Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  “Well, yes, I thought it looked like Norwegian. My mum taught me when I was little and, somehow, I never lost the knack. I can speak a bit of French, too,” he added proudly.

  “Bother French!” expostulated Robbie. “But the fact that you understand Norwegian is of great interest to us.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, Gilbert, it is. You don’t know what a godsend you are.” Saying this, Robbie handed him his attempt at writing Norwegian. “So, you think you can translate this?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand,” said Gilbert, taking the notepad and staring at the page of squiggly writing. “Where did you get this from? Who wrote it? The spelling’s all wrong.”

  “I wrote it, Gilbert, so I’m quite sure the spelling’s all wrong. But can you translate it, do you think?”

  Gilbert scratched his head. “I think I can tell you more or less what it says,” he said slowly.

  “That’s all I need to know,” said Robbie. “Would you like a whisky?”

  Gilbert’s naturally sullen features lit up at this. “Well, that would be ...” Robbie was on his feet and pouring him a generous measure before he could finish his sentence.

  “Do you want me to read what I think it says? It’s rather badly written so I might not get all the words right.”

  “I did my best, man. Not easy when you don’t speak a word of the language.”

  Gilbert wondered why an English doctor should suddenly start writing Norwegian, especially as he was obviously no good at it. He wisely refrained from saying this, however.

  “Anyway,” prompted Robbie, “just give us the gist of it.”

  “All right. Here goes then.” He cleared his throat. “It says: ‘My name is Halle Dahl, and this is my sister Birgitta. Our mother was shot dead by a man called Baldur. We don’t know his last name. He used to help out on the farm. He then’...” Gilbert paused, trying to decipher the next word. “I think it says ‘killed’.” Gilbert looked up enquiringly.

  “Yes, yes. Go on, man,” Robbie said impatiently.

  “…killed me and my sister and buried us in the wood. We were underneath the tree that is in your hall now. We came here with it. We need to be found. We can’t rest until then. The man who killed us is still free. He used to live in the town. We don’t know anything more about him. Please help us.”

  Gilbert finished reading and gave the pad back to Robbie. “What’s it all about?” he asked. “Is it some sort of a joke?”

  “Far from it, man,” said Robbie. “Does it sound like it?”

  “My mum wrote to me about the murder of a woman called Dahl,” said Gilbert. “She said it caused quite a stir at the time. Her two children went missing and, according to Mum, they still are. The police never found them or the murderer.”

  It was Robbie’s turn to be surprised. “So, your mother’s in Norway now?”

  “That’s right. She moved there to live with her sister when my dad died last year. My aunt’s not got all her marbles, and she needs looking after. She never married and hasn’t got any kids to help her.”

  “I suppose it was headline news once,” said Robbie. “Does your mother think the police are still trying to solve the case?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask her, if you like.”

  “Please do, Gilbert.”

  “So, how come you seem to have got this information?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Robbie. “But I’ll tell you this. I intend to find those poor children’s bodies. With your help, Gilbert.”

  “I don’t get any of this,” he said, scratching his head. “But I’ll do anything I can, of course. Poor mites. My mum’ll be ever so pleased to hear what you say when I see her next week.”

  “You’re going to stay with her?” asked Robbie, escorting Gilbert to the door.

  “That’s right,” he replied. “The missus is really looking forward to it. She’s never been abroad before. I’ve been to loads of places – the war and all that, but this’ll be the first time for me in Norway.”

  “Whereabouts in Norway does your mother live, Gilbert?”

  “Bergen. Not all that far from the farm where that woman was murdered.”

  When Gilbert had gone, Robbie turned to Bernard and smiled. “Can you believe it?”

  Bernard, who had sat silently for a while, taking it all in, nodded. “It’s amazing – the coincidences that keep happening. The fact that Gilbert’s mother is Norwegian and is living in Bergen, of all places. Do you realise that, if my toilet hadn’t broken, we’d never have known any of this?”

  “Yes,” Robbie agreed. “Thank God for your dodgy plumbing.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Bernard. “It’s been very inconvenient for me – and Mrs Harper, of course. But, as you say, thank God for it.”

  Meanwhile, Mrs Harper, unable to contain her natural curiosity, which some uncharitable people among her acquaintances termed nosiness, invited the departing plumber into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a slice of upside down cake.

  

  The following evening, Bernard, Robbie and Dorothy were sitting in the Bricklayer’s Arms, having sat through a seemingly endless western in vivid Technicolor. They had each been engrossed in their own private thoughts, and not in the least interested in the antics of John Wayne on the screen.

  “Same again?” asked Robbie, looking at the empty glasses.

  While he was at the bar, Dorothy leaned towards Bernard and put her hand gently on his. “Bernard?”

  “Dorothy,” he replied, his eyes staring at her, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

  She withdrew her hand as she saw Robbie returning with the drinks and made a pretence of looking for something in her handbag as he handed them out.

  “So, as I see it, we need to brief Gilbert carefully,” said Robbie, continuing the conversation they had been having before he’d gone to the bar. He was seemingly oblivious to the little scene that had ended abruptly with his return.

  “Yes,” said Dorothy, recovering her composure a little.

  “Yes,” echoed Bernard.

  “We need to tell him to get the Bergen police to search the area where I found the gun, if they haven’t already done so,” Robbie continued, undeterred.

  “Yes.” Bernard looked ill at ease as he sipped his second sherry of the evening.

  Robbie continued to talk, even though his companions seemed distracted and talking only in monosyllables. “And we know that the killer’s name is Baldur.”

  “But that’s probably a common name in Norway,” Dorothy pointed out. She was looking at Bernard as she said this, and he nodded in agreement.

  “Probably, but we’ve nothing else to go on,” Robbie said, at last beginning to sense an atmosphere between his two companions. He made short work of his whisky, placing his empty glass down carefully.

  Looking from one to the other, he cleared his throat into the strained silence. “Right,” he said. “I think I’ll get off home now. Do you mind if I leave you two alone together?”

  “Actually,” said Bernard, “I think it’s about time I went home too. It was a long film, wasn’t it? Shall we all leave together?”

  “All right,” said Dorothy, standing up. “Can you at least wait until I’ve been to the ladies?”

  She walked off towards the facilities, leaving them in no doubt that the evening, for her, had ended too abruptly.

  Robbie smiled at Bernard. “I think she wanted to be alone with you, Bernie.”

  “No – I just think she wanted us both to stay a bit longer.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  Bernard looked embarrassed but didn’t try to deny it.

  Bergen, December 1948

  Gunda Pedersen let herself into the apartment, shaking the snow off her boots as she did so. Berthina Hardcastle called out to her from her sister’s bedroom.

  “Is that you, Gunda?”

  “Yes, Mrs Hardcastle,”
she replied, hanging up her coat. “I let myself in like you told me. Where do you want me to start?”

  “In the front room, please,” came the reply. “Liv wasn’t too well in the night, and I’ve sent for the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Shall I make us some tea first?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Gunda.”

  Five minutes later, Gunda and Berthina were sitting together at the kitchen table, the tea mashing in the pot.

  “You should have your sister properly looked after, you know,” said Gunda sympathetically. “There’s homes for people in her condition. You can’t cope on your own. What with your son and daughter-in-law coming to stay, as well.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” replied Mrs Hardcastle. “But I can’t let her go to one of those places. I’ve heard nightmare stories about the way they treat the inmates. Worse than being in prison.”

  “They’re not all as bad as that,” said Gunda. “You just have to go and look around a few.”

  “Maybe.” Berthina had been thinking along the same lines for some time now, as she continued to witness her sister’s rapid decline into dementia. But to put her in a home seemed a callous thing to do.

  “Anyway, Gunda, how are you?” she asked, fishing out a packet of cigarettes from her skirt pocket and offering her one.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied, accepting a cigarette gratefully. “Thanks. Baldur doesn’t like me smoking.”

  Berthina lit her cigarette for her and smiled. “Men! They can smoke like chimneys themselves, but if the ‘little woman’ decides to do the same – well.”

  Gunda nodded in agreement, enjoying the feel of the smoke at the back of her throat. “Still, he’s not so bad, my old man.”

  “I’m glad you’ve found someone,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “How long have you been together?”

  “Oh, not long. Just about a month,” said the younger woman. “He’s not my Björn, but he’s kind, and works hard. In fact, he doesn’t like me working, says he earns enough at the lumber jacking. But I like coming here, and all the others. It would be lonely for me stuck at home all day, otherwise.”

  Berthina smiled as Gunda poured out the tea. “That’s men for you. Still, as long as he’s decent and honest, that’s all that matters.”

  “Oh, yes. Baldur’s a good man, if a little rough around the edges.” Gunda smiled back at her, passing her a mug of hot tea. “And, anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Don’t put yourself down,” admonished Berthina.

  “I bet you’re looking forward to seeing your son again,” observed Gunda. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I haven’t seen him for almost a year, not since I left England at the end of last year. Gils has never been to Norway before, nor has Marjorie – his wife. She’s very nice, I like her very much.”

  “Are there any grandchildren?”

  “No. I think they’ve given up trying. I don’t think they’ll be blessed now. Marjorie’s nearly forty.”

  “That’s a shame. I always wanted children myself, but it wasn’t to be. Björn was very sad about it.”

  They continued to chat for a while, Berthina enjoying the company of Gunda more than she cared to admit. Her poor sister, Liv, had her lucid moments, but they were fewer and further between lately.

  Eventually, Gunda stood up and stubbed out her cigarette. “Dear me, look at the time,” she said. “Must get on,” she said. She took the empty mugs to the sink and left the kitchen.

  Berthina wondered about her cleaner’s new man. They seemed to be pretty thick together after a relatively short space of time. She had asked Gunda about him more than once, but she seemed to know very little about his past life, which was strange and a little worrying. Still, Berthina supposed, it was none of her business, and if he made Gunda happy, who was she to interfere?

  London, December 1948

  Bernard was in his study, dozing. It was just under a week till Christmas, and the sermon he had been writing had slipped to the floor. He was jolted awake by the voice of his housekeeper announcing that “a Miss Plunkett” was downstairs, wishing to see him. Bernard was thrown into a panic. What could she want to see him about? he wondered. After that embarrassing evening in the pub, he thought she would stay away, and he certainly wouldn’t have blamed her if she never spoke to him again. But now, here she was, wanting to see him.

  Oh dear, he thought. He wasn’t ready for a confrontation, which he was sure it was bound to be. But he couldn’t leave her downstairs to the mercies of Mrs Harper, either. “All right, Mrs Aitch, please show her up,” he said finally.

  “Are you sure, Vicar? I could tell ’er you’re too busy.” She could see he looked flustered.

  “No, no, Mrs Aitch, I’ll see her, of course.”

  “As you like,” she sniffed.

  Bernard was waiting for her at the top of the stairs and shook her formally by the hand, hoping to set the tone for the rest of the meeting.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting tea,” said Mrs Harper, standing aside to allow Dorothy to enter the study.

  “Er, what can I do for you?” he said, keeping up the formality. “Is it still snowing?” It was a silly question, as he could see the evidence quite clearly on her coat, hat and fur-lined ankle boots.

  “As you can see,” she said, smiling.

  “Come and sit by the fire and get warm,” he said. It was the least he could do. The poor woman looked frozen.

  She did so, removing her coat and hat.

  “Didn’t my housekeeper take your things? She should have done.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I was stopping. Am I stopping, Bernard?”

  “It’s all very awkward – there’s Robbie to consider,” he said. It was useless to go on with the charade, he thought. It was time they cleared the air.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Dorothy fumbled for her hanky as her tears started to fall unbidden.

  Bernard was now thoroughly distraught. Luckily, Mrs Harper entered at that moment, bearing the tea tray, and sizing up the situation at once.

  “There, there,” she said, placing the tray down and patting Dorothy on the shoulder. “It’s all right. What ’as the bad man been saying to you?”

  Bernard had never seen his granite-like housekeeper so ‘mumsy’ before. He didn’t know she was capable of it. Despite the situation, he felt like laughing. In amongst this confusion, the doorbell rang, and Bernard was relieved to be able to leave the room to answer it. He wasn’t relieved when he saw who it was, though.

  “Robbie!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “What a greeting, man,” Robbie laughed. “My morning surgery finished early today, and I wanted to talk some more about our plans for Gilbert’s Bergen trip.” He was quite taken aback at his friend’s attitude.

  “It’s – it’s not very convenient right now,” burbled Bernard. “You see, I’ve got my Christmas day sermon to write ...”

  Robbie remained where he was on the doorstep, covered in snow, while Bernard debated what to do. He couldn’t let his friend find Dorothy in his study crying, could he? He’d very likely punch him on the nose.

  “Aren’t you going to let me in, Bernie?” Robbie had one wellington booted foot over the threshold.

  “Er, as I said, not right now,” said Bernard, trying his best to appear normal. “Just need to get on. Let’s meet later. Come over this evening.”

  Robbie looked thoroughly rattled now. “Don’t bother. Let me know when you’ve got time for an old friend.” He turned and walked back through the fast falling snow to the vicarage gate. He opened it and looked back to see the door closing.

  It had been the hardest thing Bernard had had to do for a long time. How could he ever have closed the door on Robbie? But what choice did he have? He couldn’t let him see Dorothy in that state, he just couldn’t.

  He returned to the study to find Mrs Harper handing a much more composed Do
rothy a cup of tea. As Bernard entered, his housekeeper gently pushed him back onto the landing and closed the study door.

  “She’s feeling better now,” she whispered. “What ’ave you done to her?”

  “N-nothing,” he stammered, “that I can think of. I think she’s taken a fancy to me, that’s all.”

  “More than just a fancy, I should say. You’d better let ’er down gently – that is, if you don’t feel the same way?”

  “I – I like her very much, but so does Robbie. And he saw her first.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Mrs Harper in astonishment. “It’s not some kind of a competition. The woman can’t ’elp ’er feelings and she likes you best, though God knows why. Your friend will ’ave to like or lump it. The most important thing is ’er feelings. Tell me, ’ow do you really feel?”

  “I – I’m not sure,” said Bernard, dithering. “I don’t want to hurt Robbie. This will spoil our friendship.”

  “So, your friendship with the Doctor is more important than any feelings you ’ave for that poor heartbroken woman in there?”

  “Well – not if you put it like that. I don’t want to hurt either of them.”

  Mrs Harper sighed. Just then, the doorbell rang again. “That’ll be Gilbert with the new cistern,” she said. “I’d better go and sort ’im out. You go and talk to ’er. And, mind what I said, let ’er down gently.”

  Bernard returned to Dorothy, who was looking almost cheerful now. “I – I’m sorry,” he began.

  “No – it’s my fault. I’m the one who should apologise. Putting you on the spot like that. But whatever you feel about me,” she said, putting her cup down, “if you’re holding back because of Robbie, there’s really no point. If you don’t feel as I do, then that’s fine. At least I’ll know and can move on – go somewhere else. It might be best, before I get too settled here.”

  “But you’ve only just moved here!” remonstrated Bernard. “You can’t just up and leave like that.”

  “Well, I’ll have to if you don’t want me around,” she said. “It’d be too painful for both of us.”