The pathologist looked at Sharp for a moment, and smiled. ‘I am absolutely certain. Unless the toxicology proves different, both those men are completely healthy. I strongly suspect we may find traces of alcohol and possibly some recreational use of narcotics but there is no physical reason for their deaths.’
‘I saw the expression on their faces, as if they were frightened. Could they have had heart attacks?’
‘No, there’s no evidence of that. But there is one odd thing. Mentioning their faces reminded me.’ He led Sharp back into the examination room and pointed to the corpses. ‘Rigor mortis has worn off now. Normally when that happens, the facial muscles relax, giving the dead person a calm, peaceful look. As you can see, that hasn’t happened here. Don’t ask me to explain why, but it’s almost as if the terror they felt is still affecting them.’
Sharp needed answers. He called the station from the mortuary and asked the duty officer to contact the Blacksmith’s Arms. ‘I need to speak to the girl and her mother ASAP. Ask them to come to the station will you?’
When he returned from the mortuary, Sharp found Lauren waiting, along with her mother, ready to give her statement. He summoned a female police officer to attend the interview, and invited Lauren to tell her story. Eventually, he asked her for a description of the stranger.
Her reply was detailed enough to send Sharp scurrying back to his office. He returned to the interview room a few minutes later and nodded to the officer, who restarted the tape. ‘Is this the man you saw at the house, Lauren?’ Sharp asked, placing a photograph on the table.
Lauren identified the man immediately. ‘There’s something else,’ she added. ‘I almost forgot about the allotment.’
Sharp looked puzzled. ‘What allotment?’
‘The one where they keep the drugs. Wayne told the man it was number six, the last one on the left as you go in from Barwell Gardens.’
‘That could be very useful, thank you.’
Sharp ended the interview there. He had only been back in his office a few minutes when he received a further shock, via a phone call from the fire service. ‘It’s about that allotment shed fire last night.’
Sharp didn’t speak, his mind was whirling. ‘What shed fire?’
‘Sorry, I thought you knew. Didn’t your lot tell you about the fingerprints? They match both victims of the Castleton Street blaze.’
Sharp remained silent so the officer continued. ‘The blaze was similar to the house fire – except this time there really was a fire – but the damage was superficial. However, my men found a huge quantity of what we believe to be Class A drugs hidden inside, which we’ve passed to your people for testing.’
Sharp was still coming to terms with this news when he received an email from the SOCO team, informing him the only fingerprints from within the house were those of Lauren, her mother, and the two victims. This cast doubt on Lauren’s story. By now, Sharp didn’t know what to believe.
On Boxing Day, the fire chief called him. ‘Our forensic guys could find no trace of a fire at the house. As of this moment, there is no apparent cause for what we saw.’
‘Is there any chance it was reflected light you saw? Maybe the Christmas tree lights?’
‘We all saw flames, and no, it wasn’t festive lights of any sort. Besides which, the tree wasn’t even plugged in. And before you ask, we had not been partaking of the Christmas spirit! And here’s another thing for you to puzzle over.’
‘What more can there be?’
‘Just before we left the scene, a bloke in a handyman’s van turned up.’
‘And?’
‘He’d come to fix the back door.’
‘I don’t see the problem with that, the house would need to be secure. Who sent for him?’
‘Nobody. Well nobody that should have, that is.’
‘You’d better explain.’
‘He said a bloke phoned and booked the callout first thing that morning. He’d confirmed by text message. When I said I didn’t believe him he showed me the text – except there wasn’t one!’
‘This just gets stranger by the minute.’
‘If you think that, wait until you hear the rest. As a matter of course, I got one of my chaps to check the treble nine call in the hope of finding who made it. Unfortunately, there’s no trace of it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that the phone call that sent our engines to Castleton Street simply doesn’t exist. I got the emergency operator to check the recording, and all they could hear was some sort of static hiss. The only thing we have is the operator remembers it was a man’s voice. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t, so if you can come up with anything, I’d love to hear it.’
Sharp was thoroughly confused. Every new piece of evidence either added strength to Lauren’s story or undermined it. Acting on impulse, he made a phone call, the result of which left his mind reeling.
Two days after Boxing Day, having received further information from the pathologist, Luke typed up his report and took it to Detective Superintendent Parker. ‘I don’t know what you’ll make of it, Geoff, because I can’t find a logical explanation for any of it.’
Back at his desk, he phoned Paula Morton’s mobile. ‘Any chance you could meet me for a drink this evening?’
She agreed, and at seven on the dot, arrived at the Three Tuns. Sharp was already there, looking tired and bewildered, she thought. ‘How’s the investigation going?’ she asked.
‘It isn’t going. It’s stalled. In fact, it’s damned near in reverse. I’m completely baffled by the whole business.’ Sharp outlined the facts he had gathered, ticking them off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘There is no identifiable cause for the fire everyone claims to have witnessed, no trace of an accelerant, faulty wiring, cigarette ends, candles left burning, anything.
‘Neither is there any apparent cause for the death of the victims. I did wonder if they might have been poisoned, but the results were negative for any form of toxin. The post-mortem also ruled out fire as the cause, or the effects of smoke inhalation. My only clue is that expression on the victims’ faces. If I had to speculate, I’d suggest they died of fright, but I suppose that wouldn’t hold water with you medical people.’
‘I don’t think you’re likely to see it on a death certificate,’ Paula agreed. ‘Is there anything else odd?’
‘The whole thing is odd.’ Luke shook his head, then took a gulp at his pint before he continued. ‘Added to what I’ve already told you, there is no trace of Lauren’s mystery man ever having entered the property. The only prints in the house are those we expected to find. There was also an allotment fire on Christmas Eve in the very place Lauren told me they had confessed was where they kept drugs. This time there really was a fire but they can’t determine the cause and there was very little damage. However, they did find a huge cache of drugs and the dead men’s prints in the shed.’
Sharp paused and took another gulp of his beer. ‘Now we come to the weirdest bit of all. When I interviewed Lauren, I showed her a photograph of a man matching her description of the mysterious stranger. She made a positive identification of him immediately.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Danny Butler, the security guard imprisoned for the robbery, whose wife and kids were killed in that house fire a year ago. Her description was correct, right down to the last detail, and Butler was not the sort you could easily confuse with anyone else.’ Sharp went on to describe Butler’s appearance.
‘I see what you mean. Then there can’t be any chance that Lauren got the wrong man. That makes it easy enough for you, though. All you have to do is find him and ask him to explain how the two men died in such suspicious circumstances.’
Sharp shook his head. ‘That’s what I thought, so I rang Felling Prison to ask when Butler was released. It turns out that, Danny Butler still had several months of his sentence to go.’
‘So he couldn’t have been the man Lauren saw, if he’s still in prison.�
��
‘He was – and he wasn’t,’ Sharp told her.
‘How do you mean? He was either in prison or out, surely?’
‘Technically, I suppose you could say he’d been released, if released is the correct word. Danny Butler died of a heart attack the day before Christmas Eve.’
The Proof of the Pudding
Jane Wenham-Jones
‘I don’t think I’ll bother with a pudding this year,’ I said – more to myself than anyone else. I looked at the sticky packet of half-finished raisins I’d found lurking at the back of the larder behind the rusting treacle tin. ‘It’s not as if anyone eats it.’
Charlotte looked up at me in horror. ‘Yes we do!’ she said indignantly. Ben appeared equally startled. ‘Oh, Mum!’ he said disapprovingly.
‘You don’t!’ I said. ‘The birds do. And we don’t really need a cake either! Look!’ I added, pulling the battered old cake tin down from the shelf. ‘It’s October!’ I yanked off the lid to reveal a remaining dark brown marzipan-topped lump. ‘We’ve still got some left.’
‘Mmmn,’ said Dave, wandering into the kitchen. ‘I’ll have that, love. If nobody else wants it that is,’ he added, already lifting it onto a plate.
‘Marvellous,’ he said, licking his lips ten minutes later. ‘Plenty of brandy – that’s the secret. Keeps for ever!’
‘Mum says we can’t have one this year,’ said Charlotte petulantly. Dave looked at me wounded.
‘It won’t be Christmas without the cake,’ said Charlotte dramatically, never one to miss the chance to act deprived. ‘And I love making the pudding,’ she finished sadly.
‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘When was the last time you had anything to do with it? I make them both myself. On my own.’
It hadn’t always been like that. Once it was a bit of a ritual in the family. We’d make the pudding and cake together. I had a sudden image of a tiny Charlotte standing on a chair so she could reach the bowl, frowning in concentration as she used both hands to wield the wooden spoon through the stiff, fruit-laden mixture. Of Ben standing quietly by the side of the table, unnoticed, stuffing his mouth with sultanas till Dave had leapt laughing towards him, swung the dish out of reach, and caught him as he staggered. ‘Goodness, he’ll sleep well – I’ve already soaked them in brandy!’
We always did it together. Waited until some grey, cold autumn afternoon when I would get out the big brown bowl that had been my grandmother’s, line up the ingredients on the kitchen table, pull my favourite old recipe book down off the shelf, and check for quantities. Dave always did the measuring while I mixed. He’d line the cake tin with greaseproof paper and butter the pudding basin, the kids would pick at the dry fruit and run their fingers round the rim of the bowl, collecting the sweet, sticky leftovers. And all of them would have a turn stirring with the wooden spoon.
‘Make a wish,’ I would urge my children. ‘But don’t tell me or it won’t come true!’ I’d add, as I could see Charlotte’s just waiting to burst from her small lips. I always knew what they’d be wishing for anyway – some Spider-man toy or impossibly-waisted Barbie doll (before they discovered iPhones and netbooks), while I’d find myself silently making some sentimental plea for their happiness or world peace, strangely moved by the raptness of their solemn faces. I never did know what Dave wished for but he always gave me a huge wink as I placed the baking tin reverently in the oven.
And then there’d be that heavenly warmth of sugar and spice that would hang comfortingly in the air for hours while the soft, golden concoction, thick with fruit and nuts, firmed and darkened, and the pudding steamed on the hob to the gentle slurp of bubbling water.
But somehow we’d got out of the habit. Now the kids would be upstairs or out with their friends. Dave in the garden or in front of the TV. Those days had gone. Surely it would be easier just to buy a small pudding, forget about a cake …
‘Well I’ll help you this time then,’ said Charlotte impatiently. I glanced at her in surprise. She rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose.’
And there must have been something in me too that still hankered after it all. The next morning I found myself writing ‘Cherries, ground almonds, brown sugar’ on the shopping list even though I knew very well that come Christmas Day, everyone would have eaten too much turkey to contemplate much pudding and the cake would just sit there on the side table sporting the same plastic tree and reindeer I stuck in every year.
Dave’s mum would eventually say, ‘Oh, go on then, I’ll just have a sliver.’ Dave would rub his stomach and say, ‘Sorry, love, I just couldn’t eat another thing,’ and neither of the children would touch a slice. And the cake would be lowered into the tin which was where it would stay for the rest of the year.
But come Sunday afternoon when it was raining, I looked out at the darkening sky and reached for the old, fat book on the shelf. Ben and Dave looked positively alarmed as I hauled them away from the football on TV, Charlotte disgusted.
‘I was just going to phone Clare,’ she said crossly.
‘Well you can do that later,’ I replied sweetly. ‘Wash your hands, tie your hair back, and put that apron on – you’re chief mixer!’
I saw Ben and Dave exchange dubious glances as I shoved a packet of glacé cherries and four eggs into their hands.
‘Chop one, beat the other,’ I instructed brightly. ‘And someone start greasing the tin.’
‘My arm’s aching,’ grumbled Charlotte as she blended sugar and butter, ‘Oi! Get out of it, you loser!’ she protested as her brother ducked under her arm later and fished out a fingerful of fruit-laden goo. ‘Tell him to leave me alone, Mum!’
But her voice was unusually good-natured and I smiled at Dave as they shoved each other.
‘Remember that Christmas when Granddad nearly swallowed the sixpence?’ she asked suddenly, as I folded small squares of foil round old silver coins and we all took turns to stir and wish. Ben laughed. ‘What about Dad on my skateboard after lunch? After he’d said he could show me a thing or two.’ He grinned at his father. ‘Showed me how to fall off more like!’
Dave punched him playfully on the shoulder as Ben stirred. ‘It was that uneven pavement. Roller-skating champion, I was at school.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Charlotte giggled and rolled her eyes heavenwards as she took the spoon. We all fell quiet as she held her eyes shut for some moments. I could no longer be sure what she was hoping for – something more complicated these days no doubt than the latest gadget – but as I stood, waiting to fasten the cloth over the pudding basin, I looked at the dark lashes feathering her cheek and felt a strange tug of emotion.
Dave winked at me as he took over from her. ‘Now what are those lottery numbers?’
‘It won’t come true if you tell anyone,’ retorted Charlotte.
Dave handed me the spoon, giving my arm a squeeze as he did so. ‘That’s OK,’ he said, removing a little cake mixture from Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got all the riches I need.’
I closed my eyes and pushed the wooden handle in circles and wished for it always to stay that way …
On Christmas Day I looked at the cake marzipanned by Charlotte and rather unevenly iced by Ben, at the old plastic reindeer sitting lopsidedly in the middle, and I smiled.
Then I lifted the pudding from the steamer, placed the sprig of holly in the centre, and carefully tipped the brandy around the outside. ‘Ta daa!’ I cried as I placed the dish on the table, watching as the blue-tinged flames flickered around the perfect moist dome. A ring of faces looked at it.
‘Oh well maybe just a tiny spoonful,’ said Dave’s mum.
Dave rubbed his stomach. ‘Don’t think I could right now, love.’
Ben wrinkled his nose. ‘Are there any roast potatoes left, Mum?’ he asked hopefully. Charlotte, her mouth full of chocolate, smiled at me with bulging cheeks and silently shook her head.
Dave met my eyes.
‘OK just a small bit then,’ he said, pulling the cream towards him. I th
ink he thought I’d be disappointed if he didn’t. But I looked around the table at my healthy, happy children, remembered them laughing together in the kitchen, saw the warmth in Dave’s eyes, and I knew I didn’t care if the birds ate it all this year too.
For sometimes, the proof of the pudding isn’t in the eating at all.
What the Dickens!
A Euphemia Martins Christmas Story
Caroline Dunford
NOTE TO READERS
This Christmas story takes place after A Death for King and Country (Euphemia Martins Mysteries Book 7), but can be read out of order without fear of spoilers!
Frost as pretty as lace outlined the edges of my window. My breath hung before me in little clouds and my fire crackled as I sat up in bed and drank my morning tea. I wondered if snow would come today. I imagined the Muller estate would look spectacular covered in white. The trees down by the lake would be particularly pretty. It seemed as if Christmas 1912 might be the best we had had for years.
The maids had been and gone about their early morning tasks and currently all was quiet. Richenda and Hans’ adopted daughter, Amelia, who had been found under the most extraordinary circumstances, had finally settled into her new home thanks to the help of her temporary nursemaid, my old friend Merry. We were no longer kept awake by her cries and shouting.
All of us quite understood that the tot had been through more than most two-year-olds, but when your sleep is broken every night for several months one becomes irritable and tired. Richenda’s former insistence at staying by the side of her new daughter had wrought havoc in the marital department of the Mullers’ marriage to the extent the poor man had had to beg me for help in veiled, but embarrassing, terms. But all this was behind us.
My most recent adventures had concluded satisfactorily – which I confess is unusual – and I was looking forward to the prospect of a happy Christmas, safe in my position of companion to the lady of the house. Frankly, the Mullers, for various reasons, were more than generous to me, and Merry seemed to have quite forgiven me for my rise in status.
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