Murder on the Short List

by Peter Lovesey

  A couple of Mercs and a limo were on Sly Small’s drive when Bernie drove up. Inside the limo, the driver was reading a paperback. He didn’t give Bernie a glance.

  “What kept you, birdbrain?” Sly said when he opened the door.

  Bernie had his story ready. “There were too many police about. I took some back roads and got a bit lost.”

  “Did you fetch the harp?”

  “No problem, Mr Small.”

  “Why are you limping if there was no problem?”

  “My dodgy knee. I’m not used to humping heavy things around.”

  Sly didn’t have much sympathy. “Hump it inside, then. We want to see this goddam thing.”

  Bernie noted the use of the plural and assumed Rocky was inside the house. It wouldn’t have hurt Rocky to help lift his father’s gift inside – an idea Bernie decided against mentioning. It wouldn’t have hurt that driver, either, but he was still reading. Bernie braced himself for one final effort, grasped the Horngacher and staggered inside with it.

  “In here,” Sly’s voice announced from the front room.

  He just succeeded in getting in there before his arms gave way. The harp’s base struck the floor with a thump. “Sorry.” He stopped it from keeling over. Nothing seemed to be broken.

  He took a couple of deep breaths before noticing who was in the room. Not Rocky, but a silver-haired man wearing shades. The man had started to rise from his chair when the harp hit the floor, but he sank down again.

  “Do you want to check it, maestro?” Sly said to the man. “Good idea. Here, take hold of my arm.”

  This struck Bernie as odd. Sly wasn’t the sort who offered his arm to anyone.

  But the man seemed to take it as normal. He stood and waited for Sly to cross the room. Then he rested his hand lightly on Sly’s arm and Bernie understood. The man was blind.

  Sly was leading him towards the harp. He’d called him maestro. It didn’t make any sense, but this had to be Igor Gurney, the harpist. Was it possible that Sly Small, for all his evil reputation, had experienced a crisis of conscience, just as Bernie had? Was he about to reunite the harp with its owner?

  If so, they were in for a surprise.

  The blind man reached the harp and felt for it. “Why isn’t it in its case?” he asked. “It should have travelled in its case.”

  “I, em . . . the wheels came off,” Bernie improvised. “It got too heavy, so I lifted it out.”

  The hands were all over the harp, feeling the carved columns and pedestals. “This isn’t mine.”

  Bernie felt a surge of panic. He’d hoped one Horngacher was very like another. This one from Winchester would have fooled Sly for sure. And Rocky. He hadn’t bargained on Igor Gurney checking it over.

  “What do you mean?” Sly said. “It’s got to be yours.” He turned to Bernie. “You picked it up from the Albert Hall like I said, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes . . .” Bernie started to say.

  “It’s a very fine instrument, but it isn’t mine,” Gurney insisted. He plucked at the strings. “It wants tuning. What have you done with my harp?”

  “He’s shafted us, the bastard,” Sly said. “What kind of fools do you take us for?” Without warning, he pulled out a gun and shoved it into Bernie’s ribcage. “I’ll show you what I do to two-timing finks like you.”

  “No violence, please,” Gurney said. Then the familiar bars of the William Tell Overture sounded from somewhere in his pocket. He pulled out a mobile phone and listened. His face registered extreme shock. “It’s my chauffeur. The police are at the door.”

  “Flaming hell.” Sly dropped his gun and kicked it out of sight under an armchair.

  Bernie removed his and did the same. Just in time, because three armed officers stormed into the room and ordered them to lie face down on the floor.

  “What’s this about?” Sly said. “This is a private house.”

  “Having a musical evening were you?” one of the police said. “We decided to join you. I’m Sergeant Brinkley from the drugs squad and I have reason to believe you’ve just taken possession of a consignment of cocaine.”

  “Untrue,” Sly said.

  “Shut up. We have a search warrant. We’ve tracked this operation every mile of the way from Prague. You may be hot stuff on the harp, Mr Gurney, but you’re no angel. We know how you bring the stuff in. Mike, open the top of the harp – known as the crown, isn’t it, Mr Gurney? – and let’s see how much is in there.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gurney said.

  “You’re going to blame the driver, are you? We watched him at the Albert Hall loading the harp into his van. Got it on video. After that all we had to do was get down here and wait for him to make the delivery. Hurry up, Mike.”

  “It’s hard to shift,” the officer called Mike said.

  Bernie’s confidence began to grow again. If they’d really tracked every mile of the operation they’d know he’d returned Gurney’s harp to the Albert Hall. Clearly they didn’t.

  “All right, the lid’s off,” Mike said. “Hang about – there’s nothing in it.”

  Bernie, still with his face to the floor, smiled.

  They asked Gurney if this was his harp and he said with total sincerity that it was. Blind men can’t always be trusted.

  They brought in the sniffer dog next. The only thing that interested it was Bernie’s torn trouser leg. The tail wagged when it got a whiff of that.

  After the police had quit in disarray, Sly cracked open a bottle of champagne. “I think some debriefing is in order now,” he said. “If this isn’t the maestro’s harp, what is it?”

  “I, em, borrowed it,” Bernie said, digging deep for a plausible story. “I spotted the police surveillance at the Albert Hall soon after I’d lifted Mr Gurney’s harp, so I returned that one pretty damn quick.”

  “My harp is safe?” Gurney said with relief.

  “Safe in the Albert Hall.”

  Bernie told them how he’d removed the other Horngacher from the museum.

  “Nice work,” Sly said.

  “Nice work? The man’s saved our skins. You promised me he was totally reliable and he is,” Gurney said. “I’ve learned my lesson. You and I can never do business again, Mr Small.”

  “That’s bleeding obvious,” Sly said. “It wasn’t my end of the operation that the police were onto.”

  “So all that stuff about young Rocky and the Royal College wasn’t true?” Bernie said.

  “Hogwash,” Sly said. “Rocky’s in a young offender’s institution.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me I was smuggling heroin?”

  “You didn’t need to know. It isn’t that I didn’t trust you with a parcel of the finest Peruvian flake, just that I trusted you more with a fifty grand harp. As a music lover, you’d be sure to treat it with respect.”

  BERTIE AND THE CHRISTMAS TREE

  It’s almost too much for one man, being the Prince of Wales AND the son of Father Christmas. In case this confuses you, I’d better explain. My Papa, the late Prince Albert of blessed memory, is credited with inventing Christmas as we know it. He is supposed to have introduced the Christmas tree (a German tradition) to Britain, started the practice of sending cards and – for all I know – served up the first plum pudding. Never mind that this is absolute bunkum. People believe it and who am I to stand in the way of public opinion?

  The true facts, if you want them, are that a Christmas tree was first put up at Windsor by my great-grandmother, Queen Charlotte (of Mecklenburg-Strelitz), as early as 1800, and my Mama’s childhood Christmases were never without a decorated tree. It was only thanks to a popular periodical, the Illustrated London News, that our family custom was made public in 1848 and my parents were depicted standing beside a fine tree decked with glass ornaments. My father was no fool. The year in question had been an absolute stinker for royalty, with republicanism rearing its odious head all over Europe, so it did no harm to show ourselves in a good li
ght. Decent British sentiment was wooed by Papa and it became de rigeur to dig up a spruce, bring it into the home and cover it with tinsel and trinkets. Truth to tell, Papa was tickled pink at being the man who invented Christmas. He started presenting trees to all and sundry, including the regiments. If you’re a royal and revolution is in the wind it’s no bad thing to keep the army on your side.

  From that time, the festive season fizzed like a sherbert drink. “A most dear, happy time,” Mama called it. We royals were well used to exchanging gifts and rewarding the servants, and it now extended to the nation at large. Suddenly carol-singing was all the rage. And thanks to the penny post, the practice of sending greetings cards became a universal custom, if not a duty.

  I was a mere child when all this happened and a callow youth when the unthinkable burst upon us and Papa caught a dreadful chill and joined the angels. As fate would have it, his passing occurred just before Christmas, on December 14th, 1861. I shan’t dwell on this tragedy except to remark that Christmases from that year on were tinged with sadness. As a family, we couldn’t think about saluting the happy morn until the calendar had passed what Mama always spoke of as “the dreadful fourteenth”. So you see, dear reader, we would wake up on the fifteenth and discover we had ten days in which to prepare. I mention this as a prelude to my account of the great crime of Christmas, 1890.

  It all started most innocently.

  “Bertie,” my dear wife Alexandra said in her most governessy tone, “you’d better not lie there all morning. Ten days from now it will be Christmas and we’ve done nothing about it.”

  I don’t think I answered. I had much else on my mind at the end of 1890, not least the Queen’s displeasure at my involvement in what was termed the Baccarat Scandal.

  “Bertie, you’re awake. I can see. It’s no use closing your eyes and wheezing like a grampus. That won’t make it go away. What are we going to do about presents for the courtiers and servants?”

  I sighed and opened my eyes. “The usual. Lockets and chains for the ladies and pearl studs for the gentlemen. Books for the governesses. A framed picture of you and me for everyone else.”

  “Yes, but not one of these items is ordered yet.”

  “Francis Knollys can attend to it.”

  “But you must tell him today. And we can’t ask Francis to write the Christmas cards. That’s a job for you and me, as well as presents for the children and decorations for the tree.” Her voice slipped up an octave, her vocal cords quavering with distress. “The tree, Bertie! We haven’t even got a tree.”

  “My dear Alix,” I said, reaching for an extra pillow and sitting up in bed, “Sandringham is eight thousand acres with about a million trees. If the estate manager can’t find a decent spruce among them he’ll get his pearl stud from me in the place where he least wants it.”

  “There’s no need for vulgarity, Bertie. It’s got to be a tall tree.”

  “And it shall be. What happened to last year’s?”

  A question I should never have asked.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “It died, poor thing. It scattered needles all over the ballroom. I have my suspicion that it had no root, that some unthinking person sawed the trunk at the base and thrust it into the tub.”

  “Iniquitous.”

  “Poor tree. They’re living things, Bertie. Make sure such an act of cruelty is not repeated this year. Tell them they must dig up the roots as well and find a really large tub to plant it in and keep the soil moist. When Christmas is over we’ll plant the living tree outside again.”

  “What a splendid idea,” I said, and added a slight evasion. “I can’t think who sanctioned the murder of last year’s tree.”

  She gave me a look and said, “I’ll choose the menu for the Christmas dinner.”

  “Whitstable oysters,” I said.

  “Bertie, oysters aren’t traditional.”

  “What do you mean? There’s an R in the month.”

  “But the rest of us want roast goose.”

  “So do I. Roast goose and oysters.”

  “Very well. That’s your treat settled. And you must think up some treats for the children. A magic lantern show.”

  “They’re children no more,” I said. “The youngest is sixteen and Eddy is twenty-six.”

  “Well, I want the magic lantern,” she said, practically stamping her little foot. Christmas was definitely coming.

  The magic lantern was my annual entertainment for the family and they knew the slides by heart. We would drape a large bedsheet between two sets of antlers and project the pictures onto it. They were mostly scenes of Scotland, about seventy in all, except for the last, which was the climax of the show, a star that altered shape several times as I cranked a little handle. This required me to stoop over the machine and one year my beard caught fire, causing more gaiety than any of the Scottish scenes.

  After a hearty breakfast I summoned my long-serving secretary, Sir Francis Knollys, and arranged for the keepsakes to be ordered by telegraph from my usual jeweller, Mr Garrard, of the Haymarket. He’s a fortunate fellow, for we are obliged to keep a large retinue at Sandringham. As well as the pins and lockets, I thoughtfully ordered a gift for Alix of a large silver inkstand, which I knew she would adore. I believe the bill for everything was in excess of six hundred pounds. I’ve always lived beyond my means, but if the nation wants an heir presumptive, then it must allow him to be bounteous, I say. Garrard wired back promising to deliver the articles in presentation boxes by December 23rd, just time to wrap them and write labels on each one.

  Next, I spoke to Hammond, my estate manager. The main tree, I said, should be at least twenty feet high and healthy.

  “I’ll pick it myself, your Royal Highness,” he said. “I know exactly where to go. In fact, I’ll fell it myself as well.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” I said. “Felling won’t do at all.”

  “But last year you said –”

  “That was last year. The Princess has a sentimental regard for trees and she insists that we – that is to say you – dig the whole thing from the ground, roots and all, and plant it in a tub so that it will survive the experience.”

  “With respect, sir, the ground’s awfully hard from the frosts.”

  “With respect, Hammond, you’ll have to dig awfully hard.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “No. As I command.”

  I ordered a search for the magic lantern. It always goes missing. In a house as large as Sandringham there are hundreds of cupboards. The show wouldn’t be until Christmas afternoon, but I like to have a rehearsal and make sure the slides are the right way up. You wouldn’t believe the catcalls when I get one wrong. Some of my family think they can get away with bad behaviour in the dark. I don’t know where they get it from.

  That evening Alix and I started the chore of signing Christmas cards. My festive spirit is well tested in the days before Christmas and I must admit to unparliamentary language when Alix produces yet another stack for me to attend to. However I was able to report that everything else was in hand.

  “Have you addressed a card to your Mama?” she asked.

  “I’m summoning my strength,” I said. Because of the Baccarat business, I was not in the best odour with the Queen. I confess to some relief that we wouldn’t be required to show our faces at Balmoral over Christmas. Mama deplores gambling of any sort, even on horses, and she was incensed that I might be required to appear as a witness. I wasn’t too sanguine at the prospect myself.

  A week passed. The Christmas preparations went well. The magic lantern was found and tested. Hammond did his digging and the tree was erected in the ballroom. It took six men to lift it onto a trolley and trundle it through the house. We had immense fun with the stepladder used to hang the decorations, or, rather, I did, telling Alix I could see up to her knees and beyond when she was standing above me – which was true. She almost fell off through trying to adjust her skirt. She refused to go up again, so I invited one
of her ladies-in-waiting to take her place and the girl turned as red as a holly berry and Alix was not at all amused. And then we had a jolly conversation of double-entendres about the pretty sights on view. I thought it jolly, anyway. I know a few ladies who would have thought it exceedingly funny.

  A card arrived from Mama thanking me for mine and wishing me the blessings of Our Lord and a New Year of duty and decorum. She never gives up. I’m told she was full of fun in her youth. It’s hard to imagine.

  The one small anxiety in our arrangements was that the jewellery hadn’t arrived by the end of December 22nd. I know Mr Garrard had promised to deliver by the day following, but in previous years he had always managed to get the consignment to us a day or so early. That evening I spoke to Knollys. He, too, was getting worried.

  “Just to be sure, I’ll send a telegraph,” he said.

  Oh, my stars and garters, what a shock awaited us! Next morning Mr Garrard wired back the following message:

  Items were despatched December 21st. Cannot understand what has happened. Am coming personally by first available train.

  Notwithstanding three inches of overnight snow, he was with us by midday, and I have never seen a man so discomposed. Quivering like a debutante’s fan, he was practically in tears. “I had my people working day and night to complete the order. Your Royal Highness,” he informed me. “It was all done, every item boxed up. I checked it myself, three times.”

  “You can look me in the eye, Garrard,” I said. “I believe you. I’ve never had reason to doubt you before. Tell me, what arrangements did you make for the consignment to be delivered to Sandringham?”

  “A personal messenger, sir. A young man who has worked for me for two years and whom I trust absolutely. He happens to live in Norfolk and wanted to visit his parents for Christmas, so I entrusted him with the valise containing the jewellery.”

  “Where precisely in Norfolk?”

  “Oh, he was coming here first, sir. That was my firm instruction.”