Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘He has a studio in the woods just above the lodge — the old mill house. You’ll see a path going off the drive to it, but it’ll be locked up, of course.’

There was nothing in the instructions about looking after that as well, thank goodness, though I expected I’d walk down that way with Merlin one day.

Even though the family’s disappointment over Christmas was none of my doing, my conscience had been niggling away at me slightly, so when she got up to go I said impulsively, ‘You wouldn’t like the enormous frozen turkey and giant Christmas pudding the Chirks left, I suppose? Then you, your brother and sister-in-law and Jess could have a proper Christmas dinner together.’

‘Oh, I can’t cook anything more complicated than a boiled egg! So it looks like I’ll be eating Tilda’s roast chicken dinner at the lodge on Christmas Day and then going home to cheese, cold cuts and pickles.’

That made me feel even more guilty, though why I should when none of these broken arrangements were my fault, I can’t imagine! It is all entirely down to the selfishness of Jude Martland!

When Becca had gone (with a big wedge of foil-wrapped cake in her coat pocket), I finally had time to take another look around the house, Merlin at my heels. He had taken to following me about so closely now that if I stopped suddenly, his nose ran into the back of my leg. It felt quite cold and damp even through my jeans; generally a healthy sign in a dog, if not a human.

I wanted to familiarise myself with the layout and especially with the position of anything that might be valuable, and make sure that I hadn’t missed any windows last night when locking up. I would mainly be living in the kitchen wing, unless the urge suddenly came upon me to watch the TV in the little morning room. . Though actually, I’d really taken to the sitting room, vast though it was, so I might spend some time there once I’d lit a fire.

I can’t say I found any valuables, apart from a pair of tarnished silver candlesticks and an engraved tray on the sideboard in the dining room, and a row of silver-framed photographs on the upright piano at the further end of the room.

When I lifted the lid of the piano I was surprised to find it was only slightly out of tune and I wondered who still played it. I picked out the first bit of ‘Lead Kindly Light’ (a hymn Gran taught me to play on her harmonium), which echoed hollowly around the room. It was a lovely instrument, but in the event of a fire I’d be more inclined to snatch up the silver than heave the piano out of the window.

Closing it, I examined the photographs, most quite old and of family groupings — weddings, picnics, expeditions in huge open-topped cars — all the prewar pleasures of the moneyed classes.

At the end of the row was a more recent colour picture of two tall, dark-haired young men, one much bigger, more thick-set and not as handsome as the other, though there was an obvious resemblance. The handsome one was smiling at whoever held the camera, while the other scowled — and if this was Jude Martland and his brother, then I could guess which was which, even after speaking to the man once!

The library held a very mixed selection of books, including a lot of old crime novels of the cosy variety, my favourite. I promised myself a lovely, relaxing time over Christmas, sitting beside a roaring fire with coffee, chocolates and cake to hand, and Merlin and the radio to keep me company.

The one wall free of bookshelves was covered with more old photographs of family and friends — the Martlands were easy to pick out, being mostly tall and dark — but also of men strangely garbed and taking part in some kind of open-air performance. It might have been the Twelfth Night ceremony Sharon mentioned, in which case it looked to me like some innocuous kind of Morris dancing event.

The key to the French doors in the garden hall was on my bunch and I let myself out into the small walled garden, after pulling on an over-large anorak. If this belonged to Jude Martland, then he was a lot bigger than me — about the size of a grizzly bear, in fact!

The garden had a schizophrenic personality: half being overgrown and neglected, with roses that had rambled a little too far and encroaching ivy; while the other was a neat array of vegetable and fruit beds. The large, lean-to greenhouse against the back of the barn could have done with a coat of paint, but inside all was neat and tidy, with tools and pots stowed away under benches or hung up on racks, and a little hidey-hole at the end behind a sacking curtain where Henry hung out, though it was currently vacant. He had a little primus stove, kettle, mug and a tin box containing half a packet of slightly limp digestive biscuits and some Yorkshire Tea bags.

I went back indoors, shivering. It was definitely getting colder and if we did get ice and snow, as the forecast for next week had hinted we might, I was sure that the steep road down from the village would quickly become impassable and we’d be cut off. This was a situation that had often befallen me in Scotland, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the idea, though I made a note to check that I had all the supplies in the house that I needed, just in case. I could call in at the lodge and make sure they were well prepared too.

Upstairs I wanted to check on the attic, but the door to that was locked and I didn’t have the key — which would be unfortunate if the pipes or water tank leaked or froze! But perhaps it had been entrusted to Noël for emergencies and I made a mental note to ask.

I stopped by my bedroom to hang up the rest of my clothes and stack the books I’d brought and my laptop and cookery notes on a marble-topped washstand, ready to take downstairs later. Gran’s little tin trunk looked right up here, the sort of thing a servant might once have had. . I sat on the edge of the bed and flicked through the first journal until I found where I had left off reading last night: the next few entries seemed to increasingly mention the new patient. .

Firmly resisting the urge to skim, I closed the book: I was enjoying slowly discovering my gran through her journals every evening, a couple of pages at a time, and didn’t want to rush that.

‘Come on, Merlin,’ I said, gathering up my books and stuff for downstairs, and he uncoiled himself from the little braided rug at the end of the bed and followed me.

I dumped everything in the kitchen then checked out the cellar, where I was happy to see a whole wall of dry logs and kindling for the sitting-room fire and the boiler burbling quietly away. The wine cellar door was locked of course, but funnily enough, Jude Martland seemed to have overlooked the drinks cabinet with its decanters of spirits and bottles of liqueur in the dining room, so if the urge did uncharacteristically take me to render myself drunk and disorderly, the means were freely to hand.

But this was unlikely: I like to be in control way too much!

By the time we emerged back up into the kitchen, Merlin had begun to heave long-suffering sighs, so I put some dog biscuits from an open packet into his bowl and had a lunch of bread, cheese and rich, chunky apricot chutney from a jar I’d brought with me, before checking up on the provisions.

The kitchen cupboards were well stocked, though some of the food looked as if it hadn’t been touched for months. The tall fridge contained butter, eggs, bacon and an awful lot of cheese left by Mo and Jim, plus the few perishable items I’d brought with me. Mo and Jim obviously liked to go the whole hog at Christmas, because as well as the gigantic turkey and a ham joint in the freezer, there was a pudding the size of a small planet, jars and jars of mincemeat and even some of those expensive Chocolate Wishes (like a delicious fortune cookie) that are made in Sticklepond, a village near where I live.

The biggest freezer was packed with game, meat and fish, and the other contained an array of bread, pizza, chilli and a whole stack of instant meals of a sustaining nature: these probably formed the owner’s staple diet, in which case gourmet he was not. What with those and a very plentiful supply of tea bags, coffee, longlife milk and orange juice, I was starting to get the hang of what Jude Martland lived on when he was home!

I noted down anything I thought I might run out of, which the village shop could probably supply, but I was unlikely to starve to death any time soon.

Merlin, bored, was now fast asleep in his basket by the Aga — sweet!

I chopped up a carrot and took it out to Lady, dropping a bit down for Billy, who was scrabbling at the fence with frantic greed. Lady has lips like softest velvet and, although her coat is snowy white, oddly enough the skin under it is black.

When the carrot had all gone, she and her odoriferous little friend wandered back up the paddock and I went to check the level of oil in the huge tank in the outbuilding (satisfyingly full), and had a look at the generator. This was a dauntingly large piece of machinery but apparently should switch itself on if the mains electricity fails, then back off again when it returns. The Homebodies folder did mention that if it didn’t turn on automatically, you had to come out here and do it manually. .