Authors: Caroline Dunford

The Mistletoe Mystery (4 page)

VII

The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight and Christmas Eve begun as I crept down the main staircase. I reached the midway point and smelt burning. My instinct was to scream. I inhaled deeply, preparing to wake the whole house when Richenda popped into the hall like a rabbit that’s seen a stoat. ‘The weirdest thing, Euphemia,’ she said in her normal loud voice, ‘you have to come and see.’

‘But I can smell burning!’

‘Exactly,’ said Richenda and disappeared down the corridor. Her demeanour was one of bemusement rather than fright, so I repressed my scream and followed her. She went into Mr Bertram’s study and there piled high in the fireplace were all the boughs that Sam has so carefully put up.

‘Good heavens!’ I said.

‘It’s a fair old blaze, isn’t it?’ She took a step closer. ‘As long as you’ve kept that chimney well swept I shouldn’t think there will be a problem.’

I went over and opened a window. The smoke in the room began to clear. ‘I wonder if we should put it out,’ said Richenda. ‘I didn’t realise how smoky it had got in here until you opened that. You can die from smoke inhalation, can’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but it’s certainly not good for you.’

‘Who could have done such a thing?’ asked Richenda.

A gust of cold air blew through the room and my head began to clear. ‘I think the important thing is to check they’re not still doing it!’ I said.

Richenda picked up a heavy candlestick. ‘Tally-ho!’ she cried and led the way out of the room. I selected a poker for myself. It had a longer reach and would be useful if we had to pull away any burning branches. That neither of us thought of waking anyone else only goes to show the effects on sense that burning mistletoe has.

The red light from the roaring fire spilled out into the hallway. Richenda was already half way towards the drawing room, her candlestick held high over her head. She turned the door handle with her free hand and blazing light shone into the passage way. She flung her arm up to guard her face against the heat. ‘Is the room on fire?’ I cried.

‘No,’ called Richenda, ‘but it’s the same thing. Everything has been thrown on the fire. It’s banked dangerously high.’

I handed her the poker, took a deep breath and ran across the room. The heat from the fireplace was incredible and smoke swirled through the room like thick, dirty fog. It caught at the back of my throat making me cough.

‘Euphemia!’ I heard Richenda call frantically. I didn’t stop until reached the drawing-room windows. I could no longer see, but long acquaintance with throwing open these windows allowed my fingers to quickly find the latches and free them. Smoke boiled out of the room, and cool, fresh air flooded in. I turned to look at the fire. The pile of greenery blazed and spat as the fire ate through the sap in the branches. I pulled a heavy fire guard in front of the hearth. ‘We have to find whoever is doing this and stop them,’ I said.

‘Where could they be?’

‘Dining room, library, or breakfast room on this floor,’ I answered. ‘Sam didn’t put very much upstairs or in the servants quarters.’

‘Library,’ said Richenda.

‘You think it’s Bertram, don’t you?’

‘I think he’s possessed,’ said Richenda.

I wanted to laugh or at least argue, but the smoke had made my throat sore. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew we had to stop it. Richenda set off again with her trusty candlestick. I followed. This time we ran down the corridor and flung open the library door without hesitation. The sight that met our eyes made us both freeze.

Bertram stormed around the room ripping down bough after bough. An open bottle of brandy stood on the table. There was little left in it. ‘Damn her! Damn her!’ He cried. ‘It’s Christmas! Christmas! She has ruined it all.’

Then he turned and saw us. An expression of fury, the like of which I have never seen before and hope never to see again, contorted his features. ‘So you’ve come back, have you?’ he snarled at me. ‘Did he decide he didn’t want you after all? Or did you get the timings wrong? No one at the inn?’

‘Bertram, please!’ said Richenda, ‘Calm down.’

Bertram threw his brandy glass away from him. It smashed into a myriad of pieces. He strode over to me and took me by the shoulders. ‘You said you would be my wife. Then he comes and suddenly you must not only break our engagement, but you fled the house leaving me ashamed and embarrassed in front of my guests. Do you care for me so little you would bring me so low?’

‘Bertram.’ I said. ‘You’re not awake. You’re dreaming. This isn’t you.’

He shook me hard by the shoulders. My teeth rattled in my head. His grip on my flesh was painfully strong.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ yelled Richenda, ‘Or brother or not, I will bring this candlestick down hard on your head.’

Bertram didn’t seem to hear her. I looked into his eyes. It was not Bertram that looked back at me. This was no waking dream. Richenda had been right.

‘I am back,’ I said. ‘I have not left you.’

‘But you did!’ he cried, turning and throwing me into the sofa. ‘I am your second choice. It is too much to bear.’

Remnants of the story I’d been told came back to me. ‘No. I told him to go away. I went to ensure he stayed away. That is all. I have come back to you.’

The spirit that inhabited Bertram’s body hesitated. ‘But we argued. You told me that you never wanted to see me again.’

‘I was upset,’ I said desperately. ‘The fight between you and him. It frightened me.’

‘Ha!’ said Bertram’s voice. ‘You are no more than my mother said. I saw your face. You enjoyed seeing us fight over you.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘No!’

Richenda launched herself to attack and struck a mighty blow on the back of Bertram’s head. She is a big woman and under normal circumstances I think she would have felled an ox with such a blow, but Bertram merely turned and swatted her away as if she was no more than a fly. Richenda flew across the room and crashed into the wall. She lay there unmoving.

‘Dear God,’ I cried. ‘What have you done?’ I struggled to my feet. Bertram caught me at once by the waist. ‘Oh no. Oh no, you don’t. You’re not getting away again. I tell you, Belinda, if I can’t have you, no man will.’

‘Let me go! She’s hurt!’

Bertram grabbed my face and twisted it towards him. ‘Answer me once and for all, will you be my wife?’ I did the only thing I could think of and bit him hard. I sank my teeth into the side of his hand until they grated against bone. He gave a little shriek and released me. He still stood between me and the door, so I scrabbled at the patio window that looked out onto the orchard and ran out into the night.

I ran fast. Branches clutched at my clothes and my hair. Some light leaked from the house, showing me my escape, but it quickly faded under the dark sky. I thought I could hear footsteps behind me, so I ran on. All I could think was I had to get away and I had to get Bertram away from the house before true catastrophe overwhelmed us all. Blind panic sent me far, far into the night until I realised I had no idea where I was.

I stopped. The Fens were wide and large. The village and farm were out here somewhere, but so were the marshes. I had lost all sense of direction. Then the air around me began to cool. The temperature dropped lower and lower. My body began to shiver uncontrollably. I tried to remain rational, but I knew this was no natural phenomenon. I had an over-riding feeling that something was coming. Something was coming to meet me.

Fog rolled in. What little I could see in the moonlight vanished in a haze of white. Then I heard it. A splashing, sucking noise. The ground under my feet rippled. In front of me it bubbled and broke. The depths flung up a dark object. A horrendous stench filled my nostrils and I lost what composure I had as I realised what this was. I screamed and screamed and screamed. The thing drifted towards me until it touched the edge of my boots. It took me every ounce of strength I possessed not to collapse in a dead faint and pitch down into the water with it.

‘Euphemia! Euphemia! Stay where you are!’ cried Bertram’s voice, far way in the darkness. ‘I’ve got Old Ben with me. We’re coming to find you. Don’t move.’

I used the last of my will to stay still until I saw Bertram emerge from the mist. Now his face only expressed concern and fear. I sank gratefully into his arms.

VIII

It turned out there had been quite a few people out that night. The light from the fires and the smoke pouring out of White Orchards had been spotted in the village and young and old had turned out to rescue us, believing the house was once more on fire.

Of course, it wasn’t. We didn’t even suffer a scorched rug. Bertram had a sore head from the brandy and the candlestick and very little recollection of what had happened. Richenda had regained full consciousness. She said it was not as bad as being thrown from a horse. We decided not to tell Bertram what he had said and done. We simply insisted that the body that had floated up before me was buried that very day in what remained of the Hadwell family plot. It cost Mr Bertram a lot of money to convince his people to do it, but Richenda and I would brook no argument. We even insisted the local priest was sent for.

Later, when we had woken a sleepy Sam and set him to redecorating the house before any of the guests awoke, we gathered in the breakfast room. I had brought tea from the kitchen and Richenda had raided the cake cupboard. We settled down for our strange breakfast. I, for one, found I was ravenous.

‘But who the hell is she?’ Bertram demanded.

‘Lady Belinda,’ said Richenda.

‘She never did leave him,’ I said. ‘She went out onto the Fens for a walk to clear her head after the two men argued over her, and stumbled into the marshes.’

‘How do you know she wasn’t leaving him?’ asked Richenda.

‘No luggage. No travelling coat,’ I said. ‘Young Ben said they trawled that part of the marsh well.’ I didn’t mention my dream.

‘So if he’d had the sense to check her room,’ said Richenda, ‘he’d have realised she’d only gone for a walk? Men!’

‘We can’t be entirely sure,’ said Mr Bertram fairly.

‘I agree,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we will ever know what happened on that Christmas Eve, but I’m hoping that as the bones are laid to rest so this story will come to a peaceful end.’

‘Goodness, Euphemia,’ said Bertram, ‘you’re not turning to spiritualism, are you?’

‘No,’ I said firmly.

‘Well, I’m going to bed,’ said Richenda. ‘I don’t know about you, but I am exhausted.’

Mr Bertram rose as Richenda left the room. I got up to follow her. He caught my wrist. I flinched, but it was a gentle grip. ‘I think we need something to get us back in the Christmas spirit,’ said Mr Bertram.

I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘I can’t imagine what would help, sir,’ I said.

‘How about we exchange gifts now?’ he said. ‘Give me a moment and meet me in the hall.’

I agreed. I went up to my room and fetched the small book on lepidoptary that I had ordered from London. I was both curious and nervous to see what he had bought me. I made my way sleepily back down the stairs and waited. A gust of wind extinguished all the candles in the hall and I was plunged into darkness. I felt a quick warm kiss on my right cheek. On my left I felt another kiss, icy as the grave.

The grey light of dawn broke through the night and showed me Mr Bertram standing on my right holding a small, beribboned parcel. He looked up and grinned mischievously. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he said, gesturing to a bough above our heads. ‘Mistletoe.’

The Euphemia Martin Mysteries
Caroline Dunford