stuffing, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, baked parsnips and gravy. Conversation lagged as we ate.
“Well, I declare, this is better than any turkey I’ve eaten at home,” Mr. Wexler said at last.
“I had hoped to have roast goose as well,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “but the butcher let me down, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, but didn’t you hear that he met with an accident?” Miss Prendergast said. “His van went off the road and plunged down a slope. The poor man was killed.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went white. “No. I didn’t hear. How terrible. Now I feel awful for insisting that he come out this morning.”
“Not your fault, my dear,” Sir Oswald said gruffly. “Roads are icy. Could have happened to anyone.”
We tried to get back into our previous good humor.
“So, Colonel Rathbone, did you ever hunt when you had a house here?” Johnnie Protheroe asked. “I don’t recall seeing you.”
“Haven’t been home in the winter in years. When we do take home leave, it’s usually in the summer,” the colonel said. “We try to avoid the hot months in India.”
“Where exactly was your house?” Mrs. Sechrest asked.
“Over Crediton way,” Mrs. Rathbone said quickly.
“Strange that we never bumped into each other,” Mrs. Sechrest said. “Porky and I have lived in these parts all our lives.”
“Well, Devon’s a big county, isn’t it?” the colonel said. He turned to Mr. Barclay. “Splendid organ playing, by the way. I like an organist who thumps it out properly. And good old hymns too.”
Mr. Barclay nodded and smiled. He seemed out of his element here, looking around nervously. I deduced he must have come from a humble background and this was confirmed when he muttered to me, “It’s very grand, isn’t it? I’m always terrified of making a social faux pas, aren’t you?”
“I often do,” I said. “I’m quite good at shooting my meat across the table when I try to cut it or slipping off my chair. And it’s usually when I have to dine with the relatives too.”
“Your relatives must be old-school sticklers then,” he said.
“Her relatives are the king and queen, Mr. Barclay,” Monty said, grinning as Mr. Barclay’s face turned puce.
“I had no idea. Nobody told me,” he gasped, then took a swig of his wine and promptly choked on it, spattering wine on the white tablecloth.
I felt rather sorry for him and tried to ask him about his own family. It turned out he had a twin brother who played the piano professionally. “He plays at concert parties and summer stock on the piers. My brother wanted us to do an act together called Pete and Pat, flying fingers at the ivories, but I was not prepared to sink to that level, even if he does make good money.”
When we were replete, the remains were cleared away and the Christmas pudding was carried in, flaming, with a sprig of holly on top.
“Hey, Ma, it’s on fire,” Junior shouted. “Should someone throw water over it?”
The countess gave him a withering look. “Don’t you dare,” she said.
The flames died down and Sir Oswald cut the first piece. “Watch out for all the damned silver bits and pieces that my wife insists on putting in it,” he said.
“Silver bits and pieces?” Mrs. Wexler asked.
“Old English custom,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There are always silver charms baked in the pudding. You’ll find a horseshoe, a thimble, a ring, a button, a boot, a pig, oh, and some silver threepenny pieces as well.”
“And what are they for?” Mr. Wexler asked.
“I’ll explain when we find them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
The pudding was served with brandy butter. After a couple of mouthfuls Ethel called out, “I’ve got the horseshoe.”
“Very good. That means good luck in the coming year,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“And I have a boot.” Mrs. Rathbone held it up.
“Very apt. It means travel, of course,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“Does it really? How lovely,” Mrs. Rathbone replied with what looked like a wistful smile.
Mr. Upthorpe and Johnnie found threepences, which meant money. Badger found the button, which made everyone laugh.
“The bachelor button, Badger. It means you’re not going to get married.”
“Thank God for that,” Badger said.
Suddenly the colonel, seated just across the table from me, turned red, his eyes bulged and he clutched his throat.
“He’s choking!” his wife shouted.
Badger and Johnnie leaped to his aid, thumping him on the back. My heart stood still. Was this the death that had been planned for today? I realized that I had been uneasy ever since the wild woman had given me that warning. The colonel was flailing now.
“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Rathbone screamed.
The other men at the table were now on their feet, standing helplessly as the flailing grew weaker and the colonel pitched forward onto the table, knocking over his wineglass and sending the contents flowing across the white tablecloth like a river of blood.
Chapter 22
STILL AT THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET
As we stared in horror, there was one thought going through my mind. Until now these deaths had not touched this house. The crash of the van had probably been just an unfortunate accident—someone going too fast around an icy curve. So were we now witnessing the death that had been selected for Christmas Day?
Johnnie grabbed the colonel around his ample waist and attempted to lift him from the table. As he did so something came flying out of the colonel’s mouth, landing on the table. The colonel gave a great gasping breath, coughed and sat up again.
“He’s all right. Thank God.” Mrs. Rathbone fought her way to reach him. “Oh, Reggie. You’re all right.”
“Don’t fuss, woman,” the colonel said. “Of course I’m all right.”
“One of those damned charms,” Sir Oswald said. “I knew you’d kill someone one day, Cammie.”
“You gave us all a scare there, old fellow.” Johnnie handed the colonel a glass of water.
“Something got stuck in my throat,” the colonel said.
“One of those charms, I expect.”
“Which one was it?”
Johnnie retrieved it from the table with his napkin. And he laughed. “The pig, old fellow. It means you’re a bit of a glutton.”
“Reggie, I keep telling you that you bolt your food,” Mrs. Rathbone said.
We all laughed and the tension was broken. The rest of us ate very carefully now and finally my teeth struck against something hard.
“Oh, look, Georgie’s got the ring,” Monty called out.
“Next to be married, my dear,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush or to meet Darcy’s eye.
The meal concluded, a little more subdued, with port, nuts and tangerines all around. We were just sitting with coffee in a state of stupor when Lady Hawse-Gorzley clapped her hands. “Everybody into the drawing room quickly,” she said. “I wasn’t watching the clock and we almost missed it. Hurry now.”
“Missed what?” Mr. Wexler said.
“The king’s broadcast. It’s almost three o’clock.”
We marched through to the drawing room. The radio came to life with much crackling and then a voice said, “His Majesty the King,” and the national anthem was played. We British subjects immediately rose to our feet. The Americans looked at us with amusement but then followed suit. We sat again as the king’s deep, ponderous voice came through the air, speaking slowly and carefully, greetings of goodwill from Sandringham to his subjects around the world. The others listened in rapt silence. I was conscious that he didn’t sound well. I thought of the times I
