Anne Perry - A Christmas Guest

Was that it? The answer she was searching for? She bent and looked at the leaves again. There was no earthly way of proving it, but she was perfectly sure someone had picked two or three leaves. The broken ends were visible.

She stood up again slowly. How could she find out who? It must have been the day Maude was here. Had it been wet or dry? Never dry in winter in this wood, but if freezing then the ice would prevent anyone getting as wet as she was now, or as muddy.

Four days before, Joshua had received Bedelia’s letter. Think! Windy, the noise of it howling in the eaves was clear in her mind. It had irritated her unbearably. And relatively mild. Who had come in with muddy boots, a dress soaked at the hems? A ladies’ maid would know. But how to ask her?

She turned and walked briskly back into the house and went to find Mrs. Ward.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized profusely; startled that she meant it without any pretense at all. “I went walking in the garden and became distracted with the beauty of it.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it,” Mrs. Ward agreed. “That’s Mrs. Harcourt’s skill. Mrs. Sullivan can paint a picture of a flower that’s both lovely and correct, but it’s Mrs. Harcourt who plans the garden itself.”

“What a gift,” Grandmama said. “And one from which we all benefit. But I am afraid that I have thoroughly muddied both my boots, and the hem of your dress. It was deeply careless of me, and I regret it now.”

“Oh, don’t worry! It happens all the time!” Mrs. Ward dismissed it. “Your own dress is quite clean and dry, and Nora can clean this again in no time.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t happen to everybody,” Grandmama told her. “I cannot imagine Mrs. Harcourt being so inelegant, or so thoughtless. You cannot name me the last time she did this!”

Mrs. Ward smiled. “Certainly I can! The very day Miss Maude came home. Went looking for some nice branches to add to the flowers in the hall. Woodland branches can be most graceful in a vase. Please don’t think of it, Mrs. Ellison.”

“Really?” Grandmama’s heart was racing. So it was Bedelia. But she should be certain. “I expect she and Clara were in quite a state, with Lord Woollard expected as well.”

“Certainly. She also went out on an errand and came back as muddy as you like. Poor Nora was beside herself. Then Mrs. Sullivan the day after. At least I think it was. I’ll find Nora and send her up to you.”

“Thank you. You are most considerate.” Grandmama left with her mind whirling. So who had boiled up the leaves? Where? How could she find that out? Perhaps they were simply crushed and steeped, as one makes a cup of tea! That could have been any of them. She must think more—pay attention. And be careful!

In the afternoon Grandmama offered to help Bedelia in some of the last-minute preparations. Of course Cook would see to the meal itself, and most of the other things that required the use of the kitchen. But there was still much sewing to be done, lavender bags that were not finished, ornamental roses to be made, and definitely more decorations for the great tree in the hall.

“I could have sworn that we had more than this last year!” Bedelia said, looking at it with dismay. “It seems almost bare, don’t you think, Mrs. Ellison?”

Grandmama regarded the huge tree, its dark green needles still fresh and scented with earth and pine. It was liberally decorated with ribbons and ornaments, and there was a handsome pile of parcels beneath, and smaller ones with lace and flowers hanging from the branches. It was far from bare, but certainly there were places where more could be hung. It was important that she make herself necessary.

“It is very handsome,” she answered judiciously. “But you are quite right, of course. There are still one or two places to be filled in. I am sure it would not be difficult to find the materials to make a couple of dozen more ornaments. One needs only a child’s ball, perhaps two of different sizes would be even better, paste, and as many different colors of paper as possible, beads, dried flowers, ribbon, lace, whatever else can be spared that is pretty. Sometimes an old gown can provide an amazing variety of bits and pieces. It’s not difficult to make tiny dolls, or angels.” She had rather run away with herself, but it was all in the growingly desperate cause of detection. Very definite ideas were crystallizing in her mind, but she needed more time!

Christmas was supposed to be a time of forgiveness, but surely there could be no healing without honor, no real peace without change of heart? And no change without truth.

“It is not a lack of materials,” Bedelia told her. “I have not the time, and I doubt the maids have the skill.”

“I should be happy to help you, if I may?” Grandmama offered. She had not been so courteous in years, and in spite of her amusement at herself, she was rather enjoying it. It was like a step outside her own life, a curious freedom from the expectations of others, or the chains of past failure.

“I should be delighted to contribute something to such a glorious tree,” she continued eagerly. “And also a sort of family tradition. The Barringtons have been in this village for so many generations there are bound to be scores of people who will call in to wish you season’s greetings and share your hospitality.” That was certain. Tradesmen always paid their respects this time of year and partook of mince pies, candied fruit and nuts, and of course a cup of punch.

Bedelia accepted, and half an hour later they were sitting in the sewing room at opposite sides of the table cannibalizing an old evening gown, cutting off beads, braid, fine silk and velvet pieces, and the paler ribbons and lace from two old petticoats that had also been found.

“There is too much dark red,” Bedelia said critically. “All of the silk and velvet is the same shade.”

“That is true,” Grandmama agreed. “What we really need is something else bright in a completely different tone.” She looked at Bedelia with a frown. “I have a very daring idea. Perhaps you would find it offensive, but I have to ask. If it grieves you, I apologize in advance.”

“Good gracious!” Bedelia was intrigued. “I am not easily shocked. What is this idea?”

“Maude said that she traveled in many strange and exotic places.”

A faint distaste flashed in Bedelia’s eyes but she masked it. “Is that helpful?”

“No doubt she wore some … strange clothes,” Grandmama said tentatively. “Possibly of colors we would not choose.”

Bedelia understood instantly and her face lit with pleasure.

“Oh! But of course! How clever of you. Yes, certainly, some of them might be cut up for the most excellent Christmas ornaments.”

Grandmama felt a chill at the thought of cutting up any of Maude’s clothes, things she had worn in the places that she had obviously loved so far from home. She might have stood in the sunset in some Persian garden and smelled the perfume of strange trees and the wind off the desert and looked up to unimaginable stars. Or perhaps there would be scarves of silk she had bought at a noisy, multitudinous bazaar in Marrakech, or some such city. They should all be treated with tenderness, folded to keep in the odor of spices and strange fruit, oils and leathers, and the smoke from the campfires.

“You are so clever, Mrs. Ellison,” Bedelia was saying. “Of course most of her things are here and we have only to unpack them. And it is unlikely that any of them are things that anyone else would wear. I really do not care to offer them, even to the poor. It would be …”

“Disrespectful,” Grandmama filled in, meaning it, and enjoying forcing Bedelia to agree. She hated herself for doing it, but truth required some strange sacrifices. “This way they will be totally anonymous, and give pleasure for years to come.” Forgive me, Maude, she thought to herself. Detection is not easy, and I refuse to fail. She stood up. “I suppose we should begin. See what we can find.” That was crass. She had not been invited to look into Maude’s effects, but she was most curious to see if there was anything helpful. No one else who knew that she had been murdered would ever have such an opportunity.