Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

  “Call it a night,” said Frost. “We don’t want you all going down with pneumonia. I can’t stand funerals at Christmas. Anyway, if she’s spent a day and a night in the open, she’s dead, so we might as well find the body tomorrow as tonight. Let the mother hope for a while longer. Come on, son.”

  Back to the car. “Where to, sir?”

  “The town, son.”

  Thank goodness, thought his detective constable, home and bed at last.

  As they sped toward the town a church clock chimed . . . one o’clock on a cold and frosty morning. The streets they passed were empty, the lights out in the houses, and it seemed as though they were the only two people in the world who heard that single chime rolling across the sleeping countryside.

  The Market Square at last, with its lighted shop windows and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories. But what the hell was the silly old fool up to, now? The inspector motioned for Clive to turn the car down one of the dark side streets leading off the square. A couple of sharp right turns and, “Pull up here, son . . . quietly.”

  The car coasted the last few yards and came to a halt in the dark shadow of the side entrance to Woolworth’s. Across the road, brightly illuminated by a tall streetlamp, the solid shape of Bennington’s Bank. Frost switched off the radio and wound down the side window. The car sucked in cold air and Clive shivered and silently cursed all detective inspectors.

  “Little spot of observation,” croaked Frost. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  It took an hour, a long, cold hour, marked off by two more clanking chimes from the church clock. The inspector was slumped in his seat, his scarf round his ears, breathing heavily, his face child-like in repose.

  Typical, seethed Clive. The stupid git has gone to sleep and hasn’t even told me what we’re supposed to be watching for.

  But the eyelids were not tightly closed; they fluttered and a hand gently squeezed Clive’s arm.

  In the doorway of the bank someone moved. A duffle-coated figure, the face hidden in the depths of the hood. The head moved from side to side, checking, then a long metallic object was produced from inside the coat. A scraping of metal. The shattering pistol crack of splintering wood.

  Clive grabbed the door handle, ready for the plunge across the cobbled road, but was pushed back. “Just watch son . . . that’s all . . . watch.”

  Someone else had heard the noise. The running feet of the foot-patrol police constable clip-clopped down Bath Hill. A loud clang as the duffle-coat dropped the jemmy and ran into the blackness of a side-turning, vanishing long before the beat man was anywhere near. Accepting defeat, the constable gave up the chase and returned to examine the marks on the bank door. He picked up the jemmy, then began to speak rapidly into his personal radio.

  Frost had seen all he wanted to see. He asked Clive to reverse quietly and at 2:15 they were straining up Bath Hill to Clive’s digs.

  “Do me a favor son, keep quiet about this for the moment. Ah—this is you, isn’t it?”

  Clive stepped out of the car and Frost slid into the driver’s seat muttering something about an early start tomorrow.

  The lights were out at No. 26. As he bent to locate the keyhole something cold and wet kissed the back of Clive’s neck. He raised his head. It was snowing, idly at first, and then in clusters of thick swirling flakes. He wondered if tracker dogs were any good in snow. He couldn’t remember, he was so tired . . .

  TUESDAY

  TUESDAY (1)

  ‘. . . search for Tracey Uphill, the missing eight-year-old, hampered by heavy falls of snow. A police spokesman stated the operations would be resumed immediately the severe weather conditions eased. The Post Office reports a record Christmas . . .’ “Turn it off, son.”

  Clive switched off the car radio and concentrated on his driving, squinting with tired eyes through the snow-splattered windscreen at a strange, silent, soft-contoured landscape. A bright and breezy Frost had dragged him out of bed at 7:15 after barely five hours’ sleep and another marathon day loomed infinitely ahead.

  Strong winds drove the snow almost horizontally, and when they left the car on the outskirts of the Old Wood it was teeth-gritting hard work to push themselves along the obscured path. By the time they reached the lake they were plastered thickly with snow from head to foot.

  A small canvas marquee had been erected at lakeside for the dragging party and the wind was pounding its fists on the roof and trying to pluck out the tent-pegs. They plunged inside, thankful for its scant shelter, and sat on the small up-turned rowboat which someone must have man handled through the woods in the dark. Outside, two uniformed snowmen stoically smashed the surface ice with long poles.

  “Trust me to get weather like this,” yelled Frost over the thunder of the flapping canvas. “Inspector Allen would have had sunshine, bluebirds singing, and little deer chasing butterflies. Who the hell’s this?”

  A burly figure in an anorak butted his way toward them. He ducked into the tent and shook himself like a dog, shedding layers of snow, then pulled back the hood to uncover wire-wool ginger hair flecked with gray and a beaming, florid face mottled with large freckles. Sandy Lane, Chief Reporter of the Denton Echo, had heard the lake was being dragged and wanted to be there when the body popped up. The story would certainly be taken by the London dailies and would merit a byline and a welcome fee that would just about make up for the chilling effort of getting up at the crack of dawn.

  Frost greeted the reporter with a whoop of delight and introduced Clive, who was slumped against the tent-pole trying to keep awake, as his alert young assistant from London.

  “Now I’ve taken the trouble to come, I hope she’s in there,” said Sandy.

  “We’ll try and oblige,” said Frost, moving out of the way as a well-muffled elderly police constable, the boatman, arrived and slithered and bumped the small craft into the lake.

  “We’re ready to start, Inspector.”

  “All right, but don’t fall in. I’ve signed for you.”

  A creak of oars and the boat was hidden in the swirling snow. The other two constables trudged the circumference, methodically poking the bottom of the lake with their poles to encourage a body entangled with weeds to float to the surface. The oarsman was doing the same in the center of the lake. There were false alarms as a rotting log or a plastic bag full of rubbish pretended to be a body and bled up to be hooked out and tossed to one side.

  Frost stared into the flickering white curtain and smoked listening to the creakings and splashings. Then the wind blew a hole in the snow and he saw the small creosoted hut on the far side. He called out to one of the pole carriers who told him the hut was used by the Denton Model Boating Club in the summer but was now empty.

  “It’s been searched, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s padlocked, but we got the key from the club secretary.”

  Frost thought for a while, then wound his scarf to strangulation tightness and turned up his coat collar. “I’m afraid I’ve got one of my rotten feelings, son.”

  It was no bigger than a small garden shed, the sort used for storing rakes and spades and things, about as big as a sentry box. It had no windows, just a door fastened by an impressive brass padlock on a hasp.

  The hasp didn’t look right.

  Frost tugged at it and the screws popped out of the wood, letting the hasp and the padlock fall with a plop to the ground.

  The constable was incredulous. “It wasn’t like that before, sir.”

  Frost pulled the door open gingerly. There was something on the floor. He swore softly, then stepped back so the others could see. The wind howled and screamed and drove snow onto the face of the crumpled figure huddled on the bare wooden floor.

  Sandy Lane ran over from the marquee. The boatman rowed for the shore and joined them. They crowded around, silently, looking down on the gaping ugly face of death.

  But it wasn’t the child.

  It was a man wearing an old army greatcoat several sizes
too big for him. It was old Sam, the tramp who yesterday had marched into the station demanding the return of his pound. He had frozen to death and the dribble of spittle from the blue lips was a tiny river of ice.

  Frost bent and touched the face. It was iced marble, colder even than the snow-driving wind that was howling with rage because they were ignoring it.

  “He must have crawled in here last night to sleep,” said the boatman.” Poor old sod.”

  Frost wiped his hand on his coat again and again. “He’s better off out of it.” His foot kicked an empty wine bottle. “At least he died happy.”

  Sandy Lane left them and trudged back to the marquee. There was no byline story in the death of an old tramp.

  Frost nudged the army greatcoat with the toe of his boot. It crackled. “Watch out for fleas, boys. I’m told they won’t stay on a dead body.” He noticed the boatman. “Any luck?”

  “No, sir. We’ll try again to make sure but we’ve bashed the bottom and she’d be floating on top if she was there. There’s less muck in the pond than we thought.”

  Frost sniffed. “Why should people come all this way with their old mattresses when there’s lots of beauty spots far nearer.” He took another look at the shriveled husk on the hut floor. “I don’t want to be here when you chaps find Sam’s body. I’m far enough behind with my paperwork as it is and this would be the last straw. So don’t find him officially until I’ve gone.” He paused. “And some brave soul will have to go through his pockets and see if he’s got a second name. Let me know who does it and I’ll recommend him for the Victoria Cross.”

  Sandy was swigging something from a hipflask. He spun round furtively as they entered the marquee.

  “Bit early for that, Sandy, isn’t it?”

  “Never too early for me, Jack.” He stuck the flask back in his pocket. “You’d think I’d be used to dead bodies after forty-one years, wouldn’t you?”

  “Did I ever tell you about my first body?” asked Frost. “He was a tramp, too. Dead for weeks during a heatwave. Council dug up the street twice thinking it was the drains. Then we found him—or what the rats had left . . .” He noticed the boat party were returned. “I’ll tell you the rest later.”

  The reporter offered his cigarettes around and murmured confidentially to Clive, “Try and avoid hearing the rest at all costs. It put me off my grub for a week when he told it to me.”

  A rasping noise from outside as the boat was dragged ashore. Three frozen policemen stumbled in. Tracey wasn’t in the lake.

  “Sorry we couldn’t oblige you, Sandy,” said Frost.

  “That’s all right,” replied the reporter. He zipped up his anorak. “What about lunch today at The Crown?”

  “Why not? “said Frost.

  The reporter waved and was lost in the snow.

  “If anyone wants us, we’ll be at the vicarage,” said Frost. “Give us five minutes, then nip over and discover old Sam.” He studied the blizzard outside. “You can’t beat a white Christmas can you?”

  The vicarage was a sprawling Victorian building, huge and cheerless enough for an army barracks, but the vicar, the Reverend James Bell, moonfaced and beaming, greeted them warmly.

  “Inspector Frost! Come in, come in.”

  He ushered them into an uncarpeted hall with dark brown walls and a high ceiling. It was colder inside than out.

  “There’s a fire in my study. This way.” He led them to a small room with an enormous marble mantelpiece and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox in; in it two pieces of smoldering coal fought for survival.

  “It’ll soon get warm,” said the vicar optimistically, attacking the fire with a poker until all signs of life were extinct. “Oh dear.” He knelt and began puffing and blowing into the grate in a forlorn attempt to raise the dead. At last he stood, admitting defeat. “Never mind. It’s not as cold as it was.”

  On the marble mantelpiece were several photographs of recent church functions. One showed a group of children. The Sunday school Christmas party. Tracey Uphill was in the center of the group. Frost picked up the photograph and studied it. “It’s her we’ve come about, Padre,” he said, pointing. “Young Tracey Uphill.”

  The vicar sat behind his paper-strewn desk and shook his head, sadly. “Oh yes. Terrible business. Simply terrible.” He blinked in surprise as a spent match dropped into his paperclip tray. Frost had lit a cigarette.

  “Sorry, Padre,” boomed Frost, unabashed, “thought it was an ashtray.” He retrieved the match and flicked it toward the grate. It missed by miles. “Hello, does old Martha write to you as well?” He pointed to a letter lying on the desk . . . spidery writing in green ink on stiff, deckle-edged notepaper.

  “This?” The vicar held it up. “From our local clairvoyant, you mean?” He gave a tolerant smile. “She wants to hold a public spiritualist meeting in our church hall. We can’t pick and choose our lettings, I’m afraid. Our collections are not as generous as one might wish, and things are so expensive. The price of coal!” He swung round for another postmortem examination of the fire, but stopped as he remembered the reason for their visit. “I’m sorry. You’re here about that poor child. How can I help you?”

  “You knew her, didn’t you, Vicar?”

  The vicar seemed to start. “Only through Sunday school.”

  Frost’s eyes narrowed. Why that reaction? “I meant through Sunday school, of course, sir. Pretty kid wasn’t she?”

  “Was she? I hadn’t noticed.” An attempt to sound offhand that didn’t come off.

  It suddenly occurred to Clive that both Frost and the Reverend James Bell were talking of Tracey in the past tense.

  “Good looks run in her family,” continued Frost. “You should see her mother. She’s on the game, but I expect you know.”

  “Yes,” replied the vicar, “I know. I’ve often seen the men going into her house.”

  Frost nodded. “She gets thirty quid a time for her Sunday afternoon service. A lot more than you get dropped in your collection plate, I bet.” Frost was the only one who laughed and, to make up for the lack of appreciation, laughed loud and long. Clive looked openly disgusted, the vicar, both pained and rueful. Then Frost stopped abruptly, took a last drag on his cigarette, and hurled it in the general direction of the fireplace.

  “We want to search the vicarage, Padre. The kid was supposed to have come here to play in the grounds, but she could well have sneaked into the vicarage without anyone knowing.”

  “No!” It was the shocked reaction to an improper suggestion.

  Frost stared hard at the vicar. “Why not, sir?”

  “It’s not convenient, I’m afraid. We’ve got people coming. Later perhaps . . . ?” He refused to meet the inspector’s questioning eye.

  Frost smiled. “We won’t pinch anything, I promise you. I’ve got more hymnbooks than I can read back at home. We’ll let you know when we’ve finished.” He looked over the vicar’s shoulder. “Hello, there’s a trace of smoke coming from your fire. I’d encourage it, if I were you.” A jerk of his head to Clive and they were out of the study before Bell could think of a reason to stop them.

  Frost wound the scarf tighter round his neck. “Like a flaming igloo in there.”

  “He didn’t seem too keen on our looking around,” remarked Clive.

  “Doesn’t trust you, son. It’s your suit. Not much better than yesterday’s effort, I’m afraid. We’ll start at the top and work down.”

  They trudged upwards. Staircase succeeded staircase, little sub-landings and corridors shooting off at each turn. The vicarage would be a swine to search properly. And then the stairs stopped and there were only brown cobwebby ceilings above and a gloomy passage lined with dark doors. They creaked the doors open and looked in on pokey attic cells with low sloping ceilings, flapping mildewed wallpaper, and tiny windows thick with years of grime.

  “The servants would have slept up here in the old days,” explained Frost, stepping back hurriedly as a floorboard disintegrated un
der his foot. “What a life the poor sods must have led when you think of it. Working like beavers from crack of dawn until nearly midnight, scrubbing, scouring, emptying the gentry’s slop-buckets, then staggering up all those flaming stairs for a few hours’ kip before it started all over again the next morning.”

  I don’t know about the slop-buckets, thought Clive, but their hours sound better than mine.

  The dust and cobwebs in the attic rooms had clearly not been disturbed for years, so they descended to the floor below where the rooms were larger and the sour smell of decay slightly less pungent. On this floor the rooms were apparently used for storage, graveyards for the abandoned junk of past incumbents. They looked in cupboards and battered trunks that smelt faintly of lavender and strongly of mouldering linen and that contained stained ancient clothing and scuttling insects.

  But the end room was different. The door opened easily and the smell inside was of stale tobacco smoke, like the vicar’s study. Drawn, heavy curtains made it dark. Frost clunked down the old-fashioned brass lightswitch and an unshaded 60-watt bulb glimmered mournfully. He crossed to the window, dragged back the curtains, and looked down on the back gardens of Vicarage Terrace, now unified in a single plain by the heavy covering of snow. He couldn’t tell which was Mrs. Uphill’s garden; they all looked the same.

  The room was used by the vicar as a photographic studio. The thick cord of an antiquated electric bowl fire shared a power-point with the thinner cord of a photoflood lamp and reflector on a tall metal stand. Around the walls were enlargements of photos of churches and local landmarks. Inside a corner cupboard they found more photographic equipment, including a tripod and an early model Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex camera.

  But it was the sheet-draped rectangular object in the center of the floor that claimed the men’s interest.

  “That’s where the body is,” said Frost.

  Clive twitched the sheet away to reveal a battered metal coffin. A cabin trunk, well worn, its sides pasted with labels from long-defunct Edwardian shipping lines. The trunk was old, but the heavy brass padlock securing the lid was brand-new.