Murder at Christmas - Chapter 1: Arrivals

It had snowed again during the night.

Outside the world was silent, clean, crisp and cold. The only sound was the occasional muffled thud as snow thumped from over-laden branches in the hedgerows. The River Windrush ran through deep channel seemingly carved in the pure white blanket - its clear waters darkened by the force of contrast with the banks piled high with downy snow.

The village children had taken advantage of the snow to build snowmen in cottage gardens and on the Green itself ... and a fast and furious battle of snowballs was fought there before noon. Empires of snow rose ... were toppled and lost ... and then the war-weary veterans seized their big sisters' hands and were dragged home to dinner in the small golden-stone cottages that clustered around the green. Each cottage had its small outbuildings, where chickens puffed out their feathers for warmth on their roosts and the pig burrowed deep in the warmth of its simple sty. And all the stone glowed, as old Cotswold stone can do, basking in the light of the pallid winter sun.

In the Bull, few drinkers were to be found huddled around the roaring fire. Tom Blenkinsop, the cheery landlord, didn't mind. There would be customers enough that evening, as the village finished work on Christmas Eve and began to celebrate the festival. He already had a vast log - the Yule log - that would burn in the grate for the Twelve Days of Christmas, and bring good cheer for the whole of the year to come.

"Do you think those folk from the grand houseparty at the Hall will come down a drink?" asked his wife, as she polished the ceramic beer mugs, each a treasured possession of the villager who claimed it.

Tom Blenkinsop paused in he task at hammering small boughs of mistletoe in place in the doorways.

"They might look in for a drink after Church on Christmas Day," he said. "Or on Boxing Day, less'n they go off to Great Staughton for the Meet. But there'll be them Americans and foreign folks. They might not ride to hounds."

Up at the manor house, the future entertainment of their guests was not the uppermost thought in the minds of Wallace Emerson, the American industrialist and Anja Ericksson his wife, the silent movie star.

Emerson was in his early sixties. He had made his money early in transport, but it was the war years that had brought him fabulous wealth ... He was lean, with a hawk like head, and actually looked much younger than he was.

His wife, however, still seemed very much younger than him. Her fair beauty had an almost ethereal air ... which hardened directors were inclined to say showed her greatest acting talent to date.

"We shall send the carrrrr to the station," she was saying in her melodious accent, as she poured out the coffee after lunch. "We shall meet the fourrr o'clock trrrain."

"That's all very well," said Emerson pettishly. "But how do we know how many of them will be arriving by train? Eh?"

"Those who do not come by train will drrrive," she said, clearly becoming bored by the conversation - she was not famed for her concentration skills. "That is, if they can get through. They say, if it snows again, you will be cut off. What a country!"

She spoke with the contempt of someone who had lived through the depths of Swedish winters with comparative grace and ease ...

Emerson looked at her with irritation. "And what if all nine of them arrive by train? They won't all fit in the Rolls."

"Then Royce must make two trrrrips," she said coldly, and began to nibble on a piece of toast.

"Are their rooms ready?" he asked, lifting his newspaper.

She nodded. "I have told Mrs Patterson wherrrre they should all sleep. All is rrready for their arrival ... "

Royce reached the station yard at a little after three thirty. He parked and exchanged words with the stationmaster. Then, as it was the season of goodwill, he decided to stock up a little on his own ...

The Station Arms was not the most salubrious of establishments, but it was selling a special Christmas rum punch ...

At five to four, Royce made his slightly uncertain way back to the station, and through the booking hall to await the coming of the train on the platform ...

Major Stephen Dessard sat in the empty compartment perusing the financial section of the Times, pausing every few minutes to gaze as the winterland scenery passed outside his window. It had just left the London terminal and no doubt others would come along, looking for a place to sit. He sighed. Stephen was not a man that relished privacy, and his eyes travelled from the window to the door anxiously. At last it opened and the conductor entered after knocking, nodding to the distinguished-looking man. Stephen presented his ticket with a smile and the man wished him a "Merry Christmas".

The train jostled uncomfortably as it went around a bend in the tracks. Stephen cursed to himself, then grinned. He had high hopes for the coming holiday, high hopes indeed ...

The door opened again, and a talk lanky fellow half fell into the compartment as the train jostled again.

"I say, I'm most frightfully sorry," he said as he picked himself up. "I'm Oswald Skeffington-Nottle, don'tcha know?"

He took a seat opposite the Major and pulled out a sheet of headed notepaper. The crest of Little Staughton Hall was clearly visible on it. He looked up suddenly and across at the Major.

Dessard nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Skeffington-Nottle. Major Stephen Dessard, at your service."

Dessard's eyes lit up when he noticed the crest of Little Staughton Hall on the notepaper.

"I don't suppose you know what time we get to Chipping Campden, eh?" asked Skeffington-Nottle. "My guvnor will be bally well browned orf if I make a mess of this."

"4:30, I think. Mess of what?" Dessard asked. "Are you headed to Staughton Hall?"

Oswald nodded. "On my way there for Christmas. My old Dad wants to put some money into some tin mines or silver mines or something in Boliva that the old chap who has the Hall now owns. And there's talk of him giving me a job too. Me Father says it's giving him the gout seeing me sitting around at home all day since I came down from Cambridge. Says I might as well go and make my fortune in the City or some such thing."

"Silver? In Bolivia? Unstable region, my boy. I have a line on a diamond mine in the African colonies. My sources tell me that it will be very productive!" Dessard interjected.

Oswald continued, cheerfully, "I said 'what's the point of that? I've got all of Uncle Oliver's money sitting there in the bank vaults.' But there's no stopping the Pater once he gets one of his ideas."

He stopped with a pleasant, though somewhat vacant, grin - and then suddenly an idea came to him. You could see it. It was as though a rather large firework had gone off.

"I say!" he cried enthusiastically. "Are you going to the Hall too? That will be a wheeze, won't it?"

"Yes, I am. And I'm sure it will." Dessard smiled indulgently at the young fool. He glanced out the window. "Looks like we're pulling into the station. Care to share a car to the manor?"

Miles Secord was oblivious to the rhythmic clattering noise of the train as it sped through the white glazed countryside. He had paid extra for a private compartment, and was glad he had. Anyone looking into the compartment would see the handsome man taking in the view, a vague enigmatic smile on his lips. But the thoughts that assaulted the young man's mind were not dreams of sugar plumbs.

The snow covered countryside reminded him of the freezing winter in the trenches. He could almost hear the explosions, and the rattle of machine gun fire across no man's land. And the screaming, of course. It almost always seemed that he could hear the screaming any time things got quiet. A part of his mind wondered why he wasn't reminded of the peace of Nepal, but of the horrors of that war in France. Obviously this country scene bore greater similarity to France, than the jagged mountain peaks at the top of the world, but he knew there was more to it. He knew as long as he lived, he would always carry the killing fields of France with him.

He wished he could have driven his Stutz Bearcat here, but there had been no point in shipping his car across the ocean. He didn't plan on being in England that long, but driving would have kept his mind focused on thoughts other than recollections. On the other hand, he was not interested at all in learning to drive on the wrong side of the road.

Vaguely easing into his recollections was the realization that there were more and more buildings appearing. Soon they would be in town. He was glad Emerson heard he had been in London, and sent him the invitation to this Christmas event. He had been planning on seeing the old man anyway, but this looked to be an interesting event.

The brakes on the train squealed, and the pace of the chugging engine diminished as the train eased into the small town. When the train finally rolled to a stop at the station, Miles gathered up his gear, and headed for the platform.

Hermione Smithson literally fell from the train to the station as she arrived. Her mind was so occupied with the sights that she missed the first step and found herself falling into the arms of a porter.

She apologised profusely while trying to hide her embarrassment. With his help, she righted herself and the tiny hat atop her head. She quickly used her hands to smooth the wrinkles from her dress and wipe away the dust from the ride.

The porter look at her with mixed sympathy and disdain in his eyes. Obviously the woman was American so she was another of "those" kind.

"Can I, er, help you, Miss?"

She smiled tremulously, "Yes, they said there would be a car to take me to Staughton Hall. I have no idea where to look for him. It is my first time in this country....or anywhere outside of Boston for that matter."

Hearing this, Dr. Brandon Lawrence turned from his aimless scanning of the platform. "Did you say Staughton Hall? That's where I'm headed as well."

He smiled at Hermione, though he only met her eyes briefly before settling into apparently looking at something just past her shoulder. He scanned the platform again.

"Ah, there's my trunk," he added, nodding towards a couple of porters unloading a large steamer trunk; from their expressions, the trunk was unusually light for something that size. "Do you have any other luggage, Miss...? My name's Lawrence, by the way, Brandon Lawrence."

Hermione held her gloved hand out slowly and said in a rather meek voice, "My name is Hermione Smithson. Yes, I did say Staughton Hall. I am to be a guest there over the holiday."

She looked around the platform for a moment before finally she finally spotted her luggage. "Yes...yes there it is. I guess we should put them together as they seem to be going to the same location."

She smiled nervously as she asked, "Where are you from, Mr. Lawrence?"

Brandon caught the attention of the porters with his trunk, motioning them to put it down near him. "Mmm ... from? Ah, Monmouth, just inside Wales. And it's Doctor, actually, Miss Smithson."

He smiled in her general direction, though again his eyes made only the briefest of contact. "I'm staying over as well. You're American, right? Are you a friend of Mr. Emerson's, then?"

As the porters set down the trunk, he began a search through his pockets, eventually producing a small book, a spare pair of gloves, a pocket watch, and a handful of coins. This last, he gave as a tip, not bothering to count it out.

Hermione's lips pursed just a bit as she considered the man before her. She almost wanted to draw out her librarian's finger and point out to him that he was not exactly being polite, but decided that she hardly knew him to be giving him manner lessons.

"Actually I am a guest of his wife, Anja. I am president of the American branch of her fan club. She was most kind in inviting me for this visit. I suppose she wanted to help me get through this trying season. It will be the first Christmas I have spent alone since....well, anyway. Are you a friend of Mr. Emerson's?"

"Hmm? No, no. I'm here because of Anja as well. I'm her physician, you see. Fan club, you say? I've had a few problems with the, ah, local chapter. They hung around outside my office, hoping to see her. Well, they said they were fans, though I think one of 'em was a reporter, actually."

He smiled again, apparently oblivious to her opinion of his manners.

Miss. Clara Mulchop dropped settled wearily on her compartment seat, testing the air with her breath. She shivered a little deeper into her coat, pulling a book from her bag. "Poirot Investigates." She stripped off her leather gloves & sat seemingly entrenched until the train came to her stop. Snapping the book closed she inspected the cover, commenting aloud to herself. "This ridiculous Belgian detective. I'm sure he'll never catch on."

The porter grabbed her bag & extended a helping hand down to the platform. Miss. Mulchop nodded her thanks & took a look around for the car Wallace Emerson had promised to send. He was expecting a few others she had been informed. Guests down for the holiday. Unfortunately he had not given details as to who ...

From the compartment next to hers, she noted, a thin, grey-haired lady had just descended and was looking about vaguely. She wore a pale blue wool suit under a rather moth-eaten sable stole, and a hat of the same fur. She was carrying both a large handbag and a faded paisley carpetbag.

Catching sight of Miss Mulchop, the lady approached her and said, "Do excuse me, but I sense that you are a competent sort of person. Could you be so kind as to tell me if this is the proper station for Little Staughton? I have been -- I am Madame Anna Escuskiovna. Mrs. Emerson, Miss Anja Ericksson that is, was kind enough to invite me to visit over the holiday, but I am not perfectly sure . . . I seem to have misplaced her note, though I am certain I will be guided to it when it becomes necessary ... . There was to be a car. Is there a car?"

She looked up and down the platform, and then fixed Miss Mulchop hopefully with large, pale blue eyes.

"Miss.Mulchop, dear" Clara introduced herself. You're in the right place. No need to fret. I'm Mr.Emerson’s secretary. Actually I've just arrived myself. I'm filling in as a temp over the holiday."

Miss.Mulchop did a double take, looking her over quizzically. "Say dear, you're not ... Madame Escuskiovna the spiritualist?!" Spiritualists were quite the rage these days among the wealthy.

Miss.Mulchop stood on her toes looking around... "Ahh. There, I think." She said with confidence indicating a rather washed out looking man with a chauffeur hat. She linked her arm with Madame Escuskiovna & lead her over. "You're here for the party going to Little Staughton?"

It was really more of a statement rather than a question.

Miss Mulchop nodded in the direction of the Rolls. "Be a good chap & take her bag will you." Then she whispered in his ear. Close enough to get a whiff of his breath. Miss.Mulchop gave Royce a dry look & whispered a warning. "You don't want to tick her off." Pointing a perfectly manicured thumb in Madame Escuskiovna’s direction, & giving her a conspiratorial wink as she did. "She's a spiritualist."

Then she turned & said authoritatively with enough gusto to attract the attention of those in the immediate area..."Little Staughton anyone.."

Madame Escuskiovna was meanwhile telling Royce, "No thank you, please, I will keep my bag with me so as not to disturb the vibrations, but there is a trunk . . . they should be unloading a trunk from the baggage car," and she glanced rather worriedly in that direction. "Oh, I see it. The black one, with the blue roses . . ." She pointed with a gloved finger.

Davyd Smyth squinted into the whittling, freezing rush as he travelled quickly through the village. Evidence of a decisive snowballing victory could be seen as he tore past the Green and pointed his trusty bike towards the Hall.

The Hall. He'd seen a thousand bloody deaths in the trenches, and almost died a couple himself, but the idea of being surrounded by toffee-nosed blue-bloods really did send his stomach for a turn. Davyd didn't like people. They were, generally speaking, not very nice. But having received an invitation, the least he could do was turn up.

And so it was that as he turned the last corner and took in the full, magnificent view of the Hall, he dismounted his bike with a sigh. Walking nervously up to the front door, he rang the bell, took a deep breath, and waited. The door opened slowly, impressively, and there stood Beech the butler, an impressive figure. If quality could be bought by the yard, then Beech was very clearly priced at the very top end of the market. And his expression showed that he knew it all too well.

"Good afternoon, Sir," he said magnificently. "Whom shall I say is calling?"

When Davyd gave his name, it was clear that he was expected, for Beech inclined his head munificently.

"Will you come this way, please? The footman will take your ... " His eyes seemed to swell as he saw the kitbag that Davyd had brought in from the bike, "baggage ... to your room."

He led Davyd into the morning room, where Anja Ericksson was seated on a damasked sofa. She rose at once.

"Mr. Smyth?" she said. "How delightful that you were able to join us ... My husband is working in the library, but I hope he will be able to join us for tea ... " Even as she was speaking, the door bell violently jangled.

"Ah," she said. "This should be the guests that Royce went to fetch from the train ... He has been rather a long time."

Davyd nodded once at the invitation for tea and watched as she looked towards the door - quite relieved that he was out of the social spotlight.

Reginald Staughton trudged his way through the snow. He had stopped his driver just inside the small town because he wanted to walk the rest of the way to Little Staughton Manor. To see the 'old haunts' as it were. He had spent many Summer and Winter months in the area he now walked through. In what seemed so many years ago.

A wry smile crossed his boyish face as he saw the remains of youthful hopes and dreams scattered throughout the Green. In what had seemed another life he would have been with the children who had made the mess. But now . . . Reginald just shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his overcoat's pockets.

He was glad that he had sent the driver on ahead with his bags. That way he could keep his hands warmer. Besides, hadn't he dismissed the driver from any duties for the next several days? Before the war Reginald would have gladly made the driver wait on his beck and call throughout the holidays. That was then. Now Reginald saw the world through different eyes. He knew that the driver had some sort of family that he wanted to go home to. Why not let him?

At long last Reginald saw Little Staughton Manor. Reginald pulled out the invitation that had been sent to his mother and a guest should she want to have one. His mother had sent him to go in her stead. Besides, he had not seen his aunt in so many years.

Reginald saw a man at the door of the manor and quickened his pace to be able to enter when he did. The cold was playing havoc on his shoulder.

As he came closer, he could see that the man was a chauffeur. He touched his cap to Reginald.

"Good afternoon Sir. I just rang." And it was clear that he had from the fact that the door was slowly opening to reveal the magnificent figure of Beech the butler.

The chauffeur politely waited for his companion on the doorstep to identify himself, then said, "I have Miss Dalrymple-Smythe is the car. She sent me to ring and see everything was ready."

Spoilt little madam, his tone implied.

Even as he spoke a merry voice sounded out, "Hello Beech - it's me!" And a pretty young thing tripped lightly over the snow from the dark shadow of the Bentley. Her hair was soft and light, cut in a fashionable shingle, and her eyes were large and blue.

She saw Reginald and gave a gasp. "Why, it's Reggie Staughton, isn't it? Do you remember me? Lucy Dalrymple Smythe? We have a place near Lower Slaughter, only Mummy and Daddy have gone off to Scotland for Christmas ... and darling Anja asked me to stay here instead. She said she thought it was going to be deadly dull with so many friends of Wallace's and asked me to liven things up. She's my greatest friend, you know. She has been ever since Mr. Emerson asked Daddy to let me be her bridesmaid two years ago."

"I say," she added in consternation, as Beech showed them into the Hall, "you're not one of those business people, are you Reggie? Because then I would have been frightfully rude ... "

She turned her head. "You can go now, Marston. Have a lovely Christmas, and I shall see you on the 29th." Beech had been leading them into the morning room, where Anja Ericksson was standing with a dark young man.

"Darling!" shrieked Lucinda in delight and hurled herself towards Anja like an over-enthusiastic Labrador puppy.

Anja smiled coldly and took Lucinda's hands in hers, then leaned forward so that so that Lucinda could plant a kiss on each cheek.

"Darrrrling," she said. "Let me introduce David Smyth. And Reginald Staughton I think you already know ... "

"Now, Lucy darling, we have a full house this Christmas, so you will be sleeping in one of the Stable flats. I know you will enjoy that."

For a moment Lucinda's face fell, but then she declared stoutly. "Yes - it will be tremendous fun!"

The visibility was bad enough. And as the Spyker C4 motorcar sped and skidded this way and that, it was obvious that the driver couldn't see all that well regardless.

"Hee Hee Hee Hee!" cackled Clifford Viscount Fenwick, squinting through his glasses and windshield and snowstorm. "I say, Jane, I would've thought that damnable place would have popped up by now, wouldn't you say?" he asked with a crazy smile.

Suddenly, a quick JERK of the leather-wrapped steering wheel to the left, and the snowman flew past, missing Clifford's door by inches. Had the nose been real, and not a carrot, it may have picked up the sharp aroma of gin.

Jane squealed... not so much in terror, as in delight. She leaned sideways into Clifford's spare form from the seat beside him, grasping at his arm. "You got it!" she cried. "Three points! If it had been real..." she broke off, clutching his arm against the centrifugal forces that were propelling her lithe body this way and that. "Oh, rah! Faster-- faster!"

They had set out from London with a small pint bottle between them, just to take the edge off the day. No sense being too stiff and tense for a proper party. Designs for a new dress were running through Clifford's mind... he saw the cut, the folds, the fit... and as the scenery blurred past, barely noticed, it all began to come together, and he was happy.

"Where's that gin?" asked Jane, releasing for a moment one elegant hand to search amongst the disorderly layers of blankets in the seat. She squealed again-- followed with a quick laugh-- as the car lurched to the right.

Both hands gripping the wheel tightly, Clifford ducked his head low, peering beneath some privately beheld obstacle before him.

"It should be there my love..." he muttered through a mad grin, the cigarette holder in his teeth dancing with each word.

"Just a moment!" she called over the screech of tires.

She was fashionably garbed in a low cloche hat pinned with a turquoise faience scarab, and wrapped up in in fur-trimmed leathers. Beneath the layers of ermine, heavily lined eyes focused on the task at hand, and poisonous, cupid's-bow lips were pursed, now, in concentration.

"Here it is!" she calls, holding it aloft, victoriously.

"Ah, lovely!" the Viscount decided. He wore an ensemble of black and purple, perfectly tailored to his slim frame, with a soft scarf of silk slung sleekly about his slender neck.

Without warning, a chimney appeared out of the gloom, bearing down on them like a vengeful lover. Black-gloved hands ripped sideways, pulling the chimney off course, and with a furtive glance sideways, Clifford muttered to himself, "... oh, that's just silly!" before slamming on the brakes.

The powerful vehicle slid sideways in the snow-slicked road, coming to rest at a perfect angle for the couple to gaze appraisingly at what wasn't a chimney at all.. but rather a large column on one side of an ornate gate. Another stood beside it, two sober sentries in the night.

Looking sidelong at his date, Clifford flashed a smile. "My Dear, I believe we have arrived, lah!"

Bringing the C4 back around, the fashion designer pointed it between the columns and took it carefully (oddly enough) up the driveway towards Little Staughton Hall.

Coming to rest next to a motorcycle, Clifford collected himself and leapt from the vehicle. Jogging around the front, he slipped, and almost fell on his backside but for the hood's intervention. Laughing, he reached Jane's door and opened it for her, offering her a gloved hand. "I say, are we ready to dazzle?" They were late, of course, but dinner had yet to be served...

"Oh, yes!"

She took his hand and sprung out with an equal amount of gusto, as a scandalously bare knee peeked from beneath her dress coat. Her shoes were the low-heeled "finale-hoppers"-- tres chic this year-- and they were luckily substantially *less* dangerous than a lady's shoes could conceivably have been in this weather.

She popped out of the car, breath making lovely puffs of steam in the icy air, cheeks all flushed from drink and cold. Drawing towards Clifford as if for warmth, she turned up the nearly-empty gin bottle, taking a good swig, and passed it to him.

"Bottoms up, darling!" she admonished. "We've nearly finished it!"

"Oh, smashing!" Grabbing it with relish, he spun the cap off in a single motion and turned it up, the remaining contents disappearing quickly.

They headed toward the light of the doorway, slipping on snow-concealed obstacles and grasping each other for support, in a tizzy of half-suppressed, drunken laughter.

They had just reached the low porch-- remaining somehow upright-- when she threw herself against the door and struck a pose, suddenly turning on Clifford with an inordinate amount of drama.

"We shall simply kill!" she asserted, with wide, serious eyes... blinking against the snowflakes that so wanted to collect there.

But she bubbled over with laughter in a moment, and straightened up.

"We look smashing! Let's ring, shall we?"

"At once!" Clifford demanded, and reached past her to turn the door bell switch. After a few good turns, he inspected his attire briefly, brushing errant flakes and lint from his overcoat while he waited to be admitted.

The magnificent Beech opened the door once more. Doubtless the pair he surveyed were used to covertly hostile stares from butlers, but this time there seemed something more - as though they were not the people he was expecting at all.

"Who shall I say is arrived?"

Clifford beamed at him, oblivious to any subtleties in Beech's manner. Or so it seemed. His view of the large butler lasted but a second, as the thick, cold glass lenses propped on his face began to gather moisture from the warmer air of the entrance hall. It didn't seem to slow him down, however.

"May I present Miss Jane Blume," he offered, "and I am Clifford, Viscount Fenwick!" he added with enthusiasm. He was now glancing around at the entrance and the hall beyond, over the top of his fogged glasses, as he removed Jane's overcoat for her. Handing it to Beech, (or rather, handing it to a spot of air next to Beech) he removed his own next.

"Are we terribly late?" asked Jane, clearly not expecting an answer. "We are, aren't' we? The roads were simply dreadful, though! If Cliffie dear wasn't such a smashing driver..."

She giggled, thinking that they would be smashed soon enough...

The viscount continued, "Oh, I'm so excited! It's been weeks since I've seen my little Anja!"

Handing his overcoat and scarf to Beech, Clifford smiled and removed his glasses to wipe them off.

"Our luggage is in the Spyker parked outside," he said, handing the keys to the overloaded Beech.

"I'm afraid I've brought quite a wardrobe for the stay!" Jane warned him good-naturedly.

"Do be careful, won't you?" continued Clifford, "A fine beast she is... (speaking of the Spyker, not Jane!) Now, where is that Anja?"

"Oh, yes!" enthused Jane. "Where is Anja?"

She turned to Clifford, conspiratorially. "Shan't she be jealous when she sees me wearing your latest tonight at dinner? But I daresay she'll have something almost as lovely..."

Jane smiled attractively at the Butler, taking in his height.

"My," she breathes. "Aren't you impressive!"

Leaning in close, Clifford placed his face next Jane's, and looked the Butler up and down with her (through his newly cleaned glasses), looking uncharacteristically serious. His eyes looked to be at least twice their actual size, when viewed through the thick lenses. He twirled one curled end of his moustache as he scrutinized...

"Isn't he now..." Clifford finally agreed softly.

"Please come this way."

He lead them into the morning room where Anja waited alone, a peevish expression on her face. When she saw them, her face lightened slightly.

"Oh ... darrrrlings! Therrre you arrre."

She moved forwards to permit them to kiss her cheeks.

"Oh, Anja!" gushed Jane. "Aren't you are just as lovely as ever? I'm am in such a festive mood." Indeed, Anja may be able to tell just how festive, by the scent of juniper and alcohol. "It was so kind of you to ask us to your party... I'm sure it will be a smash!"

Taking Anja's hands, Clifford pecked each of her cheeks, and stepped back, holding her hands and looking her up and down appraisingly. He beamed.

"Fabulous!" he told her, "Absolutely fabulous! It's so good to see you again, you haven't been around lately!" he pouted.

"I have sent the others up to drrrress ... I shall be going myself shortly. I am worrrried though. That fool Rrrroyce should have been back an hour ago. And all we have had is some stupid telegram for poor Wally."

"Oh, bother Royce and Wally," said Jane good-naturedly. "They'll get here eventually. Just wait until you see what I'm wearing tonight! Just wait!"

"What of you? Will you dress immediately? We shall wait dinner half an hour if we have to for the otherrrrs."

"Oh, I suppose we should dress soon..." Clifford replied distractedly. "But I do so want to snoop around a bit! Be a darling and show us our rooms, won't you? And then we can sneak about!" He turned to Jane, "What do you think, Janey?"

"My, yes, that would be fabulous!" answered Jane decisively. "Why, this house is ever-so-big. Oh, do show us about a bit Anja, dear, and tell us about the house. It's so old, it must have simply scads of history attached to it..."

Anja rose languidly. "Verrry well then, darrrlings."

She pointed to the door through which they had entered. "Through there is the entrance hall ... and the dining room. Tomorrow we shall have a grand tourrr. For now, I shall show you too your rrrrooms."

So saying she led them through the door on the opposite wall, through the living room and beyond. She indicated, almost disparagingly, the library.

"Wallace is always in there, working away ... Let us see."

She knocked on the heavy wooden door, then pushed it soundlessly open. The library was a splendid room, furnished from floor to ceiling with leather bound volumes (although if you looked closely, you would see that many of them were nineteenth century sermons, that splendid resource of those who buy their books by the yard). A low desk lamp was on, illuminating the vast desk, a modern incongruity in the centre of the room, but clearly considered necessary for the industrialist's comfort. Industrialist, however, was there none.

"He has gone to our rrrroom to change," said Anja. "As I must do. Come, let me show you."

She led them now into the Great Hall, not even bothering to illuminate it fully.

"Later," she promised, and then up the spiral staircase ... Clifford's room was on the first floor, and closest to the staircase. As she pushed open the door there was an impression of rich red damask and a fire burning in a huge grate. There was also a rather large four poster bed. His luggage was already there and a young footman was unpacking it.

"You and the other ladies are upstairs with our room, darrrling," she told Jane.

They ascended another level. Jane's room was above Clifford's and slightly over half the size. However, the bed was a smaller and more conventionally modern one, and the room was a delicately cream, with a pretty purple sprigged motif in the curtains, bed linens and cushions. Her luggage was also in place, and a housemaid was unpacking it.

"Oh, miss!" she exclaimed. "Such lovely things!"

"I shall leave you now," said Anja. "We shall meet downstairs for sherrrry at seven thirrrty."

And so saying, she left.

Miss Mulchop was successful in attracting the attention of all who descended the train - in other words, not only herself and Miss Escuskiovna but also Major Dessard and Oswald Skeffington-Nottle, Hermione Smithson and Dr Brandon Lawrence, and Miles Secord.

Dessard introduced himself to the other travellers. A hearty handshake from a well-tanned hand was given to each of the gentlemen, and he made sure to open the door for Miss Mulchop while the driver loaded the luggage.

Miss.Mulchop beamed. "Thank you so much Major Dessard."

Seven is rather a squash in a Rolls - so the practical Miss Mulchop organised for the solitary station taxi to accompany them. In this she proposed to put all the luggage that could not be accommodated in the capacious boot of the Rolls, as well as two volunteers from the house party.

"I say, I'll do it," said Oswald. "It'll be jolly good fun, what? Come on Dessard, you'll join me, won't you?"

And before the Major could protest, he had been bundled into the back of the station cab by his new-found friend.

The remainder left Royce to arrange their luggage, and climb into the Rolls. Miss Mulchop, as befitted a member of the staff, sat in the front, leaving the other four to seat themselves in the back. As all were well wrapped up against the cold, it was a full car load.

Madame Escuskiovna's carpetbag, which she insisted on placing in the footwell at her feet, tended to overlap into the foot-space of her seat partner as well, at whom she smiled apologetically.

Royce, grumbling somewhat, arranged the luggage. The taxi driver, who could (and indeed should) help, chose to stay in the warmth of his cab.

By the time they started off, it was starting to snow again. Royce drove carefully, aware of the poor light, bad weather and the alcohol in his bloodstream (he always maintained that a couple of glasses steadied his nerve, just as it had done during the War). It was thus that a journey that should have taken twenty to thirty minutes had lasted fully an hour ...

The snow came and went in flurries, as though it couldn't really make up its mind what it wanted to do ... But there was a suspicious that when it finally did decide, there would be a blizzard ...

It was dark as they drove through the Gloucestershire country lanes, but the snow itself caught what light there was in the sky and reflected it back, giving the whole landscape an eerie glow ... when they emerged from the snow storm to a more tranquil stretch on the side of the Windrush valley. Below them, the Windrush was a black border, underlining a division between two long sloping hills.

Brandon Lawrence started the trip amiably enough, introducing himself to the other passengers, but as the trip dragged on, his mood seemed to sour. The motion of the car wasn't doing his stomach any favors, to judge from the expression on his face, and he stopped talking altogether, staring out the window.

Anna stared out the window at the falling flakes, thinking of Russia . . . the windswept towers of St. Petersburg, the snow-covered plains of Siberia . . . The weather would help her, would help Grigori come to her, she was certain.

Royce turned off and slowly started the descent to Little Staughton. The taxi-cab followed cautiously ... a drop in temperature meant that the roads were already freezing. The lights in the cottages were glowing; the Bull, as they passed it, seemed almost to radiate with the warmth and glow of the company there.

Dessard sat quietly in the rear of the taxi. He studied the landscape as they rode on; it had been some years since he'd seen snowfall, and smiled to himself at the silhouettes of snowmen and broken snow-forts as they passed quickly by.

Then the great car started slowly up the hill to the Hall. A winding, twisting lane that took them through a small beech forest ... and then a sudden sharp turn to the left, past the tall pillars of the gates ... a much sharper angle this way than when coming from the London road.

At this point, either the weather or the alcohol told. The Rolls began to skid; Royce struggled to correct it, struggled too hard ... and the car span the other way, ending with its nose in a ditch. Everyone was thrown violently forwards, then back. But as they had only been travelling at about five miles an hour, no-one was injured ... although all, were of course, much shaken.

Anna, jolted out of her reverie, looked about, blinking, and exclaimed rather inadequately, "Oh, dear."

Behind them, the taxi drew up rather more circumspectly.

"I say!" cried Oswald, leaping from the cab, Major Dessard and the driver close behind, "are you chaps all right?"

Dr. Lawrence sat very still, clutching at his stomach. He glared daggers at Royce, but said nothing. Getting out of the car, he walked a bit off and took several deep breaths, ignoring Oswald's inquiries.

Dessard aided in assisting the occupants from the Rolls with a steady hand. "Here you go. No one injured? That's a blessing, at least."

The taxi driver spoke to Royce. "You've been and gone and done it now, mate. This barge of yours is clear across the road. No-one will be able to get in or out until you get is shifted ... and you won't be doing that for a few hours yet with the weather like it is."

Indeed, as he spoke, another light flurry of snow started. There is no alternative but to walk the intervening mile of the long drive of the Hall with all the luggage.

The male guests, as well as Royce, gallantly offered to take as much of the luggage as they could. Indeed, the obliging Oswald transformed himself into a veritable pack horse ....

As the other men offered to carry luggage, Dr Lawrence belatedly chimed in, adding, "Most of my trunk's empty, so we can put some smaller items inside, make them less awkward to carry." He opened his trunk, revealing a few sets of clothes, a black doctor's bag, and a travelling case for a rifle, plus plenty of spare room.

The taxi driver flatly refused to help. He wanted to get back before the weather got any worse. He turned to Clara (the person who had hired him) and demanded the outrageous sum of two guineas ...

"Outrageous. You refused to even help with the luggage! Here, take the guineas and be off with you!" Dessard handed the taxi-driver the coins and called after him, "And Merry Christmas!"

He actually sounded sincere.

"Hate letting them think they took advantage; I don't mind paying, especially on Christmas, but I'll at least let them know that I know they're overcharging." Dessard explained with a grin to the party.

Again Miss.Mulchop thanked the Major, flashing him a bright smile. "Tis the Season & all that! Very generous of you Major Dessard."

Brandon ignored the byplay between the cab driver and Dessard, instead grimly setting to dragging his trunk towards the hall.

Once the taxi driver had gone, the party had nothing left to do, but to make their way up the drive, in the dark and the thickening snow, to the Hall. At one point, as Oswald piped up with his seventh or so repetition of "Well, it's certainly a _brisk_ day for a hike," Brandon muttered what sounded to be dire imprecations in a foreign tongue, then suddenly looked around abashedly and set off faster.

Somewhat surprisingly for a woman of her years, Madame Escuskiovna did not seem too discommoded by the snow, though the fact that her garb included a pair of stout fur-trimmed boots may have had something to do with this. She trudged along next to Oswald (who was carrying her trunk), not seeming to mind (if,indeed, she even heard) his continual cheerful patter. As they came within sight of the impressive facade of Little Staughton Hall, however, she paused, staring up at the building through the blowing snow. She took a deep breath.

"Yes ..." she intoned. "I am sure of it ... there are ... vibrations. Darkness ... blood upon the snow ... intimations of DEATH."

Miss Mulchop shivered excitedly at this pronouncement, casting a hand over her brow & stopping to take a gander at the building herself.

"Oh yes, well one would hope wouldn't they! Can you just see it? Some elegant body wrapped in garland under the tree!"

She blushed, though it was hardly noticeable beneath the blush the cold air had put on her cheeks. Apologising for her enthusiasm she quickened her steps toward the manor.

End of Chapter 1