Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  HAUNTED CHRISTMAS

  A Reverend Paltoquet

  Supernatural Murder Mystery

  by

  Pat Herbert

  OTHER NOVELS IN THE

  REVEREND PALTOQUET MYSTERY SERIES:

  The Bockhampton Road Murder

  The Possession of November Jones

  The Witches of Wandsworth

  So Long at the Fair

  The Man Who Was Death

  The Dark Side of the Mirror

  Sleeping With the Dead

  The Corpse Wore Red

  Seeing Double

  THE BARNEY CARMICHAEL

  CRIME SERIES

  Getting Away With Murder

  The Murder in Weeping Lane

  The Mop and Bucket Murders

  Also by Pat Herbert:

  Death Comes Gift Wrapped

  Published by New Publications

  Copyright © Pat Herbert 2018

  Second Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  Bergen, Norway, March 1948

  The snow glistened white beneath the pale, full moon. Any creature, be it human or animal, making its way through the wooded landscape would be silhouetted clearly against its rays, which was a disadvantage to one small lone figure that cold March night. The trees were sparse and, although they afforded some shelter, there were many gaps where hiding was impossible. But the figure the moon highlighted couldn’t afford to be seen.

  Little Halle Dahl knew he had to keep running. This was the only chance he had of staying alive. His mother had told him this, and he knew she was right. His ten-year-old legs were strong, but they were weakening now. But if he stopped he was dead. The man behind him had a gun; he had watched him point it at his mother as she lay on the bed, her clothes in disarray. He had pushed little Halle out of the way as he made his way up the stairs to the boy’s mother’s bedroom. He knew his way for he had been there many times before.

  And now the man was following him, pointing that same weapon at his back. He had heard the explosion and felt the bullet whizz past his ear. The man was very close now. Then he saw the tall tree in front of him. Summoning up what was left of his strength, he began to climb up into the spindly branches. The man wouldn’t see him there, he prayed. As he climbed, the man stopped directly beneath the same tree. Of course, thought little Halle, his footprints had stopped here too. The snow had given him away. The man knew just exactly where he was.

  He heard the fatal shot ring out as he tumbled out of the tree. The man was running away, as little Halle’s life’s blood ebbed out of him, making a crimson river on the white snow.

  London, March 1948

  Reverend Bernard Paltoquet was sitting in his new home in the London borough of Wandsworth, surrounded by all his worldly goods. Being a frugal man, they weren’t many. He gazed about the cosy vicarage living room where his housekeeper, a rotund body called Mrs Harper, had just installed him.

  She had welcomed the new vicar of the St Stephen’s parish brusquely, but not unkindly. She was used to vicars, having served two before Bernard. The previous incumbent had recently died in harness, as it were, in the pulpit. His heart had given out during one of his long-winded sermons. She had surveyed the new vicar on his arrival with a critical eye: he was a lot younger than the last one, which was a blessing, even if he was a bit green about the gills. But knocking vicars into shape was something she was used to, and this young man would present no problems, she was sure.

  Bernard had already inspected his church just a few yards down the road and had been dismayed by its dilapidation and air of neglect. Much needed doing to make it habitable. At least a half-ton of lead was missing from the roof, and several panes in the stained-glass windows had been broken. It was a daunting task for any vicar, but for Bernard, in his first incumbency, it seemed almost insurmountable. The early spring weather, being still frosty, didn’t help matters. It made the interior very cold and unwelcoming, but at least the vicarage itself was warm. He toasted himself by the fire, wondering how he was going to afford all the improvements needed to entice the congregation to flock to his sermons.

  “The chain in the toilet doesn’t work unless you yank it.”

  He was brought back to the present by this bald statement from Mrs Harper, who was standing in the doorway with her hands on her ample hips.

  Another problem to worry about, but Bernard just smiled. “Never mind, Mrs Harper, just call a plumber, please.” Simple.

  “A plumber? Do you know ’ow much they charge these days?”

  “Probably a lot?” he hazarded.

  “You can say that again with knobs on. I’ll ask my friend Ada to ask ’er ’ubby to come and have a look at it, if you like.”

  “Is he a plumber?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice it.”

  “Er, then what good do you think he’ll be?”

  She shrugged. “’E’s ’andy. And ’e’s cheap.”

  “I see. Well, whatever you think best, Mrs Harper. Thank you.”

  Bernard was already bored with the vicarage’s sanitary arrangements or lack thereof and just wanted to be left in peace. The difficulties with the lavatory chain were hardly his domain. No doubt this Ada’s husband would be able to fix it. Mrs Harper retired with a sniff, while he continued to speculate on what he would do to make the lives of his parishioners a little better.

  The war had been over for just under three years. Although rationing was still very much in evidence, bananas and oranges had begun appearing in the shops, and the queues which accompanied these happy events were getting shorter as the fruit became more available. Life was getting back to normal, even though it was still a trial to many. Bernard tried to be optimistic, although his natural position on most things was to err on the pessimistic side. However, there was no time to dwell on the negatives, he told himself. Things needed doing, and spring was here, if struggling a bit, so it wasn’t all bad news.

  He was a slightly-built man, with a mass of brown curly hair, friendly brown eyes and an open, fresh face. He had left Leeds after qualifying at the university, with high hopes for a future full of good works. He had no wife to accompany him so Mrs Harper, landed on (correction, given to) him by the Archdeacon, was to ‘do’ for him until such time as he installed a Mrs Paltoquet.

  Mrs Harper, on first acquaintance, was almost as daunting as the sad state of his church and apparently now the lavatory, and Bernard was already in awe of her. Being a naturally timid man, her abrupt manner alarmed him. She had spoken to him as if he was a naughty child who had just broken her best china. And it seemed she blamed him for the broken lavatory chain, which seemed unfair as he hadn’t even had the chance to use it.

  He was sad for a moment as his thoughts turned to Sophie. Where had she gone? he wondered. One minute they were planning to marry, the next she had walked out of his life, apparently forever. The note she had left him had held no clue. He could only suppose she had just fallen out of love with him; but they had been so very much in love, he couldn’t see how her feelings could have changed so suddenly.

  Still, the past was the past, there was no use in dwelling on it, he supposed.

  

  Another newcomer to Wandsworth was Doctor Robert MacTavish, having arrived a little under a month ago, and he was sitting in his new surgery with the same mix
ture of hope and trepidation as the new vicar just a few streets away. A Scotsman by birth, MacTavish had lived south of the border since he was a small child, so any trace of a Scottish accent had long since disappeared. He could, when occasion demanded, however, turn on a soothing Glaswegian brogue, but he used it sparingly and mainly on the fairer sex. A tall, bonny man, with a shock of sandy hair, now slightly receding, he was used to the adulation of his female patients, whose blind faith in his skill and knowledge he found flattering as well as touching.

  He had previously shared a small practice in a village just outside Gloucester and was looking forward to the challenge that a busy South London practice would offer. He had no doubt the work would be harder than he was used to, but he was ready for it. Come epidemics or plagues of locusts, he was ready for them.

  The new National Health Service was due to be introduced in a few months’ time, so the young doctor would have no more pleading poverty and unpaid bills to deal with. That part of his workload would be easier and, now that he had his living quarters over his surgery, he wouldn’t have to cycle to and fro in all weathers. The first thing he planned to do, now that he was in London, was buy a small second-hand car to make his life even easier, especially when called out in the middle of the night to a woman in labour.

  Like Bernard, he was a bachelor, and therefore in need of a housekeeper to see to his meals and do the general chores. He had selected a young woman from the various applicants sent to him by the nearby domestic bureau. Lucy Carter seemed capable and willing, and was quite pretty, which didn’t hurt. Living only minutes from his surgery there would be no excuse for her to be late, either.

  She was an amply proportioned lady in her late twenties or possibly early thirties. Gently-spoken and polite, she had been delighted to be offered the position as a GP’s housekeeper, which she saw as a pleasant change from the old curmudgeon she had looked after until his very welcome death the previous month. And she had soon proved herself indispensable to Robbie. When he climbed the stairs at the end of his working day, the whisky decanter and glass were set at the ready, his supper was warming in the oven, and the fire in the living room was freshly banked.

  Robbie’s love life was uncomplicated, not to say non-existent. Having no lost love to moon over, he was able to make a fresh start where affairs of the heart were concerned. If he had left a pining female behind in Gloucestershire, it didn’t appear to worry him unduly, being a man who subscribed to the adage that there were many more fish in the sea. He was in the prime of life, being in his mid-thirties and handsome, and in a profession that so many women revered. So it was unlikely he would go short of female company for very long.

  He sat at his desk after the last patient had left that morning and took a tally of his good fortune. He had a new practice, a comfortable home to go with it and a delightful housekeeper who looked after him with efficiency and goodwill. Things didn’t get much better than this, and it was spring. The war was over, and you could get a proper egg sometimes. What more could anyone want?

  

  Mrs Harper stood outside her friend Ada Appleyard’s front door, impatiently tapping her foot. She had rung the bell three times, and no one had come to answer it. Typical, she thought. If she had told her once, she’d told her a hundred times to turn her hearing aid on. What was the point of it, if she didn’t use it? She supposed the stupid woman worried it would run the battery down.

  Then she saw the front room curtain move. She’s seen me, all right, thought Mrs Harper. Why doesn’t she open the door? As this thought crossed her mind, and she was preparing to ring a fourth time, the door opened slowly, and Mrs Appleyard’s head peeped round it.

  “Oh, it’s you, Nance. I thought you was the tally man.”

  “Do I look like the tally man? ’E’s got a moustache and no ’air, as well as being at least a foot taller than me.”

  “Well, you can’t be too careful, Nance. He’s been round three times this week, already, and we’ve got nothing to give ’im till Dick gets paid on Friday. They think we’re made of money, them people.”

  Nancy Harper sympathised with her old friend. “Yes, I know what you mean. When I bought a carpet from them, they wouldn’t leave me alone till I’d paid for the bloomin’ thing. If I missed a week, they were down on me like a ton of bricks. I wouldn’t ’ave minded, but by the time I’d finished paying for it, it needed renewing.”

  Ada laughed. She was always pleased to see her old friend, and today especially was a good day, as the new vicar had just arrived, and she was eager to hear all about him.

  “Come in, love,” she said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “I was about to take a break, anyway. I ’ate washdays. I swear there’s always more sheets than we’ve got beds in this ’ouse.”

  Five minutes later, the two women were seated in the parlour by the fire, waiting for the tea to brew. The hearth gave off a warm glow, a pleasant antidote to the wintry March weather outside.

  “So, Nance, what brings you out on a day like this?” Ada asked, stirring the tea, and rocking the pot back and forth to encourage it to mash properly.

  “Well, me and the vicar were wondering if Dick could come and look at the toilet,” she replied.

  “You want my Dick to come and look at your toilet?” Ada repeated, pouring the now very strong brown liquid into the china cups on the small occasional table in front of them. “Why?” It seemed a strange request.

  “Oh, Ada, don’t be daft. What I mean is, can ’e see if ’e can do anything as the chain don’t work properly. You ’ave to give it a yank before it’ll flush. I don’t want the new vicar to ’ave to put up with things like that. ’E’ll wonder what sort of a place ’e’s come to.”

  Ada’s ears pricked up at the words ‘new vicar’. The last old duffer had sent her to sleep in her pew regularly each Sunday, so the new one could only be an improvement.

  “Yes, I see,” she said, offering Mrs Harper a Garibaldi biscuit. “You don’t want ’im getting upset before ’e’s even preached ’is first sermon.” She replaced the lid of the biscuit tin before her visitor could help herself to another one. “But my Dick’s not a plumber, you know,” she pointed out.

  “’E’s an odd job man, though, ain’t ’e?”

  “I suppose that’d be what you’d call ’im,” Ada agreed. “But ’e’s getting a bit past it, these days.”

  “Well, it can’t ’urt for ’im to come and ’ave a look at it, can it?”

  “No, all right. I’ll ask ’im to come over when he ’as the chance, shall I?”

  “Thanks, ducks.”

  “Come on, Nance, you know I’m dying to know,” said Ada in a confidential tone, reopening the biscuit tin as an inducement. “What’s the new vicar like?”

  “Well, ’e’s got an unpronounceable name, for a start,” said Mrs Harper slowly, holding out her cup for a refill and taking another Garibaldi at the same time.

  “What do you mean? Is ’e foreign?” asked Ada as she replenished her friend’s cup.

  “Well, ’e don’t talk ‘foreign’, but ’e’s definitely got a funny name.”

  “What is it, then?” asked Ada, beginning to lose patience with her friend. “Get on with it, can’t you?”

  “Oh, all right. Keep your frock on,” grumbled Mrs Harper. “I don’t know ’ow it’s spelt, but it’s pronounced Pal – toe –kway.”

  “You what? What sort of name is that when it’s at ’ome?”

  Mrs Harper shrugged. “Apparently it’s French.”

  “French? ’E’s a bloody frog?” Mrs Appleyard looked as shocked as if Nancy had told her he was a German.

  “No, no. ’E’s as English as you and me. Bit ’oity-toity, like, but nice enough. ’E’s very young and quite nice looking. I think ’e’ll cause a bit of a stir among the ladies.”

  “Oh, that sounds better. What’s ’is Christian name?”

  “Bernard.”

  “Bernard? Well, that’s English enough, at least. Is ’e g
oing to be easy to get on with, do you think?”

  “Oh yes, I think so. ’E probably wants to make changes – don’t they all? But I’ll soon knock that out of ’im.”

  “Never known you to fail yet, Nance,” grinned Ada.

  “I should think you ’aven’t, Ada Appleyard,” sniffed Mrs Harper. “I should think you ’aven’t.”

  

  While Nancy and Ada were indulging in parish gossip, the main subject of it had decided to spend the day getting to know his new environs. The best way to do that, Bernard thought, was to travel on the upper decks of the local buses, looking about him as he went. So, putting aside the problem of the faulty lavatory chain, which he had found impossible to work, he set off at eleven o’clock, taking a number 37 from outside the Town Hall all the way to Peckham. From there he took another bus to Camberwell, then to Brixton, Clapham, ending up at Battersea for the final leg of the journey back to Wandsworth.

  It had been an instructive day. He’d had lunch in a little cafe in Brixton before climbing up the stairs of a bus going to Clapham Common. He had enjoyed the views of the spacious greens and well laid out streets which looked pleasantly regal, despite a smattering of bomb sites and half-demolished buildings. It would take many years before all traces of bomb damage would be swept away, he imagined.

  His journey almost at an end at six o’clock that evening, he joined a busy rush hour bus queue in Battersea, feeling pleasantly tired. It was still fairly light, although the threatening rain had long ago obliterated the sun. Bernard turned up his coat collar and stared impatiently down the street for his homeward bus.

  “These buses are very unpredictable, don’t you find?” came a voice next to him. He turned to see a little man standing beside him and was immediately struck by his appearance. Not only had he seemingly arrived out of nowhere, Bernard had never seen anyone so odd-looking outside of a book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He was extremely short, almost a midget, very thin, of indeterminate age, with a greyish-green complexion and short tufts of black hair dotted sparsely all over his disproportionately large head. But his eyes were the oddest feature of all, sometimes looking green, sometimes amber and, most alarmingly, sometimes bright red. The man’s easy, conversational manner seemed at variance with his appearance, and did nothing to dispel Bernard’s unease at, what seemed to him, to be some sort of apparition.