Slit your throat as soon as look at you.”

Bunty shivered.

Granddad nodded. “But none of them with connections around here?”

“Well, the bank clerk had a sister in Plymouth. You can bet we’ve got a close eye on her place. And of course that big heist was on the Penzance-to-London express, but further up the line in Wiltshire. You no doubt remember it.”

Granddad nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The money was never recovered, was it?”

“It was not. So the Wiltshire police will be keeping their eyes open near the spot where it happened. And both the entertainers had spent a fair amount of time in the West Country—played summer shows on the piers in Torquay and Weston-super-Mare. What’s more, this music hall bloke, Robbins, he was inside for swindling his landladies out of their life savings. And we reckon that he bumped off a few, including the last one down here in Newton Abbott.”

“Why wasn’t he hanged for murder, then?” Bunty asked.

“Got off on a technicality. Couldn’t actually prove that he pushed her down the stairs, so it was reduced to manslaughter and he got twenty years. Nasty bit of work he was, too.”

“But he’d have no reason to linger in these parts, would he?” Granddad asked.

“I wouldn’t if I were him. He was a Londoner. And they’d be queuing up to turn him in around here.”

Granddad shook his head. “In my experience there’s not much that gets past the locals in a village like this. If someone were hiding here, they’d know it.”

Inspector Newcombe sighed. “I reckon you’re right. And I am probably reading too much into a couple of unfortunate accidents. I don’t see how the first could be anything other than suicide, and the second—well, there’s no sign of a struggle. And those convicts—well, they’d have bashed someone over the head, wouldn’t they?”

“Have you dusted the rifle for fingerprints?” I asked.

The inspector seemed to be aware of me for the first time. “Ah, we’ve an amateur detective here, have we, miss? Like to read those Agatha Christie books, I’ve no doubt. They’ve turned half the population into know-it-alls.”

“I have had some experience with murder,” I said. “And if I were you I’d have checked the rifle for prints and also I’d conduct an autopsy on the body. That way you can be sure nobody else was involved.”

Inspector Newcombe gave me a patronizing smile. “If I were planning to kill somebody, young lady, I’d wait until he came down from his tree. If he was up a tree with a rifle, I’d feel rather vulnerable as I approached him.”

This was, of course, a valid comment and I nodded.

“Are you also staying at the cottage, miss?” he asked.

“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch, the king’s cousin,” Bunty said grandly, “and she’s staying with us at the hall.”

“Well, I never,” Inspector Newcombe said. “No offense, I hope, my lady. Honored to make your acquaintance, but I suggest you go back to the hall and have a nice Christmas celebration and you leave the detective work to the police.”

* * *

“OBNOXIOUS LITTLE MAN, isn’t he?” Bunty muttered as we retraced our steps to the hall. As we turned onto the village street the door of the general store opened and a strange-looking figure came out. He was so bulky that he almost filled the narrow door to the shop and he was dressed in bright motley clothing with a shapeless red hat on his head and a mop of unruly curls. He set off with a strange lumbering gait, like a giant in a children’s pantomime.

“Who on earth is that?” I turned to Bunty.

“Oh, that’s only Willum. He’s the village idiot. Every village has to have one, don’t they?” She laughed. “Actually, he’s the son of Mrs. Davey at the shop. He’s a bit simple, but quite harmless. Just wanders around, helping people for the odd coin occasionally. “Morning, Willum,” she called out.

He turned his innocent child’s face to us and touched his cap. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Did you hear the news? They are saying that Ted Grover from over Five Corners way fell into Lovey Brook last night. What were he doing walking across the fields in the dark, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Returning home from the Hag and Hounds,” Bunty said.

Willum frowned. “That’s what comes of drinking, don’t it? He should have been safely home with his mum like I am of an evening.”

“Quite right, Willum.” She chuckled. “Rather sweet, actually,” she added to me as we moved away. “Oh, and you’ll probably meet Sal at some stage. She’s our wild woman.”

“You’re making it up.” I laughed.

“I am not. We have our idiot and a wild woman to boot. Sal is one of those strange untamed creatures you find sometimes in the country. She lives up on the moor in a stone hovel, picks herbs, dances around barefoot in the moonlight. The locals swear she has magic powers—in fact, there is a rumor that she is a direct descendant of our witch. She’s tough, I’ll tell you that much. You’ll see her out in the foulest weather running around barefoot in a flimsy dress.” She glanced across at me. “Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t scared you off. Mummy says I mustn’t mention her or Willum or the unfortunate events to the guests or they’ll all want their money back.”

“I gather the first ones are arriving tomorrow,” I said.

“Yes, and Mummy’s not happy about it. She wanted everyone to arrive at the same time for the grand welcome, but the Americans insisted on coming a day early. Mr. Wexler cabled from the ship that they’d be arriving on the twenty-second to give them plenty of time to settle in, and that they were bringing their son as well, because he refused to be left behind.”

“Oh, dear, I hope they are not going to be difficult,” I said. “I’m afraid people with lots of money do seem to be rather arrogant.”

“Let’s hope that the presence of one who is related to the royal family will awe them into submission.” Bunty gave me a wicked grin. “Oh, Lord, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet Mr. Barclay now.”

A small man with hair neatly parted in the middle and a perfect little mustache was coming out of the church.

“Morning, Mr. Barclay,” Bunty called merrily.

“It is not a good morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley. Not at all. That dreadful Prendergast woman has absolutely no taste. You should see what ghastly things she wants to do with the decorations. And the vicar only wants the good old hymns. He shot down my version of ‘In Dulci Jubilo.’ Positively shot it down—after the choirboys have been practicing it, too. Oh, well, if he wants a boring midnight mass, he shall have one.”

And he swept away with small mincing steps before I could be introduced. Bunty and I exchanged a smile. “He’s always upset about something,” she said. “Always complaining to the parish council and seething with indignation.” We approached the gates leading to Gorzley Hall. “So now you’ve seen what a strange lot we are. Hopelessly inbred, all crackers.” And she laughed.

Chapter 9

GORZLEY HALL

DECEMBER 21 AND THEN 22

As we were about to turn in to the drive an ancient motorcar drew up across the street and three birdlike old ladies were helped out by an equally ancient chauffeur.

“We’ve been shopping, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” one of them called excitedly. “Such fun. Almost forgot the crackers, and we were afraid that Hanleys would have sold out, but they hadn’t.”

“And your dear mother invited us again to join you for Christmas luncheon,” the second old lady called to us. “We look forward to it all year.” She turned for affirmation to her two companions, who were handing packages to the chauffeur. “And I hope you won’t forget to come caroling at our house. Cook has made enough mince pies to feed an army.”

With that they tottered like a line of ducklings into their house. I knew, of course, they could only be the Ffrench-Finch sisters.

“They are rather sweet, really,” Bunty said. “Never married. Lived here all their lives. How boring, don’t you agree? But they seem content enough. Of course, Effie, the oldest, bosses the other two around. They have a really good cook. Mummy’s tried to lure her away several times, but she won’t leave them.”

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. “Queenie,” 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.

“And Queenie,” I called as she started to creep away. “Remember when Lady Hawse-Gorzley suggested that you might assist other ladies if they hadn’t brought their own maids?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Don’t,” I said. “I can’t afford to pay for ruined outfits or be responsible for anyone set on fire.”

“That was only the once,” she said. “I don’t go around setting people on fire all the time.”

“I’m just being cautious, Queenie. You are a walking disaster area and I think you should confine your activities to making my life a misery.”

“Yes, miss,” she muttered and crept away, leaving me feeling rotten. Why did she have this ability to make me feel bad when it was always her fault? I finished my toilet and went downstairs to face the arrival of the first guests—the Wexlers from Indiana.

The Americans arrived late that afternoon. We received a telephone call from Newton Abbott Station. The car was dispatched and we were urged to walk to the end of the drive to meet them at the gates. “As a gesture of welcome and goodwill,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley put it. She even made the servants line up as if to receive the new lord of the manor.

“Bloody rubbish if you ask me,” Sir Oswald muttered. “And don’t think I’m going to change out of my old cardigan either. I’m not dressing up for anybody. They can take me as I am.”

“Oswald. It has a hole in the sleeve. You look like a tramp,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “At least put on your tweed jacket.”

As we stood at the gates, feeling cold and silly, it started to snow.

“You see, it is going to be a white Christmas,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said happily. “All your gloom and doom, Oswald, and it will be splendid. Absolutely splendid.”

At last the Bentley was spotted approaching the village. We waved and welcomed them all the way up the drive and Lady Hawse-Gorzley insisted on opening the car door herself.

“What kind of antique automobile do you have here?” The father of the family uncurled himself from the backseat. “Real quaint. I guess you dust it off to fetch guests from the station. Helps to create the right atmosphere, I reckon.”

“This happens to be our only motorcar,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Gee, at home it would be in a museum,” he replied.

The rest of the family climbed out of the motorcar, staring around them as if they had landed on Mars. They consisted of an impossibly tall Mr. Wexler, a blond and very painted Mrs. Wexler, a pouty daughter whom Wexler called Cherie, and a freckled son named Junior.

“I sincerely hope we are not the only guests,” Mr. Wexler complained as he stepped through the front door and looked around. “We were promised a big house party.”

“The other guests are not arriving until tomorrow,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “except, of course, our member of the royal family. Lady Georgiana is already here.”

As Bunty had predicted, that changed everything. Mrs. Wexler bobbed an awkward curtsy. Mr. Wexler muttered, “Well, gee whiz. How about that, Mother. Didn’t I promise you a Christmas you’d never forget?”

“Hey, Pa, take a look at those swords on the wall. Are they real?”

“They certainly are, little boy,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied, “and they are so sharp that they’d take your hand off.” Junior withdrew his hand hurriedly.

They were shown their rooms. The parents found them quaint and charming, but the daughter, Cherie, commented that they were “real small” compared to the palatial suites they had at home in Muncie, Indiana. Mrs. Wexler suggested her hosts turn up the central heating a few notches and was horrified to find that there was none.

“Well, I guess it’s so darned cold in here because someone left the window open by mistake,” she said and promptly shut it.

“We always sleep with the windows open. Much healthier,” Bunty said with a bright smile.

“Well, little lady, you must be tougher than we are,” Mr. Wexler replied. “We like our rooms nice and warm in the winter, so if you wouldn’t mind making sure there’s a good fire by the time we get ready for bed . . .”

“Oh, yes, the servants always light the fires well before bedtime,” Bunty said.

Junior looked under the bed. “Hey, Pa, there’s a chamber pot under here.” He shrieked with laughter.

“It goes with the décor, honey,” Mrs. Wexler said. “It’s old world.”

“No, it’s there because the nearest lavatory is a long walk down the hall,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “One never knows.”

“You mean we don’t have our own bathroom?” Mrs. Wexler said, looking with big hopeless eyes at her husband.

“This house was built in 1400,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “In those days they weren’t very good about indoor plumbing. We are fortunate to have two on this floor—one at the end of this hallway and one down there at the other end.” She paused. “And I should probably get Bunty to show you how the geyser works. It can be temperamental.”

“A geyser? Don’t tell me your hot water shoots up from the ground like at Yellowstone?”

“Shoots up from the ground?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked bemused. “It’s a perfectly normal water-heating device. A little gadget above the bath. Ours just happens to be slightly temperamental, that’s all.”

“It’s not what we’re used to,” Mr. Wexler said.

“Of course not,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said brightly. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? For an old-fashioned English Christmas. There would be no point if it was just like your home.”

With that she marched away down the stairs, leaving them to stare after her.

“I guess you’ve upset a British aristocrat, Clyde,” Mrs. Wexler said in a low voice. “You know how highly strung they are.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley was clearly ill at ease with the Americans all afternoon, trying to keep from them the news of three unexpected and unexplained deaths. She suggested that the younger ones go out and make a snowman, to take advantage of the snow—which produced mirthful laughter. Apparently it snowed all winter where they lived, so snowmen were not a novelty. So I was left to cheer them up. I started telling them stories about my cousins the little princesses and the good times we had together. Luckily they really lapped this up.

“Fancy that, Clyde. She went out riding with Princess Elizabeth and she says the princess can ride as well as any grown-up. And that little Princess Margaret—a real firecracker, from what she says. They’re going to have trouble with that one when she grows up.”

They seemed to perk up when tea was served. Apparently tea was a novelty to them and they all approved of the cakes and scones.

“We do dress for dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Just to warn you. Sir Oswald is very hot on keeping up standards.”

I thought this was a bad example, as Sir Oswald was still in his old Harris tweed jacket and faded corduroy trousers and had made no effort to be hospitable.

“Do some people sit down to dinner in their underwear in England, then?” Junior asked, making his sister giggle.

“No, but the lower classes do not change out of their day clothes. The better class of person usually dines formally in evening wear, even when we are eating alone. It’s the done thing,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“I don’t have no evening wear, do I, Ma?” Junior asked.

“You won’t be dining with the grown-ups, young man,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “We’ll have Cook bring up a tray to your nursery.”

“Of course Junior will eat with us,” Mrs. Wexler said. “Junior always eats with us. What a horrible idea, making him eat alone like a convict in his cell. No wonder the British grow up so cold and unfriendly.”

“I assure you we are not cold or unfriendly,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “I suppose the young man may join us if he wishes.”

“And stay up late, huh, Pa?” Junior asked.

“Sure, son, why not? How often do you get to sit up with quaint British people?”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley pressed her lips together and walked away. During dinner, however, it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink, thus raising Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s spirits considerably because it would keep down the costs and mean more wine for her. She waxed poetic about all the quaint and lovely English customs that awaited them. “We’ve been out searching the grounds for the perfect Yule log,” she said, “and when everybody is here, we’ll all decorate the Christmas tree. And there will be caroling door to door of course, and a hot mince pie and toddy at each house, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Sounds boring to me,” Junior said. His sister nodded agreement.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley went on, “Ah, but Lady Georgiana has some splendid things planned for the young folk. Party games and indoor fireworks and of course the costume ball. Then, after Christmas, all the traditional village events: the hunt, the Lovey Chase and of course the Worsting of the Hag on New Year’s Eve.”

“What’s that?” Junior demanded, interested now in spite of himself.

“It’s all to do with the Lovey Curse,” Bunty said dramatically. “We had a witch in the village who was burned alive at the stake. And she swore she’d come back every Christmastime to get revenge. So every year on New Year’s Eve the villagers go from house to house with drums and pots and pans, making a lot of noise to scare out the hag and ensure a safe year ahead with no bad luck.”

“There’s no such thing as curses and witches, is there, Pa?” Junior said uncertainly.

“Maybe not in America,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There certainly are in England. We are a very old country, you know. This house was built one hundred years before Columbus even discovered your country.”

After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.

“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”

“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”

“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”

They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”

“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.

“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”

“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.

“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed. “But I do hope the other guests won’t prove so . . . different.”

We went to bed. For some reason I couldn’t sleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the hoot of an owl in the stillness. Random thoughts flew around my head concerning the three mysterious deaths, escaped convicts, the village idiot, the wild girl and the assertion that they were “all crackers” around here. After a while I realized how still it was. The complete silence of the world indicated to me that it must still be snowing and I thought how jolly it would be to have a white Christmas. My dear ones were nearby. There was loads of lovely food and drink and a house that wasn’t freezing. And no Fig for miles and miles. I wasn’t going to let those three deaths, the escaped convicts or difficult Americans spoil it for me.

Chapter 11

GORZLEY HALL

DECEMBER 23

Other guests arrive today. Hoping they won’t be as difficult as the Wexlers. Not sure I’m cut out for the role of social hostess!

I was awakened early the next morning by the Wexlers tramping down the corridor talking loudly. I didn’t wait for Queenie and morning tea, but went down the hall to the bathroom, then came back and dressed, this time in the skirt from my tweed suit plus a blouse and cardigan—not exactly smart but at least different from the day before. As I came downstairs the butler was standing in the entrance hall. “It’s still not working, my lady,” he called.

He heard my feet on the stairs and looked up at me, then continued. “The telephone line appears to be down. Maybe it snowed during the night, but there is certainly no connection this morning.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley came through from the breakfast room looking harassed. “It’s too bad,” she said. “Now I’ll have to send the motor into town to deliver the message, I suppose.”

“Is there something I could do?” I asked.

“Well, I suppose you could go to the police station and ask to use their telephone,” she said. “It is an emergency, after all.”

“Emergency?” I felt my pulse rate quicken.

“Yes, I need to let the butcher know that I changed my mind. I do want the geese to go with the turkeys. I’m not a big fan of goose myself—so rich and fatty, isn’t it? But Oswald reminded me that it is the traditional Christmas fowl, so I’m afraid we must serve some. The guests will be expecting it.”

“So you’d like me to put in a telephone call to the butcher?”

“Yes. Skaggs, the butcher. The girl on the switchboard will connect you. Tell him that Lady Hawse-Gorzley changed her mind and she does want the geese delivered early tomorrow morning to go with the turkeys.”

“I can certainly do that for you,” I said.

“Go and have your breakfast first, dear,” she said. “The Wexlers have already finished theirs. It appears they only take some kind of cereal that resembles twigs at home, and they absolutely refused to try the kidneys.” She shook her head as if they were already a lost cause. “There is no huge hurry, although I’m sure the butcher will be busy all day today. And we don’t exactly know when the other guests will arrive so I will be tied to the house all day. And the Wexlers asked about stockings. What exactly do people do with stockings at Christmas?”

“Hang them up for Father Christmas, I believe.”

“Hang them where?”

“Over the fireplace.”

“My dear, with this many people it would look like a Chinese laundry, wouldn’t it? No, I think we’ll dispense with stockings. I’ll have a present for everybody inside a snow house and those who want to can exchange gifts privately or put them under the tree.”

“Oh,” I said, staring at her as the thought struck me. “Are we supposed to give presents?”

“Not you, my dear. Absolutely not necessary.”

I nodded, my brain still racing. We didn’t go in for presents much at Castle Rannoch. I always gave my nephew, Podge, a little something. Binky and Fig occasionally managed a box of handkerchiefs or a pair of gloves. Mummy sent a check when she remembered, but Christmas was certainly a no-nonsense affair with us. This time I had actually brought a small gift for Queenie, but it occurred to me now that I should give my grandfather something too, and also my mother. The problem was that Lady Hawse-Gorzley hadn’t reimbursed me for my train fare yet and I was seriously lacking in funds. I didn’t think that my mother would be satisfied with Ashes of Roses perfume from Woolworths instead of Worth. I’d love to have given Granddad a really nice present—a cashmere scarf or a warm pullover. It felt so frustrating to have no money. For a second I wondered if I could ask Lady H-G for an advance, but my pride wouldn’t let me. At least I’d look in the village shop for small tokens and hope for a miracle.

I ate a hearty breakfast and set off for the village, crunching down the driveway, where the snow had frozen hard all night, and stood admiring the village scene—small boys with sleds, a snowman on the village green, villagers bundled against the cold staggering home with baskets laden with good things and mysteriously wrapped packages. Suddenly it was impossible not to be caught up in the spirit of Christmas.

At the police station I was met by a worried-looking young constable. “Sorry I can’t help you, miss,” he said, “but our telephone isn’t working either. I don’t know what can be wrong. It’s not as if there was a storm last night, was there? Maybe it’s the cold what’s done it.”

I looked around the village shop, but there was nothing that was remotely suitable for Christmas presents, the most exotic items being long woolen underwear and white handkerchiefs. But my spirits were raised when I realized that someone would now have to go into town to deliver Lady H-G’s message.

“Their telephone’s not working either?” she said, running a hand through her hair. “What a nuisance. There is always a last-minute hitch, isn’t there? I don’t suppose you’d be an angel and go into town for me, would you? I absolutely have to have those geese and I know he’ll sell out if I wait any longer.”

“Of course I’ll go into town for you,” I said, delighted that I would now get a chance to shop.

The car was summoned and I rode in solitary splendor into the little market town of Newton Abbott. If the village had depicted the rural Christmas scene, this was straight out of Dickens. Little shops with lead-paned bow windows, a cheery pub, children singing carols on every street corner and people staggering under loads of provisions and presents. I delivered my message to Mr. Skaggs, who looked pleased with himself.

“I told her ladyship, didn’t I?” he said in his thick Devon burr. “I said she’d be needing the geese as well. Right, my lovey, you tell her that I’ll be delivering them bright and early on Christmas morning. She don’t need to worry.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley tried to telephone you,” I said, “but it seems that the line is down or something. Even the police station telephone was not working.”

“Ah, well, they wouldn’t be, would they?” the butcher said, giving me a knowing look. “Fire last night at the exchange. Didn’t you folks hear about it? Terrible it were. Seems there was something wrong with the wiring and one of the poor telephone operators plugged in her headphones and she were electrocuted right away. Then the whole thing caught on fire. Took the fire brigade hours to put it out. Such a terrible shame so near to Christmas.”

“So the girl was killed?” I asked, swallowing back my rising fear.

He nodded. “Not exactly a girl anymore. Poor old Gladys Tripp. She’s been operator at the local exchange for years. Bit of a nosy parker if you ask me, always listening in on people’s calls, but a good enough soul. Didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“Did she live out toward Tiddleton-under-Lovey?” I asked.

“No, right here in town. Born and bred here. She and I went to primary school together.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I came out and walked down the high street, no longer noticing the lively Christmas-card scene. The fourth death. Again it could have been a horrible accident—wiring that had been badly done. Electric wires too close to telephone wires. I didn’t exactly know how telephones worked, but I didn’t think that kind of accident would happen too often. And the telephone operator who had been killed was the type who loved to listen in, to gossip. Had she overheard something she shouldn’t? At least I couldn’t tie her to the Lovey Curse when she had always lived in a town ten miles away.

There was nothing I could do to help and I couldn’t see any way that her death was related to the others, unless a madman in the area was randomly targeting people to kill in different ways. Then I remembered there was one connection: I had heard her name before. Inspector Newcombe had mentioned that Gladys Tripp was the quick-thinking operator who had been sharp enough to alert the police after she had received the emergency call about Miss Effie. A link between two deaths at last, but a tenuous one. I toyed with it as I walked down the high street, being buffeted by round ladies with shopping baskets. By the end of the street I was none the wiser and tried to turn my mind back to the job in hand—finding Christmas presents in a hurry. I looked in dress shops, shoe shops, newsagents, even a haberdashery, and found nothing that looked nice but cost little. I paused to look in the bow window of a small jeweler and saw some lovely pieces of antique jewelry that made me sigh with longing. There was some high-quality stuff here. I wondered how many people in a small Devon town had the sort of money to patronize a place like this. I was about to walk on when a small display at the bottom of the window caught my eye.

Lucky Devon Pixies, said the sign.

I’m a lucky Devon pixie, from the legend old and true,

Kiss me once and turn me twice and I’ll bring luck to you.

The pixies were silver charms in pretty little boxes with the verse on the lid, obviously put there to attract tourists and bring people into the shop. I decided that Granddad could use some luck and that maybe my mother might be charmed by the pixie too. I was about to buy one for each of them when, on impulse, I took an extra one for Darcy, if and when I had a chance to see him again. If anyone needed luck it was he, since he was as impoverished as I and was always popping off to dangerous places.

The man who served me was an elderly Jewish man, presumably Mr. Klein, since the shop was called Klein’s Jewelers. He treated me with great deference even though I was buying such humble items.

“I’ve just acquired some fine pieces from Paris if you’d care to look, miss,” he said as he wrapped up the boxes for me.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have the money for your lovely things,” I replied, giving him a regretful smile.

“I understand.” He handed me the boxes. “It’s not easy to survive these days for most of us, is it? It’s rare that I have a call for my better-quality items these days. My compliments of the season to you, miss.” Then he added astutely, “Or should I say ‘my lady’?”

I came out of the shop with three pixies then went into the sweet shop next door and bought a box of chocolates for Mrs. Huggins and Black Magic for Lady Hawse-Gorzley. I wasn’t going to attempt to buy anything for the invisible Mr. Coward.

Chapter 12

The next lot of guests arrived around two o’clock. They were Mr. and Mrs. Upthorpe and their daughter, Ethel—a large girl with a rather vacant moon face and Marcel-waved hair that somehow didn’t make her seem smarter. Both mother and daughter wore well-cut clothes that shouted Paris, but they still seemed ill at ease. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes regarded each other suspiciously. I showed Ethel up to her room.

“I’m glad to see there’s someone else ordinary here,” she said in a whisper. “I was afraid they’d all be lords and ladies. We’re plain folks really, except that my dad has made a lot of money. But that’s not enough, is it? They wanted to have me presented at court, but I got turned down. So now my mum has set her heart on my marrying into the aristocracy; that’s why she decided we had to come here. But I don’t actually see any young men around.”

“I gather that three of them are due later today,” I said. “The son of the house, his friend from Oxford and his cousin. I can’t tell you what they are like because I haven’t met them yet.”

“So what does your dad do?” she asked.

“He used to be Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch,” I said. “He’s dead now.”

She put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, crikey. I know who you are. I’ve seen your picture in the society pages. Oh, I do feel a fool.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I am quite ordinary, really. I’m unattached with no job, so probably worse off than you are.”

“But you have royal relatives,” she pointed out.

“Well, yes, that’s true.”

“I should be curtsying and calling you ‘my lady.’”

“Not at a function like this. We’re all friends together this week. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

She beamed at me. “You’re a good sport, Georgie. Just wait till I tell the girls at home about this.”

At least I’d made someone happy. We came downstairs to find that Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone had arrived. They looked exactly as I would have expected. He was portly with a small military mustache. They were both wearing country tweeds and she had a good-quality Cairngorms brooch in her lapel.

“Of course it can be dashed uncomfortable in Calcutta in summer,” he was saying. “I usually send the memsahib up to the hills, don’t I, old thing?”

“It’s lovely up in the hills. Tea plantations for miles and miles. Have you ever been to India?” Mrs. Rathbone looked at the Wexlers and the Upthorpes, only to be met with blank stares.

“I wouldn’t like a place like India at all,” Mrs. Wexler said with a shudder. “All that dirt and disease and cows running around the streets. No, sirree.”

“Damn fine place, India,” the colonel said. “You should see the maharajas’ palaces, and the tiger shoots, and the lake in Kashmir. Damn fine place.”

“Are you home on leave or back for good?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley asked.

“Long leave. We take one every five years. We used to have a house in this part of the world, but not any longer, unfortunately. Circumstances being what they are. Not at all sure that we’ll come back to England to settle when I leave the army. Life is just so pleasant for the memsahib in India, isn’t it, old girl?”

“Apart from the heat and the diseases, I must say life in India is very easy. Our servants are devoted. There are always parties and dances. No, I think I’d find it rather dull in England. I did when we were last home four years ago, especially as Reggie was gone most of the time—weren’t you, my dear?”

“Dashed inconvenient, I called it. Only here for a few months and I got summoned to—”

“Oh, I believe that must be the dowager countess now.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sprang to her feet. “Please excuse me while I go to greet her. We’ll be serving tea shortly and you’ll have a chance to try our Devonshire cream.”

She motioned to me to follow her as an ancient Rolls-Royce drew up and a very distinguished-looking lady was helped from the backseat. She was dressed in a long sable coat with matching fur hat. She held an ebony and silver cane and she lifted a lorgnette to survey the scene as another woman, a mousy little creature, scurried around to lead her to the front door.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley came forward to greet her, arms open.

“Countess Albury—what a delight. Welcome to Gorzley Hall and the compliments of the season to you.”

“How do you do,” the countess said stiffly, holding out a black-gloved hand before she could be touched.

“Have you been traveling long?”

“Not too bad. Drove from London yesterday. Spent the night at the Francis in Bath. One of my favorite cities. Always loved shopping for antiques on Milsom Street. Not anymore, of course. Nowhere to put them.”

“Come inside, do,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“I fully intend to,” the countess sniffed. “Certainly don’t expect to stand out here in the cold all week.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley gave an embarrassed little titter and tried to help the dowager countess up the steps. The latter fought her off. “I am not quite decrepit yet, you know. People have tried to put me away in mothballs, but I won’t let them.”

She made it up the steps unaided.

“I’m sure you’d like to go to your room to freshen up before you join our other guests for tea,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Freshen up? Is that some horrible transatlantic slang? If you mean for a rest, a wash, a change of clothes, then please say so. People always said what they meant in my day. There was no ‘freshening up’ and ‘needing to relax’ when I was a girl.” She glanced up the long sweep of stairs. “Given the condition of my right knee, I think I will forgo the ‘freshening up,’ if you would please show my companion where we are to sleep and have someone escort me to a salon or wherever one sits in the afternoon.”

“There’s a lovely big fire in the drawing room,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Maybe Lady Georgiana will find you a comfortable chair.”

The lorgnette was turned onto me. “Georgiana? Not Bertie Rannoch’s daughter! Yes, I see the family likeness.” She put a hand on my arm for me to lead her. “I knew your grandmother and of course your terrifying great-grandmama, Queen Victoria. I nearly toppled over when I was presented to her, I was so nervous. Your grandmother was a shy woman, I remember—well, she would be, wouldn’t she, not daring to say a word in her mother’s presence. But we became quite close after she married Rannoch and I married Albury. I remember your father as a boy. Sweet-natured child. Always loved company and was always so lonely. It was a shame they couldn’t provide him with brothers and sisters. He would have thrived in a big household.”

“Like me,” I said. “My brother was so much older than me that it was like being an only child.”

“At least your grandmother produced a son and heir before she died,” the countess said. “I wasn’t able to do that, I’m ashamed to say. In consequence the estate has gone to a no-good nephew and I was unceremoniously expelled.” She paused, staring out at the snowy scene through the window. “Well, I was offered the gatehouse, but his lower-class wife made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. So I’m living in a small place in Kensington these days. Most of my friends either share my reduced circumstances or are dead. And I had a hankering for the old days—the grand old Christmases of my youth.”

I gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

She leaned closer. “What about the other guests? Anyone I’d know?”

“I don’t think so,” I said tactfully. “But I think you’ll find them pleasant enough.”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “There aren’t many people I know left alive. Outstayed my welcome on this earth, I fear.”

“You are very welcome here anyway,” I said.

She patted my hand. “A kind girl, I can see. Your father was kind, wasn’t he?”

“I hardly knew him,” I said. “He spent most of his time on the Continent.”

“I remember now. There was some kind of scandal, wasn’t there? His wife ran off and left him. Not that that kind of thing causes a scandal anymore. People are always doing it. Look at the Prince of Wales. One hears he’s trailing around after some American woman who is married to someone else. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She turned to look behind her. “Don’t just stand there, Humphreys. Go and find out where I’m to be sleeping and put my things away.” She looked back at me. “She’s a poor specimen. No backbone. But she’s loyal. Been with me five years now.”

We arrived in the drawing room and Lady Hawse-Gorzley made the introductions. The other guests were suitably overawed by the dowager countess, except for the Rathbones. When they found out she had been to India, they entered into a lively session of name-dropping and one-upmanship with the countess.

“And Simla? How did you like Simla? Our of our favorite places, but of course we adore Ooty. Did you ever meet the Maharaja of Udaipur? Such opulence.”

“Yes, he was comfortably off, shall one say, but nothing to compare with dear old Pixie of Hyderabad. And did you ever go to Government House when dear Tommy was viceroy? Now, those were parties.”

The countess was winning the name-dropping handily when tea was announced. Low tables were produced, and a trolley was wheeled in, laden with all the items I particularly adore: warm scones with cream and strawberry jam as well as smoked salmon sandwiches, éclairs, brandy snaps, mince pies, slices of rich fruitcake and a Victoria sponge. Everyone’s mood lightened enormously. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes exchanged boasts about how much they spent on their motorcars and their wives’ furs. The Rathbones and the countess agreed that the good old days had gone and would never return. Even Junior Wexler had to agree that the scones and cream were “swell” and ate an impressive number. I was enjoying my own scones when Lady Hawse-Gorzley suddenly looked up at the doorway. “Why, the boys are here and I didn’t see them arrive,” she said. She got to her feet. “Monty, darling. How lovely to see you. So you made it safely, then.”

“No, Mother, we’re lying dead in a ditch,” Monty said, giving a grin to his sister. “Of course we made it safely. We’re here, aren’t we?” He was tall and slim and looked absurdly young.

“And Badger. You are most welcome.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley held out her hand to a red-haired, freckled young man. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, Lady H-G,” the freckle-faced lad nicknamed Badger replied, giving her a hearty handshake. “Looking forward to it awfully. Frightfully decent of you to invite me.”

“May I introduce my son, Montague, and his friend Archibald, usually known as Badger,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said to the company. Then she looked around. “Didn’t your cousin come down with you on the train? He said he was going to.”

“He came in with us,” Monty said. “Ah, here he is now.”

And Darcy stepped into the room.

Chapter 13

He hadn’t seen me. Before he could cross the room Bunty rushed at him. “Cousin Darcy. How absolutely lovely to see you again. It’s been ages and ages. Haven’t I grown up a lot since you saw us last?”

“You certainly have,” Darcy said, accepting the hug and the kiss on his cheek. “And how are you, Aunt Camilla?”

“All the better now that you are here,” she said, beaming at him. “Lovely to see you again after so long, dear boy. I’m not sure where Oswald has disappeared to. Really, it’s so hard to make him be sociable. But here are our guests, all dying to meet you: Colonel and Mrs. Rathbone, recently home from India. Mr. and Mrs. Wexler, all the way from America, and their children. The Upthorpe family from Yorkshire, and may I present you to the dowager countess Albury. Countess, this is my nephew, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.”

Darcy went over to her and kissed her hand. She squinted at him through her lorgnette. “Kilhenny’s son? Yes, you have the look of him about you. I’ve no doubt you’re as big a rogue as he was as a young man.”

“Indubitably,” Darcy said and grinned.

“And this,” continued Lady Hawse-Gorzley, “is Lady Georgiana Rannoch.”

I had been about to eat a bite of scone, but had stood frozen with a mouthful unchewed. Now I tried to swallow it rapidly, which resulted in a fit of coughing.

It was hardly the traditional meeting of sweethearts. We didn’t rush across the room into each other’s arms. In fact, I read mixed emotions in Darcy’s astonished stare. “Good God, Georgie, what on earth are you doing here?” he said.

“Hello, Darcy,” I said, trying to recover my dignity from the coughing fit. “The same as you, apparently. Looking forward to a jolly good Christmas.”

“Ah—you two know each other. How splendid,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “But of course you would. You bright young things go to all the same parties in town, I’ve no doubt.”

“Shall I take Cousin Darcy up and show him his room?” Bunty asked, slipping her hand through his arm.

“You most certainly shall not,” her mother replied. “A young lady does not escort a young gentleman to a bedroom, Hortense, even if he is your cousin.”

“We’ll show Darcy his room later, Mother,” Monty said. “But at the moment we are all in dire need of refreshment and I notice scones and cream. Come on, Badger. Dig in, old chap.”

The two young men pulled over a sofa and attacked the scones. Darcy accepted a cup of tea, then came over and perched on the arm of my chair, which I found reassuring. Given his less than exuberant greeting when he saw me, I wasn’t sure how to treat him. I reminded myself that he hadn’t even contacted me properly when he arrived back in England. And a succession of wild thoughts were rushing through my head: that he might have been meeting a girl when my mother had spotted him in London at the Café Royal, and was embarrassed to find me here when he’d hoped to find her. Or, a second alternative, that Lady Hawse-Gorzley was no more his aunt than I was, and this was actually some kind of secret meeting of spies into which I had blundered by mistake. This one made more sense, since I suspected he secretly worked as some sort of spy. I gave him a polite little nod and waited for him to make the first move.

“How are you?” he said in a low voice. “What a lovely surprise.”

“I’m well, thank you,” I replied. “And if you’d taken the trouble to talk to me, you might have heard about my plans to come here.”

“But they told me you were spending Christmas in Scotland with the family,” he muttered to me.

“Who told you?”

“I tried to telephone you. Your sister-in-law instructed the butler to tell me,” he said. “‘Her Grace wishes me to tell you that Lady Georgiana will be unavailable over the Christmas celebration. It is to be a family affair.’ Those were the very words, I seem to remember.”

“The absolute cow,” I said. Darcy laughed. “She never mentioned that you’d telephoned. How utterly spiteful of her.”

“She doesn’t approve of me. I lead you astray, remember? So what made you leave the bosom of the family Christmas?”

“Fig’s family was descending en masse. More than body and soul could endure.”

“But what are you doing here of all places? I had no idea that you knew my aunt.”

“Darcy dear, do help yourself to tea,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I could hardly say that I had answered an advertisement in front of the paying guests, so I leaned forward and poured Darcy a cup of tea. Our fingers touched as I handed it to him and I felt a shiver run all the way up my arm.

“And, Georgiana, perhaps after tea you can take the young people into the study and make plans for the things you’d like to do over Christmas. I do so want you young folk to enjoy yourselves.”

“I expect you’d like to go out for a ride in the morning, Darcy,” Bunty said, pulling up her chair closer. “Do you remember what fun we had the last time you were here and we went out riding on the moor?”

“I hardly think we’d be wise to take the horses on the moor in the snow, Bunty,” he said. “We’d never see the bogs.” He looked up with a grin. “By the way, how is your wild girl—Sally, is she? Still going strong?”

“Wild girl?” Mrs. Wexler asked nervously.

“Not really wild, just strange,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said rapidly. “A strange young woman who lives alone on the moor.” She attempted a gay laugh. “Yes, she’s still going strong.”

“And how is the village where nothing ever happens?” Darcy went on gaily. “That’s what you said last time I was here, Bunty.”

“Just as quiet and peaceful as ever,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said again rapidly. “A perfect little backwater. England the way it used to be. And that’s how we love it. Ah, here is my husband, finally.”

And Sir Oswald came in, still wearing his dreadful old tweed jacket, plus fours, old socks and boots. “Damned fellow didn’t muck out the pigs properly,” he said. “Had to do it myself.” And he promptly sat down next to Mrs. Rathbone. “God, I’m famished. Mucking out pigsties certainly brings on an appetite.”

I heard Darcy stifle a chuckle as Mrs. Rathbone moved hastily to the far end of the sofa.

“And those damned police johnnies have finally departed, thank God. Blasted inconvenient of people to go and kill themselves over Christmas. And those wretched convicts, too. Time of peace and goodwill, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?”

“Killed themselves?” Mrs. Upthorpe asked nervously. “Who killed themselves? Where?”

“Just a couple of unfortunate accidents in the area. Nothing to be alarmed about,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said hastily. “Have another scone, do. And Alice, bring us some more tea. This is getting cold.”

“And the convicts?” Mrs. Wexler interjected.

“A couple of men escaped from Dartmoor Prison, which is several miles from here. They’ll be far away by now. The police have combed the moors.”

“How exciting. Perhaps we’ll be taken hostage,” Cherie Wexler said and got a dig in the side from her mother.

“Well, something exciting has to happen or we’ll all die of boredom,” the girl retorted.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley leaped to her feet. “Georgiana—why don’t you take the young people now and make your plans?”

“We just got here, Mother. We’ve hardly eaten anything yet,” Monty said, his mouth half full of éclair.

“And I’m still hungry,” Junior Wexler said.

“Of course, I don’t mean to rush you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “In that case, why don’t I take the grown-ups and give them a tour of the house. So many fine historical features.”

The Wexlers, Upthorpes and Rathbones rose obediently, but the dowager countess stayed put. “Does the woman think I’ve never seen an historic home before? I used to be a frequent guest at Blenheim and Longleat, and Albury Park was not too shabby either. Gardens by Capability Brown.”

“Lady Albury, I do realize that you’d find the stairs too much for you,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Perhaps you’d like Hortense to take you through to the little library. There is a nice fire and you’d find it more peaceful than being with the youngsters.”

“I like young people. Make me feel alive again,” the countess said. “I shall relish all the latest gossip from London. Go on, off you go.”

The adults departed dutifully, except for Sir Oswald, who was eating away merrily, quite oblivious to the fact that he smelled of pig. Lady Albury moved to the sofa, closer to Darcy and me. “So do tell me all the latest London scandal.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been in Scotland for the past few months,” I said.

“And I in South America,” Darcy said.

“But have you met this notorious American lady? Simpson, is that it?”

“Yes, I have met her,” I said. “And I think the term ‘lady’ is stretching the definition.”

She threw back her head and laughed, patting my hand. “I like you,” she said. “Good sense of humor like your father. And you, young man”—she turned to Darcy—“what were you doing in South America? Up to no good, I’ll wager.”

“A little of this and that, you know,” Darcy said.

“Dealing in arms, no doubt. That’s how people make money in South America, isn’t it? Help to start another revolution then supply both sides with arms.”

“Certainly not,” Darcy said. “How can you suggest such a thing?” But he was smiling, his eyes teasing her.

“I know a thing or two about how the world works.”

“I thought we were supposed to be planning what we want to do,” Bunty said peevishly.

“When Junior has finished polishing off the cream buns, we’ll get started,” I said.

“Junior, you’ll make yourself sick,” Cherie Wexler said. “He is such a little pig. I don’t know why we had to bring him along. You should have stayed with Aunt Mabel, Junior. You aren’t old enough for polite society yet.”

“Go and jump in the lake, sis,” he said and made a grab at the last cream bun.

“So,” I said brightly, “what would we like to do? I gather there is to be a fancy dress ball one night, and we should play charades, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, charades,” the red-headed Badger agreed.

“And the place is perfect for sardines,” I went on.

“Sardines? What on earth is that?”

“Like hide-and-seek but when you find someone you join them, until you are all crammed into a cupboard or wherever you are hiding,” I said.

“That sounds really juvenile,” the Wexler girl said.

“Ooh, I don’t know. Could be fun,” Ethel Upthorpe said, eyeing first Darcy and then Monty and clearly visualizing herself pinned into a wardrobe with them.

“What would you like to do?” I asked Cherie Wexler. “Any suggestions for us?”

“When I go out with friends we dance the quickstep and smoke and drink cocktails in secret,” she said. “Or we go to the talkies.”

“I don’t think the cinema constitutes part of an old-fashioned English Christmas,” I said.

“I think we should go out and have a snowball fight before it gets quite dark,” Monty said.

“Dashed good idea,” Badger added. “Who’s up for it?”

Everyone except for Cherie Wexler thought it might be fun. We put on coats, scarves and gloves and went outside. The sun had just sunk below Lovey Tor and the sky was a brilliant bloodred, turning the snow pink. Rooks were cawing madly as they came home to roost. Darcy came up beside me.

“All right, now spill the beans,” he said, still looking incredulous and a trifle suspicious too. “What brought you here, of all places? I mean, I had no inkling that you knew my aunt.”

“Lady Hawse-Gorzley really is your aunt, then?”

He nodded. “Of course. My mother’s sister. I don’t suppose I ever mentioned her, because I’ve relatives dotted all over the place. But things are rather strained between my father and me, so when I received this invite, I was happy to accept.” He moved closer to me. “Even happier now.”

I felt a glow of happiness go through me too.

He leaned closer. “Look, I know you’re hot stuff as a detective,” he said. “Did you find out where I’d be staying and wangle yourself an invitation?”

“No, I did not,” I said, feeling myself blushing. “I was absolutely amazed to see you. I had no idea you were connected with the Hawse-Gorzleys.”

“I had no idea you knew them either.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Between ourselves—and this is not to go any further—I applied to an advertisement to help a hostess with her Christmas house party. I had never heard of the Hawse-Gorzleys or Tiddleton-under-Lovey before. But I’d have applied to the North Pole to escape from Fig’s relatives.”

I saw relief flood across Darcy’s face and he laughed. “It must be fate bringing us together,” he said.

A snowball came flying through the air and struck me full in the face. “Whoops, sorry, Georgie,” Bunty said.

Chapter 14

GORZLEY HALL AND AROUND THE VILLAGE

DECEMBER 23

We actually had a jolly good snowball fight and were just going inside, with fingers and noses tingling with cold, when a white shape came walking up the drive toward us. It was the little maid who had come to us in such distress that morning.

“Beg pardon, miss,” she said to Bunty, “but I’ve a message for your mum from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Miss Florrie and Miss Lizzie want me to tell your mum that they’d like the carol singing to go ahead, in spite of what happened yesterday. They say that Cook has made so many mince pies and Miss Effie would have hated them to go to waste, so would you please come round as planned.”

“Oh, jolly good,” Monty said. “Nothing like a good bout of carol singing, is there? Everyone up to scratch with their ‘Good King Wenceslas’? Or do we need a practice session first?”

We trooped back into the house, where Lady Hawse-Gorzley was thrilled to hear the news.

“Breeding will tell,” she said, rather undiplomatically, I thought. “We will try to find a subdued and reverent carol to sing outside their house. How they must be suffering, poor dear ladies.”

When we had taken off our coats and hats we found that more guests had arrived: a smartly dressed middle-aged couple and a suave, fortyish man with a jaunty, pencil-thin mustache and canary yellow silk cravat at his throat.

“Our party is now complete,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Some of our neighbors have come to join us. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest—he’s a local sea dog, home on leave. Mrs. Sechrest is my bridge partner and I must say she plays a fine hand. Has a fine seat in the saddle too.”

“Pretty decent seat out of the saddle,” the lone man said, getting a titter from Mrs. Sechrest.

“Johnnie, you’re terrible. Can’t you behave for one second?” she said.

“Sorry, old bean. You know me. Got an eye for the ladies, what?” He gave her what could only be described as a smoldering look.

“And this disreputable character is Johnnie Protheroe. He’s a writer of sorts.”

“A renaissance man, Camilla dearest, if you don’t mind,” Johnnie said. “I paint, I sail, I hunt and I’m fun to be around, aren’t I, Sandy?”

Mrs. Sechrest tried to give an imitation of my great-grandmother being not amused, but it didn’t quite come off. Captain Sechrest sat there, whiskey in hand, looking frightfully bored and correct, while his wife clearly enjoyed Johnnie’s attentions.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll be having a simple supper tonight after our carol singing, and I don’t think that we’ll expect you to dress, given the lateness.”

“We’re only getting a simple supper?” Pa Wexler demanded. “Yesterday’s dinner was kinda simple too. I thought we were promised sumptuous multicourse banquets.”

“It has been our experience that guests are rather full of mince pies and good cheer by the time we return from the carol singing. I think you’ll find our simple meal quite adequate, Mr. Wexler.”

As we left the room Mrs. Upthorpe muttered to her daughter, “Eee, that’s too bad. I was looking forward to wearing one of those evening dresses we got in Paris last summer, weren’t you, Ethel?”

“It’s certainly not worth wearing them up in Bradford,” Ethel said. “They don’t know a Chanel from Woolworths, do they?”

I went upstairs thinking about the irony of this. I was the daughter of a duke. My dresses did not come from Paris. In fact, I’d be lucky to find one of them undamaged by Queenie’s ministrations. I was worrying about this as I turned the corner to go to my room and found my path blocked by Johnnie Protheroe. “Well, hello,” he said, looking down at me with what could only be described as a lecherous leer. “And who do we have here?”

“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said frostily. “How do you do?”

“I do very well,” he said. “So you’re the famous Lady Georgiana. One hears that your delectable mother is in the area. Is that correct?”

“I really couldn’t say,” I answered, uncomfortable now with his closeness. He had one hand on the wall and was leaning down toward me.

“And are you as much fun, I wonder, as your mama?” he said.

“Do you know my mother?”

“Not personally, but one reads delicious tidbits in newspapers.”

“You shouldn’t believe what you read in newspapers,” I said and ducked under his arm. I heard him chuckling as I opened the door to my room.

We assembled as instructed, bundled into our warmest clothes, and found that lanterns on poles had been stuck in the snow for us to carry. Bunty also handed out a supply of music books for those who didn’t know the words.

“I thought we’d start off with ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as we walk down the driveway,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “to warm up our voices, so to speak, and then we’ll switch to ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ when we reach the Misses Ffrench-Finch. And we’ll keep it suitably subdued.”

Darcy slid into the line beside me as the singing began and we moved off. “Why are we keeping it subdued?” he whispered. “Are they true aficionados of music who would be offended by our out-of-tune renditions?”

“No, they had a death in the family yesterday morning,” I whispered back. “One of the three elderly sisters was found dead in her bed. Someone had turned the gas on and closed the windows.”

“Suicide?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then one of the other sisters wanted her out of the way, probably. Jealous, or wanted a better share of an inheritance. Or was simply batty.”

I shook my head. “No, one gathers that they adored their sister and relied on her. She was the strong one who made the decisions.”

“When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even,” went on the singing.

He turned to me sharply. “Are you saying it was murder?”

“They’d all like to believe it was an accident,” I said. “But there have been three deaths in three days in this small village. That seems to be stretching the law of averages, doesn’t it?”

“Were the other two similar old ladies?”

“No, quite different. A landowner found shot with his own gun in a tree in the Hawse-Gorzleys’ orchard. A local garage owner fell off a bridge into a creek as he went home from the village pub—where it is said he was fond of visiting the publican’s wife. No hint from the police that they have found any evidence of foul play. The old ladies’ house was locked for the night at six and nobody seems to be able to come up with a reason for wanting Miss Ffrench-Finch dead.”

“They say deaths come in threes, don’t they?” he said. “The most logical thing is that they were all accidents.”

“There are a couple of other things I should mention,” I said. “One of them is the Lovey Curse.”

“The what?” He was laughing, his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern.

“Apparently there was a local witch who was burned alive on New Year’s Eve, hundreds of years ago. As she died she cursed the village that tragedy would strike them at Yuletide every year.”

“And has it?”

“I’ve no idea,” I said, “but the other thing is more serious. You might have read that three convicts escaped from Dartmoor Prison a few days ago. The police seem to think they haven’t gone far. So maybe they are hiding out on the moor and they’ve killed the people who have spotted them.”

“You mean the man out shooting?”

I nodded. “Very early in the morning. Maybe he ran into them.”

“And the man crossing a bridge in the middle of the night? Yes, he could have run into them. But I don’t see how that could apply to your old lady. She didn’t go wandering around on the moor looking for trouble, did she?”

“No, I’m sure she didn’t. I suppose she could have spotted the convicts through her motorcar window. But then she would have telephoned the police straight away, wouldn’t she?”

“And they are hardly likely to have gassed her in her bed. Not the modus operandi of most criminal types. Bashed her head in or suffocated her.”

“Besides,” I said, “they couldn’t get into the house.”

We reached the end of the driveway just as the singers broke into a lusty rendition of:

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted.

Heat was in the very sod, where the saint had printed.

Darcy was frowning, staring up at the big square shape of the Ffrench-Finch house and its plain stone walls. “I don’t think there’s any way that three convicts could be hiding out in a village like this,” he said. “Village eyes are too sharp. They’d notice something. And even if someone was hiding them, the villagers would notice someone buying more food than usual.”

“Your aunt has certainly been buying more food than usual,” I pointed out. “I expect everybody has for Christmas.”

We crossed the deserted street to the Misses Ffrench-Finches’ front door and switched to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

A maid opened the door and was joined by two tiny ladies with neat gray buns. They were now dressed in black with fringed Spanish shawls around their shoulders. The first thought that struck me was that their name was so apt. They both listened with their heads to one side, bobbing like little birds.

“So good of you to come,” one of them said in her soft child’s voice. “Effie always loved the carol singing. We won’t invite you in, I’m sure you understand, but do have some of Cook’s delicious mince pies and try some of our homemade elderberry wine.”

Two trays were produced. The mince pies were wonderful—warm, flaky pastry and plenty of spicy filling. The elderberry wine was not unpleasant and I had a second glass. We drank a toast to their health and to their dear departed sister and went on our way.

Mr. Barclay welcomed us gushing and bowing and requested that we sing a couple of carols none of us knew, before settling on “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I hope the herald angels sang a little better than we did, but he seemed to appreciate the effort. He offered hot cheese straws and mulled wine. From him we went to the vicar, who invited us into his well-worn but comfortable sitting room where we gave him a rousing rendition of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” He had more mince pies laid out for us and a traditional wassail bowl. I was beginning to feel the warmth of the food and alcohol as we left and made for Miss Prendergast’s cottage, singing “In the Bleak Midwinter.”

She met us at the door, looking flustered. I decided she was probably one of those spinsters who always looks flustered. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “I was doing a crossword puzzle and completely forgot the mince pies. I do so love my little puzzles and I was so engrossed that I only remembered the pies when I smelled something burning. And of course by then it was too late to go into town to buy more mincemeat. I feel like such a fool. My mince pies are usually so good too, aren’t they, Lady Hawse-Gorzley? So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for biscuits and ginger wine.” She retrieved a tray she had put on a low table beside the front door. “Here we are. Ginger to keep out the cold. Nothing better,” she said, offering the tray around. “And I am so looking forward to joining you for the Christmas festivities, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she twittered. “So good of you to invite me. So generous. I can’t tell you how much one appreciates company when one is all alone in the world like me.”

The ginger wine was so powerful that it took my breath away and made my eyes water. I stumbled along, half blind, as we headed for my mother’s cottage. I was interested to see whether they would pretend to not be at home, but lights shone out between heavy curtains and the door was opened by my grandfather. I wondered whether he would be playing the role of jolly butler, but instead he said, “I won’t ask you in, because they’ve been working hard all day and consequently have retired with headaches. But we do have a hot rum punch ready and Mrs. Huggins has made some lovely sausage rolls. So if you could possibly manage a quiet carol, it would be appreciated.”

We obliged by singing “In the Bleak Midwinter” again and then Granddad ladled out the punch. He winked as he handed me my glass. “That will put hair on your chest,” he said. “Oh, and by the way, your mum and Mr. Coward have been invited to join you for Christmas dinner.”

“What about you?”

“Not me, my dear,” he said. “Me and Mrs. Huggins will be a lot happier here on our own than where we don’t belong. We ain’t posh and we never will be.”

“I’ll come down to visit on Christmas Day when I get a chance,” I said.

“That will be lovely. Anytime. We’ll be here.”

I took my glass of punch. It was hot and the fumes from the rum were strong enough to make me cough. But it slipped down deliciously and I was feeling that all was right with the world as we left the cottage and headed on our way. We’d only gone a few yards, however, when I had the strangest sensation. We were being watched. I decided that it was probably my mother and Noel Coward having a good chuckle at our expense upstairs in the cottage, but I also sensed something else. I sensed danger.

Chapter 15

SOMEWHERE IN THE DARKNESS, IN THE VILLAGE OF TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY

DECEMBER 23

I had been in enough difficult situations to know what danger felt like and I was clearly sensing it now. A hostile presence was watching us. I turned to look around. The village green lay in perfect stillness and repose. Early moonlight glistened on crisp snow. Smoke curled up from chimneys. Lights peeped out of cottages. Some curtains were not fully drawn and I saw Christmas trees and paper chains and all kinds of greenery decorating cozy front rooms. Here was a picture postcard of the pretty and peaceful English village. And yet three people had died here in three days. I wondered if there was to be a fourth—if someone was stalking our column of singers, pantherlike, waiting to pounce.

We sang outside the rest of the cottages. Willum beamed in delight and did an ungainly dance when we sang “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” outside the shop, while his mother looked on, smiling. I found myself looking around to see if we passed any empty cottages or anywhere else a dangerous presence might be hiding, but every front door seemed to be open to us. I noticed as Lady Hawse-Gorzley instructed villagers to come up to the hall for their Christmas box on Boxing Day and they bowed reverently, muttering, “God bless you, your ladyship.”

If one of the convicts was nearby, I was convinced that nobody in this village knew about him. And certainly none of these happy villagers, their children peeping shyly around their legs and skirts, was harboring him. And yet the feeling did not go away until we were walking back up the drive. Actually, it was overtaken by another feeling—one of unsteadiness. I’ve never been a great drinker and all of those various punches and drafts from wassail bowls were suddenly having an effect on me.