Murder at mistletoe mano.., p.1
Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 1
About the Author
Flic Everett lives in rural Scotland with her husband, two spaniels and one black cat, in a very small cottage between a forest and a loch. As well as being an author of fiction and non-fiction, including her cosy mystery series Edie York, Flic has experience working as a journalist, broadcaster, agony aunt, vintage shop owner and as a tarot reader.
Flic’s favourite things are reading, animals, very hot baths, cooking and buying clothes that are hopelessly unsuitable for her life. She also has a never-ending appetite for rummaging in charity shops.
F. L. Everett
* * *
MURDER AT MISTLETOE MANOR
In loving memory of Vera Preger, who taught me all I know about crime.
Trapped at Mistletoe Manor
Nick Caldwell, 36, journalist
Lorraine Pinner, 56, mum to Jade, 29
Alan Pinner, 58, Lorraine’s husband; business-owner and stepdad
Destiny, 29, yoga teacher
Violet Evans, 30, works in PR
Branson Mitchell, 50, American and rich
Penelope Mitchell, his wife, 51, worked in publishing
David Foley, 45, GP
Emily Foley, 8, his daughter
Matilda Mannering, 80, widow, retired
Colt Alfred, 24, hotel chef
Donal Walsh, 28, hotel manager
Jingle, 4, black and white cat
Gaia, 2, miniature French bulldog
1
December. Somewhere in the Yorkshire Moors
Five days till Christmas Eve
Everything is white. The road markings have vanished in a blur of whirling snow; the windscreen is so encrusted with ice, he’s peering through a gap the size of his hand; and the wipers have died. Soon, he won’t be able to see anything at all and the fog lights are no use because all they’re doing is illuminating the vast, feathery flakes that have been falling since before he left Middlesbrough, three hours ago.
‘Sure you won’t stay the night?’ asked Nick’s photographer, Fletch, as they surveyed the weather. Nick was briefly tempted by the thought of deconstructing their dying newspaper industry over a takeaway curry, but shook his head.
‘Not fair on Harriet. I’ve been away nearly a week already and she’s been on her own with Cara.’
His wife’s last message read, Still in dressing gown at 4pm. Luckily, Cara is thrilled with life regardless. Just found some toast in my bra. Hurry back x.
Nick smiled at the thought of his three-month-old daughter. He couldn’t wait to see her gummy pink grin, and earnestly accept whatever damp toy she wanted to wave at him. If he was honest, though, his assignment for the Daily Globe, where he was still clinging to his ‘Long Reads’ reporter job, had come at a good time. He and Harriet were both exhausted, bickering and competing for who had it worst – ticking off every thirty-something new-parent cliché on the list. They needed a break from each other, and while researching an in-depth piece on Middlesbrough’s ageing homeless population in mid-December was admittedly bleak, it ensured Harriet had no reason to envy him.
Nick hopes the enforced separation has done them both good. He’s missed her as well as Cara, though they’ve spoken regularly, and his long drive back to London through the snow was, he’d thought, a price worth paying to be home in time for a glass of wine with his weary wife before bed.
Now, after a series of horn-honking tailbacks, overturned lorries and complex diversions, that seems unlikely. Some distance down the hedge-bound country lane where the malfunctioning satnav has sent him, his engine cuts out with an asthmatic wheeze and the car skids slowly to a halt on the verge. Nick checks his phone. He may as well have time-slipped back to Victorian times for all the signal he’s got. He wouldn’t be surprised if a carriage rolled past, its top-hatted coachman cracking a whip. In fact, the sight would be a relief – at least he could beg for a lift. As it is, there’s nothing out there but the snow, an endless white murmuration against the ink-dark sky. Luckily, he’s not the panicking type. He’s more of a ‘make a list, work your way through, then failing that, make another list’ man. It drives Harriet mad.
‘Be spontaneous!’ she often says, and he always gives her his standard dad-joke reply:
‘I’ll need to plan for that.’
Nick assesses the situation. He can’t walk far in this. Before the engine gave up, the dashboard display claimed the temperature was minus two. It’s after six and pitch-black but for the eerie gleam of the drifting snow. He hasn’t seen any other drivers down this lane, and is beginning to think he took a wrong turn at the crossroads almost six miles back.
He can either stay put and hope someone comes past before he dies of hypothermia, or he can go for a recce and see if there are any houses nearby where he can shelter and await the AA. Admittedly, most weary home-owners enjoying a post-work drink aren’t going to be thrilled by the sight of a six-foot bloke with shoulders like hams and a cauliflower ear from his rugby days pitching up in a snowstorm. Then again, Nick’s old editor would have said, ‘You won’t get the story if you don’t knock on the bloody door, Nicholas.’
He gathers his phone, wallet and overnight bag, pulls on his beanie and climbs out into the blizzard. He’ll give it fifteen minutes, then if he has no luck, he’ll return to the safety of the car and wait for a fellow driver.
Nick doesn’t remember snow ever being this thick. It’s spinning around him like a swarm of angry bees, and immediately, he loses all sense of direction. Maps won’t load on his phone and, like all millennials, he didn’t even consider packing a paper map. Why would he? The torch function still works, a feeble shaft of light in a monochrome kaleidoscope, and he thinks he’s identified the centre of the road. Nick shuffles along like an old man, straining to spot a gate in the endless hedgerow. Perhaps he’ll find a farm where he can shelter in the cowshed.
He’s no idea how far he’s gone, but he can’t feel his fingers and his nose is entirely numb. He’s going to have to return to the car – perhaps he can have a look at the engine. Nick almost laughs. Car maintenance is not his forte. His dad was a Latin teacher in a boys’ school. Nick could tell you how ancient Romans got around the empire but he’d be hard-pressed to explain the function of a carburettor. Besides, the phone’s battery is now on 9 per cent. He’s not going to have a torch for long.
Nick stops. On his right, just visible through the dizzying flakes, the dark bulk of the hedge appears to be higher than it was. There’s a tree, perhaps an oak, its bare branches laden with snow. Nick trudges towards it, feeling an icy trickle enter his left boot, and is rewarded – the tree marks the entrance to a concealed driveway. On the other side of the gap is a dark rhododendron bush, twice his height, and beneath it, faintly illuminated by the beam from his ailing phone, is a wooden sign. Nick crouches and uses his sleeve to brush away the snow clinging to the old-fashioned, faded words:
MISTLETOE MANOR HOTEL
Beneath, a painted feathered arrow directs guests up the drive, with no suggestion of how far it might be to the house. Nevertheless, he feels greatly relieved. Even if the hotel has closed for the winter, or shut down altogether, there might be a caretaker – worst-case scenario, he’ll break in and use the telephone to call Harriet and the AA, and find a bed for the night. It beats a cowshed. He sets off, trying to ignore the mirage of the blazing fire and glowing brandy decanters that glimmers before him, knowing it’s probably going to be a locked door and a painful scramble through broken glass into a freezing utility room. Worse, the place might have burned to the ground years ago, and he’ll find himself in a field, surrounded by charred beams.
It’s hard to see where he’s going – the drive seems to twist and turn as if it follows the curves of a river, and he blunders painfully into a hawthorn bush, badly scratching his face and snagging the wool of his hat. This will be a funny anecdote when he gets home, he tells himself firmly. He imagines a dinner table, laughing friends, someone topping up his glass – Oh my God, Nick, tell us about that time when you … Although it’s a long time since they’ve had anyone round, apart from Harriet’s mother. ‘It’s too hard with Cara,’ she says, and he knows what she means. Just tidying the kitchen is like undertaking the kind of home renovation that requires living in a caravan for the winter.
Nick has no idea how long he’s been walking up the drive, but it feels like hours. He’s beginning to worry about frostbite and hypothermia, afraid that if he doesn’t reach shelter soon, he’ll begin to hallucinate; then he’ll simply lie down in the snow and die of exposure. He forces Cara’s little face to mind, and he carries on, round another bend, a stumble into a concealed ditch and – finally – he sees the light.
Somewhere up ahead, beyond the black, looming trees and the seething snowflakes, a window glows the colour of clear honey, and he’s fairly sure he can make out the shapes of people inside.
Elation gives him a burst of speed. He’s approaching a huge, pale, Georgian manor house with a pillared porch, the window of the drawing room lit up like a glittering Christmas-card illustration. For a second, he thinks he can hear music, but it’s his mind playing tricks – there’s nothing but the muffled squeak of his footsteps as he makes his way past an ornate, iced-over fountain towards the wide stone steps.
The panelled front door is painted a glossy black, with tarnished brass fittings illuminated by the porch light. A Victorian boot-scraper stands by the step, and snow-crusted ivy writhes up the walls beside the pillars. Nick ignores the bell; lifting the heav y knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with numb fingers, he bangs it twice. Almost immediately, he hears the turning of a key and the door swings open on to a wide hall leading to a flight of red-carpeted stairs.
A young man stands in the doorway. He’s wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a padded navy gilet. He’s in his late twenties, with a thin, clever face and black hair swept back from his forehead.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he says. ‘Can I help you?’ There’s a hint of a Dublin accent.
‘I hope so. I’m afraid my engine’s died, and I’ve been lucky enough to find you – I wondered if I could call the AA and wait here for them?’
The young man looks startled. ‘You can, of course,’ he says. ‘Come on in, you must be frozen. The guests we have with us are all in the drawing room, there’s a good fire in there, so you can warm up. Where are you headed?’
‘London,’ Nick says, stepping inside. ‘I think I took a wrong turn.’
The young man laughs. ‘I should say you did, sir. We’re not exactly easy to find. But have you not heard the weather report?’
‘Well, I know it’s snowing.’
‘They’re saying it’s the worst blizzard to hit the east coast in decades. Climate change, probably.’ He shrugs. ‘I heard a guy on Radio Four earlier saying they don’t expect it to stop – they’re advising everyone to stay put with candles and torches, in case it brings down the power lines. There’s no trains running and the police have shut the motorway.’ He pauses. ‘I think you might be staying with us overnight.’
2
Nick knows it’s inevitable, but still, his heart sinks. He thinks of Harriet’s anticipation of his imminent return, Cara asleep in her cot, the mobile twirling soft, coloured lights across her face, their battered blue linen sofa, and a bottle of red wine open on the coffee table …
‘Do you have a room available?’
‘Absolutely. I’m afraid we’re a skeleton staff in the run-up to Christmas, a few headed home before the snowstorm, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable. I’m Donal Walsh – I’m the … well, the manager, receptionist, juggler-in-chief and, if required, Irish dancer. Junior champion, Cork, 2011.’
‘Nicholas Caldwell. Can’t Irish dance to save my life.’ Nick smiles at him, and takes a seat at the reception desk.
‘Let me just see where I can put you …’ Donal opens a large green ledger and runs a finger down the columns. Nick realises what’s missing from the mahogany desk with its stand of tourist leaflets and old brass bell.
‘No computer?’
‘Ah, the owner isn’t keen. Likes things done the old-fashioned way. To be fair, we’ve only the twelve rooms, so it’s easy enough.’
‘How do you deal with bookings coming in?’
Donal grins. ‘Between you and me, I’ve an app on my phone.’
Nick looks around him while Donal studies the book. The entrance hall is large, draughty and was once immensely elegant. The crimson walls are hung with gloomy oil paintings of seascapes and furious-looking bewhiskered ancestors, there’s a large, tea-coloured water stain on the moulded ceiling, and the parquet floor has been scuffed by generations of feet. A marble fireplace the shade of raw mince contains nothing but an empty brass grate, and although there’s a huge Christmas tree in a pot by the stairs, some of its needles have already dropped and its decoration is sparse – a few dull, silver baubles that look decades old, some sagging paper chains and a single string of flickering fairy lights. Where there should be a star or an angel on the very top, there’s nothing but a bare branch.
He thinks of the bushy little Christmas tree at home, laden with home-made decorations, shiny, multi-coloured baubles, all the fairy lights they could fit on it. Nick always loved decorating the tree as a child. He hopes it will become a tradition for Cara too, when she’s a bit older and he can lift her up to place a glittering star on the top …
‘Ah, here we are.’ Donal lifts his head and smiles. ‘I’ll put you in Hawthorn. It overlooks the front gardens, and it’s got an en-suite. It’s not as big as some of the others, but it’s quite warm, and I think you’ll be comfortable.’
Nick experiences a wave of gratitude. The feeling is beginning to return to his tingling fingers, and he has his overnight bag, with a change of clothes. A call home, a hot shower and some food … this may yet turn from the most stressful evening of his life into a pleasant diversion.
‘Is there a Wi-Fi password? I need to let my wife know where I am.’
‘It’s “mistletoebough”, all lower-case,’ says Donal. ‘Though I must warn you, signal can be intermittent. Let me show you to your room, then when you’ve warmed up a bit, come down for drinks. There’s just nine of you this evening, and Chef and I thought you might all prefer to eat together.’
Nick suspects Chef and Donal thought serving one table would be easier than rushing between several when they’re so short-staffed, but who can blame them?
‘Of course.’
Donal hands Nick a large, brass key with a handwritten tag: ‘Hawthorn’ – the tree that scratched his face on the long trek up the drive. In the relative warmth and light of the manor, his walk through the blizzard is beginning to feel like something he once dreamed, long ago. Nick follows Donal up the shallow stairs with their waxed mahogany bannister and round the sweeping curve to the left, past a brocade-curtained window. The wide landing is parquet too and he wonders whether guests ever object to the noise of footsteps passing to and fro. The air smells of woodsmoke and beeswax.
‘Here we are.’ Donal stops halfway down and indicates a large wooden door. ‘I’ll leave you to it. The drawing room’s just opposite reception.’
Nick thanks him, and lets himself in, flicking the light switch by the door. Hawthorn is exactly as described, with dark green walls, a moth-eaten Persian rug on the wooden floor and, to his relief, an old-fashioned iron radiator. It’s off and the air is icy, but he turns the dial and hears encouraging clanking noises echoing from deep within its chambers. The double bed with its polished walnut frame looks Victorian, and there’s a matching chest of drawers and small desk with a free-standing mirror, as well as a fold-out luggage rack. In fact, there’s altogether too much furniture, and he closes the rack against the wall to make more space. He might feel trapped in a BBC period drama if it weren’t for the electric lamps on either side of the bed, and the white cotton duvet and neatly tucked green chenille throw. Over the bed is a large, gilt-framed oil painting of a hawthorn tree – and wound through its branches, he realises as he looks more closely, is mistletoe, its white berries shining from the darkness.
Nick sits on the creaking bed to remove his wet boots, plugs in his phone to charge, and types the password. Nothing. He tries Mistletoebough, MistletoeBough, and mistletoe_bough. There’s no connection. He’ll have to use a landline. He feels as though he’s had a crucial organ removed. Nick’s a journalist, he doesn’t function without the small, rectangular comfort-object in his hand, as essential to his well-being as Cara’s fluffy musical zebra is to hers. Perhaps the snow has already damaged the local phone mast, or he misheard Donal.
He sets the phone aside and tries the door opposite, which leads to a black-and-white-tiled bathroom, with a small enamel tub and overhead shower and an ancient-looking loo with a wooden seat and wall-mounted cistern. There’s a round mirror above the cracked basin, and he recoils as he catches a glimpse of his face. Blood has dried in streaks from where the thorns pierced his skin, and his bloodshot blue eyes stare unnervingly from under his unravelling hat. He looks exactly like one of the homeless men he’s spent the week interviewing. How quickly life can change, Nick thinks. A bit of bad luck and we can all go from a carefully curated professional façade to chaos, in a frighteningly short time.
After a hot shower he dresses in fresh clothes and pulls his damp boots back on. The room is warming up – by the time he returns it should be pleasant enough. Nick pulls aside the curtain. Snow is still falling, thick and soft as goose-down, piling on the windowsill in drifts. He can’t call the AA out now – they must be inundated, and besides, it’s not safe for any driver out there. He’ll have to wait until morning. The next, crucial thing is to find a telephone that works and ring Harriet. He locks the door behind him and heads back down the stairs. The sound of voices is drifting up from the drawing room; Nick’s not feeling at his most sociable, but he can make an effort – getting along with all kinds of people comes with the job.
