The Case Of The Dead Wait - Страница 2

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“You’ll just have to leave a message after the tone,” she said to it.

“This is Calvin Klein’s office in New York. Mr Klein was hoping to speak to Maeve about the trip. We’ll call back.”

Laura said, “Calvin Klein! I could be speaking to Calvin Klein and I’m sifting ruddy pastry?”

She was adding the egg yolk and water when the phone went again. This time she grabbed it with a floury hand. In a come-hitherish tone she said, “Hi, how can I be of service?”

“Laura?”

She knew that voice and it wasn’t Calvin Klein’s. “You! I thought you were someone else. Oh, never mind. It’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s a miracle,” Rosemary said. “I used one of those directory-enquiry numbers and I’m sure it was someone in Calcutta, but she seemed to know the Eadingtons. You’re installed in deepest Wilts, then?”

“‘In deepest’ sums it up. I haven’t been here an hour and I’m already making pastry for the locals. What’s with you?”

“A change of plans, actually. Mother forgot to tell me. When I got here she was all packed up to leave. You know she does competitions? She won a trip for two to the Bahamas, courtesy of Cadbury, or Kellogg’s, or someone.”

“How marvellous! But what are you going to wear? I bet you didn’t pack your bikini.”

“Oh, she isn’t taking me,” Rosemary said, as if that went without saying. “You know what Mother’s like. She’s taking some old gent called Mr. Pinkerton from the Tai Chi group. I’m high and dry, Laura. I was wondering if-well-if there’s a spare bed in this stately pile you’re looking after.”

Laura took a step back and there was a yelp from Wilbur, who had got too close. “That wasn’t me. Do I have a spare bed? Dozens. That’s brilliant.”

“I could get a train to Bath tonight.”

“You’ve made my Christmas. I’ll be waiting on the platform.”

* * * *

She had fitted the fresh lids on those pies, twelve of them, and very appetizing they looked. She’d used a beaten-egg glaze that gave them a lovely amber finish to leave no doubt that they were different from Gertrude Appleton’s insipid-looking offerings. Rosemary was due on a late train at 10:50, so it was likely that the carollers would get their treats. Would eleven pies be enough? She needed to put one aside, of course, for Gertrude, to help her survival plan. If twelve or more carollers came, Laura told herself, it was a sure bet that some wouldn’t want another pie if they’d been eating them all around the village. The mulled wine simmering in a saucepan was another matter.

About eight-thirty, Wilbur howled and Laura heard muted singing. She shut Wilbur in the kitchen and opened the front door. She needn’t have worried about the catering. A mere four men stood under a lantern. Three wore cardboard-and-tinsel crowns and were giving an uneven rendering of “We Three Kings.” The fourth, holding up the lantern, was the vicar, unless his collar was from a carnival shop, like the crowns. He looked too young to be a clergyman. Just like policemen, Laura thought.

When they started on the solo verses, Melchior’s reedy voice almost faded away. For a fat man he was producing a very thin sound. Caspar, with “Frankincense to offer have I,” was marginally better, and Balthazar, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume,” lost the tune altogether. She was thankful when they got to the last chorus. She popped a two-pound coin into the box and invited them inside.

“Muddy feet,” said the vicar. “We’d better not.”

Melchior had already taken a step forward and needed restraining by his companions. Too much mulled wine already, Laura suspected. But she still fetched the tray from the kitchen with the jug of wine and the pies.

“I may have over-catered here. I was expecting more of you,” she said as she invited them to help themselves. The man who’d sung the part of Caspar handed round the plate of mince pies, but it was obvious that they’d eaten well already. Only Melchior took one. The wine was more popular.

“We would have had two shepherds as well,” Balthazar said, “but one didn’t show up and the other dropped out at Long Farm.”

“It’s quite a trek,” the vicar said.

“He was legless,” Balthazar said.

“You don’t live here, do you?” Caspar asked Laura. “You’re not a burglar, by any chance?”

“Giving us mulled wine and the finest mince pie I’ve had all night? You must be joking,” Melchior said to his friend.

A slightly dodgy mince pie, Laura almost confessed. They seemed likable men, even if their singing wasn’t up to much. She introduced herself and explained about the housesitting. They told her their names but she soon forgot them. They were the vicar and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar tonight, and she’d probably never see them again, so why think of them as anything else?

“What do you do when you’re not housesitting?” the tuneless one, Balthazar, asked.

“Gardening, mainly.”

“So do I. Not a lot of gardening to be done this time of year,” little Caspar said.

“You’re wrong about that,” Laura said. “There are no end of jobs. I’ll be out there tomorrow.”

“Cutting some holly and mistletoe?” the vicar said.

“Good suggestion. The house could do with some, as you see.”

“Christmas roses? You’ve got some in the front.”

“If you mean the Helleborus niger, they’re not such good specimens. The ones you buy in florists come so much taller and whiter, thanks to forcing,” Laura said, thinking Rosemary would have been proud of that bit of expertise.

“Nasty things. Poisonous,” Melchior said, slurring his words even more.

“Mistletoe berries are poisonous, too,” Balthazar said.

The vicar decided not to go down that route. “We’d better drink up, gentlemen. Three more houses and a long walk to go.”

“Have you been to Gertrude Appleton?” Laura asked.

“The house afore you. Stingy old mucker,” Melchior said.

“That’s a bit unseasonal, isn’t it?” the vicar said.

“We all know Gertrude,” Caspar said. “Before we get a glass or a bite to eat from her, we have to promise to take her a mince pie after Christmas.”

“And if we forget, she’ll come hammering on our doors,” Balthazar said.

Laura was about to explain that it was a superstition, but stopped herself. These villagers didn’t miss a thing. They’d know all about Gertrude.

“Thanks for these, good lady,” Caspar said as he returned the plate, with ten of the eleven pies remaining. “Sorry we couldn’t all do justice to them.”

Melchior said without warning, “I need to sit down. I’m feeling dizzy.”

“You’d better come in,” Laura offered. “I was wondering about you.”

“And it’s not the wine,” said Balthazar. “He’s a teetotaler.”

Laura gave Balthazar a second look, but he seemed to be speaking in all seriousness. She noticed Melchior didn’t have a glass in his hand.

“Would you mind, Mrs. Thyme?” the vicar said. “I don’t think he’s capable of continuing.” He picked the crown off the fat man’s head. “I’ll have to be Melchior now.” Judged by the speed of the change, he’d wanted a starring role all evening.

Laura took a grip on Melchior’s arm and steered him inside to an armchair. Then she said something she was to regret. “Why don’t you gentlemen finish your round and come back for him?”

“He farms just up the lane,” Caspar said, and Laura thought she detected a suggestion that they might not, after all, return for their companion. “Blackberry Farm. It can’t be more than three hundred yards.”

They waved goodnight.

After closing the door, Laura glanced at her watch. There was still ample time before she needed to collect Rosemary.

Melchior had slumped in the chair and was snoring softly.

“Strong coffee for you,” Laura said.

He made a sound she chose to take as appreciation. It could have been a belch.

In the kitchen, Wilbur was round her feet. She found the store of dog food and opened a tin. She said, “Consider yourself lucky, Wilbur. I’ve got other demands on my time.”

When she took the coffee to Melchior his snoring was heavier and his chin was buried in his chest. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want this overweight man settling into a deep sleep and being immovable just when she needed to drive to Bath. She checked the time again. She really ought to be leaving in less than an hour. She wasn’t certain how long it would take to drive to the station.

“Coffee?”

No response.

“Have some coffee. It’ll brighten you up.”

Wishful thinking. He didn’t make a murmur that wasn’t a snore.

In a louder voice she said, “I made the coffee.”

This was becoming a predicament. She’d have to touch the man’s face or hands to get a response, but she’d only just met him. Didn’t even know his real name. How do I get myself into situations like this? she thought.

She put down the coffee and stood with her arms folded wondering how to deal with this. Wilbur came in and sniffed at the mud on Melchior’s boots.

Fresh air, she decided. She flung open a couple of windows and an icy blast of December ripped through the room.

Wilbur streaked upstairs, but Melchior didn’t move a muscle.

“Come on, man!” Laura said. She found the remote and switched on the television. The Nine Lessons and Carols at full volume. Switched the channel to the Three Tenors.

No result.

In frustration Laura brought her two hands together and slapped her own face quite hard. She’d have to overcome her innate decorum and give him a prod. Alone with a strange bloke in someone else’s house, but it had to be done.