Murder for Christmas Read online

  ‘Perhaps I’m making it sound too serious. He hasn’t been wearing straws in his hair or anything like that!’ she said lightly. ‘It’s just that he’s been—difficult. He’s apt to decide things in a hurry. You can never be sure just what he will do. For instance, until a little while ago he didn’t intend to spend Christmas here at all. He was going to America on business. His passage was booked and he’d made all arrangements, and then, without warning, he cancelled everything.’

  ‘Did he give any reason?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say a word except that he’d changed his plans. And that was strange, too, because he doesn’t usually have any secrets from me.’

  ‘You don’t suppose he’d had bad news connected with his business and didn’t want to worry you over it?’

  ‘I’m quite sure he hadn’t. Jeremy isn’t the kind of man to be upset by any business troubles. He’s had too many ups and downs.’

  ‘What did Mr. Grame think about the American trip? I understand that these Christmas house-parties are his special delight. Did he like the idea of Mr. Rainer being away this year?’

  ‘I believe he did feel rather upset,’ admitted the girl. ‘Uncle Benedict likes to feel that we’re all here. But he didn’t say a great deal. His attitude was that he’d be disappointed if Jeremy was missing, but that it was up to him to make his own plans.’

  Mordecai Tremaine gave her a shrewd glance. He stopped in the roadway, and she, too, came to a standstill, turning to look into the bright grey eyes behind the pince-nez.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re out of breath already!’ she teased him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’m curious. I’m wondering just why you’ve been talking to me as you have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said quickly, but the tell-tale colour was in her cheeks.

  Mordecai Tremaine thought that it made her look very lovely. He said:

  ‘I don’t think our conversation has been altogether casual. After all, I’m a stranger and yet you’ve been ready to tell me all sorts of things I hardly imagine you usually tell to strangers. And I can’t help wondering why.’

  For an instant or two she faced him, the flush in her cheeks. And then:

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You win. What do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘Only why you’re troubled. And only if you want to tell me.’

  ‘I do want to tell you,’ she returned slowly. ‘And yet I don’t know what there is to tell. I know that sounds stupid,’ she added hastily, seeing his look of surprise, ‘but there isn’t any other way to express it.’

  ‘You feel,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that something is going to happen but you can’t give that something a name or do anything to stop it, and you feel restless and frustrated.’

  ‘That’s it,’ she said eagerly. ‘That’s just the way I feel. Why is it? What is it that frightens me?’

  ‘I’m a stranger,’ he told her. ‘All I can see is a rather jolly house-party getting ready to enjoy Christmas in a really old-fashioned way.’

  ‘Perhaps it is like that. Perhaps I’m just suffering from nerves. Uncle Benedict fussing over everyone and enjoying himself dressing up and playing at Santa Claus; all of us laughing and joking and behaving as if we were one big happy family; a Christmas tree loaded with presents; a fall of snow at just the right time—it’s all so pleasant and secure.’

  ‘Only it isn’t,’ observed Mordecai Tremaine gravely. ‘You’re walking about with a feeling of unreality and the sensation that sooner or later you’re going to find yourself in the middle of a nightmare.’

  He was watching her closely. But his carefully planned attack did not achieve its object. She did not reveal her thoughts to him, and after a moment or two he said:

  ‘You haven’t told me yet why you’ve been so frank with me.’

  ‘I’m afraid I like gossiping,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’ve probably been acting like an awful bore.’ She glanced down at her wrist-watch and before he could return to the offensive, she added: ‘Heavens, we shall have to fly if we don’t want to be late for lunch!’

  Their walk back to the house was brisk—so brisk, in fact, that there was no scope for conversation. Tremaine decided regretfully that if he wanted to probe deeper into Denys Arden’s private thoughts he would have to wait for another opportunity to talk to her alone. And with Roger Wynton in the neighbourhood that opportunity was likely to be considerably delayed.

  It was. After lunch the girl was nowhere to be seen. Tremaine was wandering disconsolately along the drive towards the empty lodge, having finally given up hope of finding her or of detaching her from Wynton even if he did, when a voice hailed him.

  Turning, he saw Nicholas Blaise. He brightened. Maybe the afternoon would not be such a loss, after all.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘All the decorating finished?’

  ‘All I’m concerned with,’ returned Blaise, smilingly. ‘Benedict’s still fussing over his beloved tree, but I know that he’d rather not have any help over that particular task.’

  ‘The tree appears to be something of an institution.’

  ‘It certainly is. Wait until tomorrow and you’ll see it in all its glory!’

  ‘A present for everyone—isn’t that the feature?’

  Blaise nodded.

  ‘That’s Benedict’s job at the moment—placing the cards on the tree. He sets out all the names on little brackets during the day, and tonight when the rest of us are supposed to be in bed he’ll come down and tie on the presents.’

  ‘In the role of Father Christmas.’

  ‘In the role of Father Christmas,’ agreed Blaise. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you,’ he went on, adjusting his pace to his companion’s as they walked slowly down the drive. ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to have a talk with you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘I’ve been expecting it.’

  ‘Of course, you’re wondering about that note of mine and just why I wanted Benedict to ask you down here. I’m afraid I’ve a confession to make. I wanted you here for a sort of busman’s holiday.’

  ‘The plot,’ said Tremaine happily, ‘is beginning to thicken.’

  But Blaise seemed to have become suddenly uncomfortable.

  ‘I hope you won’t think too badly of me,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I mean asking you here as a guest and then trying to pour out my troubles upon you. But I’ve been worried. Damnably worried. And then, quite suddenly, I thought of you and I knew that you were the person to help me. You see, I couldn’t go to the police. I had nothing I could tell them. They would only have told me to go to a doctor and get something for my nerves—and I wouldn’t have been able to blame them.’

  ‘So there is something in it,’ said Tremaine softly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Blaise sharply. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tremaine. ‘Nothing at all. You were saying that you couldn’t go to the police. What made you think of them?’

  ‘It’s Benedict. What do you think of him? Does he seem—different—since you saw him last?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed anything. He seems in very good spirits. He certainly appears to be determined to enjoy his Christmas.’

  ‘He isn’t the same. There’s something on his mind. I think he’s afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blaise helplessly. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I asked you to come down.’

  ‘But what can I do? Mr. Grame is hardly likely to take me into his confidence. Not if he hasn’t even confided in you, and I imagine from what you’ve just said that he hasn’t done so.’

  ‘You’re used to this sort of thing. You’ve had experience in—well, in making enquiries and finding out about things.’

  ‘And you want me to try and find out why Mr. Grame is afraid?’

  ‘If you put it like that,’ said Blaise. ‘You see—it isn’t easy to say what I mean, but the fact is that I’ve been with Benedict a long ti
me and I’ve grown fond of him. I think I know him. I know his generosity, the way he’ll try to help a lame dog—as I was when I first came to him. I know how simple and enthusiastic he can be—over such things as this Christmas tree, for instance. I hate to see him growing secretive and furtive. I hate to see him losing his enjoyment of life. And that’s just what he is doing.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him the reason?’

  Nicholas Blaise made a wry grimace.

  ‘Because I haven’t the nerve,’ he admitted. ‘You know our relationship. I handle all Benedict’s business for him. He treats me as a social equal. But after all I’m still only a paid employee. Once or twice when he’s been in a sympathetic mood I’ve put out a hint and tried to get him to give me his confidence. But all it did was to make him draw back into his shell.’

  ‘And you haven’t any theories at all as to what is troubling him?’

  Blaise hesitated.

  ‘No—well, not exactly,’ he said. ‘Only——’

  ‘Only?’ prompted Tremaine.

  ‘I’ve a feeling—it’s only that, mind you—that it’s something to do with Rainer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mordecai Tremaine’s monosyllable was significant. He said:

  ‘I wonder if you and Miss Arden are worrying about the same thing?’

  ‘Denys?’ There was surprise in the other’s voice. ‘Why, has she been telling you anything about Benedict?’

  ‘Not about Mr. Grame. About her guardian. She seems to have the same feeling about him that you have about Mr. Grame.’

  Nicholas Blaise was obviously thinking over the implications of his companion’s statement. He said at last:

  ‘You mean she thinks Rainer’s in trouble of some kind?’

  ‘She does,’ said Tremaine. ‘Which strikes me as being interesting. Benedict Grame and Jeremy Rainer, as I understand it, are very old friends. If they’re both displaying the same symptoms it’s possible that it’s due to the same cause. What about our old friend the Shadow from the Past?’

  He saw Nicholas Blaise’s puzzled look and chuckled.

  ‘One of the routine theories,’ he explained. ‘Old business associates who were accomplices in certain rather dubious affairs in their early days are suddenly reminded of their guilt by the unexpected arrival of one of their former acquaintances. This personage is down on his luck. So he tries to improve his bank balance in the obvious way. By blackmail.’

  ‘But that’s wildly improbable,’ objected Blaise. ‘I’m sure that can’t be the reason. They don’t act like fellow conspirators.’

  His protestations were so earnest that Mordecai Tremaine smiled.

  ‘I’m not suggesting it’s true,’ he said. ‘I’m only putting it forward as a possible explanation. Have there been any strangers in the neighbourhood lately? That’s another standby in cases like this.’

  ‘You’re not laughing at me, are you?’ said Blaise suspiciously.

  Despite a quick denial he still showed signs of being ruffled, and Tremaine hastened to smooth him down.

  ‘I’m perfectly serious, Nick,’ he said. ‘I dare say you know everybody in the village by now. Have there been any strange faces around just lately?’

  Although unwillingly Blaise nevertheless gave his attention to the question.

  ‘I think there have been a couple,’ he replied. ‘Not that there’s anything unusual in that. Sherbroome’s well known, despite its size. People often spend a few days here.’

  ‘But not,’ said Tremaine, ‘in the middle of winter with an uncomfortable amount of snow around. And not without a reason a little stronger than the mere desire to have a look at a picturesque piece of ancient England. But to get back to these strangers of yours. Do you know anything about them?’

  A sudden thought inserted itself into his mind. He had hardly realized it was there when he was saying quickly to Blaise, before the other could reply:

  ‘Is one of them a tall, rather gaunt-looking fellow, with dark, staring eyes and the appearance of wanting to pick a quarrel with someone?’

  He startled his companion to a greater degree than he had expected. Blaise swung round upon him with an exclamation.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s right. But when did you see him? You haven’t been out, have you, since you arrived?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been out—apart from a stroll with Miss Arden this morning. I saw him yesterday afternoon. I was looking for the house and I saw this chap standing in the roadway and pulled up to ask him where it was. He was just by the entrance to the drive. I thought he seemed very interested in the place. Hence my question just now about the presence of any mysterious strangers.’

  ‘Probably just taking a look out of curiosity,’ said Blaise. ‘It’s a fine old house. I believe I’ve seen the chap about myself. He’s probably harmless enough, despite his looks. The truth is, Mordecai, I can’t bring myself to pay much attention to your mysterious stranger theory. Benedict and Rainer aren’t in partnership over this thing. I feel certain about that, however little I may know about the rest. In fact, I’m not at all sure that Rainer isn’t at the root of the trouble.’

  ‘I thought,’ interrupted Tremaine, ‘that they were the best of friends.’

  ‘Officially,’ said Blaise, ‘they are. But sometimes I wonder.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Well, only one particular reason. You know about Mrs. Tristam, I suppose?’

  ‘I met her last night, of course. A very striking woman.’

  ‘Very,’ said Nicholas Blaise drily. ‘That’s just the point. Benedict undoubtedly agrees. And so does Rainer. You—follow?’

  ‘Perfectly. Widows are wonderful. And the two gentlemen have been showing signs of wanting to settle the problem with pistols for two at dawn. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s the general idea. Although I don’t know about the pistols.’

  ‘What does the lady think about it?’

  ‘No one,’ observed Blaise, ‘knows what Lucia Tristam thinks.’ He was silent for a moment or two, as though allowing his companion to assimilate the thought of the magnificent Lucia, and then he said: ‘Well, how do you feel about things? Will you take on the job?’

  ‘Let me,’ said Tremaine, ‘make certain that I understand the position. You think that Benedict Grame is labouring under some secret fear. He won’t talk about it, but you believe Rainer is the cause of it——’

  ‘No,’ interposed Blaise quickly, ‘I’m not going as far as that. It was just—just an instinct, if you like. It hasn’t any real foundation and it may be wildly wrong.’

  ‘All right, you don’t suspect anybody. In fact, you don’t really know what to suspect. You just have a vague feeling that Grame’s in trouble. Trouble that he won’t discuss, even with you, but that is preying on his mind. You want me to investigate this highly nebulous matter, but you don’t know where I’m to begin nor what I’m expected to find!’

  Blaise looked glum.

  ‘It does sound pretty feeble,’ he admitted. ‘I can understand your not wanting to handle anything so unsatisfactory. But don’t let it spoil your Christmas. We’ll agree to forget all I’ve said.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Tremaine. ‘Who said anything about not wanting to handle it?’

  ‘You mean you will take it up?’

  ‘I certainly will. It’s much too intriguing to be ignored.’

  ‘Thanks, Mordecai,’ said Blaise. ‘You’ve taken a load off my mind. If there’s anything you want to know, anything I can tell you or do for you, let me hear about it, and I’ll do whatever I can.’ He added, ‘There’s just one thing …’

  ‘I know,’ said Tremaine. ‘Don’t tell Grame.’

  ‘I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m deliberately going behind Benedict’s back, but to be perfectly honest I’m not sure how he’ll take it. I don’t want him to think I’ve been spying on him. I owe him too much for that.’

  ‘Of course. I appreciate your position.’

>   If the undoubtedly unsubstantiated and half-formed theories Nicholas Blaise had just tried to put before him had arrived out of nothingness, Mordecai Tremaine would probably have been inclined to laugh them aside and accuse the other of having sampled too many mince pies in advance of the Christmas feast, but what Blaise had said had possessed the significance of a sound-track synchronizing with a series of pictures that had already been running through his mind.

  There was a picture of the man and the woman he had seen talking so intimately in the tea-shop in Calnford. There was a picture of the gaunt man to whom he had spoken at the entrance to the drive on his arrival, dark-faced, seeming to exude such an atmosphere of menace. There was a picture of Charlotte Grame, nervous and pale, denying that she had been in Calnford. There was a picture of Lucia Tristam, amusement in her tawny eyes, coolly supporting Charlotte Grame’s alibi, with the look of a woman who knew that she was lying and was revelling in it.

  There was a picture of Jeremy Rainer, grey and dour, staring fixedly at the Christmas tree upon which Benedict Grame was busily engaged, as if it drew him with some baleful force he could not resist. And there was a picture of Denys Arden, her scarf flying gaily and her face rosy with the wind, and the shadows in her eyes as she told him of her fears.

  Each in itself was without real significance. Each in itself could be easily explained away. But together they created an impression of smouldering drama. And there was, thought Mordecai Tremaine, no smoke without fire.

  6

  THE EVENT of the afternoon was the arrival of Austin Delamere. He was preceded by a lengthy telegram saying that he had been prevented from arriving by the morning train as he had intended, and that he would be travelling later in the day by road. A large, chauffeur-driven car brought him to the steps of the house at four o’clock. His plump figure, swathed in a heavy overcoat with a high astrakhan collar, rolled into the hall with a cultivated dignity. He raised one hand in greeting to Benedict Grame, who came forward to meet him, the other held a bulging brief-case. His attitude was that of the exhausted statesman, worn by the cares of office.

  ‘So sorry I wasn’t able to get here before, my dear fellow,’ he said to Grame. ‘Official business, you know. They won’t allow us to rest even at a time like this. I’m afraid I’ve had to bring a few little matters away with me. I hope you won’t mind my shutting myself up occasionally whilst I’m here?’