“Yes, sir. Of late, the major was often at the pub when I was there. He was very generous with his anecdotes.”
“Yes, I hear he wasn’t shy about his accomplishments.”
“Manifestly not, sir.”
“You didn’t see him there this morning, though.”
“No, sir.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that he bought a round of drinks for everyone?”
“Considerably, yes.”
“And then said goodbye, forever.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“So I’m told.”
“One would think he knew that he was going to die.”
“That,” I said. “Or that he was already dead.”
“Well-timed, Vickers,” I said, entering the Heath Room to the welcome sight of my valet laying out my dinner togs next to a trolley of eau de vie. “I’ll dress now, in fact. I’ve been sitting in a snowbank and, while I’m glad I did it and look forward to doing so again, I can tell you confidently that the time spent between sitting in snow banks is a dashed sight less comfortable.” I began peeling away the damp layers. “So, what have we learned?”
“The inspector and Constable Kimble interviewed your aunt for nearly an hour,” said Vickers, spreading a two-dimensional effigy of the young master on the bed while I assumed cocktail duty.
Vickers’ drinks trolley is always fertile ground for scattershot serendipity and tonight’s mixology prompt was a half-bottle of brandy, a pot of mustard, a pepper mill, and some clotted cream.
“Any idea what general direction the conversation took?” I asked while splashing two fingers of brandy into a teacup.
“The thrust of the discussion, as near as I could discern from the other side of the library door, was Miss Boisjoly’s relationship with the deceased.”
I glanced out the window for inspiration and found some. I threw up the sash and scooped a handful of snow into my brandy.
“Snow Toddy?”
“Thank you, no,” demurred Vickers, holding my dinner trousers in approach formation. “I understand there will be Christmas drinks in the servants’ hall this evening.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to swap places, would you?” I said, stepping into my trousers. “I expect dinner with my aunt to be a singularly arcadian affair. Remind me to bring a long book.”
“Mister Puckeridge wouldn’t abide it, I’m afraid,” said Vickers as he snapped braces onto my shoulders. “He’s a man with a very lively sense of station.”
“Oh yes? And quite comfortable in his own, I expect.”
“Up to a point,” said Vickers, addressing himself to the delicate matter of my collar stud. “If it’s not taking a liberty, I’d venture that your aunt’s diffident nature somewhat stifles Mister Puckeridge’s domestic ambitions.”
“Likes running a tight ship, does he?”
“There is that, sir.” Vickers stepped back to survey the terrain. “But furthermore Mister Puckeridge gained his qualifications in some of the nation’s more convivial great houses. I gather that the relatively insular social life of Herding House compares unfavourably.”
“He’s a big fish in a still pond, is he?”
“I fear he sees it that way, yes.”
“Does that hamper your movements in any way?”
“Not at all, sir. As valet to a visiting gentleman, I’m afforded considerable latitude.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” said Vickers, approaching my bowtie like Degas approaching a promising lump of clay. “None of the staff can confirm Miss Boisjoly’s movements at any time before our arrival this morning.”
“And they’ve told Wittersham as much?”
“They have.”
“Ah, well, that’s roughly in line with expectations, at least.” Now fully resplendent, I wandered to the window and looked out on the falling snow and the disappearing roof of Tannery Lodge. “In any case, there remain the footprints that Constable Kimble hopes to display to the court at Aunty Azalea’s trial for murder. And I certainly fared no better at the Sulky Cow.”
“The Sulky Cow?”
“The local. Social centre of town during the winter, it seems. I met four of the six regulars who claim to have been on hand for the final visitation this morning, reading from left to right, Sally Barnstable, landlady of the aforementioned Cow, Everett Trimble, Alderman, feed-store magnate, and Graze Hill’s biggest fan, Trevor Barking, blacksmith and future child’s toy tycoon, and town sponge Soaky Mike.”
“I take it they confirmed the constable’s contention that the major was alive this morning.”
“They did. They also betrayed, in their turn, a peculiar reliance on the man. Miss Barnstable, for instance, made a point of expressing some resentment at the local hero using her establishment as a venue for self-promotion and free drinks, but it certainly sounds as though they had something of a symbiotic business relationship — the man could draw a crowd.”
“Most intriguing, sir.”
“I thought so. Then this Trimble chap, who presents himself as selfless civil servant but whom, I suspect, hopes to ride the swelling fame of Graze Hill to greater things, was rather relying on the major’s reputation to grow that of the town.” As I spoke I composed another cup of brandy and sill-snow. “You sure you won’t have one of these?”
“Quite sure.”
“Surprisingly good. Or maybe I just like brandy. Probably a bit of both. Anyhow, where was I? That’s it, Trevor Barking. Some are born to blacksmithing, others have it thrust upon them. In Barking’s case, as one who inherited a trade he doesn’t fancy, it’s both. He tells me that Flaps Fleming was going to finance his yo-yo factory. Do you know what a yo-yo is, Vickers?”
“I do not, sir, no.”
“No, neither do I, but Barking seems quite confident that making them in a factory is the road to riches beyond the dreams of avarice. He tried to rope me into investing.”
“I trust you were able to resist temptation.”
“By a hair. He paints a very compelling picture, our Mister Barking. And finally there’s Soaky Mike, who appears to have made an industry out of begging drinks off regulars of the Sulky Cow, and is only prevented from becoming fabulously wealthy in this pursuit by Miss Barnstable, who limits his intake to some specific frequency.”
“Do we presume that Mister Soaky Mike had some dependency on the deceased?”
“Not as such, no. In fact I’d say that they were largely in competition for the same market. He did, however, say something quite grave and cryptic before staggering off into the night — he said that the major was no hero.”
“Perhaps he just meant to himself, personally.”
“I suppose that’s a possibility, but he delivered it with a strength of feeling that rather transcended the rancour that would naturally occur between rivals for the increasingly scarce charity round.”
“Did I understand you to say that there remained two outstanding members of this gallery of local personalities?”
“You did,” I confirmed. “Apparently Flaps Fleming had family in town — chap named Cosmo Millicent is the major’s nephew, but staying with the vicar, which on its own makes him a curiosity, in my view. Finally, there remains a sixth member of the cast of the Sulky Cow, made all the more mysterious by the fact that he’s a recent arrival — also a guest of the Reverend Padget — and nobody knows his name.”
“Did he not give it, sir?” asked Vickers, who hated to see a convention, however small, flouted.
“No, he did. His name’s just too long to recall. This is a small town, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“I expect we’ll see them at church tonight. Among very few others. I understand that Graze Hill is something of a ghost town over Christmas.”
“So I have been informed by the household staff.”
I chewed on the last of my brandy slush and once again looked longingly out at the smooth snowdrifts slowly forming around
the trees.
“I suppose I should be joining Aunty Azalea for the Christmas binge. Incidentally, Vickers, you don’t know where one could lay one’s hands on a full set of the war diaries of Charles à Court Repington by any chance, do you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I thought not. It was a nine-to-one longshot, at best. For some reason the killer chucked volume one on the fire at the scene of the crime.”
“Most curious.”
“And if volume two is anything to go by, volume one is a bit of a brick — it’ll take some time to determine its significance in the death of Major Fleming.”
“Indeed, sir,” agreed Vickers. “Volume one is six hundred and twenty-one pages.”
“Have you read it, Vickers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s unexpectedly handy. What’s it about, in broad strokes?”
“As you have no doubt surmised, the volumes constitute the personal reminiscences of the war correspondent Charles à Court Repington. They largely recount his meetings with influential personalities of the day, such as General Petain and Lord Kitchener.”
“You remember all that, do you?”
“Vividly.”
“Without looking, Vickers, are you wearing gloves or not?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Extraordinary. Well, out with it then, what does volume one of Charles à Court Repington’s memoirs of the war tell us about aeronautic battles in general or, ideally, Major Aaron Fleming in particular?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir.”
“Merry Christmas, all,” I called out to the long, oak dining hall which, apart from Aunty Azalea at the head of a table with room for twenty, was empty. “How are we going to pull the Christmas crackers if I’m sat all the way at this end?”
The table was elaborately set for two over a bright red table-cloth with a green, lace runner from one end to the other. A wildfire crackled in an oversized fireplace which occupied much of the interior wall. The exterior wall gave onto the opposite side of the house from my room, and its large windows framed the mood-setting scene of white-coated pine trees on the hill and a dense fall of pudgy snowflakes. Aunty Boisjoly was wearing a sort of flowered number, and she’d allowed her lady’s maid to take some original tack with her hair.
“I can’t bear the bang of Christmas crackers, Anty,” she said as I planted the Christmas kiss on the proffered cheek, “but in the spirit of the season I had Puckeridge cut some open. He’ll bring them with the port.”
“Jolly good. Perhaps we can get him to run the goose through a meat grinder and whirl the peas into a fine paste.”
“Oh, Anty, don’t be tiresome. I’ve had an appalling day.”
“Of course. Sorry. I understand Inspector Wittersham’s scrutiny went into extra innings.”
“He just kept asking the same questions, phrased ever so subtly differently.”
“He was trying to catch you out,” I said and then, “Yes, please, Puckeridge, to the rim,” as Puckeridge had just entered armed with a bottle of Moët & Chandon ’26. He was followed by the kitchen maid outfitted with a silver soup tureen.
“I regret to tell you, Aunty, that Inspector Wittersham has you at the very top of his naughty list,” I continued but was immediately shot down by old-school snobbery.
“Please, Anty.” Aunty Azalea frowned and pointed hard at the help with her eyes from beneath a hooded brow.
“I’m quite confident that Puckeridge and… what’s the girl’s name, Puckeridge?”
“Alice, sir,” said Puckeridge. The girl, a short but robust, chipper sort of kitchen maid, smiled and curtsied at the recognition, and then set about ladling out the consommé.
“I’m quite confident that Puckeridge and Alice are as aware of the facts as we are, if not moreso, aren’t you, Puckeridge?”
“I couldn’t possibly say, sir,” replied the butler, and then popped the cork of the champagne. “May I pour, sir?”
“Please do. What’s more, Aunty, such is Puckeridge’s strict sense of duty, he’s literally deaf to anything said in the household that doesn’t directly concern its operation. Isn’t that so, Puckeridge?”
“I beg your pardon, sir — I wasn’t listening.”
“There you go. Cheers to you, Aunty Azalea,” I raised my glass. “I wish upon you a Christmas of new beginnings and an end to sad tidings.”
“Merry Christmas, Anty.” Aunty raised her glass. The flickering light from the fire reflected in it and glistened in her eyes. Puckeridge and Alice discreetly withdrew.
“There, there, Aunty,” I said. “I’m not going to let Inspector Wittersham simplify his life by railroading you for murder. I’ve foiled his dark designs before, you know.”
Aunty put down her glass and looked into it, or at any rate she looked down. “It’s not always about you, Anthony.”
I had the momentary and novel sensation of speechlessness. I filled the unfamiliar space with an appreciation of an excellent year for champagne — nearly as good as the ’24 and a wholesale improvement over the regrettable ’25.
“I’m sorry, Aunty,” I said, with the cold epiphany of one catching oneself comparing vintage years when one might have been reflecting on why one’s maiden aunt was crying at the Christmas table. “Of course you’re right. Were you and Flaps very close?”
“You sound like the inspector.”
“No need to resort to insults, Aunty,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your friend.”
“He was more than that, Anthony.”
For the second time in the span of a minute I was at a loss for words. I was overwhelmed by the stark pathos of the situation — had Aunty Azalea found love late in life only to have it snatched away so brutally?
“I didn’t realise. How long…?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Anty. It wasn’t like that. I just mean that Flaps was very dear to me. He understood me — and I understood him — as unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”
Aunty Azalea stood then and brought her champagne to the fireplace. I joined her and together we cast melancholy thoughts into the flames, where they burned brightly. It was just the sort of fireplace you want for the incineration of melancholy — composed of rough stone, as high as a fully-grown Graze Hill Golden and wide enough to accommodate wrought-iron racks on either side, stacked with frozen logs until they’d defrosted enough to burn. Very practical and very jolly.
“Tell me about him,” I said.
“He liked to be alone. We had that in common.” Aunty Azalea looked into her champagne glass, as though just that moment realising that she had it with her. Then in a single throw she swallowed it all. “I say, that’s quite good, isn’t it?”
“I’ll get you another.” I retrieved the bottle and topped up our glasses.
“And he was a hero, Anty. He would tell me his adventures — he was shot down over the channel, you know. It’s how he lost his eye. He would tell me about the war and it was as though I was there. He took me with him, metaphorically. I flew in a plane, Anty, over Belgium and over France and Germany. He was a very vivid storyteller.”
“So I understand,” I said. “Did he never suggest going to the Sulky Cow?”
Aunty shook her head firmly. “He understood me, Anty, that’s what you’re missing. He knew that I wouldn’t have wanted to hear about a public house.”
“I heard that he was beginning to warm to the society of strangers.”
“He was,” confirmed Aunty with a nod. “He said he wanted to face the world again, that I was giving him the strength to do so, and that we should do it together.”
“And how did you respond to that?”
“I couldn’t possibly, Anty. I’d have sooner died.”
“I see,” I said. “You didn’t happen to share that view with Inspector Wittersham, did you?”
“Of course, Anty. Why shouldn’t I?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Strange Scene on Saint Stephen’s Steeple Seen
There was more champagne, and smoked salmon with shallots, a ’24 Chateau Meursault Pinot Noir , roast duck and baked potatoes, and many tears before the plumb pudding was set on fire.
I put a handsome effort into talking Aunty Azalea into coming to church, made all the more valiant by the fact that I was, in reality, hoping that she would talk me out of it. In the end, heavy with goose fat and burgundy and hence slow and defenceless against natural predators, I elected to extend my walk to the church and simultaneously reconnoitre the path between Tannery Lodge and the Sulky Cow.
The fresh layer of snow had reduced the major’s tracks to shallow indentations, but unless a Grizzly Bear had been through the woods recently, the footprints left by Constable Kimble were clear and easily followed. Presently, I was atop the hill, looking down onto the sleepy, snowy village of Graze Hill. I looked back at Tannery Lodge and in a moment realised that the distance over the hill was, unsurprisingly, now I think of it, shorter than going around. I continued down the hill, keeping pace with the constable’s tracks, and in minutes I was at the now darkened Sulky Cow. The road meandered pastorally from that point and curved to the left, where it met the doors of the church, and then ambled away toward the remaining houses. The effect was to make of the church a storybook, snow-capped centrepiece.
Saint Stephen’s was of the sweetly modest species of village chapel, with walls of plastered rubble, carved stone ornamentals, steep, copper-tiled roofs, and a high clock tower with pointed belfry. Approaching from the Sulky Cow, all roads appeared to lead to the front of the church, and to the rest of the village it presented an amiable profile, with stained-glass windows that glowed from within. There was a handsome clock face on all four sides of the tower and the belfry was splendidly detailed, but what really drew the eye, the touch that set the whole thing off, the splash of wine on the communion dress, was a gleaming golden cow weather vane.
It was a likeness of Hildy, with scale-model pins that rendered her, seen from below, not unlike the original three-valve Bugatti racing car, and under a full winter moon it glimmered in a regrettably unmissable manner. Few, if any, would be able to visit the metropolitan centre of Graze Hill and later credibly claim ‘Weather vane? What weather vane?’, though that would clearly be the merciful thing to do.
The Case of the Ghost of Christmas Morning (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries Book 2) Page 6