The Twelve Clues of Christmas

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Darcy drew close to me again. “Like reliving one’s childhood.”

“Marvelous fun,” I said. “Absolutely marvelous fun.” At least that was what I wanted to say. It came out “Absholuly maavlus fun.”

Darcy eyed me critically. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Only the punches and the elderberry wine,” I said, trying to look haughty and dignified, which effect was lost as I tripped over an unseen rock in the snow and would have fallen on my face if Darcy hadn’t grabbed me.

“Whoopsie,” I said and started to giggle.

“The elderberry wine?” he said. “My dear girl. Don’t you know that homemade wines, especially those created by old spinsters, are always lethal?”

“Silly me. I had two glasses,” I said, as I staggered and giggled again.

Darcy took my arm firmly. “You’d better give me that lantern,” he said. “And hold on to my arm.”

“You are so kind.” I gazed at him adoringly. “You take such good care of me. But you always go away again. Why do you always go away?”

“A little thing called money,” he said. “One needs to earn some occasionally.”

“What does money matter?” I went on. “Why don’t we run away and live in a little cottage on a desert island and we’ll be wonderfully happy.” I don’t know how much of this he understood. I was having trouble forming words by now. What’s more, the world was swinging around.

We reached the house and Darcy leaned his lantern against the portico. “I think I’d better get you up to bed before anyone else sees you like this,” he whispered. “Come on. Up the stairs with you.”

“I’m perfeckly all right,” I said at the same moment that my foot started to slide on the polished floor. “Who put in an ice rink while we were away? Wasn’t that clever of them?”

“Up the stairs. Now.” Darcy gripped my arm firmly and half carried me up the stairs and then down the hall to my room.

“Finally,” I said as he bundled me inside the door. “We’re alone together, just you and me and a bed. What’s taken you so long, Darcy? I’ve been waiting for this a long time.” I kept talking while he pulled off my various outer garments and then sat me down to take off my shoes. “Do you know how boring it is to be a virgin?” I went on. “Boring, boring, boring. Everybody thinks virgins are boring. And do you know what? They are.”

Darcy undid the leather strap that held my kilt in place and it dropped to the floor.

“Arms up,” he said and yanked my sweater over my head. “There. You’ll do until your maid can finish undressing you. I’ll bring you up a tray from supper. You should eat something if you can. And a cup of black coffee.”

“Where are you going?” I asked plaintively.

“Down to tell them that Lady Georgiana is not feeling well.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you? Not when there’s this big and beautiful bed and I’m in it all by myself. And you are such a good kisser too.”

Darcy smiled and leaned to kiss my forehead. “As tempting as this offer is, my lady, I’m going to wait until you’ll remember what you’ve done. In spite of what your sister-in-law thinks, I happen to be a gentleman.”

“Oh, Fig. Don’t talk about Fig. If I am boring, then she is boring times ten. The most boring person on the whole Earth. I bet she never invited a young man to her bedroom. Never never.”

Darcy looked down at me with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Now, you’re to stay put and try to sleep. I’ll find your maid and have her come to keep an eye on you. And I’ll bring you something to eat later. All right?”

“I wish you weren’t going away,” I said in a small voice. “I’d rather fall asleep with your arms around me. So nice. So warm. So safe . . .” I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he had gone.

I lay back, half dozing, half awake, until I heard the click of the door latch and a shaft of light came from the hallway outside. This was rapidly extinguished as the door closed again and I sensed someone coming toward the bed.

“Is it suppertime already?” I asked sleepily.

“Supper is over,” said a deep voice. “They’re all having coffee, so I thought I’d slip up and see how you were faring.”

And someone sat on my bed. I fumbled for my bedside light. In its rosy glow Johnnie Protheroe’s face loomed close to me.

“What are you doing in my room?” I demanded, fear giving me control of my tongue.

“Just came up to see how you were, old thing,” he said. “I heard you were feeling poorly. Thought you might need cheering up, what?” And to my horror he put a hand on my bare shoulder, caressed it, then started to slide it down my front.

I mustered all my energy and sat up. “Unhand me, churl,” I said, knocking at his hand as if it were an annoying insect. “Be gone, I say.”

For some reason he found this really funny. “You really are quite delightful,” he said. “I thought I’d be bored to tears this Christmas but now I can see it’s going to be rather jolly.”

He grabbed my hands as I lashed out at him, and pinned me back to the pillow. “A spirited little miss, eh?” he whispered as I tried to break free of him. “I do enjoy a good struggle. The prize is so much sweeter. All of the dried-up prunes around here are all too ready to leap into the sack at the slightest invitation.”

His face was close to mine and I smelled the unpleasant mixture of alcohol, tobacco and some kind of scented pomade or hair oil. That sobered me up more quickly than any black coffee would have done.

“Go away or I’ll scream,” I said.

This made him laugh even more. “My dear, bed hopping is a time-honored country sport. Everyone does it. It’s only a bit of fun, what?”

“Not for me,” I said. “And certainly not with you. Now get out of my room.”

“You ’eard the lady. Get out while the going’s good,” said a threatening voice behind us, and Queenie loomed up like an avenging angel. She had a water jug in her hand. “Now, do you want this broken over yer ’ead or what?”

“Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted,” Johnnie said and made a hasty exit.

“Queenie,” I said, sitting up again and brushing myself off, “sometimes you are worth your wages after all.”

“Who was that man? Bloody cheek, coming into your room like that,” she said. “Nasty slimy type. I’m going to bring my mattress and sleep on your floor in the future. And you tell your Mr. Darcy and he’ll punch the daylights out of him.”

“I don’t think we’d better do that,” I said.

“He was worried about you, you know. He says to me, ‘Queenie, go and sit with her. See if you can get her to eat something.’ So I brought you the tray. There’s a lovely soup and some game pie and black coffee.”

“I’ll try the black coffee anyway,” I said and then fell asleep with Queenie sitting on the end of my bed.

Chapter 16

GORZLEY HALL

DECEMBER 24, CHRISTMAS EVE

Awoke feeling rather confused and not too well. Reminder to self: Never touch alcohol again, especially not elderberry wine.

I opened my eyes and wondered why the daylight hurt me so much. Then vague recollections of the night before crept back. Not only of my drunkenness but of the danger I had felt. And I had been too drunk to be vigilant. I opened my bedroom door. The house was suspiciously quiet. I should have stayed awake and alert last night. I should have told Darcy my suspicions instead of . . . My cheeks turned flaming hot as I remembered some of the things I said to him. If someone had died during the night, it would be my fault.

Even the Wexlers had not leaped up at the crack of dawn after the previous night’s festivities. I suspected I wasn’t the only one taken by surprise at the strength and amount of the alcohol consumed. I washed, dressed and came downstairs to find the Rathbones breakfasting quietly on toast and black coffee. I decided that was all I could manage too and was just trying to swallow a morsel with marmalade on it when the door opened and Monty, Badger and Darcy came in, laughing as if they were in the middle of a good joke.

“So the bishop said, ‘Not during Lent,’” Monty finished and the other two laughed even louder. They went over to the sideboard and started helping themselves generously to everything that was there while I looked around to see if there was another way out of the room or I could disguise myself as a standard lamp. Before I could attempt either, Darcy came and sat beside me.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

I flushed bright red as I saw his eyes laughing at me. “Remind me never to drink elderberry wine again,” I said.

“Good God, you didn’t actually drink any of those old biddies’ wine, did you?” Monty said in a horrified voice. “They are notorious for it around here. Lethal. Positively lethal. And the elderberry is worse than the dandelion. Of course, the parsnip is the real killer.”

At the mention of the word “killer” I found that I was no longer laughing. I remembered the sense of danger I had felt as we walked from my mother’s cottage.

“Is everybody all right this morning?” I asked.

Monty was still grinning. “I suspect the other guests feel rather the way you do,” he said. “If they all knocked back that wine they’ll have glorious headaches.”

Monty and Badger devoured their food as only young college men can and excused themselves to go outside and hurl around a rugby ball. I went to go too, but Darcy grabbed my wrist. “What did you mean by asking if everyone was all right?” he said softly. “Did you suspect that might not be the case?”

“It’s these unexplained deaths,” I said. “One each day since I arrived. The man shot in the orchard, the garage owner who fell off a bridge, the old lady found gassed—and yesterday there was also a horrible incident in Newton Abbott. A telephone operator was electrocuted when she tried to plug in her headphones.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Darcy said. “There would be no way that electric wires would be anywhere near telephone wires.”

“That makes it four deaths in four days,” I said. “So I couldn’t help worrying that someone might have died this morning.”

“As far as I know we’re all hale and hearty here,” he said. “No corpses lying in the hallways.”

“It’s not funny, Darcy,” I snapped. “It’s horrible.”

He reached across and stroked my cheek. “Yes, I suppose it is. Especially when you’ve actually seen one of those corpses. But there’s nothing we can do about it, Georgie, and it doesn’t concern us. Maybe your telephone operator was deliberately killed because she eavesdropped on a conversation, but the others—well, as far as I can see they can’t be connected or even be murders. A cluster of sad accidents, that’s all.”

His hand slid from my cheek down to my chin and he pulled me toward him to give me a kiss.

“Darcy, not in public,” I said.

He grinned. “You weren’t so modest about it last night, I seem to remember. Inviting me into your bedchamber, suggesting that we run off to a desert island together in full hearing of everyone else. In fact, I had no idea that you were such a hot little piece.”

“Oh, dear.” I put my hands to my face. “Don’t remind me. I feel absolutely awful.”

“Don’t apologize. I rather liked it. In fact, I’m looking for a time when you can show me more.”

“Stop it.” I slapped his hand and he laughed. “Maybe it’s your true nature coming out. Maybe you take after your mother after all.”

“God, I hope not,” I said.

“By the way, was that your grandfather we saw last night? Looked exactly like him.”

“Yes, it was. My mother’s here too. She and Noel Coward are working on a play together and Granddad came down to help look after them.”

“Your mother and Noel Coward—what an unlikely pair.” Darcy chuckled. “So she’s going back to the theater, is she? The big blond German man is nicht mehr?”

“He’s gone to stay with his family for Christmas,” I said. “And between ourselves I see the beginning of the end. I think she’s only toying with the idea of acting again. She does so love being adored.”

“Don’t we all?” Darcy gave me the most wonderful smile that melted me all the way to my toes.

“Oh, Darcy, you’re up. Jolly good.” Bunty stopped short when she saw us together. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out for a shoot. Oodles of pheasants around here just waiting to be bagged.”

“I think we’d better see what your mother has planned for us,” Darcy said. “She seems to have the whole thing organized.”

“There’s no need for family to have to take part in all her silly fun and games,” Bunty said, latching on to his arm. “You and I could slip away and not be noticed.”

“Another time, Bunty,” he said. He gave me a swift glance, saw me trying to look indifferent, then cleared his throat. “Bunty, I think you should know that Georgie and I . . . well . . .”

There was a dreadfully long silence in which I shifted uneasily on my seat.

“I knew it,” she said at last. “I saw the way you look at her. Oh, bugger. Well. I suppose I’d better be charitable and say ‘Bless you, my children.’ I probably wouldn’t have been able to marry my cousin anyway. Blast and damnation. How am I ever going to meet anyone decent stuck down here?”

And she stomped out. Darcy and I exchanged a long look. “I had to tell her,” he said. “She’s been pestering me every second since I got here.”

“I hope her mother won’t mind,” I said, trying to look blasé while all the time a voice was yelling through my head that Darcy had acknowledged me as his sweetheart. “Perhaps she had her heart set on a match too.”

“A match?” Darcy smiled. “I don’t think I’d be described as much of a catch at the moment. A title sometime in the distant future and no prospects for the present. Hopeless, if you ask me.” He gave me another one of those smiles.

Other people began to drift into the breakfast room muttering “Morning” in a way that indicated they too were suffering from hangovers. I got up. “I should go and see what Lady Hawse-Gorzley wants me to do,” I said. But before I could leave the room she came in.

“Georgiana dear. The weather’s not promising this morning. It may snow again. May rain. Dashed nuisance. So I suggest you round up the young people and get to work on the pantomime.”

“Pantomime?”

“Oh, yes. We always put on a pantomime on Boxing Day. The funnier the better. Ask Bunty for the local jokes. I’ll have the servants bring the dressing-up box down from the attic. Always such fun. And we’ll keep it down for when we play charades. You can have the small sitting room next to the ballroom.”

She looked around the table. “Everyone all right? Splendid. Splendid. I’ll have the butler put the morning papers in the library for you.”

And she was off again. I looked down at Darcy.

“How are you at pantomimes?” I asked.

“Expert,” he said. “My Widow Twankey brought the house down.”

“What pantomime is she in?”

He looked shocked. “Aladdin. You know—Wishy Washy and the magic lamp and all that.”

I shrugged. “Sorry, I’ve never seen it.”

“Never seen Aladdin? My dear girl, you haven’t lived.”

“There aren’t too many pantomimes around Castle Rannoch, you know. And I’ve hardly ever been in London for Christmas. I think I may have seen Puss in Boots once, but I can’t remember anything about it.”

“And then there is Dick Whittington, isn’t there? And Cinderella, of course. And Babes in the Wood.”

“We’ll need one with seven or eight roles,” I said. “Everyone should have a part.”

“Well, that rules out Dick Whittington,” Darcy said. “I can only think of Dick and his cat.”

“I expect he had a sweetheart,” I said. “It seems to be one of the requirements.”

“It had better be Cinderella,” Darcy said. “At least we know the story to that one.”

I counted on my fingers. “Let’s see—Cinderella, wicked stepmother—”

“I claim that role for myself,” he said.

“Two ugly sisters.”

“Monty and Badger.”

“The prince, the fairy godmother.”

“The king and the person who carries around the glass slipper. That makes eight.”

“Perfect,” I said.

I rounded up the younger members and presented the idea to them. Naturally Cherie thought it would be boring, Junior thought it would be stupid and Ethel didn’t look too enthusiastic. But Cherie brightened up a lot when I made her Cinderella. Ethel agreed to be the fairy godmother and I assigned Bunty to be the prince. As you know, the principal boy in a pantomime is always played by a female in tights, and there is always a comic older woman played by a man. It’s tradition. And a lot of pies in the face and that kind of thing.

By the end of the morning we had a rough sketch of our lines and everyone had entered into the spirit of the thing, Ethel proving to be rather sharp and witty and even Junior happy to be made the king. But the more they laughed and joked and tried on impossible costumes the more I tried to fight off a lingering uneasiness. Why had I sensed danger so close to my mother’s cottage the night before? A ridiculous notion entered my head. What if one of those convicts knew that my grandfather had been a policeman? Might they want to get him out of the way as their fifth victim?

I could stand it no longer. “I’ll leave you to run through it once more,” I said. “I have to pop down to the village for a minute.”

I put on my coat, grabbed my gifts and ran all the way down the drive, sliding a little in snow that had started to melt. I hammered on my mother’s door. When Granddad opened it I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“Oh, you’re all right. Thank goodness.”

“And why shouldn’t I be all right?” he asked, helping me off with my coat. “Fit as a fiddle, me.” And he thumped his chest. “Come on in, ducks. We’ve got company.”

I went through into the sitting room and found Detective Inspector Newcombe seated by the fire, a cup of tea in his hand.

“The inspector just dropped in for a chat,” Granddad said.

“There hasn’t been another death, has there?” I asked.

“Not that we’ve heard of,” the inspector said, “but I’m not at all happy. Those first deaths I could explain, but that poor woman at the telephone exchange—that had to be malicious and intentional. We can’t tell any more, because the place burned, but I’d say the wires were deliberately hooked up to kill someone. That’s why I came to see your grandfather, miss.”

Obviously it had slipped his mind that I wasn’t a miss, I was a milady. “My chief inspector is off skiing in France so it’s all up to me. I know I should probably call in Scotland Yard, but I don’t want to do that and look a fool, so I thought that a retired member of the Metropolitan Police Service could maybe give me some pointers.”

He looked hopefully at my grandfather. Granddad tried to look like someone who had been a Scotland Yard expert detective, instead of an ordinary copper.

“Do you have anyone around here who might have a grudge against the people who have died? Anyone who has been a bit off his rocker?”

The inspector shook his head. “Nobody. It’s normally quieter than the grave in these parts—oh, dear, that was a tactless expression, wasn’t it? But the occasional robbery, a bit of cattle or sheep stealing, someone beating up his old lady on a Saturday night—that’s what crime means to us. This has to be an outsider, and the only outsiders I know are those convicts.”

“There are all the people staying with Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” I pointed out. “They are all outsiders.”

“Yes, but with no connections to the people who have died, surely?” The inspector sounded shocked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Since they’ve just come from America and Yorkshire and India.”

“I wish they’d hurry up and catch those blasted convicts,” the inspector said. “Until they are caught I have to believe that they are hiding out on my patch and it’s up to me to find them.”

“You’ve asked everybody in the area to report break-ins or stolen food immediately, have you?” I said. “They have to eat and shelter somewhere.”

“Exactly. With the kind of weather we’ve just had, someone must be hiding them, but we’ve pretty much searched door to door. Most of the local people have lived here all their lives. They’re not the kind of people to be harboring criminals.”

“I’m not sure it is your convicts we’re looking at,” Granddad said slowly. “In my time on the force I came up against a lot of criminals. Most of them were not too bright and if they were going to kill someone they did it with the first thing that came to hand—coshing someone over the head with a brick, stabbing them, or shooting, if they had a gun. And they usually chose the same way too. They’d leave behind a blueprint we could identify. If these are murders, they are clever methods of killing—someone with a good brain is killing in very different ways—heaven knows for what reason. Either that or more than one person is involved. So we have to ask ourselves why. Why would a man bother to electrocute someone at a switchboard when he could presumably follow her home in the dark and cosh or stab her? Until we can get inside his head, we’re not going to be able to stop him.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the inspector said. “But as it happens these convicts were not your usual thugs. One was a bank teller, reckoned to be the brains behind a big train robbery. Another was an escape artist in the theater. You know, Britain’s answer to Houdini. We reckon he was the one who got them out of their shackles. He went bad and turned to safecracking. And the third used to do a comic music-hall act with his wife. The old colonel and the innocent young girl.”

“Sounds harmless enough,” Granddad said.

“I don’t know about that,” the inspector said. “When there was no more money to be made from music halls they started robbing their landladies, or conning them out of their life savings. Some of the old biddies met an untimely end, but we could never prove that this bloke was actually guilty of murder.”

“What happened to the wife? Did she go to jail too?” Granddad asked.

“She committed suicide. Drowned herself off Beachy Head in Sussex.”

“So not from around here, then?”

“None of them were. Driving me mad, that’s what it’s doing.”

He took a long swig of tea, then set down the teacup.

“I don’t think you should be focusing on those convicts,” Granddad said. “An escaped convict is not going to go to the trouble of setting up an elaborate death to look like an accident, is he? If you’re on the run and hiding, the more time you spend out in the open, the greater the likelihood of being caught.”

“Well, at least there hasn’t been a death so far today, touch wood,” the inspector said. “Maybe he’s got the four people he wants.”

“And why did he want them?” Granddad asked. “It seems to me that they couldn’t be more different, and they wouldn’t be a threat to anybody.”

The inspector sighed. “I know. Hopeless, isn’t it? But my chief is going to come back from France and bawl me out if I haven’t solved it.” He got to his feet. “Thanks for the chat, Albert. Maybe things have quieted down for Christmas. Maybe even a hardened criminal can’t bring himself to kill anyone at such a sacred time. Maybe I can even have Christmas dinner with my wife and the nippers for once.”

As he opened the front door a bobby in blue uniform was coming up the path toward us.

“Oh, there you are, sir,” he said. “I was sent from the station to get you. There’s been a robbery in the high street. Mr. Klein the jeweler. They broke in overnight and they’ve taken his most valuable pieces. He’s in a terrible state, sir. Ranting and raving and blaming the police. You’d better come quickly.”

Chapter 17

Inspector Newcombe started down the path toward his motor. “I hope nobody’s touched anything and messed up the fingerprints,” he said. “A lot of damage, was there? Did they smash the window?”

“Oh, no, sir. There were no obvious signs of a break-in and the pieces they took were in the safe at the back. Sarge reckons it was professionals, all right. Picked the lock on the front door. Knew exactly what they were doing and what they were looking for. Only took some rings with bloody great diamonds in them. And Sarge don’t reckon we’ll find any fingerprints neither.”

“Aha,” Newcombe said. “See, what did I tell you? One of those convicts was a professional escape artist, wasn’t he? Expert at picking locks. I knew they were still hanging around here.”

“Oh, but that’s the other thing I’ve got to tell you, sir,” the constable said, his cheeks pink with excitement. “A message just came in that they’ve caught one of the convicts up in Birmingham. Jim Howard, sir. Wasn’t he the one who was the escape artist?”

“Damn,” Inspector Newcombe muttered. “That shoots down my theory, then. I don’t think a bank clerk or a music hall entertainer would know how to crack a safe. I wonder if the other two were with him or if he knows where they are. I don’t suppose he’ll squeal on his mates, anyway.” He clapped a hand on the constable’s shoulder. “Come on, then, lad. Let’s get back into town. Sorry for rushing off like this, Albert. I’ll let you know what we find.”

And he strode down the path to his waiting car.

“At least it’s not a murder,” I said shakily, thinking of the polite and charming Mr. Klein, who had told me about the fine pieces he’d just acquired from Paris. Maybe he had also mentioned these fine pieces to the wrong person. But at least he was still alive and unharmed.

“And this one shouldn’t be too hard to figure out,” Granddad said, staring thoughtfully at the departing car. “There are only a limited number of criminals in an area like this who possess the skills to crack a safe and have the knowledge to take only the best pieces. Your petty thief who needs extra money for Christmas would have smashed the window and grabbed what he could.”

“So you don’t think this crime was related to the strange deaths, do you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t see how. If the others are murders, then they are the work of a twisted sort of mind. And this is the work of an expert burglar. Probably a known criminal.”

We returned to the cozy sitting room. My mother had appeared, wearing a blue satin robe trimmed with feathers. “Has that horrid little man gone?” she asked. “We’re supposed to be having a quiet and peaceful Christmas and instead we have nasty policemen tramping in and out of the house all the time. You shouldn’t have encouraged him, Daddy.”

“The poor bloke is at his wit’s end, ducks. He wanted my advice.”

“I take it you haven’t told him you were just a humble copper and not the leading light of Scotland Yard?” She curled herself into an armchair. “Oh, hello, Georgie, darling. Come and give your aged mother a kiss.”

I did so, then I handed her the package. “A small Christmas token from me. Not to be opened until tomorrow.”

“Georgie, you shouldn’t. How sweet of you. And now I feel terrible because I wasn’t expecting to see you until the new year, when I was planning to take you on a shopping spree.” She uncurled herself. “But you have to have something. Come upstairs and see what you’d like. I know I’m teeny tiny compared to you, but I have some pretty scarves and hats and things.”

“It’s all right, Mummy, you really don’t need to. . . .”

“Nonsense. I insist. You have to have something on the right day. Besides, I always travel with far too many clothes.”

And she dragged me up the narrow staircase into a frightfully untidy bedroom. It was clear she rarely traveled without her maid and Mrs. Huggins wasn’t up to the task of keeping a lady’s wardrobe in order.

“Help yourself, darling. Anything you’d like.”

My gaze swept around the room, alighting on a lovely cashmere cardigan in a soft rose. Modesty almost prevented me from asking for it, but I reasoned that she had the money to buy a replacement whenever she wanted while I wasn’t likely to be offered cashmere again in a hurry.

“Could I try this on?” I asked. “It looks as if it might be big enough for me.”

“That old thing?” she said. “Take it, darling. I only brought it in case it was freezing here, but as you can see, it’s lovely and warm.”

I tried it on and it fitted rather well.

“You need a skirt to go with it,” she said. “That tweed you’re wearing is hopelessly shapeless. Let’s see.” She rummaged in a wardrobe and held up a slim gray crepe de chine. “This is long on me and you do have a nice little waist.”

After a half hour I came away with the cardigan and skirt, a divine peach silk scarf and a clever little black hat with a jaunty peacock feather on one side. As we left the bedroom the door beside it opened and Noel Coward peeked out.

“I’ve been finding Christmas presents for Georgie,” my mother said. “Such fun.”

“Oh, God. Is one supposed to give presents?” Noel said. “It never crossed my mind.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a present for you, Mr. Coward. I didn’t see anything you might want.”

“Dear child, you couldn’t afford anything I might want,” he said. “In fact, my needs are few these days. But I tell you what—I’ll write a song for you. How would that be?”

“As long as you give her the royalties, Noel,” my mother said astutely.

“Naturally,” he said smoothly. “At least half of them. Ah, well, back to work. I’ve nearly finished that scene, Claire. Can we go through it in a few minutes?”

“I have to get back to the hall.” I gave my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much for the presents. They are lovely. I’ll look quite smart for Christmas. See you tomorrow for Christmas dinner, then.”

“I’m not sure if we’re coming,” she said. “Noel doesn’t think they’ll be our kind of people.”

Back downstairs I gave Granddad his little box and Mrs. Huggins her box of toffees. They were both quite moved.

“Fancy, me getting a present from royalty,” Mrs. Huggins said. “Just wait till I tell them back home at the Queen’s Head.”

“You’re a good girl, my love,” Granddad said, putting an arm around me. “I wish I’d got a present for you, but I had no idea I’d be seeing you. I hope good things come your way soon. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

“Actually, having you close by for Christmas is the best present I could have,” I said, giving him a kiss.

I felt a rosy glow as I came out of the cottage. I saw Miss Prendergast hurrying across the street, even though there was no traffic in sight. She was holding her shapeless hat firmly to her head, although the wind was hardly blowing, and she didn’t notice me until she almost barreled into me.

“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “So sorry. Didn’t see you. I’ve just come from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Tried to cheer them up but they are completely devastated, poor dears. They relied on Miss Effie for everything. She used to boss them around dreadfully but they are lost without her. One feels so sorry for them.” And her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to sentiment. “I really wish that . . .” she began, then shook her head firmly. “Can’t undo the past, no matter how sad, can one?”

And she went on her way, up the front path to her cottage door. I stared after her. What did she wish? I wondered. That Miss Effie hadn’t died, or that one of the other sisters had died in her stead? I continued on my way back to the hall.

* * *

THE REST OF the day went smoothly enough. The younger set were in good spirits after the pantomime rehearsal and amused themselves playing board games. The Sechrests and Rathbones played bridge, chatting as they did so about this area and their memories of past hunts and regattas and families they both knew. The Rathbones once owned a house nearby for their home leaves but had been forced to give it up a few years ago, when so much money was lost in the great crash of ’29.

“The memsahib still misses her garden, of course,” Colonel Rathbone said. “It’s too damned hot to work in the garden in Calcutta.”

“The gardeners do try hard, bless them,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but it’s always a losing battle against the heat and then the monsoon comes and flattens everything.”

“Pity it’s not summer or Sandra would love to show you around our garden,” Captain Sechrest said. “Absolutely devoted to her garden, aren’t you, old girl?”

“One has to keep oneself busy while you are away for months,” Mrs. Sechrest said and I noticed that she shot a look at Johnnie Protheroe, who was playing some kind of card game with Bunty that seemed to involve touching her knee quite often.

“So how often do you get home?” Sandy Sechrest asked the Rathbones.

“Every five years.”

“How much longer do you think you’ll stick it out?” she asked.

Colonel Rathbone frowned. “Can’t really say. Of course I’d like to retire to a little place in a village like this. But who knows if we’ll have another blasted war or a native uprising. And who knows what one will be able to afford on an army pension.”

He glanced at his wife, then she looked away. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mrs. Rathbone said. “You give your life to the army and they reward you with a pension that a sparrow couldn’t live on. It’s simply not fair. I should have been like some of the other wives and had an affair with a maharaja and been rewarded for my services with jewels. I know a couple of wives who set themselves up very nicely that way.”

“I wouldn’t have minded an affair with a maharaja,” Sandra Sechrest said dreamily. “They have such lovely dark eyes, don’t they?”

I let the conversation wash over me as I pretended to study a magazine, but I found I could not shake off the tension. The day wasn’t over yet. There was still time for another death.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared, clapping her hands. “Time for tea, everyone. We’re serving it a little early so that we have enough light to go out and find the Yule log. And I wanted to check who would like to go to midnight mass at our little church, and who would rather do matins tomorrow morning. Oh, and Darcy dear—do you need me to find out the times of masses at the Catholic church in Newton Abbott?”

And there it was—the reminder of the fact I had conveniently chosen to block from my mind. Darcy was a Catholic. I would not be allowed to marry him.

Chapter 18

DECEMBER 24, EVENING ON CHRISTMAS EVE

Can’t help feeling excited, in spite of everything that has happened.

I tried to push this worry from my mind as we wrapped up warmly and set off to find the Yule log. Monty insisted that we sing carols as we trudged through the snow. The temperature was slightly warmer today so the snow was turning to slush, which would make it hard to drag the log home on a sled. Sir Oswald and Monty were pulling one just in case, but Bunty was leading one of the farm horses attached to a wagon.

This time we set out on the other side of the house, past a lovely formal garden, its statues decorated with crowns of snow and a snowy rim to the lily pond, then into a wilderness area that led up to Lovey Tor. This part of the grounds was full of old oak trees, bent against the cruel Dartmoor wind, as were cedars, yew trees and even a beech or two. When I paused to look back I saw that we had a lovely view of the house and the village beyond, nestled in the hollow between the hills. We could also glimpse another large house through the trees.

“What’s that?” I asked Bunty.

“Oh, that was poor old Freddie’s place,” she said. “I don’t know who it will go to now. He didn’t have any brothers. Perhaps it will be sold and we’ll have frightful nouveau riche bankers who will just come down for weekends.”

“At least you’d have a chance to meet people if they brought house parties with them,” I said and she grinned.

“Maybe they wouldn’t be so frightful. I do so want to marry someone rich enough to keep me. I could do without the title.”

“I agree,” I said. “Titles aren’t worth much in the real world, are they?”

“In your case you could presumably marry someone with a real title—you know—a prince or a duke.”

“That’s what my family would like. They have already tried to saddle me with a frightful Romanian prince. My friend Belinda and I called him Fishface.”

“But you’d prefer a penniless Darcy.” She glanced back over her shoulder to see Darcy far behind, walking with Monty as they dragged the sled.

“Yes, I would, actually. But it probably won’t ever happen. I don’t think I’d be allowed to marry a Catholic.”

“That’s stupid. I’d jolly well ignore them if I wanted to marry someone I loved.”

“I think it’s something to do with the law of England. One can hardly go against that.”

“You’ll find a way if you want to,” she said encouragingly.

We walked on.

“How much further? I’m tired,” Junior whined.

I glanced back again as a thought struck me. This part of the property was close to Freddie’s house, and what’s more, it was full of big, solid trees. If he had wanted to rig up some kind of booby trap then the position here would have been ideal. Why go all the way around to the orchard?

“Here we are,” Sir Oswald called. “This is the one I thought would do. What do you think?”

We gathered around to admire an enormous log—a great fallen oak limb, actually—then worked together to heft it onto the sled, which promptly sank into the mushy snow and wouldn’t move. So we had to use the wagon. Even with all of us lifting and grunting it was jolly heavy and we were glad that the horse had to transport it down the hill and not us. As we made our way home the light was rapidly fading, bathing the world in a dusky pink glow.

“We will take the log into the house and light it after dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “and if all goes well it should burn all through Christmas Day to bring us luck.”

As soon as we had taken off our coats and hats, Dickson the butler appeared with a punch bowl of steaming mulled wine and a tray of hot sausage rolls. This time I sipped slowly, warming up my fingers on the glass.

“Right, now we all have more work to do before dinner.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley took control again before anyone could slip away. “It’s time to decorate the Christmas tree. Lights in this box, glass ornaments here, tinsel garlands over there. You should be able to reach the upper portion of the tree by leaning through the banister, and I suggest you boys put the lights and ornaments on the upper part.”

We set to work hanging the delicate ornaments—trumpets and birds, gnomes and balls, then adding the finishing touches of pinecones, sugar mice, tinsel. When the lights were finally plugged in, the tree sparkled with a magical glow and the company broke into applause.

This time we dressed formally for dinner, except for Junior, who joined us in an awful blue-and-white-checked jacket. Mrs. Upthorpe and Ethel were sporting their Parisian gowns, which somehow failed to make them look elegant. I know that’s uncharitable of me, but I was trying to be an unbiased observer. I also wished that it could have been summer, not winter, as I too possessed a Chanel evening gown—designed for me by Coco herself. But alas it was a light chiffon and quite unsuitable for a winter gathering. And so I was stuck with my aged burgundy velvet. At least I had a strand of family rubies that took the attention away from where Queenie had brushed the fabric the wrong way.

I came into the dining room to see that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had outdone herself tonight. There were two large candelabras on the dining table and their light sparkled from silver and crystal. I could tell the guests were impressed, even the Wexlers. There were place cards at the table and I was seated between Colonel Rathbone and Johnnie Protheroe—which would not have been my first choice of assignment. Sure enough, we were only halfway through the first course, a hearty game soup, when I felt a hand on my knee. I pushed it off and pretended not to have noticed.

The second course came: John Dory in a caper sauce. And to my amazement I felt a hand on my knee again, only this time it was the other knee. Either Johnnie had grown very long arms or the colonel was also a groper. I pushed it away. Across the table I saw Darcy giving me a strange look as if he could sense something was not right. I looked to left and right of me then rolled my eyes. I think he understood and smirked.

A sorbet was served before the main course to clear the palate and no hands appeared. Then the main course was carried to the table: a splendid baron of beef, with individual Yorkshire puddings, crispy roast potatoes and a puree of root vegetables baked with a crispy top. Conversation lagged as everyone ate. Then, as plates were cleared, not one but two hands landed on my knees again. I decided this had to stop once and for all. I slid both my hands under the table and caressed each hand lovingly, a serene smile on my face. Then I picked up each hand and brought them together, carefully removing my own hands. It took them a moment to realize that they were holding hands with each other. I sensed a rapid movement and then each of the men sitting bolt upright on either side of me. Both had red faces!

The pudding was apple tart with Devon clotted cream, followed by anchovy toast savories. We ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee and were soon joined by the men.

“I think some parlor games are in order, don’t you?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and she soon had us playing all the silly old ones like the minister’s cat. It was the sort of thing that I, as an only child alone with servants in a big castle, had rarely done while I was growing up and I loved every moment of it.

Around ten, the Wexlers opted to go to bed, but the rest of us decided to stay up, most of us planning to go to midnight service. A couple of whist foursomes were begun. The rest of us sat near the fire talking. After a while I found I wasn’t taking part in the conversation, instead letting my thoughts wander from the robbery today to Darcy’s Catholicism. I kept telling myself that it was Christmas Eve and all was well, but so many disquieting things had happened in the last few days that I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the moment. I fought back tiredness and was glad when we were dismissed to change for church.

At eleven forty-five we set off up the driveway, marching two by two like students on a school outing. The dowager countess had declined to come with us, declaring that midnight mass was a papist invention and the only proper celebration of Christmas was matins on the day itself. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest decided to join her. I suspected they had both eaten and drunk their fill at dinner and were feeling too comfortable to move. The slushy snow had frozen again and made the going treacherous but we held on to each other and reached the church without mishap. Apparently the Hawse-Gorzleys had their own pews at the front, because Lady Hawse-Gorzley marched us past the rest of the congregation to the places of honor right at the front where nobody else had dared to sit. I noticed that Darcy had come with us and sat with Monty and Badger in the row behind me.

It was one of those perfect village churches dating from Norman times with a vaulted ceiling and simple altar and it had that special smell I always associated with old churches—a mixture of mold and old books and polish that was in no way unpleasant. It was also, like most old churches, not heated and our breath rose visibly toward the rafters. Miss Prendergast had decorated it splendidly, with holly in every niche and ivy trailing over the back of the altar. I noticed, however, that the Christmas crèche, at the steps of the Lady Chapel, had no adornment of holly, thanks to Mr. Barclay.

The moment I located him, sitting at the organ still and formal in his red bow tie, he struck up with a resounding fanfare that filled the whole church. The choirboys shuffled in, the smaller ones rubbing their eyes and wishing they could be in bed. They looked so angelic in their white robes and red ruffs and when the organ struck up “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” they sounded angelic too. As we reached the verse that begins, “Yeah, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,” the church bells began to ring midnight and it was Christmas Day.

After a rousing rendering of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” we walked back up the drive, no longer sleepy but revived by the lively singing. I fell into step beside Darcy.

“I see you came to the church of the heretics with us,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I was joking. “So tell me, does your Catholic religion really mean that much to you?”

“I came with you because I thought it was polite to my hostess,” he said, “and also because the law says we don’t have to attend mass if the church is more than three miles away and if we are a traveler. The nearest Catholic church is at least ten miles away and I didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble of driving me in this weather.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

“And as to whether my religion means anything to me, I can’t say I’m always a devout Catholic, but I try. My mother converted to marry my father, you know. And she became very devout. So I’m conscious of that.”

We walked on in silence while I digested this. As we took off the various layers of coats and scarves, Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that there was brandy and hot mince pies in the drawing room to warm us up. I was about to go through when Darcy grabbed my arm and held me back.

“It’s Christmas Day,” he said, “and I want to give you my Christmas present.” And he took a small box from his pocket. “If I’d known you were going to be here, it would have been something rather different and a little more special,” he said, “but I wanted you to have something, to think of me when I’m not with you.”

I took the box and opened it. Inside was a silver Devon pixie on a pretty silver chain. I started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Don’t you like it?”

“Wait and see tomorrow morning,” I said. “And I do like it. Thank you.”

“And in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “I planned ahead. You’re standing directly under the mistletoe.”

Then he took me in his arms and kissed me—not a perfunctory meeting of the lips, but a real, warm and wonderful kiss.

Chapter 19

CHRISTMAS DAY AT GORZLEY HALL

DECEMBER 25

I floated up to bed in a rosy haze. Darcy loved me. Nothing else in the whole world mattered. Queenie was lying on my bed, snoring away. Presumably she had been waiting for my return to undress me and had not been able to stay awake any longer. I roused her gently. “Queenie, you can go to bed now,” I whispered. “Happy Christmas.”

“Same to you, miss,” she muttered and promptly fell back to sleep again.

“Queenie. You have to go back to your own bed.” I prodded and tried to move her. She merely sighed and turned over. She was too heavy to lift. Since I was full of happiness and Christmas cheer I merely rolled her to one side of the bed, undressed and got in myself.

I woke to the sound of bells pealing jubilantly. Christmas Day. I sat up to see that Queenie was still sound asleep, mouth open and snoring unattractively. I nudged her.

“Queenie. Wake up. It’s morning and I’d like my tea.”

She yawned and stretched like a cat, then opened her eyes and looked around in surprise.

“Ruddy ’ell, miss. What the dickens am I doing here?”

“You fell asleep waiting for me and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“You’re a proper toff, you are,” she said.

“Yes, well, proper toffs usually get their morning tea brought to them by this hour, so I suggest you leap up and fetch it.”

“Blimey, yes. Bob’s yer uncle then.”

And she waddled out, leaving me to sit up in bed, enjoying the sound of the bells and the white stillness of the landscape outside my window. Then I put my hand to my neck to feel for my pixie. My fingers closed around him, and I shut my eyes, remembering that kiss. It was indeed a good Christmas.

Queenie was back in no time at all.

“Happy Christmas, my lady,” she said. “Cook sent up a mince pie instead of biscuits this morning.”

It was warm from the oven and I savored it.

“What will your ladyship be wearing?” Queenie asked, clearly trying to be on her best behavior.

“I believe I’ll wear my Christmas present from my mother—the rose cardigan and the long silky skirt and the scarf, with my white silk blouse,” I said. “Oh, and Queenie—that cardigan is made of cashmere. On no account are you to attempt to wash it, scrub it, iron it or do anything else to it. Is that clear?”

She nodded. “Sorry about the jersey dress, miss,” she muttered. “I feel like a fool. You know what my old dad used to say, don’t you?”

“Various things, if I remember correctly—that you were dropped on your head at birth or that you must be twins because one couldn’t be so daft.”

She grinned. “You got it. That’s exactly what he said.”

I got up and went to the dresser, retrieving a package. “Happy Christmas, Queenie,” I said. “Servants should officially receive their Christmas boxes tomorrow, on Boxing Day, but I think I’d like you to have it now.”

“For me, miss?” Her eyes opened wide.

“It’s nothing very special,” I said. “You know I don’t have much money.”

She opened it. It was a black cloche hat to replace the shapeless felt flowerpot she usually wore. She was embarrassingly grateful and wiped away tears. “Oooh, miss, I ain’t never had anything so lovely before. Honest, I ain’t. You’re such a lovely person. I’m so lucky.”

Oh, dear, when she said things like that I realized that I could never sack her, however awful she was.

Washed and dressed in my new finery, feeling delightfully stylish, I went down to breakfast. Apart from the Wexlers I was again the first one down and I helped myself from a splendid array of dishes. The breakfasts at Gorzley Hall had been more than generous every day but this Christmas spread outdid them. Bacon, sausages, kidneys, eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, smoked haddock—everything one could possibly want. I tried not to take too much, knowing the Christmas banquet that was to follow.

While I was eating the other guests filed in, one by one, and Christmas greetings filled the air. Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared when we were all seated to wish us a happy Christmas and to inform us that there was something special in the small sitting room as soon as we had finished eating. Like eager children we filed through to see an impressive snow house sitting on a low table. For those of you who have never seen a snow house, it is made of cardboard to look like an old-fashioned house and is liberally decorated with cotton wool and sparkles to look like snow. Oh, and it’s full of presents.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley removed the chimney.

“Lucky dip,” she said. “Red ribbon means for a man, white ribbon for a woman.”

We dipped, one by one. The presents were all rather mundane—boxes of handkerchiefs and writing paper, appointment books and journals. I was lucky enough to pick one of the latter as I have always kept a diary and this one was particularly grand with a purple leather cover and a lock and key. We thanked her and she smiled, but I could tell she was distracted. As people drifted away I went up to her.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “You seem a little worried.”

She frowned. “It’s that dratted butcher. He hasn’t delivered the geese as he promised. Cook has the stuffing all ready and is waiting to put the birds in the oven. You did tell him that I needed those birds by nine o’clock at the latest, didn’t you? And now it’s almost ten.”

“It could have snowed again overnight, making the roads difficult,” I pointed out.

“The trouble is we’ve no way of knowing. The telephones are still not working. I suppose we have enough turkeys to go around, with the stuffing and everything, but I did want those geese.”

“I suppose I could go out and shoot you a couple of swans from the pond,” Sir Oswald said, with deadpan seriousness. “Would they do instead?”

“Don’t be silly, Oswald,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley snapped. “That’s not even amusing.”

“Why, are swans not good to eat?” Mr. Wexler asked.

“Nobody’s ever tasted them,” Bunty said, giving him a withering look that he could be so clueless. “Swans are reserved for royalty. In the old days killing a swan was punished by hanging. I don’t think they’d hang us anymore, but it’s still an offense.”

“Fancy that. How quaint,” Mrs. Wexler said. “You have the quaintest laws over here.”

“That’s because some of them date back to the Middle Ages and nobody has bothered to repeal them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Those of you who are going to matins should think of getting ready.”

“Have my car brought around, Humphreys. I do not intend to walk through the snow,” the dowager countess said to her companion, who scurried off like a frightened rabbit.

“Hopeless creature. Don’t know why I put up with her,” the countess commented before the companion was out of earshot.

“Maybe we could hitch a ride with you, Countess,” Mr. Wexler said.

The countess regarded him through her lorgnette. “I always think that one should walk whenever possible,” she said firmly. “Had there not been snow on the driveway I should have never considered wasting petrol and using the car.”

“But since you are using it,” Mrs. Wexler said, giving her what she hoped was a winning smile.

The countess did not return the smile. “Those two young people of yours will grow up fat and idle if you mollycoddle them,” she said. “What your son needs is a good boarding school. Cold showers in the morning and cross-country runs before breakfast.”

“That’s positively barbaric,” Mrs. Wexler said, putting an arm around Junior’s shoulder.

“Ah, but it made us what we are today,” the countess said, smiling at last. “Rulers of half the world.” She nodded to the Wexlers. “I will see you in church.”

As she went out I caught Darcy’s eye and moved closer to him.

“Isn’t she marvelous?” Darcy muttered to me.

“Come with me,” I said and, taking his hand, I led him from the room.

“Is this a repetition of the other night?” he asked, his eyes challenging mine. “Are you leading me to your bedroom again?”

“Don’t keep reminding me of that.” I blushed.

“Oh, I think I’ll enjoy reminding you of it for a long while yet.”

We reached an alcove beside the front hall. I turned to face Darcy. “I wanted to give you your Christmas present,” I said. “And bear in mind I bought this before I knew you were part of this house party.”

I handed him the little box. When he had taken off the wrapping I saw the grin spreading across his face.

“Great minds think alike,” he said as he opened the box to reveal the pixie.

“I wanted to give you something, and I thought you needed luck more than most people.”

“How true that is,” he said. “I could really do with a streak of luck right now. My father has become so difficult. One can’t even have a civilized conversation with him. He’s all set to sell off the last of the family treasures and won’t listen to me. I just feel so frustrated, watching everything my family stood for gradually disintegrate and not able to do a damned thing about it.” He stopped and managed an embarrassed smile. “I shouldn’t go piling my troubles on you, especially not on Christmas Day.”

“I feel the same way,” I said. “I’m no longer welcome at what was my home and frankly I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Two orphans in the storm,” he said. “Maybe we should do what you suggested in your moment of drunken wisdom—run off to a desert island together and to hell with the whole thing.”

“I don’t like coconuts very much,” I said. He wrapped me in his arms and laughed.

* * *

LADY HAWSE-GORZLEY SUMMONED us together again before the churchgoers set out and announced that we should make plans for the Boxing Day hunt in the next village of Widecombe. She hoped she’d be able to supply enough horses for all those who wanted to take part.

“Not us, thank you,” Mrs. Wexler said firmly. “Hunting is a barbaric sport, from what I’ve heard. Tearing poor little foxes to pieces.”

“They’ve probably never ridden a horse in their lives,” the countess said in a stage whisper.

“I think I’m a little old for that kind of thing,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but I’m sure my husband won’t turn down a chance to hunt, will you, Reggie?”

“I should say not,” Colonel Rathbone said heartily. “Tallyho and view halloo and all that. It’s what England is made of, don’t you know.”

“I don’t think we’re up to hunting, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Upthorpe said, “but we’d certainly like to come along and watch you set off. I’ve never actually seen a hunt. I bet the young men look really handsome in their red coats.”

“Pink,” the countess said sharply.

“I thought the coats were red.” Mrs. Upthorpe looked puzzled.

“They are, but we call it pink.”

“Why call them pink when they’re not pink?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“I’m sure the explanation is lost in the mists of antiquity,” Lady H-G intervened before this could go any further. “Oswald will run you over in the estate car. His leg is playing up again. Still recovering from an injury and the doctor has forbidden hunting.”

Sir Oswald nodded gloomily. “Blasted quack. What does he know?” he muttered.

“I shall enjoy watching you set off,” the countess said. “Remind me of the good old days when I had the finest seat in Hertfordshire.”

For some reason the Wexler children found this amusing and were given a ferocious look by the countess. “I shall, of course, be delighted to offer Mrs. Rathbone a place in my motorcar,” she said, making it quite clear that she was snubbing the rest of the spectators.

“And I take it you’ll be riding your own horses, won’t you, Captain Sechrest?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said quickly, still trying to keep unpleasantness from developing.

“Oh, absolutely,” Captain Sechrest said. “We’ll pop over to our place first thing tomorrow.”

“I’ll drop you off at your place in the morning in the Armstrong Siddeley,” Johnnie said. “I have to pick up my own nag.”

Mrs. Sechrest said, “Thank you, Johnnie, how kind,” at the same time as her husband muttered, “Not at all necessary. Have my own vehicle.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked around. “So let’s see, that leaves the colonel, myself, Monty, Darcy, Bunty—how about you, Badger?”

“I’m not the world’s most brilliant rider.” Badger’s freckled face turned pink. “But I’ll give it a go.”

“Jolly good. That’s the spirit.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley nodded with approval. “And Georgiana—you hunt, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely. Adore it, if you can find me a mount,” I said.

“I think we can. We’ve Sultan if Oswald’s not coming, and Star is still game if a little plodding, isn’t he? And then there are Freddie’s horses. I did approach him about borrowing his extra mounts for our guests before the tragedy, and they’ll need exercising by now. Monty, dear, you might take Darcy and go over there this morning to see what’s what. Tell the groom we’ll want them brought round by eight thirty tomorrow morning.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring my hunting pinks,” Colonel Rathbone said. “Didn’t know about the hunt, y’know. Can’t ride without them. Dashed bad form.”

“I’m sure Oswald will lend you his jacket, won’t you, dear?” Lady H-G said firmly. Sir Oswald didn’t look too sure but smiled wanly.

“And I don’t have my hunting jacket either,” I said. I had brought jodhpurs because one always does.

“You can wear my old jacket,” Bunty said. “We’re about the same size and it’s not too shabby.”

“Thanks awfully.” I made a mental note that she was being a frightfully good sport about Darcy.

Having sorted out the universe again Lady Hawse-Gorzley sent the churchgoers off, found jigsaw puzzles and board games for those who were not planning to hunt, and sent the hunters off to sort out mounts. I took the opportunity to go to wish my nearest and dearest a merry Christmas.

The going was treacherous underfoot with melted snow now turned to ice and I wondered if the hunt would be allowed to take place under such conditions. I was concentrating on not slipping and falling on my bottom when a figure loomed out of the hedge in front of me. I started as I found myself looking at a wild-looking woman—hair unkempt, flowing green skirts and, to my utter amazement, bare feet. She blocked my path, staring at me.

“Happy Christmas to you,” I said uncertainly, unnerved by two eyes, green as a cat’s, that stared at me unblinking. “You must be Sal. I’ve heard about you.”

“You want to watch yourself, miss,” she said with her deep West Country burr. “Or you might come a cropper.”

Then she darted through the hedge and was gone.

Chapter 20

I went on my way, a little shaken. I hadn’t really believed in Wild Sal until now, but she really existed and, what’s more, she had just given me some kind of warning. Had she only meant that the ground was treacherous underfoot or was she hinting at something more sinister?

I could hear Mr. Barclay thumping out the organ as I passed the church for my mother’s cottage. Good smells of roasting fowl and sage stuffing greeted me from the kitchen as my grandfather opened the front door, and I came through to the sitting room to find my mother and Noel Coward around the fire. I was given a grand welcome for once as they were all remarkably in the Christmas spirit. Even Noel Coward was wearing a ridiculous paper hat on his head.

“My dear child,” he said. “How good of you to come and visit our humble estate, when I’m sure you have a million and one things to amuse you at the big house. Tell me, what’s it like there—very feudal? Do the peasants all tug their forelocks?”

“You’ll see for yourself if you come to Christmas luncheon today.”

“Ah, I think Claire and I have decided not to accept the kind invitation, if you would give our apologies. It does become so tiring being adored and having to act like one’s public persona when the real Noel is a shy and retiring sort of chap.”

I laughed. “I don’t believe it for a second.”

“I am stung, wounded. Claire, your daughter has inherited your own brutal honesty.”

“I must say, that outfit looks good on you, Georgie. The cardigan suits you better than it ever did me.” My mother opened her arms. “Come and give your mama a Christmas hug. And Noel tells me I was terribly stingy with my gifts yesterday. Passing on a few old clothes, he called it. He said a big fat check would have been more in order. I pointed out that I’d already promised a shopping spree the moment we’re both back in London.”

Noel sighed. “Then I suppose the generous uncle act is up to me.” And to my delight he handed me a couple of five-pound notes.

“Golly. Thank you very much,” was all I could stammer.

“And I’ve got a little something for you too, my love,” Granddad said. “It’s nothing grand like that, but I wanted you to have a little gift on Christmas Day.”

I opened the wrapping and inside was a snow globe with a charming little village inside and A present from Devon inscribed around the base.

I laughed. “It’s perfect,” I said. “A lovely souvenir of my visit here.”

“So you’ve got the hordes arriving for the Christmas banquet, have you?” Granddad asked.

“Yes, I believe Lady Hawse-Gorzley invites half the village. Oh, by the way, I just saw Wild Sal. She really exists.”

“Does she?” Noel Coward looked interested. “I’ve been dying to meet her.”

“She’s very strange indeed. Walks around barefoot and just stares with these piercing green eyes.”

“Well, she is supposed to be the descendant of the witch who was burned here,” Mummy said. “Isn’t this place fun? I keep telling Noel he should scrap what we’re doing and set his play in a crazy village like this one.”

“Not much of a comedy at the moment with all these deaths,” I said.

“Let’s hope there isn’t another one,” Granddad said. “Did you hear the ambulance go past about an hour ago? It hasn’t come back yet.”

“Oh, no. I suppose driving conditions are terrible today. It’s so slippery out there.” I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting back, I suppose. I’m expected to help entertain and church will soon be over.”

“Have a sherry before you go back,” Mummy said.

“I shouldn’t, thanks. I rather fear that the wine will flow copiously for the rest of the day, and I’m still recovering from the carol singing the other night. I believe it must have been the old ladies’ elderberry wine.”

They all began to chuckle.

“We have a confession to make about that carol singing,” Noel said at last. “Your mother made the punch and put a generous amount of rum in it. I tasted it and thought it needed something and added a bottle of vodka. The result, I’m afraid, was rather lethal.”

“It was the final blow for me, I’m afraid. I was blotto for the rest of the evening.”

I went around and hugged them, one by one, then stepped out into a stiff cold breeze. The clouds above Lovey Tor were heavy and looked as if they might produce more snow any minute. My grandfather walked with me down the path.

“I’ve been thinking about all these strange deaths,” he said. “That Inspector Newcombe thinks I’m some kind of Scotland Yard miracle worker, but I have to say I’m completely in the dark. Usually when there are a string of murders there is a pattern to them, but there is nothing to tie these together, nor, as far as I can see, any clues to point that they were actual murders.”

“I don’t think Inspector Newcombe is too hot at reviewing evidence,” I said. “I suspect he didn’t dust for fingerprints, make imprints of shoe soles, question witnesses. . . .”

“Hark at you.” Granddad chuckled. “You’re sounding like a proper copper. Young ladies of your station aren’t supposed to know about these sorts of things.”

“I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way,” I said. “Well, as far as we know there were no deaths yesterday, so let’s hope that they’ve stopped.” I turned as I heard a snatch of garbled “Good King Wenceslas” shouted loudly into the air. “Oh, look at Willum. Isn’t he sweet?”

And there was Willum, wearing a paper hat from a cracker, cavorting around the village green, interacting with a snowman.

“You’d better go inside,” I said to Granddad. “You’ll catch cold.”

“My chest is so much better down here,” Granddad said. “Feel as fit as a fiddle, me.”

He looked up as we both heard a distant bell. Not from the church this time, but constant and coming nearer. Then the ambulance came into view, making its way down the winding road. As it came into the village, the village bobby appeared from the police station. The ambulance slowed as it approached and the driver wound down his window.

“Nasty crash over at Gallows Corner,” he called out. “Van skidded off the road and went down that slope into the river.”

“People hurt?” the policeman called back.

“Only one bloke in the van—Skaggs, the butcher from town—and he was killed outright.”

The ambulance went on its way. Granddad and I looked at each other.

“It seems I was wrong about the deaths stopping,” I said.

“A motorcar crash might have nothing to do with the other deaths,” Granddad said. “Only too likely if someone was in a hurry on roads like this.”

For some reason I had to swallow back tears. “He was on his way to deliver geese to us this morning. He’d been told we needed them by nine o’clock, so he was probably driving too fast to get here. Poor man. And what about his family too, on Christmas Day. I’d better go and tell them at the hall what happened.”

Granddad nodded and put a big, comforting hand on my shoulder. “Happy Christmas, ducks. Don’t let it get you down. Whatever’s going on down here, it ain’t nothing got to do with us.”

As I walked back up the drive I was overtaken by the ancient motorcar containing the two remaining Misses Ffrench-Finch and Miss Prendergast.

“Hop in, do,” they twittered as they opened the door for me. “Much too nasty to walk today.”

I climbed up and squeezed in beside them. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s certainly treacherous underfoot.”

“We just heard an ambulance going past,” one of them said.

“I’m afraid there was an accident and a van went off the road,” I said. “Someone was killed.”

“How terrible,” Miss Prendergast said. “Was he a local man?”

“The butcher from town. He was delivering geese to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. I expect he was running late,” I said.

“Such a tragedy. On Christmas Day too,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said (I hadn’t quite worked out which was which). “So much sadness at the moment. That man from the garage falling off the bridge on his way home and our poor sister. We debated long and hard over whether we should join the festivities, but dear Lizzie said that Effie would not have wanted us to sit at home moping. Such a tower of strength, our dear Effie. How we miss her.”

“I’m so sorry for you,” Miss Prendergast said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I’ll always be here.”

“Most kind, my dear. You have been a great comfort to us. It was a blessing the day you moved into this village.”

We pulled up outside the house.

“I just saw the local wild woman.” I looked down the driveway, thinking that I saw a movement among the hedges.

“Wild Sal? Yes, one does see her from time to time,” one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch said. “In fact, Cook tells me that she came to the back door on the night our dear sister died. Knocked on the door quite late and asked for food. Cook said it was snowing and she felt so badly that she brought her into the kitchen and fed her.”

The chauffeur opened the door. I alighted first and helped the old ladies out of the motor. But the cogs were whirring inside my head. So another person had been in the house that night after the front door was locked. And not only another person but one who was a descendant of the witch, and who had just given me a strange warning.

Chapter 21

CHRISTMAS DAY IN TIME FOR THE BANQUET

Any worries were put aside as we joined in the festivities. I delivered apologies from my mother and Mr. Coward to Lady Hawse-Gorzley. There were hot sausage rolls and sherry before the meal, then a gong summoned us through to the dining room, which looked absolutely magnificent, the table decorated with holly, Christmas crackers beside every place. To my intense relief I was not seated between any leg fondlers this time, but with Monty on one side of me and Mr. Barclay on the other. The vicar said grace and the feast began.

The first order of business was the pulling of crackers. This happened with a lot of popping and exclamations as contents went flying across the table, but everyone ended up with a paper hat, some kind of toy or game or musical instrument and a riddle. We put on the hats, which looked very silly indeed on most of us, then tried the riddles on each other as the first course was brought in: it was smoked salmon decorated with watercress and thin brown bread. Next followed a spicy parsnip soup and then the turkeys, three of them, resplendent and brown on platters, were carried in and expertly carved by the butler at a side table. They were accompanied by chestnut stuffing, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips and gravy. Conversation lagged as we ate.

“Well, I declare, this is better than any turkey I’ve eaten at home,” Mr. Wexler said at last.

“I had hoped to have roast goose as well,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “but the butcher let me down, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, but didn’t you hear that he met with an accident?” Miss Prendergast said. “His van went off the road and plunged down a slope. The poor man was killed.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley went white. “No. I didn’t hear. How terrible. Now I feel awful for insisting that he come out this morning.”

“Not your fault, my dear,” Sir Oswald said gruffly. “Roads are icy. Could have happened to anyone.”

We tried to get back into our previous good humor.

“So, Colonel Rathbone, did you ever hunt when you had a house here?” Johnnie Protheroe asked. “I don’t recall seeing you.”

“Haven’t been home in the winter in years. When we do take home leave, it’s usually in the summer,” the colonel said. “We try to avoid the hot months in India.”

“Where exactly was your house?” Mrs. Sechrest asked.

“Over Crediton way,” Mrs. Rathbone said quickly.

“Strange that we never bumped into each other,” Mrs. Sechrest said. “Porky and I have lived in these parts all our lives.”

“Well, Devon’s a big county, isn’t it?” the colonel said. He turned to Mr. Barclay. “Splendid organ playing, by the way. I like an organist who thumps it out properly. And good old hymns too.”

Mr. Barclay nodded and smiled. He seemed out of his element here, looking around nervously. I deduced he must have come from a humble background and this was confirmed when he muttered to me, “It’s very grand, isn’t it? I’m always terrified of making a social faux pas, aren’t you?”

“I often do,” I said. “I’m quite good at shooting my meat across the table when I try to cut it or slipping off my chair. And it’s usually when I have to dine with the relatives too.”

“Your relatives must be old-school sticklers then,” he said.

“Her relatives are the king and queen, Mr. Barclay,” Monty said, grinning as Mr. Barclay’s face turned puce.

“I had no idea. Nobody told me,” he gasped, then took a swig of his wine and promptly choked on it, spattering wine on the white tablecloth.

I felt rather sorry for him and tried to ask him about his own family. It turned out he had a twin brother who played the piano professionally. “He plays at concert parties and summer stock on the piers. My brother wanted us to do an act together called Pete and Pat, flying fingers at the ivories, but I was not prepared to sink to that level, even if he does make good money.”

When we were replete, the remains were cleared away and the Christmas pudding was carried in, flaming, with a sprig of holly on top.

“Hey, Ma, it’s on fire,” Junior shouted. “Should someone throw water over it?”

The countess gave him a withering look. “Don’t you dare,” she said.

The flames died down and Sir Oswald cut the first piece. “Watch out for all the damned silver bits and pieces that my wife insists on putting in it,” he said.

“Silver bits and pieces?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“Old English custom,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There are always silver charms baked in the pudding. You’ll find a horseshoe, a thimble, a ring, a button, a boot, a pig, oh, and some silver threepenny pieces as well.”

“And what are they for?” Mr. Wexler asked.

“I’ll explain when we find them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

The pudding was served with brandy butter. After a couple of mouthfuls Ethel called out, “I’ve got the horseshoe.”

“Very good. That means good luck in the coming year,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“And I have a boot.” Mrs. Rathbone held it up.

“Very apt. It means travel, of course,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Does it really? How lovely,” Mrs. Rathbone replied with what looked like a wistful smile.

Mr. Upthorpe and Johnnie found threepences, which meant money. Badger found the button, which made everyone laugh.

“The bachelor button, Badger. It means you’re not going to get married.”

“Thank God for that,” Badger said.

Suddenly the colonel, seated just across the table from me, turned red, his eyes bulged and he clutched his throat.

“He’s choking!” his wife shouted.

Badger and Johnnie leaped to his aid, thumping him on the back. My heart stood still. Was this the death that had been planned for today? I realized that I had been uneasy ever since the wild woman had given me that warning. The colonel was flailing now.

“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Rathbone screamed.

The other men at the table were now on their feet, standing helplessly as the flailing grew weaker and the colonel pitched forward onto the table, knocking over his wineglass and sending the contents flowing across the white tablecloth like a river of blood.

Chapter 22

STILL AT THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET

As we stared in horror, there was one thought going through my mind. Until now these deaths had not touched this house. The crash of the van had probably been just an unfortunate accident—someone going too fast around an icy curve. So were we now witnessing the death that had been selected for Christmas Day?

Johnnie grabbed the colonel around his ample waist and attempted to lift him from the table. As he did so something came flying out of the colonel’s mouth, landing on the table. The colonel gave a great gasping breath, coughed and sat up again.

“He’s all right. Thank God.” Mrs. Rathbone fought her way to reach him. “Oh, Reggie. You’re all right.”

“Don’t fuss, woman,” the colonel said. “Of course I’m all right.”

“One of those damned charms,” Sir Oswald said. “I knew you’d kill someone one day, Cammie.”

“You gave us all a scare there, old fellow.” Johnnie handed the colonel a glass of water.

“Something got stuck in my throat,” the colonel said.

“One of those charms, I expect.”

“Which one was it?”

Johnnie retrieved it from the table with his napkin. And he laughed. “The pig, old fellow. It means you’re a bit of a glutton.”

“Reggie, I keep telling you that you bolt your food,” Mrs. Rathbone said.

We all laughed and the tension was broken. The rest of us ate very carefully now and finally my teeth struck against something hard.

“Oh, look, Georgie’s got the ring,” Monty called out.

“Next to be married, my dear,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush or to meet Darcy’s eye.

The meal concluded, a little more subdued, with port, nuts and tangerines all around. We were just sitting with coffee in a state of stupor when Lady Hawse-Gorzley clapped her hands. “Everybody into the drawing room quickly,” she said. “I wasn’t watching the clock and we almost missed it. Hurry now.”

“Missed what?” Mr. Wexler said.

“The king’s broadcast. It’s almost three o’clock.”

We marched through to the drawing room. The radio came to life with much crackling and then a voice said, “His Majesty the King,” and the national anthem was played. We British subjects immediately rose to our feet. The Americans looked at us with amusement but then followed suit. We sat again as the king’s deep, ponderous voice came through the air, speaking slowly and carefully, greetings of goodwill from Sandringham to his subjects around the world. The others listened in rapt silence. I was conscious that he didn’t sound well. I thought of the times I had been with His Majesty at Sandringham, his favorite house, and he’d been sitting with his stamp collection at the table from which he was now broadcasting and a feeling of warmth and pride came over me that we were part of the same family.

“And to think that you actually know him,” Mrs. Wexler said when the speech ended. “I suppose you’ve actually been to those royal castles and palaces?”

“Many times,” I said.

“And what’s he like, your king?”

“A little fearsome to start with. Not very patient and likes everything done properly, but he’s essentially a kind man and he cares so much about England and the empire. I think he’s literally worrying himself to death.”

They tiptoed away from me as if I’d suddenly turned into someone new and dangerous.

Soon the older members of the party fell asleep in armchairs while we younger ones went for a walk.

“I think it’s going to rain,” Bunty said. “That’s good for the hunt tomorrow.” She turned back to me. “I hope you’re a good rider, Georgie. We went to look at Freddie’s stable this morning and his horses are decidedly frisky—and big.”

“I’m a pretty good rider,” I said modestly—my governess having drilled into me that a lady never claims accomplishments.

We walked across the grounds and up through the bare woods, pausing to look back on the house and the village. As I stared down at the orchard a thought crossed my mind so quickly that I didn’t have time to grab on to it. Something about the trees. I turned to stare at the neighbor’s estate behind us. Something about why those particular trees might be important.

Darcy fell into step beside me. “You look rather shaken up,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“That incident with the colonel,” I said in a low voice, not wanting the others to hear. “I thought he might be today’s designated death.”

Darcy gave me a quizzical look. “Designated death?”

“There’s been one a day since I arrived, except for yesterday. And the butcher’s van already went off the road today, killing him. So I thought that might have been a true accident and this was the death that was planned.”

He took me aside so that we were standing together under the branches of a large fir tree. “What exactly are you saying, Georgie—that someone has been planning a death a day? For what reason?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“And do you think these deaths are random people or intentionally selected?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them—a butcher, an old lady, a garage owner, a switchboard operator and the man who owned that estate. What could they possibly have in common?”

“Have the police ruled out that they were accidents?”

“I think the inspector is suspicious, but he has no proof, as far as I can tell, that any one of them was not an accident.”

Darcy frowned. “It may be that this part of the country is just going through an unlucky period. Serial killers don’t usually work this way, if that’s what you’re imagining. They want the police and the public to recognize their handiwork. They usually have a signature modus operandi—think of Jack the Ripper in London. A classic case. Always killed prostitutes in exactly the same gruesome way.”

I shuddered as he went on. “One of the ways they get a thrill out of this is believing that they are smart enough to outwit the police. So why kill in a way that makes it look like an accident?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t understand anything about it, Darcy. I’m almost ready to believe in the Lovey Curse. That strange wild woman gave me some kind of warning today. And she’s the direct descendant of the witch, isn’t she?”

“Georgie, come on.” He shot me an amused look. “That’s village superstition. You are a young woman of the world. You don’t believe in witches or curses.”

I tried to smile too. “It’s just that—I’m frightened. I can’t help feeling that it’s closing in on us and that eventually the killer will strike here.”

“Don’t worry.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.”

“That’s not the point, Darcy. I feel that somehow I must take care of everyone else. I feel that I have to solve the puzzle before it’s too late.”

He turned me to face him. “Sometimes you worry too much,” he said. “Leave this to the police and enjoy your Christmas. We’re here, we’re together and we’re having a great time. Think of it—you could, at this moment, be sitting down to Christmas dinner with your sister-in-law.”

I laughed. “Where they will be sharing one chicken between them and huddling together to keep warm. It’s poor Binky I feel sorry for, surrounded by Fig’s family.”

Darcy took my hand. It felt wonderful to walk through snowy meadows, feeling the warmth from his hand sending tingles all the way up my arm.

* * *

WE ARRIVED BACK to find that tea had been laid out in the drawing room, and that it included the most magnificent Christmas cake. The icing had been made to look like a snow scene and decorated with little ceramic figures of tobogganing children, ladies with fur muffs, skaters, snowmen. Not surprisingly, nobody felt much like eating, but we all attempted a slice of cake. The Misses Ffrench-Finch asked if they could take their slices of cake home with them as they couldn’t eat another mouthful. A generous portion was wrapped for them, and one for Miss Prendergast, and the three ladies took their leave.

Miss Prendergast was overcome with emotion. “You are too kind, Lady Hawse-Gorzley, too generous. Such a good person. I don’t deserve . . .” She paused, putting her hand over her heart. “When you have no family, nobody else in the world, it means so much to be part of a celebration like this.”

“Then let’s hope there are many, many more,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, thumping the hand that was extended to her. We duly waved as the old ladies were helped into their car and went home.

Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley produced the indoor fireworks and we passed a jolly hour around the fireplace watching pieces of paper turn into writhing snakes or glowing different colors and finally all holding sparklers. When the last firework was lit, the vicar suggested that we play charades until supper. The dressing-up box was carried down into the study across the hall from the drawing room and we were divided into teams. I found myself on Monty’s team with Badger, Mrs. Upthorpe, Captain Sechrest, and Cherie Wexler. Monty had to explain to Cherie that we select a word and act out the syllables. If the audience can’t guess the word through the syllables, we act out the whole thing.

We rummaged through the props until Badger found an old cow horn. “We could do ‘cornucopia,’” he said. “First syllable is ‘corn.’ Second is ‘you’ and third is ‘cope.’ And then for the whole we’ll produce fruit from the horn and keep eating it.”

This was agreed upon. I was designated to be an old lady in a gray wig, hobbling around, then taking off my shoe and rubbing my toes. They dressed me up in a hideous tippet, wig and hat. Out I went, walking as if my feet hurt me, then taking off my shoe and massaging my toes with an expression of relief.

“Feet . . . foot . . . hurt . . . sore!” came the calls from the audience.

Monty came out to do the next syllable. He simply pointed dramatically at a member of the audience. He chose Mr. Barclay, who turned bright red. I experienced a fleeting feeling of agitation—that something had happened that I should have noticed but didn’t. I tried to analyze. Something to do with corns? With Mr. Barclay? Definitely something I had just seen. . . .

It was no use. We proceeded to the last syllable. Mrs. Upthorpe was the harried mother, wearing an apron, while the other members of the team were her awful children—Captain Sechrest dressed in a school cap and tie, Badger in a smock with a frill around his neck and a giant dummy and Cherie with a big bow in her hair. They came out on their knees, howling and tugging at their mother’s skirts while she pretended to cook, lay a table and generally act as if she was harassed. This scene got a good laugh, but nobody guessed it. So we had to bring out our horn and take imaginary fruit from it. Then, of course, it was guessed right away.

The next team went out to dress up and I sat there, mulling over the idea that I had just missed something important, something that might shed some light on the strange events in Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s team came out. Their word was “dandelion,” which of course we got very quickly—the moment Colonel Rathbone crawled around roaring and trying to eat Bunty, in fact.

We played the game several times more before we went through to supper. This was a spread of cold food, so that the servants could have their own Christmas party. I still didn’t feel like eating much, but the array of cold beef, cold ham, veal and ham pie, Cornish pasties and assorted pickles was very tempting. It was washed down with more wine or local cider, and finished with liquors, chocolates, nuts and dates.

At last, full of food and Christmas cheer, we all went to bed. Even the Wexlers could find nothing to complain about and Junior declared it “a real swell Christmas.” I was inclined to agree with him. It had been a marvelous Christmas Day and if only a man had not driven his van off the road to his death, it would all have been perfect.

Chapter 23

BOXING DAY AT GORZLEY HALL

DECEMBER 26

Off to the hunt. Looking forward to a good ride. I hope I get a decent horse.

I was awakened to cold gray light by Queenie with a tray of tea.

“Morning, miss. They told me to get you up early because you’ve got to go on one of them fox hunts,” she said. “Rather you than me, sitting on a horse in this weather.” She put down the tray. “What was you thinking of wearing?”

“I have only brought one set of jodhpurs with me, Queenie, so I don’t think there is much choice. My warmest jumper to go with them, and Bunty is lending me a hunting jacket.”

I looked out the window to see the orchard vanishing into mist and Lovey Tor not even visible. At least it wouldn’t have frozen overnight if the mist had come in. I dressed and went down to find coffee, tea, pasties, sausage rolls and mince pies laid out on the sideboard for the early risers. One by one the other hunters came in and helped themselves to something to eat and drink. From outside the window came the clatter of hooves, a sound that always sends a shiver of excitement through me. I have always adored hunting, even though I do feel sorry for the fox. I suspect that hunting must be in my blood—and the fox is usually smart enough to get away.

Bunty came in, with a black velvet jacket in her hands. “I’ve an extra black crash cap too if you want to match,” she said. “I hope you’ll be all right. Freddie’s horses are both a little crazy, you know. He was often seen flying through the village because one of them had bolted with him.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “That sounds most encouraging.”

“He was never a particularly good rider,” Bunty said. “I expect you’ll be fine. You should go out and get first dibs on the one you like.”

“Is one less skittish than the other?”

“No idea,” she said. “I’ve never ridden them.”

Thus encouraged, I went out to see a groom holding two leading reins, on the ends of which were a tall bony gray and a chestnut that was stamping and snorting like a warhorse, its breath hanging in the cold air like a dragon’s fire. I noted the double bridle and the size of that tossing head and decided on the gray.

“Her be Snowflake, miss,” the groom said as he attempted to give me a leg up into the saddle. “Her got a right mean streak and a will of her own, if you don’t mind my saying so. She can be a right cow at times. Always tries to give me a nip when I’m brushing her. I told the master he should get rid of her, but for some reason he were fond of her.” He shook his head. “Never did have good judgment, poor bloke.”

After a lot of dancing around on Snowflake’s part I finally managed to get into the saddle and Snowflake spent the next five minutes trying to buck me off. I noticed Badger watching, his eyes wide with terror.

“I think I might bow out,” he said to Monty.

“Rubbish, old bean. We’ve got a mount that’s docile as a kitten for you. Bunty and I learned to ride on old Star. He’s a bit of a plodder but sure and safe. You’ll be just fine.”

They went around to the stables and soon a procession came out. Lady Hawse-Gorzley led the way on a magnificent bay hunter, then Monty and Bunty. Behind them rode the colonel on a large, almost black hunter I presumed must be Sultan, and then Badger on a round animal not much bigger than a pony. Darcy came out and gave me a look as he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle of the warhorse. It snorted and pawed a couple of times but it was quite clear that it recognized Darcy as the master. He tried to ride over to join me but Snowflake backed away.

“Them two don’t like each other much,” the groom called. “Leastways, she don’t like no other horses at all. Like I said, a right cow.”

“I’d come and say good morning, but I think I’d better not,” Darcy called as Snowflake skittered again. “Will you be all right?”

“As long as no horses come near me and nothing else spooks her, I suppose so,” I called back, trying to sound more breezy than I felt.

“Off we go, then,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley called and we set off down the drive and through the village, our hoofbeats echoing dramatically through the misty stillness. Nothing else stirred as we passed the green. The villagers were enjoying sleeping late for once. The road took us over the hill and through deserted moorland until we heard the baying of hounds and the clatter of harnesses ahead of us and came to a lonely pub where the hunt was assembling, a splendid-looking mass of red and black coats and well-groomed horses. There were already a good number of riders and spectators assembled and the publican was going among them passing out stirrup cups of hot grog. My cheeks and fingers were already stinging with cold and I needed no second urging to drink one myself.

“Ah, Lady H-G, you’ve brought your guests, I see.” A dapper little man with a Ronald Coleman mustache rode up to us. He was mounted on a good-looking gray and both rider and horse were immaculate.

“Good of you to let them join us, Master,” she said.

“Well, let’s hope they all know how to ride, what? And the rules of the hunt. I’m a stickler for rules, as you should know.”

“I do, Master. Believe me, I do,” she said and turned back to the rest of us. “This is our master of hounds, Major Wesley-Parker. Major, this is Colonel Rathbone. Do you military men know each other, by any chance?”

“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” the major said, extending a hand to the colonel. “Which regiment, sir?”

“Bengal Lancers. Finest fighting force in India,” the colonel said.

“Bengal Lancers, what? Then you must know old Jumbo!”

“Jumbo?”

Everybody knows old Jumbo.” He paused. “Jumbo Bretherton, the brigadier.”

“Oh, Brigadier Bretherton,” the colonel said. “I never knew him as Jumbo.”

“Didn’t you? Thought everybody called him Jumbo.”

“Not his junior officers,” the colonel said.

I had been riding at the back of the group, since Snowflake reputedly loathed other horses, and I had had a chance to observe the others. I watched the colonel now. Shouldn’t someone with the Bengal Lancers have a better seat? I wondered. Wouldn’t half his days be spent in the saddle? And why didn’t he know the nickname of his brigadier? And why did nobody know him if he’d previously had a house in the area? Something I had heard came back to me—that one of the escaped convicts had had a music hall act in which he had played, among other things, an elderly colonel. Could he possibly be hiding out under our noses playing the part of the colonel again? In which case, who was the woman with him, posing as his wife, since we’d been told the convict’s wife had committed suicide when he was sent to prison? At least it would be worth mentioning my suspicions to Inspector Newcombe. Then I had to turn my attention to the matters at hand as another horse approached Snowflake and she danced away, eyes rolling. Final stragglers arrived, including Johnnie Protheroe on a fine-looking hunter and the Sechrests, also well turned out and riding with flair.

“Here we are, Master, all present and correct,” Johnnie said, touching his crop to his cap.

“No high jinks this time, young Protheroe,” the master said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Master.” Johnnie grinned as he swung his horse into the group. The horn was sounded. The last stirrup cups were drained. The hounds, who had been sniffing around, tails wagging, suddenly were all business, moving off excitedly.

“Off we go, then,” the master shouted, turning back to us. “And remember, it’s dashed misty out there. I don’t want anyone winding up in a bog. And if we go anywhere near Lovey Tor, stay well to the right of Barston Mere. Nasty bog on the far side. Got it? Jolly good.”

We set off on a broad track across fields. Sheep scattered at the sight of us. Through a copse, and then suddenly the hounds picked up the scent. Their excited baying echoed through the mist. Off they went in full cry and we followed at a lively canter. Snowflake lived up to her reputation, trying to veer off to one side when any horse came near her, and it was all I could do to keep up with the other horses. We came to a low stone wall and she cleared it in a giant bound. As we dipped into a valley we were swallowed up into thicker mist. Snowflake veered off to the left as another horse came up on one side of us. It was the master on his gray—the whiteness of the horse making him almost invisible in the mist. I fought to hold her head and let him go ahead. I could hear the hounds what sounded like far ahead now, off to my left. I urged the horse into a gallop up a steep slope, with dead bracken and rocks around us. Suddenly a row of grotesque black shapes rose out of the mist, looking like giants with arms outstretched to grab us. Snowflake reacted by skidding to a halt and then rearing up. It was all I could do to keep my seat and it took me a while to calm her. And to calm myself too, as my heart was thudding until I realized that I was looking at a row of stunted Scotch pine trees, bent because of the wind, and behind them mist curling up from what looked like black water.

We stood still while I tried to get my bearings. I heard a sound that might have been a cry from a bird or the distant baying of a hound. I had no idea which direction the sound was coming from. But what I did begin to feel was a growing sense of danger, of being watched, hunted. I turned the horse around, peering into the mist, but it was so thick that the grass was swallowed up within a few feet of me. Suddenly a white shape rose up to one side of me. There was a loud flapping noise and something like a ghost seemed to come at us. That was enough for Snowflake. She took off again, this time to her right, while I fought to control her. Suddenly another flapping shape stepped out of the mist. The horse shied, skidded to a halt, and nearly threw me.

This shape with its waving arms was now identifiable as Wild Sal. “You don’t want to go that way, miss,” she said. “’Tis dangerous that way. You’d wind up in the bog and that would be the end of you. Go back the way you came and then take the downward track. That’ll set you right.”

“Thank you,” I called, but she had already vanished.

I made my way back, the horse moving cautiously, and I could feel the shudders of apprehension going through her flanks. As we approached the Scotch pines I looked to see what logical explanation I could find for the white flapping shape that had so startled us. I could make out something white moving through the mist. Then I heard a jingling of harness, the soft muted sound of hoofbeats on turf, and heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t so far from the others after all. A white horse loomed out of the mist and it took me a minute to notice that it was riderless.

In spite of Snowflake’s protests I managed to get close enough to grab the reins.

“Hello!” I called into the mist. “Anyone out there? Do you need help?”

Silence met me, followed by that strange flapping sound echoing back from an unseen crag. I wasn’t going to wander into trackless moor so I took Sal’s advice and followed the track down the hill, leading the gray. It followed me reluctantly and I thought this might have something to do with my horse’s bad temper until I turned around and noticed it was lame in the left foreleg. I went more slowly. As I came down the hill I met other riders coming toward me.

“Lost the scent at Downey Brook,” one of them called, “and the mist is so dashed thick that we’re packing it in. No sense in risking breaking a leg.” The man came closer, riding a big, solid dark horse. He stopped when he noticed the horse I was leading.

“I say. That’s the master’s horse, isn’t it? Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I found the horse wandering in the mist.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Up there.” I pointed to the track I had just descended.

“But that’s Barston Mere,” he said. “What were you doing up there?”

“I became separated from the rest of the hunt,” I said. “I thought I was following the master. Something spooked my horse and by the time I’d controlled it I hadn’t any idea where I was.”

“It’s not like the master to come off,” the man said. “Damned fine horseman, and his horse can jump anything you put in front of it.”

“The horse seems to have injured its foreleg,” I said. “It’s limping badly.”

“I can see some blood. Maybe cut itself trying to jump a wall,” the man said. “Maybe fell at a jump. The master can be a trifle reckless at times. Still thinks he’s twenty-one.” And he laughed, a dry haw haw sound.

Other riders had now caught up with us.

“The young lady says she found the master’s horse up beside the mere,” he said.

“We’d better go and take a look,” someone else suggested, “but for heaven’s sake stay together. We don’t want to lose anybody in the bog.”

We made our way slowly up the hill, calling as we went. No sound answered us. As we reached the top of the hill, the mist suddenly stirred and parted and I found myself looking at a sheet of black water, upon which a group of swans was swimming peacefully.

A swan, I thought. Maybe that could have been the white flapping thing that came at us. Probably defending its territory. I had known swans to be aggressive before. I wondered if it had similarly attacked the master and caused him to be thrown from his horse. We picked our way around the lake until we came to an area on the far side where the grass was an unusually bright green. Having grown up on the Scottish moors I knew a bog when I saw one and I knew what would happen to anyone foolish enough to venture onto that bright green grass. He would instantly find that his feet were trapped in thick, sucking mud. He would feel himself sinking. The more he struggled, the deeper he would sink. I had known bogs to swallow a horse or a steer in a few minutes.

We sat on our horses, not moving, just staring at the green grass as it merged into black water.

“You don’t think . . . do you?” someone ventured to say at last.

“Not possible,” someone retorted. “The master knows this area like the back of his hand. He warned us himself to stay clear of the bog, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it.”

“And yet his horse was found up here,” someone else pointed out.

“Well, there’s no sign of him now,” the second speaker declared. “My bet is that he tried to jump too big a wall and the horse threw him, then took off on its own.”

“That’s what I’d surmise too,” another rider said. “Let’s divide up and search the entire area.”

We were divided into teams of two and set off in different directions. After an hour or so of combing the wild and rocky terrain, calling futilely, we assembled again, with disappointing results. Nobody had seen any trace of the man.

“Of course he could have been knocked cold and is lying among the bracken,” someone said.

The big man who had organized the search shook his head. “He wouldn’t be out cold for a couple of hours, surely.”

“Then he could have recovered, realized he’d lost his horse and made his way down to the road on foot, hitched a lift and gone home.”

“Yes. Perhaps he did that,” several voices agreed. Everyone seemed eager to prove that their worst fears had not come true. Lady Hawse-Gorzley assembled us and we made our way home, hardly saying a word.

* * *

AS WE RODE Darcy urged his mount closer to me. Snowflake was too tired to protest by now and allowed her stablemate to come up beside her.

“It’s one rum do after another, isn’t it?” he said. “They said you were the one who found the horse, is that right?”

“I did. Up by that bog.” I shuddered. “I only hope he didn’t come a cropper there. Not an end I’d want for myself.”

“If he got stuck, why didn’t he yell?” Darcy said. “Sound carried rather well today. I could hear the hounds when they were miles away.”

“That’s true,” I said. “And I was up there, quite close to him. I would have heard.”

“You don’t gradually sink into a bog and do nothing,” Darcy said. “Surely there would be some sign of a struggle.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve known a bog to swallow a Highland steer in a few minutes, although the poor thing did bellow a lot. By the time we reached it it was too late and nobody could do anything.” I shuddered at the memory of it, watching those terrified eyes as the huge beast finally disappeared beneath the surface with a horrid sucking sound.

“Everyone said he was a good rider, and he certainly knew the area well,” Darcy said. “What would have made him go near the mere he’d warned us against?”

“Something could have spooked his horse,” I said, and I told him the story of the white flapping thing that came up at me and how it had taken a while to regain control of Snowflake.

“A swan, you think?” Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “They can be quite aggressive, I know, but when a man is riding his own horse, he should be able to calm it down right away.”

“There was one other thing,” I said. “I saw Wild Sal up there. She looked like a pale flapping thing too. She stepped out right in front of my horse and stopped me from going in the direction of the bog. She showed me the right way back to the road.”

“Wild Sal, eh? What was she doing wafting around on the high moor?”

“Doesn’t she have a cottage somewhere up there?” I asked.

Darcy shook his head, smiling. “This village is too much, isn’t it? Wild women and village idiots and aged spinsters . . . it’s almost like a caricature of ye olde English village. Hard to believe it’s real.”

That’s it exactly, I thought. It’s hard to believe it’s real. Even harder to believe that every day somebody dies.

“You know what they’d say, don’t you?” I turned to him. “They’d say it was the Lovey Curse taking a person every day until the end of the year.”

“Now that,” Darcy said with a smile, “is definitely hard to believe.”

“It’s not funny, is it really?” I said, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “I mean, every day somebody dies. It’s as if a giant hand is hovering over us, waiting to snatch up the next victim.”

Chapter 24

STILL DECEMBER 26, BOXING DAY

We reached Gorzley Hall and I gladly handed Snowflake back to her groom. She aimed a parting kick at me. Those who had not taken part in the hunt greeted us with enthusiasm, wanting to know if we’d killed a fox. Of course they hadn’t heard about the master and we had to tell them.

“Do this many accidents usually happen in this part of the world?” Mr. Upthorpe demanded. “I’d always thought the countryside was a quiet, boring sort of place. If I had this number of things going wrong in my factories, they’d shut me down.”

“I assure you that our corner of the countryside is usually most peaceful,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Why don’t we all go up and change and then meet for sherry before lunch in the library?”

When Queenie had run a bath for me I had her return Bunty’s jacket before she could somehow ruin it. Then we went down for a late lunch.

“You’ll find we are eating simple meals today,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “It’s Boxing Day, you see. The servants are allowed to spend the day with their families.”

The simple lunch was quite adequate: a hearty soup, then more pasties and cold meats and game pies, followed by a large sherry-laden trifle. I would have liked to visit my grandfather to tell him about this latest occurrence, but Lady Hawse-Gorzley asked me to run a skittles tournament in the ballroom and thus keep everybody happily occupied until teatime.

“Dashed glad you’re here,” she said to me, drawing me closer to her. “Frankly, I rather wish that I hadn’t invited them for this long. Seemed like a good idea at the time, with the hunt and the Lovey Chase and the Worsting of the Hag and all that. But ten days of them—not only feeding them but entertaining them, too. It’s a bit much, isn’t it? And they are such a frightfully dreary bunch. No concept of entertaining themselves.”

I noticed that the colonel limped off for an afternoon snooze while Johnnie and the Sechrests had not reappeared after riding their own mounts back to their respective homes. However, the rest of them had a good cutthroat game of skittles and today made short work of the rest of the Christmas cake at teatime.

We were just finishing the last crumbs of food when Sir Oswald came in, still dressed in his “mucking out the pigs” outfit.

“Damned police fellow has shown up again,” he said. “Wants to talk to young Georgiana.”

“Me?” I think it came out like a squeak.

“I’ve put him in my study.” Sir Oswald gave me a commiserating smile.

I went through and found Inspector Newcombe sitting there. He rose to his feet as I came in.

“Oh, good afternoon, my lady,” he said, “and please forgive me for calling you ‘miss’ last time. Slip of the tongue, I’m afraid. And I’m sorry to disturb you on Boxing Day, but I wanted to ask you some questions about the man who disappeared during the hunt today. I’m told you found his horse, up by Barston Mere.”

“I did,” I said. “It was just wandering aimlessly and it had obviously hurt itself, because it was lame in the left foreleg.”

“Did you see what happened before that? Where he might have fallen off?”

“No, not at all. He passed me some time before and my horse was being so antisocial that I rather lost touch with the rest of the hunt and found myself alone with no idea where I was. Then my horse was spooked by a horrible flapping noise and a big white thing came at me. I suspect now it might have been a swan on the lake, but at that point I didn’t even know that I was near any water.”

“So you saw no trace of where he might have fallen?”

I shook my head.

“Nobody else anywhere near?”

“Well, yes. I saw the woman they call Wild Sal. She stepped out in front of my horse and told me I was going the wrong way and set me on the right path down. If she hadn’t appeared, I might have ended up in the bog.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding.

“You think that’s what might have happened to the master, don’t you?” I asked.

“My men have been up there with dogs, scouring the moor all afternoon, and have not found a trace of him,” he said. “Now I’ve looked at the horse and its foreleg is quite badly cut. And what’s more, there were bits of bracken caught in its mane, so I have to assume it fell at some stage. And the other strange thing—the cut is quite a clean one. Not a skinned knee, which would have happened if it had clipped the top of a wall.”

He looked at me, waiting for me to say something. “And we found some traces of blood between two Scotch pine trees.”

“I saw that row of trees,” I said. “I wouldn’t have ridden between them myself. Too many branches sticking out at odd angles. But if the master did—” I paused. “A clean cut, you say. Is it possible that somebody put a trip wire between those trees? They say he was rather reckless—so somebody might have guessed that he’d take that route—a shortcut really.”

Inspector Newcombe was staring at me, frowning. “If that’s the case then we’re looking at a deliberate act of malice, if not of murder.”

I nodded. “I fear so,” I said.

He gave a deep sigh. “Until now I kept telling myself that these deaths were just an unfortunate string of accidents. But now I had better face facts and admit that there is either a deranged killer or a clever one, or both, operating on my turf. And I’m buggered—I mean, I’m dashed—if I can understand what the motive could be.”

I paused before I said, “You don’t possibly think that Wild Sal might have had anything to do with it, do you? She stopped me from going where the master had gone. Did she know that there was a trip wire waiting for me?”

The inspector brightened up considerably. “You know, you may be right. There’s one thing I’ve just remembered. I went to look at the place where that van drove off the road yesterday—and I did see some footprints in the snow nearby. Bare feet, they were. And I commented to the lads and one of them said, “Oh, that’s just the crazy woman who lives in Tiddleton. She runs around barefoot all year.” He paused as his brain processed the next step. “And you say she stepped out right in front of your horse? What if she stepped out right in front of that van? He’d swerve to avoid her and on that icy road he’d plunge straight down into the river, wouldn’t he?”

“In which case I should mention one more thing, or rather two more things,” I said. “The first time I met her, she gave me a sinister warning. She told me to watch my step or I’d come a cropper. I took it to mean slipping in the snow, but it could have been more than that. She could have been warning me to keep my nose out of her business. And one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch told me that she’d found out that Sal came to their kitchen door on the night their sister died. She was asking for food and the cook felt sorry for her and let her in. Maybe she had a chance to slip upstairs and turn on the gas then.”

The inspector got to his feet. “Right you are. You’ve put my mind at rest, Lady Georgiana. A good little head on your shoulders, that’s what you’ve got. Well, I’m off right now to find that woman and bring her in. Then finally I may be able to have one peaceful day with my family over Christmas.”

He left with an almost jaunty spring to his step. I didn’t feel so jaunty; in fact, I felt sick inside. Had I just condemned Wild Sal on entirely circumstantial evidence?

It was in a pensive frame of mind that I went back to join the house party. If Wild Sal really was the killer, had she warned me to mind my own business or was she warning me that I was on her list? In which case how did I get there? I tried to analyze that list of people who had died, but I could find nothing in common among them, however hard I tried. If you had wanted a random cross sample of people you’d find in a country village, they would be that cross sample.

I was in no real mood for fun and games but Lady Hawse-Gorzley had rallied everyone while I was being questioned and had a makeshift stage set up for the pantomime. The performers were already getting into their costumes and were all laughing and joking as if nothing untoward had happened. I was glad I didn’t have a part to play and tried to look jolly as Darcy, Monty and Badger made everyone laugh as the stepmother and two ugly sisters. Ethel proved to be a witty fairy godmother and frankly stole the show. Nobody remembered their lines but everybody but me seemed to have a good time and they all declared they were famished by the time we changed for dinner.

The cook had certainly not stinted with the food she had left for us. The main part of the meal was a big turkey curry, with all the accompaniments, preceded by a spicy lentil soup and followed by a whipped cream dessert that slipped down wonderfully. I thought the curry was most tasty. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes eyed it suspiciously, never having eaten curry before. The colonel took one bite, then turned to his wife. “Call this a curry?” he said. “Where we live a good curry is hot enough to singe your eyebrows—you ask the memsahib. Our cook, Mukergee—splendid fellow, been with us forever—he’s a Bengali and he thinks all English are sissies because we can’t take it any hotter.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but this is plenty hot enough for me.” Mr. Upthorpe wiped his brow. “You’re welcome to your foreign food, Colonel. Give me a good English roast meat and two veg any day, that’s what I say.”

“I enjoyed some fine curry lunches when I stayed with my friend the viceroy in Delhi,” the countess declaimed when silence had fallen. “I must say, I miss them and I find this a real treat.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley beamed. “Thank you, Countess. It’s nice to know that one’s planning is appreciated, and I know that Cook will be delighted with your compliment.”

After the men had had their port and cigars and joined the womenfolk for coffee it was suggested that we play sardines and I was sent off to hide. I chose the linen cupboard and squeezed under the bottom shelf. Almost immediately the door opened and somebody squeezed in beside me.

“Finally we get a chance to be alone together,” Darcy whispered, nuzzling a kiss at my neck.

“How did you find me so quickly?” I whispered back.

“Have to confess I cheated. I saw which direction you were heading and I remembered your fondness for linen cupboards. And I’m not wasting any more time talking,” he added before kissing me. It was cramped and awkward and utterly blissful. I’m not sure how long we were alone together before the door opened again and another figure slipped in beside us. “Found you, you little minx,” said Johnnie’s voice. “You can’t get away from me this time. I have you trapped.”

“I should point out that’s my waist you are grasping, not Georgie’s,” Darcy said. I giggled as Johnnie hastily moved away.

“Well, I never did,” he muttered. “How did you find her so quickly, O’Mara?”

“Let’s just say I have good instincts,” Darcy said, “and I see now that those instincts were right and I needed to protect her from cads like you.”

“It’s a Christmas party game, old chum. Only a bit of fun, what?”

Their talking was overheard and soon more and more people crowded into the cupboard until the door would no longer close and the game was declared over. Darcy winked at me and held me back as we trooped down the stairs. “Next time we need not try too hard to find anyone,” he whispered, “and nobody will notice we’re missing.”

I have to confess I didn’t need much persuading, and when the others scattered around the house Darcy and I ducked into Sir Oswald’s study and picked up where the last kiss had ended.

“It’s been so long,” Darcy murmured.

“And whose fault is that? I’ve been stuck at Castle Rannoch. You, on the other hand, were seen entering the Café Royal recently.”

“Do you have your spies on me?” he laughed. “I did go to the Café Royal. I had to meet a man who had a small assignment for me. As it happened I turned it down. Sailing a little too near the wind for my taste.” He looked at me with sudden longing. “I wish I could find a normal, everyday sort of job and make a decent living, enough to support a wife and family.”

“You’d be bored in a normal, everyday sort of job.” I tried to make light of it.

“I’m serious, Georgie,” he said. “You know I’d ask you to marry me if I could support you. I’m trying as hard as I can, but there are no jobs for fellows like me—I don’t even have the connections to be sent out to the Colonies.”

“I know, it’s hard,” I said. “I feel the same way. Fig doesn’t want me around and refuses to let me stay alone at Rannoch House and I’ve nowhere else to go, unless I marry the next prince or count that my royal kin produce for me.”

“Maybe you should,” he said. “I can’t expect you to wait for me forever.”

“Darcy, you know I couldn’t. If I can’t marry someone I love, I’d rather stay a spinster. Perhaps I’ll take up a wicked life like my mother.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not the type, my darling. You’ve inherited your great-grandmother’s moral barometer . . . although after that display the other night, I’m not so sure anymore. Would you have invited the lecherous Johnnie into your bed if he’d escorted you upstairs?”

“Don’t tease, and you know I wouldn’t. In fact, he came into my room, hoping to take advantage of me while I was drunk.”

“Did he, the bounder? And what did you do?”

“I wasn’t capable of doing much, but Queenie threatened to hit him over the head with my water jug.”

“I like Queenie. I’m sure she’s not much use as a maid, but she has grit, doesn’t she?”

Footsteps ran past the door. Darcy stopped talking, then whispered, “Why are we wasting precious time talking?” and kissed me again. But this time my mind wasn’t fully on the kiss. I knew that I hadn’t told him that I wouldn’t be allowed to marry him anyway.

Chapter 25

DECEMBER 27

I’m beginning to agree with Lady H-G. This party has gone on long enough. I’m wishing I could get away from here, before the next awful thing happens. It’s like having a sword of doom hanging over us and I feel so powerless.

It was a glorious bright morning with the sun sparkling on the snow-clad Lovey Tor. At breakfast Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that she and her family had to attend the funeral of Miss Ffrench-Finch but suggested that the chauffeur drive those who were interested around the local beauty spots, to show them the sights in this part of Devon. They could stop for lunch in an old pub in a historic village. The Upthorpes and Wexlers both wanted to do this. The countess declared that she had spent childhood holidays in Devon before anyone else in the room was born and had no need to see it again. Badger thought he might want to come along for the ride (having become, I suspected, rather enamored of Ethel Upthorpe, or at least of Ethel Upthorpe’s money), but Lady Hawse-Gorzley stopped him.

“You’ll want to start training for the Lovey Chase with the other boys, surely, Badger?”

“The Lovey Chase? What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Remember I told you, old fruit,” Monty said. “All the young men of the area compete in a steeplechase. Have to run around the course and jump over the fences, wearing a dashed ridiculous saddle. And the crowd places bets, just like a real horse race. I actually won a couple of years ago when I was just down from Eton and remarkably fit.”

“Before you went to seed at Oxford,” Bunty commented. “It’s awfully good fun, Badger. Nobody takes it seriously.”

“And it’s quite historic. Goes back to 1700, I believe—when there was a powerful Catholic family in the area and Catholics were not allowed by law to own horses. So they invented their own alternative horse race with their own sons.”

“Absolutely fascinating,” Mrs. Rathbone said. “Can’t wait to see it. I adore these old English traditions, don’t I, Reggie?”

“Is it only for the young bloods or can an old codger like me take part?” the colonel asked.

“Reggie, you are not going to make a fool of yourself stumbling over fences while wearing a saddle,” Mrs. Rathbone said.

“Well, I’m to be a contender,” Johnnie Protheroe said. “Don’t care if I have passed forty. How about you, Sechrest?” This was clearly thrown out as a challenge.

“Might just take you up on that,” Captain Sechrest said.

“So I thought you young men might want to go out and view the course, practice the jumps and all that,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“Absolutely,” Darcy said. He looked at me. “I hope you plan to bet a large sum on me.”

“Are you fit enough to win?”

“I haven’t seen the competition yet.” He chuckled. “If we’re up against some strapping young farm lads, then I don’t know.”

“Oh, it’s only for the sons of good families,” Bunty said. “We don’t allow the riffraff to join in.”

“Bunty dear, do try to be a little more diplomatic in the way you put things,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

“I don’t see why you make such a fuss,” Bunty said, tossing her head. “It’s not as if there are any of the riffraff present, is it? And I think it’s jolly unfair that they don’t allow girls to compete. I was rather good at cross-country running at school.”

“Come and offer advice then, Bunty,” Darcy put an arm around her, then looked back at me. “Are you coming too? We’ll need a cheering section.”

“I thought I might spend some time with my mother and grandfather, if everyone is occupied elsewhere,” I said.

“Splendid idea, Georgiana,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “You’ve hardly had a chance to enjoy your own relatives. Those staying here are planning to play bridge this morning. Mrs. Sechrest can’t survive more than two days without a bridge game, can you, Sandra?” Mrs. Sechrest smiled prettily.

“I’m going with the guys,” Junior Wexler said, breaking away from his mother. “It’s boring seeing old things.”

“And I think I’ll come and join the cheering section,” Cherie Wexler said, her eyes on Darcy. “It might be fun. Are you coming, Ethel?”

“I’d rather sit in a warm motor than stand in the freezing cold,” Ethel Upthorpe said. “There might even be shops open if we go through a town.”

So I waited until the estate car had set off loaded to the gills with sightseers and the young Adonises had gone to their steeplechase training before I headed down the driveway to my mother’s cottage. My mother and Noel Coward were hard at work—at least, Noel was hard at work. My mother was lounging in peacock blue pajamas, a long ebony cigarette holder in her hand, nodding agreement occasionally as he tossed off another line. So Granddad and I decided to go for a walk before lunch.

“The inspector stopped by earlier this morning,” Granddad said. “It seems that they’ve arrested that Wild Sal person. Caught her going back to that hovel she lives in up on the moor last night. Said she put up a terrible fight, like a wild animal.”

I nodded. For some reason there was a lump in my throat and I couldn’t speak. She had almost certainly saved my life by warning me away from the bog. And I couldn’t help wondering what she had been like before and what it must be like to live apart and have absolutely nobody in the world. Perhaps I identified with her a little.

“And of course it makes sense, now that we think of it,” Granddad went on cheerfully. “She roams all over the moors, doesn’t she? And she’s clearly quite crackers. Probably didn’t even care who she was bumping off. Probably hears voices or something like that. They often do, don’t they? Well, at least the inspector can breathe easier now, and it won’t even go to trial. She’ll be sent off to an asylum, poor thing.”

We walked on, past the village shop, which was open again today and doing a good trade in newspapers and cigarettes, and past the pub, where a group of local people were standing gossiping, presumably about the arrest of Wild Sal. They looked up warily as we walked past.

“I’m glad it turned out to be a mad person,” Granddad said, “because I couldn’t for the life of me find any link between the people who had died and the way they were killed. It didn’t tie in with any case I’d ever worked on in my long years with the force.”

“You’re walking quite fast,” I said. “The country air is making you a lot better.”

“You’re right, it is,” he agreed.

“You should think of moving down here. Get a little cottage in a village like this.”

“Oh, no, ducks. Wouldn’t suit me at all,” he said. “I’m from the Smoke. Born and bred. I know where I belong.”

I looked at him with concern, realizing how much I loved him and relied on him. In fact, he was the only person in the world I could rely on—certainly not my flighty, self-centered mother, or even Darcy, who was never around for more than two minutes. Why would Granddad want to go back to London where the air was so bad for his chest and could lead to an early grave? I tried to dispel gloomy thoughts. He was here with me now and we were enjoying ourselves. That was all that mattered.

By the time we came back to the cottage there were wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and Mrs. Huggins’s head poked out. “I’ve some sausage rolls in the oven if you need a bite to eat before your meal,” she said. “The gentleman upstairs is particularly fond of my sausage rolls. He told me I was a dab hand with pastry, and of course he’s right. I’ve always had a way with pastry, ain’t I, Albert?”

“You have, my dear,” he said.

She smiled at him fondly.

Mummy and Mr. Coward came down to join us for wine and sausage rolls. Mummy had changed into a skirt and cashmere jumper, but Noel was still in his dressing gown.

“I made another of your favorites, Mr. Coward. A steak and kidney pie,” Mrs. Huggins said.

“Mrs. Huggins, you are an angel in disguise, sent from heaven to bring me happiness,” Noel said.

Mrs. Huggins blushed charmingly. I wondered whether she might have landed herself a permanent job as Mr. Coward’s cook and what Granddad would think of that.

“Noel, are you sure you’re not Irish?” Mummy said. “You are full of blarney.”

Noel reached for the decanter and poured himself a glass of red wine. “I speak from the heart, Claire.”

“Darling, you don’t have a heart. Everyone knows that.” Mummy reached forward to pour herself a large glass of red wine. The steak and kidney pie, served with cauliflower in a parsley sauce, was absolutely delicious, as was the jam roly-poly that followed.

“Good simple English cooking at its best,” my mother said. “How I long for this sometimes, when I am stuck with that rich German food.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Coward said. “There are times when one simply can’t face another schnitzel, or even another bite of caviar. Of course, it’s really the longing to go back to the security of the nursery, isn’t it?”

We finished the meal with coffee and nuts and dates around the fire.

“This really is most delightful,” Mummy said. “I shall be loath to leave and travel back to those big drafty rooms at Max’s house and all that entertaining and boring German parties.”

“You know, Claire, I really do believe you’re looking for an excuse to leave that brute,” Noel said.

“He’s not a brute.”

“He’s a German and all Germans are brutes at heart.”

“He adores me, Noel, and you know how much I like to be adored. And he is very rich and generous. But you’re right. There is only so much time that one can spend in Germany without longing to escape—especially now that that dreadful little Hitler man seems to have taken control.”

“He won’t last, my darling,” Noel said. “He can’t last. He is comic beyond belief. You’ll see. Someone with more military bearing will arise and topple him. Maybe even your Max might like to take over—then you could be Frau Führer.”

“If you’re in Mr. Coward’s play then you’ll be stuck in England, won’t you?” I said. “It’s bound to be a hit and then it’ll run forever.”

“Of course it will. Anything I write is a hit,” Noel said. “And then we’ll take it to America, where everyone will adore us.”

“Oh, yes. Do let’s.” Mummy’s face lit up. “I really do think it’s time I went back to the stage. It’s been so long. Do you think my public will have forgotten me?”

Noel took her hand. “As if they could, my darling. They have been yearning for your return.”

I glanced at my grandfather and he winked.

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck four. I stood up. “I should go back to the hall, I suppose. They’ll all be returning from their various expeditions.”

“Apart from the ones who have been felled along the way by the Lovey Curse,” Mr. Coward said callously.

“No, that’s all taken care of now,” Granddad said. “Remember the inspector told us he’d arrested the madwoman.”

Noel sighed. “How I love this village. A resident madwoman and old spinsters and a village idiot and a pub called the Hag and Hounds.”

“And don’t forget about the Lovey Chase,” I said and gave them all the details.

“We absolutely can’t miss that, can we, Claire?” Mr. Coward said. “And I rather think we’re coming to your fancy dress ball tomorrow night, since we can be in disguise and nobody will recognize us.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the fancy dress ball,” I said. “You should see the ballroom. It’s absolutely lovely.”

“I don’t know what we’ll do for costumes,” Mummy said. “I don’t suppose there is a costume shop in Exeter that can send something over by tomorrow. One will just have to improvise, I suppose, if you really insist on attending, Noel.”

“I do, darling. Absolutely adamant about it. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I glanced at his elegant face with its sardonic smile. One never knew with people like him if they were being serious or if this was thinly veiled sarcasm.

“Toodle pip, everyone,” I said, blowing a kiss. As I opened the front door I saw a man getting out of a motorcar. “It’s the inspector again,” I called back to the others. “I wonder, has Wild Sal confessed?”

The inspector came up the path with slow, measured tread. “Well, it seems I spoke too soon,” he said. “We’ve got Wild Sal in custody and now I’ve just heard there’s been another death.”

Chapter 26

MY MOTHER’S COTTAGE

STILL DECEMBER 27

“Another murder?” my mother asked. “How positively thrilling. People are dropping like flies.”

The inspector frowned at her. “Not sure about the murder part, madam. It was some miles away, on the other side of Bovey Tracey, which is why I didn’t hear about it until now. A farmer’s wife was found lying in the milking shed. Apparently she was kicked in the head by the cow she was milking. Any other time I’d think this was just a nasty accident. Now I just don’t know.”

“You’d better come in and let Mrs. Huggins make you a cup of tea,” my mother said. “You’re looking quite haggard.”

“I know. This whole thing is driving me mad. My chief gets back in a few days and he’ll think I’ve done nothing.”

“But you’ve had nothing to go on,” my grandfather said, ushering the inspector to the armchair by the fire. “I mean, there’s not been one of these deaths that one could pinpoint as a murder. No signs of foul play, no motive at all, was there?”

The inspector nodded. “You’re right. No clues, no motive, no sense at all. To start with I thought it might be those escaped convicts, killing because someone had spotted their hideout. But that wouldn’t explain a switchboard operator in town, would it? And an escaped convict wouldn’t go to the trouble of setting up a trip wire for someone’s horse. He’d have been able to stay hidden very nicely in that kind of mist without doing anything. No—that horse’s leg has opened my eyes, so to speak. That was a deliberate act of malice. I don’t know if it was aimed at a particular person or just at the hunt in general, but it was certainly aimed at felling a rider.”

“Did you find the actual tree where the trap was laid?” I asked.

“My boys might have done so by now, but quite frankly they’ve been stretched to the limit, what with finding this Wild Sal and bringing her in. My, but she was a little tiger. Put curses on my men too, like someone possessed by the devil—scared the daylights out of some of them, I can tell you.”

“If you look at it logically,” Noel Coward interjected in his bored upper-class drawl, “you still couldn’t come to the conclusion that you were looking at a string of murders. The horse’s leg is the only sign of outside intervention—unless you found telltale boot marks around that tree in the orchard or signs of a scuffle where the man fell off the bridge.”

“To tell you the truth, sir, we bungled both of those,” the inspector said. “That first one with the man in the tree—well, we just took it to be a stupid accident, see. So we walked around a bit and left our footprints all over the place. Same goes for the man who fell off the bridge. Didn’t occur to us that they were crime scenes to begin with.”

“Why would it?” Granddad said. “You don’t expect someone to be lurking and pushing people off bridges in this part of the world.”

“You do not, sir,” the inspector agreed. “But after eight days of one death per day, I have to believe that someone is behind this.”

“Not one death per day,” I interrupted. “There was no death on December twenty-fourth, remember?”

“You’re right, my lady.” He wagged a finger in my direction. “But there was a crime, wasn’t there? The jewelry shop in Newton Abbott was broken into. I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the deaths. In fact, I’d have said that someone needed extra money for Christmas except that it was clearly a professional job—safe cracked with no problem and only the best stuff taken—some really expensive gold rings.”

“So have you given up on the idea that the convicts were to blame?” Granddad asked.

“I think I have to, sir. The deaths have been so spread out now that I can’t believe escaped convicts could have covered so much ground on foot without being seen. And then there’s the question why. If you’d just escaped from Dartmoor Prison your one thought would be to get as far away as possible and then lie low, wouldn’t it?”

“You said they’d recaptured one of the convicts, didn’t you?” I asked.

“They have, my lady, and they’re holding him in a cell up in Birmingham until they can bring him back here.”

“Did he have anything to say about his fellow escapees?” I went on.

“He thought the other two were planning to head straight for London. Leastways, that’s what he said. If he knows more, he’s not spilling the beans. They don’t usually rat on each other.”

“So this woman who was kicked in the head—have you seen her yet?”

“I haven’t. They rushed her to the hospital because she was still breathing, but unfortunately she died on the way there, and nobody got a chance to see how she was lying or to examine the shed as a possible crime scene. By now those cows have probably walked all over the spot where she was found.”

“It seems to me this all comes down to why,” Granddad said. “Why these particular people.”

“I agree with you, sir,” the inspector said. “And believe me, I’ve asked myself that question over and over. But they’ve nothing in common. They’d certainly not have mixed socially, would they? I mean a master of hounds and a switchboard operator and a butcher. I’ll wager they didn’t even know each other.”

“I presume you’ve been through your case files to see if you’ve any antisocial or violent blokes in the area?” Granddad asked.

“I’ve done that. We’ve our share of lads who are soft in the head, like that poor chap you’ve got in the village here, but nobody who’s shown any inclination to kill people.”

“It could be someone who has come down from London for the Christmas holidays, I suppose,” Mummy said.

“I don’t think that’s likely, madam,” the inspector said. “You see, whoever it was knew an awful lot about these people. He knew where the hunt was likely to go. He knew that Ted Grover took a shortcut home over that bridge when he’d been to see his lady love. He even knew that Mr. Skaggs would be making an early morning delivery in his van and would be coming around that dangerous bend.”

“If indeed those people were his targets,” Mr. Coward said, waving his cigarette holder at the inspector. “What if he just wanted the thrill of killing and it really didn’t matter who fell off the bridge or whose van went off the road?”

“Don’t say that, sir,” the inspector groaned, “because if that is true, then we’ve no way of ever catching him.”

“You will,” Granddad said. “I’ve dealt with a lot of criminals in my life, some of them remarkably clever men, but they always slip up in the end. Get too cocky, see. Like leaving the evidence on that horse’s leg. Until that moment you could say that every one of those deaths was an accident. Now you know that at least one wasn’t.” He looked up. “I take it you haven’t found the bloke who fell off that horse?”

“We haven’t.” The inspector shook his head sadly, “And not for want of trying. My boys have scoured those hills, and we’ve had the dogs out, and not a trace of him. We have to assume that he went down in that bog, poor bloke.”

An absurd idea was passing through my mind. What if someone had wanted to disappear, to make it look as if he came off his horse in the mist and wandered into the bog? It sounded so far-fetched that I didn’t like to say it, but I thought I’d ask a little more about the master of hounds when I got back to the hall.

Mrs. Huggins appeared with a tea tray loaded with generous slices of Christmas cake.

“I should be getting back,” I said reluctantly and made for the door again. “See you tomorrow at the fancy dress ball.”

“You won’t recognize us, we’ll be in such brilliant disguises,” Noel Coward said. “And watch your step as you walk up that long driveway. So far the killer hasn’t attacked anyone from the hall, but it might be only a matter of time.”

“Noel, don’t say things like that.” My mother slapped his wrist. “Walk with her if you’re worried about her.”

“What, and have to walk back alone in the growing darkness? Not for a million pounds, my dear. It’s not for nothing that my last name is ‘coward.’”

“I could accompany you, my lady.” The inspector made signs of putting down his teacup. “But I don’t think there’s any need to worry. You’re not from around here, are you? The killer or killers only seem interested in people from these parts.”

“That’s encouraging, isn’t it?” I gave them a bright smile and departed.

I made it back to the hall without incident, although I have to confess, I did turn sharply every time there was a rustle in the bushes. When I reached Gorzley Hall I found that the wanderers had returned. The members of the sightseeing party were full of enthusiasm for what they had seen and were relating their experiences to the boys who had been training and to the bridge players.

“And we saw Buckfast Abbey. And we actually heard the monks chanting,” Mrs. Upthorpe said. “It was like stepping back into the Middle Ages.”

“And all those cute little villages and humpbacked bridges,” Mrs. Wexler agreed.

“And we saw the Dartmoor jail,” Mr. Wexler reminded her. “My, but that’s a grim-looking place. I’d want to escape if I were sent there.”

“Don’t forget the ponies,” Mrs. Wexler reminded him. “We actually saw the famous Dartmoor ponies.”

“You saw ponies?” Junior Wexler showed interest for the first time. “Like wild ponies, you mean?”

“We sure did. Running up the mountainside in the snow.” Mrs. Wexler paused to ruffle her son’s hair. “But how did your training go, son?”

“Swell. I thought the fences would be big, but they are only this high.” He held his hands about eighteen inches apart. “Anybody could jump over them.”

“Tea is ready when you’ve all had a chance to change,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and as they went up the stairs to do so, she sidled over to me. “Any news from the outside world? One feels so cut off without a telephone still.”

“They’ve arrested Wild Sal,” I said.

“Wild Sal. Good God. So she was the one. I might have known. She is a direct descendant of the hag, after all.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “Since her arrest, there has been another death.”

“Where?” She looked up sharply.

“On the other side of Bovey Tracey, I think the inspector said. And it might have nothing to do with the other deaths. A farmer’s wife kicked in the head by a cow as she was milking.”

“Well, that has happened before, hasn’t it?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley dismissed this. “Such unpredictable creatures, cows. I expect they’ll find that this one really was an accident and that Wild Sal is responsible for at least some of the others.”

She gave me a nod of satisfaction, then bustled off again. Everyone fell upon tea with enthusiasm, then we didn’t do much before dinner apart from tackling a large jigsaw puzzle of a Dutch skating scene. Ethel and her mother were wearing gorgeous new dresses for dinner—Schiaparelli, if I was not mistaken—and I noticed Badger’s eyes light up when she came into the room. Perhaps the investment in this house party would pay off for the Upthorpes and they would get their daughter married into the upper classes. I put the subject of marriage firmly from my mind. It was too worrying to consider.

After the previous night’s simple curry dinner, this was a lavish affair, befitting a grand house party. Smoked salmon followed by a rich oxtail soup and then pheasant for the main course.

“What kind of bird is this?” Mr. Wexler asked, prodding it with his fork.

“I was so disappointed that I couldn’t provide you with goose for Christmas Day that I decided to make up for it with pheasant,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Truly the most delicious of the game birds, I always think.”

Nobody argued with that—the meat swimming in a dark brown gravy with mushrooms and tiny onions around it and thin crisps of potato to accompany it. We ate in near silence. The pheasant was followed by an apple crumble and clotted cream, then a local strong cheddar and biscuits. We passed a quiet evening playing records on the gramophone and one or two of us made an attempt at dancing.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to dance tomorrow at the ball,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.

I went to bed and fell asleep straight away. I woke to see the moon shining on me and realized that I needed to face the long walk to the lavatory at the end of the corridor. As I came out of my room I stopped, staring down the hallway ahead of me. A figure in white appeared to be floating slowly down the dark hall. I wondered if this was a Gorzley ghost that nobody had seen fit to mention. Having grown up at Castle Rannoch, I wasn’t particularly scared of ghosts. We had plenty of them in the family, including my grandfather’s ghost playing the bagpipes on the ramparts—an apparition I hadn’t personally experienced. I crept silently behind the figure until I could see it was a woman with long dark hair spilling over the shoulders of a white nightgown.

Then suddenly she stopped outside a door, put her hand on the handle and eased it open before going in. By now my eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the hallway and I saw who it was. It was Sandra Sechrest. I told myself that she had also been on a nocturnal walk to heed the call of nature, and felt like a fool, until I realized that the room she had slipped into so silently was not her own but Johnnie Protheroe’s.

Chapter 27

DECEMBER 28

I’ve started counting the days until I can go home, which is silly because I’m with Granddad and Darcy and frankly I haven’t a home to go to.

When I awoke the next morning I looked out at a landscape blotted out by mist and the first thought that came to me was, I wonder who is going to be killed today?

The fact that this came to me so readily was shocking. How could I have possibly come to accept that one person would die every day in this little part of Devon? And anger flooded through me. Right there, as I stared out through the window at the ghostly bare branches of the orchard hovering in the mist, I made a decision. This could not be allowed to continue. Someone had to do something about it, and since the inspector was clearly incapable, it was up to me to use the expertise at my disposal and catch the murderer. I had my grandfather, with all his years of experience at Scotland Yard, and I had Darcy, who worked, I was sure, as some sort of spy. And I had assisted in a small way in some important cases. It was about time we did a little detective work ourselves.

I was already dressed by the time Queenie appeared with a tea tray—more of the tea in the saucer than the cup, I have to say. Her good intentions to be a perfect maid were rapidly slipping back into her normal behavior.

“Blimey, you’re already up,” she said. “I needn’t have bothered to come up all them stairs with the tea if I’d known.”

“You came up the stairs because one of your duties is to bring your mistress her morning tea, whether she wants it or not,” I pointed out.

She gave me a look as she put it down, none too gently, on the table. “Nasty old day,” she said, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home. Do you know what they’re saying in the servants’ hall? They’re saying that there’s a Lovey Curse and one person will get struck down every day until New Year. I tell you, it ain’t half giving me the willies.”

“I don’t think you have to worry, Queenie. It’s only local people who are cursed,” I said.

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then, ain’t it?” A beam spread across her round red face. I wished I could be as easily satisfied as she was.

I came into the breakfast room to find Darcy sitting alone at one end of the table while the Rathbones and Upthorpes were busy working their way through enormous piles of kedgeree at the other. I slid into a seat beside him and he looked up, smiling. “Good morning,” he said.

“Do you think you could possibly borrow Monty’s motorcar today?”

“You want to escape for a tryst?” he asked, his eyes teasing me.

I lowered my voice even though the distance between us and the other diners was considerable. “No, I want to help solve this ridiculous business before any more people are killed.”

He looked surprised and a trifle amused. “You are suddenly turning into the Sherlock Holmes of Rannoch, are you?”

“Darcy, be serious, please. The local detective inspector is a nice enough man but he’s quite out of his depth. You know a thing or two about questioning people and judging who might be lying, and my grandfather—well, he’s dealt with all kinds of gruesome cases during his years on the force. So I thought we might at least take a look for ourselves at the sites where these things happened.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be my aunt’s right-hand woman? Are you allowed to vanish for a day when you should be running skittles tournaments and things?”

I regarded him frostily. “You sound as if you don’t want to come with me. Fine, if you don’t want a chance for us to spend time together . . .” I began to stand up. He grabbed my arm to hold me back.

“Don’t be silly. You know very well that I’d love any chance to spend time with you. It’s just that I’m not sure we should interfere in local police business. We don’t know the people or the territory. I can’t see how we can be of any use whatsoever.”

“Darcy, you haven’t spoken with Inspector Newcombe. I have. He admits that he is flummoxed. He’s been popping in on my grandfather asking for advice every two seconds. Of course he wants help, and if my grandfather had somebody to motor him around he might be able to solve this.”

“Very well,” he said, looking around as if trying to make up his mind. “I suppose I could ask Monty, but I’m none too sure about the lay of the land around here.”

“There are such things as maps,” I said. “I’ll ask Sir Oswald for one.”

“So what are we going to do about this fancy dress ball if we’re gone all day? Aren’t we supposed to be creating costumes?”

“I happen to know there is a whole row of costumes hanging in the attic,” I said. “I suggest you and I slip up there before the others and grab something.”

“Slip up to the attic and grab something. That sounds interesting.”

“Darcy!” I glared at him.

“My, but you’re testy today,” he said.

“Because I’m feeling really angry and frustrated that people are being killed and nobody is doing anything to stop it,” I said. “We have to help, Darcy. How many people will have to die otherwise before Scotland Yard sends someone down to take charge?”

“I suppose the point is that from what we can tell, we have no evidence that any of the deaths was a murder.”

“My grandfather says there is no such thing as coincidence. Do you really believe that so many accidents could happen in one small part of Dartmoor, with a death every day?”

“I agree it does sound far-fetched. Unless you believe in the Lovey Curse.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not.” He gave a half-embarrassed laugh. “But I’m dashed if I can see how these deaths have anything to do with each other. I mean to say, if you were going to kill a chap, would you wait until he was up a tree? And the man who pushed that garage owner off a bridge was most likely the wronged husband, not an outsider. And if someone turned on the gas to kill the old woman, it was probably one of her sisters, tired of being bossed around.”

“But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a clever killer with a motive we haven’t yet fathomed?”

He put an arm around my shoulder. “Georgie, think about it—do you really believe we can do anything that the local police can’t?”

I chewed on my lip, something I tend to do when I’m not sure of myself. “I just thought that if three of us put our heads together and looked at the sites in order, then something would occur to us.”

Darcy stared past me, out the window, then he pushed away his plate. “All right then. I’ll go find Monty.”

“We have to choose costumes first,” I said. “Come on. Let’s see if we can sneak up to the attic without being noticed.”

Darcy gave a reluctant sigh, then took my hand. We crept up several flights of stairs, each one less grand than the one before, until we reached a set of steep wooden steps to an attic. The place was illuminated only by the light coming in from some dormer windows, and items covered in dust sheets looked ominous in the darkness. Having grown up in a really spooky castle, I’m not normally afraid of such things, but the way they stirred in the draft we let in was unnerving and I was glad I had Darcy with me.

“Here they are,” I said and threw the dust sheet off a rack of costumes.

“Let me see, what do I want to be?” Darcy examined them one by one. “Not a gorilla. Too hot. Caveman? I might fancy that. Then I could drag you across the room by your hair.”

“Which, in case you haven’t noticed, is not long enough to do that,” I said. “Besides, there is no cavewoman outfit.”

“You could be a second Wild Sal,” Darcy said. “Look at this airy-fairy outfit. I’m sure you could waft around if you wanted to.”

I held it up. “I don’t think I’m the wafting type,” I said.

Darcy was staring at the floor. “Someone else wanted to get first dibs on costumes, I see. Look at the footprints. Someone has been up here before us.” He pointed at the row of neat footprints in the dust.

“Probably just Lady Hawse-Gorzley or one of the maids sent up to make sure the costumes were brushed and clean.” I put back the Wild Sal outfit.

“Pity there’s no Charles the Second,” Darcy said, “because you could borrow some oranges from downstairs and be Nell Gwynne in this dress.” He held it out to me. “Rather a daring bodice, don’t you think? But then, Nell never did mind displaying her oranges.”

I could see that we were getting nowhere. “Look,” I said. “How about this? We could go as gypsies. I’m sure there are red scarves and big golden earrings in the dressing-up box downstairs.”

“I wouldn’t mind being a gypsy,” he agreed. “I’ve always rather fancied the outdoor life.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.” I handed him an outfit with baggy trousers, lacy white shirt and black waistcoat. “Let’s go find Monty.”

Darcy sighed and followed me down the stairs.

Chapter 28

DECEMBER 28

A half hour later we had picked up my grandfather and were ready to embark upon a day of detecting.

“We should start with the first death,” I said. “You don’t happen to know which tree in the orchard it was, do you?”

“Haven’t got a clue, ducks,” my granddad said. “But we could take a butcher’s if you like.”

“A butcher’s?” I asked.

“Butcher’s hook—rhyming slang for look.”

“I’ll never get the hang of rhyming slang,” I said. “It seems to take twice as long to say something as the actual word it represents.”

“Ah, well, the object is that the toffs don’t understand what we’re talking about,” he said.” Rhyming slang and then back slang before it. Private language in a crowded city.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I don’t see any point in going to look at the orchard,” Darcy said. “We know that the police trampled all over it.”

“We could question the man’s servants,” I suggested.

Darcy glanced at my grandfather. “What do you think, sir? Georgie wants to do this, but I don’t want to be accused of stepping on the toes of the police.”

“Well, that inspector has asked for my advice, but I’m not so sure we should go questioning people behind his back,” Granddad said. “And anyway, I heard from the inspector that nobody in the house knew anything. They didn’t hear the shot. They didn’t know he’d gone out. I gather the servants sleep in another wing altogether and he normally didn’t get up before nine.”

“Well, that’s a lot of good,” I said. “I wish we knew who his friends were and whether he’d told any of them that he was planning this prank.”

“What would that prove?” Darcy asked. “He probably told quite a few people that he was planning the prank. If he wasn’t about to carry out some kind of stunt, what on earth was he doing up a tree with a shotgun and wire?”

I sighed. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

“Because if these are murders,” my grandfather said, “then someone has put a lot of thought and planning into making them look like accidents.”

“What kind of person would do this?” Darcy asked.

“Obviously a brainy type,” Granddad said. “A loner. Quiet sort, I’d say. And if he really has planned to kill these specific people, then I’d say he’s the kind who’d carry a grudge, maybe for years. A crime spree like this must have taken months of planning.”

“What if it’s a woman?” I asked. “Wild Sal fits those characteristics, doesn’t she?”

Granddad nodded. “It could be that the farmer’s wife, kicked to death in the dairy, was a genuine accident. We’ll just have to see if there are any more deaths. If there aren’t, then bob’s your uncle. Wild Sal it is.”

“We should be moving along if you want to cover all of the crime scenes,” Darcy said. “The second one—the man who fell off the bridge.”

“We can hardly ask the publican what time Ted Grover left, if he was dallying with the publican’s wife,” I said.

“But we could ask some of the other men,” Granddad said. “There’s a couple of them sitting outside the pub right now.”

We went over and I hung back, letting Darcy and my grandfather do the talking. They joined me soon after. “They say that nobody saw him leave. He definitely wasn’t in the bar at closing time, so he must have left well before that. Could have been round the back with the publican’s missus.” My grandfather paused. “And they were surprised he fell off the bridge because he didn’t seem to be drunk.”

There was a clear footpath from the pub across low-lying fields. It was muddy from melted snow and we picked our way carefully until we came to the clapper bridge—just slabs of granite laid over standing stones across the stream.

“Easy enough to fall off here, if you were unsteady on your pins,” Granddad said.

“But they didn’t think he was drunk,” I said. “And if he fell into the stream, it’s deep enough that he wouldn’t have hit his head on a rock, and the icy water would have sobered him up in a hurry.”

“I suspect the stream is much deeper now than it was a few days ago,” Darcy said. “All that melted snow.”

“That’s true.” I stared down at the swiftly flowing waters, trying to picture a man’s body lying there; trying to spot a rock that could have killed him. We made our way back to the road and went to look at the house of the Misses Ffrench-Finch.

“We do know that Wild Sal was admitted to their kitchen on that night,” I said.

Granddad shook his head. “Do you think she’d know about things like turning on gas taps if she lived wild on the moors? And more to the point, would she have any idea about cross-wiring a switchboard?”

“I suppose that’s true,” I said. “It would take a person with experience of electricity to make sure someone was electrocuted when they plugged in headphones.”

We made our way around the house to the side with Miss Effie’s window, and sure enough there was a very large footprint in the flower bed right beneath the window.

“Looks like a large Wellington boot to me,” Granddad said. “A very large one. Doesn’t that half-witted bloke wear big boots?”

“Willum? Yes, but we know he was here the day before Miss Effie died. He helped them carry in packages and get the decorations down from their attic. He could quite possibly have had to fetch something from the shed.”

“Via a flower bed?” Darcy asked.

“Maybe he wanted to peek in a downstairs window,” I suggested. “He’s very childlike.” I looked over to the shed behind the main house. “Oh, and look. There is a ladder propped against the shed. Perhaps he had to fetch that to put up the Christmas tree.”

Granddad stared at the ladder, then at the wall. “If that was extended, it would reach close to that bedroom window.”

“It would,” Darcy agreed. “Now all we have to do is find out who used it, turned on the gas and came down again without being seen.”

“You’re being sarcastic again,” I said.

“I just think this is a fool’s errand,” he said. “Maybe Sherlock Holmes could look at the smallest of clues and know everything, but we can’t. We can’t question everybody in nearby towns, look through police records, hospital records—all the things one would need to do to come up with possible suspects for a murder like this. And even then—if our murderer is a twisted reclusive chap, brooding and plotting from his bedroom, we may have no way of finding him until he makes a mistake.”

“You think he’ll make a mistake?” I asked.

“They always do in the end,” Granddad said. “He can wipe away fingerprints, work hard to make every death look like an accident, but in the end he’ll slip up.”

“I’d still like to look at the other crime scenes for myself,” I said. “And since we have the car, why not?”

“Because it’s cold,” Darcy said.

After a mile or so I had to agree with him. Monty’s motor was an open-topped Alvis Tourer, so we were exposed to the freezing wind. It wasn’t so bad in the front seat, behind the windshield, but I was perched in the poor excuse for a backseat and the wind hit me full in the face. We sat huddled together as we climbed a hill and then down again into Newton Abbott. I noticed that Klein’s Jewelers had a notice saying Closed on the front door. The robbery had clearly upset Mr. Klein enough that he hadn’t felt like opening his shop again. We found the telephone exchange with two girls working at a makeshift switchboard at a table, while the other end of the room was a blackened mess of burned-out wires. We made Darcy our spokesman, sensing correctly that girls like that would be more willing to talk to a handsome man. And after his initial questions they glanced at him shyly and said they’d do anything they could to help “poor Glad.”

“I always said she had it coming,” one of them said, looking at the other for confirmation. “She loved to listen in on the calls and she was a terrible gossip, wasn’t she, Lil?”

The other nodded. “I told her she was going to get in trouble one day for repeating things like that.”

“Did she ever repeat to you any of the things she’d heard?” Darcy asked.

“She did sometimes—you know, if someone was seeing somebody else’s wife. She liked that kind of thing. Crazy about the pictures, she was—romance and drama.”

“So you think that what happened to her wasn’t an accident?” I asked carefully.

“I don’t see as how it could have been,” Lil said. “I mean, who would ever connect up electric wires to a telephone switchboard? Only someone who didn’t know what they were doing, and nobody like that has ever been in here. We ain’t had no kind of work done, or outsiders in here.”

“There was that man about the clock,” the other girl reminded her.

“Oh, right. A man came in the other day—day before poor Glad’s tragedy, it were. Said he was sent to repair the clock. He weren’t here long, fiddled about a bit and then he went.”

“What did he look like?”

“Nothing much. About forty-something, I’d say. Thin bloke. Big mustache. Glasses. Wearing overalls.”

“He didn’t give his name or say who had sent him?”

“We were busy. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he said he’d been sent from the town hall, so we left him to it.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Do you reckon they’ll ever catch the person what did this?” Lil asked.

“We hope so,” Darcy said. “Oh, and tell me—did Gladys have anyone who might have carried a grudge against her? An old boyfriend, maybe? A neighbor she had annoyed?”

They frowned, thinking. “Like I said”—the other girl glanced at Lil before speaking—“she did like to gossip so maybe that got her in trouble. But she weren’t the sort for boyfriends. Not much of a catch, you might say. She got her romance from the cinema.”

“Should we go to the town hall?” I asked as we came out again to the busy high street. “They’d know who was sent to repair a clock, wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t see how that could have any bearing on Gladys,” Darcy said. “If he’d rigged up the switchboard to kill somebody while he was there, he’d have killed one of the other girls before Gladys came on duty in the early morning.”

“You know what I’m thinking?” Granddad commented. “They let us in and chatted to us easily enough. Who is to say that people don’t often pop in for a chat and that they don’t even remember them afterward?”

“Good point,” Darcy said. “Emphasizing that we’re on a wild-goose chase.”

“Fine,” I said angrily. “You’ve made it quite clear that I’m an idiot and we’re wasting our time.”

I started walking fast toward the motorcar. Darcy hurried to catch up with me. “Nobody says you’re an idiot. I just don’t think we have any way of achieving what you hope to achieve. We’re amateurs, Georgie. We have no access to police records.”

“He’s right, ducks,” Granddad said. “The only way to solve this, in my thinking, is to find a local person who has shown himself in the past to be antisocial or warped or hostile. You know, the kind who writes letters to the local newspaper about his neighbor’s radio being too loud or the greengrocer raising the cost of potatoes. I think we’ll find each of the victims teed him off in a way that wouldn’t bother you or me.”

“Then could we go through the past issues of the newspaper and see if anything stands out?”

“That would take days,” Darcy said. “And I expect the police are already thinking along those lines.”

I sighed. “All right. Let’s go home. I give up. There’s no point in looking where the butcher’s van drove off the road because anyone could have hidden behind a big rock and jumped out to make him swerve. And I was the one who found the master of hounds’s horse and the only person I saw up there was Wild Sal and she’s behind bars.”

“Then let’s go back, have a good lunch and forget about it,” Darcy said. “No, don’t look at me like that. I’m not being callous, just realistic. And who knows, maybe we’ll come to the end of the day with no more deaths.”

“We could drive over to that farm and see where the farmer’s wife died,” I said as we reached the motor and Darcy opened the door for me.

“And question the cow?” Darcy said.

My grandfather laughed. For some reason I couldn’t find it funny. I climbed into the car with a haughty “I’m not amused” expression still on my face.

Darcy touched my hand. “Smile, Georgie. You can’t carry this on your shoulders. What could we hope to learn from looking at a cow barn? The only thing that would be interesting to see is whether the doctor agreed that death was caused by a single kick to the head.”

“I wonder whether he has a surgery in this town or was called in from Exeter.” I was already looking around.

“It wouldn’t be right to go and see the doctor without permission from the inspector,” Granddad said. “I’m sorry, love, but I agree with Darcy. There ain’t much more we can do on our own. Best go back to your posh house and enjoy yourselves.”

Darcy revved the motor and we drove back to the hall. I sat fuming with frustration, but I knew in my heart they were right. If only I had something to go on, some vital clue, some thread that linked the deaths. As we drove I tried to rack my brains about things I might have seen. There had been a couple of occasions when a thought had passed through my head, too fleetingly to grab on to, that I had just witnessed something important. But I could no longer remember what those moments were. As a detective, I was a hopeless failure.

Chapter 29

STILL DECEMBER 28

Suffering from near frostbite.

When we arrived back at Gorzley Hall we found everyone in a state of excitement about the ball. The clatter of a sewing machine came from a back room and I gathered that one of the local women had been conscripted to make alterations. People were rummaging through the dressing-up trunk, calling out things like, “Will this do?”

Junior Wexler ran past. “I’m going to be a Redcoat!” he called. “I’m going to borrow a real uniform and a real gun.”

“Oh, there you are, Georgiana.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared in the doorway, looking frazzled. “I wondered where you had disappeared to.”

“I went out with Darcy and my grandfather to see if there was anything we could do to help solve these murders,” I said.

She glanced around in case any guests were within hearing distance. “I thought you said they’d arrested Wild Sal,” she whispered.

“They have. But a farmer’s wife died after Sal was in jail.”

“The whole thing is extraordinary and unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “Especially in our little neck of the woods. Did you discover anything?”

“Nothing at all,” I said. “I feel quite frustrated, but we’ve nothing to go on.”

“It’s not your problem, my dear. You are supposed to be having fun with everyone else. You have your costume for tonight, I hope. All the best ones have been snapped up. Oh, and I hope you don’t mind—I had a word with your maid and asked her to help Mrs. Upthorpe and Mrs. Rathbone dress tonight. Our Martha can help Mrs. Wexler and Bunty.”

I tried not to let my face betray that being dressed by Queenie might be something fraught with danger. Should I perhaps warn Mrs. Upthorpe and Mrs. Rathbone that my maid had in the past done such things as setting fire to her employer?

“What about Mrs. Sechrest?” I asked. My mind went immediately to that white figure creeping down the corridor in the night.

“The Sechrests have gone home and will be dressing there. I wonder what she’ll wear this year. She always goes in for frightfully elaborate costumes. Last year she was Nell Gwynne.” I tried not to smile at this.

I went to find Queenie to try to instill in her the fear of God and dismissal from my service, but she seemed pleased with herself that she was going to act as lady’s maid to all and sundry. “They don’t have no more proper maids like me here, so her ladyship actually begged me to help them get dressed.”

“She had no idea what you’re like, Queenie. Please try not to do anything too stupid, for my sake.”

“I always try, miss. It’s just that sometimes things happen.”

At least she hadn’t been asked to dress the dowager countess.

I went through the dressing-up box and found my red scarf and gold earrings, then I noticed a long black wig and added that. It’s amazing how a difference in hair color changes a personality, isn’t it? When I tried on the costume I looked quite sultry, like a Mediterranean temptress. I was rather pleased with my choice, especially as Darcy would be my gypsy partner.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley served a high tea at five, as we would be having a late supper at the ball. This included boiled eggs and Welsh rarebit as well as the usual tea fare and took me back to nursery days when Nanny and I would share such a meal in our own little world. How long ago that seemed now.

Around seven everyone dispersed to prepare for the ball. I told Queenie I could dress myself and sent her off to help the other ladies. As I stood alone in my room I realized that the day was almost over and nobody had died. Maybe our surmise had been true after all—the farmer’s wife had been an accident and Wild Sal had been responsible for at least some of the other deaths. I felt a great wave of relief sweep over me. I realized that I had been almost holding my breath, waiting for the next stroke of doom to fall. I was almost ready, only fiddling with tying the scarf around my false locks, when I heard an awful scream. I came flying out of my room, as did those around me. The scream was coming from the far end of the hallway and we raced down it, flinging open a door.

The sight inside was not a pretty one. Mrs. Upthorpe was standing in front of a mirror, wearing a Marie Antoinette costume and screaming her lungs out while Queenie stood behind her with a look of terror on her face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The stupid girl has zipped me,” she shouted, her broad North Country vowels coming through in this moment of stress. “Now she can’t get it open again.”

That didn’t sound too bad until I saw that what Queenie had done was to catch a fold of Mrs. Upthorpe’s copious skin in the teeth of the zip fastener and, being Queenie, to keep on tugging. It took several minutes and a great deal of comforting of the distraught Mrs. Upthorpe before we managed to release her back from the zip fastener. There was an ugly red welt that was bleeding in places where the teeth had been.

“Queenie, go and ask the butler for first aid supplies,” I said.

“No, don’t send that girl. She’ll probably come back with caustic soda or weed killer,” Mrs. Upthorpe wailed.

“I’ll go,” I said and dragged Queenie out with me. “How could you?” I demanded as soon as we were clear of the room. “I asked you to be careful.”

“I was,” she said. “I ain’t too used to them zip fasteners and I thought it was just stiff. How was I to know I’d got her caught in it? She don’t half have a lot of flesh.”

I sighed. “I suppose you’d better go help Mrs. Rathbone, since Lady Hawse-Gorzley promised you would,” I said.

“I already been with her. She sent me away because I stuck a hatpin in her bum by mistake.”

“Queenie!”

“It didn’t make her bleed or nothing. And she shouldn’t have turned round so quickly. I don’t know why she made such a fuss.”

“What am I going to do with you, Queenie?”

“I never mean no harm, miss,” she said, staring at me with those big cow eyes.

“I know you don’t. But you’re a walking disaster area all the same.”

I brought Dettol, cotton wool and Cuticura cream to Mrs. Upthorpe, who was finally pacified when she saw that the wound would be hidden by the fabric of her dress. Downstairs I could hear the sound of motorcar tires on the gravel as the first guests arrived. I put on the finishing touches to my costume and went down to the ballroom. What an incredible transformation had taken place. The chandeliers in the ceiling were ablaze with electric lights while around the wall tall candelabras sparkled with real candles. Small white-clothed tables, gilt chairs and large potted plants created an air of elegance and on a dais at one end a band was playing a jazz tune. Nobody was dancing yet, but various guests in an interesting array of costumes stood chatting—I saw a black cat, a fat schoolboy and Cleopatra, and someone was even the gorilla. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest were among them, he dressed as King Neptune and she as a water sprite with yards of flowing tulle and a sea green wig, all dotted with pearls and shells. I noticed Johnnie Protheroe eyeing her. He was dressed as a knight of the Round Table, probably Sir Lancelot, and I thought it was a pity the Sechrests hadn’t chosen to come as Arthur and Guinevere.

Then the Wexlers came in, he dressed as a cowboy, she as an Indian. Cherie, as a Spanish senorita, looked as if she were about to die of embarrassment. Only Junior seemed to be having a good time, and he went around poking people with his gun. I hoped the Wexlers had checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded. The Rathbones and Upthorpes joined us, she still looking pale and suffering. Badger, dressed as a cat burglar, made a beeline for Ethel. The band struck up “On the Sunny Side of the Street” and couples moved onto the dance floor. I experienced that moment of panic I always feel at balls—that I’ll be the only wallflower after everyone else has chosen a partner. It’s quite an irrational fear, as I suspect I’m asked to dance as often as anyone else, but I can’t stop it.

Ethel bounced past with Badger, whose dancing looked more enthusiastic than skillful. Monty was with the no-longer-pouting Cherie. I saw Bunty, as a Jane Austen heroine, looking around hopefully and her eyes lit up as Darcy crossed the floor. But to my secret delight he headed straight for me. “My brown-eyed gypsy maiden, I presume,” he said and held out his hand to me. We danced. It was heavenly.

The ballroom filled with people I didn’t know, then some I did. I saw the Misses Ffrench-Finch sitting with Miss Prendergast, the vicar and Mr. Barclay at a table in the corner. They were not in costume but were enjoying themselves watching the spectacle, nodding in time to the music. I remembered that my mother and Noel Coward had promised to come so I searched until I spotted them. He was a maharaja, with darkened face, impressive curly black mustache and huge turban and she was a veiled Eastern beauty. I went over to them between dances.

“You recognized us,” my mother said in a peeved voice. “We thought we were incognito.”

“You are my mother,” I laughed. “I recognized your eyes beneath the veil. Mr. Coward was harder to detect because of the mustache.”

“I know, isn’t it splendid? We found it in Woolworths. And this is much more grand and civilized than I expected,” Noel Coward said. “I thought it would be full of clodhopping peasants.”

I danced with Darcy again and then with Monty and even once with Johnnie Protheroe, who held me very close indeed, although he kept glancing across at the lovely Mrs. Sechrest. Then we had a Paul Jones, in which ladies and men circle each other and each lady must dance with the man opposite her when the music stops. I found myself dancing with the man with whom I had conversed about the master’s horse at the hunt.

“Rum do the other day, wasn’t it?” he said as he twirled me around. “Still no trace of him. Must have ended up in the bog, poor chap. What a way to go and who would have thought it of someone like him? Knew the country around here like the back of his hand.”

I nodded. “It’s horrible.”

“They’re saying that someone put up a wire to deliberately trip his horse. If I find the blighter I’ll personally put my hands around his scrawny neck and strangle him.” He realized that he was shouting, gave an embarrassed cough and resumed dancing. “Can’t let a thing like that ruin our evening, can we?” he added.

At around ten a “Post Horn Galop” led us in to supper—a magnificent buffet with cold poached salmon, cold chicken, a York ham and a cold leg of pork with sage stuffing, as well as various pies, pasties, jellies, blancmanges and petit fours. I wondered how the gorilla was going to eat but I couldn’t spot him.

After supper the music became slower and fewer couples took to the floor. French doors had been opened, as the room was becoming rather warm, and I suppose there must have been a sudden gust of wind because I heard a shout and a scream. I looked around just in time to see one of the candelabras toppling over. Sandra Sechrest was standing beside it. She tried to get out of the way but it fell onto her trailing skirt and we watched in horror as those yards of filmy tulle went up in flames.

Chapter 30

STILL DECEMBER 28

A horrible ending to the day.

Sandra Sechrest screamed as the flames engulfed her. There was a horrid crackling sound and a smell of acrid smoke as the long shimmering wig burst into flame. Futilely she tried to run. For a long moment nobody else moved. Then several men sprang into action. Johnnie Protheroe reached her first. He flung her to the floor, locked her in an embrace and rolled over with her.

“Get away from my wife, you swine,” Captain Sechrest bellowed.

“I’m saving her life, you damned idiot,” Johnnie shouted back as he staggered to his feet and stamped on the last of the flaming fabric. His face was streaked with soot and his gorgeous knight’s outfit was now also scorched and blackened.

The two men stood there glaring at each other while Sir Oswald, Darcy and a couple of others were down on their knees around Mrs. Sechrest. She was moaning and sobbing hysterically and she looked horrible—a blackened, frizzled mess of charred fabric and hair. Someone covered her with a tablecloth.

“Is the telephone working again?” Bunty asked. “We should call for an ambulance.”

“We can’t afford to wait for an ambulance,” Sir Oswald said. “I’ll drive her to the hospital myself.”

“I’ll come with you, Dad,” Monty said.

“And I want to be with my wife,” Captain Sechrest said, pushing in front of Monty.

“Lift her carefully. She’s in a lot of pain,” Sir Oswald said. “I’ll go and get the motor.”

We watched in silence as the somber procession left the room in eerie silence. Mrs. Sechrest no longer moaned.

“Awful. Absolutely shocking. I can’t believe it.” Voices murmured around me.

“How can that have happened?” someone asked.

“That open French window. Must have blown over the candelabra.”

Miss Prendergast had made her way over to the spot and was down on her knees. “That melting wax is ruining your lovely parquet floor, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she said as she attempted to pick up the still burning candles. “We should do something about it quickly.”

“Be careful, Miss Prendergast, or you’ll burn yourself,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “The servants will take care of it.” And indeed a footman and a maid were hurrying toward the smoldering wreck.

A couple of guests helped them to right the candelabra. I watched them struggling with it. What sort of wind could have blown over a heavy object like that and yet not have blown out the candles? And then, of course, the next logical thought: Was it possible that the killer had struck again, just before midnight? I looked around the room, trying to picture where Mrs. Sechrest had been standing when it happened. Close to that open French door, obviously—which meant that the killer could have crept in from the outside, giving the candelabra a push at the right moment, and then vanished again. Either that or he was still in the room. I looked from person to person, trying to see if anyone was showing undue interest or even emotion. But all the faces appeared stunned and shocked. What’s more, most of them were disguised beyond recognition. A perfect setting if you wanted to kill somebody.

Johnnie Protheroe had been one of those carrying Mrs. Sechrest to the motorcar. He came back, white faced.

“God, I need a drink,” he said. “Something stronger than punch.”

“I’ll get you a brandy,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. She summoned the nearby footman. “A brandy for Mr. Protheroe, and hurry.” He sprinted off.

“I can’t believe how quickly her outfit went up in flames,” Johnnie said.

“That kind of fabric is horribly flammable,” said Lady Hawse-Gorzley. “I suppose we were stupid to open the French doors but people were complaining they were too hot. In fact, I believe she was the one who was complaining.” She paused. “No, it was her husband who came over and said his wife was too hot, could we open the doors.”

The band leader approached from across the floor. “Do you want us to resume playing, my lady?” he asked reverently.

She looked at Johnnie. “I really don’t think anyone will feel like dancing after this, do you?”

“No, I’d send them home if I were you.”

I felt I had to say something. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Shouldn’t someone go for the police before you let people leave?”

“The police?” Johnnie looked alarmed.

I felt self-conscious with everyone’s eyes on me, and flushed scarlet. “I mean, after all these strange deaths, we should consider the possibility that these accidents are not accidents at all.”

“You mean someone deliberately pushed that candelabra onto Sandra Sechrest?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley glared at me in disbelief. “That’s not possible. These are my invited guests. I know them all.”

Johnnie shook his head. “I don’t think it was possible. I was watching her and she was standing alone. Actually, I was plucking up courage to go over and ask her to dance, in spite of that bear of a husband of hers. But there was nobody within three or four feet of her.”