Mistletoe Mystery Page 5

“It did occur to me yes, though that doesn’t answer the question of why her family didn’t come forward.” Philly hoped she sounded plausible and interested enough in Dominique’s story. In reality all she could think was that her heart was beginning to break, despite all her best efforts to protect it. Not that she would ever let him see that. If he knew how she really felt, then it would give him power over her, and she would not allow that to happen. “Or perhaps,” she said, unable to stop the bitterness flowing from her lips, “he thought she was rich and killed her when he found out she wasn’t.” She searched his face for a flicker of guilt, conscience, anything that might give him away. He looked just as gorgeous as ever, which did not help her at all.

  “Wow, that’s a big jump from clandestine meetings in a folly at the side of a lake,” said Matt. “What would he stand to gain from that? I mean, if they didn’t marry first so that he inherited all her wealth? Surely a conman would just cut his losses and leave her heartbroken but alive.”

  “Yes, that’s a good point. Unless he was really desperate. He might have owed money to someone, and pitched all his hopes on her.”

  “Then if he had any sense, he’d run like hell, without stopping to look behind him.”

  “You don’t know how desperate he was.”

  “Nah, it doesn’t make sense, Philly. I’m not saying that she didn’t meet some guy who killed her, but it would have been a crime of passion. Or a suicide pact. Or maybe he was just a sicko. If he was a conman who found out she had no money, then he would have switched his attentions to someone who did.”

  “You sound as if you know a lot about it.”

  “I’ve met a few conmen in my time, yes. They’re not generally the passionate type. Oh sure you get the odd one who has some other psychological problem, and maybe kills his prey to stop her talking, but mostly they’re the type who don’t waste time on cons that have come to nothing. They move on to the next one.” She could not help noticing that his voice became harder.

  “So maybe he killed Dominique to stop her talking,” she said, pressing on regardless. “Perhaps she found out about him and was going to blow the whistle.”

  “I still think he’d have cut and run. If she was the only one who ever saw him, and if he used a false name, he could easily just disappear. After all, if she had nothing, then he couldn’t be accused of taking anything from her. He wouldn’t be the first guy to sweet-talk a girl. And if she were rich, his plan wouldn’t have worked unless they married. Remember, she was only seventeen. She hadn’t reached her majority so even if she had any money in a Trust Fund, she would not have access to it.”

  “So perhaps she refused to marry him and he became angry.”

  “I guess that would work. I also guess you’re only thinking your way through all this for the sake of the crime on the mystery weekend, right?”

  “Of course. Why else?”

  But the more Philly thought about it, the more she thought she would like to find out what happened to Dominique DuPont. It seemed to her that the girl’s fortunes were somehow tied up in her own. Or perhaps it was just a way of taking her mind off Matt.

  She ought to order him out of the house immediately, after what she heard, but something stopped her. Maybe she was every bit as foolish as Dominique DuPont might have been, desperate to believe in a man who was clearly up to no good. She had to admit there was a small part of her that hoped she had misunderstood Matt’s telephone conversation. But she could not ignore the fact that he had told the person on the other end of the line about trying to get into the attic. Why? Was it possible there was something up there that she did not know about?

  She was reminded of the film Gaslight, in which Ingrid Bergman’s psychotic husband, played by Charles Boyer, was desperate to find some precious jewels belonging to Ingrid’s late aunt. They had eventually been found sewn into a dress. Was there something like that in the attic of Bedlington Hall? More importantly, was Matt as psychotic as the man in the film? What lengths might he go to in order to find his heart’s desire?

  Looking at his clean-cut American good looks as they walked across the lawn, she found it hard to believe. Who knew what lay beneath the surface of his lightly tanned skin?

  Ingrid Bergman’s mistake in the film had been not trusting anyone with her fears. Philly was made of stronger stuff than that. As soon as she could, she would tell Meg and Puck what she had heard. There was safety in numbers.

  Except … she was pretty sure that Puck would turn Matt straight out of the house, to protect Meg and Philly. That would be the right thing to do, of course. So why did she hesitate?

  Philly’s mind whirled. What could she do for the best? She should turn Matt out herself, yet something stopped her. Not only was Dominique DuPont’s story tied up with hers somehow, she felt that Matt’s story was too. Everything from the moment they met had felt inevitable, including their actual meeting on the steps of the auction house. It really was as if he stepped onto the stage at exactly the right moment in Philly’s life. It could even be the wrong moment, if he meant her harm. Even a bad guy has to make his entrance sometime.

  He was far too young to have known Dominique DuPont, but maybe he knew the man who conned her. Or maybe he knew the girl’s family. Had Dominique left something in the attic at Bedlington Hall besides her trunk? Or perhaps, like the Robespierre painting, there was something else in the trunk. Philly made a silent promise to check it thoroughly as soon as she had a chance. It might have a secret compartment.

  Meanwhile, her biggest question was whether to let Matt stay in the house for another night. He had offered to leave that morning and she kicked herself for not accepting the offer then.

  As it turned out, she need not have worried.

  Rachel Jenson had already arrived with the film crew when Philly and Matt got to the house. She was in the kitchen with Puck and Meg, drinking coffee and eating chocolate brownies. Her cameraman, Joe, was with her. He looked as if he had eaten more than a few brownies in his time, but it did not stop him tucking into the plateful that Meg put on the table.

  “We just need some shots of the outside of the house, and then around the main rooms,” said Rachel. “Then you can tell me all about your Mistletoe and Mystery weekend.”

  As she spoke, Matt received a message on his phone. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said to Philly. “I have to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yeah, yeah, my dad is ill. So I have to go to him. My mom needs me.”

  Philly searched his face for signs of a lie. Either he was a very good actor, or he was genuinely distressed by the news. “Of course you must go to him.”

  “I promise I’ll be back in time for the Mistletoe and Mystery weekend. If I’m still welcome, that is.”

  With a kitchen full of people, Philly could not say anything other than, “Of course you’re welcome. I … I hope your dad is okay.” She kissed him on the cheek hesitantly.

  After he packed his things, she watched him drive away with a heavy heart. Had he realised she overheard his conversation and used the telephone message as an excuse to get away? His fears for his father, as he packed, had seemed real enough.

  She noticed with an equally heavy heart that he did not kiss her goodbye. As he disappeared into the distance, she was half-afraid and half-hopeful that she would never see him again.

  The rest of the day was taken up with filming. Philly, Puck and Meg’s enthusiasm seemed to jump from them to Rachel and Joe, who did all they could to help sell the Mistletoe and Mystery weekend.

  “The film should go out on Monday evening,” said Rachel as they saw her to the door. “Only the local news, I’m afraid, but it’s possible the national stations could pick it up. I don’t want to be rude, but it depends if it’s a slow news day.”

  “I understand,” said Philly.

  “On the other hand,” said Rachel, “the Dominique DuPont thing might help it along. I Googled her before I came and it’s considered a big mystery amongst true crime bu
ffs. So who knows?”

  “Thanks, Rachel. And you, Joe. Your help really is appreciated. Perhaps you’d like to come and stay that weekend, if you’re not busy. For free, of course.”

  “You’re not going to make money that way,” said Rachel, laughing. “But maybe we could come and film some of it, as a follow up story.”

  “There must be brownies,” said Joe with a wink.

  “There will be brownies,” promised Meg.

  Puck kissed his sister goodbye, and when she and Joe had driven away, he clapped his hands together. “I love it when a plan comes together,” he said, in the style of Hannibal from the A-Team. He became more serious. “Pity about Matt’s dad though. I hope he’ll be alright.”

  “Yes, me too,” said Philly. With Matt gone, she decided there was no reason at all to tell Puck and Meg about the telephone conversation by the lake. They would probably never see him again. Let them think he was a nice guy, and more importantly, let them go on believing that she had not just made a complete and utter fool of herself over a conman.

  The news report went out on the Monday, as Rachel had promised. By Tuesday, the Dominique DuPont connection had earned it a few seconds on the main news. By Wednesday morning, Philly, Puck and Meg were inundated with telephone calls from people interested in attending the Mistletoe and Mystery weekend. Within a few hours they had booked nearly every room.

  It was late Wednesday evening when Philly received the most interesting call. It was from a well-spoken woman called Mrs. Cunningham, who said she lived in Midchester. “I would love to attend your Mistletoe and Mystery weekend with my husband,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “He was the vicar in Midchester for many years, and we’ve done a bit of sleuthing in our time. But my own interest is personal. I was a teacher at Bedlington in the nineteen fifties and sixties, and I knew Dominique DuPont.”

  “Really? That’s amazing,” said Philly. “I wonder … well since you’re nearby, would it be an imposition for me to come and speak to you about her? It’s not just for the story. I too have taken a personal interest in her.”

  “Of course you may, dear. I’ve spoken to lots of journalists and crime buffs over the years. I’m not sure I can give you any clear answers though.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Just speaking to someone who knew her would be interesting.”

  “Come down in the morning at eleven. I’ll have the kettle on ready.”

  True to her word, Mrs. Cunningham was waiting in her trim bungalow on the edge of Midchester. She was a well-groomed sprightly woman in her late seventies, who could easily have passed for someone ten or fifteen years younger. It was clear she had once been very pretty. Her greying hair showed hints of fiery red and her green eyes were sharper than a pin.

  She had tea and a plate of scones waiting in the tiny lounge, which was crammed with all manner of old furniture and books.

  “We’re still getting used to how small this place is,” she explained to Philly as she poured the tea. “The vicarage was a big old rambling house. They let us live on in it for a while, since the new vicar bought a house amongst the new builds. Or they were new builds then. They must be twenty years old now. We moved here five years ago, and my first thought was ‘Where on earth are we going to put everything?’ I still haven’t answered my own question as you can see from the clutter. We’re magpies, Andrew and I. That’s my husband. Every year we decide we won’t buy any more books, but then one trip to a second-hand book shop and we’re back where we started.”

  “I love books too,” said Philly. “There’s something magical about travelling to other worlds whilst sitting in your own armchair.”

  Mrs. Cunningham looked at her with approval. “A person who doesn’t love books doesn’t love life, that’s what I think.”

  “I agree!”

  “It wasn’t always easy to impart that to the girls, though I hope I did my best. I imagine it’s even harder for teachers nowadays, with television and the Internet to distract them. Not to mention those awful phones that ring wherever you are in the world. In my day if you missed a telephone call, people simply phoned you back. But now I sound like an old fogey, out of tune with society. We do have a computer …” she glanced around the room. “Somewhere amongst all the clutter. My grandson taught me how to send an email and how to … what do they call it? Surf? Now that’s magical. Being able to surf when the nearest beach is miles away.” Mrs. Cunningham winked. Philly strongly suspected that her hostess was nowhere near to being the vague old lady she pretended to be. “But,” Mrs Cunningham continued, “You’re not here to talk about my computing habits. You want to know about Dominique.”

  “Yes please. You said you knew her.”

  Mrs Cunningham sighed. “Yes, did. Poor girl.”

  “You say that as if you think she’s dead.”

  “There seems to be no other explanation. I told you, did I not, that my husband and I were amateur sleuths in our day? She was our only failure.” Mrs. Cunningham’s eyes became sad. “But when I say poor girl, I don’t mean it in that sense. I mean she was always a poor girl. She had a weight problem, and with her glasses, buck teeth and frizzy hair … well, she was not glamorous. People think that young girls are only obsessed with image nowadays, but it isn’t true. Anyone who looked different was not treated well. It did not help that Dominique was not the friendliest of creatures. She certainly did not have the warmth of her fellow countrymen. Also … well I should not say this as it speaks ill of the dead. But she was very greedy.”

  “Hence the weight problem?”

  “Oh I think it was more than just a problem. You see, she would receive these big trunks of food from her family. Now the other girls always shared.” Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “Let’s just say we turned a blind eye to midnight feasts … but Dominique would not share. Once, a couple of the girls decided to steal her trunk, just for a laugh. They weren’t dishonest and had no ideas of really stealing the food inside. But Dominique caught them and went absolutely crazy over it. She wanted them punished. She wanted them whipped. Well, whatever you might have heard of corporal punishment in schools in the ‘old’ days, we did not whip our girls. They were punished with writing lines, of course. But it left Dominique more alone than ever. She was not a nice girl, and did not invite friendships.”

  “Yet you felt sorry for her…”

  Mrs. Cunningham nodded. “Yes, I did. I know what it is to be different. My mother was a single parent at a time when such things were frowned upon. I used to try to talk to Dominique, and sometimes she would open up to me, mainly about the books she had read.”

  “Did she ever talk of her family?”

  “Only in very general terms. Her father the count, her mother the contessa. I rather think that they were virtual strangers to her. Many upper class parents were like that back then. Palm a child off with a nanny, then straight off to boarding school. They seldom get to know their children.”

  “But they disappeared?”

  “Yes, at the same time as she did.”

  “Did they even exist?”

  “Oh yes. Or at least her father did. I met him when he brought her to the school the first time. A very handsome man as I remember rightly. Distinguished looking. Everything you expect a French count to be.”

  Chapter Six

  “When I say did they exist, I mean did the actual family exist? As French nobility, I mean.”

  “Do eat a scone, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Ah, yes, I see where you’re going with it. There are many counts in France, of course, and many of them very minor nobility. Plus, a lot call themselves ‘Count’ for no reason, or because, as in England, they’ve bought a title which means absolutely nothing in terms of nobility. It turned out their name did fit with one branch of the nobility, but it could not be proved one way or another whether Dominique’s family existed. If her father was an imposter, it had been well-planned. But it makes little sense why they would do such a thing. Bedlington Hall, though a wonderful school in my eye
s, was not considered one of the top girl’s schools. Most of our girls came from the nouveau riche. Not a princess or a title lady amongst them.”

  “Tell me about the time Dominique disappeared,” said Philly, biting into a buttered scone. “This is delicious,” she said. “You must give my friend, Puck, the recipe.”

  Mrs. Cunningham laughed. “Puck? Is he has mischievous as the Shakespeare character?”

  “Oh yes. But he’s very nice too. So is my friend, Meg. They’re going to get married.”

  “Ah, so he’s not the young man in your life then?”

  “No, I don’t have a young man in my life,” said Philly, almost choking on the scone.

  “Really? I could have sworn… Never mind. There isn’t much to tell about the time Dominique disappeared. One day she was there. The next day she had gone. Literally vanished. No one saw her leave, though some of the girls insisted they saw her in Midchester once. They built up some story of how she had fallen in love with a local boy and …”

  “That’s what I thought!” Philly put her plate down. “Do you remember the small tower next to the lake? With the seat facing the house?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There were hearts in there, with dates and times. I wondered if Dominique had met someone there.”

  “I hardly think so, dear. As you pointed out, the tower faces the house, and it can be seen from the house. Surely it would have been better to meet in one of the other follies, which faced the lake?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Philly felt deflated as if an avenue had closed to her. “I wondered if she’d been meeting a young man and either ran away with him or …” She left the rest unsaid.

  Mrs. Cunningham nodded. “Of course that thought crossed all our minds, but I can’t see it. As I’ve said, Dominique was rather plain, and, I’m sorry to be cruel, without graces.”

  “But that wouldn’t matter if he thought there might be money at the end of it.”

  “I suppose so, but there were girls with much richer fathers. I had the impression from Dominique that her family lived in genteel poverty. Even paying for her to attend Bedlington Hall was a stretch for their finances. I’m sure any young man taking an interest would have soon found that out. No, Dominique’s story has some other truth behind it that we haven’t found. People don’t just disappear, taking all their luggage and belongings…”