Mistletoe Mystery Page 6

  “But she didn’t take her luggage. She left one trunk. I found it in the attic. It had her name on it.”

  “The attic?” Mrs. Cunningham frowned. “That’s very strange.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, of course, that we rented Bedlington Hall from the owners, your relatives the Sandersons. They lived abroad and had done so since before the Second World War. I gather they weren’t very well off and it was cheaper to rent to us and live overseas. But we only had access to the lower rooms and the first two floors. The Sandersons had put all their belongings in the attic and it was kept locked. We didn’t even have the key and the girls were forbidden to go up to that floor. In fact, I don’t know if it’s still there, but there was once a locked door at the bottom of the staircase, to ensure they didn’t. Some of the girls used to try to go up to that landing to smoke, you see.”

  “That is strange. Unless one of the Sandersons found the trunk afterwards and put it in the attic.”

  “We all combed those grounds thoroughly,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “The staff, the police, even the girls. If that trunk were anywhere to be found, we would have found it. To all intents and purposes, Dominique left with everything she owned, which is what made her disappearing act so amazing. So how the trunk got into the attic, I don’t know.”

  “Was there anyone who had a key to the attic? A janitor or caretaker?”

  “I don’t think so, dear.” Mrs. Cunningham shook her head. “It’s possible someone did, in case of fire. Though with it being the top floor, that wouldn’t have been an issue. No one went up there. Of course, my memory may not be what it was.”

  Philly had the feeling that Mrs. Cunningham’s memory was as perfect sitting in the tiny bungalow as it had been nearly fifty years before when she was a teacher at Bedlington Hall.

  The front door slammed shut, making Philly jump.

  “Don’t worry, dear, that will be my husband. Is that you, Drew?”

  “It certainly is. Do I smell scones?”

  An elderly man with a ramrod straight back entered the room. Like his wife, he had a twinkle in his eyes. Philly suspected that fifty years ago he had made female parishioners hearts flutter. It was clear from the way they looked at each other that he still made his wife’s heart flutter and vice versa.

  “Drew, this is Philly Sanderson, from up at Bedlington Hall.”

  “Sanderson? Now there’s a name to be reckoned with. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Sanderson. Or should I call you Ms nowadays?” said Reverend Cunningham, holding out his hand. “We never got to meet your godmother, and were afraid you would be another one not to show your face in Midchester. She kept herself to herself rather.”

  “I’m very glad I have,” said Philly, shaking the reverend’s hand and smiling. “I hope I shall see you both more often.” As she said it, she knew it was true. She liked the elderly couple who had fancied themselves as sleuths once upon a time. “Perhaps you can tell me more about Midchester’s history. I’m afraid my own knowledge is very scant.”

  Philly stayed a while longer talking to them. As well as filling her in on the history of the area, most of it of the criminal variety, they discussed Dominique DuPont for quite a while. The story always came back to the same point. The girl had just disappeared, leaving no trace that she ever existed.

  “I meant to ask,” said Philly as she was leaving, “whether you’d heard of a painter called Robespierre.”

  “Oh yes. A bit of a naughty boy, by all accounts,” Reverend Cunningham had replied. “He was from this area, you know. Not that we knew him. He says he was born in poverty, then he became a bit of a champagne socialist, always railing against the system that kept him and others in chains, whilst living it up in the South of France, or knocking around New York with Warhol and his cronies. I don’t think Robespierre let those chains hold him down that much. He got into trouble a while ago for art forgery but managed to take off to a country without an extradition treaty.”

  It was pretty much what Philly and Meg found out on the Internet. “Robespierre seems to have disappeared,” she told the Cunninghams. “I’ve been trying to track him down. I found one of his paintings in Dominique’s trunk. But I’m pretty sure it was from a later time.”

  “I was just about to say that it couldn’t have been whilst Dominique was at the school,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “He wouldn’t have been that old. Of course, he may have started young.”

  “Do you recall ever seeing any young men around the school?” asked Philly.

  “Dozens of them, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham with a smile. “Our girls weren’t in a convent, you know, and whilst we tried to stop them forming … shall we say unpalatable relationships … we couldn’t stop them being interested in boys. Some young men used to come up from the village and escort the girls to local dances. There was always a teacher to supervise, but I won’t pretend that the older girls didn’t find inventive ways to lose that teacher sometimes.”

  “But you don’t think Dominique was attached to anyone in particular?”

  “No. I’d say she wasn’t interested in boys at all. I think she realised she wasn’t much of a catch, so didn’t give out what the youth of today call vibes. Do you see how good I am with modern language?” Mrs. Cunningham added, her eyes twinkling in her husband’s direction.

  There had to be a rational explanation as to why the trunk and picture were in the attic, Philly thought as she walked back to Bedlington Hall. Mrs. Cunningham had promised she would try to remember the name of the caretaker who used to work at the school. Chances are, if there had been one, he or she might be dead by now as the role tended to go to an older person. It occurred to Philly that there might be some students who knew Dominique. If they were aged eleven to eighteen in the sixties, they would only be in their early to mid sixties now. Yet Mrs. Cunningham had made it clear that Dominique was not attached to any of the girls at the school. In fact, there seems to have been quite a lot of animosity between her and the other students.

  Philly had known girls just like Dominique at her own school. Unattractive and without social graces, they alienated everyone by being snappy and unpleasant. It was not always clear whose fault it was; the girl for not trying hard enough to fit in, or the other children for not accepting that people were different. Not everyone could be a great beauty or charm the birds out of the trees. On the other hand, friendship was a two-way street, and one only got out of it what one put into it.

  She had once tried making friends with one of the plain, graceless girls, more out of pity than anything, but had found it draining to deal with her new friend’s moods, which blew hot and cold depending on the day of the week. In the end, Philly had stopped hanging around with the girl, for which she was blamed in a horrid and humiliating row in the school playground soon afterwards. She had not been articulate enough at the time to explain that it was her friend’s sullen behaviour that had pushed her away, and to this day she felt guilty that she did not try harder to cement the friendship. It was a relief when the girl was taken out of that school and sent to a different one. Only then did Philly and her other friends learn that it was the latest in a long line of schools where the sullen girl had failed to fit in.

  Perhaps, that was the simple answer to Dominique’s disappearance. Perhaps her parents had taken her from that school and sent her to another one, but been too embarrassed to admit to the teachers at Bedlington Hall that their difficult daughter had once again outlived her welcome.

  The more she thought about it, the more that answer did not make sense. The family would surely not let the mythology surrounding Dominique’s disappearance continue. Unless they had some other reason for not coming forward. Perhaps the mysterious but handsome father had caused his daughter’s demise. Her head spun, and she knew she was probably over thinking it all. What did it matter anyway? It was a fifty year old mystery.

  Once again, Philly was convinced that somehow finding out what happened to Dominique was tied up
with her own life. Why, she did not know. But a girl had gone missing from the house that Philly now owned, and it seemed that it was her responsibility to find out what happened. She wished her godmother were still alive. Robyn Sanderson would know everything about the history of Bedlington Hall. There might be some clues there.

  If Philly were honest with herself, she knew that the only reason she fixated on Dominique was to get Matt out of her mind. She had hoped that when he left, her feelings for him would fade, especially since it was clear he intended to steal something from her. Instead she found him haunting her dreams. “I will not make a fool of myself,” she whispered as she approached Bedlington Hall.

  Almost as if thinking about him set the spell going again, when she entered the hallway, Puck came from the kitchen. “There you are,” he said. “Matt phoned,” he said. “He says he’s been trying to ring your mobile.”

  “Oh, I must have forgotten to take it with me,” Philly lied. She had left it behind intentionally, half-afraid that Matt would call and churn her up again.

  “He says to tell you that his dad’s okay.”

  Philly felt a momentary pang of guilt. She really ought to have called Matt to ask after his father. The trouble was she had no way of knowing if he told the truth. She supposed even conmen’s fathers got sick sometimes, and he had looked genuinely concerned when he left. But that might have been because he realised the game was up.

  “That’s good,” she said, absent-mindedly. She started to go up the stairs, determined to search the attic. Since Matt mentioned looking for the key, she had kept it with her at all times.

  “Phil?” Puck stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the banister. Philly wished he would not do it as the banister rocked slightly, reminding her of even more repairs needed in the house.

  “Yeah?” She turned around to look at him.

  “Did something happen with you and Matt?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Are you sure? Because a few days ago you thought he was the best thing since sliced bread and now you look all worried when I mention his name. If he’s hurt you…”

  “It’s alright, Sir Galahad,” Philly said, smiling. “I don’t need you to defend my honour.”

  “You do know that in films, when someone keeps things from their friends, bad things always happen.”

  “We’re not in a film, Puck.”

  “No, but I still think you should tell us.”

  Philly sat down on the stairs. As if realising she had a story to tell, Puck took a few steps upwards and sat just below her. “Go on, what did he do?”

  She explained about the telephone conversation she had overheard.

  “So you think he’s a conman?” Puck asked thoughtfully.

  “Why else would he want to go in the attic?”

  “Did you see any jewel encrusted dresses whilst you were up there?”

  Philly laughed. “Gaslight was my first thought too. No, but I haven’t finished searching yet. That’s what I’m going to do now.”

  “Me and Meg will help you. If there’s any jewels to be had, I reckon we deserve them. I mean, you deserve them, of course.”

  “You know I’d share.”

  “I know you would, petal, but you don’t have to. But what are we going to do about Matt?”

  “Perhaps we should find a way to stop him coming to the Mistletoe and Mystery weekend,” Philly suggested, with heavy heart.

  “Or perhaps we should lay a trap the evil so-and-so, then hand him over to the police.”

  “Puck, that won’t be necessary, will it?”

  “Philly, listen to yourself. You’re actually trying to protect him.”

  “No, that’s not it,” said Philly, hotly, with a blush rising in her face. “I just thought of how embarrassing it would be if everyone knew I’d been taken in.”

  “But you haven’t been. You found out before it was too late. I’m proud of you.”

  “Me too,” said Meg, coming around the bottom of the staircase. “And yes, I have been eavesdropping outrageously. It’s such a fascinating thing to do. Puck is right. We should set a trap for Matt. Maybe when he comes here, we could mention there are jewels hidden somewhere in the house.”

  “It seems he already knows that!” said Philly.

  “Or maybe he only suspects it at the moment,” said Meg. “It could be one of those myths go around the criminal fraternity. Meanwhile, we’ll hunt for the real treasure and get it put somewhere safe before anyone else can steal it. Oh this is going to be fun! The three amigos, fighting crime.”

  “You know that the three amigos in the film were a bunch of idiots, right?” said Philly.

  “Yes, but they were also a bunch of actors who eventually won the day,” said Puck. “That’s if you can do this, Philly.”

  “Of course I can do it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Meg. “It’s clear you’ve still got the hots for him.”

  “But now I know he’s a conman, I’m sure I’ll get over it. In fact I already am. You’re right, we should hand him over to the police. He’s obviously not a very likeable person really and now the scales have fallen from my eyes, I’ll be fine.”

  “Hmm,” said Meg.

  “Hmm,” said Puck.

  Philly guessed from their response that she had not convinced her friends anymore than she had convinced herself.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Bedlington Hall.” Matt stood halfway up the stairs, looking very impressive in his tweed headmasters’ suit, with leather elbow pads. A little young for the role perhaps, but judging by the looks on the faces of the women in the crowd, that did not matter. His good looks and American accent gave him a Hollywood glamour that the females clearly found very attractive.

  Philly watched him as he held the guests in the palm of his hand. “This weekend,” Matt continued, “we are taking you back to the time when Bedlington Hall was a boarding school and together we will investigate the disappearance of Dominique DuPont. But first a few health and safety rules. Boring, I know, but necessary.” Matt quickly went through what to do in the event of a fire, going into air steward mode, moving his arms accordingly. “The exits are here, here and here, and please do not forget your whistles. They’ll be very important if we lose you in the snow.” This was followed by general laughter.

  It had indeed started snowing the day before, giving the house a real festive feel, with its open fires and Christmas trimmings. The banging radiators in the ancient central heating system were not so wonderful, but Philly had been assured by Mrs. Cunningham that it was quite authentic.

  “The system we had always banged something dreadful, dear,” the vicar’s wife had said. “It’s all part of the charm, and really takes me back.”

  “Now let’s get onto the entertainment,” Matt continued. “The main drama will only take place in the designated downstairs rooms. I gather you all have your itineraries?” He looked around at a silent chorus of nods. “Yes, that’s great. They will show where and when you can expect to see the next part of the story. When you move up these stairs into your own bedrooms, you are offstage, as we say in the theatre. So whatever role you have been assigned should only be played downstairs. In your bedrooms you will have privacy and space to be yourselves again. So I hope it goes without saying that no one is to barge into anyone else’s room looking for clues. The kitchen is also off limits for clue hunting, and therefore is also considered offstage. We’re back to good old health and safety again. All clues are either in the main downstairs rooms, as stated on the itinerary or in the gardens nearest to the Hall. I can promise you that because of the snow, very few clues are outside. We do ask that you leave all clues exactly where you find them, so that others can find them too. If you have a camera, you’re welcome to take pictures. I bet you’re all dying to get into your roles, so without further ado…”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay in character at all,” said Mrs. Bennett, who
despite her misgivings during the last weekend had returned with her husband. Their friend and fellow sleuth, Mr. Graham had also returned, much to Philly’s surprise.

  “Don’t worry.” Matt flashed a stunning smile. “We don’t expect you all to be word perfect all the time and we understand that some of you may feel nervous or silly. I mentioned that the kitchen was offstage. It is, but as a way of helping you get to know each other, we will split you into separate groups. Tonight dinner is prepared by our chef, Puck Jenson, and there will be a continental breakfast buffet in the mornings. But for lunch and dinner we are going to let you all loose in the kitchen in your designated groups. Now don’t look so alarmed. All ingredients and recipes are set out for you and one of the staff will be on hand to help you along.”

  “I didn’t think I’d have to cook my own dinner,” said Mr. Bennett.

  “It was mentioned in the brochure,” said Matt, airily. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You can discuss the case with each other as the groups you’re put in to prepare meals will be the same groups you’re in to solve the crime.”

  Philly almost reminded him there had not been a brochure. There had not been time or money to create anything other than a small flyer. On seeing that everyone else accepted what he said without question, she held her tongue. He was certainly convincing. It was something she would have to remind herself about whenever she thought of succumbing to his obvious charms.

  “Now,” said Matt, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to be handing out your roles. They are non-gender specific and you’ll keep your own names, so as not to confuse anyone. Some of you may be teachers, others schoolchildren … for the purposes of this weekend, the school which was a girl’s school will also welcome boys … erm …” He read from his notes. “There are janitors, school nurses or doctors. You won’t know what you are until you get your slip of paper and the great thing is that we don’t know what you are either. You make up the character as you go along. And because this is a mystery, we want you all to be plausible suspects. So you can each come up with your own motive for being behind the disappearance of Dominique DuPont. Er… let’s keep it clean though, hey folks? Remember that Dominique, though over the British age of consent, was still a schoolgirl, so we don’t really want any nasty business.”