Murder Most Merry

MISS CRINDLE AND FATHER CHRISTMAS – Malcolm Gray

Christmas comes reluctantly to Much Cluning. Huddling in its valley, the village looks even drearier than usual under grey December skies. There is no tree outside the village hall, and the single string of fairy lights along the High Street hardly creates an air of festivity. The housewives complain about the extra work Christmas brings and the men about the expense. They only do it for the kids, they say. All the same, it is doubtful if they really mean it, or if they would want to see the season abolished even if they could, and a fair number go to church or chapel on Christmas morning.

A few days before Christmas last year. Harriet Richards stood in the yard at her brother’s farm giving him a piece of her mind. At twenty-two, Harriet was as generous and warm-hearted as she was pretty. “Do you have to be such a Scrooge?” she demanded angrily.

“Go away,” Jason told her coldly. He was nine years older than his sister and he had no use for the season of goodwill. The only good thing about it to his mind was the profit he made on his flock of chickens and turkeys. He was damned if he was going to give any of them away to layabouts who weren’t prepared to get off their backsides and work. He said as much to Harriet.

“Layabouts!” she exclaimed furiously. “Do you call old Mrs. Randall a layabout?”

“It’s her husband’s job to provide for her, not mine.”

“When he’s nearly eighty and crippled with arthritis?”

“Ach!” Jason said, disgusted.

“And she’s not the only one,” Harriet went on. “There’s Josie Gardner with her three kids. And Bert Renwick and Phoebe,” she added, forestalling her brother’s attempt to interrupt her. “It’s not their fault they can’t afford anything but the bare necessities.”

“They get their pensions,” Jason retorted. “And benefits. They wouldn’t get those if people like me didn’t pay too damned much in taxes.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, exasperated, “I don’t know how Sheila puts up with you!” And, turning, she started toward the house.

“If you think I breed those birds to feed all the lame ducks in the village, you’d better think again!” Jason called after her.

There were times when she could strangle him, Harriet thought furiously. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford three or four turkeys. By local standards, he was well off. But he seemed to feel that people expected him to give them. It put him on the defensive, and he resented it.

Her sister-in-law was in the kitchen. “Have you and Jason been arguing again?” she asked, amused.

“You could say so.” Harriet, still boiling with indignation, explained.

“He works hard,” Sheila reminded her. “And he’s inclined to think other people don’t. There’s so much to do at this time of year, he gets worn out.”

“He could afford to pay another man if he wasn’t so mean,” Harriet said bitterly. “Anyway, it’s not just this time, it’s always.”

Soon afterward, she left. Sheila watched her go, thinking.

Later that evening Harriet had a very public quarrel with Colin Loates, her boy friend. Nobody who heard it was quite sure what it was about, but Harriet went home in tears.

Miss Crindle met her in the street the next day. Miss Crindle was a large woman with greying hair and a cheerful manner. Until her retirement three years ago, she had taught at Much Cluning Primary School for more than thirty years, and both Harriet and Colin had been among her brightest pupils. So had Jason, who hadn’t been as clever as his sister but by hard work had gained a scholarship to Leobury School and gone on to university. Harriet could have gone, too, but she preferred to stay home and work with the horses her father bred for show jumping.

Colin had been the brightest of the three, a cheeky little boy with charm and a talent for mischief. Miss Crindle had never quite forgiven him for leaving school at sixteen to go into his father’s grocery shop.

“And how is Colin?” Miss Crindle inquired that morning.

Harriet looked surprised. “Haven’t you heard, Miss Crindle? I thought everybody had. We had a row last night and it’s all over.”

Miss Crindle noticed that Harriet’s left eye was twitching and that she looked embarrassed. All the same, she didn’t seem too distressed. She had always been a sensible girl, Miss Crindle thought, and things were different nowadays. In her time, if a girl and her boy friend split up she would be upset for days. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Harriet shrugged. “I’ll get over it,” she said ruefully.

Miss Crindle was sure she would. A girl like Harriet, vivacious and attractive, would find no shortage of young men.

That afternoon, Colin, driving back from Leobury, slewed off the road into a ditch two miles from the village. He explained that he had swerved to avoid a pheasant and skidded, but the popular theory was that his mind hadn’t been on his driving, he was thinking about Harriet and their row. Whatever the cause, his car was well and truly stuck and he had to walk to the nearest house and phone the garage to come and tow him out.

They were still doing it when Billy Powis, having run all the way home, blurted out breathlessly to his mother that he had just seen Santa Claus. Mary Powis was busy making mince pies. She laughed but didn’t pay too much attention. She was used to her son’s tales.

“Oh, dear?” she said.

“But I did. Mum,” the seven-year-old insisted.

“Had he got his sledge and reindeer?”

Billy hesitated. He was a truthful little boy and he couldn’t really remember, he had been too excited. “He’d got something,” he mumbled. More certainly he added, “And he had a sack over his shoulder.”

“Where was he?”

“I told you, at the edge of Brackett’s Wood. He went into the trees.”

“You shouldn’t make up stories, Billy,” Mary told him mildly. “It’s telling fibs, and that’s naughty.”

“I did see him,” Billy persisted. He was learning early that it is bad enough to be suspected when one is guilty, but much worse when one is innocent. “He was all in red, with white stuff on his coat, and he had a big red hood and boots. Like he does when he comes to our school party.”

Oh, dear, Mary thought. She decided that the best course would be to ignore her son’s tale. “Go and wash your hands,” she said.

At the same time, Sheila Richards was trying without success to ring her sister-in-law. Harriet’s mother told her Harry was out. She didn’t know where, but she didn’t suppose she would be long. Sheila thanked her and said she would try again later.

Billy Powis wasn’t the only inhabitant of Much Cluning to see Father Christmas. Two other people saw him, and they were grownups. The first was George Townley, the owner of the general store-cum-post office. While Billy was running home to tell his mother what he had seen, George was returning from visiting his sister at Little Cluning. As he drove down the hill into the village, he saw a figure in red with a hood and carrying a sack disappear into the trees beside the road. He was unwise enough to mention it to one of his customers, and soon the story was all over the village. George Townley had started seeing things, and he believed in Santa Claus.

It had been getting colder during the day, and about five o’clock it started to snow. By the time most of Much Cluning went to bed, there was a three-inch covering over everything and it was still snowing. It stopped during the night, but the temperature dropped further.

The second adult to see Father Christmas was Miss Crindle. At one o’clock in the morning of December the twenty-third, she had to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. On her way back, she looked out of the window. It was a fine clear night with a moon. There was never much noise in the valley, but now every sound was muffled by the thick layer of snow.

Just across the road, a figure dressed in scarlet and white, its head covered by a hood, was turning the corner round the back of the Renwicks’ cottage. It was bowed under the weight of the sack slung over its right shoulder. Miss Crindle blinked. There were no children’s parties at that hour, and any devoted father who was inclined to go to the lengths of dressing up to deliver his offsprings’ presents would hardly do so two days before Christmas.

Miss Crindle told herself that if it wasn’t a fond father, it must be a burglar. She considered calling the police. But she disliked the idea of being thought an overimaginative old fool and, anyway, everybody knew the Renwicks were almost destitute. No burglar would try his luck there. She climbed back into bed, and the next day she kept what she had seen to herself.

She said nothing even when Phoebe Renwick, who was well over seventy and worn out from caring for her invalid husband, told her her news. When she came down that morning and opened the back door, there on the doorstep there had been a parcel wrapped in gift paper. In it there was a small turkey already plucked and drawn and a tiny Christmas pudding.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Phoebe said. She was close to tears. “We haven’t been able to have a turkey for over twenty years. Not since soon after Bert was first ill and had to give up work. We can’t keep it, of course, it wouldn’t be right, but it was a lovely thought.”

“Of course you can keep it. ‘ Miss Crindle told her with spirit.

“No. We were brought up not to accept what we hadn’t paid for, or to ask for charity, and we never have, neither of us.”

“You call a present charity? Anyway,” Miss Crindle added reasonably, “who would you give it back to?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Phoebe admitted.

“You keep it and be glad there are people in the village who think of others,” Miss Crindle told her. “You can say a prayer for them in chapel on Christmas morning.”

The old lady’s eyes moistened. “I will tonight, too,” she said.

Busy with her thoughts, Miss Crindle went back indoors and resumed the cleaning she had been doing when she heard Mrs. Renwick calling her. Who was the kind soul who had left the parcel on the old couple’s step? She had no doubt that it was the person in Santa Claus costume she had seen during the night, but who was he? Or she?

Not that it mattered: if somebody wanted to do the old couple a good turn surreptitiously, good luck to them. Only why the fancy dress? Such ostentation seemed out of keeping with leaving the parcel secretly in the middle of the night. It was like a disguise, and it made her a little uneasy.

The Renwicks weren’t the only beneficiaries of Much Cluning’s own Santa Claus: the Randalls, Josie Gardner, and an elderly lady named Willings with a crippled son had found similar parcels at their back doors that morning. By evening the story was all over the village.

Miss Crindle heard it. and she wondered still more.

Neither of the Richardses had heard about the parcels. Bracketts Farm was a mile out of Much Cluning and they’d been busy there all day. Thus there was no reason for Sheila to suspect anything when Jason came into the kitchen during the afternoon and asked her, “Has Mrs. Grundy been for her bird?”

Sheila had been right, he was tired. The woman who helped deal with the turkeys was ill with flu and he had been driving himself hard for days. He was also suspicious.

“No.” Sheila answered without looking up from what she was doing at the sink. “She said she’d come tomorrow.”

Jason swore.

“Why, what’s the matter? It doesn’t make any difference.”

“It’s gone.”

Sheila looked up then. “What do you mean?”

“What I say,” Jason told her angrily. “It’s clear enough, isn’t it? It’s been pinched.”

His wife stared at him. “Are you sure?” she asked. But she could see from Jason’s face he was. “Have any of the others gone?”

“I don’t know. I was only looking for hers.”

“Can’t she have another one?” Sheila tried to be practical, but she knew it wouldn’t assuage Jason’s anger.

“Of course she bloody well can’t,” he retorted. “The others are all sold, you know that. And you know how fussy she is.”

Sheila did know. Mrs. Grundy lived at Much Cluning Hall and. although she was pleasant enough, she disliked being thwarted or inconvenienced. Her manner implied that she expected her life to run as smoothly as the Rolls-Royce her husband drove. Oh, God, Sheila thought, it looked like being a miserable Christmas. Jason would be in a foul mood for days. A terrible thought occurred to her. “Hadn’t you better count them?” she asked.

“I’m going to.”

Jason strode across the yard to the big shed where the dead birds, plucked and drawn, were laid out in rows along the shelves. Sheila followed and watched while he counted them. There should be ninety, she knew. Christmas turkeys might be profitable, but they were only a sideline to the main business of the farm, the crops and sheep.

“There are four gone!” Jason shouted. “Four! That’s the best part of fifty pounds!” He turned furiously. “I’m going to ring the police!”

“Jason, do you think—?” Sheila asked weakly.

But he was in no mood to pay attention, and she followed him uneasily into the house.

It was nearly an hour before P. C. Tom Roberts arrived. He had been at the site of a road accident four miles away and the theft of four turkeys hadn’t seemed like the crime of the century, even in Much Cluning. Clearly Jason Richards didn’t agree with him.

“They must have got in during the night,” he said. Waiting had done nothing to soothe his anger. “You can see their tracks.”

He led the way through the churned-up slush in the yard, past the farm buildings to a small meadow bounded on the far side by a low hedge. It was still freezing hard, and the snow, several inches deep, was crisp and unbroken save for a clearly designed set of footprints leading from the yard to the hedge near the point where it met the road. Jason had said “they,” Roberts thought, but there was only one set. Smallish prints, too.

“Looks like he came this way.” he agreed. “Was the shed locked at night?”

“No.” Jason sounded as if he were daring the policeman to criticize him. “The padlock’s fastened with a peg. We’ve never had anything stolen before.”

Roberts walked back across the yard.

“Where are you going?” Jason demanded.

“Don’t want to disturb the tracks then, do we, sir?” Roberts said. He walked along the road and across to the point where, it seemed, the thief had forced his way through the hedge. There was still just enough light for him to make out the tuft of material caught on a twig. He picked it out carefully and frowned. It was bright-red and thin. Hardly the sort of clothing a man would wear to go stealing turkeys on a freezing-cold night. Not what most men would wear at any time, come to that. He tucked the fragment away between two pages of his notebook and returned to where the farmer was watching.

The turkeys must have been stolen on one of the last two nights, Jason told him. He had counted them two days ago.

Tom Roberts lived in the village. He knew about George Townley’s seeing a figure dressed like Santa Claus disappearing into Brackett’s Wood and about the mysterious parcels which had appeared on certain doorsteps last night. There had been four of them, each one containing a turkey. And four turkeys had been taken from Jason’s shed. Roberts was well aware of the dangers of putting two and two together and making sixteen, but it looked to him very much as if some joker had been playing twin roles, Robin Hood and Santa Claus.

Of all the people in the village, he could think of only one who possessed the sort of mind to think up a ploy like that and the cheek to carry it out: Colin Loates. Colin had never been suspected of dishonesty, but he was— what was the word? —unpredictable. Sometimes his sense of humor ran away with him. After all, everybody knew Jason Richards could well afford the loss of four birds, and the recipients of the parcels were genuinely deserving cases. If it had been up to him personally, Roberts would have felt inclined to say, “Good luck to him,” and write the case off as unsolved. But it wasn’t, and theft was theft, however good the motive. So he promised Jason he would make inquiries and went to see Colin.

He found him at his father’s shop, making up orders for the next day.

When Colin heard why he was there, he laughed. “Serve Jason right,” he

said.

“You’ve no idea who might have done it?” Roberts asked him.

“Me? No. I don’t know why you should come to me about it. You’re the one who’s supposed to know about all the crime that goes on here.”

“Where were you the last two nights?” Roberts asked him.

“What time?”

“Anytime.”

“Home in bed.”

They eyed each other. Colin seemed to think the whole business was a great joke, and that annoyed Roberts a little. He looked down at the other man’s feet. They must be size nines, at least. The boots which made the tracks in the snow on Jason Richards’ meadow had been no bigger than sevens. All the same, “Have you got any Wellingtons?” he asked.

“Course I have,” Colin answered.

“Where are they?”

“In the boot of my car. Why?”

“Do you mind if I have a look at them?”

“Not if you want to.”

They went out to the yard at the back of the shop where Colin’s old Escort was parked. He opened the boot and brought out a pair of worn grey Wellingtons. Roberts studied them. They were size ten.

“All right, thanks,” he said.

Colin just grinned. “Do you think I took Jason’s turkeys?” he asked.

Roberts didn’t answer.

Miss Crindle heard about the theft the next morning when she was doing her last-minute Christmas shopping. It seemed to justify her fears, and she decided that she must talk to Tom Roberts.

“You think the turkeys the Renwicks and the others got were the ones somebody stole from Jason Richards’ shed, don’t you?” she asked him.

“I can’t say. Miss Crindle,” the policeman replied cautiously.

“Of course you can, everybody else is.” Miss Crindle swept his objection aside. “And you suspect you know who it was, don’t you?”

Roberts eyed his visitor. Muffled up in what looked like two or three layers of jumpers and cardigans under her coat, she looked bigger than ever. It would have been easy to put her down as a silly busybody, but Roberts knew better. Miss Crindle was an intelligent woman. And if she took a keen interest in what went on in Much Cluning, she was no mischief-maker. “We’re pursuing our inquiries,” he said.

“So I should hope,” she told him briskly. “Although I must confess, my sympathies are rather with the thief.” She paused, then continued with obvious embarrassment, “I thought I should tell you, I saw Father Christmas last night.”

Roberts gaped at her. For a moment he wondered if she had suddenly gone queer. “I’m sorry?” he stammered.

“Somebody dressed as Santa Claus left the parcels. I happened to look out of my window about one o’clock and I saw them going round behind the Renwicks’ house. I didn’t say anything about it, there didn’t seem any point, and I’ve no wish to be thought mad, but if the birds were stolen—”

“You’ve no idea who it was?” Roberts asked, recovering a little.

“None,” Miss Crindle answered firmly. “I can’t even say if it was a man or a woman. I suppose you know George Townley saw them, too, two or three days ago?”

Roberts nodded. “It looks as if whoever took the turkeys was wearing red,” he said grimly. “He left this caught on the hedge where he pushed through.” He took out his notebook and showed Miss Crindle the fragment of cloth.

She studied it with interest. “It looks like a piece from a Santa Claus costume,” she observed. She gave the policeman a shrewd look. “I suppose you think it was Colin Loates?”

This time Tom Roberts wasn’t startled, he knew half the village would be supposing the same thing. “It wasn’t him,” he said.

“Oh?” Miss Crindle couldn’t quite conceal her curiosity.

Roberts was undecided how much he should reveal. He knew the old girl had helped the police when Ralph Johns was murdered and the Chief Inspector had a high regard for her. And he could do with some help now. “The thief left footprints from the hedge across to the shed,” he explained. “They were sixes or sevens, and Colin takes tens. I’ve seen his boots. Besides, when George Townley saw his Santa Claus, they were towing Colin’s car out of a ditch along the Leobury road.”

Miss Crindle hadn’t known that, but she was rather glad. “Have you any idea who it may have been?” she inquired.

“No,” Roberts admitted.

Miss Crindle was afraid she had. and after Roberts had gone she walked across the road. The Renwicks had few visitors—even the milkman called only every other day—and the footprints in the snow along the side of the cottage were still as clear as when they were made. She studied them thoughtfully, then she went to see Harriet Richards.

She didn’t beat about the bush. “What do you know about Father Christmas and Jason’s stolen turkeys?” she demanded.

“Me?” The girl looked surprised. “Nothing, Miss Crindle.”

“Harriet,” Miss Crindle told her sternly, “your eyelid’s twitching. That’s the second time it’s done it in the last four days.”

For some unaccountable reason Harriet blushed.

“Theft is a crime,” Miss Crindle continued. “It can have very serious consequences. Sometimes for the wrong person. You may disapprove of Jason but, even if you aren’t having anything to do with Colin now. you wouldn’t want him to get into trouble, would you?”

“No,” Harriet said.

Miss Crindle nodded. “Good. What size Wellingtons do you take?”

“Sevens.”

“And where were you at one o’clock the night before last?”

Harriet smiled, and for the first time that morning there was a hint of her old mischief. “At Leobury,” she answered. “I went to see Pat Dellar. It started to freeze hard, there was a lot of slush on the road, and I stayed the night.”

Miss Crindle gazed at the girl for quite a long time. Then, “Think about it, my dear,” she said.

On her way home, she met Mary Powis and Billy.

“I’ve seen Father Christmas,” the little boy announced triumphantly.

“Billy!” his mother reproved him. “You thought you saw him on Monday, and you know he doesn’t come out until Christmas Eve. And only after dark then.” She smiled apologetically at Miss Crindle.

But Miss Crindle was interested. “Where did you see him, Billy?” she asked.

“By Brackett’s Wood,” Billy replied.

“What time was it?”

“I don’t know. But it got dark soon.”

“You aren’t the only person who saw him,” Miss Crindle said. “I saw him, too. and so did Mr. Townley.” It was too much, she thought.

When she got home, she phoned Pat Dellar, who was one of her old pupils. Pat confirmed that Harriet had spent last night there.

Miss Crindle asked after her parents, they talked for a minute or two longer, and when Miss Crindle put down the phone she sat for some time, thinking. It was clear that Colin hadn’t stolen the turkeys. There was only one set of footprints and he couldn’t have worn size six or seven boots. Moreover, he hadn’t been the Father Christmas Billy Powis and George Townley had seen. Nor could Harriet have played Santa Claus—she had been miles away when the parcels had been delivered the night before last. So who had?

After twenty minutes, Miss Crindle came to a decision. She made two telephone calls, then put on another cardigan and her coat and went to see Sheila Richards.

“It was all a mistake.” Jason said, looking uncomfortable.

PC. Roberts eyed him stolidly. He was quite sure it hadn’t been a mistake, but if Jason was going to maintain it had, there wasn’t much he could do.

“The turkeys had been put aside,” Jason went on. It would have been obvious to the most obtuse listener that his heart wasn’t in it. “They hadn’t been stolen at all.”

“I see, sir,” Roberts said. He was tempted to add something about wasting police time being an offense, but decided against it. “So you don’t want us to take any further action?”

“No.” Jason almost writhed. Further action was what he wanted above almost everything else, but Sheila had made it all too clear that if he didn’t drop the whole business she would leave him. She wasn’t given to making idle threats, and Jason had believed her. For all his faults, he loved his wife.

It was Miss Crindle who was responsible. He didn’t know what she had told Sheila, but whatever it was it had had a marked effect.

In fact, Miss Crindle had said quite simply that she knew who had taken the turkeys and that she hoped Jason’s wife would be able to persuade him to drop the whole matter. She looked down at Sheila’s feet. Sheila was nearly six feet tall, and her feet were much larger than her sister-in-law’s. “It was Colin, wasn’t it?” Sheila said.

Miss Crindle smiled enigmatically.

“But—” Sheila looked distraught ”—Jason was sure it was Harry. He said she’d talked about the Renwicks and the Randalls and Josie Gardner a few days ago. She said he ought to give them turkeys.”

“It was,” Miss Crindle said.

“But it can’t have been,” Sheila protested. “Harry was staying with Pat the night the parcels were left.”

“That wasn’t her.” Miss Crindle agreed.

“Then who?”

“Colin. It was Harriet’s idea. She was very angry with Jason and she thought she’d teach him a lesson and help some people to have a better Christmas at the same time. She suggested it to Colin and he jumped at the idea.”

“But they’d fallen out,” Sheila objected. “She told me they had a terrible row. I still don’t see.”

“They took it in turns to cover each other,” Miss Crindle told her. “First, while Colin was being towed out of that ditch, Harriet was making sure she was seen in her Santa Claus getup at the other end of the village. They wanted people to talk about Santa Claus being about.”

“It’s the sort of daft idea that would appeal to them.” Sheila agreed miserably. “They’ve never grown up, either of them.”

“We can do with a touch of youthful spirits sometimes.” Miss Crindle said. “They didn’t look on what they were doing as stealing.”

“I tried to phone her that afternoon. Mum said she was out.”

Miss Crindle nodded. “She knew Jason didn’t lock the shed. She went there that night, took the four smallest turkeys, and carried them across the meadow to Colin, who was waiting in his car. She’s a strong girl and it wasn’t very far. Colin hid them until the next night, then, while Harriet was safe at the Dellars’, he delivered them. He couldn’t have stolen them, because the footprints in the snow were too small, and Harriet couldn’t have delivered them because she was miles away. There was only one set of prints in the meadow and only one round the Renwicks’. Nobody was looking for two people working alternately.”

Sheila stared at her. “Except you,” she said. “Whatever made you think of it?”

“Well—” Miss Crindle hesitated, then she smiled. “First, their quarrel was a little too public. Harriet and Colin may be high-spirited, but they wouldn’t want to have a real argument with half the village looking on. It was almost as if it were being staged for other people’s benefit. And when I saw Harriet just afterward, she didn’t seem upset at all. Then her eyelid started twitching. It did it again when she told me she didn’t know anything about the turkeys. I knew she was involved then.”

“Oh,” Sheila said, understanding.

“It’s always done that when she’s telling fibs, ever since she was a little girl at school,” Miss Crindle said. “When you’re a teacher as long as I was, you don’t forget things like that. Then, the footprints at the Renwicks’ aren’t the same size as the others—they must be tens, at least. I tackled Harriet just now, and she told me the truth.”

“Oh,” Sheila said again. Uneasily she added, “I wonder what Jason’s going to say.”

“I’m sure you can manage him,” Miss Crindle told her.

Mrs. Grundy laughed. “Then I’ll have to get another one,” she said cheerfully. “Really, Mr. Richards, it doesn’t matter at all. To be frank, a ten-pound turkey would have been far too big for just my husband and me. I’m sure Mrs. Gardner and her children will enjoy it much more. But I must insist you let me pay you for it.”

Jason met her eye, then looked away. “No,” he said gruffly. “That’s all right, Mrs. Grundy, I’ve written those four birds off. They’re a present from us. After all, it’s Christmas.”

Mrs. Grundy nearly fainted.