Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  “If they ever were,” Bernard muttered under his breath.

  “You were saying?”

  Bernard coughed. “Sorry, Robbie, but don’t you think you may have been mistaken?”

  “How do you think I could have been mistaken? Maybe I mistook them for a passing deer or a badger?”

  “No, no,” said Bernard, standing up and brushing off the grass that was clinging obstinately to the seat of his trousers. “I don’t mean that. But it’s a long time since you saw them, it could have been a one-off. Maybe you were particularly susceptible that day, or something.”

  Robbie sighed. “I suppose you could be right,” he said sadly. “But I did so want to help them.”

  “Well, maybe you still can,” Bernard said, putting the empty food and drink containers back in his rucksack. “We can still ask around about this man. Maybe someone will know who he is.”

  “Yes, we can do that, at least,” agreed Robbie, getting ready to leave too. As he got to his feet, he suddenly tripped over and fell with a crunch to the ground.

  “Ouch!” he yelled. “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”

  “Oh dear,” cried Bernard, kneeling down beside him. “What happened?”

  “I must have tripped over that tree stump,” said Robbie, rubbing his ankle, which was swelling fast.

  “Oh dear,” said Bernard. “What a nuisance! Will you be able to walk?”

  “Not very well,” grumbled Robbie. “I’ll have to hop, or lean on your shoulder, old boy.”

  “Feel free,” said Bernard, his heart sinking. The man was at least five or six inches taller than he was, as well as a whole lot wider and stockier. He’d have him over in no time.

  Just then, Robbie noticed that the ground around the tree stump had been disturbed. There was a mound of earth that looked like it had been piled up neatly by a human hand.

  “Look at that, Bernie,” said Robbie. “Do you see what I see?”

  Bernard couldn’t; he was too busy wondering how he was going to support his friend back to the hotel. “Where?” he asked, absent-mindedly.

  “That pile of earth. It looks like there’s something buried under it.”

  “How do you mean? It’s just a pile of earth.”

  Robbie was scrabbling at it, however. Bernard was about to pull him away when he saw with horror what he had in his hand.

  “What’s that?” he cried.

  “What does it look like? It’s a gun,” said Robbie grimly.

  “But what’s it doing here?”

  “It was buried by that tree stump I fell over. Don’t you see, Bernie, it’s another sign? I was meant to fall over and find it. It’s the murder weapon!”

  “Murder weapon?”

  “The weapon that killed Marianne Dahl. Keep up, Bernie, please!”

  “Oh! Are you sure?”

  “What else can it be? Don’t you see what this means? Those children were killed near this spot and the killer buried the weapon here too.”

  “So, do you think the children are buried here as well?”

  “Could be,” said Robbie. “Could well be.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start digging?”

  “No – not me. The police. We have to tell the police. With this gun as evidence, they’ll have something to go on. They can begin a search of the whole area for the bodies.”

  Bernard was relieved that Robbie wasn’t suggesting they go and get some spades themselves. But then he wasn’t up to digging now, of course, with his gammy ankle, thank goodness.

  London, September 1948

  Harvest Festival had come and gone, and Bernard was back in his ecclesiastical routine. Robbie was tending his patients once more, his ankle still strapped up. But he was hobbling around nicely now.

  The Norwegian police had taken possession of the gun, although they had been sceptical that it was the murder weapon. It could be any old gun, they said. But, Robbie had insisted it was the gun that killed Marianne Dahl, otherwise why had it been buried? That reasonable question had been met merely with a shrug. However, they were less slothful in nearly arresting Robbie, and it had taken Bernard some convincing that his friend had only found the gun, not used it.

  Both men had then insisted the police searched for the bodies of the children in the same area where the gun had been found, but the police pointed out that two mere ‘foreigners’ were in no position to tell them what to do. It was frustrating, to say the least.

  Undeterred, however, Robbie had spent the time remaining in Bergen hobbling around, supported by Bernard, asking anyone and everyone if they knew of someone with a name like Baldric answering to the sketchy description they had gleaned from the Heglunds. Needless to say, he had got nowhere. Most people he asked, asked him a question in return: what was an Englishman doing asking questions about a Norwegian crime? Apart from the insult of calling him ‘English’, the Scotsman in Robbie had continued on his quest more or less until their boat sailed homewards.

  Bernard contributed what he could, which consisted mainly of prayers for the lost children, but short of that, what else could he do? What could either of them do? He had to concentrate on his parish duties and Robbie had to understand that. They had come to the end of the road.

  London, November 1948

  Robbie MacTavish was sitting in his surgery after the last patient had gone. Lucy Carter had looked in on him as she left for the evening, telling him his supper was in the oven. “Don’t let it burn to a crisp,” she had instructed. Robbie sighed, going to the window and watching the shapely figure of his housekeeper try to hold up her umbrella as the wind and rain did their best to turn it inside out.

  He was on his own again. The whole place was getting on his nerves. Rattling around in his large flat above the surgery every night gave him too much time to think. Too much time to wonder what else he could do to help those poor children. Then he did what he did on most evenings when he was at a loose end.

  He picked up the phone and asked the operator to put him through to the vicarage. “Hello, vicarage. Mrs ’Arper speaking. Who’s that?”

  “Hello, Mrs Harper,” said Robbie cheerfully. “Is the rev at home?”

  He could hear her sniff even on the indistinct line. “If you mean ’is vicarship, ’e is, but ’e’s busy.”

  “Can he come to the phone for a moment, do you think?”

  “I suppose I could go and ask ’im, if it’s that important,” came the grudging reply.

  “Yes, please do,” said Robbie a little impatiently. Bernard was probably doing a crossword at that time in the evening, he thought. “I think he’ll be pleased to hear from me.”

  “Wait there, then. Don’t go away,” said Mrs Harper, and he heard the clatter of the receiver as she clumsily put it back on the rest. Bother! thought Robbie, will the woman never get the hang of using the phone? He asked the operator to put him through again.

  “Why can’t you wait?” came Mrs Harper’s angry tones. “I only got ’alfway up the stairs.”

  “You cut me off, Mrs Harper,” explained Robbie. “Don’t put the receiver back on the hook this time. Just lay it down beside the phone – gently.” He said this last word too late, as the loud clatter of the receiver being put down threatened to burst his eardrums. But at least this time she hadn’t cut him off.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, looking gloomily out of the window at the November night. There was a spattering of raindrops on the glass, and every now and then the whistle of the wind could be heard as it made its way around the eaves. Finally, he heard his friend’s cheerful voice.

  “Hi Robbie, why the call? Why not just come over like you usually do?”

  “Mrs Harper told me you were busy.”

  “She did, did she?” said Bernard. “I wasn’t doing anything in particular. Come over.”

  “Okay,” said Robbie, studying the rain. Should he get the car out? he wondered. It seemed ridiculous for so short a journey, but the weather was atrocious. “Give m
e five minutes.”

  As Bernard put the phone down, he heard his housekeeper sniff behind him. “You shouldn’t encourage that Doctor MacTavish,” she admonished him. “’E’s a bad influence on you. So far, ’e’s taken you on two trips abroad, leaving your parishioners in the lurch. And ’eaven knows what ’is patients think. It’s a good job I ain’t ’ad a bout of my lumbago lately, that’s all I can say.”

  “It was only a few days the last time,” Bernard pointed out. “We have every right to some free time, Mrs Harper.”

  She stood her ground. “I’m only thinking of you, Vicar. You take on too much as it is.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Harper, but I think I know better than you what I can and can’t do.”

  She gave a sniff and stalked off into the kitchen, while Bernard made his way back up to his study. He banked up the fire and got out the bottle of Glenfiddich, which he kept well hidden from the prying, disapproving eyes of his housekeeper at the back of his desk drawer, under lock and key.

  When Robbie arrived, the fire was burning cheerfully, and the whisky had been poured. Bernard had his sweet sherry as usual. The lamps were lit, casting a warm glow around the room, cancelling out the bitter November night outside. Robbie had decided to walk from his surgery in the end and was glad to toast his outer self dry by the fire and his inner self with the whisky.

  “I’ve been thinking about those poor children, Bernie. I can’t get them out of my mind,” he said.

  Bernard sighed. “Here we go again. Look, Robbie, I know it’s hard, but there’s really nothing we can do now.”

  Robbie smiled bleakly. “I know, I know. But I can’t seem to let it go, somehow,” he said, swigging his whisky. “It’s unfinished business, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Bernard. “But never mind, you did your best.”

  Robbie sighed again. He knew he had the gift, and he knew he was meant to use it, but events had stopped him at every turn. “Maybe. Anyway, let’s have a game of chess to take our minds off it,” he said. “I’ll be black this time?”

  

  “Mrs Harper, you’re a treasure!”

  It was the following morning. The rain had stopped, but the wind could still be heard whistling down the vicarage chimneys. Mrs Harper had told him that she had managed to sell all the tickets for the dance and buffet to be held in the church hall the second Saturday in December.

  “And they all paid up, too. On the spot,” she said proudly. “When I said it was in a good cause, for the old folk with nowhere to go at Christmas, they didn’t ’esitate.”

  It was at times like these, Bernard thought, that restored his faith in human nature.

  “And I’ve managed to rope in lots of ’elp with the catering, like. Ada’s cooking ain’t as good as mine, but she can’t do much ’arm with the jam tarts.”

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re a treasure, Mrs Aitch.”

  “I was thinking, Vicar,” she said, as she turned to leave the study, “shouldn’t we be thinking about getting the Christmas tree for the ’all?”

  “Good idea, Mrs Aitch,” Bernard said happily. “Shall you and I go and buy one later?”

  “They’ve got some lovely big ones at the greengrocers,” she said. “One of those’d look lovely in the ’all.”

  “Good!” said Bernard happily. “But not too expensive, I hope?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Morrie’s a mate of mine – at least ’is wife is.”

  “Morrie? Who’s he?”

  “The greengrocer. He always lets me ’ave a bit over the odds. Potatoes, greens, cabbages, what ’ave you. I don’t see why the same can’t go for Christmas trees.”

  Bernard smiled. “You seem to know all the right people, Mrs Aitch.”

  “’Course I do. You can’t get by without ’aving the people who matter on your side. Where do you think the lovely tender meat in your steak and kidney pies comes from, eh?”

  “Quite,” said Bernard, giving a nervous cough. He had tried not to think about it too much.

  “What you don’t know can’t ’urt you, that’s my motto,” she said. “Things keep falling off the backs of lorries all the time. Must be the pits in the roads left over from the German bombing.”

  “Mrs Harper!” Bernard was shocked.

  “Come on, Vicar. In times of ’ardship, it’s every man ’isself.”

  So, later that morning, the ill-assorted couple set off for Morrie’s in the High Street.

  

  While Bernard and Mrs Harper were haggling over the price of Christmas trees with Morrie, Dr Robbie MacTavish was examining a young woman who had come to him complaining of fatigue and headaches.

  “Well, Mrs Plunkett,” he said, writing something on his prescription pad. “It looks to me like you’ve been overdoing it lately. You seem well enough in yourself, but the fatigue and headaches are symptomatic of overwork, nothing more serious than that. I can prescribe some pills for the headaches, but what you need more than anything, is complete rest.”

  “Well, thank you, doctor. It’s Miss, by the way.”

  “Oh, sorry – yes, Miss Dorothy Plunkett. I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

  “No. I’ve only just moved here from Exeter.”

  “Oh, right. Do you have any work at the moment that’s making you particularly tired?” he asked.

  He gave his new patient an appraising look, not in an entirely detached, medical way. She was certainly an attractive woman, if a little on the plump side. Her skin was good, her eyes a clear blue, and her hair an abundant brunette. Rather nice, in fact.

  “Well, you might not think it work as such, doctor,” she said meekly.

  “Try me.” He smiled encouragingly at her.

  “Well,” she began, “I’m a – I’m a medium.” She smiled apologetically at him. “I don’t know if you know what that is?”

  Robbie knew exactly what it was, and his heart leapt. “You mean you give séances and that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It doesn’t bring in much of an income, but I have a small annuity of my own and that helps keep body and soul together.”

  “So, have you been doing lots of medium work lately? Giving lots of séances? I mean, to account for your tiredness and headaches?”

  “No more than usual, doctor. More’s the pity. But, having just moved into the area, I haven’t built up any sort of clientele as yet. I’ve advertised in the local paper and put ads in the newsagents’ windows, of course. But it takes time to build up a reputation. I’m getting some work, though. Mostly war widows. They come to me to help them get in touch with their husbands killed in action. It’s all very sad.”

  Robbie nodded sympathetically. “You must see a lot of tragedy in your line of work. It must be hard.”

  “Well, you say that. But in fact, I feel I’m helping these poor women. If I get in touch with their husbands and they say they’re happy and just want their wives to be happy, that makes a lot of difference to them. Some women just want their dead husbands to give them the okay to marry again. That’s another positive thing.”

  “And are you able to get in touch with dead people all the time? Is it easy for you?” Robbie was very interested, not only in the woman herself, but in the gift she seemed to have. A gift he thought he shared to some degree.

  “I’m quite successful, yes. Not all the time, of course. Sometimes I make no contact at all and they go away very unhappy, calling me a charlatan and a quack. Understandable, of course, although I do tell them at the beginning that I can’t always guarantee success. And there have been occasions when I can’t get in touch because the person I’m trying to contact hasn’t actually died. That’s when it’s hard.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, say a young widow comes to me, telling me her husband was killed in the war and, say I can’t get in touch with him. It could be that he hasn’t returned home because he’s met someone else.”
<
br />   “Goodness, how dreadful. Does that happen a lot?”

  “Thankfully, no,” she smiled.

  “That’s a blessing, anyway. But getting back to you, Miss Plunkett,” he said, tearing off her prescription from the pad. “What do you think can account for your malaise if it’s not due to overwork?”

  “I really don’t know. I was fine before I moved here. I moved into a nice little house in Park Grove Avenue, just round the corner from here, two weeks ago, and I was perfectly well then.”

  “So, it’s since you’ve been here in Wandsworth you’ve not been feeling well?”

  “That’s right. The first time I felt strange was when I was out doing a bit of shopping last week. I remember coming out of the Home and Colonial feeling perfectly fine and going into the greengrocers. I bought a cabbage and a pound of potatoes. When I came out I had a splitting headache and felt very lethargic. I got back home and lay down for a while. I felt better shortly afterwards, so I thought no more about it.”

  “Right,” said Robbie, writing in her file. “So, when did you next feel bad?”

  “A couple of days later. The coincidence was I got the headache as soon as I came out of the greengrocers again.”

  “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, writing again. “So it seems to be shopping that takes it out of you. Would you say that?”

  “Yes, I would. Although it only seems to be when I visit the greengrocers. Perhaps there’s something in there that I’m allergic to?”

  “That’s very possible. A type of vegetable or fruit, perhaps? I’ve never heard of anything like that, though.”

  “Trust me to get some rare allergy,” she laughed.

  “Anyway, these pills will help the headache,” he said, handing the prescription to her. “And if you don’t feel any better in a week come back and see me again.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” she said, putting the prescription in her handbag and standing up to go. “It was nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands. “Er, I hope you don’t mind me asking this but, as you’re new to the area, would you like to go for a drink sometime?” He coughed nervously. Asking a patient out was strictly against the rules. But he didn’t think there’d be any harm in taking her for a drink. He would have to transfer her to another doctor, if things progressed, of course.