Murder for Christmas Read online

  ‘Of course not,’ said Benedict Grame heartily. ‘I’m only too delighted that you found it possible to come down. Christmas without you wouldn’t have been the same.’

  If there was a hint of amusement in his eyes it was not reflected in his voice. Mordecai Tremaine had chanced to be passing through the hall and he was a witness to Delamere’s entrance. It was clear that Grame knew his man.

  ‘I suppose there’ll be the usual people?’ said Delamere, as he allowed the butler to take his coat. ‘And all the usual trimmings? Including the Christmas tree?’

  ‘Including the Christmas tree,’ agreed Grame. ‘Would you like to have a look at it?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time,’ said Delamere, with a smile. ‘I’ll have a roam around when I’ve tidied up. Still the same old Benedict!’ he added. ‘I’d have been disappointed if there’d been no tree for us this year! It’s good to get away from politics and come into the atmosphere of the real old Christmas. Makes me feel like a boy again. Heaven knows the opportunity is rare enough in these days!’

  Mordecai Tremaine suspected that the last sentence had been added for his benefit. He knew that Delamere had caught sight of him. Grame noticed his glance and turned his head.

  ‘Hullo, Mordecai,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you know Austin Delamere, do you?’

  ‘No,’ returned Tremaine, ‘I haven’t that honour.’

  Grame performed the introductions and he was able to study the politician more closely without betraying that fact.

  Austin Delamere’s podgy features and the high, egg-shaped head, accentuated in its dome-like aspect by the sadly thinning hair, were not unknown to him. Although he had never met the other in the flesh before, he had encountered them in newspaper photographs and in news-reels when the politician’s unctuous voice had been enlarging upon some item of Government policy. He had always thought him a rather pompous little man with far too large a sense of his own importance.

  So far Delamere’s career had not been outstanding. It had been plodding rather than meteoric. But in some quarters he was reputed to be a coming man, and one whom it might be well to cultivate if one had an eye to the long-term prospects.

  There was certainly no disputing his ambition. Delamere made no secret of the fact that his goal was the top. It was whispered that he was not particular as to the methods he used to get there, but such scandal as there had been had not passed beyond the stage of the whisper. There was no proof to connect him with anything unsavoury, and without proof it was an error in tactics to slander such a man as Austin Delamere.

  At one time, however, there had been a hint that something more concrete might result and that he might find himself in a very awkward situation—a situation in connection with which the name of the Director of Public Prosecutions had been mentioned. Mordecai Tremaine searched in his memory during the brief moments he was facing the object of his thoughts. Something to do with contracts and bribery …

  But whatever it was it had become too deeply embedded in the rusty details of the past to be uncovered now. He realized that Delamere was making polite conversation. He released the other’s soft hand that had rested in his without making any attempt to grip.

  ‘It’s my first visit,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to the festivities.’

  ‘Benedict is determined to go down in history as the man who kept the spirit of Christmas alive in an age of cynical materialism,’ said Delamere.

  He sounded like a man who was quite willing to go on talking, but Mordecai Tremaine was sensitive to atmosphere and he knew that the other’s mind was not on him, and that he was merely employing the politician’s trick of speaking diplomatic phrases whilst his attention was engaged elsewhere.

  And in a few moments Delamere was on his way up to his room and he was left to ponder upon the subject of the latest addition to his fellow guests and the question of whether the politician had any part to play in the drama that seemed to be underlying the seasonal trimmings and decorations. Although there was nothing to suggest that he did, there was equally nothing to suggest that he did not. But Delamere was one of the regular members of the Christmas party. Which meant that the odds were therefore slightly in favour of his having some connection with whatever intrigue was in existence.

  Mordecai Tremaine told himself that his thoughts were leading him into unmarked paths again and drifted towards the library. He was well inside the room before he realized that it was occupied and by that time it was too late to withdraw with dignity.

  Gerald Beechley was there. He was seated at the telephone. He was saying:

  ‘I’ve told you it’s all right. I’ll see you get the money.’ His voice rose urgently. ‘No—don’t do that! You’ll be paid. He’s good for that much …’

  He broke off. Mordecai Tremaine had coughed. Gerald Beechley’s furious eyes glared at him for an instant and then the other turned back to the telephone.

  ‘I’m going to ring off,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll explain later. But don’t do anything hasty. You’ll get what you want.’

  He replaced the receiver viciously. He said:

  ‘What do you want?’

  Mordecai Tremaine said mildly:

  ‘I didn’t realize there was anyone here.’

  Beechley seemed to realize suddenly that he was betraying himself. And Mordecai Tremaine, standing there with his pince-nez on the verge of slipping off and a look of complete ineffectiveness on his face, was so obviously harmless that it was impossible to remain angry with him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Beechley muttered. ‘You rather startled me.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Tremaine. ‘It was my fault for coming in so quietly.’

  His attitude was a mixture of diffidence and benevolence. He might have been a sheltered spinster who had inadvertently strayed into the wrong bedroom and who didn’t know quite what to do.

  Beechley was clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m afraid you caught me in rather a bad moment,’ he said hesitantly. ‘A—a friend of mine rang me up. As a matter of fact he wanted to borrow some money. I don’t like refusing him, although it isn’t the first time. I told him I’d help him out, but at the same time I felt that I ought to speak my mind to him.’

  He gave Mordecai Tremaine a sideways glance, as if trying to estimate how far he was being convincing, but that gentleman’s blank expression told him nothing. Which, of course, was Mordecai Tremaine’s intention.

  ‘I quite understand,’ he murmured. ‘These things are sometimes a little—er—delicate, aren’t they?’

  He gave no hint that he did not believe Beechley’s story or that he had added one more peculiar episode to his growing collection. According to Denys Arden, Gerald Beechley was entirely dependent upon Benedict Grame. It did not seem likely, therefore, that he was in the habit of lending money to his friends, but, on the other hand, it did seem distinctly probable that he was capable of a good deal of borrowing. One of his creditors had been on the telephone making inconvenient demands. That was the reason for his sudden flare-up of temper. He had not relished his financial difficulties being made known to a stranger.

  ‘I’ll see you get the money … He’s good for that much …’

  That Benedict Grame was the ‘he’ in question was a logical enough assumption. Evidently it would not be the first time he had been asked to come to Beechley’s aid.

  The weather had not encouraged many people to go out of doors, and despite the size of the house it was inevitable that anyone so addicted to wandering as Mordecai Tremaine should encounter most of the other guests in turn. It must be admitted that his journeyings from room to room were not without purpose. His love of a mystery had been fully aroused by now. Had his friend Inspector Boyce (of Scotland Yard) been on the spot he would have recognized the symptoms the moment he had set eyes upon the mild-looking figure, pince-nez askew, drifting from place to place as though unable to settle permanently in any one of them. Mordecai Tremaine was engaged upon the
task of collecting impressions of the intriguing party of human beings among whom his Christmas was to be spent, and he was thoroughly enjoying the proceeding.

  The rustle of a newspaper attracted him as he passed a door that stood just ajar. He glanced enquiringly into the room and saw a bony hand holding the wide pages of the Financial Times. The hairless dome of Professor Ernest Lorring, shining in the firelight, was visible over the back of an easy chair.

  Mordecai Tremaine seated himself facing the professor. He knew that the other had seen him although he had made no sign of recognition.

  ‘Stock markets don’t seem to be too healthy just lately,’ he observed, in the overbright manner of one trying to start a conversation and choosing an obvious opening.

  ‘No.’

  It was more a grunt than a word. It signified that as far as its author was concerned the conversation had both opened and closed. But Mordecai Tremaine’s apparent diffidence concealed a tenacity many a bulldog would have been proud to own.

  ‘I suppose it’s the holiday influence,’ he went on. ‘The markets always seem to sag at holiday times. I dare say it’s a general lack of interest.’

  ‘I dare say it is,’ said Lorring.

  ‘I expect they’ll begin to recover again next week. Don’t you think?’

  A sound that was laden with unconcealed exasperation came from behind the Financial Times. With ostentatious cracklings and rustlings the newspaper was folded. Mordecai Tremaine allowed himself a quiet smile of victory. He said:

  ‘It’s my first Christmas here. Are you one of the regular members of the party?’

  ‘If you mean have I spent Christmas here before,’ said Lorring, ‘the answer is that I have not.’

  ‘Then we’ve a pleasure in common to look forward to,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, impervious to the gaunt, frowning face staring aggressively into his own now that the newspaper barrier was removed. ‘I understand that Mr. Grame’s Christmases are very happy affairs.’

  ‘Christmas!’ said Lorring.

  This time the grunt was a definite snort.

  ‘I saw them decorating the tree this morning,’ persevered Tremaine. ‘It’s going to be quite a splendid piece of work. Have you seen it yet?’

  It was as though he had pressed the switch that closed a circuit. The scientist sat up suddenly in his chair as if an electric impulse had vitalized him.

  ‘No,’ he barked, ‘I haven’t. I’ve no time for this childish humbug. The whole thing is just an excuse for self-indulgence on the part of people who are old enough to know better.’

  And then, just as Gerald Beechley had done, he seemed to become aware of the unwarranted violence of his manner. He said:

  ‘Forgive me if I sounded rude. I’ve been working under pressure just lately. I was looking forward to a few days of quiet and the thought that there might be a crowd of rowdy young people to contend with—or, worse, a crowd of elderly people trying to play at being young—is inclined to put me on edge.’

  Mordecai Tremaine did his best to look sympathetic. Lorring’s change of front was no more genuine than Beechley’s had been, but there was no point in revealing what he felt.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’ve been engaged upon a good deal of special research work.’

  Lorring’s face became suddenly wary. He stiffened visibly, as though to resist attack. There was nothing, thought Mordecai Tremaine, to be learned from him now. The scientist was on his guard, and a man who was both a curmudgeon and was watchfully suspicious was unlikely to give anything away.

  He made an excuse that was received with undisguised relief and left the room. As he closed the door he heard the rustle of the Financial Times as Lorring continued his reading. He wondered why Benedict Grame had invited the gaunt-looking scientist to spend Christmas with him. Certainly he seemed completely out of place as a member of a house-party reputed to keep up the season in a wholehearted and traditional manner. There was nothing jolly about Ernest Lorring. If Benedict Grame was drawn after Mr. Pickwick, then Lorring was drawn after Ebenezer Scrooge.

  Perhaps Grame would try to thaw his guest’s icy manner. He might even persuade him to don the traditional robes of Father Christmas and distribute the gifts from the Christmas tree. The image that came into his mind of Lorring’s face decorated with a white beard and peering miserably through the foliage was so incongruous that he broke into a chuckle.

  ‘You seem pleased with your thoughts, Mr. Tremaine!’

  He looked up, startled. It was Rosalind Marsh. She had just come into the hall with Gerald Beechley. She had evidently been out and the colour in her cheeks made her look decidedly lovelier. It had softened that hard whiteness of the goddess. He could think of her now as a flesh-and-blood woman, one who would experience a woman’s fierce emotions.

  He smiled at her but he did not explain his chuckle. She was obviously disappointed, but in her turn she made no further reference to it.

  ‘You haven’t been out this afternoon?’ she said enquiringly, and he shook his head.

  ‘No, I’ve been wandering about—talking to people.’

  There was speculation in the look she gave him.

  ‘Have the results been—interesting?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he told her. ‘Very interesting.’

  From her expression he thought that she was about to put another question to him, but she changed her mind, after all. She glanced towards Gerald Beechley.

  ‘Give me a cigarette, Gerald, do you mind? I’ve left my case upstairs.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The big man attended to her needs and then offered the case to Tremaine. That gentleman shook his head.

  ‘No, thanks. I smoke very little. A cigarette after meals. Perhaps a pipe occasionally.’

  ‘You sound like a medicinal smoker!’ said Beechley.

  He was his bluff and jovial self. His red face, whipped by the keen wind, his high-necked pullover, his rough tweeds and his massive hands, one of which was grasping a stout oak stick, made him look the typical countryman. He was the simple farming man, hearty of appetite and manner. He seemed to have forgotten the embarrassment of that scene in the library.

  Rosalind Marsh drew at her cigarette. Mordecai Tremaine suspected that she had only asked for it in order to gain time. Time for what?

  ‘I see Austin Delamere’s arrived,’ she said. ‘That completes the party.’

  ‘There’ll be quite a lot of us for dinner, won’t there?’ said Tremaine.

  She nodded.

  ‘Pretty much the same as last night. The Napiers will be over again with Lucia Tristam. They’ll spend the night here—probably a couple of nights. They usually do at Christmas. I wonder what Benedict’s planning? Any idea what’s on the agenda, Gerald?’

  Tremaine’s mind went back to that little scene outside the house when the big man had been so obviously unwilling to reveal what it was he had brought back in his car. He said:

  ‘I rather imagine Mr. Beechley could tell us something if he wished. Eh, Mr. Beechley?’

  His tone was deliberately arch. He was the garrulous old busybody trying to draw confidences by hinting that he already knew what was going on. Gerald Beechley gave him a scowl of dislike. He would clearly have liked to change the subject, but Rosalind Marsh had been quick to take up the point.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to give another of your famous performances, Gerald!’

  Mordecai Tremaine pushed his pince-nez into a more secure position. He blinked at the big man. He looked rather like a friendly dog, pleading to be granted some attention.

  ‘Another?’ he said. ‘Why, does Mr. Beechley usually entertain at these times?’

  Rosalind Marsh threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘I think “entertain” is the right word,’ she said, ‘although it doesn’t mean quite what you imagine it does. Gerald’s a notorious character in Sherbroome. People are never quite sure what he’ll do next. Most of the villagers are convinced that he’s quite mad.
What was the last episode, Gerald? Was it when you set up a stall in the market and started selling homemade toffee-apples in exchange for jam jars?’

  Tremaine could see the veins standing thickly in Gerald Beechley’s neck where it bulged redly over the yellow pullover. The big man was staring at Rosalind Marsh’s white throat as though he would have delighted to take it between his powerful fingers and crush the life from it.

  Or was it just some queer trick of the light that made that murderous expression appear to be in his face and was he really smiling broadly? Not for the first time that day Mordecai Tremaine experienced a feeling of unreality. He stared at the other, trying to be sure, and found that he could not.

  And then that brief, disturbing impression was gone and he was facing the bluff countryman who really was smiling at the joke and whose booming voice was saying:

  ‘Doesn’t do to have long faces all the time, you know!’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Tremaine, as though he had never suspected anything was wrong. ‘It does us all good to laugh now and again.’

  ‘Let’s go crazy while we can. Life’s too short to spend it all being serious.’

  The big man seemed to be speaking genuinely enough now. Tremaine remarked:

  ‘You and Mr. Grame must have a great deal in common.’

  ‘We understand each other,’ said Beechley. ‘Benedict’s a great fellow—one of the best. Don’t know what we’d do without him. He’s certainly put up with me longer than most people would have done. Which reminds me—I promised to see him as soon as I came in. I dare say he wants to give me my briefing!’

  Rosalind Marsh made no comment until the other had left the hall. She was standing apparently casually, her cigarette drooping between her fingers, a slightly bored expression on her face. But her eyes were anything but bored. She said to Mordecai Tremaine:

  ‘I wish I understood what you were after.’