The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Read online

  “And—to state the obvious—the victim took it,” suggested the Reverend Fortescue.

  “He took it. That was the signal for the toast. I cleared my throat and all fell silent. I flatter myself I know how to enforce silence. I had thought hard about the toast, and even today I think it rather beautiful. ‘My friends,’ I said. ‘To friends old and new, to renewal and reconciliation, to the true spirit of Christmas.’ There was much warm assent to my words, and glasses were raised. We all drank to Christmas, and the victim drank his down.”

  “He wasn’t a sipper?” enquired Stephen.

  “No. The victim was the sort who drank down and then had an interval before the next. I rather think myself that sipping is more social.”

  “How long was it before the effects were felt?”

  “Oh, twenty minutes or more,” said Sir Adrian, his face set in a reminiscent smile. “First just the look of queasiness, then some time later confessions of feeling ill. Alice was all solicitude. She took the victim to my study, plied him with glasses of water, nostrums from our medicine cupboard. He was sweating badly, and his vision was impaired. Finally she came in and suggested that I ring Dr. Cameron from the village. He was not happy at being fetched out on Boxing Day, particularly as he had not been invited to the party.”

  “Because he might have spotted what was wrong with him and saved him in time?”

  “Precisely. Fortunately Dr. Cameron was the old-fashioned type of doctor, now rare, who went everywhere on foot. By the time he arrived, all Scottish tetchiness and wounded self-esteem, there was nothing to be done. Then it was questions, suspicions, and eventually demands that the police be called in. It made for an exciting if somewhat uneasy atmosphere—not a Boxing Day, I fancy, that anyone present will forget.”

  “And the police were quick to fix the blame, were they?” asked Mike. Sir Adrian sighed a Chekhovian sigh.

  “Faster, I confess, than even I could have feared. The village bobby was an unknown quantity to me, being new to the district. I had counted on a thick-headed rural flatfoot of the usual kind, but even my first impression told me that he was unusually bright. He telephoned at once for a superior from Mordwick, the nearest town, but before he arrived with the usual team so familiar to us from detective fiction, the local man had established the main sequence of events, and could set out clearly for the investigating inspector’s benefit all the relevant facts.”

  “But those facts would have left many people open to suspicion,” suggested Peter Carbury.

  “Oh, of course. Practically all the theatre people had been near the tray, except the victim, and all of them might be thought to bear malice to the victim. It was, alas, my wife Alice who narrowed things down so disastrously—quite inadvertently, of course.” Sir Adrian was unaware that the foot of the Reverend Sykes touched the foot of the Reverend Fortescue at this point. They knew a thing or two about human nature, those clerics. And not just their own sins of the flesh. “Yes, Alice was apparently already on friendly terms with our new constable.” The feet touched again. “And when she was chatting to him quite informally after a somewhat fraught lunch, she happened to mention at some point that she had been standing near the window and imagined she saw something flying through the air.”

  “The bottle?”

  “The bottle. That did it. The grounds were searched, the bottle was found, and its content analysed. Then there could be no doubt.”

  “No doubt?” asked Mike, not the brightest person there.

  “Because the hyoscine had been put in the second round of drinks, and the only person who had left the room to go to the door had been myself—to let in Jack Roden. Roden could not have done it because the bottle was empty and thrown away by the time he got into the drawing-room. It could only be me. I was arrested and charged, and Theatre was the poorer.”

  They all shook their heads, conscious they had reached the penultimate point in Sir Adrian’s narrative.

  “Come along all,” said Archie by the door, on cue and jangling his keys. “Time you were making a move. We’ve got Christmas dinner to go to as well, you know.”

  “But tell us,” said Mike who, apart from being stupid, hadn’t heard the story before, “who the victim was.”

  Sir Adrian turned and surveyed them, standing around the table and the debris of their meal. He was now well into the run of this particular performance: there had been ten Christmases since a concerted chorus of Thespians had persuaded the new King not to celebrate his coronation with a theatrical knight on the scaffold. His head came forward and his stance came to resemble his long-ago performance as Richard III.

  “You have to ask?” he rasped. “Who else could it be but the critic?” How he spat it out! “Who else could it be but the man who had libelled my legs?”

  As he turned and led the shuffle back to the cells all eyes were fixed on the shrunken thighs and calves of one who had once been to tights what Betty Grable now was to silk stockings.

  THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING

  Peter Lovesey

  ALL THE BOOKS PETER LOVESEY WROTE in the early part of his career were set in the past, including the Victorian-era adventures of Sergeant Cribb and Constable Thackeray, who made their debut in Wobble to Death (1970) and went on to become the basis for a popular television series on the PBS Mystery! program. He later wrote a series featuring Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, better known as Bertie—later King Edward VII. His more recent novels, notably those featuring the irascible Bath detective Peter Diamond, have been set in contemporary times. “The Proof of the Pudding” was first published in A Classic Christmas Crime, edited by Tim Heald (London, Pavilion, 1995).

  The Proof of the Pudding

  PETER LOVESEY

  FRANK MORRIS STRODE INTO THE kitchen and slammed a cold, white turkey on the kitchen table. “Seventeen pounds plucked. Satisfied?”

  His wife Wendy was at the sink, washing the last few breakfast bowls. Her shoulders had tensed. “What’s that, Frank?”

  “You’re not even bloody looking, woman.”

  She took that as a command and wheeled around, rubbing her wet hands on the apron. “A turkey! That’s a fine bird. It really is.”

  “Fine?” Frank erupted. “It’s nineteen forty-six, for Christ’s sake! It’s a bloody miracle. Most of them round here will be sitting down to joints of pork and mutton—if they’re lucky. I bring a bloody great turkey in on Christmas morning, and all you say is ‘fine’?”

  “I just wasn’t prepared for it.”

  “You really get my goat, you do.”

  Wendy said tentatively, “Where did it come from, Frank?”

  Her huge husband stepped towards her and for a moment she thought he would strike her. He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. Not even nine in the morning and she could smell sweet whisky on his breath. “I won it, didn’t I?” he said, daring her to disbelieve. “A meat raffle in the Valiant Trooper last night.”

  Wendy nodded, pretending to be taken in. It didn’t do to challenge Frank’s statements. Black eyes and beatings had taught her well. She knew Frank’s rule of fist had probably won him the turkey, too. Frank didn’t lose at anything. If he could punch his way to another man’s prize, then he considered it fair game.

  “Just stuff the thing and stick it in the oven,” he ordered. “Where’s the boy?”

  “I think he’s upstairs,” Wendy replied warily. Norman had fled at the sound of Frank’s key in the front door.

  “Upstairs?” Frank ranted. “On bloody Christmas Day?”

  “I’ll call him.” Wendy was grateful for the excuse to move away from Frank to the darkened hallway. “Norman,” she gently called. “Your father’s home. Come and wish him a Happy Christmas.”

  A pale, solemn young boy came cautiously downstairs, pausing at the bottom to hug his mother. Unlike most children of his age—he was nine—Norman was sorry that the war had ended in 1945. He had pinned his faith in the enemy putting up a stiff fight and extending it indef
initely. He still remembered the VE Day street party, sitting at a long wooden bench surrounded by laughing neighbours. He and his mother had found little to celebrate in the news that “the boys will soon be home.”

  Wendy smoothed down his hair, whispered something, and led him gently into the kitchen.

  “Happy Christmas, Dad,” he said, then added unprompted, “Did you come home last night?”

  Wendy said quickly, “Never you mind about that, Norman.” She didn’t want her son provoking Frank on this of all days.

  Frank didn’t appear to have heard. He was reaching up to the top shelf of a cupboard, a place where he usually kept his old army belt. Wendy pushed her arm protectively in front of the boy.

  But instead of the belt, Frank took down a brown paper parcel. “Here you are, son,” he said, beckoning to Norman. “You’ll be the envy of the street in this. I saved it for you, specially.”

  Norman stepped forward. He unwrapped his present, egged on by his grinning father.

  He now owned an old steel helmet. “Thanks, Dad,” he said politely, turning it in his hands.

  “I got it off a dead Jerry,” Frank said with gusto. “The bastard who shot your Uncle Ted. Sniper, he was. Holed up in a bombed-out building in Potsdam, outside Berlin. He got Ted with a freak shot. Twelve of us stormed the building and took him out.”

  “Outside?”

  “Topped him, Norman. See the hole round the back? That’s from a Lee Enfield .303. Mine.” Frank levelled an imaginary rifle to Wendy’s head and squeezed the trigger, miming both the recoil and report. “There wasn’t a lot left of Fritz after we’d finished. But I brought back the helmet for you, son. Wear it with pride. It’s what your Uncle Ted would have wanted.” He took the helmet and rammed it on the boy’s head.

  Norman grimaced. He felt he was about to be sick.

  “Frank dear, perhaps we should put it away until he’s a bit older,” Wendy tried her tact. “We wouldn’t want such a special thing to get damaged, would we? You know what young boys are like.”

  Frank was unimpressed. “What are you talking about—‘special thing’? It’s a bloody helmet, not a thirty-piece tea service. Look at the lad. He’s totally stunned. He loves it. Why don’t you get on and stuff that ruddy great turkey, like I told you?”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  Norman raised his hand, his small head an absurd sight in the large helmet. “May I go now?”

  Frank beamed. “Of course, son. Want to show it off to all your friends, do you?”

  Norman nodded, causing the helmet to slip over his eyes. He lifted it off his head. Smiling weakly at his father, he left the kitchen and dashed upstairs. The first thing he would do was wash his hair.

  Wendy began to wash and prepare the bird, listening to Frank.

  “I know just how the kid feels. I still remember my old Dad giving me a bayonet he brought back from Flanders. Said he ran six men through with it. I used to look for specks of blood, and he’d tell me how he stuck them like pigs. It was the best Christmas present I ever had.”

  “I’ve got you a little something for Christmas. It’s behind the clock,” said Wendy, indicating a small package wrapped in newspaper and string.

  “A present?” Frank snatched it up and tore the wrapping away. “Socks?” he said in disgust. “Is that it? Our first Christmas together in three bloody years, and all you can give your husband is a miserable pair of socks.”

  “I don’t have much money, Frank,” Wendy reminded him, and instantly wished she had not.

  Frank seized her by the shoulders, practically tipping the turkey off the kitchen table. “Are you saying that’s my fault?”

  “No, love.”

  “I’m not earning enough—is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Wendy tried to pacify him, at the same time bracing herself for the violent shaking that would surely follow. Frank tightened his grip, forced her away from the table, and pushed her hard against the cupboard door, punctuating each word with a thump.

  “That helmet cost me nothing,” he ranted. “Don’t you understand, woman? It’s the thought that counts. You don’t need money to show affection. You just need some savvy, some intelligence. Bloody socks—an insult!”

  He shoved her savagely towards the table again. “Now get back to your work. This is Christmas Day. I’m a reasonable man. I’m prepared to overlook your stupidity. Stop snivelling, will you, and get that beautiful bird in the oven. Mum will be here at ten. I want the place smelling of turkey. I’m not having you ruining my Christmas.”

  He strode out, heavy boots clumping on the wooden floor of the hallway. “I’m going round to Polly’s,” he shouted. “She knows how to treat a hero. Look at this dump. No decorations, no holly over the pictures. You haven’t even bought any beer, that I’ve seen. Sort something out before I get back.”

  Wendy was still reeling from the shaking, but she knew she must speak before he left. If she didn’t remind him now, there would be hell to pay later. “Polly said she would bring the Christmas pudding, Frank. Would you make sure she doesn’t forget? Please, Frank.”

  He stood grim-faced in the doorway, silhouetted against the drab terraced houses opposite. “Don’t tell me what to do, Wendy,” he said threateningly. “You’re the one due for a damned good reminding of what to do round here.”

  The door shook in its frame. Wendy stood at the foot of the stairs, her heart pounding. She knew what Frank meant by a damned good reminding. The belt wasn’t used only on the boy.

  “Is he gone, Mum?” Norman called from the top stair.

  Wendy nodded, readjusting the pins in her thin, blonde hair, and drying her eyes. “Yes, love. You can come downstairs now.”

  At the foot of the stairs, he told her, “I don’t want the helmet. It frightens me.”

  “I know, dear.”

  “I think there’s blood on it. I don’t want it. If it belonged to one of our soldiers, or one of the Yankees, I’d want it, but this is a dead man’s helmet.”

  Wendy hugged her son. The base of her spine throbbed. A sob was building at the back of her throat.

  “Where’s he gone?” Norman asked from the folds of her apron.

  “To collect your Aunt Polly. She’s bringing a Christmas pudding, you know. We’d better make custard. I’m going to need your help.

  “Was he there last night?” Norman asked innocently. “With Aunt Polly? Is it because she doesn’t have Uncle Ted any more?”

  “I don’t know, Norman.” In truth, she didn’t want to know. Her widowed sister-in-law was welcome to Frank. Polly didn’t know the relief Wendy felt to be rid of him sometimes. Any humiliation was quite secondary to the fact that Frank stopped out all night, bringing respite from the tension and the brutality. The local gossips had been quick to suspect the truth, but she could do nothing to stop them.

  Norman, sensing the direction her thoughts had taken, said, “Billy Slater says Dad and Aunt Polly are doing it.”

  “That’s enough, Norman.”

  “He says she’s got no elastic in her drawers. What does he mean, Mum?”

  “Billy Slater is a disgusting little boy. Now let’s hear no more of this. We’ll make the custard.”

  Norman spent the next hour helping his mother in the kitchen. The turkey barely fitted in the oven, and Norman became concerned that it wouldn’t be ready in time. Wendy knew better. There was ample time for the cooking. They couldn’t start until Frank and Polly rolled home from the Valiant Trooper. With last orders at a quarter to three, it gave the bird five hours to roast.

  A gentle knock at the front door sent Norman hurrying to open it.

  “Mum, it’s Grandma Morris!” he called out excitedly as he led the plump old woman into the kitchen. Maud Morris had been a marvellous support through the war years. She knew exactly when help was wanted.

  “I’ve brought you some veggies,” Maud said to Wendy, dumping a bag of muddy cabbage and carrots on the table and removing her coat and hat. “Wh
ere’s that good-for-nothing son of mine? Need I ask?”

  “He went to fetch Polly,” Wendy calmly replied.

  “Did he, indeed?”

  Norman said, “About an hour ago. I expect they’ll go to the pub.”

  The old lady went into the hall to hang up her things. When she returned, she said to Wendy, “You know what people are saying, don’t you?”

  Wendy ignored the question. “He brought in a seventeen-pound turkey this morning.”

  “Have you got a knife?” her mother-in-law asked.

  “A knife?”

  “For the cabbage.” Maud turned to look at her grandson. “Have you had some good presents?”

  Norman stared down at his shoe-laces.

  Wendy said, “Grandma asked you a question, dear.”

  “Did you get everything you asked for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you write to Saint Nick?” Maud asked with a sideward glance at Wendy.

  Norman rolled his eyes upwards. “I don’t believe in that stuff anymore.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Dad gave me a dead German’s helmet. He says it belonged to the one who shot Uncle Ted. I hate it.”

  Wendy gathered the carrots from the table and put them in the sink. “I’m sure he was only doing what he thought was best, Norman.”

  “It’s got a bullet hole.”

  “Didn’t he give you anything else?” his grandmother asked.

  Norman shook his head. “Mum gave me some chocolate and the Dandy Annual.”

  “But your dad didn’t give you a thing apart from the helmet?”

  Wendy said, “Please don’t say anything. You know what it’s like.”

  Maud Morris nodded. It was pointless to admonish her son. He’d only take it out on Wendy. She knew from personal experience the dilemma of the battered wife. To protest was to invite more violence. The knowledge that her second son had turned out such a bully shamed and angered her. Ted, her dear first-born Ted, would never have harmed a woman. Yet Ted had been taken from her. She took an apron from the back of the door and started shredding the cabbage. Norman was sent to lay the table in the front room.