05 - Mistletoe and Murder Read Free Page A

way.”
    The butler ushered them to
another room, this one overlooking the Square, which was equally decorated in
the style of the previous century. A lively fire was burning in the hearth and
gave the room a cosy air, while a large marmalade cat stretched out on a
red-striped sofa and eyed them suspiciously.
    “Miss Sampford will be with
you shortly, might I serve you some drinks?”
    The butler took their various
requirements and opened a well-stocked drinks cabinet at the back of the room.
Tommy, leaning precariously out of his wheelchair to catch a glimpse, reported
to them all in a whisper that he could make out at least five types of whisky,
several varieties of port and at least three types of sherry. Clara, who had
merely asked for tonic water, wondered if the tee-totallers in the party were
as well catered for as the alcoholics. Drinks served, the butler gave a stiff
bow and excused himself from the room.
    Oliver collapsed inelegantly
into an armchair.
    “That trunk was blooming
heavy.”
    “I said to hire a porter at
the station.” Clara wandered to the fireplace and took a good look at the
ornaments on display. She had a suspicion that each and every one was of a
desirable and expensive nature.
    “That butler gives me the
creeps.” Annie said.
    “Everything gives you the
creeps.” Tommy responded teasingly, “He’s pretty typical of your average
Victorian butler. Probably been with the family centuries.”
    “Yes, but you haven’t got to
go down to the servants’ quarters later and try and get along with him.” Annie reminded
him.
    “Once you show the servants
the cake you made you will have no problems.” Tommy said with confidence.
    Clara was studying some old
photographs on a side table. She assumed they were of Miss Sampford’s family,
but only one showed a male sitter; a robust, middle-aged gentleman with a bald pate
and grandiose side-whiskers. He looked out of the picture rather sternly, but
Clara decided this meant very little as everyone stared out of Victorian
photographs sternly, that was the problem with the long exposure times of the
early cameras. Other pictures showed the same woman at different times of her
life, presumably Miss Sampford. There was one of her as a girl, her hair long
and her dress distinctly Victorian. Another showed her slightly older in a
rowing boat with other girls, a third portrayed her in her forties astride a
camel in some foreign country. A final picture showed her as an old woman,
arm-in-arm with a much younger lady, grinning out at the photographer and
proudly pointing out her ‘Votes for Women’ sash. Oh yes, thought Clara, I
definitely like this woman.
    The drawing room door opened
and in stepped the lady in question. Clara turned sharply from the photos and
saw herself face-to-face with the subject of the images. She was a small woman,
perhaps no more than five foot, but not wizened or hunched as some small old
women become. She stood tall and proud, her hair swept up on top of her head in
soft white folds. Her features were light, almost youthful, though her eyes
were enlarged slightly by a small pair of round gold glasses. Miss Sampford
stepped into the room with the soundless movement of a ballerina. There was no
hint of her eighty years; her stride was as graceful as a young girl moving
onto a dance floor. She took in her guests and smiled.
    “Miss Fitzgerald.”
    “Miss Sampford.”
    They shook hands and Clara
took the opportunity to introduce her party. Miss Sampford gave them all a nod.
    “I wish you had said over the
phone about Mr Fitzgerald’s requirements. I would have had it all arranged.”
Miss Sampford said.
    “It slipped my mind.” Clara
admitted, a tad embarrassed. Tommy gave a mock ashamed look.
    “I see you all have drinks. I
shall just pour myself one and join you. Please be seated, that goes for you
too Annie.” Miss Sampford moved off to the drinks cabinet and prepared herself
a sizeable tumbler of whisky and water.
    She