Jeannie gave me a dark look. ‘By all means’—she gestured with a grand sweep toward the staircase—‘go, go and see for yourselves if you don’t think I know what a dead body looks like!’
Miles and I glanced at each other. Then, reluctantly, we headed up the stairs.
The room Clem and Fergus had been staying in lay in the west wing of the house, two doors down from Jeannie’s bedroom. We made our way there, each step seeming an eternity. We stood outside the door, both looking at the worn bronze doorknob, neither of us making a move to touch it.
‘Ladies first,’ said Miles.
‘She’s your family,’ I replied. I took his hand and together we opened the door.
The room was dimly lit, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. It was freezing cold, the curtains swaying as the sash window beyond was cracked open slightly. Our breath billowed into mist. A musty scent hung in the air, mingled with the faint smell of lavender. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, we could make out the shape of Aunt Clem lying in the large four-poster bed, her yellow-silver hair spread across the pillow. I could see from here that she was still wearing the hairband she’d worn the day of the gingerbread competition. I realised that it was the last time I’d seen her alive.
Miles squeezed my hand tightly as we approached. I held my breath, half expecting– hoping– to see the rise and fall of Clem’s chest. But as we drew closer, the utter stillness became unmistakable. Her face was waxy and pale, her eyes half closed, her mouth slightly open with an inherently displeased expression. There was no denying the absence of life. She was as still as the bedside table next to her.
‘Oh, God,’ Miles whispered, his voice catching. He reached out a trembling hand to touch Clem’s cheek, then quickly withdrew it. ‘She’s freezing.’
We didn’t need to check a pulse. There was no mistaking she was long dead. We stood there, almost unable to prise our eyes away.
Four deaths.
Jeannie had lied to the detective.
And still all I could think was,God, how I wish I wrote crime novels.
* * *
We were sat around the kitchen island in a numbed silence when we heard an almighty crash outside. Almost as if we were expecting it, almost as if we were anticipating the end of the world as we knew it, and this was just another link in the chain of events.
Rushing out of the kitchen, Miles reached the front door first and flung it open. It was dark outside, slicing rain spitting down and dancing in front of the headlights of a car that illuminated the now broken stone fountain on the driveway.
Jeannie gave a little yelp as Miles flew down the steps towards the car. I knew Jeannie well enough to know the yelp was for the damaged fountain and not for the occupant of the car.
I followed Miles, my slippers slapping against the wet stones. The car door creaked open, and a figure dressed in red stumbled out, silhouetted against the glare of the headlights. I squinted against the dark punctuated by the blazing headlights. There was a big white beard.
‘What the hell?!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that…?’
As I drew closer, I recognised the pale gold Volvo as Fergus and Clem’s car.
‘Good God, Uncle Fergus, what happened?’ Miles shouted over the patter of rain.
Fergus swayed on his feet, in full Santa Claus regalia.
‘’Ello,’ he hiccoughed. He swayed again and Miles caught him before he faceplanted into the gravel. He leaned dangerously as Miles attempted to get him up to the house.
Jeannie was squinting into the rain and the dark.
‘Who on earth is it? What the bleeding hell’s going on?’
‘It’s Fergus,’ Miles managed. ‘He’s absolutely blotto.’
I rushed to help Miles, grabbing Fergus’s other arm. My eyes watered at the reek of whisky and peppermint schnapps. We half carried, half dragged him up the steps, his boots scraping against the stone.
‘Careful now,’ I muttered as we manoeuvred him through the doorway. Jeannie stood aside, her face skewed with deep irritation.
‘What on earth is he doing dressed like that?’ Jeannie’s voice rose an octave. ‘He’s dripping all over the floor,’ she snapped, before disappearing into the kitchen, likely in search of towels.
We deposited Fergus into the leather wingback next to the fire and he flopped down with a whoosh of air and a groan. With his fake beard askew and his red suit rumpled, he looked like Santa had crash-landed and was deeply regretting his life choices. He was also soaked through, the white trim of his jacket stained an odd pinkish colour.
‘Fergus,’ Miles said, kneeling beside him. ‘Where have you been?’
