Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 13
‘Go on, then. What have you found out?’
Donal leans forward. ‘When I was cleaning, I had a good look around,’ he says. ‘I also let myself into the rooms that don’t have an occupant right now, not counting Rowan, the one Branson’s been sleeping in. They’re Ash, Yew, Briar and Sycamore. Ash, Briar and Sycamore were empty, but I saw something in Yew.’
Nick smiles at Donal’s unwitting play on words, but Donal goes on, ‘I looked under the bed and behind the curtains, in the drawers – but it was hidden inside the mini-bar.’
‘What was?’
Donal reaches in to the pocket of his black trousers and pulls out a small piece of paper. At first, Nick thinks it’s a note, something like the one Penelope received, but this paper is thinner, and torn at the edges. Donal places it on the coffee table and turns it over. The wrapping paper shines gold in the firelight.
‘Wow.’
‘I know,’ says Donal. The paper is a perfect match for the shining metallic wrapping of the Christmas star, but on this piece, there’s no trace of blood.
‘Anything else?’
Donal shakes his head. ‘Just this. I guess they thought nobody’d look in there.’
‘Was Yew locked?’
Donal nods.
‘Who has keys?’
‘Nobody but me.’ Donal sighs. ‘They’re always with me, on me, around me … the guest keys are in the hall desk drawer, and that’s always locked.’
‘So somebody stole your keys and returned them.’
‘When? Nick, I keep them on my belt; I sleep with the door locked.’
‘Was it locked the first night? When Penelope was killed?’
Donal closes his eyes. ‘I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me that I’d need to … maybe not. But who’d risk coming into my room, which is tiny?’
Nick’s about to say ‘I know’, remembering Colt’s cramped quarters, but manages to catch himself.
‘I mean, they’d have been standing right by my head,’ Donal goes on. ‘I’d have heard them clanking around.’
‘You don’t wear earbuds like Colt?’
‘No, never. If anything goes wrong overnight, or the fire alarm goes off, I’m the first port of call.’
‘Then they must have stolen the guest key.’
‘Nope. I checked as soon as I came back down. It’s there.’
‘They put it back then.’
‘And locked the drawer with my keys?’
‘Ah.’
They stare at each other.
‘Someone who’s been here before?’ Nick tries. ‘Maybe they made a copy?’
‘Nobody has been here before, except Matilda, every Christmas for God knows how long. Apart from that …’ Donal shrugs. ‘I know you overheard Colt. If you suspect me too, better say so now.’
Nick pauses. He doesn’t – unless Donal producing the wrapping paper is a double bluff. It would certainly mean that suspicion swings away from him, after Colt’s questions and Lorraine’s certainty that he’s guilty. But Donal told him he’d found something before the row in the kitchen, he remembers.
‘I have to believe you’re innocent,’ Nick says eventually. ‘Like you have to believe that I am.’
Donal nods. ‘Exactly. Faith, isn’t it? No proof, just belief.’
‘Have you told anyone else about the paper?’
‘Not yet. Listen, I’ve got to go – but why don’t we meet after dinner in the upstairs corridor when they’re all in the drawing room again, and have a look for bloodstained clothes? The killer had to be wearing something, and it has to be hidden somewhere.’
‘Unless they were naked,’ says Nick. ‘Which puts Branson back in the frame, seeing as he could have been in bed next to her.’
‘Branson’s always been in the frame,’ says Donal. ‘I’ve long been a believer in the Occam’s razor theory. Very often, it’s the most obvious solution that’s staring us in the face.’
19
It’s a long time until dinner. People head upstairs to get ready in couples, afraid to be alone. Nick assumes that by ‘getting ready’ they mean brushing their hair, perhaps putting on shoes rather than slippers – nobody is bothering to change for the evening now, it would be like hosting a cabaret in a mausoleum. He sits on the edge of his bed, stroking Jingle who has followed him upstairs, staring at the useless screen of his phone.
It’s just three nights until Christmas Eve, he realises. He has never in his life felt less festive, including the year his mother died and he and his dad visited the grandparents with the ticking clock and bullying board games. He can feel the lump in his throat even, recalling the cheap pack of floury mince pies, still in their red plastic tray as his grandmother handed them round, the thick silence as they sat through a repeat of Morecambe and Wise. He wonders what Harriet’s doing. Cursing him? Calling the police?
In his room, he sits on the bed and glumly appraises the situation.
He needs to talk to Alan, to Branson again, to David. He needs to work out the puzzle of the room keys – unless Donal is mistaken and the room was unlocked all along. Or, he reminds himself, Donal is simply lying, as Colt believes, aiming to confuse and misdirect.
Nick remembers a magician at a childhood party he once attended. He flourished his magic wand, asked the children to reach behind his ear for pound coins, bedazzled them with glittering patter. Only Nick kept his eyes fixed on the man’s sleeve, and the white glint of the card he’d pushed inside his cuff. Only Nick was disappointed to realise that his instincts had been right, and real magic didn’t exist. Who is now performing that sleight of hand, directing attention entirely the wrong way?
He hears a door closing on the floor above, the creak of footsteps echoing through the old building. The heating pipes cough and clank. He needs to come up with a theory fast, before somebody else is attacked. But deep down, Nick dares to ask himself, does he not think they’re all pretty safe now? In his heart, isn’t he convinced that I know what you did safely marks Penelope as the sole victim of the grudge that led to her murder?
He should tell the others about the wrapping paper, he decides. Look for signs of guilt – micro-expressions, the sudden shock of discovery. He’s seen that once before, with Candice, the girlfriend he had at university. She had been distant, her laugh brittle, her touch lacklustre for weeks. Nick tried to get to the bottom of it, wondering about depression or unwritten essays. ‘It’s like you’re having an affair,’ he joked. Her eyes flashed shock, and though she denied it, he knew. Like all good clichés, it turned out to be her tutor.
What he needs to do, he thinks now, is to find out as much as he can about Penelope. He needs to stop tiptoeing around Branson’s apparent grief and dig into what the hell she might have done. Whatever it was, she didn’t deserve to die. But finding out will surely lead straight to her killer. California, he thinks. Violet.
He has to navigate his way out of this snow-bound maze before Christmas, get back to his wife and baby – and to do so, he needs to overcome his natural social instinct to respect other people’s boundaries, and channel the award-winning investigative reporter who’s happy to trample straight through them.
With fresh resolve beating in his blood, Nick showers, checks fruitlessly for phone signal, reminds himself to find the laundry room and wash his limp, exhausted clothes tomorrow – did Donal look in there for the bloodstained clothes? Of course he did … unless Donal did it … Thinking, wondering, assessing, Nick makes his way back down to the dining room.
The aroma of rich beef stew is so thick, he could scoop the air with a spoon. Nick tries to engineer a seat beside Branson to begin his gentle interrogation, but finds himself kettled between David and Destiny, and opposite Alan. The stew is already on the table, in two vast tureens set on trivets, with a dish of fluffy mashed potatoes between them. Gaia is of course on Destiny’s lap, frantically sniffing the air, her tiny paws like a rabbit’s feet scrabbling at the tablecloth.
‘I wonder where my meal is?’ Destiny says loudly. ‘It’s funny how the one vegan is always an afterthought, isn’t it?’
Lorraine makes sympathetic noises. ‘We haven’t seen Donal yet,’ she says. ‘I’m sure he’s gone to get it.’
‘Well, I look forward to my dry bread roll,’ says Destiny.
‘It seems quite unfair,’ says David. ‘Of all of us, you’re the one who cares most about the planet; yet, as you say, you get served last.’
Destiny smiles graciously in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. I can’t tell you how poor the offerings are when I’m travelling in the UK – the vegan concept hasn’t reached Britain’s service stations, I can tell you that. Ultra-processed garbage wherever you look, fizzy drinks, vacuum-packed meat that’s barely passed safety checks …’ She carries on in this vein as David nods sympathetically and Lorraine covertly casts longing looks at the stew.
‘Of course, India’s an entirely different story,’ Destiny is saying now, warming to her theme. Gaia’s torso has breached the tabletop, and Nick wonders if he should say something before she plunges head-first into the tureen. ‘The freshest plant-based foods, pulses, legumes, the most incredible thalis …’
‘Our Jade got horrible food poisoning in Goa from some ulcerated chicken,’ Lorraine says. ‘She wasn’t off the loo for a week.’
Destiny stops speaking. ‘Thank you for that mental image, Lorraine,’ she says, pushing back her chair. ‘I’m going to look for my food before I starve to death.’
Nick wonders why Destiny seems to spend so much time travelling around the country. It’s not as though yoga teachers teach a class in every city – his only experience of yoga is Harriet pulling on ancient Sweaty Betty leggings and groaning about her hips, but she always seems to go to the same class with the same teacher.
Destiny is gone a long time. When Lorraine has finally given in and ladled out the stew in her absence, Destiny returns, holding a bowl of plain pasta with garlic and olive oil. It smells better than it looks.
‘There’s no sign of Donal,’ she says, a small frown creasing her smooth brow. ‘I’ve been round to the kitchen, but that chef, Colt, says he didn’t come down for dinner service. He told me he hasn’t seen him since before we all went upstairs.’
Nick feels a jolt of alarm. David sets down his fork.
‘Are you all right Destiny?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit pale.’
David’s right. Destiny has collapsed back into her chair and pushed her bowl away. Her curtain of thick black hair obscures her face.
‘He’s always here, isn’t he?’ she says quietly. ‘He’d never miss the dinner service. I think something’s happened.’
‘No need to be melodramatic …’ Alan begins.
Emily looks at Destiny with wide eyes. ‘Like what sort of thing?’
‘He’s perhaps had a nap and overslept,’ says Nick quickly. Emily’s a very sweet child, but this entire situation would be a great deal easier to navigate without her presence. Although, he remembers, Donal doesn’t oversleep. He always sets his alarm.
‘He’s perhaps died, like Penelope did,’ says Emily through a piece of beef. ‘Someone has perhaps killed him. He’s perhaps—’
‘Don’t be silly, poppet,’ says David. ‘I’m sure Donal is fine.’
Nick has made short work of the stew. He pushes his chair back. ‘I’ll go and check. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘I could come too,’ says Lorraine anxiously.
‘Maybe we should all form a conga line,’ snaps Alan. ‘Just let the man leave, Lorraine.’
‘I forgot my book,’ says Violet, overhearing. ‘I’ll come up and get it. Hang on, Nick, I don’t like being alone upstairs.’
He waits, annoyed, as she gathers her Gucci handbag and shoves in a couple more mouthfuls of stew.
‘Do you actually think something’s happened?’ she demands as they leave. ‘What if he’s not OK? What if he’s … you know.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Nick says shortly, although he’s aware of a buzzing in his bloodstream that can only be driven by fear of what he might discover.
‘Wait for me by the stairs, please,’ Violet calls, disappearing round the corner to Laburnum.
Nick glances up and down the corridor. It’s empty and there’s no sound of footsteps above him. It’s fine. Donal was angry after his row with Colt. Maybe he’s trying to show us how hard he works, how much we’d struggle without him.
He makes his way past Penelope’s room, veering away instinctively as if the door itself is electrified, and opens the door on to the back stairs that lead to the staff bedrooms.
‘Oh, there you are!’ Violet calls as she rounds the corner. ‘Hang on, I’m just—’ She stops. Nick isn’t moving.
‘Don’t come any nearer,’ he says, his voice emerging in a whisper.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ Violet ignores him, running past the main staircase to find out what he’s seen.
Nick pushes her back. ‘Don’t!’
Both of them stand together, a few steps beneath the body, gazing, speechless. Donal is lying twisted, his legs at an unnatural angle on the steep stairs. His face is grey, his eyes wide open. And around his neck is the string of fairy lights that was on the tree, the wires pulled into a fatal garrotte.
Nick isn’t sure if it’s shock, revulsion, or a dim awareness that the scene should be preserved for the police, but his legs are propelling him backwards, and Violet seems to be experiencing a similar force. She leans on the balustrade overlooking the main hall, gasping for breath. Nick looks down on Donal’s polished desk, its ordered pens and jotter, and feels a wave of profound sorrow for the young man. Whatever he was hiding, he wasn’t a killer.
‘They’re going to murder all of us, aren’t they?’ Violet’s voice spirals into shrill panic. ‘Whoever it is, they won’t rest until we’re all dead, all just corpses in their sick game!’ Her words break on a sob, and then she’s in Nick’s arms, her face buried in his chest, wailing with fear and grief.
‘Nick! What the hell?’
David is looking up at them, his pleasant, ordinary face washed with confusion. ‘I thought the cat was hurt – I didn’t want Emily to hear …’
Nick looks over Violet’s heaving shoulder.
‘Donal,’ he says, and David blanches, then sprints up the stairs.
‘Where?’
‘Attic stairs. Just found him.’
David runs past them and flings open the door, then stops dead. Like Nick, he understands immediately that there’s no chance of reviving Donal, that he’s been dead for some time.
David murmurs something Nick can’t hear – an expression of grief, or perhaps despair, then he sinks to his knees on the staircase and presses his fingers pointlessly to Donal’s neck. He shakes his head.
‘How long?’
‘It’s pretty cold up here but his skin’s still retaining a trace of heat. One, two hours at most.’
‘So when we went up to get ready for dinner?’
David nods. ‘Most likely.’
As he speaks, Nick realises that was obviously when the murderer struck – before dinner, when, for the first time that day, they were all distracted, showering, atomised in their separate spaces. ‘Not yet,’ Donal said when Nick asked if he’d told anyone. Perhaps he had since confided in another member of the group – and this was the result.
Violet is still ululating wildly, deranged with fear and shock.
‘Come on,’ says Nick. ‘Can you make it downstairs?’
She shakes her head against his chest, and he leans in so she can hear him. Her long, shining hair smells of vanilla, the scent of innocence, and he thinks of how young she is, and how fragile.
‘Shall I take you to your room? I can get Lorraine, or Matilda …?’
‘No … no …’ She takes a great, shuddering breath. ‘I need to see Branson. He’s the only one who … who …’
She collapses again, into his arms.
‘I’ll go,’ murmurs David. ‘We’ll need to tell the others.’
Nick shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Wait till dinner’s over. I need to think.’
David nods, and a few moments later returns with Branson.
Once in the hall, Branson hears Violet’s sobs, and takes the stairs at speed. ‘My God,’ he says. ‘Honey, come here. What’s happened?’
Like a cat, she peels away from Nick, leaving a chill damp patch on his chest, and attaches herself to Branson, clinging to him. He strokes her back, soothing and murmuring. As her sobs subside, she manages to croak, ‘Donal’s dead,’ and the instantaneous shock on Branson’s face persuades Nick, for a moment at least, that while he might be keeping other secrets, he surely can’t be the killer.
20
‘She needs to lie down,’ Branson manages as Violet clings to him. ‘I’ll take her …’
‘Thanks.’ Nick turns to David. ‘Can we move him – the body? Colt’s room is just up there …’
‘I’ll examine him first. Though it looks like a straightforward strangulation,’ David adds sombrely. ‘You can see the petechiae and the subconjunctival haemorrhage … Sorry.’ He’s noted Nick’s blank expression. ‘Burst blood vessels in the eyes and on the skin, congruent with asphyxia. At first glance, he’s otherwise uninjured, so I’d say the killer surprised him from behind as he went down the stairs, with the fairy lights – holding the wire taut. There’s no sign of a fight, though of course I’ll check his fingernails and look for bruising.’
David, Nick realises, has gone straight into professional mode in the face of trauma: perhaps as a defence mechanism, or maybe simply because of his long experience in medicine. ‘You get a bit immune,’ a university friend of his once told him, in her fourth year of training to be a doctor. ‘The bodies kind of don’t bother you after a while.’
As if he’s spoken out loud, David adds, ‘I must seem rather cold. I assure you, Nick, I’m utterly horrified.’ He blinks. ‘And scared, shocked, sad … he’s so bloody young. But I suppose I feel bringing the murderer to justice is all we can do now. So most of all, I feel angry.’
