‘I did go across there. I can’t deny that. I remember half waking up as I was coming back. I was standing in the middle of the lawn in the snow. I had on my fur coat over my pyjamas; I remember feeling snow on my face and my wet slippers under me. I was shivering. And I remember running back. That’s all. If I didn’t do it, how could anybody else have done it?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed a new voice. ‘Do you mind if, both figuratively and literally, I turn on the light?’
Dennis Jameson knew the owner of that voice. There was the noise of someone fumbling after an electric switch; then, in homely light, Colonel March beamed and basked. Colonel March’s seventeen stone was swathed round in a waterproof as big as a tent. He wore a large tweed cap. Under this his speckled face glowed in the cold; and he was smoking, with gurgling relish, the large-bowled pipe which threatened to singe his sandy moustache.
‘Ah, Jameson!’ he said. He took the pipe out of his mouth and made a gesture with it. ‘So it was you. I thought I saw you come in. I don’t want to intrude; but I think there are at least two things that Miss Brant ought to know.’
Dorothy turned round quickly.
‘First,’ pursued Colonel March, ‘that Mrs Topham is out of danger. She is at least able, like an after-dinner speaker, to say a few words; though with about as much coherence. Second, that out on your lawn there is one of the queerest objects I ever saw in my life.’
Jameson whistled.
‘You’ve met this fellow?’ he said to Dorothy. ‘He is the head of the Queer Complaints Department. When they come across something outlandish, which may be a hoax or a joke but, on the other hand, may be a serious crime, they shout for him. His mind is so obvious that he hits it every time. To my certain knowledge he has investigated a disappearing room, chased a walking corpse, and found an invisible piece of furniture. If he goes so far as to admit that a thing is a bit unusual, you can look out for squalls.’
Colonel March nodded quite seriously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is why I am here, you see. They thought we might be interested in that footprint.’
‘That footprint?’ cried Dorothy. ‘You mean – ?’
‘No, no; not your footprint, Miss Brant. Another one. Let me explain. I want you, both of you, to look out of that window; I want you to take a look at the laurel hedge between this cottage and the other. The light is almost gone, but study it.’
Jameson went to the window and peered out.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What about it? It’s a hedge.’
‘As you so shrewdly note, it is a hedge. Now let me ask you a question. Do you think a person could walk along the top of that hedge?’
‘Good lord, no!’
‘No? Why not?’
‘I don’t see the joke,’ said Jameson, ‘but I’ll make the proper replies. Because the hedge is only an inch or two thick. It wouldn’t support a cat. If you tried to stand on it, you’d come through like a ton of bricks.’
‘Quite true. Then what would you say if I told you that someone weighing at least twelve stone must have climbed up the side of it?’
Nobody answered him; the thing was so obviously unreasonable that nobody could answer. Dorothy Brant and Dennis Jameson looked at each other.
‘For,’ said Colonel March, ‘it would seem that somebody at least climbed up there. Look at the hedge again. You see the arch cut in it for a gate? Just above that, in the snow along the side of the hedge, there are traces of a footprint. It is a large footprint. I think it can be identified by the heel, though most of it is blurred and sketchy.’
Walking quietly and heavily, Dorothy’s father came into the room. He started to speak, but seemed to change his mind at the sight of Colonel March. He went over to Dorothy, who took his arm.
‘Then,’ insisted Jameson, ‘somebody did climb up on the hedge?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Colonel March. How could he?’
Jameson pulled himself together.
‘Look here, sir,’ he said quietly. “How could he?” is correct. I never knew you to go on like this without good reason. I know it must have some bearing on the case. But I don’t care if somebody climbed up on the hedge. I don’t care if he danced the Big Apple on it. The hedge leads nowhere. It doesn’t lead to Mrs Topham’s; it only divides the two properties. The point is, how did somebody manage to get from here to that other cottage – across sixty feet of un-broken snow – without leaving a trace on it? I ask you that because I’m certain you don’t think Miss Brant is guilty.’
Colonel March looked apologetic.
‘I know she isn’t,’ he answered.
In Dorothy Brant’s mind was again that vision of the heavy globed paper-weight inside which, as you shook it, a miniature snowstorm arose. She felt that her own wits were being shaken and clouded in the same way.
‘I knew Dolly didn’t do it,’ said John Brant, suddenly putting his arm round his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I knew that. I told them so. But –’
Colonel March silenced him.
‘The real thief, Miss Brant, did not want your mother’s watch and brooch and chain and rings. It may interest you to know what he did want. He wanted about fifteen hundred pounds in notes and gold sovereigns, tucked away in that same shabby desk. You seem to have wondered what Mrs Topham did with her money. That is what she did with it. Mrs Topham, by the first words she could get out in semi-consciousness, was merely a common or garden variety of miser. That dull-looking desk in her parlour was the last place any burglar would look for a hoard. Any burglar, that is, except one.’
‘Except one?’ repeated John Brant, and his eyes seemed to turn inwards.
A sudden ugly suspicion came to Jameson.
‘Except one who knew, yes. You, Miss Brant, had the blame deliberately put on you. There was no malice in it. It was simply the easiest way to avoid pain and trouble to the gentleman who did it.
‘Now hear what you really did,’ said Colonel March, his face darkening. ‘You did go out into the snow last night. But you did not go over to Mrs Topham’s; and you did not make those two artistic sets of footprints in the snow. When you tell us in your own story that you felt snow sting on your face as well as underfoot, it requires no vast concentration, surely, to realize that the snow was still falling. You went out into it, like many sleep-walkers; you were shocked into semi-consciousness by the snow and the cold air; and you returned long before the end of the snowfall, which covered any real prints you may have made.
‘The real thief – who was very much awake – heard you come back and tumble into bed. He saw a heaven-sent opportunity to blame you for a crime you might even think you had committed. He slipped in and took the slippers out of your room. And, when the snow had stopped, he went across to Mrs Topham’s. He did not mean to attack her. But she was awake and surprised him; and so, of course, Harry Ventnor struck her down.’
‘Harry –’
The word, which Dorothy had said almost at a scream, was checked. She looked round quickly at her father; she stared straight ahead; and then she began to laugh.
‘Of course,’ said Colonel March. ‘As usual, he was letting his (what is it) his “good old Dolly” take the blame.’
A great cloud seemed to have left John Brant; but the fussed and worried look had not left him. He blinked at Colonel March.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I would give my good arm to prove what you say. That boy has caused me half the trouble I ever had. But are you raving mad?’
‘No.’
‘I tell you he couldn’t have done it! He’s Emily’s son, my sister’s son. He may be a bad lot; but he’s not a magician.’
‘You are forgetting,’ said Colonel March, ‘a certain large size-ten footprint. You are forgetting that interesting sight, a smeared and blurred size-ten footprint on the side of a hedge which would not have held up a cat. A remarkable footprint. A disembodied footprint.’
‘But that’s the whole trouble,’ roared the other. ‘The two lines of t
racks in the snow were made by a size four shoe. Harry couldn’t have made them, any more than I could. It’s a physical impossibility. Harry wears size ten. You don’t say he could get his feet into flat leather moccasins which would fit my daughter?’
‘No,’ said Colonel March. ‘But he could get his hands into them.’
There was a silence. The Colonel wore a dreamy look; almost a pleased look.
‘And in this unusual but highly practical pair of gloves,’ he went on, ‘Harry Ventnor simply walked across to the other cottage on his hands. No more than that. For a trained gymnast (as those silver cups will indicate) it was nothing. For a rattle-brained gentleman who needed money it was ideal. He crossed in a thin coating of snow, which would show no difference in weight. Doorsteps, cleared of snow by the overhanging roof, protected him at either end when he stood upright. He had endless opportunities to get a key to the side door. Unfortunately, there was that rather low archway in the hedge. Carrying himself on his hands, his feet were curved up and back over the arch of his body to balance him; he blundered, and smeared that disembodied footprint on the side of the hedge. To be quite frank, I am delighted with the device. It is crime upside down; it is leaving a footprint in the sky; it is—’
‘A fair cop, sir,’ concluded Superintendent Mason, sticking his head in at the door. ‘They got him on the other side of Guildford. He must have smelled something wrong when he saw us taking photographs. But he had the stuff on him.’
Dorothy Brant stood looking for a long time at the large, untidy blimp-like man who was still chuckling with pleasure. Then she joined in.
‘I trust,’ observed Dennis Jameson politely, ‘that everybody is having a good time. For myself, I’ve had a couple of unpleasant shocks today; and just for a moment I was afraid I should have another one. For a moment I honestly thought you were going to pitch on Mr Brant.’
‘So did I,’ agreed Dorothy, and beamed at her father. ‘That’s why it’s so funny now.’
John Brant looked startled. But not half so startled as Colonel March.
‘Now there,’ the Colonel said, ‘I honestly do not understand you. I am the Department of Queer Complaints. If you have a ghost in your attic or a foot print on top of your hedge, ring me up. But a certain success has blessed us because, as Mr Jameson says, I look for the obvious. And Lord love us! – if you have decided that a crime was committed by a gentleman who could walk on his hands, I will hold under torture that you are not likely to succeed by suspecting the one person in the house who has a crippled arm.’
A Wife in a Million
Val McDermid
The woman strolled through the supermarket, choosing a few items for her basket. As she reached the display of sauces and pickles, a muscle in her jaw tightened. She looked around, willing herself to appear casual. No one watched. Swiftly she took a jar of tomato pickle from her large leather handbag and placed it on the shelf. She moved on to the frozen meat section.
A few minutes later, she passed down the same aisle and paused. She repeated the exercise, this time adding two more jars to the shelf. As she walked on to the checkout, she felt tension slide from her body, leaving her light-headed.
She stood in the queue, anonymous among the morning shoppers, another neat woman in a well-cut winter coat, a faint smile on her face and a strangely unfocused look in her pale blue eyes.
Sarah Graham was sprawled on the sofa reading the Situations Vacant in the Burnalder Evening News when she heard the car pull up the drive. Sighing, she dropped the paper and went through to the kitchen. By the time she had pulled the cork from a bottle of elderflower wine and poured two glasses, the front door had opened and closed. Sarah stood, glasses in hand, facing the kitchen door.
Detective Sergeant Maggie Staniforth came into the kitchen, took the proffered glass and kissed Sarah perfunctorily. She walked into the living-room and slumped in a chair, calling over her shoulder, ‘And what kind of day have you had?’
Sarah followed her through and shrugged. ‘Another shitty day in paradise. You don’t want to hear my catalogue of boredom.’
‘You never bore me. And besides, it does me good to be reminded that there’s a life outside crime.’
‘I got up about nine, by which time you’d probably arrested half a dozen villains. I whizzed through the Guardian job ads, and went down the library to check out the other papers. After lunch I cleaned the bedroom, did a bit of ironing and polished the dining-room furniture. Then down to the newsagent’s for the evening paper. A thrill a minute. And you? Solved the crime of the century?’
Maggie winced. ‘Nothing so exciting. Bit of breaking and entering, bit of paperwork on the rape case at the blues club. It’s due in court next week.’
‘At least you get paid for it.’
‘Something will come up soon, love.’
‘And meanwhile I go on being your kept woman.’
Maggie said nothing. There was nothing to say. The two of them had been together since they fell head over heels in love at university eleven years before. Things had been fine while they were both concentrating on climbing their career ladders. But Sarah’s career in personnel management had hit a brick wall when the company that employed her had collapsed nine months previously. That crisis had opened a wound in their relationship that was rapidly festering. Now Maggie was often afraid to speak for fear of provoking another bitter exchange. She drank her wine in silence.
‘No titbits to amuse me, then?’ Sarah demanded. ‘No funny little tales from the underbelly?’
‘One that might interest you,’ Maggie said tentatively. ‘Notice a story in the News last night about a woman taken to the General with suspected food poisoning?’
‘I saw it. I read every inch of that paper. It fills an hour.’
‘Well, she’s died. The news came in just as I was leaving. And there have apparently been another two families affected. The funny thing is that there doesn’t seem to be a common source. Jim Bryant from casualty was telling me about it.’
Sarah pulled a face. ‘Sure you can face my spaghetti carbonara tonight?’
The telephone cut across Maggie’s smile. She quickly crossed the room and picked it up on the third ring. ‘DS Staniforth speaking … Hi, Bill.’ She listened intently. ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes. OK?’ She stood holding the phone. ‘Sarah … that woman we were just talking about. It wasn’t food poisoning. It was a massive dose of arsenic and two of the other so-called food poisoning cases have died. They suspect arsenic there too. I’ve got to go and meet Bill at the hospital.’
‘You’d better get a move on, then. Shall I save you some food?’
‘No point. And don’t wait up, I’ll be late.’ Maggie crossed to Sarah and gave her a brief hug. She hurried out of the room. Seconds later, the front door slammed.
The fluorescent strips made the kitchen look bright but cold. The woman opened one of the fitted cupboards and took a jar of greyish-white powder from the very back of the shelf. She picked up a filleting knife whose edge was honed to a wicked sharpness. She slid it delicately under the flap of a cardboard pack of blancmange powder. She did the same to five other packets. Then she carefully opened the inner paper envelopes. Into each she mixed a tablespoonful of the powder from the jar.
Under the light, the grey strands in her auburn hair glinted. Painstakingly, she folded the inner packets closed again and with a drop of glue she resealed the cardboard packages. She put them all in a shopping bag and carried it into the rear porch.
She replaced the jar in the cupboard and went through to the living-room where the television blared. She looked strangely triumphant.
It was after three when Maggie Staniforth closed the front door behind her. As she hung up her sheepskin, she noticed lines of strain round her eyes in the hall mirror. Sarah appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I know you’re probably too tired to feel hungry, but I’ve made some soup if you want it,’ she said.
‘You shouldn
’t have stayed up. It’s late.’
‘I’ve got nothing else to do. After all, there’s plenty of opportunity for me to catch up on my sleep.’
Please God, not now, thought Maggie. As if the job isn’t hard enough without coming home to hassles from Sarah.
But she was proved wrong. Sarah smiled and said, ‘So do you want some grub?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether there’s Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle in it.’ Sarah looked bewildered. Maggie went on. ‘It seems that three people have died from arsenic administered in Higham’s Continental Tomato Pickle bought from Fast-fare Supermarket.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Wish I was.’ Maggie went through to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of orange juice as Sarah served up a steaming bowl of lentil soup with a pile of buttered brown bread. Maggie sat down and tucked in, giving her lover a disjointed summary as she ate.
‘Victim number one: May Scott, fifty-seven, widow, lived up Warburton Road. Numbers two and three: Gary Andrews, fifteen, and his brother Kevin, thirteen, from Priory Farm Estate. Their father is seriously ill. So are two others now, Thomas and Louise Foster of Bryony Grange. No connection between them except that they all ate pickle from jars bought on the same day at Fastfare.
‘Could be someone playing at extortion – you know, pay me a million pounds or I’ll do it again. Could be someone with a grudge against Fastfare. Ditto against Higham’s. So you can bet your sweet life we’re going to be hammered into the ground on this one. Already we’re getting flak.’
Maggie finished her meal. Her head dropped into her hands. ‘What a bitch of a job.’
‘Better than no job at all.’
‘Is it?’
‘You should know better than to ask.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Take me to bed, Sarah. Let me forget about the battlefield for a few hours, eh?’
Piped music lulled the shoppers at Pinkerton’s Hypermarket into a drugged acquisitiveness. The woman pushing the trolley was deaf to its bland presence and its blandishments. When she reached the shelf with the instant desserts on display, she stopped and checked that the coast was clear.
Murder On Christmas Eve Page 7