Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels by Anne Perry Page B

chandeliers glittering on the silver, the crystal, at the white linen, the lilies from the hothouse, and the red wine, all the different faces, and wondered if she really wanted to know the answer.
    Then she remembered Maude’s laughter, and the memories in her eyes as she described the moonlight over the desert. There was no escaping the answer. That would be the ultimate, irredeemable cowardice.

    T he following day the scullery maid cut her finger so badly she could not use her hand, and the kitchen was in pandemonium. Agnes had been going to take the pony trap to deliver gifts to the vicar’s widow in Dymchurch, and now all plans had to be rearranged.
    Without a thought for her own competence for such a task, Grandmama offered to go in her stead. The stable boy could drive her and she would call, with explanations, upon Mrs. Dowson and give her the already wrapped gifts for herself, and one or two other families.
    Her offer was accepted, and at ten o’clock they set off, she feeling very pleased with herself. It was a bitter day with clouds piling slate gray on the horizon, and the wind had veered round to come from the north with ice on the edge.
    Grandmama sat with the rug wrapped tightly around her knees and tucked in under her, hoping profoundly that it would not snow before she returned to Snave, or she might find that the chill she had considered pretending could be only too real. She had no desire whatever to spend Christmas in bed with a fever!
    And then another thought assailed her, even more unpleasant. What if she discovered beyond doubt who it was that had picked the foxglove leaves and distilled their poison, and could prove it? And that person became aware of the fact! Then it might be a great deal more than a chill that afflicted her. She wondered if it was painful to die of a heart slowing until it stopped altogether. She could feel it bumping in her chest now with fear.
    If she died, would anyone miss her enough to be sorry? Would anyone’s world be colder or grayer because she was not in it?
    She thought of Maude alone in the house of strangers who had taken her in out of kindness, or worse, a sense of duty. Or pity? That was even worse again. Had Maude felt obliged to work hard to be charming, hide the rejection she must feel inside in order to win their warmth? Had she even known that Grandmama liked her, genuinely liked her?
    Now, that was a lie. Her face was hot in spite of the knife-edge wind. She had loathed Maude, even before she arrived, because Maude would displace her as the center of attention. She had realized only after Maude was dead how much she had liked her, admired her, found her exciting to listen to, freeing the imagination and awakening dreams. She wished now with a desire so strong it was like a physical ache that she had allowed Maude to see that she liked her, more than anyone else she could think of.
    They were going toward the sea and she could smell the salt more sharply. Dymchurch was not far from St. Mary in the Marsh. She could not return home until she had solved this. It would be a betrayal not only of Maude, but of friendship itself. The length of it was irrelevant, it was the depth that mattered.
    She ignored the great ragged skies, clouds streaming across its vastness like the torn banners of an army, spears of ice not far behind. As they drove into the village itself she could hear the roaring of the surf on the shore and the tower of the church seemed to stand aloft against the racing darkness coming in on the storm.
    They pulled up to a small cottage with bare vines covering the arch over the gate and the stable boy announced that they had arrived. He said he would take the parcels in for her, as soon as they had ascertained that Mrs. Dowson was at home. Then he would take the pony and trap around to the stable to shelter until she was ready to leave again. He looked anxiously at the sky, and then smiled, showing gapped teeth.
    Grandmama thanked him and with his