had been with His Majesty at Sandringham, his favorite house, and he’d been sitting with his stamp collection at the table from which he was now broadcasting and a feeling of warmth and pride came over me that we were part of the same family.
“And to think that you actually know him,” Mrs. Wexler said when the speech ended. “I suppose you’ve actually been to those royal castles and palaces?”
“Many times,” I said.
“And what’s he like, your king?”
“A little fearsome to start with. Not very patient and likes everything done properly, but he’s essentially a kind man and he cares so much about England and the empire. I think he’s literally worrying himself to death.”
They tiptoed away from me as if I’d suddenly turned into someone new and dangerous.
Soon the older members of the party fell asleep in armchairs while we younger ones went for a walk.
“I think it’s going to rain,” Bunty said. “That’s good for the hunt tomorrow.” She turned back to me. “I hope you’re a good rider, Georgie. We went to look at Freddie’s stable this morning and his horses are decidedly frisky— and big.”
“I’m a pretty good rider,” I said modestly—my governess having drilled into me that a lady never claims accomplishments.
We walked across the grounds and up through the bare woods, pausing to look back on the house and the village. As I stared down at the orchard a thought crossed my mind so quickly that I didn’t have time to grab on to it. Something about the trees. I turned to stare at the neighbor’s estate behind us. Something about why those particular trees might be important.
Darcy fell into step beside me. “You look rather shaken up,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“That incident with the colonel,” I said in a low voice, not wanting the others to hear. “I thought he might be today’s designated death.”
Darcy gave me a quizzical look. “Designated death?”
“There’s been one a day since I arrived, except for yesterday. And the butcher’s van already went off the road today, killing him. So I thought that might have been a true accident and this was the death that was planned.”
He took me aside so that we were standing together under the branches of a large fir tree. “What exactly are you saying, Georgie—that someone has been planning a death a day? For what reason?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And do you think these deaths are random people or intentionally selected?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to them—a butcher, an old lady, a garage owner, a switchboard operator and the man who owned that estate. What could they possibly have in common?”
“Have the police ruled out that they were accidents?”
“I think the inspector is suspicious, but he has no proof, as far as I can tell, that any one of them was not an accident.”
Darcy frowned. “It may be that this part of the country is just going through an unlucky period. Serial killers don’t usually work this way, if that’s what you’re imagining. They want the police and the public to recognize their handiwork. They usually have a signature modus operandi—think of Jack the Ripper in London. A classic case. Always killed prostitutes in exactly the same gruesome way.”
I shuddered as he went on. “One of the ways they get a thrill out of this is believing that they are smart enough to outwit the police. So why kill in a way that makes it look like an accident?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t understand anything about it, Darcy. I’m almost ready to believe in the Lovey Curse. That strange wild woman gave me some kind of warning today. And she’s the direct descendant of the witch, isn’t she?”
“Georgie, come on.” He shot me an amused look. “That’s village superstition. You are a young woman of the world. You don’t believe in witches or curses.”
I tried to smile too. “It’s just that—I’m frightened. I can’t help feeling that it’s closing in on us and that eventually the killer will strike here.”
“Don’t worry.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.”
“That’s not the point, Darcy. I feel that somehow I must take care of everyone else. I feel that I have to solve the puzzle before it’s too late.”
He turned me to face him. “Sometimes you worry too much,” he said. “Leave this to the police and enjoy your Christmas. We’re here, we’re together and we’re having a great time. Think of it—you could, at this moment, be sitting down to Christmas dinner with your sister-in-law.”
I laughed. “Where they will be sharing one chicken between them and huddling together to keep warm. It’s poor Binky I feel sorry for, surrounded by Fig’s family.”
Darcy took my hand. It felt wonderful to walk through snowy meadows, feeling the warmth from his hand sending tingles all the way up my arm.
* * *
WE ARRIVED BACK to find that tea had been laid out in the drawing room, and that it included the most magnificent Christmas cake. The icing had been made to look like a snow scene and decorated with little ceramic figures of tobogganing children, ladies with fur muffs, skaters, snowmen. Not surprisingly, nobody felt much like eating, but we all attempted a slice of cake. The Misses Ffrench-Finch asked if they could take their slices of cake home with them as they couldn’t eat another mouthful. A generous portion was wrapped for them, and one for Miss Prendergast, and the three ladies took their leave.
Miss Prendergast was overcome with emotion. “You are too kind, Lady Hawse-Gorzley, too generous. Such a good person. I don’t deserve . . .” She paused, putting her hand over her heart. “When you have no family, nobody else in the world, it means so much to be part of a celebration like this.”
“Then let’s hope there are many, many more,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, thumping the hand that was extended to her. We duly waved as the old ladies were helped into their car and went home.
Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley produced the indoor fireworks and we passed a jolly hour around the fireplace watching pieces of paper turn into writhing snakes or glowing different colors and finally all holding sparklers. When the last firework was lit, the vicar suggested that we play charades until supper. The dressing-up box was carried down into the study across the hall from the drawing room and we were divided into teams. I found myself on Monty’s team with Badger, Mrs. Upthorpe, Captain Sechrest, and Cherie Wexler. Monty had to explain to Cherie that we select a word and act out the syllables. If the audience can’t guess the word through the syllables, we act out the whole thing.
We rummaged through the props until Badger found an old cow horn. “We could do ‘cornucopia,’” he said. “First syllable is ‘corn.’ Second is ‘you’ and third is ‘cope.’ And then for the whole we’ll produce fruit from the horn and keep eating it.”
This was agreed upon. I was designated to be an old lady in a gray wig, hobbling around, then taking off my shoe and rubbing my toes. They dressed me up in a hideous tippet, wig and hat. Out I went, walking as if my feet hurt me, then taking off my shoe and massaging my toes with an expression of relief.
“Feet . . . foot . . . hurt . . . sore!” came the calls from the audience.
Monty came out to do the next syllable. He simply pointed dramatically at a member of the audience. He chose Mr. Barclay, who turned bright red. I experienced a fleeting feeling of agitation—that something had happened that I should have noticed but didn’t. I tried to analyze. Something to do with corns? With Mr. Barclay? Definitely something I had just seen. . . .
It was no use. We proceeded to the last syllable. Mrs. Upthorpe was the harried mother, wearing an apron, while the other members of the team were her awful children—Captain Sechrest dressed in a school cap and tie, Badger in a smock with a frill around his neck and a giant dummy and Cherie with a big bow in her hair. They came out on their knees, howling and tugging at their mother’s skirts while she pretended to cook, lay a table and generally act as if she was harassed. This scene got a good laugh, but nobody guessed it. So we had to bring out our horn and take imaginary fruit from it. Then, of course, it was guessed right away.
The next team went out to dress up and I sat there, mulling over the idea that I had just missed something important, something that might shed some light on the strange events in Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s team came out. Their word was “dandelion,” which of course we got very quickly—the moment Colonel Rathbone crawled around roaring and trying to eat Bunty, in fact.
