Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  Mrs. Welkin bridled. ‘I should have liked to have worn them,’ she said irritatingly. ‘Still, if you say it’s not safe…’

  ‘Mother didn’t say it wasn’t safe, Mrs. Welkin,’ said Sheila, who was fond of the village and resented bitterly any aspersions on its honesty. ‘She said it wasn’t suitable.’

  Mrs. Welkin blushed angrily and forgot herself.

  ‘You’re not very polite, young lady,’ she said, ‘and if it’s a question of suitability, where’s the suitability in Mr. Peters playing Santa Claus when it was promised to Kenny?’

  The mixture of muddled logic and resentment startled everyone. Mike and Sheila grew scarlet, Sir George looked helplessly at his wife, Kenneth Welkin turned savagely on his mother, and Edward Welkin settled rather than saved the situation.

  ‘That’ll do,’ he said in a voice of thunder. ‘That’s all been fixed, Ada. I don’t want to hear any more from either of you on the subject.’

  It was altogether a very awkward moment and the table broke up with relief. Sir George tugged Campion’s arm.

  ‘Cigar—library,’ he murmured, and faded quietly away.

  Campion followed him.

  ***

  There were Christmas decorations in the big book-filled study and, as he settled himself in a wing chair before a fire of logs and attended to the tip of a Romeo y Julieta, Mr. Campion felt once more the return of the Christmas spirit.

  Sir George was anxious about his daughter’s happiness.

  ‘I like young Peters,’ he said earnestly. ‘Fellow can’t help his father’s troubles. Mae objects he hasn’t any money, but, between you and me, Campion, I’d rather see her in rags tied to a decent fellow than sittin’ up in a Rolls-Royce beside that little Welkin bounder in the next room.’

  Mr. Campion agreed with him and he went on.

  ‘The boy Mike’s an engineer,’ he said, ‘and makin’ good at his job slowly, and Sheila seems fond of him, but Mae talks about hereditary dishonesty. Taint may be there. What do you think?’

  Mr. Campion had no time to reply to this somewhat unlikely theory. There was a flutter and a rustle outside the door and a moment later Mr. Welkin senior came in with a flustered lady. George got up and held out his hand.

  ‘Ah, Miss Hare,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you. Come on your annual visit of mercy?’

  Miss Hare, who was large and inclined to be hearty, laughed.

  ‘I’ve come cadging again, if that’s what you mean, Sir George,’ she said cheerfully, and went on, nodding to Mr. Campion as if they had just been introduced. ‘Every Christmas Eve I come round collecting for my old women. There are four of ’em in the almshouse by the church. I only ask for a shilling or two to buy them some little extra for the Christmas dinner. I don’t want much. Just a shilling or two.’

  She glanced at a little notebook in her hand.

  ‘You gave me ten shillings last year, Sir George.’

  The Squire produced the required sum and Mr. Campion felt in his pocket.

  ‘Half a crown would be ample,’ said Miss Hare encouragingly. ‘Oh, that’s very nice of you. I assure you it won’t be wasted.’

  She took the coin and was turning to Welkin when he stepped forward.

  ‘I’d like to do the thing properly,’ he said. ‘Anybody got a pen?’

  He took out a cheque-book and sat down at George’s desk uninvited.

  Miss Hare protested. ‘Oh no, really,’ she said, ‘you don’t understand. This is just for an extra treat. I collect it nearly all in sixpences.’

  ‘Anybody got a pen?’ repeated Mr. Welkin.

  Campion glanced at the elaborate display in the man’s own waistcoat pocket, but before he could mention it George had meekly handed over his own fountain-pen.

  Mr. Welkin wrote a cheque and handed it to Miss Hare without troubling to blot it.

  ‘Ten pounds?’ said the startled lady. ‘Oh, but really…!’

  ‘Nonsense. Run along.’ Mr. Welkin clapped her familiarly on the shoulder. ‘It’s Christmas time,’ he said, glancing at George and Campion. ‘I believe in doing a bit of good at Christmas time—if you can afford it.’

  Miss Hare glanced round her helplessly.

  ‘It’s very—very kind of you,’ she murmured, ‘but half a crown would have been ample.’

  She fled. Welkin threw George’s pen on the desk.

  ‘That’s the way I like to do it,’ he said.

  George coughed and there was a faraway expression in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I—er—I see you do,’ he said and sat down. Welkin went out.

  Neither Mr. Campion nor his host mentioned the incident. Campion frowned. Now he had two minor problems on his conscience. One was the old matter of the little piece of information concerning Charlie Spring which he had forgotten, the other was a peculiarity of Mr. Welkin’s which puzzled him mightily.

  ***

  The Pharaoh’s Court children’s party had been in full swing for what seemed to Mr. Campion at least to be the best part of a fortnight. It was half-past seven in the evening and the relics of an enormous tea had been cleared away, leaving the music-room full of replete but still energetic children and their mothers, dancing and playing games with enthusiasm, but their eyes never straying for long from the next sensation of the evening, the fourteen-foot tree ablaze with coloured lights and tinsel.

  Mr. Campion, who had danced, buttled, and even performed a few conjuring tricks, bethought him of a box of his favourite cigarettes in his suitcase upstairs and, feeling only a little guilty at leaving George still working like a hero, he stole away and hurried up the deserted staircase to his room.

  The main body of the house was deserted. Even the Welkins were at work in the music-room, while the entire staff were concentrated in the kitchen washing up.

  Mr. Campion found his cigarettes, lit one, and pottered for a moment or two, reflecting that the Christmases of his youth were much the same as those of to-day, but not so long from hour to hour. He felt virtuous and happy and positively oozing with goodwill. The promised snow was falling great soft flakes plopping softly against his window.

  At last, when his conscience decreed that he could absent himself no longer, he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor, to come unexpectedly face to face with Father Christmas. The saint looked as weary as he himself had been and was stooping under the great sack on his shoulders. Mr. Campion admired Harridge’s costume. The boots were glossy, the tunic with its wool border satisfyingly red, while the benevolent mask with its cotton-wool beard was almost lifelike.

  He stepped aside to let the venerable figure pass and, because it seemed the moment for jocularity, said lightly:

  ‘What have you got in the bag, Guv’nor?’

  Had he uttered a spell of high enchantment, the simple words could not have had a more astonishing effect. The figure uttered an inarticulate cry, dropped the sack, which fell with a crash at Mr. Campion’s feet, and fled like a shadow.

  For a moment Mr. Campion stood paralysed with astonishment. By the time he had pulled himself together the crimson figure had disappeared down the staircase. He bent over the sack and thrust in his hand. Something hard and heavy met his fingers and he brought it out. It was the pink marble, bronze and ormolu clock.

  He stood looking at his find and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him. One of the problems that had been worrying him all day had been solved at last.

  ***

  It was twenty minutes later before he reappeared in the music-room.

  No one saw him come in, for the attention of the entire room was focused upon the platform. There, surrounded by enthusiastic assistants, was Father Christmas again, peacefully snipping presents off the tree.

  Campion took careful stock of him. The costume, he decided, was identical, the same high boots, the same tunic, the same mask. He tri
ed to remember the fleeting figure in the corridor upstairs, but the costume was a deceptive one and he found it difficult.

  After a time he found a secluded chair and sat down to await developments. They came.

  As the last of the visitors departed, tired and smiling, their coats buttoned against the snow, and Lady Turrett threw herself into an arm-chair with a sigh of happy exhaustion, Pouter, the Pharaoh’s Court butler, came quietly into the room and murmured a few words in his master’s ear. From where he sat Mr. Campion heard George’s astonished ‘God bless my soul!’ and rose immediately to join him. But although he moved swiftly Mr. Welkin was before him and, as Campion reached the group, his voice resounded round the room.

  ‘A burglary? While we’ve been playing the fool in here? What’s gone, man? What’s gone?’

  Pouter, who for some obscure reason of his own objected to the form of address, regarded his master’s guest coldly.

  ‘A clock from the first floor west corridor, a silver-plated salver, a copper loving-cup from the hall, and a brass Buddha and a gilt pomander box from the first-floor landing, as far as we can ascertain, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Bless my soul!’ said George again. ‘How extraordinary!’

  ‘Extraordinary be damned!’ ejaculated Welkin. ‘We’ve got valuables here. Ada!’

  ***

  ‘The necklace!’ shrieked Mrs. Welkin, consternation suddenly welling up in her stupid eyes. ‘My necklace!’

  She scuttled out of the room and Sheila came forward with Santa Claus, who had taken off his mask and pushed back his hood to reveal the stolid but not unhandsome features of Mike Peters.

  Lady Turrett did not stir from her chair, and Kenneth Welkin, white-faced and bewildered, stared down at her.

  ‘There’s been a burglary,’ he said. ‘Here, in this house.’

  Mae Turrett smiled at him vaguely. ‘George and Pouter will see to it,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘Tired!’ shouted Edward Welkin. ‘If my wife’s diamonds—’

  He got no further. Ada Welkin tottered into the room, an empty steel dispatch case in her trembling hands.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she said, her voice rising in hysteria. ‘They’ve gone. My diamonds…My room’s been turned upside down. They’ve been taken. The necklace has gone.’

  It was Mike who had sufficient presence of mind to support her to a chair before she collapsed. Her husband shot a shrewd, preoccupied glance at her, shouted to his son to ‘Look after your mother, boy!’ and took command of the situation.

  ‘Now this is serious. You, Pigeon, whatever your name is, get all the servants, every one who’s in this house, to come here in double-quick time, see? I’ve been robbed.’

  Pouter looked at his master in mute appeal and George coughed.

  ‘In a moment, Mr. Welkin,’ he said. ‘In a moment. Let us find out what we can first. Pouter, go and find out if any stranger has been seen about the house or grounds this evening, will you, please?’

  The manservant went out instantly and Welkin raged.

  ‘You may think you know what you’re doing,’ he said, ‘but my way was the best. You’re giving the thief time to get away, and time’s precious, let me tell you. I’ve got to get the police up here.’

  ‘The police?’ Sheila was aghast.

  He gaped at her. ‘Of course, young woman. Do you think I’m going to lose twelve thousand pounds? The stones were insured, of course, but what company would pay up if I hadn’t called in the police? I’ll go and ’phone up now.’

  ‘Wait a moment, please,’ said George, his quiet voice only a little ruffled. ‘Here’s Pouter again. Well?’

  The butler looked profoundly uncomfortable.

  ‘Two maids, sir,’ he said, ‘the under housemaid and Miss Sheila’s maid, Lucy, were waiting in the hall to tell me that they saw a man running down the drive just before the Christmas tree was begun.’ He hesitated. ‘They—they say, sir, he was dressed as Father Christmas. They both say it, sir.’

  Everyone looked at Mike and Sheila’s cheeks flamed.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  Mr. Welkin suddenly laughed. ‘So that’s how it was done,’ he said. ‘The young blackguard was clever, but he was seen. You weren’t so bright as you thought you were, my lad.’

  Mike moved forward. His face was pale and his eyes were dangerous. George laid a hand upon his arm.

  ‘Wait,’ he commanded. ‘Pouter, you may go. Now,’ he continued as the door closed behind the man, ‘you, Mr. Welkin, you’ll have to explain, you know.’

  Mr. Welkin kept his temper. He seemed almost amused.

  ‘Well, it’s perfectly simple, isn’t it?’ he said.‘This fellow has been wandering about in this disguise all the evening. He couldn’t come in here because her ladyship wanted him to be a surprise to the children, but he had the rest of the house to himself. He went round lifting anything he fancied, including my diamonds. Suppose he had been met? No one would think anything of it. Father Christmas always carries a sack. Then he went off down the drive, where he met a confederate in a car, handed over the stuff and came back to the party.’

  Mike began to speak, but Sheila interrupted him.

  ‘What makes you think Mike would do such a thing, Mr. Welkin?’ she demanded, her voice shaking with fury.

  Edward Welkin’s heavy mouth widened in a grin.

  ‘Dishonesty’s in the family, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Mike sprang, but George clung to him. ‘Hold on, my boy, hold on,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Don’t strike a man old enough to be your—’

  He boggled at the unfortunate simile and substituted the word ‘mother’ with ludicrous effect.

  Mr. Campion decided it was time to interfere.

  ‘I say, George,’ he said, ‘if you and Mr. Welkin would come along to the library I’ve got a suggestion I’d like to make.’

  Welkin wavered. ‘Keep an eye on him then, Ken,’ he said over his shoulder to his son. ‘I’ll listen to you, Campion, but I want my diamonds back and I want the police. I’ll give you five minutes, no longer.’

  ***

  The library was in darkness when the three men entered, and Campion waited until they were well in the room before he switched on the main light. There was a moment of bewildered silence. One corner of the room looked like a stall in the Caledonian Market. There the entire contents of the sack, which had come so unexpectedly into Mr. Campion’s possession, was neatly spread out. George’s cherubic face darkened.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded. ‘A damned silly joke?’

  Mr. Campion shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve just collected this from a gentleman in fancy dress whom I met in the corridor upstairs,’ he said. ‘What would you say, Mr. Welkin?’

  The man stared at him doggedly. ‘Where are my diamonds? That’s my only interest. I don’t care about this junk.’

  Campion smiled faintly. ‘He’s right, you know, George,’ he said. ‘Junk’s the word. It came back to me as soon as I saw it. Poor Charlie Spring—I recognized him, Mr. Welkin—never had a successful coup in his life because he can’t help stealing gaudy junk.’

  Edward Welkin stood stiffly by the desk.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘My diamonds have been stolen and I want to call the police.’

  Mr. Campion took off his spectacles. ‘I shouldn’t if I were you,’ he said. ‘No you don’t—!’

  On the last words Mr. Campion leapt forward and there was a brief struggle. When it was over Mr. Welkin was lying on the floor beside the marble and ormolu clock and Mr. Campion was grasping the gold pen and pencil in the leather holder which until a moment before had rested in the man’s waistcoat pocket.

  Welkin scrambled to his feet. His face was purple and his eyes a little frightened. He attempted to bluster.

  ‘You’ll
find yourself in court for assault,’ he said. ‘Give me my property.’

  ‘Certainly. All of it,’ agreed Mr. Campion obligingly. ‘Your dummy pen, your dummy pencil, and in the little receptacle which they conceal, your wife’s diamonds.’

  On the last word he drew the case apart and a glittering string fell out in his hand.

  There was a long, long pause.

  Welkin stood sullenly in the middle of the room.

  ‘Well?’ he said at last. ‘What are you two going to do about it?’

  Mr. Campion glanced at George, who was sitting by the desk, an expression of incredulity amounting almost to stupefaction upon his mild face.

  ‘If I might suggest,’ he murmured, ‘I think he might take his family and spend a jolly Christmas somewhere else, don’t you? It would save a lot of trouble.’

  Welkin held out his hand.

  ‘Very well. I’ll take my diamonds.’

  Mr. Campion shook his head. ‘As you go out of the house,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I shouldn’t like them to be—lost again.’

  Welkin shrugged his shoulders. ‘You win,’ he said briefly. ‘I’ll go and tell Ada to pack.’

  He went out of the room, and as the door closed behind him George bounced to his feet.

  ‘Hanged if I understand it…’ he began. ‘D’you mean to say the feller put up this amazing cock-and-bull story simply so that he could get Mike accused of theft?’

  Mr. Campion remained serious. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘That was an artistic afterthought, I imagine. The cock-and-bull story, as you call it, was a very neat little swindle devised by our unpleasant friend before he came down here at all. It was very simple to stage a burglary here on Christmas Eve, especially when he had heard from his wife that Mae had ordered a Santa Claus costume from Harridge’s. All he had to do was to go and get one there too. Then, armed with the perfect disguise, he enlisted the services of a genuine burglar, to whom he gave the costume. The man simply had to walk into the house, pick up a few things at random, and go off with them. I think you’ll find if you go into it that he hired a car at Ipswich and drove out here, changing somewhere along the road.’