Rhys Bowen - The Twelve Clues of Christmas

“Yule log?” Bunty laughed. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”

“Nonsense. It’s part of the traditions of Christmas. We’ll go out with the guests on Christmas Eve and have one of the horses drag in the Yule log. If only it snows we can put it on a sledge and drink hot toddies and sing carols as we bring it home.”

Bunty shot me a look. “While the happy peasants dance in the snow and tip their forelocks, I suppose.”

“Don’t be facetious, Bunty. I’m counting on you to get into the spirit of the thing. So off you go and bring back as much holly and ivy as you can carry. And you might see if the vicar could spare us some more candles. We’ll need an awful lot, especially to light the ballroom for the costume ball.”

“We do have electric light, Mummy.”

“Yes, dear, but candles are so much more atmospheric, aren’t they? A masked ball by candlelight. Think of it.” And she looked quite wistful.

“Come on, then, Georgie,” Bunty said. “I’ll find some shears and off we go.”

“And could you possibly stop at Dickson’s cottage and tell him I’d like to go through things with him later this morning, if he doesn’t mind?”

Bunty turned to me. “Dickson’s our former butler. He grew so ancient that he had to be put out to pasture, but we dust him off for formal occasions. He’s an old dear, actually. Almost like one of the family.”

I put on my coat, hat, and gloves and we set off down the driveway. We stopped first at the gate cottage, where we were shown into a spotless little room and Bunty gave her message to the former butler. He looked extremely elderly and frail, but was dressed formally with stiff collar and black jacket, as if ready to spring back into action again. When she introduced me he gave a correct little bow.

“What an honor, my lady, that you would choose to grace our little corner of England. And how is the health of their dear majesties?”

“I haven’t seen them since Balmoral but they were well then, thank you.”

He sighed with relief. “One does worry so much about His Majesty’s chest,” he said. “Given the current behavior of the Prince of Wales. Tell me, have you actually met the American woman?”

“Yes, I have,” I said. “Many times.”

“And is she . . .” He paused, searching for the right words.

“As dreadful as they make out?” I smiled at his embarrassed face. “Oh, yes. Quite as dreadful.”

“I feared as much. The boy was always weak. Still, one hopes that he will buck up and do the right thing when the time comes.”

Privately I didn’t share his optimism, but I nodded and smiled and we took our leave. As we came out of the gates and into the village we noticed several groups of villagers, standing in tight knots, talking animatedly. A cluster of men outside the pub glanced furtively in our direction, then went back to their chatter. There was something unnerving about this, a tension in the air as if something was being plotted. Bunty didn’t seem to notice there was anything odd in their behavior.

“So here’s the sum total of Tiddleton-under-Lovey,” she said. “One pub, two shops, one school, one church on the green and a few cottages.”

“What about that nicer house beside the school?” I asked. “Is that where the schoolmaster lives?”

“Oh, no, he has a cottage on the Widecombe road. That house belongs to the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Three elderly sisters who have lived there all their lives. Their father left them quite well off and they never married. We used to call them the Three Weird Sisters and spy on them when we were growing up. You’ll meet them over Christmas, I’m sure. Mummy always invites them to Christmas lunch.”

“And what about the pub?” I asked, looking at the sign swinging in the chill morning breeze. “The Hag and Hounds? What’s that about?”

“Local history.” Bunty grinned. “We had a local witch, you know. Back in the 1700s. They wanted to catch her and bring her to trial, but she escaped onto the moor. They chased her to the top of Lovey Tor with a pack of hounds and then burned her at the stake. We have a festival to celebrate it every New Year’s Eve. You’ll be able to see just how primitive we are down here in Devon. This way.”

And she turned from the street to the path around the village green, then stepped through the kissing gate into the churchyard. Rooks rose cawing and flapping.

“Damned nuisance,” she said. “They peck out the eyes of newborn lambs, you know. So let’s see where there might be any good holly left.”

As we made our way between ancient gravestones the church door opened and a woman came out. She had spinster written all over her, the sort of woman one always sees coming out of churches and doing good works. She wore an old fur coat that might have been “good” once and a shapeless hat and those strange lace-up shoes that old women seem to favor. And she came toward us, head down against the wind, holding her hat on with one hand.

“Good morning, Miss Prendergast,” Bunty said and the woman started in surprise.

“Oh, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, you gave me a start,” she replied in a breathless, twittering little voice. “I was completely lost in thought. I have just been working on the church flowers for Christmas. I was planning to surround the crèche with holly but Mr. Barclay told me absolutely not. He said that holly did not grow in the Holy Land and thus it would not be authentic. Really, he is such an objectionable man, isn’t he? An absolute stickler for detail and always insists on his own way. I’m sure our Lord wouldn’t mind being brightened up with some nice red holly berries around him.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Bunty said. “And may I present our guest Lady Georgiana Rannoch. Georgie, this is Miss Prendergast.”

“How do you do,” I said.

She looked stunned. “Oh, my goodness. It’s almost like having royalty visit the village, isn’t it? Delighted to make your acquaintance.” She bobbed an awkward half curtsy. “So you’re here to enjoy the splendid festivities Lady Hawse-Gorzley has planned, are you? I am so looking forward to them myself. Lady Hawse-Gorzley has been kind enough to invite me to join you for the Christmas banquet. Such a treat when one lives a simple lonely life like mine. But I mustn’t keep you.”

And she went on her way.

“Another weird woman?” I asked.

“No, she’s no weirder than the average village spinster. A bit twittery and rather nosy, I suspect. And she’s a relative newcomer, too. She moved here about five years ago. Looked after her aged mother somewhere like Bournemouth. When the mother died she sold the family home and bought that cottage next to the church. Used to come here on holiday as a child, one gathers. And I must say she’s proving to be an asset. Every village needs a willing spinster, don’t you think? Always volunteering for good deeds.”

We found some good holly bushes and started cutting branches. Isn’t it interesting the way they always love to grow near graves?

“We still have to find mistletoe,” I reminded Bunty.

“I don’t really see why.” She gave me a grin. “I’m not sure there will be anybody for you to kiss, apart from old colonels whose mustaches will be frightfully spiky.”

“Nonetheless, your mother asked for some. And didn’t you say you have a dreamy cousin coming?”

“I didn’t say there was nobody for me to kiss,” she replied with a wicked grin. “I believe I saw some on the big tree next to the middle cottage. Yes, look up there. I hope you’re good at tree climbing.”

We came to the big elm and saw there was indeed mistletoe growing from an upper branch.

“I suppose I’d better go up,” Bunty said. “Mummy would never forgive me if you fell and broke your neck. Here, give me a leg up.”