Mistletoe Mystery

  Mistletoe Mystery

  Copyright © Sally Quilford 2011

  Cover © Candybox Images | Dreamstime.com

  Originally published in My Weekly Pocket Novels and by Linford Romance Library

  ***

  Mistletoe Mystery

  Chapter One

  In a few minutes the supermodel, Lucy Crystal would drink her coffee and then choke to death on the arsenic. Meanwhile she smiled benignly and chatted to the guests, telling them her life story. Philly Sanderson could not help noticing that Lucy embellished a little.

  The sound of thunder and lightning filled the dimly lit room, whilst a warm fire crackled in the hearth. The atmosphere at Bedlington Hall was just right for a murder.

  Philly smiled with satisfaction and glanced at the other diners, who were busy looking at each other with deep interest, whilst finishing off their drinks. Things were going well so far. No one had guessed, which was good at this stage of the plot. The first time some know-it-all had turned up and ruined everything by guessing immediately what was going to happen. Luckily, Philly had talked her way out of it and changed the plans at the last minute, but it had taken a lot of doing in the time she had available to her.

  Lucy’s husband, a young vicar called Reg, sat opposite her. He was rather portly, with a red face. It had been an unlikely marriage, but everyone agreed it was a happy one. Further down the table, nearer to Philly, was the handsome African American, Brent Michaels, who was rumoured to be Lucy’s ex-lover.

  Then there was Philly. Only she was not Philly tonight. Her name was Cassandra. Lucy had shown no signs of recognising her, which was good. After all, it had been a long time since Lucy and Cassandra were at school together. They had been the best of friends, until Lucy stole Cassandra’s boyfriend at the school prom.

  Lucy lifted the cup to her lips, and as she did so, she gave Philly a strange look, almost as if she recognised her in that moment.

  “No, it can’t be…” Lucy whispered. She drank her coffee. Suddenly her face contorted and she started to splutter. “Poison,” she croaked. “I’ve been…” Her cup shattered on the parquet flooring, and Lucy slumped forward in her seat, her pretty face landing in what was left of her raspberry Pavlova.

  “Oh my God, she’s dead!” said Reg the vicar, running to his wife’s side.

  “Golly gee, who could have done such a thing?” said Brent Michaels.

  “Oh, this is very exciting,” said Mrs Bennett, one of the other guests. “Isn’t it, Frank?” She nudged her husband who sat next to her.

  “It’s alright I suppose. I thought there’d be more blood.” He looked like a man who had been cheated out of a special treat. “What do we do now then?”

  “I suppose we get our notebooks out and start sleuthing,” said Mrs. Bennett, practically slapping her lips together.

  ***

  “Well if you ask me,” said Mr. Graham, an elderly man in his seventies, “it can’t have been the husband. When they served the coffee, he’d popped off to the little boy’s room.”

  He sat around a small table in the drawing room with Mr and Mrs Bennett, as one of three teams racing to find out the identity of the murderer.

  “Yes, but he might have slipped something in as he walked past,” said Mrs Bennett. “I think it was the ex-lover, Brett Michaels.” Her voice rose dramatically. “Consumed by jealousy and thwarted in love, he decided that if he could not have her, no one else could. He’s very handsome. Just like that nice Will Smith.” She sighed happily.

  “Yes, but every time he went near to her, he sneezed,” said Frank Bennett. “He was allergic to her perfume. So we’d have known if he touched her coffee, because he’d have had to lean over her.”

  “But he might have taken an anti-wotsamine,” said Mrs. Bennett.

  “I’m not happy with this murder,” said Mr. Graham. “It’s all a bit … I don’t know … dull.”

  “I said there should be more blood,” said Frank.

  “And there are hardly any suspect,” said Mr. Graham. “Who have we got? That woman Cassandra … mind you, I don’t like the look of her. Too pretty. They’re the ones you’ve got to watch. Then there’s the husband, Reg. What sort of name is that for a thirty-year-old vicar in this day and age? Then the ex-boyfriend, Brent Michaels. That’s only three suspects.”

  “There’s the maid who let us in,” said Mrs. Bennett. “I haven’t seen her since. Certainly not in the dining room.”

  “Nah,” said Frank Bennett. “She was played by the same one who’s playing Cassandra. I recognised her pretty blue eyes.”

  A woman from one of the other tables called across, “I just said there’s not enough suspects. There should be at least half a dozen. Or a full dozen. Like Murder on the Orient Express.”

  Philly listened from behind the door with a sinking feeling. Things were not going well for the second murder mystery weekend at Bedlington Hall.

  “I said we needed more actors,” said Meg, who only half an hour earlier had thrilled everyone as Lucy the supermodel, choking to death on her coffee. If Mr. Bennett were being picky, he might have suggested she was a bit short for a supermodel. However, she was taller than Philly and more slender, hence the part falling to her.

  “I can’t afford more actors, Meg. If you, Puck and Tony weren’t doing it for free, I wouldn’t be able to do this at all. I was hoping I’d make enough each time to add more. Plus … Oh, let’s be honest, I’m not very good at writing them, am I? Mr. Bennett’s right. A thirty-year-old vicar called Reg just doesn’t sound plausible nowadays. They’re all called Blake or Brandon or something equally snazzy.”

  “Something will work out,” said Puck. He had dropped his American accent. Whilst his real name was Mark Jenson he had been known as Puck since he was five years old. Even his equity card listed him as Puck Jenson. “So the script isn’t perfect, but we can work on that. I don’t think I should say ‘golly gee’ next time. That’s a bit nineteen-fifties, don’t you think? Like ‘Hey, golly gee, let’s put the show on right here, in the barn.’”

  “I’ll be living in a barn if this doesn’t work out,” said Philly, glumly. “And not one of those nice converted ones either. I’ll have to tell the pigs to move over.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t do better,” said Puck.

  “Oh no, you did great.” Philly patted them both on the arm. “So did Tony. Where is our portly vicar by the way?”

  “Gone to take his fat suit off for a bit,” said Meg. “He said he was melting in it.”

  “Poor Tony,” said Philly. “He really didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

  “You know Tony,” said Puck. “Doesn’t matter if he’s playing a jam donut in an advert or a portly vicar at a murder mystery weekend. He always likes to get into character.”

  “Oh, they’re all coming out,” said Meg, who had kept one eye on the drawing room door. “I’d better go, considering I’m supposed to be dead.”

  ***

  Three days later the guests had gone home, leaving Philly, Meg and Puck to clean up. Tony had left in the morning, having received a call from his agent offering him a spot in an annoying advert for car insurance.

  “I can’t believe he’s the most successful amongst us,” said Puck. “He never paid attention in drama school. Next thing you know he’ll be playing English bad guys in American movies, whilst we’ll be lucky if we get to be the back end of a pantomime horse.”

  “I think that’s what Tony’s agent said he was playing in the ad,” said Philly, wiping the dishes. “Look, thanks for helping me this weekend. I really couldn’t have done it without you. I promise that as soon as I’m making a profit on this place, I’ll pay you decent wages.”

  “Hey, you feed us and l
et us sleep in a warm, dry bed,” said Meg, putting her arm around Philly’s shoulders. “That’s payment enough. Especially since Puck’s mum threw us out because we couldn’t find jobs.”

  “I’ve had an idea for the next murder mystery weekend if you can bear it,” said Philly. She hesitated when she saw her friends’ pained expressions. “Not that you have to do it. It’s just that … well, you know that there are always adverts for Turkey and Tinsel weekends in the papers. They usually do them in early December.”

  “Ye-es,” said Meg.

  “Well what about a Mistletoe and Mystery weekend? We could write something with a Christmas theme. Maybe one of you could choke on the Christmas pudding or something.”

  “I usually do when Meg makes it,” said Puck. Meg slapped him playfully with the dishcloth. “Oy, behave or you’ll be putting your own ready meals in the microwave from now on, boyo.”

  “I love it when you get all angry and Welsh,” said Puck, grinning.

  “Never mind,” said Philly, putting down the tea towel. “I think I’m going to go and have a look in some of the rooms on the top floor. I haven’t really had chance since we moved in. I’m thinking there may be some nice furniture up there.”

  “Hey, Philly,” said Puck. “You know we’ve got your back, right? Whatever you want to do at Christmas, we’re in.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without friends like you,” she said, smiling. “I promise that if this doesn’t work, I’ll think about selling the place.”

  “You promised your godmother you wouldn’t,” said Meg.

  “I know, but I can’t think of any other way to keep it. Unless I turn to crime, and I’d be useless at that.”

  Philly left Meg and Puck chatting in the kitchen whilst she went around the house checking everything was back to normal. The good thing about paying guests was that they tended to take all their mess with them. Nevertheless, the house still took ages to clean up.

  Her godmother, Robyn Sanderson had died the year before, leaving Bedlington Hall in Midchester solely to Philly. Philly’s father had been Robyn’s second cousin and lawyer, helping to deal with problems on the Bedlington estate.

  As Meg had reminded Philly, her godmother had promised her on her deathbed never to sell Bedlington Hall.

  “I have given everything to that house,” Robyn had said. “It has been a demanding mistress. I’m leaving it to you, because I know you love it as much as I do. Don’t sell it, Philly. No matter what you have to do, you must keep the house in the family.”

  Philly, whose parents had died when she was little, had been raised by her godmother, at least for part of the time. Philly went to boarding school, and only saw her godmother in the holidays. Then when she left school and went to drama school, their lives had diverged even more. Every visit to Bedlington Hall had been magical. It was a house of various designs, part Tudor, Gothic, and part Baroque, with each different part added by a new owner, creating a labyrinth of rooms. For a short time, in the late nineteen forties and fifties, it had been a girl’s boarding school. During the Second World War, the army had requisitioned it and turned it into a military hospital for recuperating soldiers. However, it had always been in the Sanderson family.

  It had cost her godmother a fortune to install central heating and new bathrooms when she took the Hall back in the nineteen-sixties, yet even they were old and tired by the time Philly took charge of the house. The central heating banged loudly during the night, and due to the costs, it was not possible to heat every room. It might have added to the atmosphere during the murder mystery weekends, but it did not always make living in the house very comfortable, especially with winter coming on.

  Philly had taken out a business loan to update some of the bedrooms and add en suite bathrooms for guests. Then she had been stung by many other costs associated with health and safety for anyone leasing rooms to the public. The loan was all gone, and she had barely broken even on the latest mystery weekend, due to so few people turning up. She had a small annuity left to her by her parents, but it was not enough to live on. It had merely helped keep a roof over her head before she was left Bedlington Hall. The annuity barely covered the upkeep of a large, hungry house, which devoured ten-pound notes at an alarming rate.

  Philly was not afraid of hard work. Normally she supplemented her income and her ‘resting’ periods of acting by working as a waitress or cleaner. She had even worked in a factory, making boxes. Unfortunately the village of Midchester had only one restaurant, which was fully staffed. She had checked the newsagents’ window for a card offering a cleaning post but to no avail, and there was no local industry to speak of. Midchester was the sort of place where people living in London had weekend cottages and the local youngsters had to move elsewhere because they could not afford to live in the village.

  She was realistic enough to understand that even getting a full time job would not keep Bedlington Hall maintained. Unless she ever did get that big break in Hollywood, and that was unlikely to happen when she could not even afford the airfare to go over and meet film directors.

  The main attic was locked and she had not yet found the key to it. That would be her next job, she decided. She had put it off, due to being busy with arranging the murder mystery weekends. She had taken a bunch of keys from the drawer in the kitchen, praying that one of them would fit. She rattled them as she walked along the passage, humming Mama Morton’s song from Chicago.

  “It’ll be the last key I try,” she murmured to herself after the first ten did not fit the lock. It was actually the last but one key on the ring. Philly breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the lock give.

  The attic covered the entire top floor of the house, and was full to the brim with old furniture, suitcases, trunks, pictures and other debris from the house below. A dormer window allowed very little light, and the ancient light bulb did not cast much more illumination.

  It would take her forever to search through it all, and she doubted any of it was worth much. She knew that when the house was turned into a hospital then a boarding school, most of the larger family heirlooms had been put in storage elsewhere. She suspected that everything in the attic were worthless items that had just been put up out of the way when they were no longer needed.

  She opened one of the trunks and found a load of clothes in the nineteen-fifties style. Another trunk contained clothing from an earlier era, and another had clothing dating back to Victorian times. “Perfect,” she whispered. They would be ideal for the murder mystery weekends. So far they had to borrow costumes from a friend in the BBC costume department, but they had been told under pain of death not to damage anything.

  One trunk bore the name Dominique DuPont, but when Philly opened it, it only contained a painting.

  The painting was about four feet high by three feet wide. Philly turned it over, hoping but not really expecting, to find a masterpiece. At first she thought it rather dull. It showed a tower set in front of a forest, and sitting upon the tower was a bird. Below the tower lay a long winding path, and walking along it was a small figure dressed in red. The more she looked at it, the more she became transfixed by the colours, and the way the bird’s eyes followed the small figure, yet also seemed to follow her whenever she moved away from the picture. There was something wrong with the perspective. The figure in red looked to be nearly half the height of the tower. She rubbed at the bottom with her finger, guessing that an art historian would have a fit if he saw her. There were probably sounder, scientific ways of cleaning up a painting but she did not have those at her disposal. The name of the artist was Robespierre.

  All Philly knew of Robespierre was that he was a rather unpleasant figure of the French Revolution. This painting could not be that old. It did not even seem to be as old as the trunk in which it was stored. Something about the red outfit the figure wore was too modern looking. It looked like … “An anorak,” said Philly, squinting her eyes, trying to get a better look.

  “Robespierre,�
� said Puck, as they ate a late supper of beans on toast in the drawing room. They all sat with trays on their knees, a bit fed up of the dining room, where most of the murderous action had taken place. “I’ve heard of him. Used to run around with Andy Warhol’s crowd in the sixties and seventies. Bit of a champagne socialist by all accounts.”

  “The trunk it was in belonged to someone called Dominique DuPont,” Philly explained. “But I think the trunk was older than the painting. A real nineteen-forties or fifties style.”

  “Now where have I heard that name?” asked Meg. “Dominique DuPont, I mean. Oh, I can’t remember, but it’ll come to me.”

  “She might have been a friend of my godmother’s,” said Philly. “It sounds familiar to me too. It’s odd she left her trunk here.”

  “You should take that picture to be valued,” said Puck. “The Warhol connection should be worth something.”

  “It could be worth millions,” said Meg. “Then you’ll have what you need to keep Bedlington Hall afloat, Puck and I can get married … assuming you’d stump up for a wedding dress that is.”

  “Darling Meg,” said Philly. “If this painting is worth more than two pounds fifty, I’ll pay for the wedding and your honeymoon.”

  As much as she would like to believe the painting would be worth a fortune, Philly did not believe for one minute that her problems would be solved quite so easily.

  Chapter Two

  Philly took the London road in her godmother’s yellow Triumph Stag. The painting was wrapped in sheet on the back seat.

  Meg and Puck had waved her off that morning, wishing her luck, but it was fair to say that none of them really thought the painting would be worth anything.

  “I feel resentful wasting the petrol money,” Philly had said. “But if I don’t try I might always regret it.”

  She found the auction house first, then looked for somewhere to park. Though the painting was not huge, it was difficult to carry through the busy London streets. Her arms were aching by the time she reached the auction house.