Mistletoe and Murder Read Free Page A

house-party in the summer and all the family for Christmas. His lordship’s not been the same since the War, I’m afraid.” She sighed, as she opened a glass-panelled door into a spacious entrance hall.
    â€œI hope my … our visit isn’t going to cause a lot of trouble,” Daisy said, glancing around. This hall was furnished in a more modern style: a rather battered pedestal table with a looking-glass hanging above it; a hat-tree sprouting tweed caps and woolly hats; an umbrella stand; several lyre-back chairs; and, oddly, a faded chaise-longue.
    â€œOh no, madam, we can manage. At least, Lady Dalrymple won’t mind eating with Mrs. Norville and the family, will she? It’d make my life easier, and that’s a fact.”
    â€œNo, why should she?” Curiouser and curiouser, thought Daisy. She hoped for an answer to her question, but Mrs. Pardon treated it as rhetorical.
    â€œWould you like to leave your coat in the coat cupboard?” she asked, gesturing towards a door in the wall to the left of the front door.
    â€œThanks, I think I’ll take it with me.”
    â€œVery well, madam. Up here now. You’ll notice the stairs have been built right across one of the old windows. This part of the house was altered in 1862 for the dowager countess of the time. My grandmother was housekeeper here then.” Mrs. Pardon sighed again. “She’d never have guessed what the family would come to. Here’s your room, madam, and the bathroom and lavatory just back there. Ring if there’s anything you need. My girls aren’t used to waiting on ladies, but they’ll do their best.”

    â€œThank you, I expect they’ll manage very well. Where can I find Mrs. Norville?”
    â€œI’m sure it’s not my place to know where she is, madam, but her sitting room’s just at the top of the stairs, over the front door.”
    Daisy’s room was small, crammed with heavy, dark, rather shabby Victorian furniture, but it had a wash-hand basin with running hot and cold. The window looked out over gardens and woods, with a glimpse beyond of the river, a small town which must surely be Calstock, and a railway viaduct. Daisy didn’t linger over the view. Having washed her hands and face, tidied her hair, and powdered her nose, she set out to find her hostess, the putative mistress of this anything but ordinary household.

2
    T he door nearest the top of the stairs was ajar. Daisy tapped on it.
    â€œCome in.”
    The voice was high and soft, so soft that for a moment Daisy wasn’t sure she had really heard it. If the door had been closed, she would have knocked again. As it was open, she went in. And then she thought she must have been mistaken after all, because she couldn’t see a living person among the multicoloured images which met her startled eyes.
    In the sun, slanting in through a south-facing window, spangles glittered, gilt gleamed, and coloured glass glinted. Statuettes stood on every available surface, while from the walls painted figures gazed down with varying degrees of benevolence. Among six-armed gods, elephant-headed gods, blue-faced gods, and meditative buddhas, Daisy picked out several madonnas, with and without child, a crucifix, and a cheap print of Holman Hunt’s “The Light of the World.”

    From the midst of this bizarre array came the soft, gentle voice: “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    Black eyes in a lined, dark-skinned face looked anxiously at Daisy from a chair by the fireplace, where a log fire glowed. The tiny woman was swathed in a multitude of bright shawls. She was working on a piece of embroidery, her needle darting in and out with a casual expertise.
    â€œYes, I’m Daisy Fletcher. You’re Mrs. Norville? How do you do?”
    â€œHow do you do. Won’t you sit down?” She hadn’t got an accent, exactly, but the intonation common to Indian speakers of English gave her speech an