Mistletoe Mystery (18 page)

“Yes,” said Meg, “and we let him get in the attic last
night. Alright, he was with Puck, but it was an excuse to have a look around.”

“Hmm…” Mrs. Cunningham murmured. “There is certainly
something strange going on here.”

“Mrs. Cunningham, please don’t take this the wrong way,”
said Philly, “but is it at all possible anyone at the school was engaged in
criminal activity? I don’t mean you, of course.”

“Why not me?” Mrs Cunningham smiled. “If you’re going to
suspect that handsome young man downstairs, why not a doddery old woman?”

“You’re anything but doddery!”

“And you’re too kind, dear. But in answer to your question,
I wasn’t aware of anything going on at the time. Oh, we’d get the occasional
prowler around the place at night. Usually young men from the village, wanting
to tempt the girls out to play at night. There were rumours that during
rationing the cook had something going on with the butcher, but that was well
before my time. And of course there was the night Harry was arrested.” Mrs.
Cunningham paused. Philly and Meg waited, sensing that Mrs. Cunningham had not
finished yet. “It’s been a strange experience, being here again. I know I’ve
already told you that. All the things I suddenly remember about my time here.
But that’s not the strangest thing. I’ve had a distinct sense all weekend that
Dominique is among us, trying to send a message.”

“A ghost you mean?” said Meg, looking alarmed.

“No. Well, yes, actually. But not in the ghosties and
ghoulies and long legged beasties sense. More like a telepathic presence. Just
last night, Meg, when you spoke in the French accent, I was struck by how awful
it was. I’m sorry, dear, I don’t mean to be unkind. You’re a lovely girl.”

“I’m not offended,” said Meg. “I know it was rubbish.”

“You did your best.” Mrs. Cunningham reached out and patted
Meg’s knee. “And it did give us all a giggle. But it was also helpful to me, because
it made me realise something I’d never realised at the time. I think having
Monsieur De Lacey here helped make up my mind.”

“About what?” asked Philly.

“It was about Dominique’s accent. It had never occurred to
me at the time. Our discussions were rare, although we occasionally discussed
books we’d both read. I suppose I wasn’t really taking much notice then. Not to
mention the fact that no one was very well travelled in those days, and we
didn’t get all these foreign stations on television. We didn’t get to hear many
French accents. What I’m trying to say is that Dominique’s accent was all
wrong. Perhaps not as bad as Meg’s, but wrong all the same. I see that now.”

“What are you saying exactly?”

“I’m saying that I realise now that Dominique was not really
French.”

“So maybe she was a spy,” said Meg.

“Perhaps. I don’t know. There was something else. Something
that happened tonight. It gave me an even stronger feeling that Dominique is
amongst us.”

“What? Here?” The two girls spoke together, sounding eager.

“When you say amongst us,” said Philly, “are you suggesting
she’s one of the guests? But who? Irene Bennett is too young, as are some of
the other ladies. There is the woman whom Mr. Graham has taken up with. I’d say
she’s about sixty-five or seventy, so it’s a possibility.”

“I don’t mean physically amongst us, dear,” said Mrs.
Cunningham. “Oh I’m being silly, I suppose. It’s just…”

Before Mrs. Cunningham could finish, someone knocked the
door. It opened and Matt popped his head in. “Is this the place for the
midnight feast? Puck sent me with mince pies.”

“Oh… I’d completely forgotten why we were here,” said
Philly.

“What’s happening?” Matt frowned, and looked towards the
dustpan, which still had glass in it. The women had been so busy talking they
had forgotten all about it.

“The window as broken,” said Philly. “It seems that our
prowler climbed over the roof and got in through the window.”

Matt shook his head. “Impossible. Not just impossible. It’s
crazy in this weather. One misstep in the snow, and they’d have slipped right
off the roof.”

“I know, but it’s the only explanation for the broken
window. The snow was definitely disturbed outside the attic window. I don’t
think it slipped off at all. I think it was accidentally kicked off when the
intruder climbed out. They came down over the roof, broke this window so they
could open the latch, and went out through the door. All the doors in the
guests suites need a key to unlock them from the outside, but can be opened
without a key from the inside. Look there are even dirty footprints on the
floor.”

Matt examined the area near the window. “I don’t like this,”
he said. “I don’t like it one little bit. Honey, isn’t it time you brought the
police in?”

“To do what? As far as I know, nothing is missing.”

“Someone in the house is up to no good. Or maybe it was all
a mistake. I don’t know. Maybe they went up to the attic just to be nosey and
was too embarrassed to admit to being there after you screamed.”

“And you really think we should bring in the police,” said Philly.
Whatever else she had expected Matt to say, that was not it.

“Yes, I do. I worry about you. Who knows what sort of
madman, or woman, is skulking around the place at night?”

“I’ll call them in the morning,” said Philly, looking Matt
squarely in the eye. “But I’m guessing we just messed up their crime scene. If
there is a crime.”

“Just tell them of your concerns. They’ll probably only give
you an incident number, but it’s something on file for if anything worse
happens.”

“You seem to know a lot about it, Matt,” said Mrs.
Cunningham.

“What? Yeah, my family deal in insurance. We know all the
police procedures.”

“Of course,” said Philly.

Matt’s eyes narrowed, but he did not say anything.

“We’ll have to move rooms for the feast,” said Philly. “I’ll
put a sign on the door, redirecting them. It’s a pity though, because I wanted
to be opposite the stairs.”

“So that’s what this is about,” said Matt. “You want to make
sure no one goes upstairs. Well, don’t worry about that. If I have to sit at
the bottom of the staircase all night to keep you safe, I will.”

It was on Philly’s mind to ask who would protect her from
him, if he turned out to be a conman, but she bit her tongue. “Perhaps Puck
could sit with you,” she suggested instead, merely to get his reaction.

“Nah, he’s got enough to do. And so have you and Meg. I’m
practically having a free holiday here. I might as well earn my keep.”

“You’ve already done that,” said Philly, trying to be fair.
“You’ve been a very good host.” It was true. He had been; beyond the call of
duty.

“I’ll keep watch tonight,” he said, emphatically.

“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

“Super,” said Meg.

“Why, thanks.” Matt frowned, as if he did not quite trust
their sincerity.

The midnight feast turned out to be a rather sorry affair,
mainly because the guests were still full from dinner and had drunk rather a
lot. Most of them were tired and wanted to go to bed. By the time everyone had
left, after spending five or ten minutes just to be polite, the only ones left
in the room were Philly, Matt, Puck, Meg and the Reverend and Mrs. Cunningham.
Naturally the conversation turned to their intruder.

“I agree it is rather odd,” said the Reverend, after they
had brought him up to date with everything that happened. “I’ve been thinking
about young Harry, you know. Mrs. Bennett’s brother. They were called Johnson,
by the way.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Johnson.”

“I remember the night he was arrested. I had to go down and
be his responsible adult at the station. His parents had a problem with the
bottle, you know. Both of them. Very sad for the two children, of course.”

“Oh yes, I remember now,” said his wife. “Do you know, I’d
completely forgotten you going to the station.”

“I remember because it was a couple of days before you found
out you were having Michael, and I remember thinking that I hope our child
doesn’t grow up as troubled as young Harry.”

“So it was around the time Dominique disappeared,” said
Philly, remembering what Mrs. Cunningham had said about Dominique’s
disappearance coinciding with her finding out she was pregnant.

The reverend nodded. “Yes, it was indeed. But it wasn’t the
first time young Harry had been found on school premises. He’d had a couple of
warnings about loitering, but they did not find anything on him on the prior
occasions. It was only because he had a rather large amount of cash that they
arrested him that time.”

“Did you believe him when he said a man and woman had given
him the money?” asked Matt.

“I did and I didn’t. I sensed he was telling the truth, but
I also felt that he was hiding something else. It was almost as if he was
telling one small truth in order to hide a very big lie. It is a pity about
that boy.”

“Why?” said Philly. “He turned his life around and became a
big businessman in Australia.”

“Yes, so I’d heard. But I can’t see it myself. Harry was
amongst a group of youngsters I used to mentor. Troubled kids from bad
backgrounds. He didn’t have a business brain. Art was his thing. I used to wish
he would concentrate more on it, but Harry was about making a fast buck, and
art took too much time to perfect, I suppose. Do you remember, Meredith,” said
the Reverend, turning to his wife, “when Harry did that fantastic copy of one
of Raphael’s Madonna paintings for the church nativity play?”

“Was that Harry?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes.”

“I honestly hadn’t realised, darling. You probably told me
and I’ve forgotten about it. Along with too many other things, I’m afraid.”

“You do okay,” said the reverend, patting her hand. “Another
passion of Harry’s was the French Revolution. He was a bit too interested the
machinations of the guillotine for my liking. I suppose all youngsters are
fascinated by the macabre.”

Philly opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, afraid she
would seem stupid. Could it really be him? A teenage boy who became something
of an anti-establishment hero?

Matt was two steps ahead of her. “Robespierre.”

“What?” said the Reverend and his wife.

“Robespierre,” Philly replied. “The painting that I took to
the auction was by Robespierre. But surely … No, it couldn’t be. Surely Mrs.
Bennett would have recognised her own brother in the papers.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Irene Johnson, as
she was then, was very young at the time. No more than five or six. Her parents
died not long after Harry went to borstal, and she went to live with an aunty.
If I remember rightly, Robespierre did not become prominent until the late
sixties, early seventies. It’s a long time to go without seeing her brother,
and even if she saw Robespierre and thought he looked a bit like Harry, she
might not have connected the two.”

“I must admit I didn’t,” said the Reverend, stroking his
chin. “That’s if Harry did become Robespierre. From what I remember, Harry was
dark haired. Robespierre had all that long blonde hair, didn’t he? Used to
cover half his face if I remember rightly. And he spoke in that very affected
transatlantic drawl, half-American, and half-English. Nothing like the local
accent Harry had. Besides, it would never have occurred to me that Harry would
be anything other than a petty thief. An attitude which I realise doesn’t say
much for me.” The reverend looked rueful.

“We can’t always be blamed for the impression we get of people,
darling,” said his wife, putting a comforting arm on his shoulder.

“Irene and Harry have had some contact though,” said Puck.
“Because the Bennetts knew that Harry was a millionaire in Australia.”

“Mrs. Bennett’s family probably only knew what Harry told
them, presumably in a letter,” said Matt. “It isn’t as if they could just hop
on a plane and go and check at that time. Flights to Australia weren’t as
frequent or cheap as they are now. There was no Internet with webcams to keep
families connected.”

“Yes,” said the reverend, nodding, “and as the years go on,
it becomes harder to get in touch with people again. There are many a time I’ve
thought of telephoning some long lost relative or friend, and each time I give
myself excuses for not doing it. What if they don’t want to hear from me? What
if they don’t remember me? Plus that good old excuse of being little busy at
the moment, so maybe some other time…”

“I’m sure Harry would remember he had a sister,” said
Philly.

“Of course,” said Matt. “But it’s still difficult when you
lose touch with someone. Especially if that person wants to lose touch.”

“We don’t know that Harry was … is … Robespierre,” said
Puck. “We’re just guessing.”

“It seems likely though he must have been very young at the
time,” Philly said.

“He was about fourteen, I think,” said the reverend. “So,
yes, very young. But who knows what was offered to him for his skills? He might
have seen it as a way out of here.”

“I didn’t think Robespierre was from Midchester,” said Meg.
“I thought he was from a nearby town.”

“He probably reinvented himself,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “So
as not to draw attention to his real beginnings.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“I don’t suppose we will ever find out,” said Philly. “He
seems to have disappeared. Robespierre, I mean. He may even be dead by now.
From what I can make out he was a man of his time, and might not fit into the
modern art world. Though I suppose being a forger would not help.”

“We can find out about Irene Bennett’s brother though,” said
Matt. “We can just ask her.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Philly shook her head. “Mr.
Bennett told her husband that she didn’t want to tell people. It might upset
her if we ask. She’s a nice lady and I’d hate to cause her any pain.”