Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) (52 page)

BOOK: Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas)
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Dominic’s thin lips curled in revulsion. “Aghast as I was at this pervy schoolboy antic, there was worse to come: I heard him unzipping his trouser fly.”

“Oh, God,” Jane’s murmur broke the appalled silence.

“Oh, God, indeed, and I shortly realised he was unzipping not, shall we say, to have a slash, though pissing on an exquisite work of art wouldn’t be beneath him, as he has pissed, metaphorically, on the priceless works of art that Great-Great-Grandfather
so assiduously assembled early last century.

“ ‘What are you doing,’ I called out. He didn’t seem the least startled to hear a voice come out of the gloom, but then it’s never been easy to perturb Oliver in any sense. He’s as coarse as gravel. Without turning, he told me—as he’s told me before—to—” Tom watched Dominic’s lip curl again. “—fuck off.”

Dominic paused, seemed to stare into the middle distance, as if revisiting the scene. “I quite simply saw red—the rose madder of Jeanne Darlot’s hat in Renoir’s
Two Sisters on the Terrace
, now I think of it. You must know the work. No? Never mind.

“The tie was still in my hand, dangling in my palm. I had taken it, by the way, from behind a bowl, here, in this room Saturday before I went up to bed, intending to return it to Jamie, but I promptly forgot it until Roberto crossed the lawn outside. He said he had found it ‘interesting’ that I was wearing it as a belt. Well, never mind now.” He paused again, mouth twisting. “I don’t think I knew what I had done until some time afterward. I seem to have no memory of … garroting Oliver. I did garrote him, didn’t I? I must have. Strange word,
garrote
. Spanish, I believe. And then, in a moment it seemed, there was Gaunt. Right in front of me. Good old Gaunt. A good man, really, even if he did rather let me down. I know he must have tried. He did try, didn’t he?”

Tom nodded sadly. “Yes, he did. Gaunt, I think, was very much the compleat servant, almost from another age. Other than Lord Fairhaven, you’re the only person in this room he’s been in service to.”

“He used some other tie. Fancy having the same tie with him, a Shrewsbury tie. What an unexpected flourishing of happenstance. He told
me
he had taken the tie away—Jamie’s tie—laundered it—however one launders ties, only he would know—and returned it to Jamie’s things. But …” He looked around blankly.

“Gaunt dropped Jamie’s tie in the Labyrinth,” Tom explained. “Startled by the sound of another person—Anna. I expect,” he continued gently, “he didn’t want you to be concerned, so he substituted the one he had.”

And at what sacrifice, Tom wondered. Gaunt waited years to assemble evidence to shame Oliver for an ancient crime and then, good servant that he was, he sacrificed his needs to his onetime master’s son’s.

“And will he be all right, Gaunt?” Dominic asked.

Tom looked to DI Bliss and replied, “No one is sure. He had a very bad fall.”

“A fall, eh? I must say the House of Morborne has had rather a fall this weekend, hasn’t it? Hasn’t it, Lucy, darling? I had no idea when you coaxed me down to Devon that the title Marquess of Morborne would pass to me so suddenly. Of course, I had no idea that it would all go so terribly, terribly wrong, and so soon. Sorry, darling.

“And I’m very sorry, Marguerite.” He turned to the dowager countess, who sat rigid but for a tiny quiver in her throat, staring, her eyes black pools of anger. “I had to know what Roberto had said to the police. Nothing, as it happened—which was oddly kind, though I know he had no love for Olly, either. But he was really only biding his time. He said he would have to speak up, eventually—if the police came after
Hector, for instance—your son. He wouldn’t want you hurt. It was terribly easy. He was cleaning his hands in that sink. Water had pooled on the floor. You must get the drain fixed, you know. And there was that radio, so close, on the shelf. It was an impulse. Another one, I suppose. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can’t forgive you.” Marguerite retreated deeper into the couch. “You’re a monster—as was your cousin.”

The bronze clock struck the half hour at her last words, a reminder of time passed in this unhappy atmosphere. Tom’s eyes went to the sliver of terrace visible through the French doors, vague and dusky as the sun, long vanished behind Eggescombe Hall, now dipped below the horizon. Past the dark shroud of trees, an ice-blue southern sky was shot with the last of the pinks and golds and wisps of cloud. A summer day’s passage into summer night usually held for him a hint of mystery, and he longed to be walking some wooded path alone with his thoughts.
Once more ’tis eventide
—the words of the hymn flitted through his mind—
and we, oppressed with various ills, draw near …
It was but the craving of a moment for Bliss broke the silence, and his reverie, with a question of Lucinda:

“You two weren’t together the entire afternoon, by the pool, as you claimed earlier?”

“No.” She sighed. “I’m afraid not. Dominic went off on his own. He didn’t tell me where he was going. I thought he’d gone to climb the Gaze Tower again. I was immersed in a magazine. When Gaunt arrived with drinks, I told him Dominic was probably up the tower. And, of course, silly man, Gaunt dutifully climbed the tower, silver tray with drink in hand.”

“And saw what Dominic later claimed he’d seen: the murderer in the stable yard, near Roberto’s studio,” Jane said.

“That, too, is unforgiveable,” Marguerite intoned.

“Is this why I found you outside the Gatehouse earlier?” Tom asked Lucinda. “You seemed unusually concerned about Gaunt.”

Lucinda flinched. “Dominic, please, your fingers are digging in too much.” She edged away and addressed Tom: “Yes, it … it had all become too much. I knew that Gaunt knew what had happened in the Labyrinth with Oliver, you see—Dominic told me everything when he got back that morning. He was shaking, weren’t you, darling? It was horrible, but I knew Dominic didn’t seek to kill horrible, nasty Olly deliberately, did you? And besides”—she shrugged—“Oliver’s death seemed to solve so many problems that …”

Her mouth formed a little moue. “But with Roberto dead, it was simply too much. Really, Dominic, it was. I was certain Gaunt understood something about Roberto’s death, too, you see. He had been up the Gaze Tower. Afterwards, when he did fetch Dominic his drink, he behaved oddly. And when he—” She gestured to Blessing. “—asked us about our movements, Dominic said we’d been together poolside but for a few minutes when he’d climbed the tower. Where he claimed to have seen Gaunt. I went—”

“To warn him? Did you go to the Gatehouse to warn Gaunt, Lucy?” Dominic asked in a voice now high and brittle. “You didn’t need to. Gaunt and I had a nice cup of tea earlier. He was very understanding. Good old Gaunt.”

“I don’t know what I was intending to do.” Lucy shifted
uneasily. “Was it to warn him? I don’t know. Dominic, you seemed so unaffected by Roberto’s death. I thought—”

“That I might do it again.”

“Oh, Dominic, don’t say that!”

Dominic’s eyes were large and bright. “Well, Inspector, what shall I do? Shall I say ‘I’ll come quietly, Officer’ and hold out my hands for the cuffs? Or do we use handcuffs in this country? Perhaps I got that from American television. Or I could make a noisy mad dash for it. What do you think? Would that do? The terrace doors are wide open. The evening light is sublime. I could disappear into it, couldn’t I? Or at least try. Would that give you a satisfying ending? Of course, you’d probably catch me. Still, a breath of this fresh country air would be wonderful. What do you think?”

“Lord Morborne,” Tom answered. “I think the inspector will agree with me that it’s entirely up to you.”

Dominic looked at him and smiled.

The Vicarage
 
Thornford Regis TC9 6QX
 

15 A
UGUST

Dear Mum
,

Mr. Christmas and Miranda return home to Thornford this afternoon from their week at Gravesend. Mr. C. called yesterday to ask would I fetch them from Totnes just before 4? I think I told you what with his ankle, he’d decided the train was best there and back. An odd tone to his voice I thought, Mum. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s really the first time we’ve spoken since the events last week at Eggescombe. There wasn’t a moment to talk then, of course. I’m still not quite sure why Lord Morborne (the present Lord Morborne—Dominic) thought to make a dash for the terrace after confessing in the drawing room to
strangling his cousin, but perhaps he got all caught up in the drama. I know I was all caught up in it! I can’t think I’ve ever been witness to something quite so thrilling, but awful in its way, of course. I’m still surprised how lieth lyth limber he was. If DI Bliss and DS Blessing shed a stone or two each they might have stood a better chance of nabbing him themselves, but as it was Lord Kirkbride and his brother ran him smartly to ground on the lawn with Bonzo making quite the racket! Mr. Christmas looked to join the
maylay
them but of course his ankle wasn’t recovered. Anyway, I have written you all this, haven’t I? Though I didn’t say, as I’ve only remembered it now, how put out Lord Fairhaven looked through the whole episode—a little shocked and horrified, but mostly very put out. Sulky, I suppose is the word. I noted in yesterday’s Telegraph that he had withdrawn his bid to be Conservative candidate, so I expect it crossed his mind then and there in the drawing room that it was all about to go off the boil what with scandal brewing. I’m sure he’s sorry now he was host to the Leaping Lords at Eggescombe as it attracted his very disagreeable in-laws—except for Lord and Lady Kirkbride who are very nice. Anyway, this is all to say that in the aftermath, no one seemed wont to linger and have a
natter
a heart-to-heart about what had happened. All the “upstairs” folk found excuses to slip away, though I think L & L Kirkbride and Mr. Christmas made a trip to the kitchens as they had had no supper. The next morning Mr. C. and Miranda were gone. I think they took a back route out of the park to avoid the reporters and
other rubberneckers outside the Gatehouse. I expect Mr. C. thinks I’m disappointed in him, and I am, as I’ve said. I think that’s what must lie behind the tone in his voice. At least he had the grace to look mortified when he confessed in front of everyone in the drawing room to having been with that woman the night of the murder. I know I must set myself to be forgiving, but I worry he’s taken to misbehaving like the previous incumbent at St. Nick’s, Mr. Kinsey
,
AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM
,
Mum! I’ve told no one about Mr. Christmas’s behaviour, not even Karla. Most particularly not Karla, as she takes a very dim view of unpriestly behaviour. I do so hate keeping things from her, and it’s been on the tip of my tongue more than a few times, as of course everyone in the village is avid to hear the tale of my time at Eggescombe, including Karla who pretends to be indifferent as she thought poorly of the Leaping Lords fund-raiser to begin with. But of course Mr. Christmas’s breaking Dominic fforde-Beckett’s alibi by admitting he was with that woman is such an
ingretal
important part of the story, but I’ve had to bite my tongue every time. Anyway, I expect Mr. Christmas will probably say something to me about what happened, as he likes to do that sort of thing, but I don’t know how I shall look him in the eye. We shall see at the station this afternoon. Did you happen to see The Sun this weekend? I chanced to glance at the top copy on the stack at the post office yesterday and there was a lead story about our former verger who’s been living under our noses with a different name
—ANOTHER
different name—in Abbotswick the last year or so! I still can’t quite believe I
thought I saw him coming from the Gatehouse last Monday. I suppose it was the fair hair. Sebastian wore his long the last time I saw him, which was last year. And the new, disgraced Lord Morborne (Dominic) wears his long, too. At any rate, Sebastian—or John as he is called—didn’t look best pleased in the picture, which looked posed for the paper. I can’t imagine what would have made him agree to tell his story to such an awful rag. But I’m not surprised anymore. I must say, Mum, the scales have fallen from my eyes about our aristocracy. I know some of them go off the rails, but I never would have thought a peer of the realm to steal a car! (On top of everything else, of course!) I expect you saw that, too, in the weekend papers. I’ll enclose the clippings. It always did seem a little odd that a man as busy and important as the late Lord Morborne would tarry in the West Country doing much of nothing. He even visited our very good choir director Colm Parry to invite him out of retirement for some big pop concert next year in London, but that was simply a ruse while he was doing a recce on the movements of that poor young man he hit with a car he stole at Ashburton. Such a terrible chance he took, and so brazen! You’d think that community the young man lived in would have supervised him more, but I suppose they try and teach independence where they can. What if David Phillips hadn’t been as regular as clockwork in his movements, an easy target along the road, what would Lord Morborne have done then? But as I wrote you last week after Ellen poured her heart out he’d done as bad. Worse! It’s all too awful, Mum. I’m not sure if knowing after all these years who her sister’s murderer was has been
any comfort to Ellen. Poor Mick was after some recompense for Kimberly Maddick, though I don’t think L. Morborne dying by his cousin’s hand was what he had in mind. It’ll all come out in the papers eventually, I suspect, but Mick won’t have the satisfaction of seeing “Mad” Morborne before the judgement seat—the earthly one, that is. “Eye for an eye” Ellen said to me yesterday when we were up at hospital together to see Mick. Biblical that may be, I thought to myself, but I expect Mr. Christmas would find this a v
.
UN-
Christian sentiment. I’ll leave him to sort that out as Ellen will be here at the vicarage another couple of days before they move Mick to a London hospital for rehab. I still think it
inconcid
rude of the Fairhavens to rush back to London without so much as a visit to Mick or consideration for what Ellen might do in the meantime. I suppose she could have stayed in the Gatehouse, but who wants to be reminded of such unhappiness? The vicarage has lots of rooms and besides, Thornford is much closer to Torbay Hospital than Abbotswick. Nice to have her here! And so nice to be back in dear old Thornford R. where folk are as normal as normal can be
except for a few.
I don’t think I shall go back to Eggescombe anytime soon, even though I never did have a chance to walk the Labyrinth which I think must surely be a bit spoiled for many folk now, though on the other hand it might well attract others—the wrong sort of course! Anyway, Mum, I best crack on. The garden wants work. It got a bit ratty while I was away, and I need to think about what to have for our supper now that Mr. C. and Miranda are to be back. I did a big shopping at Morrisons yesterday so the larder is full,
which reminds me to tell you that I ran into Venice Daintrey and she told me that she had heard that the board of the Thornford Regis Amateur Dramatic Society asked Catherine Northmore to direct their next play at the village hall this autumn—and she accepted! And wasn’t I ever so pleased that a Hollywood actress would volunteer her time? And didn’t I think the publicity would be wonderful for the village! Well, Mum, I was
agas ahgas
floored, but I didn’t show it to Venice. Catherine didn’t bother to make an appearance at her father’s funeral more than a year ago. She hasn’t been to Thornford in yonks anyway. Besides, last I saw of her in the papers, they were considering her for the remake of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. Do you remember that film? Surely the end of the line for any actress worth her salt! When word spreads that she’s swanning in to take over the dramatics, there will be noses out of joint in the village! And I think you know some of the faces those noses are stuck to. Well, I shall keep well out of it, as is my way! I’m happy to run up some of the costumes, but that shall be my only involvement. I might see the play. “Nine Ladies” it’s called. Anyway, as I say, I must crack on. Cats remain well—they seem to have survived my absence, and Daniel Swan did well enough with Bumble, considering, though he still thinks he’s owed more money. I’ll have a contract for him to sign next time! Love to Auntie Gwen. Glorious day!

Much love
,

Madrun

P.S. I have prevailed over ScootersPlus! They were wrong. I was right! They
DID
send it to the wrong address. Not Thornton Curtis. Thornford Regis! If you don’t have your ShopRanger Deluxe Mark IV by the time you get this letter heads will roll
.

P.P.S. Mark Tucker who you know is the treasurer of the PCC tells me the Leaping Lords and the Thornford folk who parachuted raised nearly £29,000 towards the church repairs. Nine of the peers contributed £1,000 each. The late Lord Morborne’s cheque bounced, however. So, on the whole, something good came of the weekend, though the big plywood thermometer outside the north porch that Mr. Christmas threatens to set on fire is still in place. The red has much shot up the tube, though!

BOOK: Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas)
11.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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