The Case Of The Dead Wait

1.

Christmas at home wasn’t ever in Laura Thyme’s plans. Where was home? She’d hurled a large stone through the front window of her last one. Her two-timing cradle-snatcher of a husband Nick had blighted all the nice memories of that place. She tried to think of herself these days as a free spirit. Tried, because deep inside she hadn’t entirely got the man out of her system. He still had the capacity to hurt.

Well, she was sure of one thing. She wouldn’t dump herself on either of her grown-up children. They would have plans of their own, and quite right, too. If Matthew or Helena looked forward to pulling anything on Christmas Day it wasn’t a cracker with their mum. They really were free spirits, long past the stage when Laura made it her business to know who they were sleeping with.

As for Rosemary-her gardening oppo, Dr. Rosemary Boxer, the ex-academic with the happy knack of finding wealthy clients with ailing plants-she’d be the perfect company for a festive lunch, but she had an elderly mum living alone. Last weekend Rosemary had called to wish Laura a merrier time than she was expecting for herself.

The result: Laura was house-sitting.

She was alone in The Withers, a large Jacobean house in Wiltshire. Two of her oldest and richest friends, Jane and Michael Eadington, were having three weeks in the Canaries. A call at the end of November had set it up. “We’re in such trouble, Laura. You know we’ve got these silly orchids that are Mike’s latest hobby? Our daughter Maeve-the model-was going to look after them and now she’s got a chance to do a series of shows with Calvin Klein in New York. Could you, would you, will you, please, be our fairy godmother?”

Sorted.

Even after discovering that the house had another resident-Wilbur, the rescue greyhound.

She’d driven the Land Rover down there on Christmas Eve. For all its mechanical uncertainties, the ancient 4x4 was ideal transport for the country. She overheated only once, and the car didn’t overheat at all. She was just in time to see the Eadingtons off. A quick introduction to the orchids, six trays of them in the conservatory under banks of fluorescent tubing. Hurried instructions about the central heating, persuading Wilbur to wear a coat for winter walks, and what to do in a power failure. Firm orders not to be in the least concerned if anything broke or went wrong. “It’s all replaceable, darling. We’re just so pleased to have you here. Treat it like your own home. Raid the freezer, watch the DVDs, drink the wine in the cellar, have an orgy if you want.”

For a few minutes after they’d driven up the lane Laura wondered if she’d done the right thing. The house seemed bigger than she remembered from the last visit. She’d never once set foot upstairs. The orchids were in flower, but didn’t look pleased at being handed over to her care. Winter was supposed to be the flowering season, but some of them were wilting. Mike had talked about misting and humidity levels and feeding. She didn’t want any casualties. She returned to the vast space the Eadingtons used as the living room.

A sudden movement at the window gave her a wicked shock. The greyhound had emerged from behind the curtain, where he’d been sitting on the sill. Yes, a greyhound on a window sill. It was that kind of room, that kind of window, that kind of curtain. “I’m in charge now, Wilbur,” she told him, wagging a finger, “and if the two of us are going to survive you’d better not play any more tricks like that.”

Treat the place like your home, they’d said, so she took out her Christmas cards and started setting them up. The cards triggered mixed feelings. It was good to hear from old friends, but it could hurt when the envelopes came addressed to Nick and Laura with messages along the lines of “How are you two getting along? Give us a call and let’s all meet up in 2007.”

Wilbur jumped back on his sill and knocked down most of the cards.

“Making some kind of point, are we?” Laura said. But she moved them to the grand piano.

When the doorbell rang a moment later, the rest of the cards dropped out of her hand. It was a chiming bell and her charming friends had set it to the opening bar of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” which can be pretty startling when you don’t expect it. Wilbur barked, so she had to shut him in the conservatory first.

A tall-six foot tall, at least-thin-faced woman with deep-set, accusing eyes was on the doorstep with a plate covered with a cloth. “And who the devil are you?” she said.

Laura did her best to explain, but it didn’t make much impact.

“Where’s young Maeve? She ought to be looking after the house,” the woman said.

“Yes, but she’s dashed off to New York. A last-minute change of plans.”

“What do I do with these, then? I made them for the family.” She lifted the cloth briefly to reveal a batch of underdone mince pies.

“I don’t know,” Laura said; adding with tact, “They smell delicious. I’m sorry, but you didn’t say who you are.”

“Gertrude Appleton from next-door. We always exchange mince pies at Yuletide. Have you made yours?”

“I just arrived.”

That didn’t count with Gertrude Appleton. She clicked her tongue and looked ready to stamp her foot as well. “I must have one of yours, or I’ll get bad luck for a year.”

“Why?”

“It’s Wiltshire custom, isn’t it? You eat a pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas, and every one has to be baked by a different friend. Then, if the Lord is merciful, you’ll survive to see another Christmas. Bless my soul, there isn’t anyone else I can ask.”

“You’d better step inside a moment,” Laura said, not wanting to panic this woman and playing for time while she thought about ways to resolve the problem.

“No, I won’t come in,” Gertrude Appleton said, and those fierce eyes were suddenly red at the edges and starting to water. “I don’t know you from Adam. Couldn’t call thee a friend.”

“Let’s be friends. Why not? It’s the season for it,” Laura said, dredging deep to sound convivial. “Listen, Gertrude, why don’t I do some baking right now and make some pies for you?”

“But you won’t have mincemeat.”

“I’m positive all the ingredients must be in the kitchen. Jane adores cooking, as you know.”

Gertrude raised her chin in a self-righteous way. “Mine was made with the puddings four weeks ago, the week after Stir-up Sunday.”

“Stirrup what?”

“Stir-up Sunday. Haven’t you heard of that? The last Sunday before Advent. That’s when you make your puddings and mince, after the collect for the day: ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy people.’”

This was getting more and more weird.

“In that case, Jane may have made hers already,” Laura said. “I’ll check. One way or another, you’ll get a mince pie from me, Gertrude. Depend upon it.”

“Take these, then.” Gertrude thrust the plate towards her. “You’ll need some for the waits.”

Laura had a mental picture of old-fashioned kitchen scales, with her mince pie being weighed against Gertrude’s and found wanting.

“The carollers. They come round every Christmas Eve, and they always want a bite to eat and mulled wine, too, the boozy lot. I must be off. I have seasonal jobs to do. There’s greenfly and aphids in the greenhouse.”

“You’re a gardener?” Laura said with interest.

“Ha!” She tossed her head. “Am I a gardener? I wouldn’t bother to go on without my garden. It’s the saving of me.”

“I do some gardening, too. What are you going to do about the aphids-spray them?”

Gertrude looked shocked. “I don’t hold with chemicals. No, I’ll smoke the varmints out, like I always do.”

“Fumigation? Effective, I expect, though I’ve never tried it,” Laura said.

“I’ve got these magical smoke things, like little strips of brown paper. Had them for years. Just close up all the windows and seal the cracks and set light to they strips. Let it blaze for a while, and then I stamp it out so they can smoulder. Soon as the smoke appears I’m out of there quicker than hell would scorch a feather and shut the door behind me. When I go in again, there’s not a greenfly left to say it ever happened.”

Laura refrained from mentioning that the magical smoke things undoubtedly contained chemicals of some kind. “Good luck with it, then. And I won’t forget the mince pies. Which direction do you live?”

She was glad to have a task, although she could think of better ones than this. After closing the door she carried the plate to Jane’s enormous kitchen, plonked it on the table, and checked the walk-in larder for jars of mincemeat.

No joy. If you were planning to spend Christmas in Lanzarote, she reflected, you wouldn’t feel obliged to make mincemeat. Even on Stir-up Sunday.

She checked the freezer. Well stocked, but not with seasonal items.

She thought of the supermarket in Bradford on Avon. A bought mince pie wouldn’t suffice, of course. Those eyes like calculators would spot a Mr. Kipling at fifty paces. The pastry, at the very least, would have to look homemade.

Then Laura had her inspiration. She’d save herself the toil, tears, and sweat by recycling some of Gertrude’s own mince pies and simply making new lids for them. She picked a sharp knife and prised the lid off one. A neat dissection. The trick would be to spread a little jam over the mincemeat to seal the replacement.

She found all the ingredients she needed and switched on the oven.

When the phone on the wall rang she was up to her elbows in flour.

“You’ll just have to leave a message after the tone,” she said to it.

“This is Calvin Klein’s office in New York. Mr Klein was hoping to speak to Maeve about the trip. We’ll call back.”

Laura said, “Calvin Klein! I could be speaking to Calvin Klein and I’m sifting ruddy pastry?”

She was adding the egg yolk and water when the phone went again. This time she grabbed it with a floury hand. In a come-hitherish tone she said, “Hi, how can I be of service?”

“Laura?”

She knew that voice and it wasn’t Calvin Klein’s. “You! I thought you were someone else. Oh, never mind. It’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s a miracle,” Rosemary said. “I used one of those directory-enquiry numbers and I’m sure it was someone in Calcutta, but she seemed to know the Eadingtons. You’re installed in deepest Wilts, then?”

“‘In deepest’ sums it up. I haven’t been here an hour and I’m already making pastry for the locals. What’s with you?”

“A change of plans, actually. Mother forgot to tell me. When I got here she was all packed up to leave. You know she does competitions? She won a trip for two to the Bahamas, courtesy of Cadbury, or Kellogg’s, or someone.”

“How marvellous! But what are you going to wear? I bet you didn’t pack your bikini.”

“Oh, she isn’t taking me,” Rosemary said, as if that went without saying. “You know what Mother’s like. She’s taking some old gent called Mr. Pinkerton from the Tai Chi group. I’m high and dry, Laura. I was wondering if-well-if there’s a spare bed in this stately pile you’re looking after.”

Laura took a step back and there was a yelp from Wilbur, who had got too close. “That wasn’t me. Do I have a spare bed? Dozens. That’s brilliant.”

“I could get a train to Bath tonight.”

“You’ve made my Christmas. I’ll be waiting on the platform.”

She had fitted the fresh lids on those pies, twelve of them, and very appetizing they looked. She’d used a beaten-egg glaze that gave them a lovely amber finish to leave no doubt that they were different from Gertrude Appleton’s insipid-looking offerings. Rosemary was due on a late train at 10:50, so it was likely that the carollers would get their treats. Would eleven pies be enough? She needed to put one aside, of course, for Gertrude, to help her survival plan. If twelve or more carollers came, Laura told herself, it was a sure bet that some wouldn’t want another pie if they’d been eating them all around the village. The mulled wine simmering in a saucepan was another matter.

About eight-thirty, Wilbur howled and Laura heard muted singing. She shut Wilbur in the kitchen and opened the front door. She needn’t have worried about the catering. A mere four men stood under a lantern. Three wore cardboard-and-tinsel crowns and were giving an uneven rendering of “We Three Kings.” The fourth, holding up the lantern, was the vicar, unless his collar was from a carnival shop, like the crowns. He looked too young to be a clergyman. Just like policemen, Laura thought.

When they started on the solo verses, Melchior’s reedy voice almost faded away. For a fat man he was producing a very thin sound. Caspar, with “Frankincense to offer have I,” was marginally better, and Balthazar, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume,” lost the tune altogether. She was thankful when they got to the last chorus. She popped a two-pound coin into the box and invited them inside.

“Muddy feet,” said the vicar. “We’d better not.”

Melchior had already taken a step forward and needed restraining by his companions. Too much mulled wine already, Laura suspected. But she still fetched the tray from the kitchen with the jug of wine and the pies.

“I may have over-catered here. I was expecting more of you,” she said as she invited them to help themselves. The man who’d sung the part of Caspar handed round the plate of mince pies, but it was obvious that they’d eaten well already. Only Melchior took one. The wine was more popular.

“We would have had two shepherds as well,” Balthazar said, “but one didn’t show up and the other dropped out at Long Farm.”

“It’s quite a trek,” the vicar said.

“He was legless,” Balthazar said.

“You don’t live here, do you?” Caspar asked Laura. “You’re not a burglar, by any chance?”

“Giving us mulled wine and the finest mince pie I’ve had all night? You must be joking,” Melchior said to his friend.

A slightly dodgy mince pie, Laura almost confessed. They seemed likable men, even if their singing wasn’t up to much. She introduced herself and explained about the housesitting. They told her their names but she soon forgot them. They were the vicar and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar tonight, and she’d probably never see them again, so why think of them as anything else?

“What do you do when you’re not housesitting?” the tuneless one, Balthazar, asked.

“Gardening, mainly.”

“So do I. Not a lot of gardening to be done this time of year,” little Caspar said.

“You’re wrong about that,” Laura said. “There are no end of jobs. I’ll be out there tomorrow.”

“Cutting some holly and mistletoe?” the vicar said.

“Good suggestion. The house could do with some, as you see.”

“Christmas roses? You’ve got some in the front.”

“If you mean the Helleborus niger, they’re not such good specimens. The ones you buy in florists come so much taller and whiter, thanks to forcing,” Laura said, thinking Rosemary would have been proud of that bit of expertise.

“Nasty things. Poisonous,” Melchior said, slurring his words even more.

“Mistletoe berries are poisonous, too,” Balthazar said.

The vicar decided not to go down that route. “We’d better drink up, gentlemen. Three more houses and a long walk to go.”

“Have you been to Gertrude Appleton?” Laura asked.

“The house afore you. Stingy old mucker,” Melchior said.

“That’s a bit unseasonal, isn’t it?” the vicar said.

“We all know Gertrude,” Caspar said. “Before we get a glass or a bite to eat from her, we have to promise to take her a mince pie after Christmas.”

“And if we forget, she’ll come hammering on our doors,” Balthazar said.

Laura was about to explain that it was a superstition, but stopped herself. These villagers didn’t miss a thing. They’d know all about Gertrude.

“Thanks for these, good lady,” Caspar said as he returned the plate, with ten of the eleven pies remaining. “Sorry we couldn’t all do justice to them.”

Melchior said without warning, “I need to sit down. I’m feeling dizzy.”

“You’d better come in,” Laura offered. “I was wondering about you.”

“And it’s not the wine,” said Balthazar. “He’s a teetotaler.”

Laura gave Balthazar a second look, but he seemed to be speaking in all seriousness. She noticed Melchior didn’t have a glass in his hand.

“Would you mind, Mrs. Thyme?” the vicar said. “I don’t think he’s capable of continuing.” He picked the crown off the fat man’s head. “I’ll have to be Melchior now.” Judged by the speed of the change, he’d wanted a starring role all evening.

Laura took a grip on Melchior’s arm and steered him inside to an armchair. Then she said something she was to regret. “Why don’t you gentlemen finish your round and come back for him?”

“He farms just up the lane,” Caspar said, and Laura thought she detected a suggestion that they might not, after all, return for their companion. “Blackberry Farm. It can’t be more than three hundred yards.”

They waved goodnight.

After closing the door, Laura glanced at her watch. There was still ample time before she needed to collect Rosemary.

Melchior had slumped in the chair and was snoring softly.

“Strong coffee for you,” Laura said.

He made a sound she chose to take as appreciation. It could have been a belch.

In the kitchen, Wilbur was round her feet. She found the store of dog food and opened a tin. She said, “Consider yourself lucky, Wilbur. I’ve got other demands on my time.”

When she took the coffee to Melchior his snoring was heavier and his chin was buried in his chest. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want this overweight man settling into a deep sleep and being immovable just when she needed to drive to Bath. She checked the time again. She really ought to be leaving in less than an hour. She wasn’t certain how long it would take to drive to the station.

“Coffee?”

No response.

“Have some coffee. It’ll brighten you up.”

Wishful thinking. He didn’t make a murmur that wasn’t a snore.

In a louder voice she said, “I made the coffee.”

This was becoming a predicament. She’d have to touch the man’s face or hands to get a response, but she’d only just met him. Didn’t even know his real name. How do I get myself into situations like this? she thought.

She put down the coffee and stood with her arms folded wondering how to deal with this. Wilbur came in and sniffed at the mud on Melchior’s boots.

Fresh air, she decided. She flung open a couple of windows and an icy blast of December ripped through the room.

Wilbur streaked upstairs, but Melchior didn’t move a muscle.

“Come on, man!” Laura said. She found the remote and switched on the television. The Nine Lessons and Carols at full volume. Switched the channel to the Three Tenors.

No result.

In frustration Laura brought her two hands together and slapped her own face quite hard. She’d have to overcome her innate decorum and give him a prod. Alone with a strange bloke in someone else’s house, but it had to be done.

First she switched off the three of them belting out Nessun Dorma. Her nerves couldn’t take it.

Tentatively she put out a finger and touched the back of Melchior’s right hand, resting on the arm of the chair. It remained quite still. She placed the whole of her hand across it and squeezed.

There was a slight reaction, a twitch of the eyelids, but they didn’t open. Laura leaned closer and blew on them. Nothing.

She drew a deep breath and patted his fat face.

He made a sound, no more than “Mm”-but a definite response.

“Wake up, please,” she said. “I don’t want you asleep.”

A triumph. The eyes opened and stared at her.

“It’s no good,” she told him. “You can’t sit here forever. Let’s see if you can walk to the car and I’ll drive you home. Blackberry Farm, isn’t it?”

At the mention of his address, Melchior made a definite effort to move. He rocked forward and groaned. Laura thrust her hand under his armpit and encouraged the movement. Out of sheer determination she got him to his feet. He was still unsteady, but she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hung on to it and kept him upright.

“The car’s outside. Come on. Start walking.”

It was slow progress and a huge physical effort, but she kept him on the move, talking all the time in the hope that it would keep him conscious. Getting down the two small steps at the front door was hard enough, but the real challenge was hoisting him onto the passenger seat of the Land Rover.

She swung the door open with her free hand. “I’m going to need your help here, Melchior. One giant leap for mankind.”

He moaned a little, maybe at Laura’s attempt to be cheerful.

To encourage him, she curled her hand under his knee and lifted his right leg up to the level of the vehicle floor. It felt horribly limp. She found places for his hands to grip. “On the count of three,” she said, “and I’ll probably end up with a slipped disc. One, two, three!”

If he made some gesture towards the performance it wasn’t obvious. Laura found herself making a superhuman effort. Dignity abandoned, she put her shoulder under his rump and inched him upwards. All those hours of heavy gardening paid off. He got one buttock onto the seat and she rammed him like a front-row forward until he was in a position where she could snap the safety belt across.

She ran back to the house and closed the windows and door. Wilbur was inside, but did she have the key? She hoped so.

The Land Rover, bless its antiquated ignition system, started the first time.

Blackberry Farm. Which way? Her passenger was in no condition to say. Laura swung right and hoped. The lanes were unlit, of course. Her full beam probed the hedgerows ahead. Can’t be more than three hundred yards, Caspar had said. She’d gone that distance already. She continued for another two minutes, then found a gate entrance. Nothing so helpful as a sign. She reversed into the space and retraced her route. Maybe she should have turned left coming out of The Withers.

Then she saw the board for Blackberry Farm fixed to a drystone wall. Drove into the yard and sounded the horn. She’d need help getting Melchior down. It would be useful if he had a couple of hefty sons.

From one of the farm buildings came a wisp of a woman wearing overalls and wellies. She was about Melchior’s age, Laura judged. Two sheepdogs came with her, barking.

“I’ve brought the farmer home,” Laura said, competing to be heard. “He’s rather tired. Is there anyone who can help get him down?”

The little lady spread her hands. “There’s only me, my love.”

Laura got out and opened the passenger door. “We’ll have to manage together, then. Is he your husband?”

“Yes, and I don’t like the look of ‘un,” the little lady said. “Douglas, you gawpus, what’s the matter with ‘ee?”

Laura looked. Her passenger had taken a definite turn for the worse. He was making jerky movements with his head and left leg. Change of plan. “I think we should get your husband to a doctor fast,” she said. “Jump aboard.”

“I can’t come with ‘ee,” the farmer’s wife said. “I’ve got a cow in calf.”

“But I’m a stranger here. I don’t know where to take him,” Laura almost wailed.

“Horse piddle.”

“What?”

“Royal United, Bath. Agzy-denton Emergissy.”

Laura understood now. “Which way?”

“Left out of the yard and straight up the lane till you reach the A36. You’ll pick up the horse piddle signs when you get close to the city.”

“Can you call them and say I’m on the way with a man having convulsions?”

“After I’ve seen to the cow.”

Laura swung the Land Rover towards the gate, scattering the dogs, and started up the lane. “Don’t worry,” she said to Melchior, or Douglas, “you’ll be getting help very soon.” The only response was a vomiting sound.

“Please! Not in the Land Rover,” she muttered.

She was forced to concentrate on the drive, trusting in the Lord that she wouldn’t meet anything as she belted along the lane. Passing points seemed to be unknown in this part of Wiltshire. The beam picked out the scampering shape of a badger up ahead. It saved itself by veering off to the left.

Then she spotted headlights descending a hill and guessed she was close to the main road. Right or left? She’d have to make a guess. Her instinct said right.

Forced to stop at the intersection, she glanced at her passenger. His face was still twitching and looked a dreadful colour in the passing lights. This was much more serious than overindulgence in mulled wine.

Now was when she could do with an emergency light and siren. Out on the A36, with a long run into Bath -and a sign told her she had taken the right direction-she was overtaking like some teenage joyrider in a stolen Merc. Other drivers flashed their lights at her and one idiot got competitive and tried to force her to stay in the wrong lane. But there came a point when she was high on the downs and the city lights appeared below her. At any other time she would have been enchanted by the view. All she could think was, where is the hospital?

At the first traffic lights she wound down the window and asked. Of course it had to be on the opposite side of the city. Another hair-raising burn-up through the streets and she found seriously helpful signs at last.

A amp;E. She drew up behind an ambulance. Someone was rolling a stretcher on wheels towards the Land Rover. The farmer’s wife must have alerted them. The passenger door was opened.

“Is this the man with convulsions?”

Laura took this to be one of those inane questions people ask in times of crisis. Of course he had convulsions. He’d been convulsing all the way to the hospital.

But when she turned to look at him, he’d gone still.

They checked his heart. The doctor shook his head. They unstrapped Melchior and transferred him to the stretcher and raced it inside.

Nothing had been said to Laura. She could only conclude that she’d brought in a man who was dead. Maybe they’d revive him. She moved the Land Rover away from the entrance and went in to find out.

She was twenty minutes late collecting Rosemary. It was such a relief to see her.

“I’m so sorry.”

“My dear, you look drained. Whatever has happened?”

Rosemary insisted on taking the wheel and Laura told her story as they headed out of the city.

“So couldn’t they revive him?” Rosemary said.

“What’s the phrase? Dead on arrival. They worked on him, but it was no use.”

“What was it-heart?”

“No one would say. They’ll do an autopsy, I suppose. I told them all I could. It seemed to happen very suddenly. He said he felt dizzy and asked to sit down. I thought it was the mulled wine, but it turned out he hadn’t had a drop all evening. He’s TT. Then he fell asleep, a really deep sleep. I got him into the car-I don’t know how-he was pretty far gone-and his wife noticed the convulsions, which was when I knew he needed medical help.”

“Dizziness, anaesthesia, and convulsions. Was he vomiting?”

“Trying to, anyway.”

“It sounds more like poisoning to me,” Rosemary said.

“Poisoning?”

“Did he eat anything?”

“One of the mince pies I handed out. That’s all.”

“That’s all right, then,” Rosemary said. “No problem with that, if you were the cook.”

Laura clapped her hand to her mouth.

Rosemary said, “What’s wrong?”

“I did something dreadful. I may have killed him.”

“Hold on.” Rosemary pulled into a layby and turned off the engine. “Laura, get a grip and tell me just what you’re talking about.”

Laura’s voice shook as she explained what she had done with Gertrude Appleton’s pies. “If there was anything in them I’ll never forgive myself.”

From a distant field came the triple bark of a dog-fox, answered by a vixen sounding eerily like a woman screaming. Rosemary shivered. “We’ll face this together.”

It was close to midnight when they drove up the lane to The Withers. Christmas morning, almost.

In an effort to lighten the mood, Rosemary said, “If you look in that bag at your feet you’ll find I packed a bottle of bubbly. Let’s open it as soon as we get in, shall we?”

“You’re a star,” Laura said. “Some Christmas cheer in spite of everything.” But her voice trailed away.

A police car was on the drive.

“Is one of you ladies Mrs. Laura Thyme?” the officer asked. “You’re about to see in Christmas at the police station.”