Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) (14 page)

It was too fanciful, too horrible. He couldn’t possibly have slept with a murderer. Besides, a woman couldn’t strangle a man. Oh, surely. He glanced again at Oliver’s lifeless body. He was not a big man, but he had to be taller than Lucinda by five inches and heavier by four stone. He was more than fifteen years older than his half sister, though, and despite this parachuting lark didn’t appear exceptionally fit. A bit of pale podge escaped from his midsection where his shirt had lifted free of his trousers. His forearms showed no generous sinew. Lucinda was a fit lass. Lord, yes, she was fit. Tom pushed certain riotous images from his mind and concentrated on the mechanics
of strangulation. The woman would have to be strong, the man weak. The woman focused, prepared, aided by the benefit of surprise. The man dulled by drink or drugs, distracted, utterly surprised. The bench—the bench would lend leverage. You could crouch on the bench in the shadow and pounce on your taller, heavier victim. That might give you the edge.

It appeared Oliver had not gone down without some struggle. There looked to be a little scratching along the bottom of the neck that was visible, as if Oliver had tried to pull the ligature away. (And there was a mark on his face, but that, Tom realised, was the consequence of last evening’s rocketing champagne cork.)

Perhaps a woman couldn’t have done this.

Tom was pulled from these thoughts by the soft thud of someone approaching along the drive at a fast run. He looked up to see a figure burst past a stand of trees and tear towards Eggescombe Hall, a blur of black and white. The police, at last.

“Over here!” he shouted and waved at the figure. “Over here!”

“Bloody car wouldn’t start!” The constable’s voice came as a loud gasp as he nearly collapsed at the border of the hedge. He was capless, his tie loose, his white shirt above his duty belt even from Tom’s distance looking like it had been pulled from the laundry hamper. His wrist wore a large thick ring. “How do I get in?”

“Through the gate, over to the left,” Tom called, gesturing.

The constable found his way in, made the first turn down one green avenue, then made the switchback to the next one. He stopped in the middle. “Will I ever get to where you are?”

“Keep going a few more feet, you’ll come to a straight bit, then take the first left after that and you’ll be opposite me.”

“I can’t get over this hedge.” He looked blankly at Tom when he reached the destination. He looked very young, almost beardless, and not so much dim, as Lord Fairhaven had said, as green and clearly anxious.

“If you really want to come into the centre, you’re going to have to go all around all the rows.”

“How long’s that going to take?”

“A while.”

“I could push through, I suppose.” He regarded the hedge doubtfully.

“Best not. Your superiors might not think it a good idea. And Lord Fairhaven is rather keen on his hedges staying all tidy and trim. Listen, Police Constable Widger—it is Widger, isn’t it?—why don’t I stand here and you stand there and I’ll give you the basics and you jot them down in your notebook. I think that’s part of the usual procedure. There’s probably been more people here at the centre of the Labyrinth this morning than is going to make your superiors happy. What have you been told so far?”

“That someone was found dead in the Eggescombe Labyrinth.”

“Have you a notebook?”

“But I’m to see there are no signs of life.” PC Widger fumbled in the pocket of his trousers.

“I can assure you there are no signs of life.”

“Are you sure?” PC Widger stood on tiptoe and leaned in for a better view. He wasn’t as tall as Jamie Allan. Doubt played on his face. “I can’t see a body.”

“There is a body. Really.”

“Well, if you say so. I’ve never seen a dead body. Here, can you hold this?” He passed a spool of blue-and-white police caution tape over the hedge, assessing it as he did so. “Blimey, there’s not enough tape to go around this great thing!”

“I think you only need to cordon off the entrance. There’s only one way in and out of the Labyrinth.”
Not completely true
, Tom thought,
but never mind now
.

“That entrance?” PC Widger pointed to the opening to the Labyrinth’s heart near where Tom stood.

“No, the one you came through, with the gate. That should be sufficient. Not …”

“Not?”

“Nothing.” He wanted to say,
Not that Eggescombe Labyrinth early on a Sunday morning is Oxford Circus on a Saturday afternoon
. There really wasn’t anyone to keep out.

“Actually, they showed us a dead body at the morgue one day, as part of our training like. I’ve just never seen one, you know, in this sort of situation …”

“New, are you?”

He nodded. “I live with my girlfriend in the village—well, with her mum and dad, so it’s …” He made a face, pulled a biro from his pocket and licked the tip, settling his features into a grave expression. “Now, um, let’s see.”

Tom noted the uncertain look in the man’s eyes. Gently, he said, “You’ll want to know, for instance, who the deceased is.”

“Yes, that’s right. Can you tell me who the deceased is, sir?”

“Yes, I can. His name is Oliver fforde-Beckett—double
f
and it’s lowercase for some reason. Beckett is uppercase. Two
t
’s. Hyphenated.” He watched PC Widger scribble, hesitate,
cross something out, and scribble some more. “He’s the Marquess of Morborne.”

PC Widger mouthed the title as he wrote. He looked up from his pad, his long face an exclamation mark. “Not Mad Morborne?”

“Well—”

“Who puts on all those big concerts and owns Icarus—the famous club in London—and all?”

“Apparently. It’s not something I follow, I’m afraid.”

“Blimey!” PC Widger regarded him goggle-eyed.

“And you’ll want to know who I am.”

“Right. And who might you be, sir?”

“I’m Tom Christmas. I’m the vicar of St. Nicholas Church in Thornford Regis.”

A smile twitched at the corners of PC Widger’s mouth. “You’re Father—!”

“I’m not. You can call me Tom or you can call me Mr. Christmas or you can call me Vicar Tom.”

“I see. And you found the dead man, did you, Father … Vicar, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tom furnished him with a basic sketch of his early-morning movements, excluding his own excursion across the south lawn to the servants’ entrance. Best, he thought, leave the finer details to brighter minds. “But I’m staying here at Eggescombe for the next … little while, I expect,” he added after giving the constable his contact details. “Now, if we’re done, I’ll join the others. Here’s your caution tape. I can help you secure it, if you like.”

“You’ve a long walk ahead of you, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

The breach in the outer hedge was an option he could no longer entertain.

“… call the minister.”

“Georgie, darling, it’s simply not a Home Office matter.”

“You could, if you wanted.”

“I can’t be seen to be throwing my weight about. Not now with the by-election so soon. The local force is adequate to the task. If they’re not, then … we’ll see.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Tom said, hobbling into the breakfast room. He could hear Hector and Georgina contending with each other down the hall as he approached. It was less the anguish in Lady Fairhaven’s tone than the exasperation in her husband’s that caught his attention.

“Not at all, Vicar.” Hector held Tom’s eyes momentarily, then turned to the newspaper in front of him, coffee cup in one hand. Jane and Jamie sat nearby, each worrying a bit of toast. “I’m afraid it’s catch as catch can.” Lord Fairhaven nodded to the elaborately carved sideboard, which supported several silver chafing dishes heated with spirit lamps and a brace of plates and cups, next to which Georgina stood, dressed with care, despite the very recent tragedy, in black trousers and a white shirt, her hair drawn back in a severe chignon. She glanced at Tom with surprise, as if she had forgotten he was a houseguest.

“Lady Fairhaven, I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Tom said. Her expression was one of sullen grief, her eyes puffy.

“Thank you. Hector tells me … tells me you found my brother.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say.”

She stared at him as if trying to formulate a question. “How—?” she began, but Hector cut her off:

“You really should eat something, darling.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Or have a lie-down.”

“I only just got up, Hector! I’m not an invalid. I was going,” Georgina continued with some vehemence, eyes snapping at her husband, “to ask Mr. Christmas how Olly died, as none of you seems to know or wants to say. And if it wasn’t something natural like Daddy’s heart attack—”

“Darling, do let’s leave all this to the police.”

Tom could feel three sets of supplicating eyes from the table trained on him. “That’s probably wisest.” He addressed Lady Fairhaven though puzzled at the others’ circumspection.

“You’re all conspiring against me!”

“We’re not, darling. We don’t really know for certain, do we?” Hector dropped the paper he was halfheartedly reading and glanced around at the others. “And we want to spare you any—”

“You want me to read about it in the newspapers? And why are you reading a newspaper at breakfast when my brother has
died
?”

Hector blinked. “Darling, I always read the paper at breakfast.”

Tom watched Jane move to put her hand on Hector’s. The two looked at each other, a certain intelligence seeming to pass between them.

“Georgie,” Jane said. “Hector’s right. We don’t know for certain, but—” She paused and bit her lip. “—it appears as though Olly was … strangled.”

Georgina staggered against the sideboard and released a short piercing animal cry. Jane pushed back her chair, as if to run to her, but Georgina raised one arm as if to ward off any attempts at comforting, her handsome immobile face resuming its mask of gentility. “I’m all right, I’m all right, really.” She looked unseeingly at the fare on the sideboard. “Who would want to do this thing?”

Hector’s eyes slinked to his newspaper. Jane regarded him speculatively, then turned to her husband, as if prompting him.

“Georgie, I’m sure whoever it was will be found out before very long,” Jamie offered. “Some stranger. Some …” He shrugged. “Perhaps Olly had an argument with someone in the village last night.”

“But the Labyrinth … why …?” Lady Fairhaven trailed off, staring at Tom, seeming to see through him, then suddenly registering his presence. “Mr. Christmas, Tom, you must come and have something. I’m sure
you
must be hungry after your ordeal.”

Her odd emphasis on the personal pronoun seemed to suggest that as a stranger he shared neither her nor her family’s absence of appetite over this tragedy. In truth, he was ravenous. It seemed a lifetime since he’d awoken.

“There’s ham, bacon and sausage, and coddled eggs and
scrambled, too, I think, porridge …” Georgina trailed off, reaching for a cup. “Hector enjoys kedgeree, so there’s that.” She pointed to one of the silver domed dishes. “Mrs. Gaunt has outdone herself, as usual.” She frowned, as if disapproving.

“I’m wondering, Hector, if you shouldn’t consider hiring some private security,” he heard Jamie say behind his back as he took a plate and lifted the lid of the first dish.

“Why?”

“So you’re not bothered by reporters, and there’s bound to be rubberneckers come along. Am I right, Tom? You had something in your village.”

“There was a tragic death about a year and a half ago in Thornford, which I’m sorry to say did seem to attract unhealthy interest. The victim was a young woman whose father had a certain celebrity at one time—well, in roughly the same business as Lord Morborne—music. Colm Parry, if you remember the name. He’s St. Nicholas’s music director now. Lord Morborne visited Colm only last week, in fact,” he added as an afterthought. “To coax him out of retirement for some concert in London next year.” He glanced at Lady Fairhaven, who responded hollowly,

“Yes, something at the O2 Arena. He was often on his mobile about it. He—”

“We can close the gate at the Gatehouse.” Hector interrupted his wife with an annoyed frown. “I’ll put Gaunt on guard.”

“Hector, Eggescombe Park is hardly inaccessible.” Jamie looked over his coffee cup. “There are lanes to the farms, off the moor, footpaths … You had the trespasser only last week.”

“Damn Oliver!” Hector exploded. “This is not the sort of
attention I want or need. It’s going to turn into a bloody media circus.”

“My, who’s a grumpy bear this morning?” Lucinda came sleepily into the breakfast room. “I hope you’ll forgive me for coming down in my dressing gown, Georgie. Good morning, everyone.” She cast them a radiant smile, gripped the top of the nearest chair, and did an allongé, extending her fetching legs behind her, first one then the other. Tom’s eyes went helplessly to her décolletage accentuated by the embroidered material at the bust and felt a rush of panic that she might single him out with a sudden suggestive word or gesture. He turned back to the offerings on the sideboard.

“You needn’t stop talking because I’m in the room,” Lucinda added with a sudden touch of pique, frowning and stepping towards the sideboard near Tom. “Did you sleep well, Vicar?” Her eyes didn’t meet his. Heart racing, he managed to match her unaffected tone with a simple “Yes, thank you,” as she lifted the silver domes one by one to examine their contents. “Kedgeree, heavenly. And Hector didn’t eat it all! I’m starved.”