Reader, I Buried Them and Other Stories

A Three Pie Problem

Peter Diamond wasn’t Scrooge, but Christmas could be a pain. For one thing, he missed Steph more than ever at this time of year. For another, people took pity on him and invited him to stay. His in-laws, Angela and Mervyn, asked him each year to go up to Liverpool for ‘a proper family party’ and he was forced to think of excuses. He’d tried saying Raffles, his cat, needed looking after, but they didn’t regard that as a reason. ‘Put him in a basket and bring him with you,’ Angela had said. ‘We’ll fuss him up, same as you.’ Raffles, like Diamond, wouldn’t relish being fussed up.

This year, Angela had a different strategy. ‘You know what I’m going to say,’ she told him on the phone in about the second week of December, ‘and I know what you’re going to say, so forget it. If you won’t come to the party, the party is coming to you. It’s ages since we visited Bath and we do so enjoy looking round. Don’t panic, Peter. I’ll do all the cooking and Mervyn will organise the games.’

Games? He almost dropped the phone.

‘It’s fixed, then. We’re arriving the Saturday before and we’ll stay until the New Year.’

‘I could be on duty,’ was all he could think to say.

‘Come on, you’re the boss, aren’t you?’

‘A major incident.’

‘At Christmas?’

This Christmas, please, he thought.

There was no stopping Angela. They arrived with their hatchback stuffed with suitcases and all the festive paraphernalia, including a plastic tree. Raffles took refuge in the airing cupboard.

For reasons nobody cared to go into, Angela thought the police in general were beneath contempt and her late sister Stephanie — she always used the full name — should never have hitched herself to one of them, let alone an overweight slob like Diamond. His rank did not impress her. His skills as a detective were disregarded. He hadn’t papered the walls since they’d bought the house. Hadn’t weeded the garden, washed the windows, mended the Hoover, removed the tidemark from the bath. He pampered the cat and cheated at cards. All this was pointed out to him on the first evening.

So the call from Bath Police Station on Christmas Eve came as glad tidings, even great joy, to the beleaguered head of CID.

‘Sorry to disturb your Christmas break, sir.’

‘No trouble at all. Do you need me there?’

‘It could be nothing at all.’

‘But on the other hand...’ he said with a rising note.

‘There’s an outside chance it was murder.’

‘Say no more. Duty calls.’

Angela rolled her eyes upwards and Mervyn looked aghast at the prospect of being alone with his wife. ‘Could I come with you, as a sort of observer?’

‘No,’ Diamond said. ‘Too horrible for a man of your good taste. Why don’t you redecorate the Christmas tree? Angela thinks my effort was crap.’

He was gone.

Bath police had been alerted to the death of one Fletcher Merriman, aged seventy-eight, the senior partner in Merriman and Palmer, a small firm of accountants with an office above a shop in Gay Street. Old Mr Merriman had died two weeks ago in the Royal United Hospital of heart failure.

‘There are suspicious elements,’ Georgina Dallymore, the Assistant Chief Constable, told Diamond. ‘I wouldn’t put it any higher than that. He wasn’t admitted with a heart condition. They treated him for gastroenteritis following an office party. He was in considerable pain, I gather. The heart attack came later.’

‘Poison?’

‘The post-mortem was inconclusive. They tested for the known poisons and found nothing of note. He was on medication for a heart problem anyway, so there were traces of various substances in the stomach contents, but nothing lethal.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I hope we’re not wasting your time, Peter. It’s just that the circumstances could have come straight out of Agatha Christie. He wasn’t a nice old man at all. In fact, he was appalling. Everyone at the party had reasons to knock him off.’

‘Everyone? How many is that?’

‘Three.’

‘Small party.’

‘All the easier to question them. It could wait until after Christmas, but you left the message saying you wanted to be notified if any serious crimes were reported.’

‘Absolutely, ma’am. Maybe if I spend Christmas on this one I can take days off in lieu at a later date.’

‘You mean when the in-laws have left?’

He grinned.

The surviving partner, Maurice Palmer, had agreed to be in attendance at the office in Gay Street, but it was a woman’s voice on the entryphone. Diamond gave his name and entered.

‘Sylvie Smith, junior accountant,’ she said. She was smart, in her twenties, with dark, intelligent eyes. ‘He’s expecting you.’

‘And did he ask you to come in on Christmas Eve just to show me in?’

‘It’s a chance to tidy my desk.’

‘Don’t go away, then. I’d like to speak to you later.’

Palmer appeared from an inner room and introduced himself. Fiftyish, in the obligatory dark suit and striped tie, he looked well capable of tangling with tax inspectors. Or police inspectors.

‘Decent of you to see me,’ Diamond said. ‘I hope this hasn’t messed up your holiday plans.’

‘Not as yet,’ Palmer said, ‘but I hope we can clear up any questions now. I’m booked on a flight to Tenerife tonight.’

‘Is that a tax haven?’

‘If it is, it doesn’t come into my plans. I’m going for some winter sunshine, I hope.’

Diamond glanced about him at the filing cabinets and computers. ‘So is this the room where the party was held?’

‘No, in point of fact. This is the office where the ladies sit,’ Palmer said. ‘The party was in here.’ He swung open the door he’d come through. ‘My room.’

Diamond stepped in. ‘Nice.’

It was oak-panelled, with a high corniced ceiling and a marble fireplace with gas flames that looked realistic. Leather armchairs, an expensive-looking carpet and a rosewood table with matching chairs testified to the status of the firm. ‘Fletcher Merriman used it for many years before he retired from the practice in 2001.’ He went to the doorway and said to Sylvie Smith, ‘Why don’t you finish off what you were doing?’ Then he closed the door.

‘So old Mr Merriman came in just for the party?’

‘His annual visit. It became a tradition. Every December he’d zoom in — you know he used a wheelchair? — with all the seasonal fare, three bottles of sherry, sweet, medium and dry, a dozen mince pies and a huge branch of mistletoe, and tell us it was party time. He loved surprising people.’

‘Surprising them? You just said it was a tradition.’

‘We had no idea which day he would arrive.’

‘From what I hear, he was better at springing surprises than receiving them.’

‘His heart condition, you mean? Yes, he had to be careful. He’d had two coronaries since retiring. He withdrew entirely from the business. I’ve been running it for years.’

‘But he remained the senior partner?’

‘Sleeping partner is a better description, but “partner” is the operative word.’

‘So he still had a slice of the profits?’

‘Fifty-fifty. We’re still Merriman and Palmer, a respected name in Bath. He deserved some reward for all the years he put in.’

‘And will his family get a share of any future profits?’

‘There is no family.’

‘So it all comes to you now?’

Maurice Palmer turned deep pink above his striped collar. ‘Unless I take on another partner.’

Diamond glanced around the room. ‘Let’s talk about the party. What kind of bash was it?’

‘I wouldn’t call it that.’

‘Did you finish the sherry between you?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Three bottles between four of you would have been good going. Were they all freshly bought?’

‘Yes, indeed, from the wine merchant in Broad Street.’

‘Who opened them?’

‘Fletcher — and he did the pouring as well. He liked us to be aware that he was the provider.’

‘You didn’t keep the bottles, by any chance?’

‘The dead men?’ He shook his head. ‘They went out the same evening with the rest of what was left.’

‘And was the mistletoe put to good use?’

Palmer glanced towards the door and lowered his voice. ‘You must understand that my esteemed ex-colleague belonged to a generation before PC came in, when a little of what you fancy was no offence.’

‘He was an old goat?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Would the women?’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t be so disrespectful.’

‘But you didn’t have to be kissed under the mistletoe.’

‘Hardly.’

‘I’ll speak presently to someone who did. Tell me, Mr Palmer, did you try one of the mince pies?’

‘I had three. And very good they were. He always bought them from Maisie’s, the best baker in town. They were still warm.’

‘No ill effects?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘And how did the party end?’

‘With Fletcher complaining of stomach pains and saying he needed to get home. We called a taxi. Next morning I heard he was in hospital and some hours later he had a fatal heart attack. Sad, but not unexpected, allowing for his medical history.’

‘You didn’t shed any tears, then?’

‘He was not an easy person to have as a business partner. But that doesn’t mean I wished him to suffer.’

Diamond had heard all he needed at this stage, so he asked Palmer to send in Sylvie Smith.

‘In here?’ Palmer said in surprise.

‘The scene of the crime — if, indeed, there was a crime. Where better?’

‘You wish to interview her in my presence?’

‘No, I suggest you wait outside and see if her double-entries are up to the mark.’

Sylvie Smith looked nervous, and more so when Diamond waved her towards her boss’s high-back executive chair. ‘Give yourself a treat. One day all this could be yours.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ She perched uneasily on the edge of the chair.

Diamond preferred to stand. ‘So how many of old Mr Merriman’s surprise parties have you attended?’

‘This was the second. I joined the firm after leaving college, towards the end of last year.’

‘The first time it happened you must have wondered what was up when he rolled through in his wheelchair primed with mistletoe and sherry. Did he insist on a kiss?’

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘He called it his Christmas cuddle. I’d hardly ever met him.’

‘He took it as his right?’

‘It makes me sick to think of it.’

‘If you’d complained, your job would have been at risk — and there aren’t many openings in Bath for freshly qualified accountants.’

She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘That’s for sure.’

‘Did you know this was an annual ordeal?’

‘Donna said something about it, but I thought she was winding me up.’

‘Donna is the other woman who works here?’

She nodded. ‘She’s been here six years. She’ll be chartered next year if all goes well.’

‘But she isn’t in today?’

‘Decided to take some of her annual leave.’

‘Gone away for Christmas?’

‘I don’t think so. She has a flat in Walcot Street.’

‘Lives alone, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What age is Donna? All right. Indiscreet question. Is she under forty?’

‘I expect so.’

Diamond looked up at the bare ceiling. There was no central light. There were wall lights representing candles. ‘I’m trying to picture this party. Presumably the old boy sat in his wheelchair under some mistletoe. I can’t see where it was attached.’

‘We had to tie string across the room, from one of the wall lights to the one opposite. Then the mistletoe was hung over the string just above where you’re standing.’

‘Got it. When you say “we”...?’

‘Me and Donna.’

‘I’m getting the picture now. So whoever attached the mistletoe to the string must have stood on this table beside me to do it. Who was that?’

Sylvie rolled her eyes again. ‘He insisted it was me. Said I had the longer reach.’ She hesitated and turned as red as a Christmas card robin. ‘I happened to be wearing a short skirt.’

‘The picture is even clearer. Where was Mr Palmer while you were on the table?’

‘Mr Palmer? Some way off, by the fireplace, I think. It was Mr Merriman who had the ringside view, almost underneath me in his wheelchair.’

‘Did he hand you the mistletoe himself?’

‘No. He was far too busy looking up my skirt. It was Donna who helped me.’

‘So when he’d got over that excitement, and the mistletoe was in place, the party got under way. Drinks all round, no doubt?’

She nodded. ‘I needed one.’

‘The sherry was where?’

‘On the table.’

‘And the glasses?’

‘Mr Palmer keeps some in his drawer.’

‘As every boss should. Did Mr Palmer pour?’

‘Mr Merriman did.’

‘Did you notice if the sherry was new, the bottles sealed at the neck?’

‘I’m certain of it. He had to borrow scissors.’

‘You know why I’m interested? Something upset his stomach and if the sherry was new I’m thinking it must have been the mince pies.’

She shook her head. ‘They were fresh, too, fresh as anything, in boxes from Maisie’s. Actually they were delicious.’

Diamond felt his stomach juices stirring. ‘So you had one?’

‘Three, at least. We all did.’

‘And could anyone have slipped the old man a mince pie from anywhere else?’

‘I don’t see how. We were all in here together.’

‘Making merry?’

‘Making a stab at it.’

‘I expect a few glasses of sherry helped.’

She took a sharp breath. ‘Not when he grabbed me and forced me on to his lap for the kiss under the mistletoe. That was disgusting. His bony old hands were everywhere.’ She shuddered. ‘It went on for over a minute. I could have strangled him.’

‘But you didn’t. Did Donna get the same treatment?’

‘Not quite the same. She was wearing trousers.’

‘And did you also get a kiss from Mr Palmer?’

‘That was no problem. Just a peck on the cheek. He doesn’t fancy me, anyway.’

Diamond thanked her and returned to the outer office. ‘I’ll need the address of your other member of staff,’ he told Palmer.

‘Donna? There’s nothing she can add.’

‘How do you know? Maybe she saw something you and Miss Smith missed.’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, superintendent. Nothing untoward happened here. Fletcher died from natural causes.’

‘I’ll let you know if I agree — after I’ve heard from Donna.’

First, he returned to the police station and asked his eager-to-please detective sergeant, Ingeborg, to get on the internet. Encouraged by her findings, he called the forensic lab that had analysed the post-mortem samples and suggested a second specific examination of the stomach contents. He was told the chances were not high of finding anything they hadn’t already reported and anyway it would have to wait until after the holiday.

‘Typical,’ he said to Ingeborg. ‘We’re working. Why can’t they?’

The third surviving accountant lived in a classy flat. Donna was a classy lady with a sexy drawl to her voice. Not at all unfazed by Diamond’s arrival, she offered him coffee. While she was in the kitchen he used 1471 to check the last call she’d received. It was timed just after he’d left the Merriman and Palmer office — and that had been the source of the call.

It was no crime, of course, to tip her off. Any colleague would do the same.

‘Here’s my problem,’ he told her over the coffee. ‘Old Fletcher Merriman was taken home ill at the end of the party. The pains got worse and he ended up in hospital. I’ve seen the medical notes. Abdominal pain, blurred vision, nausea and low pulse. We’re bound to check if he was poisoned, triggering the heart attack that killed him.’

‘Poisoned?’ she said with a disbelieving smile.

He nodded. ‘Yet we aren’t sure how the poison could have been administered, allowing that he brought his own food and drink to the party and everything was fresh. Poured the drinks himself, in full view of everyone.’

‘Did they find poison inside him?’ she asked as calmly as if she were enquiring about last night’s rain.

‘Nothing obvious, but the traditional poisons like arsenic and strychnine are so easy to detect these days that they aren’t often used. I’ve suggested something else and they’re testing for it.’

She didn’t ask the obvious question. Instead, she said, ‘Why would anyone want to kill a retired accountant?’

‘This is pure speculation and shouldn’t be repeated,’ he said. ‘Maurice Palmer stood to gain financially. The old man’s death leaves him in sole charge of the firm.’

‘Surely you don’t suspect Maurice.’

Diamond didn’t comment. ‘And Sylvie Smith told me she felt like strangling him after the groping she had to endure.

‘She’s young. She’s got a lot to learn about men.’

‘His behaviour didn’t bother you, then?’

‘I’ve been six years with the firm. I know what to expect from Fletcher the lecher.’ She ran her fingertip thoughtfully around the rim of her cup. ‘Here’s a theory for you, Mr Diamond. Is it possible during a kiss to pass a capsule into someone’s mouth?’

‘I expect so. Nasty.’

‘Something like digitalis that is taken by heart patients but dangerous in an overdose?’

‘Ingenious. What gave you this idea?’

She shrugged. ‘He insisted on a full mouth-to-mouth kiss. In the absence of any other theory...’

‘Ah, but I do have another theory. A better one than yours. The mince pies killed him.’

She shook her head. ‘We all had mince pies. Rich food, I’ll grant you, but the rest of us felt no ill effects. There was nothing wrong with them.’

‘Something was wrong with at least one of the pies Fletcher Merriman ate.’

‘I can’t see how.’

‘It was laced with poison. Bear with me a moment.’ He took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Tyramine and beta-phenylethylamine.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘But you’ve heard of mistletoe. These are the toxic substances contained in mistletoe berries. The symptoms are similar to enteritis, but with blurred vision and a marked lowering of the pulse. In a tired old body susceptible to heart problems, as Merriman’s was, the poison induced a failure of the cardiovascular system. Killed him.’

‘But the mistletoe was above our heads.’

‘Not when he arrived. You and Sylvie fixed it up.’

‘Excuse me. Sylvie tied it to the string.’

‘And while she was getting all the men’s attention in her short skirt, you were stripping a number of the white berries from the branch before you handed it up to her.’

She frowned. ‘Untrue.’

‘You waited for the next opportunity, and it came when the old man was kissing Sylvie. You lifted the lid of the mince pie on his plate and tucked the mistletoe berries under it. Lethal and almost undetectable.’

She was as silent as a child waiting for Santa.

He stood up. ‘Might I look into your bedroom?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘To test my theory. This door?’

She was in no position to stop him.

‘So you’re planning a holiday?’ There was a packed suitcase on the bed.

‘People do.’

He stepped closer and looked at the label. ‘Tenerife. Shame. You’re not going any further than Manvers Street nick. I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Fletcher Merriman.’

‘So she’s singing?’ Georgina, the Assistant Chief Constable, said.

‘She sang. Better than the Bath Abbey Choir.’

‘You sound positively festive, Peter.’

‘It is Christmas Eve, ma’am.’

‘What was her motive?’

‘She’s a cool lady. Worked hard at her accountancy, filling in the columns, promising herself a promotion when she’s chartered next year. She saw the young woman, Sylvie, bright and ambitious, and decided she wasn’t willing to wait and be overtaken. Cosied up to Maurice Palmer and promised to spend Christmas in Tenerife with him. She reckoned she could persuade him to take her on as his new partner, but first old Fletcher Merriman had to be sent to the great audit in the sky. She knew his annual ritual, so she could plan how to do it. A mince pie contains a rich mix. After digestion is anyone likely to detect some mistletoe berries in it?’

‘Did they?’

‘Not yet, but she thinks it’s a done deal, and she’s confessed.’

‘Murder by mince pie. Who would have thought of it?’

‘An ambitious woman with time running out.’

‘You don’t think Palmer had a hand in it?’

‘No, ma’am. He’s not that brave, or bright.’

‘Case solved, then, and all in one day. You can get back to your family and enjoy the rest of Christmas.’

Diamond took a sharp, audible breath. ‘Not for some time. There’s all the paperwork.’

‘Leave it for later.’

‘No, I don’t trust my memory. I’ll be here for a while yet. I know where to put my hands on a beer or two. And the odd mince pie.’

‘Not too odd, Peter. We need you.’