by Rhys Bowen
“Who else is there?” the other male voice said. “If poor old Freddie Partridge had been alive, I’d have backed him. Always a good sport, old Freddie. Who’d have thought he’d shoot himself, what?”
I was holding my breath again, not because I was thinking of the racers this time, but because something incredible had just dawned on me. Something so obvious and simple that I wanted to shout out loud. Freddie Partridge. I believe I had heard his last name before, but it had never really registered. I peered to my right, through the mist, trying to make out the shapes of the first trees in the orchard. And in my head I heard Sir Oswald saying clearly, “It was a pear tree.”
“Oh, golly,” I said out loud. Freddie had been the first of the deaths and he was the Partridge in a pear tree.
Chapter 33
DECEMBER 29
The Lovey Chase.
I wasn’t even conscious of the race continuing. I vaguely heard cheers as the racers thundered past us, stirrups jangling. But suddenly it all made sense. It all fitted perfectly: Ted Grover had been to visit his lady love, the publican’s wife. They were the two turtledoves. And the Misses Ffrench-Finch of course were the three French hens. And Gladys Tripp—she was a calling bird, wasn’t she? My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure it must be echoing around that field. And the five gold rings? Mr. Klein, the jeweler—the only one the murderer had not tried to kill, for some reason. Mr. Skaggs the butcher had been bringing us the geese—which were not a-laying, but a-lying, which might be significant. And the master of hounds had disappeared into the mere where the swans were a-swimming. . . .
And golly, it was true. My instincts were right. The previous night’s affair was no accident. Mrs. Sechrest was one of the nine ladies dancing, which meant . . . my eyes were suddenly riveted to the track again . . . that these were the ten lords a-leaping.
The first runners emerged from the mist, their breath now ragged and gasping as they came toward us. Monty, Darcy and the thin lad were running neck and neck. One by one the others straggled behind them, fighting for breath. One of them stopped to throw up, then staggered on.
“Last lap,” someone shouted and the crowd cheered them on.
I wanted to leap out and shout for them to stop, but by the time I had plucked up my courage, they had vanished into the mist again. The crowd fell silent. You could feel the anticipation. Then out of the mist came two figures—Monty and Darcy, still running neck and neck. As they reached the finish line Darcy seemed to slack off or Monty put on a surge and he crossed the tape first.
I made my way through the crowd to Darcy. “Well done, old thing,” I said.
He leaned on me, gasping for breath. “I wouldn’t want to do that again. These stupid saddles are heavy and the stirrups kept flying up and hitting me.”
“But you came second. That was wonderful.”
He looked up with a grin. “Well, I thought it was wiser that Monty should win. It is his home territory, after all. Only right that the locals should be able to cheer their landowners.”
I stared at him and had to smile. “Darcy, you’re a snob at heart after all, aren’t you?”
“Well, I am going to be Lord Kilhenny someday. I have to get used to the idea.”
I kissed his freezing cheek. “I’m very proud of you anyway.”
There were renewed cheers as the other runners staggered in, one by one. I found that I was breathing easier. The race was over and nothing had happened. Then somebody said, “Where’s old Johnnie?”
“Johnnie Protheroe?” another of the runners said. “He was with me last time I looked. Didn’t he come in yet?”
The feeling of doom returned. Several people started back along the course.
“Knowing Johnnie, he probably decided he’d had enough and he’s nipped across to the pub,” someone chuckled.
We passed one jump, then a second and a third. Then someone said, “My God—what’s that?”
One of the ridiculous helmets was lying to one side of the track. And there was Johnnie lying half concealed under the hedge that bordered the field. Hands dragged him out. Someone said, “He’s fainted. Get some brandy.”
Then someone else said, “He hasn’t fainted. He’s dead.”
“Someone run and get Dr. Wainwright. He’s over by the tent.”
A couple of younger lads ran off. I stood staring down at Johnnie’s dead face. He looked so normal, so peaceful, that I expected him to open his eyes at any moment and say, “Fooled you all, didn’t I?”
But he didn’t. The doctor arrived, puffing and panting, his black bag in his hand. He dropped to his knees beside Johnnie and started to examine him. After a while he looked up at the considerable crowd that had now gathered around them. “Heart,” he said. “Clearly a heart attack. The fellow was on heart medication, you know. I warned him that he should be taking it easier but he still acted as if he were twenty-one. Someone better call for the ambulance.”
He rose to his feet again. I went over to him. “Doctor, in light of all these strange deaths around here, don’t you think the police should be called in?”
He gave me a cold stare. “I’ve been practicing medicine for thirty years. Do you think I don’t recognize a heart attack when I see one?”
“But just in case?”
“An autopsy will be done, of course,” he said. “But I’d like to wager with one of these bookies here that I am right. The chap had a dicky heart. He overextended himself. Simple as that, young lady.”
The St. John ambulance boys were in attendance in case of accidents and they now arrived with a stretcher. As I watched the body being carried away, the increasingly familiar feeling of dread overwhelmed me. I now knew what the deaths meant and why they were happening to fit in with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but I was not one bit the wiser about why these people were chosen or who had planned this awful farce. Darcy had removed the saddle and helmet and was now dressed in his jersey and corduroys.
“Poor old Johnnie,” he said. “A bit of a cad, but I rather liked him.”
“In spite of everything, so did I,” I said. “And I’ve been trying to make the doctor see that his death was not a heart attack. At least they’re going to conduct an autopsy.”
“You think this was today’s planned murder, then?” he asked. “You are not going to budge from your belief that these are planned killings, are you?”
“Because I now have proof that they are,” I said. “Come over here.” I took his arm and led him away from the crowd. Then I told him exactly what I had figured out. He stared at me in growing wonder. “A partridge in a pear tree. Of course. Why didn’t we see that?”
“Because everyone referred to him as ‘old Freddie.’ I believe I did hear his last name once, but that was before I saw his death as any more than a freak accident, so it didn’t sink in.”
“Well, you cracked it now, haven’t you? Brilliant,” he said.
I looked past him to the happy revelers, the journalists taking pictures of the winner and copious amounts of either beer or cider being drunk. “But we are no nearer to solving it, are we? We know that some twisted mind is enjoying a little joke at the expense of people’s lives, but we have no way of knowing who or why. They are still such a strange assortment of victims and the killer has been clever enough not to leave evidence.”
“He has left evidence,” Darcy said. “Two people are still alive. Mr. Klein was apparently not harmed, and Mrs. Sechrest is going to recover. We have to contact the police right away and have them talk to the survivors. Maybe they will know why someone might have wanted them dead.”
“He didn’t want Mr. Klein dead,” I said. “He only took valuable jewelry from him.”
“Either he thought that would be an appropriate punishment for Klein or he had planned a murder that for some reason didn’t happen.”
“Let’s go see Mr. Klein right away, shall we?” I took his hand.
“We have to tell all this to the police first,” Darcy said.
“Those are different. This is dealing with people’s lives, Georgie. And also it’s my aunt’s family. I have to do the right thing when I’m staying with her.”
“Very noble,” I said. “Well, all right. Let’s borrow Monty’s motor again and go find the hopelessly thick inspector. We can get away now, while they are all celebrating.”
I glanced across at Monty, now drinking something from a large cup while the crowd cheered. We moved silently toward the gap in the hedge, slipped through, then hurried across the village green, up the driveway and around to the garages. A few minutes later we were driving toward Newton Abbott at a snail’s pace, with Darcy peering forward through the mist. Luckily nobody else was foolhardy enough to attempt driving in this weather.
“So let’s think,” Darcy said, raising his voice over the considerable noise of the engine. “What does all this tell us about the murderer? Why did he wait until Christmas?”
“So that he could kill twelve people in twelve days?”
“But why? It’s clearly his little joke, isn’t it?”
“He’s punishing each of them for a reason. Maybe Freddie played one of his pranks on him. Ted Grover was committing adultery. Miss Ffrench-Finch—well, I’m sure old ladies can be annoying. Gladys Tripp listened in on private conversations and gossiped afterward. We don’t know anything about Mr. Klein or the butcher or the master of hounds or the farmer’s wife, but Sandra Sechrest and Johnnie Protheroe were carrying on together.”
“So someone who sees himself as the hand of God, striking down those who have sinned?” Darcy asked. “Obviously someone with a clever brain to carry out these things and make them look like accidents.”
“But not all that well educated,” I said. “Remember he mixed up ‘lay’ and ‘lie.’ His six geese were not a-laying, they were a-lying.”
“Poetic license, my sweet. He couldn’t make everything fit the poem exactly, could he?”
The cold wind stung my face as the Alvis flew along the lane. I shivered, partly with cold and partly with apprehension. “We have no proof that these were all intended victims.”
“Oh, I think we have to assume that they all were, because we know that some of them were. Freddie Partridge, for example. His death was not only planned, but planned elaborately to happen so that the twelve days would finish on New Year’s Eve.”
“Not the correct twelve days of Christmas, by the way,” I interrupted. “They are supposed to start on Christmas Day and finish on Twelfth Night.”
“Then the killer must have had a reason for starting when he did. Maybe when he knew everybody would be assembled for the house party.” He paused. “I wonder how they managed to get Freddie Partridge into the pear tree. And look at the trouble the killer went to to finish off poor Gladys Tripp. That took skill. The man is good with his hands as well as his brain. And brazen enough to risk going into a telephone exchange in the middle of a busy town. A formidable opponent.”
“And who, one has to presume, was at the ball last night, waiting for the right moment when Mr. Sechrest stood beside the candelabra.”
“My aunt will have the guest list. We can hand that to the police.”
“I don’t suppose it would have been too hard to sneak in unnoticed. There was that gorilla. Nobody knew who was in that costume.”
“We have to assume it was the same gorilla suit we saw hanging up in the attic. Maybe someone in the family knows who borrowed it. Maybe someone did leave a clue inside—a strand of hair or the smell of a particular talcum powder, for example.”
“That’s a long shot,” I said. “I think our best bet is motive. Why did he want to kill these people?”
“Not just for fun—unless he chose Freddie Partridge for his name and the method of killing was more important than the victim. But that would indicate a true madman and I don’t know how one begins to trap such a person.”
We had been climbing a long, winding slope and came suddenly to a steep bend at the crest. “Didn’t see that coming,” Darcy said as he swung the motorcar around it, faster than he intended.
“I believe this is where Mr. Skaggs went over the edge, coming from the other direction.” I looked down that steep, rocky slope until it vanished into mist and I shivered. Someone was out there who could kill at will, leaving no trace, and was waiting to strike again the next day. According to the song he had two more victims planned . . . and the last two had been members of our house party.
I was very relieved as the first houses of the town appeared through the mist and we drove into the main street. Ghostly shapes darted in and out of shops, swathed in scarves against the bitter cold. We stopped outside the police station and went in.
“I’m afraid Inspector Newcombe isn’t here,” said the constable on duty. “No, I couldn’t tell you where he’s gone, but I believe it was some kind of meeting he had to go to. And I couldn’t say when he’d be back.”
I asked for writing paper and wrote a note for him, telling him that we’d come up with something very important concerning a case and needed to speak with him as soon as possible. As I sealed the envelope I experienced a sudden flash of satisfaction that I had been proved right after all. Now Inspector Newcombe would have to admit that the deaths were not accidents and they were linked and one person was doing the killing. Not bad for an amateur. Now if only I could come up with a motive. . . .
I handed the envelope to the constable with strict instructions that it be given to Inspector Newcombe immediately and we came out into the eerie stillness of the street.
“Do you fancy a cup of coffee and a bun before we go back?” Darcy asked. “There’s a little tea shop across the street.”
“I think we should go to visit Mr. Klein first, don’t you?” I said. “He might hold the key to this whole thing.”
“I’m not sure if we shouldn’t leave that—” Darcy began but I cut him off.
“Look, if Inspector Newcombe isn’t available to do it, then I don’t think any more time should be wasted. Someone’s life could be at stake.” I was already striding down the street toward the jeweler’s shop. Darcy caught up with me. “We’re not interfering, we’re helping,” I said. “And if Mr. Klein doesn’t want to talk to us, at least we can send him to talk to the police.”
“Since when did you become so forceful?” Darcy said. “I remember you as a meek little thing when we first met.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been meek,” I said. “Remember, I do come from a great-grandmother who was rather forceful herself. Maybe I was just reticent when we first met—I didn’t quite trust you.”
Darcy laughed. “Good judgment. My one aim was to get you into bed, and I can’t believe I haven’t succeeded yet. I must be developing a conscience.”
“I do want to, Darcy,” I said. “It’s just that the moment never seems to be right.”
He grinned at me. “We’ll make a moment even if I have to whisk you off to Brighton to do so.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Smith?” I joked.
“How about Mr. and Mrs. O’Mara?”
Ah. There was the rub. I tried to say, “I can’t marry you,” but I couldn’t. Instead I joked, “I suspect I’ll have a good long wait, then, until you’re ready to settle down.”
“Who knows,” Darcy said, giving me a questioning look. “Stranger things have happened.”
We reached the jeweler’s, but it was closed. “I don’t believe it’s opened since the robbery,” I said, peering through the window into the dark interior.
“There’s a front door to one side,” Darcy said. “Maybe he lives over the shop. Try knocking.”
We knocked. We even rang the doorbell, but nobody came.
“Not at home,” Darcy said.
I stared up at the window with the curtains drawn across it. “Who would go out on a day l
ike this?” I asked.
Darcy and I looked at each other. “You don’t suppose . . . ?” we said in unison.
Chapter 34
IN THE TOWN OF NEWTON ABBOTT, DEVONSHIRE
DECEMBER 29
Darcy gave one last volley of knocks on the front door. As we were walking away a window opened above the next-door haberdashery shop. An elderly woman’s face looked out.
“You’re wanting Mr. Klein, are you? He’s not there, my dearies,” she said. “Leastways, I haven’t seen him since I got back from my daughter’s yesterday. I knocked to give him a piece of my daughter’s Christmas cake, but nobody answered so I think he must have gone away.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He has two daughters, I remember, but I couldn’t tell you where they live. He’s a very private man. Keeps himself to himself and it’s hard to get a word out of him.”
Darcy and I exchanged a look as we walked away. “We’d better go back to the police,” I said. “He could be lying there dead on the floor and nobody would know.”
The constable at the police station listened politely but clearly wasn’t taking us seriously. “Lots of folks go away over Christmas,” he said. “I don’t think you should worry yourself unduly, miss.”
“But we have reason to believe that the robbery of his store was linked to all these strange deaths. You know—Gladys Tripp, Mr. Skaggs.”
“And how might that be, miss?”
“It’s too complicated to explain now,” I said. “I’m sure Inspector Newcombe would act immediately if I told him what I now know.”
“We can’t just go breaking in someone’s door on the off chance that something might not be right,” he said.
“Not even if a person may well be lying dead inside, murdered?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m all alone here at the moment. Can’t leave the station unattended, can I? Besides, I can’t do nothing without my sergeant’s permission.”