Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  

  Bernard had slowly begun to wonder what had happened to Robbie since their return from holiday. They had been back for almost a week. Thankfully, his Sunday service had been very well attended, and any misgivings he’d had that his congregation would give him the cold shoulder were dispelled. He had been disheartened, however, when he realised Robbie wasn’t there. He was missing their evenings together, too.

  He and Robbie had become inseparable very quickly, maybe too quickly, thought Bernard. There was no denying that their European holiday had been a great success, serving to cement their friendship even further. Except for the last leg of their trip; that’s when things started to go wrong This ghost business had driven a wedge between them, and Bernard didn’t know how to overcome it.

  It was now Friday evening, a fine drizzle was falling, and he was at a loose end. One of many loose ends, lately. Then he had an idea. Why not go to the pub? Hopefully, Robbie would be there winding down after his evening surgery, and they could pick up where they’d left off. Feeling much better, he put on his raincoat and called out to Mrs Harper that he was ‘going for a walk’. He decided not to tell her his destination, as he knew her opinion of men who drank. She allowed him his glass of sweet sherry of an evening, but that was where it stopped.

  The Bricklayer’s Arms was full, being the end of the working week. Punters were feeling rich with bulging pay packets already starting to burn holes in their pockets. There was the familiar out-of-tune jangle of the piano, although Bernard still wasn’t sure if it was the instrument or the player that was at fault. The man who usually tickled the ivories was called Sam, but nobody ever asked him to ‘play it again’.

  Almost immediately, he spotted Robbie, but who was that with him? His friend was seated at their usual table with a strange man, and they were talking animatedly. He felt completely excluded. So that was it, he thought. No wonder he hadn’t been by or near all week. Robbie had found another friend. Oh, for God’s sake, he chided himself, stop behaving like a nine-year-old schoolboy. The man’s entitled to have other friends if he wants to!

  But Bernard was hurt by Robbie’s defection all the same, and nearly walked back out of the pub. But just as he had decided to do so, Robbie looked up and caught his eye. He gave him a friendly wave and beckoned him over.

  “Hi, Bernie,” Robbie greeted him as Bernard made his way through the crowds to their table. “Come and sit down. Let me introduce you. This is my university friend, Professor Carl Oppenheimer. He’s down from Edinburgh for a few days.” He turned to Carl. “This is my good friend, Bernard Paltoquet, Carl. As you can see from his collar, he’s a vicar.”

  Carl shook Bernard’s hand and gave him a warm smile. “Hi there, Bernie,” he said, dispensing with any formalities that Bernard thought appropriate on first acquaintance. ‘Bernie’ indeed. He was shocked at hearing the man’s transatlantic accent. How on earth did Robbie know a Yank?

  “Glad to know you,” Carl said. “Sit down and I’ll get you a beer.”

  “No – no thank you,” said Bernard, now quite determined not to stay. “I need to get back to write my sermon for Sunday. I haven’t written a word yet.”

  Robbie eyed him suspiciously. “But haven’t you only just come in, man?” he asked. “Surely you can stay for one drink?”

  “No, no. I don’t want to intrude. I only looked in to see if you were here,” he said. “I thought you might be in need of company, but I see you don’t.”

  “Please sit down and don’t be a silly arse,” Robbie said impatiently.

  That was the last straw. How dare he make a fool of him in front of that Yank? Bernard gave him a meaningful glare and began fighting his way back through the crowds to the door. As he reached it, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Stop acting like a child,” said Robbie, “and come and join us.”

  “No, Robbie, you don’t want me interfering.” Bernard was aware how stupid he sounded, He was also aware of dozens of pairs of eyes on them now. He could hear sniggering, too.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Robbie. “They think we’re a couple of fairies! Wait there while I tell Carl what I’m up to.”

  Two minutes later, both men were outside the pub heading back towards the vicarage in silence.

  “What goes on?” asked Robbie, breaking it at last.

  Bernard didn’t reply but quickened his pace instead. After a few more yards, Robbie tried again. “What’s up, man? Why are you behaving like this? Carl must think you’re mad.”

  “I don’t care what Carl thinks. Who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s an old student friend of mine from Edinburgh. He’s a professor of linguistics. I think I mentioned him to you before.”

  Bernard suddenly twigged. So, this Carl Oppenheimer was the man Robbie told him could translate the Norwegian newspaper article about the two children. He stopped in his tracks.

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “I didn’t realise.”

  “I didn’t tell you he’d arrived because I knew you weren’t too keen on me following up this thing,” said Robbie. “I was waiting to get Carl’s translation of the newspaper article before I told you any more. If, the hotelier had been right, and it was a rescue, then I knew you’d be pleased. But, if it wasn’t, and it was about something much more sinister, then I wanted to be sure before I broke it to you.”

  “So, have you asked him to translate the article?” asked Bernard. He was wishing with all his heart that they had missed out Norway altogether. Then they’d still be friends, enjoying each other’s company of an evening, and this Carl Oppenheimer would still be in Edinburgh.

  If Robbie was really psychic, then he supposed he would have to believe him. But hadn’t he told him that he was psychic, too? If that was true, then why hadn’t he seen the children as well?

  “Not yet. I haven’t given it to him yet,” he heard Robbie saying. “I haven’t got it with me. I thought I’d sound him out first. Give him all the gen and see if he’s as sceptical as you are. Not that it matters, as long as he translates that article.”

  They were now at the vicarage, and Bernard had his hand on the front gate. “Are you coming in for a toddy? Or maybe a game of chess? We haven’t had a game for ages and I’m getting rusty.”

  “Yes, sorry, Bernie. I’ve missed our games too, but I need to get back to my guest tonight. He’s only here for a few days and I want that translation. We’ll resume our chess when he’s gone back. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Bernard reluctantly.

  A feeling of isolation and loneliness descended on him as he entered the vicarage and hung up his coat. He also realised that, despite going to the pub, he hadn’t even had a drink. Then he heard Mrs Harper’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Would you like a slice of chocolate cake, Vicar? It’s just come out of the oven.”

  London, July 1948

  A qualified plumber had finally been called to the vicarage after Dick Appleyard’s various attempts at fixing the lavatory chain and adjusting the ball cock had failed miserably.

  Bernard had put his foot down in the end, realising, despite reassurances from Mrs Harper, that the man didn’t know what he was doing. “I don’t care how much it costs, Mrs Aitch. Just get a proper plumber in – now!”

  He wasn’t prepared to argue with her any further. It was embarrassing when any visitors wanted to use the facilities, and there had been several occasions when he’d had to refuse a parishioner the use of them. One man had accused him of being un-Christian, which had cut him to the quick. It had been the last straw. He would find the money, somehow. If not, the Archdeacon would just have to stump up.

  “Your cistern’s knackered,” said a doleful sounding voice from the doorway of his study. The tall, glum figure of Gilbert Hardcastle loomed, his sleeves rolled up, the remains of the lavatory chain dangling from his large, hairy hands.

  “I see,” said Bernard, wondering if that was what qualified plumbers usually said. Didn’t they
usually dress it up in more technical jargon? Maybe this man was cheaper than the rest. Mrs Harper had been determined he shouldn’t spend a fortune, even though he was past caring. He just wanted it fixed for good and all. “So, what do you suggest should be done?”

  “You need to replace it,” said Gilbert.

  “Yes, well, I suppose you’re right? Can nothing be done to repair it?”

  “It’s not worth it, mate,” said Gilbert. “It’d be cheaper to get a completely new cistern – I know where I can get one cheap,” he added, tapping the side of his nose.

  Bernard had no idea what that particular gesture meant, but he suspected it was something not altogether ‘kosher’.

  Just then, Mrs Harper put in an appearance. “What are you doing in here, Gilbert?” she asked crossly. “You’re not supposed to bother the vicar. Anything you need to say, you say to me. I told you.”

  “Oh, right,” said Gilbert, somewhat abashed. “Well, I was just telling the reverend here that his cistern’s knackered.”

  “We don’t need you to tell us that,” declared Mrs Harper. “We need you to tell us what you’re going to do about it.” She folded her arms at him.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Harper,” interposed Bernard. “He was just telling me that he could get us a new one at a discounted price.”

  “Oh, ’e did, did ’e?” She turned to Gilbert. “Now, you look here, Gilbert ’Ardcastle, you get back up them stairs and fix the one we’ve got. And none of your flannel. I know what you’re up to. You plumbers are all alike. But you’re not diddling the vicar while I’ve still got breath in my body.”

  Bernard was quite touched by her concern, even if he felt it was really none of her business what he spent his money on. “Thank you, Mrs Harper,” he said. “But I am quite capable of sorting this out.”

  Far from backing down at this rebuke, she went on. “You ’eard what the vicar said, Gilbert. ’E’s telling you to fix the one we’ve got.”

  Had he been saying that? Bernard wondered.

  “Okay, okay,” Gilbert muttered, “I’ll do what I can. But it’ll only be a patch-up job. You’ll need to get it replaced before it’s too much older.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Mrs Harper, “You just do your job and let’s not ’ave so much of it.”

  Bernard listened to the pair trudging up the stairs and smiled. No wonder Hitler couldn’t get a foothold in this country, he smiled to himself, with women like Mrs Harper to contend with.

  

  It was the following evening when Robbie decided to pay Bernard a long-awaited visit. Mrs Harper ushered him into his study with an air of disapproval.

  “The wanderer returns,” she announced.

  “There was no need to show me up, Mrs Harper,” said Robbie with a grin. “I know my way.”

  “I thought you might ’ave forgotten after all this time,” she said with meaning.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Harper,” said Bernard, his eyes looking at the ceiling. “Thank you.”

  She departed with a sniff.

  “Come on in and sit down,” Bernard said. “It’s good to see you. Has your friend gone back to Scotland?”

  Robbie smiled and came and sat by the unlit fireplace. Although it was midsummer, there was still a definite chill in the air. He took out a flask from his jacket pocket, took a swig and returned it from whence it came. He looked nervous now, as if he’d needed the whisky for Dutch courage.

  “Yes, Bernie, Carl’s gone back – for a while,” he said.

  “A while?” asked Bernard. “You mean he’s coming back?”

  “He will be, yes.”

  Bernard eyed his friend with new suspicion. “Why?”

  “Well, when I say he’ll be coming back, it’ll probably only be overnight, because we’ll be heading for Harwich to pick up a ferry,” said Robbie. The words came tripping out a little too quickly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “To go to Denmark,” said Robbie, settling himself in his chair and lighting his pipe.

  “Is this another holiday, then?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s more of a fact-finding mission.”

  “In Denmark? What’s in Denmark?”

  “Nothing, apart from the port from where we’ll sail to Norway.”

  He’d said it at last, what Bernard feared was coming. “You mean, you and this Carl chap are going to Norway?” Without me? he nearly added but stopped himself just in time.

  Robbie sucked on his pipe and sighed. “You know full well, Bernie. To find these poor children’s ghosts.”

  “Oh, so the hotel man was lying about that newspaper headline, then?”

  “Yes, old boy, I’m afraid he was. My friend, the professor, gave me the real translation.” Robbie took out a piece of paper from his top pocket and unfolded it. “Here,” he said, “read it for yourself.”

  Bernard took the sheet of paper tentatively from his friend and began to read:

  Following the discovery of the body of Mrs Marianne Dahl, 34, of Dyrdal Farm, Bergen Police are searching for the dead woman’s missing children, Halle, 10, and Birgitta, 6. Mrs Dahl’s body was found by a homeless young man when he entered what he thought was a deserted farmhouse to find shelter for the night. It is understood that her body had been there for nearly two months, according to pathologists. The gun which killed Mrs Dahl has so far not been discovered. Mrs Dahl was a widow whose husband was killed by the Nazis in 1944. Her death is being treated as murder, and there are fears for the safety of her two children. It is understood that a man who sometimes worked on the farm has yet to be identified, and police are anxious to talk to him as soon as possible. Anyone having any knowledge of this man or his whereabouts, or of the two missing Dahl children, please contact the Bergen Police immediately.

  Bernard looked up from the paper and stared at his friend. “Oh, Robbie, how awful. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  “It’s all right, old boy. I would probably have taken some convincing myself if you’d seen them and not me. Anyway, now that we know, I have to go back and try to contact those children. If I can get them to speak to me, I’ll need Carl with me to help translate.”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Bernard. “How can he help? I mean, he’s not any more likely to see or hear them than I am.”

  “That’s the difficulty, of course. My friend may be psychic, but it’s not likely, I suppose. If the children try to communicate by speaking to me, I’ll just have to speak the words and relay them to Carl as best I can.”

  “I see,” said Bernard, doubtfully.

  “Look, Bernie, those poor children have been murdered, and we need to find out by whom and where the bodies are buried. It looks like I’m the only one who can help the police with this.”

  “So it would seem,” said Bernard. “But surely the Bergen police are doing what they can to find these children? And this man they mention?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean, the body of this poor woman had been undiscovered for two months, so the trail will have gone cold.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better check if the case has been solved before you go off on a wild goose chase?”

  “I already have. Well, Carl has. He called the Bergen police. They haven’t found the children or the man. Carl said they didn’t seem particularly interested. Said the murder had happened too long ago.”

  “God, how callous! But surely they tried to find the children?”

  “Carl said they’d searched the surrounding woodland, but how thoroughly is anyone’s guess.”

  “So, you’re determined to go back, then?”

  “I have to, Bernie. I’ve no choice. Those children appeared to me. I’m the only one who can help them. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Robbie, I do see that,” said Bernard, studying the translation again. “But what about your patients?”

  “Old Winfield will step in as before.”

  “But you told me he keeps making mistakes,” B
ernard pointed out.

  “It’s no good trying to put me off,” smiled Robbie. “You know I’m going.”

  Bernard looked at his friend thoughtfully. Yes, he knew. Robbie was a good man. He just hoped he would return safely. He was doubtful he would achieve anything useful by going back to Bergen, but he supposed he felt it his duty to do so. Bernard wanted the children found and laid to rest, just like his friend, but he was selfish enough to wish he wasn’t going. He was going to miss him dreadfully.

  London, August 1948

  A fortnight later, Carl was back under Robbie’s roof, much to the delight of Lucy Carter. She couldn’t do enough for him, which began to make Robbie feel just a little bit jealous. Although he didn’t have any particular intentions towards her, himself, he didn’t quite like the idea of any other man muscling in on what he saw as his ‘territory’. That was one thing he could say for good old Bernie: he was no threat where the womenfolk were concerned.

  Robbie could see that his housekeeper had grown very fond of Carl. She was all of a dither every time she was in his company. He watched her primp her hair and check her lipstick when she knew Carl was going to put in appearance for his meals or whatever. Did he have any serious intentions towards her? he wondered.

  The night before they were due to set off for Harwich, Robbie broached the subject with him. “Carl, dear boy,” he said, “you’re fond of Lucy, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” he replied. They were playing cards, and Robbie was winning. “What’s not to like? Your turn to deal,” he prompted. “Why d’you ask?”

  “Oh no reason,” said Robbie, shuffling the pack. “You seem very friendly with her, that’s all.”

  “Well, she’s a peach,” observed Carl. “I’m surprised you haven’t made a move on her yourself. I don’t remember you holding back when you saw a pretty girl in the past.”

  “No, well. I’m her employer. It’s not so easy,” Robbie replied.

  “Gee, I’m sorry. I’ll back off if you’re keen,” said Carl, trumping Robbie’s Queen.