Murder at mistletoe mano.., p.8
Murder at Mistletoe Manor, page 8
It sounds unpleasantly like a murder kit, Nick thinks, but he nods. And after that, he’ll finally pin the ever-helpful Donal down for a proper chat about where he was last night.
It’s mid-afternoon and the light is beginning to fade. Between them, Donal and Colt found two spades and a shovel, and David, Alan and Nick have been doggedly clearing snow ever since. Two hours later they’ve only just reached the car, parked a few metres from the side porch. It took a while for Alan to locate it – ‘Everything looks so different’ – and the three of them are cold, soaked through and exhausted. Nick’s eyes hurt from the dazzling whiteness around and above and ahead. The door of the small back office is propped against the side porch and, in the absence of any rope, two balls of garden twine sit alongside. Colt had to enter the outhouse to get them and emerged with his head cocked uncomfortably to one side. ‘Couldn’t look at her.’
It takes a further twenty minutes to clear the car’s doors, window and roof, as Alan shouts, ‘Watch her paintwork!’ and David wheezes with exertion. Another ten to clear the exhaust pipe of ice. Finally, fumbling in gloved hands, they attempt the intricate process of tying the door to the front bumpers, which, Nick feels, is very similar to threading a needle wearing boxing gloves. All the twine is used up, and it’s still listing to the left, but they’ve poured tepid water over the front doors and windscreen, and soon Alan’s inside, attempting to drive directly at the banked snowdrifts. Nick and David watch as he revs the engine and crawls forward, snow scattering in his wake.
‘It’s working!’ David shouts, excited, but as the door presses against the shoulder-high snow, Nick realises that the car has come to a halt. Alan is revving and cursing, but the tyres can’t get a purchase on the icy ground.
‘We need salt!’ shouts David.
‘Or an awful lot of Jingle’s litter,’ adds Nick.
Alan swings open the door, furious, and shakes his head. ‘Can’t bloody get a grip,’ he shouts. ‘Not got winter tyres. Shouldn’t need them in this bloody country.’
‘David and I can push,’ Nick suggests, and the two men heave at the back of the vehicle as Alan tries again. For a moment, it seems to work, there’s a shifting of snow, blocks falling aside as more thick flakes fall to replace them – but after a few seconds, the car jams again.
‘It’s impacting the snow,’ Nick says. ‘I think it’s too hard-frozen, it’s just turning it into a giant block of ice, rather than clearing it.’
‘You’re right.’ David looks on the verge of tears. ‘That’s our last hope gone, then.’ He puts his hands in their wet woollen gloves over his face. ‘I can’t believe this.’
Nick puts a hand on his arm. ‘David, listen,’ he says. ‘I suggest we stay together this evening, all of us, and look after Emily and each other.’
‘But if the murderer has a key,’ David says, ‘there’s no reason not to kill us in our beds later, while we sleep, like they killed Penelope.’
‘Then we should all bring mattresses and bedding down to the drawing room, and sleep there. I don’t mind keeping watch – perhaps some of us can take turns.’
‘Only one problem, Nick.’ Alan has climbed out of the car and is now standing beside them, breathing heavily with frustration. ‘Any one of the people keeping watch could be the killer. So how does that help?’
‘They’d be a bold killer to try in a room full of people.’
Alan shrugs. ‘Depends how desperate they are.’
David emits a small moan.
‘Come on.’ Nick puts an arm around his shoulders. ‘Let’s go and warm up, see if we can get a signal anywhere in the house. It’s worth a try, at least.’
David nods and allows himself to be led back down the short path they managed to dig out, into the relative warmth and comfort of the back corridor.
Upstairs, Nick hangs his jacket over the radiator to dry and runs the hairdryer over his soaking boots, which has roughly the same effect as breathing on them.
He eats the remaining shortbread on the welcome tray, then heads back down the main staircase. Already the dark is encroaching, snow setting in again for the evening.
Donal is standing in the hall by the reception desk, a glowing phone in his hand. ‘Hang on, is yours working?’ Sweet relief crashes through Nick. The police, he thinks, then Harriet. He imagines her low, thoughtful voice, a silver chain linking him to home. ‘Did you find a signal?’
‘Sorry, no. I’ve just tried all over the manor, but …’
For a moment, Nick feels despair.
‘Donal, I’m wondering—’ he begins, just as David appears on the landing behind him in a hotel-issue dressing gown, his hair wet.
‘Nick! Have you seen Emily? Has she been past?’
‘No, why, isn’t she—’
‘She was drawing pictures in our room, and I went for a shower …’ David’s voice breaks. ‘I was in there for a while, trying to warm up, and when I came out just now, she wasn’t there. She’s gone.’
‘I’m sure she’s not far,’ Nick soothes. ‘I’ve been all over the building and I’ve not seen her – could she be hiding in your room?
David shakes his head. ‘I’ve looked – under the bed, behind the curtains – she’s not there. Someone’s taken her!’
12
‘Come on, she’ll just have gone for a wander, maybe gone to see Gaia.’ Nick aims for reassurance, but his words have an irritable undertone, he realises. David seems very highly strung for a family GP – but then, he reminds himself, he’s a widower and Emily is all he has.
‘But I told her,’ David insists. ‘I told her not to open the door to anyone.’
‘That doesn’t strictly mean she wasn’t allowed to open it for herself,’ Donal observes. ‘Kids are pretty good at applying logic in their favour.’
‘I’ll check down here,’ says Nick, and David and Donal go to search upstairs. He hears their voices calling her name – she surely can’t be far.
In the drawing room, Alan, Lorraine, Violet and Destiny are sitting in various attitudes of dejection around the fire, like a Victorian oil painting entitled Awaiting Rescue. Gaia is snuffling up dropped crumbs on the rug, so she’s evidently not with Emily. Nick feels a beat of concern.
‘What’s wrong?’ Destiny asks. ‘Has something happened?’
She has a set of playing cards spread out on the coffee table. Nick assumes she’s playing patience to pass the time, then realises they’re arranged in the shape of a cross.
‘David can’t find Emily. Has she been down here?’
The group exchange alarmed glances.
‘No!’ says Lorraine. ‘I haven’t seen her since she was sitting with us about half an hour ago. She went up with David.’
‘Should we come and look?’ Violet asks. Her voice is quiet; she looks almost translucent with worry. There’s nothing left of the confident fashionista.
Nick wonders if she’s suffering from shock, or PTSD. Harriet would know.
‘I suppose the more the merrier,’ Nick says. ‘David seems very concerned – though I’m sure she’s just exploring.’
‘Branson is up there,’ says Destiny. ‘He went back up after lunch. I’ve just turned over the King of Swords – a cold, calculating male, someone who is able to entirely separate emotion from action.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Lorraine, agog. ‘Do you think he’s got Emily?’
Nick realises that Destiny is using ordinary playing cards as a fortune-telling device, and assumes they must somehow correlate to their meanings in the Tarot deck – which is, in his journalistic opinion, utter nonsense, peddled by the credulous and the grifting for money and attention.
‘I really don’t think we should be judging a bereaved man based on a pack of cards,’ he says evenly.
‘No, but Destiny’s trained, aren’t you? She just did Violet’s love life!’ Lorraine insists.
‘It was so accurate,’ Violet breathes. ‘Like, she knew that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’ve been badly hurt before, because I’m too trusting.’
‘Wow, that’s so specific,’ says Nick. ‘I’m going to look for Emily. Anyone coming?’
‘I will,’ says Lorraine. ‘Poor mite. It’s no Christmas for a child.’
Nick almost says, ‘Are you suggesting that being trapped with a murderer in a house full of panicking adults isn’t festive?’ He hears Harriet’s voice in his head: Sometimes, Nick, your sarcasm really isn’t useful.
They call Emily’s name, hearing the echo of David and Donal trudging around upstairs, doing the same.
‘Where’s Matilda?’ he asks Lorraine as they head to the dining room.
‘Went for a lie-down. I think it’s all been a bit much.’
There’s nobody in the dining room. Donal has finished laying the long table, and in the dim light filtering through the snow, its white tablecloths and hard chairs look cold and unwelcoming. It’s a room that needs laughter and candlelight to transform it. Currently, Nick feels like he might never laugh again.
‘You try the other corridor,’ he says. ‘I’ll try the kitchens.’
‘You don’t think she’d have gone outside?’ Lorraine frowns. ‘If she’s anything like our Jade was, she’ll be into everything, opening doors, testing the boundaries …’
Nick is not yet an experienced father, but Emily doesn’t strike him as that sort of child. She seems almost docile. ‘She’d come straight back if she did,’ he tells Lorraine. ‘The drifts are too high, she couldn’t get anywhere.’ He sincerely hopes he’s right, and Emily hasn’t attempted to build the igloo she suggested. He shivers, thinking about the weight of collapsed snow on a small body.
‘Emily!’ he roars.
Nick bursts into the kitchen to find Colt smoking at the table, regardless of several ‘No Smoking’ stickers in the vicinity.
‘Nick!’ He stands up and throws his cigarette into the sink in one fluid movement, where it sizzles out.
‘Have you seen Emily?’
‘No, why? What’s up?’
Nick explains and Colt shrugs. ‘She might be with Jingle. Kids like animals, don’t they?’
That’s an excellent suggestion. Now he just needs to find the cat. ‘Any idea where …?’
‘Maybe in Matilda’s room,’ Colt says. ‘I saw the cat coming out of there this morning – he knows which side his bread’s buttered.’
Nick turns and races back upstairs to find Donal. He’s outside Branson’s room, knocking, and seemingly getting no response. David is elsewhere, perhaps searching the floors upstairs.
‘Which is Matilda’s room?’ he asks, urgently.
‘Ivy,’ says Donal. ‘Other end of the corridor, past the stairs.’
He sets off, but Donal calls after him. ‘Nick, I can’t get an answer from Branson. You don’t think …’
Nick turns back. Donal is hammering on the door again, calling. There is silence deeper than snowfall from within.
‘I’d use your key at this point,’ Nick tells him. He braces himself for what they’ll find inside. Please don’t let it be Emily …
Donal nods, and produces a jangling set of master keys from his pocket. He sorts through, and slips one into the lock of Rowan, the room where Branson claims to have slept last night.
Donal holds his breath and swings the door open. But the room is empty.
‘Where is he?’ Donal stares at Nick. ‘He surely isn’t in Elder? That’s where … you know. Her blood’s still on the sheets; I thought we should leave them for the police.’
Nick, too, is confused. Perhaps a grieving husband might want to feel closer to his dead wife? But surely there’d be no need to sit in the place where she was killed just hours earlier.
‘We’d better check.’
Donal leads Nick back to the door of Penelope’s room. He’d sooner spend a full Saturday with Harriet at IKEA arguing over bathroom accessories than go back in there, but he can’t make Donal go alone. With a barely visible tremor to his wrist, Donal once again unlocks the door and gently pushes it open.
Nick steps in behind him. His eye is drawn instantly to the welter of dark red drying on the white sheets. He looks away. It’s evident that Branson isn’t here – the door to the small bathroom hangs wide, and nothing has been moved since this morning.
‘But he went upstairs,’ Donal murmurs, as though raising his voice would disturb the room. ‘I saw him go.’
They return to the corridor, shaken. There are now two people missing, and four others looking for them. It strikes Nick as ludicrous: the manor isn’t that large – they can’t be far away.
As he turns towards Matilda’s room – could Branson be there? – he hears a familiar rumbling tone from downstairs, and Lorraine answering. Donal lays a hand on Nick’s arm, to still him, and peers over the bannister. He turns back to Nick, his eyes full of baffled suspicion.
‘He’s downstairs,’ Donal whispers. ‘That was him. How the hell …’
‘I guess he came out of his room and went down the back stairs?’ Nick hazards. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to bump into anyone.’
‘But he’d have passed me!’ Donal insists. ‘I’ve been on this corridor the whole time.’
Nick shakes his head. He hasn’t got time to speculate. Branson is alive – and they still need to find Emily.
Much as he doesn’t want to disturb an elderly woman having an afternoon nap after a traumatic morning, Nick feels he has no choice. Lorraine clearly hasn’t found Emily – and if she’s not with Matilda, he’s going to have to face the possibility that she’s gone outside. He swallows and knocks hard on the door labelled ‘Ivy’.
‘Yes?’
‘Matilda, it’s Nick,’ he calls, but the panelled door is thick, and she shouts a querulous:
‘What? I can’t hear!’
He hears her footsteps crossing the polished parquet floor, and the snick of the latch.
The door opens a crack and she peers out. ‘Oh, I thought you were David,’ she says. ‘Come in. Emily and I are just looking at some of my treasures.’
Nick feels a queasy combination of deep relief and profound irritation. ‘We’ve been looking for Emily everywhere,’ he manages.
‘Oh dear.’ Matilda looks upset, her large blue eyes suddenly vulnerable. ‘I’m so sorry – I thought David was still helping you men to dig the car out. Did it work?’
Nick shakes his head.
‘Ah. Well, worth a try. Emily knocked on my door, you see – I’d told her she could visit me whenever she liked, and I assumed her daddy had said it was allowed. I do apologise.’
She turns back to the room, a smarter, larger version of his own. ‘Emily, time to go and find Daddy,’ she says. Behind her, Nick sees Emily, entirely unharmed, sitting on the window seat, the table beside her strewn with old photographs and pieces of jewellery.
‘As I said, I take my precious things everywhere,’ says Matilda.
‘Mattie’s showed me pictures of all her whole family,’ says Emily happily. ‘Some of them are more than eighty years old! They didn’t have phones you could take pictures with and they didn’t even have colours!’
‘We lived our whole lives in black and white,’ says Matilda, smiling, and Emily glances up, amazed, then realises it’s a joke and laughs.
Nick backs into the corridor and sees David coming back the other way. He looks pale and he’s out of breath.
‘Emily’s here!’ Nick calls quickly. ‘It was a misunderstanding; she’s been with Matilda!’
David’s face collapses with relief. He rushes to the door of Ivy.
‘Emily!’ he shouts. ‘What did I tell you? I warned you – I told you not to …’
Emily’s smile has disappeared. She looks on the verge of tears. ‘Sorry, Daddy.’
He shakes his head like a dog, clearing it, and hugs her. ‘I was so worried, poppet. I didn’t know where you’d gone.’
‘I’m sorry, David.’ Matilda steps forward. ‘I assumed you’d said she could visit.’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘I’m just glad she’s safe.’
‘She’s always safe with me.’ Matilda smiles at her. ‘You’re welcome any time, Emily.’
‘Can I come and play with your necklaces and see the pictures of your little girls again?’
‘Of course you can. Whenever you like.’ Sadness crosses Matilda’s face. Alone again, thinks Nick. Poor woman.
‘Come for a drink,’ he suggests. ‘Everyone’s downstairs.’
‘Thank you. I think I shall.’ Matilda gathers her old-fashioned black-patent handbag and a blue silk scarf, and follows him.
13
Everyone is once again gathered around the fire. Darkness has fallen outside, but until Donal closes the shutters, it’s possible to see the flakes still swirling in the beam of the security lights. Violet crosses the room and draws the curtains.
‘I can’t bear to see the snow going on and on and on,’ she says fretfully. ‘It feels like it’s been snowing forever.’
Branson is in the chair by the hearth, Gaia perched on his lap. Destiny sits beside him. ‘You can tell her anything,’ she’s saying earnestly. ‘She has a very powerful awareness of psychic pain.’
Branson looks as though he’s somewhere else entirely. He barely registers Destiny’s words, and though the others are discussing increasingly outlandish methods of alerting the police (‘Could we climb on the roof and spell out “HELP” with our arms?’ Lorraine asks to resounding incredulity), he doesn’t focus until Donal enters with the ubiquitous trolley, this time holding a full brandy decanter and matching glasses, and a platter of mince pies.
‘Sorry it’s all a bit festive,’ Donal says. ‘It’s not really in keeping with the circumstances, I know, but Colt had already made them, so …’
‘Nothing wrong with a mince pie,’ says Alan, nabbing two. Even Matilda takes an elegant bite, while Emily has one and the glass of squash the ever-thoughtful Donal has brought for her.
As he leaves, Nick stands and follows him from the room.
