“So, what do you make of this business with the footprints?” I asked, swinging my attention back to Sally. She, however, kept her warden’s scrutiny on Soaky Mike, who was affecting to be deeply distracted by the conversation between Barking and Everett.
“Footprints?”
“In the snow,” I clarified. “I would have thought that Constable Kimble would have mentioned his novel theory about impressions in the snow.”
“The constable’s very professional. He doesn’t go talking to anyone about police business.”
There was something vaguely judgemental about the way she emphasised “he”, as though it was meant to stand in stark contrast to “thee”.
“I have a special dispensation,” I pleaded. “I’m neither a policeman nor a professional. What did he tell you, then?”
“He asked who was here this morning and when, just like you did.”
“It’s not as though he holds the copyright.”
“And then that inspector will come round and ask the same thing all over again. Doesn’t seem fair to the poor man,” continued Sally on an arc that had clearly been under development for some time. “No one’s ever happy to see the local plodder until they need him, and even then when he finally gets a proper crime to solve — a murder, no less — they send some pompous, puffed-up detective-inspector up from London.”
“I thought you hadn’t met Inspector Witterhsham.”
“Just don’t think it’s right, is all,” said Sally, somewhat wistfully. “Just because a chap’s big, that doesn’t mean he’s not bright. And he’s not so big as all that.
“Quite right,” I conceded. “Well within the advisable range. Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than the 16:42 from Charing Cross.”
“Just about the right size for a policeman, if anyone’s asking me.”
“You’ll be the first person I consult, next time the question arises,” I assured her. “Did Constable Kimble say all this to you?”
“He might have alluded something, yes,” said Sally, guardedly. “He’s actually very sensitive, you know. Like a big old bear.”
“A most apt comparison. I understand the Alaskan Kodiak is especially sensitive to condescension. What else did the constable say?”
“He asked when was the last time Flaps was in the Sulky Cow.”
“Very astute,” I said. “What was the answer?”
“Weekend before last. The major has — had, I suppose — a marked preference for the Saturday morning, pre-lunch audience,” said Sally. “Gave him a chance to really sink his teeth into a story, get in a few rounds, and be on his way before anyone can suggest ordering food, say, or settling any outstanding bar tabs.”
“Did Flaps have a particularly impressive line of credit?”
“He did,” said Sally, meditatively, “and now he doesn’t. This morning he stood everyone a round, which was already a first, and then in a single lump he closed out his bill. Nearly thirty quid.”
“Was that very out of character?”
“Not wishing to speak ill of the dead,” said Sally graciously, “I’ll just say that he was cheaper than change for a farthing, and leave it at that.”
“Very diplomatic. What sort of humour was the major in this morning?”
“That’s a question better put to his following,” answered Sally with a nod to the men gathered around the stove.
“Then that is precisely where I’ll put it,” I said. “Please allow the Boisjoly trust to sponsor the next several lashings of comfort and joy.” I put a crown on the worn and warm countertop and schooned into the low, cosy bar room.
“Welcome to Graze Hill, Mister Boisjoly, very much obliged, sit here, by the fire,” said the shirt collar advertisement as I ladled out refills of wine. “Trimble’s the name, call me Everett, everyone does. It’s true, what Trevor here, Mister Barking, says, I run the feed store, and it’s a dashed fine sideline, even if I’m saying it myself, but I’m alderman for Graze Hill, it’s a calling, if I may, and someone’s got to do it, wouldn’t you agree, Mister Boisjoly, may I call you, erm?”
There was a jaunty, bouncy quality to Everett’s narrative, not unlike the sensation of being in a small boat in choppy seas. I found myself following his line of thinking like a harried Christmas shopper running alongside a Route Six to Oxford Circus, trying to hop aboard.
“Anthony,” I finally caught up. “Anty to my critics and fans alike. It’s my very great pleasure, Everett. Topping bit of landscape you have here in Graze Hill. Just the sort of countryside you want on hand when visiting maiden aunts.”
“And you’re seeing it in the dead of winter, under two feet of snow and without the electric hum of an industrious heartland,” said Everett, taking up the theme and salting it liberally. This was his patch and I wasn’t going to take issue with the words he chose to describe it, but this was the first I’d heard of dairy country humming electrically. “Having said that, you get the off-season advantage, without the rush of tourists and press of gawkers at the museum. Have you seen the museum, Anty? It’s in the transept of the church. Fascinating collection of reliquary, including something that may very well be a string from Saint Dunstan’s harp. Hard to say anything, with scientific certainty, about a bit of string, but it’s an inspiration to behold, nonetheless. If it’s science, you’re after, you’ll want to meet our Hildy — she’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, Anty, that I can guarantee you. A wonder of nature. Got the best minds utterly baffled.”
“Hildy?”
“A cow,” answered Barking, who appeared to have been prepared for the question.
“Not just a cow,” admonished Everett. “A Graze Hill Golden. Good for three and half gallons a day, yet she doesn’t stand four feet tall, and she’s native to the area. If you’ll promise to keep it under your hat, Anty, I can tell you with some confidence that we fully expect Hildy to be recognised as a unique and authentic breed, possibly as early as next year. Wouldn’t that be a glorious beginning to the new decade?”
I hadn’t time to give my oath of secrecy before he blurted it out, so I made a silent promise to myself that if anyone were to discover this blockbuster before its natural due date, it wouldn’t be from me. We raised our cups in a toast to Hildy the midget dairy cow.
“Dreadful business this,” Everett geared down, now, and gave me the Eyebrow of Serious Business. “Local boy, you know, Flaps Fleming, grew up right on the hill. Learned his love of flight jumping into bales of hay from the loft window of the family barn with his mother’s parasol. Have you seen some of the barns in Graze Hill, Anty? Magnificent craftsmanship. Asset to the town — Flaps, I mean, not the barns. Although there are some extraordinary examples — the Biggins operation, for instance, built on a stone foundation dating back to Guthrum, probably, two storeys high and with a cupola that would put you in mind of Saint Paul’s. I had plans for Flaps, though, quite ambitious plans. Isn’t that right, Trev?”
Barking gave a start on recognising his name in the din, and recovered too late to speak for himself.
“Statue of the local hero,” continued Everett. “Trevor here is making it in his smithy. Bronze. Life size. Full uniform. Scarf valiantly flapping in the wind. Right out there…” Everett nodded toward the curtain of snow at the window. “...in the centre of town. Flaps was going to be guest of honour at the official unveiling in the spring. Dignitaries from all over, newspapers, wireless, wouldn’t surprise me if the affair were to attract the attention of Buckingham Palace. I suppose that’s all off, now. So, how about this murder? What’s all this about footprints? Extraordinary legal mind, Constable Kimble. Like a steel trap. Dashed silly sending a detective-inspector up from London when there’s a top-flight criminologist already on the job, I say. Coals to Newcastle, if you take my meaning.”
“I most certainly do,” I said, while Everett was drawing a quick breath. “He was very fastidious in the matter of the footprints in the snow, following them from Tannery Lodge to the Sulky Cow, and back aga
in. I believe he may have measured them, and appraised their quality and workmanship. It was his conclusion that the major must have made the return journey before being murdered.”
“As opposed to?”
“As opposed to after,” I said. “He didn’t strike you as vaguely ephemeral, by any chance? Or display an uncharacteristic penchant for plaintive wailing?”
“Not noticeably, no,” said Everett, with a confirmatory glance at Barking. “Trev?”
“Solid as ever, I’d say. Perhaps even more so,” claimed the blacksmith.
“Was there anything unusual about him at all?”
The men shared another common thought and then both fixed me with that puzzled expression that Londoners reserve for tourists who pronounce the H in Thames.
“Of course,” said Everett. “Like Sally just said, he bought a round of drinks.”
“More than one,” added Barking.
“Paid off his bar tab, in a single stroke,” continued Everett. “And then, just before he left, he shook everyone’s hand and wished us all a merry Christmas.”
“And, to each of us, one at a time,” said Barking, “he said goodbye… forever.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Mysterious Meeting in the Manger at Midnight
“Forever?” I said. “Just like that? Flaps Fleming said merry Christmas, goodbye forever, and then went home to be murdered?”
“Precisely so,” confirmed Everett. “Well, not precisely like that. Not much like that at all, now you ask for the transcript. It was different for each of us, but something along the lines of, my time has come, I hope you’ll always remember me, that sort of thing, wouldn’t you say Trev?”
“Yes, I…”
“Of course, that’s it, isn’t it?” Everett snapped his fingers. “A memorial. It’s just the thing. You’ll have to accelerate the statue, Trevor. Maybe the scarf doesn’t need to wave so valiantly as all that, if it’ll shave a day or two off delivery. I trust you with the details…” Everett waved away the details that appeared to be on the tip of Barking’s tongue. “...knock it together like you did the golden calf. Have you seen the golden calf, Anty? Absolutely dazzling. Have a look when you come to church tonight. Tip-top of the clocktower. Solid bronze, not actual gold, of course, that would be exorbitant and, to hear the vicar tell it, heretical, but he’s not a man of vision. Captivating orator, but not a man of vision. Bronze wasn’t exactly free for the having either, in point of fact, but how can you put a value on a church weather vane immortalising the Graze Hill Golden? What was it before, Trev? Tin? Can’t have that. You can see the tin cow in the church museum. Talking of which, gentleman…” Everett cast an accusing eye at the clock, as though blaming it for the finite nature of time. “...I must be making arrangements with Mister Padget.”
Everett drained his cup, whooped his farewells while wrapping himself in a big leather and wool overcoat, and swept out the door. Sally followed him, as one familiar with the practice, and pushed the door fully closed against the cold night air.
“A golden calf?” I said to Barking. “And a bronze pilot? You’re a multi-layered man of mystery, Mister Barking.”
Barking kept his eye on the door, as though without careful watching it might at any moment spill forth with another instance of Everett Trimble. “I believe that Everett thinks of it as a natural progression. My father was blacksmith to Graze Hill, and it was he who made the original tin cow weather vane for the church, some twenty-five years ago. This summer I was commissioned to replace it — elevate its profile, in Everett’s words — with a solid bronze replica.”
“A natural stepping-stone, I should think, from making shoes for horses to casting bronze memorials for local heroes.”
“I suppose,” said Barking, dubiously. “If that’s where a man’s natural talents should take him. But I’m more of the industrious type. Enterprising, you might say.”
“I admire that, Mister Barking. This country needs its men of vision, like you and Mister Trimble, and it needs them to not be shy about it, like you and, with knobs on, Mister Trimble.”
“Oh, yes?” said Barking, newly inspired by something. “Is that really your view?”
“It most certainly is, Mister Barking. It’s no good hiding one’s ambition under a bushel. I knew a chap at Oxford — Rickets, we called him, but I can’t think of why at the moment, I’ll have to get back to you on that — retiring as an ageing vicar. The sort of shrinking violet that the judgemental generation regard as a ‘good influence’.”
“I know the type well,” said Barking, as one impatient to move a story ahead.
“Then you’ll be as astonished as we were, Mister Barking, to learn what I, along with Melting Entwhistle-Hardy and Fiddles Canterfell, discovered during a stagger across the river to Oxford’s seamy underbelly, otherwise known as the suburb of Cowley.” I took a dramatically extended draw on my cup of merry mead, and then continued the tale of the ingenious Rickets, “Who there should we encounter but Rickets? We didn’t know him straight away, lurking in an alley in a broad-brimmed hat and raincoat, like the sort of cove who goes about spy thrillers saying things like ‘the rooster crows at midnight’, and I daresay he didn’t recognise us, either, because out of the shadows he asks if we’re interested in taking art classes.”
“Art classes? I don’t know that’s quite what I’d describe as vision, Mister Boisjoly.”
“You wouldn’t? No, well, what if I were to tell you that he was asking and expecting no less than two pounds a student — per class, mind you.”
“Well that’s just where a man of vision can go wrong, sir.” Barking raised an instructive finger and adopted a professorial tone. “Your friend priced himself out of the market. I don’t know much about art, and I expect I know even less about Oxford, but I can tell you this — setting the right price is all a matter of knowing your market.” Barking gave a furtive glance at Sally, who remained resolutely indifferent to us. “Take the Sulky Cow — a shilling? For a cup of hand-mixed mulled wine? At Christmas? They could ask two and six and no one would blink an eye. Let me set the prices of this pub and I’d turn it into a gold mine.”
“I daresay you would, Mister Barking, but you misunderstand me,” I said. “It wasn’t an art class in the classical sense, or, rather, it was, perhaps even more so. Rickets was offering what are known as life drawing classes — eight chaps sitting about behind easels, chip of charcoal optional, gaping at a young lady striking artful poses in nothing but a spirit of good sportsmanship. Technically well within the law and, what with two classes Friday and Saturday evenings and a matinee on Sunday, quite lucrative.”
“Surely you didn’t pay the two quid, sir.”
“Of course not, Mister Barking, we were students of Oxford University,” I said with wounded school pride. “Rickets gave us the fellowship discount. Very enlightening experience, though it was months before we could look the chaplain’s wife in the eye again.”
“Yes, a very original enterprise, that,” conceded Barking. “Not the sort of thing people go in for, here in Hertfordshire, I don’t think.”
“More of a landscape crowd, are they? I’m unsurprised. Lovely countryside.”
“What I meant was that my ambitions incline more toward the industrial, if you see what I mean.”
“I may as well confess to you, Mister Barking, that I do not.”
“Take for example, electro-plating,” said Barking in what I received as an almost Everett-like detour. “Are you familiar with electro-plating, Mister Boisjoly?”
“Some sort of efficiency device for the modern kitchen, is it?”
“Electro-plating is the very latest advancement in the rendering of high-durability materials with a sleek, contemporary veneer.”
“I say, that sounds jolly useful,” I said. “Can’t think of what it might be useful for, just at the moment, but it must come in tremendously handy.”
“Very much so, yes. When used to apply a layer of chromium to the bumper of
an automobile, for example, it reduces corrosion of the underlying metal, and gives the whole vehicle a smart, twentieth-century finish.”
“Rather a departure from blacksmithing, I would have thought.”
“May I confide in you, Mister Boisjoly?”
“I would have you think of me as an old chum, Mister Barking.”
He looked furtively about. Soaky Mike was absorbed in the practice of running a finger around the interior of his cup and licking it, and Sally was at the door, putting on a coat and hat.
“Trev, don’t let Soaky near bar nor kettle before that…” The landlady pointed at the pub clock, a gift from Albion Gin Distillers, commemorating a pre-war FA Cup final. “...says seven-fifteen. Understood?”
The commanding nature of pub landladies in general and Sally Barnstable in particular had both Barking and I taking careful note of the current time — seven o’clock — and committing to memory that which we could and could not do between then and quarter past. With a nod and rush of winter air, Sally was gone.
“One of the many things I admire about the countryside...” I said. “...the trusting nature of your publicans. A London landlord wouldn’t leave his counter unattended to whisper a final oath to his dying mother.”
“She’s not going far,” said Barking. “In any case, should anything go missing it’s not as though there would be a lot of suspects.”
“Something in that,” I concurred. “That appears to be a universal truth of Graze Hill at Christmas.”
“And she’s only gone to milk Hildy.”
“Do you mean to tell me that Hildy is an actual cow?”
“Of course,” said Barking. “What did you think?”
“I assumed that Hildy was one of those collective monikers, like Johnny Foreigner or Constable Plodder. I didn’t realise there was a working prototype.”
The Case of the Ghost of Christmas Morning (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries Book 2) Page 4