Murder on the Short List

Bertie and the Christmas Tree

It’s almost too much for one man, being the Prince of Wales AND the son of Father Christmas. In case this confuses you, I’d better explain. My Papa, the late Prince Albert of blessed memory, is credited with inventing Christmas as we know it. He is supposed to have introduced the Christmas tree (a German tradition) to Britain, started the practice of sending cards and — for all I know — served up the first plum pudding. Never mind that this is absolute bunkum. People believe it and who am I to stand in the way of public opinion?

The true facts, if you want them, are that a Christmas tree was first put up at Windsor by my great-grandmother, Queen Charlotte (of Mecklenburg-Strelitz), as early as 1800, and my Mama’s childhood Christmases were never without a decorated tree. It was only thanks to a popular periodical, the Illustrated London News, that our family custom was made public in 1848 and my parents were depicted standing beside a fine tree decked with glass ornaments. My father was no fool. The year in question had been an absolute stinker for royalty, with republicanism rearing its odious head all over Europe, so it did no harm to show ourselves in a good light. Decent British sentiment was wooed by Papa and it became de rigeur to dig up a spruce, bring it into the home and cover it with tinsel and trinkets. Truth to tell, Papa was tickled pink at being the man who invented Christmas. He started presenting trees to all and sundry, including the regiments. If you’re a royal and revolution is in the wind it’s no bad thing to keep the army on your side.

From that time, the festive season fizzed like a sherbert drink. “A most dear, happy time,” Mama called it. We royals were well used to exchanging gifts and rewarding the servants, and it now extended to the nation at large. Suddenly carol-singing was all the rage. And thanks to the penny post, the practice of sending greetings cards became a universal custom, if not a duty.

I was a mere child when all this happened and a callow youth when the unthinkable burst upon us and Papa caught a dreadful chill and joined the angels. As fate would have it, his passing occurred just before Christmas, on December 14th, 1861. I shan’t dwell on this tragedy except to remark that Christmases from that year on were tinged with sadness. As a family, we couldn’t think about saluting the happy morn until the calendar had passed what Mama always spoke of as “the dreadful fourteenth”. So you see, dear reader, we would wake up on the fifteenth and discover we had ten days in which to prepare. I mention this as a prelude to my account of the great crime of Christmas, 1890.

It all started most innocently.

“Bertie,” my dear wife Alexandra said in her most governessy tone, “you’d better not lie there all morning. Ten days from now it will be Christmas and we’ve done nothing about it.”

I don’t think I answered. I had much else on my mind at the end of 1890, not least the Queen’s displeasure at my involvement in what was termed the Baccarat Scandal.

“Bertie, you’re awake. I can see. It’s no use closing your eyes and wheezing like a grampus. That won’t make it go away. What are we going to do about presents for the courtiers and servants?”

I sighed and opened my eyes. “The usual. Lockets and chains for the ladies and pearl studs for the gentlemen. Books for the governesses. A framed picture of you and me for everyone else.”

“Yes, but not one of these items is ordered yet.”

“Francis Knollys can attend to it.”

“But you must tell him today. And we can’t ask Francis to write the Christmas cards. That’s a job for you and me, as well as presents for the children and decorations for the tree.” Her voice slipped up an octave, her vocal cords quavering with distress. “The tree, Bertie! We haven’t even got a tree.”

“My dear Alix,” I said, reaching for an extra pillow and sitting up in bed, “Sandringham is eight thousand acres with about a million trees. If the estate manager can’t find a decent spruce among them he’ll get his pearl stud from me in the place where he least wants it.”

“There’s no need for vulgarity, Bertie. It’s got to be a tall tree.”

“And it shall be. What happened to last year’s?”

A question I should never have asked.

Her eyes filled with tears. “It died, poor thing. It scattered needles all over the ballroom. I have my suspicion that it had no root, that some unthinking person sawed the trunk at the base and thrust it into the tub.”

“Iniquitous.”

“Poor tree. They’re living things, Bertie. Make sure such an act of cruelty is not repeated this year. Tell them they must dig up the roots as well and find a really large tub to plant it in and keep the soil moist. When Christmas is over we’ll plant the living tree outside again.”

“What a splendid idea,” I said, and added a slight evasion. “I can’t think who sanctioned the murder of last year’s tree.”

She gave me a look and said, “I’ll choose the menu for the Christmas dinner.”

“Whitstable oysters,” I said.

“Bertie, oysters aren’t traditional.”

“What do you mean? There’s an R in the month.”

“But the rest of us want roast goose.”

“So do I. Roast goose and oysters.”

“Very well. That’s your treat settled. And you must think up some treats for the children. A magic lantern show.”

“They’re children no more,” I said. “The youngest is sixteen and Eddy is twenty-six.”

“Well, I want the magic lantern,” she said, practically stamping her little foot. Christmas was definitely coming.

The magic lantern was my annual entertainment for the family and they knew the slides by heart. We would drape a large bedsheet between two sets of antlers and project the pictures onto it. They were mostly scenes of Scotland, about seventy in all, except for the last, which was the climax of the show, a star that altered shape several times as I cranked a little handle. This required me to stoop over the machine and one year my beard caught fire, causing more gaiety than any of the Scottish scenes.

After a hearty breakfast I summoned my long-serving secretary, Sir Francis Knollys, and arranged for the keepsakes to be ordered by telegraph from my usual jeweller, Mr Garrard, of the Haymarket. He’s a fortunate fellow, for we are obliged to keep a large retinue at Sandringham. As well as the pins and lockets, I thoughtfully ordered a gift for Alix of a large silver inkstand, which I knew she would adore. I believe the bill for everything was in excess of six hundred pounds. I’ve always lived beyond my means, but if the nation wants an heir presumptive, then it must allow him to be bounteous, I say. Garrard wired back promising to deliver the articles in presentation boxes by December 23rd, just time to wrap them and write labels on each one.

Next, I spoke to Hammond, my estate manager. The main tree, I said, should be at least twenty feet high and healthy.

“I’ll pick it myself, your Royal Highness,” he said. “I know exactly where to go. In fact, I’ll fell it myself as well.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Felling won’t do at all.”

“But last year you said—”

“That was last year. The Princess has a sentimental regard for trees and she insists that we — that is to say you — dig the whole thing from the ground, roots and all, and plant it in a tub so that it will survive the experience.”

“With respect, sir, the ground’s awfully hard from the frosts.”

“With respect, Hammond, you’ll have to dig awfully hard.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“No. As I command.”

I ordered a search for the magic lantern. It always goes missing. In a house as large as Sandringham there are hundreds of cupboards. The show wouldn’t be until Christmas afternoon, but I like to have a rehearsal and make sure the slides are the right way up. You wouldn’t believe the catcalls when I get one wrong. Some of my family think they can get away with bad behaviour in the dark. I don’t know where they get it from.

That evening Alix and I started the chore of signing Christmas cards. My festive spirit is well tested in the days before Christmas and I must admit to unparliamentary language when Alix produces yet another stack for me to attend to. However I was able to report that everything else was in hand.

“Have you addressed a card to your Mama?” she asked.

“I’m summoning my strength,” I said. Because of the Baccarat business, I was not in the best odour with the Queen. I confess to some relief that we wouldn’t be required to show our faces at Balmoral over Christmas. Mama deplores gambling of any sort, even on horses, and she was incensed that I might be required to appear as a witness. I wasn’t too sanguine at the prospect myself.

A week passed. The Christmas preparations went well. The magic lantern was found and tested. Hammond did his digging and the tree was erected in the ballroom. It took six men to lift it onto a trolley and trundle it through the house. We had immense fun with the stepladder used to hang the decorations, or, rather, I did, telling Alix I could see up to her knees and beyond when she was standing above me — which was true. She almost fell off through trying to adjust her skirt. She refused to go up again, so I invited one of her ladies-in-waiting to take her place and the girl turned as red as a holly berry and Alix was not at all amused. And then we had a jolly conversation of double-entendres about the pretty sights on view. I thought it jolly, anyway. I know a few ladies who would have thought it exceedingly funny.

A card arrived from Mama thanking me for mine and wishing me the blessings of Our Lord and a New Year of duty and decorum. She never gives up. I’m told she was full of fun in her youth. It’s hard to imagine.

The one small anxiety in our arrangements was that the jewellery hadn’t arrived by the end of December 22nd. I know Mr Garrard had promised to deliver by the day following, but in previous years he had always managed to get the consignment to us a day or so early. That evening I spoke to Knollys. He, too, was getting worried.

“Just to be sure, I’ll send a telegraph,” he said.

Oh, my stars and garters, what a shock awaited us! Next morning Mr Garrard wired back the following message:

Notwithstanding three inches of overnight snow, he was with us by midday, and I have never seen a man so discomposed. Quivering like a debutante’s fan, he was practically in tears. “I had my people working day and night to complete the order. Your Royal Highness,” he informed me. “It was all done, every item boxed up. I checked it myself, three times.”

“You can look me in the eye, Garrard,” I said. “I believe you. I’ve never had reason to doubt you before. Tell me, what arrangements did you make for the consignment to be delivered to Sandringham?”

“A personal messenger, sir. A young man who has worked for me for two years and whom I trust absolutely. He happens to live in Norfolk and wanted to visit his parents for Christmas, so I entrusted him with the valise containing the jewellery.”

“Where precisely in Norfolk?”

“Oh, he was coming here first, sir. That was my firm instruction.”

“Where, Mr Garrard?”

“A village called Holkham Staith, not fifteen miles from here, but that’s hardly the point.”

“I’ll be the judge of what is the point,” I said. He didn’t know it, and not many do, but I’ve had a certain amount of success as an amateur detective. My investigative skills are known only to my intimates. “I know Holkham.” I also knew a limerick about a young fellow of Holkham, but this wasn’t the moment to speak it. “What’s the young man’s name?”

“Digby, sir. Horace Digby.”

“It sounds respectable.”

“He’s of good family, sir. He’s related to the Digbys of Denbighshire.”

“It doesn’t always follow that good blood will out. What were your instructions to Digby?”

“To take the train to Lynn, never letting go of the valise, and then hire a cab to convey him here.”

“You saw him depart on the 21st?”

“I did, sir. I watched him get into a cab outside my shop in the Haymarket.”

“Well, gentlemen,” I said with all the authority of an experienced investigator, “we’ll not solve the mystery by standing here. We must drive out to Lynn and see if Digby arrived.”

Garrard rather undermined my announcement. “Sir, I already spoke to the stationmaster when I got in this morning. He confirmed that a young man answering Digby’s description alighted at the station at noon on the 21st and hailed a four-wheeled cab.”

“And what is the description Digby answers to?”

“Tall, very tall, about six foot three, lean, and wearing a Norfolk jacket with a distinctive green and yellow tweed design.”

“Sounds hideous. Hat?”

“A brown bowler, sir.”

“Well, if he hailed a cab at Lynn and it didn’t get here, where would he have gone?”

“Holkham?” Knollys suggested.

“My thought exactly. Let’s track the quarry to his lair.”

In no time we were in one of my two-horse carriages gliding through the snowy landscape. In any other circumstances it would have been a delightful drive, with a clear blue sky above. My driver knew the route to Holkham and so do I, for that’s where the Earl of Leicester resides and he’s a shooting man. We once bagged upwards of 1,600 fowl there in a single day — sixteen guns, that is.

This time we weren’t bound for Holkham Hall unfortunately. Far from being of good family, as Garrard claimed, Digby’s people were in trade, as horse dealers. I didn’t much care for them and I don’t think they cared for me, even when Knollys told them who I was.

“We ’aven’t seen ’un in weeks,” was the reply to my question.

“Your Royal Highness,” Knollys prompted the man.

“Months,” the man added. “When was it we last saw ‘’Orace, Betty?”

“’Orse fair,” the mother said.

“We ’aven’t seen ’un since ’orse fair,” the man said.

“Your Royal Highness,” Knollys said.

“Not that we don’t trust you, but we’d like to look around your property,” I said. “Your son has disappeared with a substantial amount of jewellery and a silver inkstand.”

“What would we be doing with a silver inkstand?” the man said.

“What would anybody be doing with a silver inkstand?” the woman said.

Knollys was about to say his piece again, but I flapped my hand.

I started a cigar before going inside. You never know what vapours you will encounter in such a household. Without being uncivil to the Queen’s humble subjects, I have to say that this wasn’t Holkham Hall. The only good thing about it was that there weren’t more rooms. We searched the kitchen and front room and looked inside two bedrooms. There were no signs of a recent visitor, nor of the missing valise. They had five pathetic horses standing in the snow at the back.

“They need blankets,” I said.

“Where would we get blankets?” the man said insolently.

“I’ll have some sent over before the day is out. See to it, Francis.”

“You’re a gent,” the woman said unnecessarily.

“See that you put them over the horses and not your own bed,” I said. “Come, gentlemen. We must pursue the trail elsewhere.”

In sombre mood, we got back into the carriage.

Garrard cleared his throat. “Your Royal Highness, the class and manners of those people shocked me to the quick and I apologise profoundly for putting you through such an ordeal. It’s apparent that Digby misinformed me as to his origins. I shall take it up with him as soon as he is found.”

“Save your breath,” I told him. “That’s of small account compared to the loss of the Christmas presents.”

Knollys said, “It suggests that the fellow is a blackguard.”

“Not at all,” I said. “You can’t know the wine by the barrel. I’m not judging him until we find him with the booty in his hands.”

“But how shall we trace him?”

“We must find the cabman who picked him up from the station. He’ll know where he put him down.”

“Brilliant!” Garrard said.

We drove to Lynn by the shortest route, still a cold journey of some fifteen miles. The snow scene was starting to lose its charm.

“How many cabs ply their trade at Lynn station, would you say?” I asked the others.

“Upwards of thirty. Fifty, even,” Knollys said, betraying some despondency. He has never had much faith in my investigations. “I’ve seen the line in the station yard.”

“But not all of them are four-wheelers, as this was,” Garrard said. “Most are hansoms. We’re not looking for a hansom.”

“Good thinking,” I said.

At the station, we lost no time in finding the station master. He must have seen my coat of arms on the carriage, for he’d donned his silk hat, which he now doffed with a flourish and a bow.

“You are the principal witness,” I told him. “You saw a tall man carrying a large valise and wearing a loud Norfolk jacket arrive here two days ago, on the 21st.”

“I spoke to him, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Royal Highness,” Knollys corrected him.

“You spoke? That’s interesting. What did he have to say?”

“That he was bound for Sandringham with a valuable cargo and didn’t want the inconvenience of standing in a queue for a cab, Your Royal—”

“Definitely our man,” I said. “You summoned a four-wheeler?”

“The cleanest on the stand, Your—”

“Ah! So you can identify the driver, no doubt.”

“His name is Gripper.”

“And is he here this morning?”

“No longer, Your—”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He was here twenty minutes ago. He picked up a fare, a gentleman from London. They’ll be well on their way to Sandringham by now.”

“To Sandringham?” I said. “I’m expecting no visitors today. Describe this traveller.”

“Middle-aged, brown suit and matching bowler, a rather military bearing and clipped manner of speech.”

“He spoke to you?”

“He wanted to know about the man you’re interested in, the tall man with the valise.”

“Did he, by Jove! Back to the carriage, gentlemen. I sense a kill.”

When we arrived at Sandringham, I was alarmed to see the four-wheeler on the drive in front of the main door with no sign of the driver or his mysterious passenger. I jumped out and rushed inside. A footman came to greet me.

“Where are the visitors?” I demanded.

“Sir, there’s a gentleman in the ballroom with Her Royal Highness.”

Fearful for Alix, I dashed in that direction, pursued by Knollys and Garrard. The moment I entered the ballroom I saw my darling wife standing in front of the Christmas tree with a brown-suited fellow holding a bowler hat.

“Don’t move, my man!” I shouted. “Alix, step away from him at once.”

To my amazement and confusion she simply laughed and said, “Oh, Bertie, don’t make an exhibition of yourself. This is Sergeant Cribb, the famous detective. Come and shake his hand.”

“What’s a detective doing in my house?”

“Detecting,” she said. “I invited him here. The presents for the servants haven’t arrived and I thought we should find out why. I was just explaining about the tree and our custom of giving presents on Christmas Eve.”

“Fine tree, sir,” Sergeant Cribb said.

Ignoring him, I crossed the room and addressed my wife. “You invited this man here without consulting me? I don’t want a police investigation. That’s the last thing we want after the year we’ve had.”

“He’s an ex-policeman, dear, and very discreet.”

“Retired on a modest pension, sir,” Cribb said. He didn’t look old apart from a few silver hairs, but policemen retire younger than most.

“And he comes highly recommended by the Chief Constable,” Alix said. “We have to deal with this matter expeditiously.”

“But you didn’t speak to me about this.”

“Because you were off doing other things. It’s such a busy time.”

I looked at Francis Knollys and rolled my eyes. “Well, Sergeant Cribb, what do you have to tell us apart from the fact that we have a fine tree?”

“I’d like to speak to the estate manager, sir.”

“To Hammond? He’s got nothing to do with it.”

There was a silence that would have done for a lying-in-state.

Eventually Cribb glanced towards Alix. She gestured to the footman. “Find Mr Hammond and tell him he’s wanted here.”

I said, “It’s the missing jewellery we’re exercised about, not the damned Christmas tree.”

“There may be a connection, sir,” Cribb said.

“And I’m a Dutchman.”

Presently Hammond made his entry. He was looking mightily perturbed, and I was perturbed, too, when I saw the state of his boots. Containing my displeasure, I gestured to Cribb to ask his questions.

“Fine tree,” he parroted.

“Thank you, sir,” Hammond said.

I told him he had no need to address Cribb as if he was a gentleman.

“I think it’s the biggest I’ve seen,” Cribb said.

Alix intervened to say it was a living tree still attached to its roots.

“Capital, ma’am,” Cribb said, and turned back to Hammond. “When I was being driven through the grounds I noticed a small group of evergreens not far from the carriage path. Was this tree dug from there?”

“Yes.”

“A home-grown tree. How charming.”

Alix lavished a sweet smile on Cribb. I was starting to doubt her loyalty.

“And now, Mr Hammond,” Cribb said, “I’m going to ask you to show me precisely where the tree was growing.”

“I can do that.”

“You’ll ruin your shoes,” Alix said. “The snow’s quite deep. Bertie, have you got some galoshes to protect Sergeant Cribb’s shoes?”

What next? I thought. Gritting my teeth, I clicked my fingers and sent a flunkey for enough overshoes for the four of us men. Alix elected not to come. She hates the cold.

Suitably attired, we left the house, Hammond leading. Before we’d gone a few yards Cribb left the party and trotted over to the cab still waiting near the entrance. Attached to the front below the driver’s seat was a spade.

“You might care to look at this, sir,” Cribb called out.

The insolence of the man. I know what a spade is. I’ve turned enough first sods in my time. But the other two went to look, so I joined them, not wishing to seem churlish.

Cribb said, “A necessary tool for a cabman in the depths of winter, a spade. You never know when you’ll need to dig yourself out.”

Then he held it horizontally towards me as if he was passing across a stuffed salmon for my inspection. “Take a close look at the dried mud attaching to the shoulder. I’ll pick some off for you.”

He scraped some off and I found myself constrained to look at fragments of dried mud lying in his palm.

“Do you see the pine needles?”

Now that he mentioned the fact, I did. I gave a nod.

“That’s all right, then,” Cribb said, taking back the spade and shouldering it like a rifle. “We’ll have a use for this, I think.”

Hammond had by now got some way ahead. We stepped out and caught up with him a short distance from the evergreen copse.

“Now, Mr Hammond,” Cribb said, “kindly show us precisely where the Christmas tree was growing.”

Hammond started to point and then drew back his hand and scratched his head instead. “Well, I’ll be jiggered.”

To borrow the words of the carol, the snow lay deep and crisp and even.

Even was the operative word.

“You dug out a large tree,” Cribb said to him, “so where’s the large hole?”

“Caught out, Mr Hammond,” I said. “In spite of all the instructions to the contrary, you sawed the thing off at the base.”

“I swear I didn’t, sir. It took six of us a morning and an afternoon to dig under the roots.”

“Perhaps you filled in the hole?” Knollys suggested.

“I wouldn’t do that. Not when the tree has to be put back after Twelfth Night. May I borrow that spade?”

He started scraping away the layer of snow. Below it, the ground was even, but the soil was soft. “Someone else filled it in.”

“Keep at it, Mr Hammond,” Cribb said. “Dig out the soft stuff.”

Hammond went at it with a will. We all had to stand back as the spadefuls of earth flew about us.

Cribb said, “Wait. What’s that dark material?”

“It’s fabric.” Hammond bent down and scraped with his fingers and unearthed a brown bowler hat.

“Just the beginning,” Cribb said. “Dig some more, Mr Hammond.”

In only a few minutes Hammond exclaimed, “Oh, my Lord.”

He’d uncovered a human hand and part of a sleeve of yellow and green tweed.

“Horace Digby, poor fellow,” Garrard said.

In the warmth of the house I treated them to hot punch. We’d left some gardeners outside to warm themselves by extracting the rest of the corpse from the hole.

I waited for Alix to join us, and then said, “This is all very remarkable, Sergeant Cribb, but it hasn’t brought back the missing jewels unless they’re in the hole as well.”

“No, they’re not, sir. I recovered them earlier. Excuse me a moment.” He left the room.

We were lost for words. We simply stared at each other until he returned carrying a valise and a large silver object that I recognised as an inkstand, Alix’s Christmas present.

“What’s that ugly thing?” Alix said.

“The murder weapon, ma’am,” Cribb said.

All my good intentions dashed in a couple of sentences.

“Then who is the murderer?”

“Gripper, the cabman,” Cribb said. “I have him cuffed, hand and foot. He’s quite secure, lying on the floor of his own cab. It was a crime of opportunity and it happened on the 21st, before the snow came. Digby got into his cab at Lynn station and said he wanted to be driven to Sandringham. It was pretty obvious that the valise contained something valuable. All the way here the cabman planned the robbery. Inside the gates where it was quiet, he stopped and told Digby to hand over the booty. Digby put up a fight, but the cabbie grabbed something heavy — and I think it was that silver object — and brained him with it. He may not have intended murder, but that’s what it became. It was his good luck that a hole big enough for a grave had been dug nearby. He dropped the body in and used his own spade to cover it with the excess soil beside the hole. That’s how he got the pine needles in the mud. And there was more good luck for him when the snow came, levelling everything.”

“But bad luck when you came along,” Alix said, her voice overflowing with admiration.

“Yes, I got the gist of the story from the stationmaster at Lynn. It was a risk using the same cab, but I fancy the killer thought he’d got away with it. And he wasn’t likely to attack me with nothing in my hands. I arrested him on suspicion as soon as I got here.”

“You’re a brave man, as well as a fine detective,” Alix said, actually clapping her hands. “Isn’t he a brave man, Bertie?”

“Where were the stolen jewels?” I asked.

“In the box seat he sits on.”

“Speaking of boxes, do we have a Christmas box for Sergeant Cribb?” Alix asked.

She looked to me, I looked to Knollys and he sniffed, sighed and took a couple of gold sovereigns from his pocket.

“And there’s his fee, of course,” Alix said. “Twenty-five pounds, I suggest.”

Cribb looked as if his Christmas was just beginning.

As for me, I’ve never felt the same about Christmas trees. Before Papa made them popular, we had something rather better. The custom was to hang up a bough entwined with mistletoe, holly, ivy and other evergreens, candles, apples and cinnamon sticks. It was called the kissing bough and when I’m King I intend to reinstate it.

If the Queen allows.