down at me with what could only be described as a lecherous leer. “And who do we have here?”
“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said frostily. “How do you do?”
“I do very well,” he said. “So you’re the famous Lady Georgiana. One hears that your delectable mother is in the area. Is that correct?”
“I really couldn’t say,” I answered, uncomfortable now with his closeness. He had one hand on the wall and was leaning down toward me.
“And are you as much fun, I wonder, as your mama?” he said.
“Do you know my mother?”
“Not personally, but one reads delicious tidbits in newspapers.”
“You shouldn’t believe what you read in newspapers,” I said and ducked under his arm. I heard him chuckling as I opened the door to my room.
We assembled as instructed, bundled into our warmest clothes, and found that lanterns on poles had been stuck in the snow for us to carry. Bunty also handed out a supply of music books for those who didn’t know the words.
“I thought we’d start off with ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as we walk down the driveway,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “to warm up our voices, so to speak, and then we’ll switch to ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ when we reach the Misses Ffrench-Finch. And we’ll keep it suitably subdued.”
Darcy slid into the line beside me as the singing began and we moved off. “Why are we keeping it subdued?” he whispered. “Are they true aficionados of music who would be offended by our out-of-tune renditions?”
“No, they had a death in the family yesterday morning,” I whispered back. “One of the three elderly sisters was found dead in her bed. Someone had turned the gas on and closed the windows.”
“Suicide?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then one of the other sisters wanted her out of the way, probably. Jealous, or wanted a better share of an inheritance. Or was simply batty.”
I shook my head. “No, one gathers that they adored their sister and relied on her. She was the strong one who made the decisions.”
“When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even,” went on the singing.
He turned to me sharply. “Are you saying it was murder?”
“They’d all like to believe it was an accident,” I said. “But there have been three deaths in three days in this small village. That seems to be stretching the law of averages, doesn’t it?”
“Were the other two similar old ladies?”
“No, quite different. A landowner found shot with his own gun in a tree in the Hawse-Gorzleys’ orchard. A local garage owner fell off a bridge into a creek as he went home from the village pub—where it is said he was fond of visiting the publican’s wife. No hint from the police that they have found any evidence of foul play. The old ladies’ house was locked for the night at six and nobody seems to be able to come up with a reason for wanting Miss Ffrench-Finch dead.”
“They say deaths come in threes, don’t they?” he said. “The most logical thing is that they were all accidents.”
“There are a couple of other things I should mention,” I said. “One of them is the Lovey Curse.”
“The what?” He was laughing, his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern.
“Apparently there was a local witch who was burned alive on New Year’s Eve, hundreds of years ago. As she died she cursed the village that tragedy would strike them at Yuletide every year.”
“And has it?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said, “but the other thing is more serious. You might have read that three convicts escaped from Dartmoor Prison a few days ago. The police seem to think they haven’t gone far. So maybe they are hiding out on the moor and they’ve killed the people who have spotted them.”
“You mean the man out shooting?”
I nodded. “Very early in the morning. Maybe he ran into them.”
“And the man crossing a bridge in the middle of the night? Yes, he could have run into them. But I don’t see how that could apply to your old lady. She didn’t go wandering around on the moor looking for trouble, did she?”
“No, I’m sure she didn’t. I suppose she could have spotted the convicts through her motorcar window. But then she would have telephoned the police straight away, wouldn’t she?”
“And they are hardly likely to have gassed her in her bed. Not the modus operandi of most criminal types. Bashed her head in or suffocated her.”
“Besides,” I said, “they couldn’t get into the house.”
We reached the end of the driveway just as the singers broke into a lusty rendition of:
Darcy was frowning, staring up at the big square shape of the Ffrench-Finch house and its plain stone walls. “I don’t think there’s any way that three convicts could be hiding out in a village like this,” he said. “Village eyes are too sharp. They’d notice something. And even if someone was hiding them, the villagers would notice someone buying more food than usual.”
“Your aunt has certainly been buying more food than usual,” I pointed out. “I expect everybody has for Christmas.”
We crossed the deserted street to the Misses Ffrench-Finches’ front door and switched to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
A maid opened the door and was joined by two tiny ladies with neat gray buns. They were now dressed in black with fringed Spanish shawls around their shoulders. The first thought that struck me was that their name was so apt. They both listened with their heads to one side, bobbing like little birds.
“So good of you to come,” one of them said in her soft child’s voice. “Effie always loved the carol singing. We won’t invite you in, I’m sure you understand, but do have some of Cook’s delicious mince pies and try some of our homemade elderberry wine.”
Two trays were produced. The mince pies were wonderful—warm, flaky pastry and plenty of spicy filling. The elderberry wine was not unpleasant and I had a second glass. We drank a toast to their health and to their dear departed sister and went on our way.
Mr. Barclay welcomed us gushing and bowing and requested that we sing a couple of carols none of us knew, before settling on “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I hope the herald angels sang a little better than we did, but he seemed to appreciate the effort. He offered hot cheese straws and mulled wine. From him we went to the vicar, who invited us into his well-worn but comfortable sitting room where we gave him a rousing rendition of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” He had more mince pies laid out for us and a traditional wassail bowl. I was beginning to feel the warmth of the food and alcohol as we left and made for Miss Prendergast’s cottage, singing “In the Bleak Midwinter.”
She met us at the door, looking flustered. I decided she was probably one of those spinsters who always looks flustered. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “I was doing a crossword puzzle and completely forgot the mince pies. I do so love my little puzzles and I was so engrossed that I only remembered the pies when I smelled something burning. And of course by then it was too late to go into town to buy more mincemeat. I feel like such a fool. My mince pies are usually so good too, aren’t they, Lady Hawse-Gorzley? So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for biscuits and ginger wine.” She retrieved a tray she had put on a low table beside the front door. “Here we are. Ginger to keep out the cold. Nothing better,” she said, offering the tray around. “And I am so looking forward to joining you for the Christmas festivities, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she twittered. “So good of you to invite me. So generous. I can’t tell you how much one appreciates company when one is all alone in the world like me.”
The ginger wine was so powerful that it took my breath away and made my eyes water. I stumbled along, half blind, as we headed for my mother’s cottage. I was interested to see whether they would pretend to not be at home, but lights shone out between heavy curtains and the door was opened by my grandfather. I wondered whether he would be playing the role of jolly butler, but instead he said, “I won’t ask you in, because they’ve been working hard all day and consequently have retired with headaches. But we do have a hot rum punch ready and Mrs. Huggins has made some lovely sausage rolls. So if you could possibly manage a quiet carol, it would be
