Murder for Christmas Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Preview

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Vintage Murder Mysteries

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Mordecai Tremaine, former tobacconist and perennial lover of romance novels, has been invited to spend Christmas in the sleepy village of Sherbroome at the country retreat of one Benedict Grame.

  Arriving on Christmas Eve, he finds that the revelries are in full flow – but so too are tensions amongst the assortment of guests.

  Midnight strikes and the party-goers discover that it’s not just presents nestling under the tree ... there’s a dead body too. A dead body that bears a striking resemblance to Father Christmas.

  With the snow falling and the suspicions flying, it’s up to Mordecai to sniff out the culprit – and prevent someone else from getting murder for Christmas.

  About the Author

  Francis Duncan was the author of over twenty crime novels published between 1937 and 1959.

  FRANCIS DUNCAN

  Murder for Christmas

  PREVIEW

  NO one could have foretold how it was going to end. Not even the murderer.

  It is not to say that the crime was hastily conceived and clumsily executed. The majority of murderers are anxious to live to savour the fruits of their villainies. They realize that one slip may deliver them to the hangman. They know that to be careless is to be lost. And in this case the murderer was possessed both of the desire to profit and of the knowledge of how perilously thin is the dividing line between safety and disaster.

  But no human plan, however devilish its ingenuity, can be depended upon to follow out in practice the exact lines of its careful theory. Somewhere along the route, incalculable, unforeseeable, will lie the unexpected, the unknown factor.

  The moon was like a spotlight, playing over the stage of a theatre. Or, like a camera, tracking over a studio floor and alternately presenting to its audience close-up and long-shot, sharply outlined image and sombre obscurity.

  The snow had stopped but the sky had not yet cleared. The clouds were drifting sullenly, as if reluctant to leave a prey freed only with difficulty from their grip. Sometimes they would gather menacingly upon each other and would crowd over an earth grown dark and full of fear; and then it would seem that they were thrust impotently apart and the white light would flood down, cold and revealing, and not to be turned aside.

  And in the moonlight every detail would be there in hard relief. The black-and-white roofs of the village under the hill; the thin bare arms of the trees along the roadway; the smooth white downs rolling up to the sky; the big house with its old grey stones and the white tracery where the snow clung to the creeper.

  From the village came the sound of a bell. When the darkness was triumphant it was a strange and mournful echo that could not be located and that held a note of menace. Imagination needed little encouragement to liken it to the tolling of doom.

  But when the scene lay exposed under the moon the fear and the mystery were driven back. The bell was no longer sinister. It was a glad sound of music that carried triumphantly across the snow, ringing out from the square tower of the ancient church.

  The landscape was a Christmas card in three dimensions. There would have been no incongruity if a sleigh drawn by reindeer had come sweeping over the brow of the downs. It did not, in fact, seem fantastic that the red-robed figure of Father Christmas was outlined in the moonlight, moving quickly along the terrace of the big house. It was, after all, Christmas Eve, when such things—particularly in such a setting—were to be expected.

  Although it was late the occupants of the house were not all in their beds. High up in one wing a light still burned. At intervals a figure crossed the illuminated frame that was the window.

  There were other signs of activity that were not quite so apparent. But if one watched carefully it was sometimes possible, especially when the moon was obscured, to see a faint glow behind the windows of the ground floor. It was a glow that changed its position, as though it owed its origin to a torch carried by someone who moved stealthily within the house.

  And outside in the snow and the shadows there were muffled, hidden figures. Concealed from the house and from each other they watched intently—and waited upon opportunity.

  The atmosphere was brooding, tense with foreboding. Fantasy and mystery, violence and death were abroad. It seemed that time was moving reluctantly and with an ever more tightly coiled dread towards some terrible climax.

  And at last the climax came.

  It came when the bell had stopped. It came when the moonlight, searching again through the clouds, swept softly across the white lawns, revealing the ragged line of footprints. It came when the cold light flooded up to the half-open french windows and, tracing the moisture on the polished floor, came to rest upon the red thing of horror that was Father Christmas, stark and sprawled upon its face in front of the despoiled Christmas tree.

  It came with a woman’s scream—desperate, high-pitched and raw with terror.

  1

  ‘I BELIEVE,’ said Denys excitedly, ‘it really is!’

  From the depths of the big, round-backed chair facing the log fire there issued an enquiring voice.

  ‘Really is what?’

  ‘Going to be an old-fashioned Christmas!’ Denys switched her attention from the leaden sky and gave a cry of delight as she caught sight of the first flake revealed in its gentle descent against the dark background of the laurels flanking the drive. ‘Here it comes, Roger! Real, delicious, sugar-icing snow!’

  The big chair groaned.

  ‘Horrible!’ it stated. ‘Wet, beastly, uncomfortable stuff. I suppose we’ll have to run the gauntlet of all the uninhibited little urchins in the village. Snowballs in the back of the neck every time we step outside the grounds. Brrh!’

  Denys Arden laughed happily. It was a laugh that did disturbing things to Roger Wynton’s self-control.

  He was, of course, in love with her. He had been ever since he had swung his car a little recklessly around one of the many corners in the narrow lanes that meandered through the lush countryside about the deep-rooted village of Sherbroome to startle her horse and become the admiring victim of her fury.

  That had been early in the preceding year on a day when the roads had rung hard under the frost and a keen wind had whipped the roses into Denys Arden’s cheeks and tumbled her chestnut curls into an attractive confusion. Oblivious of her stormy indignation he had stared up at the trim figure in the riding-habit with an admiration so open that the colour in her cheeks had ceased to owe its presence entirely to the wind. And, feeling her mastery of the situation endangered, she had tossed her head in one last indignant gesture and edged past him.

  When he had reached home Wynton had made enquiries concerning her. He came of a family whose name (if in varying spellings) had recurred many times in the records of Sherbroome, but his professional training as an architect, and a tour abroad, had caused him to lose touch with the social life of the district. Certainly he could not recollect any of the gawky schoolgirls he had once known who was likely to have emerged from her freckled chrysalis into such a spirited vision as the g
irl he had just encountered.

  The solution of the mystery had proved to lie in the fact that Sherbroome House was occupied. The dignified grey house that stood aloof from and yet seemed to dominate the huddled little village of mossy roofs and half-timbered cottages, had entranced him as a boy. Its neglected orchards and derelict outbuildings had been his paradise of adventure, peopled with brave figures from his imagination.

  The Melvins had come to Sherbroome when the first Sir Hugo, who had braved the Channel with William of Normandy, had ridden into the West Country. Sherbroome House had been the seat of authority in the surrounding countryside. Elizabeth of England had graced it with her presence for a whole five days not long after Sir Reginald Melvin, fighting his own ship, had helped to disperse the Armada along the hostile length of that awesome virgin’s rocky coasts. Her stay had played havoc with Sir Reginald’s treasury, but it had gained him a barony.

  Great days they had been for the Melvins, Barons of Sherbroome. But they had paid in the end for their allegiance to the throne. Royalist in an area held by the Parliament during the civil war, they had returned to power with Charles the Second, only to make the fatal mistake of adhering to the Jacobites when George of Hanover crossed the water. And when Culloden was a bloody defeat and Charles Stuart had accepted the end of the gamble and gone back to France and exile, the head of the sixth Lord Sherbroome had fallen from the block on Tower Hill and the barony had been proscribed.

  Somehow the family had managed to retain the house and a shrunken estate, but the sinews of war were gone, and there were no more scenes of splendour. And late in the nineteenth century the old tree had been stripped so bare of fruit that what was left had passed into the hands of a distant cousin who could not afford even to live in his inheritance, and Sherbroome House had become a shuttered, decaying home of ghosts and memories.

  As long as Roger Wynton could recall there had been rumours. The village still regarded the big grey house with respect, and there were always old men to swear that one day the Melvins would return, and the lights would blaze again along the terrace.

  But the years had gone by and the impoverished descendants of the proud family that had once entertained a queen, had shown no sign that they were coming back. And now it did not seem that they ever would come back, for Sherbroome House had been sold.

  The new owner, Roger learned, was Benedict Grame. Whilst it was likely that he had bought the house for a purely nominal figure—it had been no more than a white elephant—Grame had spent a great deal on putting the place in order. Which meant that he must be a comfortingly wealthy man.

  The girl, Roger had insisted gently. Who was the girl? Grame’s daughter?

  No, not Grame’s daughter. In fact, nobody’s daughter. At least, she had no living parent. She was in the care of Jeremy Rainer, who was one of Grame’s closest friends. Rainer had brought her up and had, apparently, provided for her since the death of her father who had been his partner.

  Did she spend much time at Sherbroome? The answer was that she did. Rainer and Grame were on intimate terms, and Grame seemed very fond of Denys. That was her name. Denys Arden. She was often to be seen riding in the neighbourhood.

  Roger Wynton had needed no more than that. As often as he could get away from his London practice, he, too, was to be seen riding in the neighbourhood.

  On the fourth carefully planned occasion he had managed to meet her by chance and had recalled their original encounter. Her sense of humour had been equal to the situation—he had imagined it would be—and from then on, as the French say with such charm, the affair had marched.

  Wynton had become a very frequent visitor to the ancient grey house where he had passed so many boyish hours. He had sat again in its mellow rooms and heard the ring of his footsteps upon its wide stone terraces, and it had grown very dear to him now that it spoke to him of Denys. In high summer, with the sunlight warming the polished oak, and now in the deep winter with the greyness softened by the leaping flames of a log fire, he had found a new magic in it because of her presence.

  He rose from his chair, deliberately slowly so that he should not betray himself, turning so that he could see her framed against the window, her head held back and the firelight playing on the white grace of her throat.

  ‘Don’t look like that, Denys,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear it. I’m so mad about you.’

  She smiled at him.

  ‘I like you when you make pretty speeches, Roger,’ she said softly.

  He went to meet her, caught her hands.

  ‘Denys—darling—you do care?’

  She nodded seriously.

  ‘Yes, Roger,’ she said.

  ‘Then say you’ll marry me—soon!’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Jeremy——’

  ‘Jeremy!’ he exploded. ‘Jeremy! Why should he come between us? I know what he’s done for you, but there’s a limit to what he has a right to expect!’

  The shadows of a troubled mind were in the girl’s brown eyes, but her resolution was unchanged.

  ‘It’s old ground, Roger. We don’t need to travel it again. I’ve got to make him see it our way.’

  ‘It would be easier if we knew a little more of his reasons. Why does he keep objecting? I’m not so infernally ugly that I scare children!’

  ‘You’re really quite a nice ugly duckling,’ she said.

  Her fingers ruffled his hair in a manner that was both possessive and tender and traced the familiar line of his cheek. There was something solidly reassuring about Roger Wynton’s rugged features.

  ‘If I’m not exactly a rich man,’ he went on, ‘he knows that you wouldn’t have to worry about money. And he knows I’m in love with you. It must be plain enough!’

  ‘It is,’ she told him, with a flash of mischief she could not suppress, and he smiled wryly.

  ‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’

  ‘I’ve tried everything,’ she said. ‘It’s no good hiding from it. He just doesn’t like you.’

  ‘But why? What’s it all about? If he’d say what was in his mind it would give us something to go on, but this is just sheer blind prejudice. The truth is that he’s scared of losing you. It isn’t just me he’s up against. He’d find objections to anyone who wanted to marry you.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She could feel the strong, nervous pressure of his fingers.

  ‘What about Grame? He’s obviously fond of you and he seems to have influence with your guardian. Couldn’t you get him on our side?’

  Denys shook her head.

  ‘I told you I’ve tried everything, Roger, and one of the first was Uncle Benedict. It’s no good. He said that when he spoke to Jeremy about it he might just as well have waved a red flag at him. Whatever influence Uncle Benedict has it evidently doesn’t go that far.’

  Wynton was silent for a moment or two. And then:

  ‘I’ve got to say this, Denys.’ His voice held a note of determination. ‘There’s something odd about Rainer. It’s true,’ he added quickly, as he saw her instinctive movement of protest. ‘There’s something queer about this whole place. The sooner I can get you away from it the happier I’ll be.’

  He was so serious that her indignation withered before it had been allowed to take vigorous root. She said:

  ‘What on earth do you mean, Roger?’

  ‘I mean that I don’t like to think of your being here with all these strange relatives of yours. I know they’re not really your relatives, of course. Maybe that’s why I’m being so frank about them. They’re not normal. You can never tell when they’re going to stop behaving like ordinary people and do something completely irrational.’

  ‘You mean like Uncle Gerald turning up at the flower show last year dressed as a schoolboy in short trousers and scandalizing all the dear old ladies in the sewing-circle?’

  ‘And having himself pushed through the village street in a perambulator with a baby’s dummy in his mouth and the local band in front!’
>
  ‘You’re surely not going to find anything sinister in that, Roger! You know how Gerald loves practical jokes. He’s just an overgrown boy.’

  ‘I can appreciate a practical joke, but it seems to me that his knees are the wrong shape for that sort of Peter Pan act.’

  ‘Now you’re throwing your sense of proportion overboard!’

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s certainly a peculiar household. Gerald with his periodic outbursts of schoolboy humour and alternately soaking himself in whisky and swearing to reform; Charlotte shutting herself up in her room for hours at a time and behaving like a soured old maid with a dark secret. It amazes me that Grame manages to put up with them. A month of it would send me crazy, but he seems to take it all cheerfully enough.’

  ‘When you put it like that,’ said the girl slowly, ‘it does seem a rather sombre picture. But they’ve always been nice to me. I can’t suddenly turn on them.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you’re the victim of any evil designs on their part,’ said Wynton hastily. ‘But the atmosphere of the place is unhealthy. I can’t understand Rainer allowing you to spend so much time here.’

  ‘He encourages me to come,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t think,’ she added slyly, ‘that you had any objection to that.’

  ‘I haven’t. But I’m curious. Why did he decide to spend Christmas here?’

  ‘We always spend Christmas with Uncle Benedict. It’s a sort of tradition.’

  ‘I know that Grame likes to go in for this Christmas family gathering kind of thing and that you’ve always been members of the party. But I thought that this year Rainer was going to America and that all the arrangements had been made for him to sail last week. What made him change his mind?’

  The girl was frowning now. It was evident that the question had touched a matter over which she had already been puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know, Roger,’ she admitted. ‘It was rather strange. He cancelled all his plans quite suddenly. It wasn’t like him at all.’