Mistletoe Mystery (8 page)

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.”

“Is one of us going to be the murderer?” asked Mrs.
Cunningham, her sharp eyes twinkling.

“Who knows?” Matt winked at her. “That’s for you to work
out.”

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “if I may be cheeky and
ask if I can play the person I really was at the time. I was the English
teacher at Bedlington Hall.”

Everyone looked towards Mrs. Cunningham with interest.
Philly got the distinct feeling the vicar’s wife had just become a real suspect
in their eyes. Mrs. Cunningham either did not notice or chose not to worry
about it.

Matt glanced across to Philly who nodded back. “Sure,” he
said to Mrs. Cunningham. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“Can I play the R.E. teacher who is hopelessly in love with
the English teacher?” asked Reverend Cunningham to a chorus of ‘aws’. “Just
joking. I’m happy to go along with whatever the card says. Either way I’ll be
hopelessly in love with the English teacher.”

“I can see why, Reverend,” said Matt.

“Ooh, you young charmer!” Mrs. Cunningham laughed. “Careful,
Drew, he’ll be stealing me from you.”

“Then they’ll be investigating the disappearance of Mr.
Cassell,” said the vicar, light-heartedly.

“Can we get on?” said a voice from the crowd. Everyone
turned to see an elderly man wearing a flat cap.

“You’re Mr. Scattergood, right?” said Matt.

“That’s right, Stan Scattergood and I’d really like to get
my dinner.”

“But we are just getting to know each other,” said another
man. He spoke with an attractive French accent. He was in his late sixties, yet
could easily pass for someone younger. He looked very suave and sophisticated,
reminding Philly of Sasha Distell.

“As you say, Monsieur,” said Matt. “We’re just getting to know
each other here.”

The Frenchman bowed. “I am Armand De Lacey.” Philly vaguely
remembered the name from the list of guests.

“Oh, that’s just what we need,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “A
charming French master.”

Monsieur De Lacey smiled at Mrs. Cunningham and bowed again.
“Madame, I am the one who is charmed.”

It seemed to Philly that Matt had a sudden rival for the
female affections as all the women’s heads had turned to look at Monsieur De
Lacey. Despite his age, he had no shortage of admirers. He was the sort of man
who retained his sex appeal, regardless of age, like Sean Connery.

Stan Scattergood folded his arms and harrumphed. No one was
looking at him.

“Don’t worry, mate,” said Frank Bennett. “I’m like you. I
just want my dinner. I only come on these things because the wife drags me
out.”

“Ooh, you liar,” said Mrs. Bennett. “I wanted to go to
Majorca for a week, but you said this was cheaper.”