Murder Most Festive: A Cozy Christmas Mystery

Copyright © 2021 by Ada Moncrieff

Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

Cover illustration © Bobby Evans/Telegramme Co.

Internal design by Holli Roach/Sourcebooks

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

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Originally published as Murder Most Festive in 2020 in the United Kingdom by Vintage, an imprint of Penguin Random House UK. This edition issued based on the paperback edition published in 2020 in the United Kingdom by Vintage, an imprint of Penguin Random House UK.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Moncrieff, Ada, author.

Title: Murder most festive / Ada Moncrieff.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021]

Identifiers: LCCN 2021014772 (print) | LCCN 2021014773 (ebook) | (trade paperback) | (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Christmas stories. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6113.O533 M87 2021 (print) | LCC PR6113.O533

(ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021014772

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021014773

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

1

Christmas Eve had arrived in Little Bourton accompanied by a liberal scattering of snow, and Westbury Manor, its imposing turrets newly sprinkled in white, was preparing itself for imminent festivities.

It may be argued that the true toil of these preparations was to be found belowstairs: in the pressures of obeying the orders issued by the indefatigable housekeeper, or in the meticulous plucking of not one but three turkeys—one would not suffice, for this year Lady Westbury had, in one of her endearing whims, chosen to open the family circle to a select handful of additional guests—or in ensuring that the fresh kidneys and bacon to be served for the guests’ breakfast were not confused with the day-old kidneys and bacon to be served for Bruno’s dinner. The Westburys’ skittish and demanding Labrador was notoriously fussy about his meals.

Indeed, one may sympathize with such an argument. But to locate the true toil of Christmas preparations, we must convey ourselves upstairs, pausing perhaps to admire the grandfather clock rumored to have been carved from an oak tree under which Lord Byron himself had once lain (decency dictates that we refrain from further speculation), and into the library, where a scene of true Christmas toil was unfolding at precisely five-and-twenty minutes to five.

Must you be quite so incessantly unbearable? I’m sure this performance impresses that band of merry idiots at the club, but— Lydia Westbury was cut short by the smash of a whisky glass, mercifully not a crystal one, and the uproarious hooting that accompanied it.

Oh, do excuse me, sister dearest. I always did have rotten luck with my grip. Caused no end of bother to the cricket chaps. I just thought I ought to do something to stop your whingeing. It really is most tiresome. Draped in a leather armchair, his velvet dressing gown carelessly cascading off one shoulder and his slippers discarded somewhere near the philosophy section, Stephen Westbury smirked and, putting the decanter to his mouth, drained what remained of the whisky.

Lydia glared at him, lounging so indolently before her. Each visit from her younger brother saw her aghast anew at his unrepentant arrogance. As children, it had been galling enough. Governess after governess indulged him, taking as gospel his account of disagreements in which he had cruelly bruised Lydia with his words, their brother, Edward, with his fists. Stephen had floated through childhood impervious to unfairness; his siblings, on the other hand, had been constantly oppressed by it. The advantages and opportunities lavished upon him had been manifold, and Lydia’s resentment only continued to calcify as they entered adulthood.

The years had taught her to cultivate a studied indifference to his actions. She bit her tongue when he brought his insufferable cronies home for the weekend and ignored them as they indulged in hunting by day, drinking by night. She never kicked up a fuss when one of the clowns accidentally blundered into her bedroom at night, necessitating a firm and swift push back out again. This year, however, she was in no mood to countenance his behavior.

The least you could’ve done was come to the service this morning. Oh wait, of course, I forget myself—you’re Stephen Westbury, big man of the City, motoring down from Chelsea to grace us all. There’s no earthly reason you would consider anyone else’s feelings, especially not at Christmas. How utterly silly of me.

Stephen dangled his leg over the arm of the chair and ostentatiously yawned, a gesture designed when he was thirteen to provoke her, and faultlessly finessed since then.

Well, it appears to me that I’m rather deserving of a little entertainment at Christmas. Stephen carelessly drove his hand through hair that had always given him a decidedly cherubic demeanor—an illusion that had seen him disentangle himself from innumerable scrapes during his school career and beyond.

Money doesn’t make itself. I work like a beast at the bank, and I shall jolly well take my fun when and where I can. Yes, fun, Lydia, a concept alien to you and our dear little brother. So do excuse my enjoying myself while little Edward scurries around the gutter being a holier-than-thou do-gooder telling us all how awful we are because we don’t live in squalor. And while you maintain your profoundly pathetic commitment to being an old maid rattling around this blasted house—which won’t ever actually be yours. Yes, do accept my apologies.

Snarling and indignant, her hazel eyes flashing, Lydia spat, You’re an ass, Stephen, a pompous ass, and when you inherit this house, I hope it crumbles around you!

Well, well, well, is that kind of language really called for, darling? Lord Westbury placed a rather trembling hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Lydia, consumed by indignation in the face of Stephen’s goading, had failed to notice her mother and father entering the library behind her. Stephen, ever vigilant to the presence of his parents and therefore eternally well-placed to manipulate a situation to his advantage, had been gleefully aware of Lord and Lady Westbury witnessing his sister’s outburst.

Lady Westbury glided over to her son and kissed his forehead lightly. Still a striking woman, her understated charisma and attractive composure had earned her ardent fans ever since she was a debutante and invitations to her soirées were, to this day, highly coveted.

Turning to her daughter she purred, Darling, I really think you ought to exercise a little more delicacy. It is rather unbecoming to hear such ugly words issued from so pretty a mouth.

Oh Mother, it’s 1938, not 1838. Shockingly, it’s believed in certain quarters that women might—just might—be able to curse without spontaneously combusting. And in any case, I’m not one of those prim little moppets you seem intent on convincing everyone that I am, Lydia retorted, pacing to the window in a bid to avoid the smug face of her brother. I shan’t need smelling salts for uttering the word ‘ass,’ any more than I shall swoon should any gentleman dare to address me.

Damned shocking business if any gentleman bothered to address you anymore, eh, sis? You’ve scared ’em all off, haven’t you? Stephen stretched and winked at his father.

Now, now, Stephen, let’s have none of that. Lord Westbury’s somewhat half-hearted reprimand was accompanied by a suppressed smile. Lydia had always been a mystery to her father. Three proposals she had received, and three proposals she had declined—in increasingly impatient terms. Lord Westbury had countless questions regarding his only daughter’s predicament—thirty-two and unmarried—but, having witnessed the short shrift with which she treated most enquiries on the matter, he knew he would never dare pose them. Stephen, on the other hand: three years younger than Lord Westbury’s riddle of a daughter, a chap one knew the measure of, a solid chap who would undoubtedly take the Westbury name to ever greater heights.

As for his youngest child, Edward…well, the less said about him the better. Running around with all this newspaper business by day, spending his weekends serving up slop for the down-and-outs at the Charitable House Run by Gullible Do-Gooders for the Benefit of Scrounging Swindlers. He was living goodness knew where in London, turning his nose up at his allowance. Lord Westbury knew he mustn’t dwell on Edward; that way frustration lay. Where was Edward, in any case? he wondered. No doubt still upstairs scribbling some article about those squalid people he insisted had been doomed to destitution through no fault of their own.

My boy, I think it’s high time you clambered out of your rather sinister attire and readied yourself for our guests. Lord Westbury cheerfully addressed Stephen while stepping rather unsteadily toward the bell on the table. And let’s have this glass cleared up, shall we? Only cheap old stuff anyway—saving the crystal for your mother’s special guest tonight.

The tinkling of the service bell was met by a creaking of the door, much to Lord Westbury’s bewilderment—these downstairs folk, speedier and stealthier by the day, barely even time for the bell to have rung. Were it one of the downstairs folk, however, Stephen would swiftly have ejected himself from the room for fear of boredom. But his spiteful mirth had found another subject to poke. "What is it that the French say? Cherchez le frightful bore droning on about ‘social injustice’ and the frightful bore droning on about ‘social injustice’ shall appear?"

Skulking into the library, the youngest Westbury glared at his brother, used to such prodding. He shuffled over to Lydia, now glowering at the other three members of his family. Although only fifteen months apart in age, the temperaments of the Westbury brothers had always presented a striking contrast. Throughout their childhood, Stephen’s spiteful gaiety had been matched by Edward’s thoughtful intensity, and the two brothers had followed endlessly diverging paths as they entered adulthood—Stephen tumbling recklessly into it, Edward progressing rather more warily. Both had traveled from London for the festive period, the elder in a fog of brandy and cigars, the younger in a cloud of anxiety about events in Europe, events that his family willfully ignored.

Come to tick us off again about enjoying what we’ve earned, rather than throwing it into the gutter so those pitiful specimens you consort with can waste it down at the dogs? Stephen sneered. Or are we to expect another splash in that rag you write for? Ought we to ask our solicitor round again?

Lydia clenched her jaw. Don’t listen to him, Eddy—he’s being even more of an ass than usual.

Before Lady Westbury could protest about the repeated use of such vulgarity, there was a knock at the library door. The new footman, a local lad, whose pride in his new role was reflected—very literally—in his gleaming shoes, cleared his throat before enunciating, Milud and milady, a Mr. Campbell-Scott has arrived.

Oh! Very good, Jim. We shall be with him momentarily. Show him to the drawing room. Lord Westbury clapped his hands together at the prospect of seeing his old friend after an absence of… How long had it been?

Never known for his sprightliness, Edward visibly soured further. Lydia’s pleading with him earlier that day—just be civil, nothing more, nothing less, we can all gain something from it—had ended in a terse exchange, during which Edward had made it very clear that David Campbell-Scott’s inclusion in this year’s dinner was a most unwelcome one.

Well, in that case, I’d best get myself dressed and hear what the old chap’s been up to all these years moldering about abroad, Stephen said, unpeeling himself from the armchair at a leisurely pace as Lady Westbury surreptitiously offered her arm to steady her husband.

Lydia rolled her eyes. I daresay that David’s achieved more when ‘moldering about’ than you have in all your City shenanigans. I shouldn’t wonder that you might learn something from him if you actually cared to listen.

Stephen, adept at formulating a barb and waiting until his parents had left a room before deploying it, turned to his sister. Oh yes, we must all listen to the esteemed David Campbell-Scott. Mustn’t say a word against old moneybags. After all, as his dearest darling goddaughter, those moneybags’ll be yours once the old sod pops his clogs.

2

As the allegedly Byronic grandfather clock languidly struck five (for how else would a Byronic clock strike?), a man of imposing stature stood in the drawing room, dazzled by the famed Westbury Christmas tree. The tree was seven feet of unabashed festive extravagance, festooned with baubles, strewn with tinsel; and nestled beneath its copious canopy were many immaculately wrapped gifts. For David Campbell-Scott, this trip was something of a novelty. In fact, this entire English winter was something of a novelty, it being the first he had experienced since upping sticks and taking himself to Malaya eight years ago in pursuit of fame and fortune. Though fame had evaded him, fortune had become one of his closest acquaintances. And now here he was in Little Bourton, having gladly accepted the invitation to join his old school chum for the festivities.

Flighty! Old bean! Lord Westbury bellowed (as much as his voice would permit a bellow) and strode (as much as his legs would permit a stride) over to Campbell-Scott. So entrenched was the nickname Flighty that neither man could recall its precise origins; they were sure it had something to do with their old Latin master, but then again it was equally possible that its provenance lay in that incident with the goose. No matter, it had stuck.

A spectator in possession of an astute eye (in fact, even an eye whose acuity was diminished by the generous measures of sherry now being sloshed into glasses by Lord Westbury) might notice a contrast presented by the two men. Indeed, on learning that they had been born just a month apart, such an eye might widen in surprise. David Campbell-Scott’s entire bearing radiated the easy confidence of one who is intimately acquainted with vitality, prosperity, and power. Our spectator would be forgiven for concluding that the frail, stooping figure beside him was perhaps an aging uncle or a doting benefactor. Lord Westbury’s sherry sloshing and pipe smoking had caught up with him, as had time’s winged chariot.

While our astute-eyed spectator might frown in concern at the evident ill health of Lord Westbury, his wife watched him contentedly as he greeted his friend. David was, as she had identified many years earlier, a man of irreproachable character and admirable ambition. The Great War had seen him prove his valor in the field, while the subsequent years had demonstrated his clear-sighted view of the world, which had rewarded him in his Malayan ventures. How they had laughed when he had announced his intention to blaze a trail in the rubber production business. But look at him now. The only potential blot in his copybook was that rather unfortunate incident with Edward. But, as Lady Westbury was all too aware, her youngest son was a sensitive type, and his refusal to discuss said unfortunate incident made it difficult to place any blame with David.

Lord Westbury and Campbell-Scott were guffawing at some joke or another when Lydia joined them, embracing her godfather with an ease that Lady Westbury rarely witnessed in her daughter.

"Now, David, you must forgive us—we shall be bombarding you incessantly with questions about your adventures! How parochial Little Bourton must seem to you—how parochial we must seem to you now!" Lydia beamed.

Campbell-Scott chuckled in his kindly manner, reassuring Lydia that yes, indeed, he would brace himself for the interrogation. Just as he was inquiring as to the rest of the guest list, the newly employed footman made his presence known at the door again. Another gentleman was on the doorstep, but, ahem, his name hadn’t been caught.

At this, a figure of almost parodic jollity leaped into view, an improvised white beard hanging from his ears, through which the man treated all to an impromptu yet impressively tuneful rendition of Good King Wenceslas.

Lydia, whose spirits had been sharply rising ever since Stephen had retreated upstairs to get dressed, was now in a state of elation.

Hughey! We weren’t expecting you ’til tomorrow! she exclaimed, throwing her arms around the new arrival.

You know me, Lyds, I like to surprise you, Hugh Gaveston replied. And know him she did, for Lydia and Hugh had been as thick as two particularly pally thieves since long before either of them could remember. His mother had moved in the same circles as Lady Westbury (Hugh had never known quite what that meant but assumed it was something to do with bridge and debs), and he had instantly seen it as his mission to befriend the withdrawn, fiercely intelligent Lydia. Stephen, unaccustomed to being snubbed in favor of his sister, had of course consigned Hugh to the category of galumphing oaf. His unruly, jet-black hair, lanky frame, and predilection for wearing slacks just a tad too short for him (attributes he had carried with him to adulthood) certainly would not dissuade one from attaching such a label to Hugh. But that would be to wildly underestimate him.

Since then, Lydia and Hugh had remained firm friends. Hugh wrote weekly to her when he was up at Cambridge, and she repaid his tales of formals and punting with stories of the short-lived secretarial course she had enrolled on (much to her parents’ disapproval). Hugh had consoled Lydia after her premature retirement from typing (something to do with the falling-out between her and that pal of hers, Patricia), while she had endeavored to offer comfort to her friend when he found himself parentless at the age of nineteen—the result of a tragic automobile accident.

The subsequent years had seen Hugh dabble in a series of pastimes befitting a young gentleman in possession of both abundant means and time: oil painting (sabotaged by the inherent ineptitude of his brushstroke); ammonite collecting (abandoned after a nasty incident with a jellyfish in a Lyme Regis