The Twelve Clues of Christmas by Rhys Bowen Page A

get the morning papers,” he said, striding toward us. “Mrs. Huggins likes her
Daily Mirror
and Mr. Coward likes the
Times
and I like a morning walk. Lovely down here, ain’t it? Smashing, eh?”
    “Yes, it’s lovely,” I said.
    He picked up something in my manner. “Why, what’s the matter, love?”
    “One of the old ladies who lives in this house has just died in suspicious circumstances. This is Lady Hawse-Gorzley. You met her daughter yesterday.” I turned to her. “This is my grandfather. He used to be in the Metropolitan Police. Perhaps it might be a good thing if he came with us.”
    “Oh, dear.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked worried. “Surely we’re only dealing with another ghastly accident, aren’t we? You yourself just said that deaths come in threes.”
    “I said bad things come in threes,” I corrected. “And I hope we are just dealing with a ghastly accident. But it couldn’t hurt if my grandfather came with us to take a look.”
    “But the ladies won’t be ready to receive gentlemen callers at this hour,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley exclaimed in horror. “They may still be in their night attire.”
    Granddad laughed. “I’ve seen worse than night attire in my thirty years on the force,” he said. “Still, I won’t come in if I’m not wanted.”
    Lady Hawse-Gorzley relented. “It might be useful to have a trained professional eye on the scene. And I suppose the police will have to be called eventually.”
    We went up the path to the front door. It was a solid, square Georgian house in local Devon sandstone and was of pleasing proportions. The type of house the old wool merchants built for themselves when wool meant prosperity. We found the front door still ajar. Lady Hawse-Gorzley pushed it open and we were met in the front hall by a frantic-looking housekeeper. Her apron was on askew and her hair an unsightly mess.
    “Oh, it’s you, Lady Hawse-Gorzley. What a terrible thing to happen. Poor Miss Effie. We sent the girl to telephone for the doctor.”
    “Dickson is helping her do so at this moment,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “This gentleman is a former detective from Scotland Yard. He may be able to throw some light on what happened.”
    “Throw some light,” the woman said. “There was something wrong with that gas, that’s all. What else could there be?”
    We went up a broad curved staircase and were met at the top by Miss Prendergast, who was trying to give an impression of being calm while clearly being considerably agitated.
    “Thank God somebody else has come,” she said. “What a terrible business. I didn’t believe it when the maid ran out in hysterics. But I’m afraid it’s true. See for yourselves.”
    She opened the door to a bedroom. The faint odor of gas still lingered, but the windows were wide open and an ice-cold breeze blew in. I glanced at the small white figure in the bed. She looked so tiny, so frail. I looked away hurriedly and rather wished I hadn’t come. What had made me think I could be of any use?
    Granddad looked around. “I don’t know how she managed to kill herself in a big room like this with the windows open,” he said.
    “Oh, no, I opened the windows,” Miss Prendergast said quickly. “Everyone here was in such a state, they hadn’t even thought to do so. So it was the first thing I did. I turned off the gas and opened the windows or we might all have suffered the same fate as Miss Effie. They were shut tightly. The smell in here was horrible. Poor woman. It had to have been a malfunction. Either that or one of the servants turned it on and forgot to light it properly. Of course, you’ll never get her to own up to it now.”
    Lady Hawse-Gorzley sniffed contemptuously. “That’s what comes of sleeping with the windows shut. Nasty, unhealthy habit. Good fresh air never hurt anyone.”
    “Well, that’s the strange thing, ma’am,” the housekeeper said. “Miss Effie usually slept with her window open, and the door open too. Miss