A Cornish Christmas Murder Read online

  ‘So he’s not your—’ Mum shut up abruptly as I glared at her, but I couldn’t help but notice Lily blushing again.

  ‘So will you be doing weddings here, that sort of thing?’ asked Debbie, changing the subject with a quick grin in my direction.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘Ooh, this would be a lovely place to get married, wouldn’t it?’ said Mum enthusiastically. She looked at me with a glint in her eye. ‘Don’t you think so, Jodie, love?’ I gave Debbie a Thanks for setting her off! glare, but at least Mum had stopped badgering poor Lily, who was looking slightly bemused. If this was what Mum was like after I’d been seeing Nathan for a couple of months, God help me on our actual anniversary.

  Lily looked at the clock on the wall above the door, and assumed a business-like air. ‘Right, make yourself at home. Help yourself to tea and coffee to warm up first. Will you need a hand unloading the van? There’s only me and Pippa, and Trevor of course, but if you need us…’

  I could tell she was hoping we’d say we could do it ourselves – she probably had a lot to organise still – so I said we’d be fine on our own. Lily hurried out, a busy woman with a lot on her plate. I tied Germaine’s lead to a table leg, well away from the main prep area, rubbed my hands together in anticipation and said, ‘Right, first things first, who wants a cup of—’ then stopped as I spotted that Mum had already filled and switched on the kettle, found mugs and located the teabags. That woman was like an airport sniffer dog when it came to PG Tips. Give her another couple of minutes and she’d have found the biscuits, too.

  We had a cuppa to warm ourselves up and rehydrate ourselves (as an English person, there is nothing I fear more than allowing my tea levels to fall below a certain point and risk dehydrating), then got on with unloading the van. I’d brought along extra pots and pans, and even baking trays, as I wasn’t sure what equipment the abbey would have, but the new kitchen was so well equipped, I left most of it in the van.

  The day’s event wasn’t a big posh sit-down meal. It didn’t require cordon bleu-type recipes or fancy ingredients. The guests, although possibly a bit fussy and unlikely to eat anything green on the grounds that it might be a vegetable, probably weren’t too discerning, as long as there was enough sugar in everything. We were catering a massive children’s Christmas party.

  The abbey had been hired by the multi-millionaire entrepreneur and philanthropist, Isaac Barnes. Barnes was originally from St Austell, where he’d grown up in quite severe poverty and deprivation. You know the picture-perfect, pretty little villages and harbours that populate the postcard stands when you’re on holiday? The pristine but rugged beaches, the golden sands, the tiny fishing fleets? Yes, the tourist spots are just like that, but when you live here, Cornwall is not all pasties and cream teas and doing things ‘dreckly’. Towns like St Austell, where the locals had relied on the tin mines rather than holidaymakers, had suffered when the natural resources started to run out, or when it just became too expensive to extricate it safely to be financially viable. Even the holiday hotspots were hard areas to live in, with little year-round work. Places like St Austell and Penzance had high unemployment rates and, with that, the sort of problems faced by most deprived areas: rising crime, a dwindling population, and one of the highest rates of heroin use in the country. No wonder young Isaac hadn’t stuck around. At the age of sixteen he’d left home and gone off to seek his fortune in the world, and, unlike most of us, he’d actually found it. He’d blagged his way into a small tech firm and, despite having no formal training but an extremely quick, creative mind, had been taken under the founder’s wing and worked his way through the ranks to take over as CEO. The company had become a massive success, and Barnes had first appeared on the Sunday Times’ Rich List when he was just thirty-five.

  But after personal tragedy struck – his wife dying in childbirth – he’d taken a step back from the business side of things and had set up a charity foundation, doing a lot of work with young people from disadvantaged homes. He was now just as (if not more) famous for his incredible backstory and subsequent charity work as for his business dealings. Everyone knew and loved Isaac Barnes. He was universally (in England, at least) deemed to be ‘a good bloke’.

  Every year he threw a big Christmas party for disadvantaged kids in different parts of the country, and this year he was back on home turf. Which was where me and my only-slightly-press-ganged group of glamorous assistants came in, providing Santa cake pops, meringue snowmen, chocolate reindeer muffins – anything sweet and sugary that could be festiverised (totally a word) – as well as the usual sandwiches and sausage rolls. I’d already baked all of the cakes and biscuits, but I hadn’t dared ice or decorate them, worried that the unsteady suspension of the Gimpmobile could not be trusted and that by the time we reached Kingseat, Santa’s beard would have migrated to his knees, the snowmen would have melted, and the Yule Log would look more like an ‘accident’ Rudolph had left on the carpet.

  I gulped down my second cup of tea and said, ‘Let’s do this.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Thank the Lord that’s over,’ said the man in red, as he stomped into the kitchen. ‘It’s so hot next to that fire, and these trousers really chafe.’ He fiddled with the rough material, pulling it out of it his bum crack without even trying to hide what he was doing.

  Never meet your heroes. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Although Santa wasn’t exactly a hero of mine, and even Daisy hadn’t believed in him for a few years now, this behind-the-scenes glimpse into the man himself did dispel the magic of Christmas somewhat.

  ‘Don’t you like kids?’ asked Mum, shoving a mug of tea into his hands. He nodded his thanks to her.

  ‘Oh no. I love kids, but couldn’t eat a whole one.’ He rubbed his beard gingerly. ‘Do you know how many of the little angels thought this was false and tried to get it off? Five. Five of the little bleeders, tugging at my hair. I should’ve charged more. God knows, Barnes can afford it.’

  Debbie and I exchanged glances – there really are some people who shouldn’t play Santa, and this bloke, Steve from Plymouth, was probably one of them, even if he did naturally look the part.

  From my point of view, the party had been a massive success. Three coach-loads of kids had turned up and run riot around the abbey. The owner, Trevor (who I’d been briefly introduced to but hadn’t really chatted with, as we’d all been so busy getting everything ready), had looked in turn shell-shocked, then horrified at the small, sticky, excitable humans galloping around and touching all of his lovely soft furnishings, and at one point he’d been forced to bark at a couple of them as they attempted to open a glass display cabinet in the hallway, which housed a long, ancient but still sharp sword. The children had been firmly shepherded away from the potentially deadly (but fun) weapon, while Pippa, a tired-looking woman in her mid-forties who cleaned and did odd jobs around the house, carefully lifted the sword out and hid it in the butler’s pantry.

  The kids had enjoyed party games, passing the parcel, pinning the tail on the reindeer (not a live one, thankfully) and ODing on sugar. After that they’d gone to visit Santa in the snug, been asked what they wanted to do when they grew up, told to stay in school, and then been given a generic but not cheap present from the big man’s sack. Halfway through the local press had turned up, to take some photos of Isaac and his charity foundation’s manager, James – a smiley, terribly well-spoken old Etonian in his thirties – pressing the flesh with the leaders of the local kids’ clubs who were here today, and presenting them with a massive cheque.

  I’d been concerned that Daisy would be a bit bored, but she too had had a good day. I’d thought that she could roam around in the grounds with Germaine during the party, keeping our fur baby away from both tiny grabbing hands and sausage rolls (which both of them had a taste for), but the snow meant the dog preferred to stay indoors, only going outside once or twice to relieve herself or stretch her little legs. Germaine had been happy to curl up on her d
og bed in the butler’s pantry for most of the day, although she did have an impromptu run around upstairs, away from the party, after Pippa accidentally let her out. Debbie had found her just as she was about to curl up on a huge carved wooden four-poster bed in the owner’s private apartment, the door to which he’d foolishly left open. Germaine had not been happy about being turfed off it, and, to be honest, I couldn’t blame her; I have always wanted to sleep on a four-poster bed.

  Daisy had grabbed her camera after the kids had arrived – Mum and I had clubbed together to buy her some decent photography gear for her thirteenth birthday a few weeks ago – and had gone to explore the house, both inside and out. I got the impression that part of her really wanted to join the party, but it was for kids and she was basically a grown-up (according to her), so how could she go and see Santa, and get a present, and eat all that yummy food…? One day, I thought, she’d realise that there was no hurry to grow up, and that you could miss out on a lot of fun if you did it too quickly.

  Mum sat in the kitchen (she always managed to find a chair from somewhere, and whenever she helped me on a job I would always walk in to find her comfortably settled next to the kettle, gossiping with the client if they were female, or flirting outrageously and embarrassingly with them if they were male), chatting to Santa Steve, while Debbie and I went out to the dining room, where the kids’ buffet had been set up. It looked like a cross between the Last Supper and Armageddon; a long table, covered in plates and serving trays, scattered with the remains of a thousand devastated Rice Crispy Christmas tree bites, Rudolph cookies and pigs in blankets. All that had survived of the yule log was a smear of chocolate frosting across the serving platter, suspiciously smooth, as if someone had picked it up and licked the plate. Which was flattering – it obviously tasted that good – if slightly disgusting.

  Debbie picked up a fruit kebab from a tray that was almost untouched. ‘These went down a storm,’ she said. I laughed.

  ‘I liked them, but they were far too healthy for most of my guests.’ We whirled around to see Isaac Barnes standing behind us, a big grin on his face. He was an attractive man of around forty-five, forty-six. His light-brown hair was fairly long and a bit shaggy, giving him a slightly bohemian air, and he was casually (but, I thought, expensively) dressed; he looked more like an out-of-work theatre actor than a businessman. Next to him stood his son, Joshua, who looked about eight or nine. He was red-faced, flushed with excitement and sugar. ‘What did you like best, Joshy?’

  ‘The pigs in blankets,’ said Joshua, shyly. I nodded.

  ‘Good choice! They’re my favourite too. My dog was hoping there would be some left for her, but they’re all gone. Probably just as well.’

  Isaac smiled. ‘Thank you for your hard work today. The food was excellent. Even the fruit kebabs.’

  ‘They didn’t stand a chance next to the Santa cake pops,’ I admitted. He laughed.

  ‘No, probably not. Do you do a lot of events like this?’

  ‘Oh yes…’ I said, not wanting to admit that this was only my sixth paid job, and that three of those had been gatecrashed by dead bodies in one form or another. ‘I’m relatively new to the industry and I’d love to do more like this.’

  ‘Interesting… You’ve obviously got a good team around you, too.’ Isaac looked at Debbie, and I could tell by the smirk on her face that she was debating curtseying or something. My team consisted of a sarky (but loveable) ex-nurse who was more used to stitching up wounds than cutting up veg; a geriatric whose idea of fine dining was a non-ironic prawn cocktail served in half an avocado; and a reluctant teenage pot washer who was quite possibly even now taking an arty photo of a bit of potato peel.

  ‘They’re crack kitchen commandos,’ I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. He nodded.

  ‘Email your contact details to my assistant,’ he said, patting at his pockets. He pulled out a business card. ‘I’ve got some more events coming up in this neck of the woods, so I might be able to put some work your way.’

  ‘Oh, that’s brilliant, thank you!’ I said, aware that I was gushing a bit too much, but also aware that my savings were steadily dwindling and that I really needed business to pick up after Christmas if I was going to make a go of it. Isaac smiled and reached out for a fruit kebab, then winked at me as he walked away, nibbling at it.

  ‘Hark at you, getting the millionaire’s digits,’ said Debbie. ‘Rich and good-looking.’

  ‘Is he?’ I asked, but I couldn’t deny he was. She laughed.

  ‘Oh, you are SO loved-up, aren’t you? Not even a millionaire could tempt you away from Nathan.’

  ‘Not even a billionaire,’ I said. ‘But don’t tell Mum that or she’ll be buying a new hat and booking the wedding celebrant.’

  We started to clear everything up. Some of it, like the fruit kebabs and boring stuff like sandwiches, looked untouched, but the rest of it had the slightly icky appearance of food that had been poked and prodded in an attempt to work out what it was. It all went in the bin. I hate throwing food away, but small children are not the most hygienic when it comes to helping themselves to buffet food, and there was no way I was going to let anyone eat the leftovers.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Debbie, and I had to admit I was too.

  ‘We’ll stop for a takeaway on the way home,’ I said. ‘If the snow’s bad we’d best go through Bodmin and join up with the A39, rather than go across the moor. There must be a McDonalds or a Dominos or something in Bodmin.’

  ‘I would kill for a Meat Supreme with extra cheese,’ said Debbie, dreamily. I moaned.

  ‘Oh my God, yes. Come on, let’s hurry up and get out of here.’

  But getting out of there was going to be a problem. As we finished packing up in the kitchen, my phone rang. I went to answer and saw it was Nathan, but it stopped ringing almost immediately. Lily, who had just come into the kitchen, smiled at my confused expression.

  ‘Our mobile phone reception here is rubbish at the best of times, but in bad weather like this it’s practically non-existent,’ she explained. ‘I’m surprised it even rang. You’re welcome to use our landline. Or if you go up in the tower, you can usually get a couple of bars there. Enough to at least send a text.’

  ‘The tower?’ Daisy was picking at a plate of Christmas treats I’d put aside for her, and I could almost see her ears prick up at the words. Lily laughed.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a tower. A mini one, anyway. You want to come and see it?’

  Daisy grabbed her camera and the two of us followed Lily out into the main part of the house.

  I hadn’t had much time to admire the house, apart from the well-equipped kitchen and the dining room, which according to Lily was too ‘informal’ at the moment to be used for the fancy dinner parties, banquets and wedding receptions they were hoping to hire it out for, although I had to say it looked pretty fancy to me and I would have been happy to have my wedding reception there. Not that I had any intention of getting married again… The house was a bit of an architectural hotchpotch, with the earliest parts of the abbey standing cheek-by-jowl with much later additions. There was fine plaster cornicing in many of the rooms, from (I guessed, wildly inaccurately) the Regency period, while in others there was wooden wall panelling, which made it feel very warm and cosy, if quite dark. It was in just one such room that a massive Christmas tree had been put up, lights decking its branches and wreaths of holly and ivy draped around the windows. Daisy and I peeked in as we passed the doorway, over which hung a sprig of mistletoe. A roaring fire glowed in a large brick fireplace, next to a big, very comfortable-looking, squashy armchair which still bore the impressions of Santa’s butt cheeks. No wonder he’d been feeling overheated, sitting that close to the flames in his thick red uniform. But it looked lovely, and very, very Christmassy; far more Christmassy than I could ever hope to achieve in my 1930s three-bedroom semi-detached house overlooking a sheep field.

  Lily led us through the grand hallway, to the sweeping staircase
that led to the upper floors, where another huge Christmas tree had been set up. It was decorated with beautiful glass baubles and vintage-style ornaments, ceramic gingerbread men, candy canes, and a whole choir of angels. On top of the tree was a very shiny silver star, guiding the way not to the Baby Jesus in his manger, but to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘It’s a shame today’s been so busy,’ Lily said, ‘or I’d have given you the grand tour. You’ll probably be wanting to head straight home in this weather, won’t you? You don’t want to get stuck on the moors in the snow at night.’

  ‘Definitely not,’ I said. We followed her up the stairs, onto a landing with a wide corridor and doors leading off – the bedrooms, I assumed – then up another flight of stairs, smaller and less grand than the big staircase below.

  ‘This would have been the servants’ quarters,’ explained Lily. ‘Trevor’s been renovating them.’

  ‘Turning them into guest bedrooms?’ I asked, stepping around Daisy as she stopped to take a random photograph of a bit of flaking plaster. Art. I don’t know much about it but I know what I like.

  ‘Yes. The floor below’s got six rooms, all big suites with proper fancy bathrooms, four-poster beds in some of them, and lounge areas overlooking the grounds, whereas these would just be ordinary rooms with an en suite each. We – Trevor – wants to appeal to the wedding market.’

  ‘Downstairs for the happy couple and immediate family, up here for the dodgy uncles and distant cousins you’ve only invited because otherwise there’d be a feud?’ I said, thinking of my own wedding years ago to Richard. It certainly hadn’t taken place anywhere as grand as this. Lily grinned.