Murder at mistletoe mano.., p.7
Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 7
‘I’d be happy to try and help in any way,’ says Matilda. ‘Well, no, not happy – that’s a ridiculous word to use. It’s just so hard to believe. Here we all are, with the fire and the cat, snow falling and festivities just around the corner – it should be so cosy. A death at Christmas goes against nature itself.’
Nick nods. Her words resonate – ‘against nature’ is exactly how he feels about Penelope’s death, perhaps because the specific cruelty of the method and the vicious spite behind the dreadful Secret Santa ‘gift’ are so unfathomable.
He follows Donal across the hall, through a door marked ‘Staff Only’, down a short, starkly white corridor where a corkboard holds pinned notes and scruffy safety information posters, to the kitchen at the back of the manor. Finally, he’s about to meet the mysterious Colt.
10
‘All right there, mate?’ says Donal. ‘You coping?’
A tall, slim man in his mid-twenties turns from the stainless-steel worktop, holding a sharp knife. ‘Just about.’
He’s unbelievably good-looking, is Nick’s first thought. Black hair in short, tight cornrows, huge, amber eyes – he should be on a runway in Milan walking for Prada, not hidden away making cheese sandwiches in snow-bound Yorkshire.
‘Colt Alfred. Pleased to meet you.’ His accent is pure Yorkshire. ‘Sorry I’ve been stuck down here,’ he continues. ‘Cheffing’s a bit twenty-four-seven, and Donal was saying everyone’s so upset about what’s happened, I didn’t think they needed anyone else popping up for a meet and greet.’
He’s the sort of person who’s almost impossible to dislike. Charm. Charisma. Colt has that extra ingredient most of us live our entire lives without, Nick realises. He wonders why the man is doing a job where he barely meets anyone.
‘Thanks so much for keeping everyone going,’ says Nick. ‘The food’s all great. But don’t you need a hand? It’s a lot for the two of you to manage.’
Colt smiles, revealing dazzling white, even teeth. ‘Nah. I like a challenge. Not under these circumstances, obviously,’ he adds quickly. ‘But I’m used to it.’
‘Are you free now?’ Nick asks him. ‘I’m trying to get all the information together, so when the police finally get here, we know where everyone was when Penelope was killed.’
He glances up and sees a glass-paned door at the back of the room, evidently leading to the outhouse. Donal catches Nick’s eye.
‘We moved her, yeah. I don’t suppose the police will be happy, but if they don’t get here today … well, we had to. It wasn’t fun,’ he adds with a shudder.
‘Wrapped her in the duvet,’ Colt adds. ‘Took her down the back stairs, then I said a little prayer my nan taught me, and …’ He nods at the door behind him. ‘There she is. I’m not loving it, to be honest with you.’
‘I can imagine. Thanks for doing such an awful task, guys. I’ll help explain to the police if they question it.’
‘Nick, there’s a few quick things I need to do,’ Donal says. ‘Can you speak to Colt first, and I’ll be back in a bit?’
Nick nods.
‘Come on then, DI Nicholas,’ Colt says. ‘Where do you wanna talk? In the library, with the lead piping?’
‘I used to like playing Cluedo at Christmas,’ mutters Donal. ‘I’ve gone right off the idea.’
‘I think we could talk here,’ says Nick.
He nods. ‘I need to prep the dining room for lunch. I’ll leave you to it.’
Once Donal’s gone, Colt throws himself into a kitchen chair, long legs sprawling like a newborn foal’s.
‘Ask me anything,’ he says dramatically.
Nick smiles at him from across the table, and he grins back.
‘How long have you worked here?’
Colt gazes up at the ceiling, calculating. ‘I’m thinking just over two years. Yeah, two years and three months, in fact.’
‘And you don’t mind that it’s live-in? Seems a bit isolated for a young guy,’ Nick adds. ‘An old-fashioned manor in the wilds of Yorkshire.’
‘Nah, I love it,’ Colt says. ‘Gets me away from living in Wakey at me mam’s, watching her revolving door of dodgy blokes.’
Nick’s slightly taken aback by Colt’s openness. ‘Wakefield? Is that where you were living before?’
‘Yeah, couldn’t afford to move out. I wasn’t interested at school, messed up me GCSEs, then I thought, well, I like cooking – cos Mam never bloody bothers – so I went to catering college, loved it, worked in the airport restaurant at Leeds for a bit, did a bit of private catering for posh types – then this job came up and I got it.’
‘Do you not mind being far away from your mates?’
‘I’m not thirteen, man,’ Colt scoffs. ‘Nah. To be honest, I got in a spot of trouble when I was young, bit of robbing, quick dab of this and that … I’m glad to get away, keep me nose clean. Literally,’ he adds, with a bellow of laughter.
It’s almost impossible to suspect him. Colt is entirely likeable and, apparently, entirely authentic. But he has to ask.
‘Colt, did you know Penelope or Branson before they arrived here?’
‘I didn’t even know them after,’ says Colt. ‘To be honest with you, I didn’t meet her while she was alive. Just saw her when I helped Donal … you know. Didn’t even get a handshake, man.’
‘Sorry you had to do that.’
Colt shrugs. ‘Yeah. Hope she won’t be the vengeful-ghost type, haunting me potatoes.’
Nick laughs, despite everything. ‘What about the others? Have you come across any of them before?’
‘Don’t think so – well, apart from Mrs Mannering. Matilda. She comes every Christmas, so I know her to say hello to. Sad, innit – nice old widow with nobody she can spend Christmas with.’
‘It is,’ says Nick. ‘I suppose she likes the company. Or did, until today. Will you be spending Christmas here?’
‘Well, not now, hopefully,’ says Colt. ‘Don’t fancy exchanging gifts with a dead body, thanks. Assuming everyone’ll sod off once the police have finished, I’ll go to me cousin Tina’s in Batley.’
‘No girlfriend?’
Colt laughs. ‘I’m pure gay, man,’ he says. ‘Nobody right now, but plenty of fish, innit.’
Nick feels mortally embarrassed. Has he not always been warned never to make assumptions in an interview? Besides which, it’s a matter of basic politeness.
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have …’
‘It’s fine. No reason you should know. I don’t hide it but it’s not the kind of hotel where you wear your cropped Pride T-shirt, you know what I mean?’
‘Old-fashioned?
‘Oh yeah. Donal fits right in,’ adds Colt. ‘Mr Silver Service himself.’
Nick detects a note of resentment. ‘Are the two of you not mates?’
‘We’re colleagues. We get along OK – we don’t have sleepovers where we giggle over our crushes or anything.’
‘How long’s he been working here?’
‘Bit longer than me. Came from Dublin to take the job, with his Travel and Tourism degree and his shiny manager badge. Nah, he’s fine,’ Colt adds, seeing Nick’s look of curiosity. ‘He’s just a bit of a suck-up with the guests, can’t do enough. I think he’s worried he’ll lose his job, cos him and Aisling are saving up for a starter home in Keighley. He’s OK, man. Not a killer, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
A thought strikes Nick. ‘Did Donal decorate the tree?’
Colt snorts. ‘Well, it wasn’t me. You think any self-respecting gay guy’d bang together that load of old tut? It was definitely him. You can tell he hates Christmas.’
‘Does he? Why?’
‘Dunno. Maybe cos Aisling’s skiing with poshos, and he’s stuck here? But he told me he doesn’t bother celebrating – he’s happy to work.’
‘Colt, did you notice if the star was on the top the other day?’
Colt thinks. ‘Nah’ he says eventually. ‘I actually thought, not only does it look lame-ass as f … as anything,’ he corrects himself hastily, ‘it’s not even got a tree topper. Even me mam plonks a plastic angel on the top of her tree.’
‘Nearly done.’ Nick gives him a reassuring smile.
‘Yeah, don’t wanna rush you, man, but those cheese sandwiches won’t construct themselves.’
‘I’m just wondering, with your room being up the stairs just near Penelope’s room …’
Colt rolls his eyes. ‘Chief suspect, innit.’
‘No, not at all, but did you hear anything? A door opening maybe, or voices?’
‘I wouldn’t’ve heard if I’d been in the same bed. I wear earbuds – “monsoon rain sounds”. Go to sleep with ’em in. Picked up the habit to drown out the noise of me mam and me “uncles”.’
‘Understood,’ Nick says, immediately ashamed of his feeble response.
‘That’s all I got.’ Colt shrugs. ‘Wish I could tell you more, but most of the time I’m here in the kitchen, or asleep. Or on a run, if we’re not snowed in.’
‘Has this kind of weather happened before?’
Colt glances at the window, where snow is still coming down. Nick feels a wave of uncomfortable claustrophobia at the thought of the deep, silent drifts stretching for miles around them.
‘Never. Rain, yes, gales, yes – but nowt like this. I sodding hate it.’ Colt shudders. ‘All done with the police interview? Takes me right back, man.’ He guffaws.
Nick stands up, a twinge in his back. Beside Colt, he feels profoundly old and dull. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says. ‘I want to see how the others are doing.’
The drawing room is beginning to resemble a domestic base camp, with half-finished cups of tea on the coffee table and cardigans draped over chairs. Destiny has come downstairs again and joined the others, and Gaia is bristling on her lap at the sight of Jingle warming himself like a vibrating cushion before the fire. Emily is sitting beside Destiny, tentatively stroking Gaia’s left ear.
‘Gently,’ says Destiny. ‘She’s very sensitive, she picks up on atmospheres. She knows something deeply traumatic has rent the fabric of this gathering.’
David catches Nick’s eye and swiftly looks away.
‘I once had a cat who used to stare at an empty chair and miaow,’ says Matilda. ‘I was never sure if she was seeing a ghost or just hungry.’
‘It would have been a spectral presence,’ says Destiny with certainty. ‘Animals can sense auras, long-gone pain embedded in particular locations – if you’re interested, Matilda, a spiritual mentor of mine wrote a book called Companion Animal Communication on the Auric Plane, it’s excellent.’
Matilda smiles politely. She looks around at the group, the silver teapot and jug on the coffee table, the fire crackling in the hearth. The fallen star has now been removed from the rug. Nick wonders who picked it up.
Violet shudders, looking at where it fell. ‘I can’t cope with the horror of it.’ Tears spring to her eyes and she chokes back a sob. ‘I’m so scared. I wish I’d never come here.’
‘Why did you come?’ asks Nick. It occurs to him that it’s unusual for a young woman to choose to spend time alone a few days before Christmas.
‘I was supposed to be meeting a … friend here for a couple of nights.’ Violet takes a shuddering breath. ‘I got here first, then of course he … he couldn’t come because of the snow. I suppose he just turned back and thinks I did the same. But I was early. Idiot that I am, I wanted to get dressed up and be ready for him.’
‘Oh, what a crying shame,’ breathes Lorraine. ‘Still, you can see him as soon as we get out, can’t you?’
Violet blinks back the tears. ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ she says awkwardly. ‘I don’t know when he’ll next be able to get away. He’s very busy …’
A silence falls over the group.
Married, Nick thinks. He won’t judge her – she’ll find out soon enough that the guy’s never going to leave his wife.
‘Where’s Donal?’ David asks.
‘He took the star away then he went upstairs to do a quick clean of the bedrooms,’ says Lorraine. ‘He’s a bloke, so expect socks in weird places and hair in the plughole.’
Nick feels a jolt of panic. If Donal’s involved in the murder, that means he’s enjoying the perfect opportunity to get rid of anything incriminating. He might wash the star – it’s no longer on the rug; the murderer’s clothes must surely have been stained with blood; the gold wrapping paper must have left remnants behind … As Nick’s about to go in search of him, Donal appears in the doorway.
‘Lunch is served,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid it’s fairly basic, but it should keep the wolf from the door.’
Nick finds it an unfortunate turn of phrase – because the wolf is living amongst them, in this snow-bound manor. And there’s a strong possibility that its bloodlust is not yet sated.
11
Branson comes downstairs for lunch, and is immediately overwhelmed with solicitous pats and comforting from the women. He’s evidently been crying; his bright blue eyes are pink, his cheeks puffy. Lorraine throws her arms round him.
‘You sit down, Bran, and we’ll get you some food,’ she murmurs. ‘Can you eat? Is there anything you could fancy?’
‘Just a sandwich is fine,’ he says, his voice rusty. ‘It just doesn’t feel real. Is the phone line working yet?’
Donal, serving drinks, shakes his head. ‘I keep trying, I promise you,’ he says. ‘I hate to say it, but it might be a while yet.’
‘And still the bloody snow falls.’ Violet’s voice spirals. ‘It’s outrageous that we’re trapped in this … utter hell, miles from anywhere, with a killer in our midst! I literally can’t stand it!’
Nick puts a hand on her arm. He can’t afford for anyone to start breaking down. He needs them to help him, and to do that, they must stay calm. ‘I know it’s awful,’ he says quietly. ‘But I think everyone’s being so brave, and it’s only another few hours. The snow will stop soon, and—’
‘No it won’t!’ Violet cries. ‘It will go on and on and on and we’ll all be trapped here for Christmas, not knowing which one of us is a murderer! Someone else is going to get killed, and it could be any one of us!’
She bursts into tears and runs from the room. ‘I’ll go after her,’ says Lorraine firmly, but Destiny puts out the hand that isn’t clutching the dog. Nick wonders how its legs haven’t withered through lack of use.
‘Don’t,’ says Destiny. ‘Violet’s a person with a chaotic aura, and she needs time to recharge. It’s vital that we respect her need for retreat.’
Nick suspects she’s right, though he might not have put it quite like that. He finds a seat next to David at the long table. The doctor has loaded his plate with sandwiches and coleslaw, and is cutting Emily’s single cheese sandwich into triangles.
‘What’s the matter with Violet?’ Emily asks him.
‘She’s upset about her friend,’ David says quickly. ‘She might not be able to see him at Christmas.’
‘She can stay here then, and have it with us,’ Emily says with the air of someone who’s just solved a tricky social conundrum. David turns to Nick and lowers his voice.
‘Look,’ he says in a tone of urgency, ‘I know Violet’s a bit hysterical …’
Nick has a sudden memory of Harriet in a London pub, flushed with wine and rage. ‘All men think women are hysterical when we refuse to hide our emotions,’ she’d said. ‘By “hysterical” you generally mean “telling truths men find uncomfortable”.’
God, he wishes she was here – though not as much as he wishes he was there, at home with his wife and Cara, or even mooching around Westfield shopping centre to a soundtrack of jazzed-up carols, looking for the new Robert Harris novel for his father-in-law. He thinks again of the star – where is it now?
‘But we do need to get out. I was thinking …’ David is saying as Emily stares dreamily at the snow, ‘what if you and I get a few of the men together, find some spades, and try digging our way out?’ He’s looking at Nick with the optimism of a zealot, hope glowing in his hazel eyes. ‘Violet’s right, we can’t just stay here, not knowing if someone else will be killed or hurt – we have to at least try.’
Nick tries to marshal a convincing argument. There may be no spades available – they’re probably hanging in some snowed-in shed by the kitchen garden; the driveway is at least half a kilometre long, even if they all dig non-stop till nightfall, the snow is still falling and they’ll be like seven maids with seven mops … he’d far prefer to sit tight, stay together, and wait for a chance to call the police. But David drops his voice to a whisper.
‘I can’t risk Emily’s safety,’ he hisses. ‘She’s everything to me, she’s all I have. And if I’m attacked … she has nobody. We have to get out.’
Alan sits down across from them, his plate full, a glass of wine in his hand. He has clearly heard part of the conversation.
‘Look, I know a bit about cars,’ he says, to Nick’s utter lack of surprise. Alan strikes him as exactly the kind of man who discusses horsepower over a Sunday roast, and asks other men, ‘What are you driving these days?’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Alan goes on. ‘What we need is a massive, sturdy door, then we fix it to the bumper of my Land Rover, rev it all the way, and go very slowly down the drive, so it works like a snowplough.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ says Nick. ‘But where’s the Land Rover?’
‘Literally parked round the side,’ says Alan. ‘So we just need to find it and dig it out.’
‘What sturdy door?’ asks David nervously. ‘They’re all pretty old – I don’t know if the owner would be happy.’
‘There’s been a murder,’ says Nick, exasperated. ‘Plus the owner isn’t here, whoever they are – they’re probably enjoying Christmas in Antigua.’
‘That’s the plan, then.’ Alan looks triumphant. ‘I’ll get Donal on side, you two find a door – Donal’s bound to have a screwdriver lying around somewhere. And we’ll need rope, and a knife.’
