Murder at mistletoe mano.., p.5
Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 5
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
7
David knocks.
‘Come in,’ says Nick. ‘I’m afraid it’s not pleasant.’ He’s relieved to see that Emily isn’t with her father, and hopes Donal was tactful in his explanations.
‘Emily’s with Lorraine and Matilda,’ says David, as if in answer to Nick’s thought. He looks over at the body, rigid in the bed.
‘God almighty.’ David shakes his head. For a moment, he can’t speak. ‘Poor woman,’ he says eventually. ‘Do you think her husband …?’
‘If so, he’s a superb actor,’ says Nick. ‘But where was he when it happened? Why wasn’t Branson in the bedroom with her this morning? And if it was him, wouldn’t you make sure you had an alibi?’
‘Crime of passion? A row, then a heat-of-the-moment thing?’
‘The star as a murder weapon looks planned,’ says Nick. ‘It wasn’t on the tree when I arrived yesterday, I noticed. And wrapping it up … that’s evidence of a deeply sick mind. Emily could have unwrapped it.’
David blanches. ‘Heaven forbid,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ve told her it was just a silly joke someone played on Violet, and she seems to believe me. But God knows how long I can keep her from all of this.’
Nick offers the crumpled note to David. ‘There was this, too. In the bin. Best not touch it,’ he warns as David reaches out a hand. The doctor scans the note and looks up.
‘It doesn’t seem as though Branson did it, then,’ he says. ‘Unless it’s a double bluff, of course.’
‘We need to know where he was last night,’ says Nick. ‘Until we can contact the police, we have to find out by ourselves who did this. It may have been targeted at Penelope – but until we know for sure, we’re all at risk.’
He crosses to the window, studies the closed catch.
‘Could someone have broken in? An intruder?’ Even as Nick says it, he realises that’s impossible. Nobody could have made it through last night’s snow to the manor. Which means the killer is amongst them.
‘David, we could try to—’
David looks pale. ‘I have to protect Emily,’ he interrupts fiercely. ‘I can’t be creeping about sleuthing, putting myself in the murderer’s path – I’m all she’s got.’
‘Understood. Perhaps I can ask a few questions. I’ve done a few courses in interviewing techniques. Mostly D-list celebrities, but …’ Nick tries for lightness, but the circumstances are too grim, their awareness of the nearby body too leaden.
‘I think you should.’ David nods. ‘I’ll take a look at the body, but I must get back to Emily before she finds out the truth about what’s happened.’
He crosses to the bed, puts on a pair of reading glasses, and peers at the corpse, using a finger and thumb to examine Penelope’s staring eyes more closely. Thankfully, when he’s ascertained what he needs to know, David gently closes them.
‘Ideally, I need a thermometer,’ he says. ‘I’d estimate she’s been dead for at least four to six hours. I’d say she was killed sometime between the early hours and six a.m.’
Nick remembers the noise in the night – a door, a murmur? Or perhaps, as he thought, just the heating or the cat. Penelope and Branson’s room is on a different corridor; he may not have heard anything suspicious at all.
‘I can find Donal and see if there’s a first aid kit here,’ Nick says.
‘Bit late for that.’
‘For a thermometer, I mean.’
David half smiles. ‘My awful GP humour, sorry. I’ll stay here with her while you find him.’
Downstairs, as he glances into the drawing room, Nick sees that everyone is huddled round the fire, now silent with shock. Someone has fetched the brandy decanter and several of the party are sipping medicinal measures. Lorraine has her arm round Branson’s heaving shoulders, and Violet is weeping quietly. Destiny stares into the flickering fire, while Alan sits awkwardly alone, clutching a tumbler of brandy. Matilda, presumably, has taken Emily somewhere else – wisely, thinks Nick. He finds Donal in the dining room, rather shakily clearing the remains of breakfast. He looks shell-shocked.
Donal straightens up, clutching a coffee pot. ‘Any word on what happened?’
Nick sighs. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Did someone really … I mean …’
‘We think she probably died in the early hours.’ Nick wonders at the automatic softening of his words. He’s a journalist, he deals in facts – of course Penelope was murdered. But stating the bald truth out loud seems too brutal for this elegant room and this shocked young man.
‘Jesus. I mean … who?’ Donal puts the pot down on the table, and leans heavily on the back of a carver chair. ‘She seems – seemed a nice enough woman. She helped Destiny with her clothes. Why would anyone …’ He stops. ‘Was it Branson?’
It’s always the husband. Words drummed into Nick by a cynical news editor fifteen years ago, when he was a naïve cub reporter. ‘Doesn’t matter how grief-stricken he looks – assume he did it,’ Ray O’Connell said over his third lunchtime pint. ‘Never believe a sobbing spouse.’
Nick pauses. ‘I don’t know. If so …’ He wonders whether to tell Donal about the note, but the young man seems both intelligent and trustworthy. He takes the risk. ‘This was in her waste basket,’ he says, laying the note on the table. ‘Best not touch it.’
Donal studies it. ‘Somebody hated her,’ he says flatly. ‘They must have planned it. Maybe they followed her here to the hotel, do you think?’
‘Maybe.’ But Destiny, like himself, surely arrived by accident, Matilda comes every year … Lorraine and Alan? Violet? David and his little daughter … the idea is ridiculous. All of it seems ridiculous. He’ll have to speak to them all, Nick realises. And that means they’ll have to trust him. Perhaps those D-list celebrity interview techniques will be more useful than he ever imagined.
Nick dispatches Donal to find the hotel’s first aid kit, and wonders what they’ll do with the body. It will begin to decompose within a day or so, even with the heating turned off. They’ll have to put her out in the snow … Nick swallows. He consciously fills his mind with images of Cara, fairy lights, candy canes on the tree … but he can’t see past the blood-covered star on the top.
‘Here.’ Donal is holding up a thermometer. ‘Shall I take it up?’
‘It’s OK, I’ll go,’ Nick says, thinking that the younger man doesn’t need to witness Penelope’s rictus grimace a second time. ‘Maybe you could check on the others.’ A thought strikes him. ‘Where’s the chef – Colt? I don’t think any of us have met him.’
‘He was in the kitchen a bit ago,’ says Donal. A look of concern crosses his face. ‘He lives on-site; his room’s up the back stairs.’
‘Where are the back stairs?’
‘Down the corridor from Penelope and Branson’s room, behind a door …’ Donal trails off.
The sound of a door shutting, just before 5 a.m … ‘Perhaps I could have a word with him shortly.’
Donal nods. ‘You’re in charge, then? The Poirot of the situation?’
Nick smiles uneasily. ‘I wouldn’t lay claim to that. But I’m a journalist – a nosy bugger, you might say. I can have a chat with everyone, preserve any evidence, try and work out what might have happened so we can tell the police as soon as we’re able to contact them.’ He doesn’t say that focusing on the details is the only thing that will get him through this. That deep down, he’s afraid for his own life; of leaving Harriet without a husband and, worse still, Cara without a father. She’s far too young to have any memory of him at all. He has to find out who killed Penelope, and ensure his own survival, along with everyone else’s. And of course, he reminds himself, bring the murderer to justice before Christmas.
Donal is looking at him, a glint that almost looks like amusement in his bright blue eyes. ‘The thing is, Nick,’ he says, ‘how do we know you didn’t kill her?’
‘You don’t. None of us know each other. None of us can trust one another.’ He shrugs. ‘But I can show you a photo of my three-month-old daughter, and you can ask yourself why I’d risk her entire future to kill a woman I’ve never met.’
Donal shrugs. ‘I can show you a photo of my fiancée, Aisling,’ he says. ‘She’s working as a chalet girl over Christmas, tending to the whims of rich families in Courchevel. We’re saving up to get a place together. I’m pretty sure any of us could find a picture of someone we love. But one of us did it.’
Back in the cold room, David is waiting by the bed.
‘I’ll try not to disturb the body,’ he says. ‘I’ve taken a few photos of her position to show the police, and some close-ups of her face. They’ll be time-stamped.’
David is studying the thermometer. ‘Pretty cold,’ he says. ‘This is a bloody chilly room, but looking at this, I’d say around three to five a.m. It’s only a rough estimate, of course.’
Surely Branson couldn’t have done this, then slept beside his wife’s blood-soaked body for hours, Nick thinks. Even a psychopath …
‘David, I’m going to ask Donal if there’s any way we can get her outside,’ says Nick. ‘I suggest the sooner the better …’
‘I think the snowdrifts are too high,’ says David. ‘Unless we throw her out of the window into one.’
‘What do you—’
‘Joking again. Sorry. I’m afraid dark humour comes with the job. I suppose it’s a way of managing the worst horrors.’
‘Comes with being a journalist too,’ says Nick. ‘Shall we join the others?’
‘I think I’ll find Emily now, perhaps ask Destiny if she can take the dog for a walk round the hotel. Anything to distract her.’
‘Sure.’ Nick picks up the note again, with his hand wrapped in his T-shirt. ‘I’ll take this to my room, and then I’ll go and find Donal. Have a chat with a few people, see what they might know.’
‘Good luck.’ David pauses in the doorway. ‘Sorry you were the one who found her.’
As Nick descends the stairs, Donal comes into the hall.
‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’
Nick shakes his head, a hand on the bannister. He finds he doesn’t want to look at the tree.
‘Listen, Donal, what did you know about the Mitchell booking? Did you speak on the phone?’
‘No, I’d have remembered they were coming from America. It must have been via the online system I use on my phone. It’s all done remotely: I just get a name and the payment goes to the hotel.’
‘Can you access the payment system?’
Donal shakes his head. ‘It’s through a bigger company. I don’t even know who the owner is. Some business, I assume. My payslips say “Mistletoe Manor”.’
Nick sighs. ‘Had you ever met the Mitchells before yesterday?’
‘Never. I’ve a good memory for faces. I’d know if they’d stayed here before.’
‘Did you recognise the writing on the note?’
‘Hardly. It’s not mine, and Colt writes his shopping lists like a drunken spider. Let’s just say spelling’s not his strong suit.’
Could Branson have brought the note with him, or written it himself while Penelope helped Destiny? Nick dismisses the idea. They lived alone together. If he’d wanted to kill his wife, he had ample opportunity to do it at home.
‘If anything occurs to you …’ he says weakly, and Donal nods.
‘Of course.’
‘Listen, Donal, can you help me move Penelope outside? Is there anywhere we can access?’
‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about it. There’s an outhouse that backs on to the kitchen where Colt keeps bulk supplies. I’d say it’s big enough to … you know. There’s a door that leads to it, and it’s not heated.’
‘Perfect.’ Nick sounds too enthusiastic, he thinks. People-pleasing is baked in, but he’ll have to let that go if he wants to find a murderer. Ask tough questions, refuse to hand over his trust to a single one of them – except, of course, for Emily. That poor kid. What a Christmas for her. Surely today, the snow will stop, someone will mend the phone mast on the moors, this ludicrous isolation will end. The idea of being here for much longer with a killer in their midst is unbearable. He thinks of Lord of the Flies; he did it for English GCSE. And they were just kids stranded on an island, not adults trapped in fear of their lives. How long will it be before they all turn on one another, hurling barbs of rage and blame? There is a coldness inside him, he realises, an icy, grief-shaped hole that he can’t acknowledge, because his job is to stay calm and gather facts. But fact number one is that an innocent woman has been killed horribly in her bed, and her killer enjoyed wrapping the blood-soaked weapon and presenting it as a gift while an excited child watched.
8
Downstairs, the others are sitting silently, frozen with shock as flames leap in the drawing-room hearth. Alan is staring at his phone. He has punched in 999, Nick notes, but the call won’t connect. His schooner of brandy has been significantly topped up.
Branson is now slumped in a wing chair by the fire, his hands over his face, and Lorraine is crouched alongside him. The star, Nick realises, is still on the floor where it fell.
‘It’s horrific,’ she’s saying. ‘An absolute nightmare. We’re all here for you, Branston, anything you need, just say.’
‘Branston is the pickle,’ says Alan irritably. ‘He’s called Branson.’
Lorraine shoots her husband a look of vicious contempt. ‘His wife’s just died, Alan! As if it matters!’
Nick glances at Emily, who is on the floor by the window, playing with Jingle, rolling the little cat ball to and fro. She appears to be in a world of her own.
‘Listen …’ Nick begins quietly. One of them is the murderer, he’s sure, but the more people who know the details, the more likely they are to find the killer, he reasons.
Pale faces turn to him.
‘There was a note.’ He holds it by the corner and places it on the table. ‘Don’t touch it!’ he adds sharply as Matilda cranes forward and Lorraine fumbles for her reading glasses.
‘“I know what you did”,’ reads Violet, puzzled. ‘What who did?’
‘It was in Penelope’s waste bin in her room.’ Nick finds himself gazing at Branson. ‘Did you know about this?’
The older man looks grey and clammy. Nick mentally runs through the signs of heart failure. That’s all they need.
Nick explains: ‘It was crumpled up at the bottom of the bin.’
‘I don’t … What? No! I’ve never seen—’
‘There was a P on the envelope.’
‘She musta opened it when I was showering,’ Branson says. ‘Last night, we got back to the room after dinner, she said she was going to read in bed, I went to the bathroom – but when I came out, she was still dressed, looking out at the snow. She seemed tense, stressed – I assumed she was upset about the weather, worrying about her family in Devon.’
‘Did she close the shutters?’
‘I think so. And then she got ready for bed, but she didn’t read, she just pulled on that eye-mask thing she always wears – wore.’ He takes a heavy breath. ‘And you know what happened after that.’
‘Who knew you were coming here?’ asks Destiny. ‘Could someone have planned it in advance?’
Branson shrugs. ‘Just the hotel knew. So I guess whoever takes bookings … Donal?’
‘I asked,’ says Nick. ‘He doesn’t seem to know anything beyond the guest names.’
‘I have to ask, Bran,’ Lorraine says confidingly. ‘What did Penny do?’
Nick’s relieved someone else has asked.
Branson shakes his head violently, like a wet dog. ‘Nothing. She never did anything wrong. She was a good mom, a great wife, a caring daughter … she did nothing!’
‘Branson, we urgently need to find out who did this,’ Nick tells him. ‘Are you up to it?’
Wearily, Branson nods. ‘Believe me, I want whichever bastard did this caught. Knowing it’s someone here … it makes me sick to my stomach.’
‘You poor love,’ murmurs Lorraine. ‘Oh, and Penny’s son …’
‘I’ll need to call Pete,’ Branson says hoarsely. ‘He has to know; he’s expecting us – and oh, hell, her parents. How am I going to …’ Tears once again flood his cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Nick offers inadequately. Imagine if it had been Harriet … the sensation of icy horror inside him intensifies and he places a hand on Branson’s arm. ‘I wish I didn’t have to ask you anything at all, but we have to find out who did this, as soon as we can.’
Branson swallows and nods, wiping his sleeve over his eyes. ‘Rest assured, my friend, when we find out, I’ll kill him myself.’
‘You think it was a man?’
‘Of course I do. What woman could …’ Branson glances at the faces surrounding him. ‘Lorraine, Matilda, Violet, Destiny. Emily. You honestly think any of them could have done that?’
‘I can assure you I didn’t,’ says Destiny.
‘It must have been a man,’ says Lorraine with certainty. ‘No woman could murder another lady.’
‘Could have been you, Branson,’ says Violet. It’s the first time she’s spoken. ‘Husbands and their wives …’
He shoots her a look so vicious, it feels physical.
‘I’d never harm her,’ he says, ‘But you might.’
‘Me?’ Violet clutches her hands to her chest. ‘Why the hell—’
‘Oh, come now!’ murmurs Matilda.
‘Stop!’ David chimes in, his voice reedy with shock. ‘We mustn’t turn on each other like this! If one of us is the killer, or it’s Donal or the chef, we need to be methodical. Look at the facts, not hurl accusations.’
