by P. D. James
Caldwell and Miss Makepiece were the only two, apart from the boy, who admitted having left their rooms that night. Miss Makepiece said that, shortly after one o’clock, she had been woken by a call on her bedside telephone; Mickledore never took night calls and the extension was in her room. The call was from Bill Sowers, our Air Raid Warden, complaining that a strip of light was showing from one of the first-floor windows. Miss Makepiece had roused Caldwell and they had taken torches, unbolted a side door from the kitchen quarters, and had gone out together to identify the source of the light and check that the rest of the house was properly blacked out. Afterwards they had taken a nip of whisky from the decanter still in the great hall—it was a cold night to go traipsing round in dressing gowns—and had decided to play a game of chess. It seemed a bit odd to me, but they said they were by now thoroughly awake and disinclined for sleep. Both were experienced players and they welcomed the chance of a peaceful game. They couldn’t remember which of them had suggested it but both agreed that the game had ended just before three when they had gone to their rooms for what remained of the night.
And here I thought I had them. I play a reasonable game myself so I asked them to sit at different ends of the room and write down as many of the moves as they could remember. It’s strange, but I can recall some of that game to this day. Miss Makepiece was white and opened with pawn to king four. Caldwell responded by playing the Sicilian. After about ninety minutes, white managed to queen a pawn and black resigned. They were able to remember a remarkable number of moves and I was forced to accept that the game had been played. Caldwell had nerve. But had he nerve enough to play a complicated game of chess while his victim, still warm, lay murdered upstairs?
And that call from Bill Sowers was genuine, too. I had been with him when he made it from the village call box. We had come out of church together after midnight service and had immediately seen the offending light, as had most of the congregation. And Bill, always punctilious, had looked at his watch. His call to the manor had been made at six minutes past one.
It was four thirty before I finally left the manor to report to the Chief Constable. Those were the days of the old-fashioned chiefs; none of your university special entrants or Police College intellectuals. I loved old Colonel Wallford. My own father had been killed at Ypres and I suppose he was some kind of substitute. He didn’t start talking about the murder until his wife had settled me in front of their roaring fire with tea and a hefty slice of her homemade Christmas cake. He listened in silence to my account, then said:
“I’ve had Major Turville on the telephone. Perfectly proper. What you’d expect from a gentleman. He thinks he ought not to sit on the Bench until this business is cleared up. Must say I agree with him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What’s odd, although I didn’t say so to him, is what he and Mrs. Turville are doing at the manor. Hardly the sort of Christmas invitation you’d expect them to accept. Mickledore insisted on taking the place away from them complete, lock, stock and barrel, cheated them on the price if rumour’s correct, and they choose to spend Christmas under his roof. Damned odd. And then there’s the curious reaction of Mrs. Turville. You still haven’t had a chance to question her or search the room?”
“She let me in after Doc McKay had examined her. She was upset, naturally enough, but perfectly calm. All she could tell me was that she’d gone to sleep shortly after listening to the Dvořák String Quartet at ten fifty-five—they had twin beds—and didn’t stir until her husband woke her with news of the murder.”
“Which promptly threw her into a state of shock. Not very likely, not with Mary Turville. Ever see her in the hunting field?”
“No, Sir.”
“She was younger then, of course. A different world. But Mrs. Turville’s not the kind to be thrown into shock by a body she didn’t see.”
I said nothing. But I reckon he guessed my thoughts. She could have seen it; been the first person to see it; seen it at that moment when it ceased to be Mickledore and became a body. The Chief went on:
“And that secretary cum housekeeper. Why does she stay? Rumour has it that he treats her like a slave.”
“I doubt that, Sir. She’s too useful. It can’t be easy to find a first-class secretary who’ll also run your house.”
“Even so, it can’t be an agreeable job.”
“She was quite frank about it. She has an invalid mother. Mickledore pays the nursing-home fees.”
“And a good salary in addition, no doubt.”
It was odd, I thought, how we were speaking of him in the present tense.
“And Gloria Belsize. What attracts her to the manor?”
I knew the answer to that one; it was to be found in a Christmas stocking. Last year, a diamond bracelet. This year an emerald clasp. Her story was that she had rushed impulsively into Mickledore’s room to thank him for it and had found him dead. The Chief cut me another wedge of cake:
“That light we all saw after church. Anyone admit to that bit of carelessness?”
“It came from the back bathroom on the first floor. Only Charles Mickledore admits to visiting it in the night. He says he could have pulled back the curtain to look out over the fields, but he isn’t sure.”
“Odd thing to be vague about. Still, it was Christmas Eve. Excitement. A strange house. This Father Christmas nonsense of Mickledore’s. You say that the boy was the only one to see him.”
“The only one to admit it.”
“Then he’s a vital witness. Did he recognise his uncle?”
“Not definitely, Sir. But he says it never occurred to him that it wasn’t Mickledore. And then there’s the fact that he was given the present intended for Caldwell. Miss Makepiece says that only the boy, Caldwell and herself knew about the change of rooms.”
“Which suggests that Santa Claus didn’t know, whoever he was. Or we are intended to believe just that?”
I said, “What I can’t understand is why the gun wasn’t left by the body or replaced in the drawer. Why take it away and hide it?”
“Probably to cast doubt on whether it really is the weapon. We can’t prove that until we find it. There are plenty of old service revolvers still around from the last war. Come to that, Saunders still has his uncle’s. He mentioned it to me last month when we were discussing civilian defence. I’d forgotten that. Saunders has a revolver!”
“Not now, he hasn’t, Sir. That’s one thing I asked him when I went to question him and his wife about the cracker. He said he got rid of the weapon after his daughter was killed.”
“Did he say why?”
“Because he was afraid that the temptation to shoot Mickledore might get too much for him.”
“That’s candid enough. What did he do with it?”
“Threw it in Potter’s Pool, Sir.”
“Where it’s now well down in the mud. Very convenient. No one has ever dredged anything from Potter’s Pool. Still, you’d better try. We need that gun wherever it came from.”
I hadn’t enjoyed my interview with the Saunderses. All the village respected Will and Edna; a decent, hardworking couple who had doted on their only daughter. We had been pretty friendly, but I knew that he and his wife resented the fact that we hadn’t caught the hit-and-run driver of the Daimler that knocked down and killed their Dorothy. It wasn’t for lack of trying. We knew, and they knew, that Mickledore was the suspect. He was the only owner of a Daimler in the neighbourhood and the accident had happened in the narrow lane from the manor. But there had been no identifiable damage to his car and Poole had been ready to swear that it had never left the garage. We couldn’t arrest him on unsupported suspicion.
So I had to handle the interview with tact. They were just back from church when I arrived. We settled down in their neat sitting room and Mrs. Saunders made up the fire. But they didn’t offer me a drink as they once would have done, and I knew that they would be glad to see the back of me. And there was something else I knew. The murder of Mi
ckledore wasn’t news to them. They were on the telephone—Saunders ran the one village taxi—and I guessed that someone from the manor had rung with a warning. And I thought I knew who. Miss Makepiece and Edna Saunders were old college friends.
They denied any knowledge of the Christmas cracker or its message. After Mrs. Saunders had returned from the carol singing they had spent the evening by the fire listening to the wireless. The news at nine o’clock, Robinson Crusoe at nine fifteen and “The Crime Wave at Blandings” at ten. Mrs. Saunders had particularly wanted to hear the Wodehouse play, as the actors Gladys Young and Carleton Hobbs were particular favourites.
They were able to tell me what had been on the nine o’clock news: the awards to officers and men of the submarine Ursula, the big IRA raid in Dublin, the Pope’s Christmas message. I led them on gently to the crucial time. They said that they had listened to the Solemn Midnight Mass from Downside which had ended at twelve forty-five and had then gone to their bed. They were even able to describe the music. But that didn’t mean that both of them had been listening. It hadn’t taken more than one hand to put that bullet into Mickledore.
I wrenched my mind back to the present. The Chief was saying:
“It looks as if the cracker must have been brought into the house by one of the carol singers. But I suppose it’s not impossible for one of the house party to have planted it.”
“Only those who were near the door.”
“But if one or both of the Saunderses shot Mickledore they must have had an accomplice. They couldn’t have known where to find the cracker. And they couldn’t have got in unless the door was opened for them.”
“The back door was unbolted, Sir, while Caldwell and Miss Makepiece checked the lights. That was at about ten past one.”
“But the murderer couldn’t have depended on that. There was no difficulty in getting into Mickledore’s bedroom, of course. I respect his refusal to lock his door. And the obvious time for the murder was while he was delivering the presents. They all knew that his room would be empty. The murderer sneaks in, takes the gun and hides—where?”
“There’s a large clothes closet, Sir.”
“Very convenient. And so was this game of hunt the hare. It gave the murderer the chance to steal the cracker, check on the gun, select a knife. He could safely be seen anywhere, even in another person’s bedroom. Silly kind of game, though, for grown men. Who suggested it?”
“Mickledore. It’s part of his ritual family Christmas.”
“Then the murderer could rely on its being played. All he had to do was conceal the knife and cracker on his person until he could hide them in his room.”
“Not easy for Miss Belsize, Sir. She was wearing a slinky evening dress. And somehow I can’t picture her scampering about in the kitchen.”
“Don’t exclude her, John. If that will you found in the study still stands, she inherits £20,000. And so does Miss Makepiece. And Poole gets £10,000 you said. Men and women have killed for far less. Ah well, you’d better get back to it I suppose. We must find that gun.”
We were to find it all right. But more surprisingly and dramatically than either of us could have dreamed.
—
There are more agreeable ways of spending Christmas Day than being interrogated by the police, particularly by Inspector Pottinger with his dogged, impassive persistence, his accusing eyes. With the impulsive chivalry of the young, I had decided to protect Mrs. Turville. I lied about seeing her and her husband in the night. I was deliberately vague when I described the visit of Santa Claus. I wasn’t sure how far I managed to deceive Pottinger, but lying takes practice. I was to get better at it by the end of the case.
The questioning was ceaseless. Henry was even summoned to the study in the middle of Christmas dinner. It was an uncomfortable meal. Mrs. Banting had already put the huge turkey in the oven when the murder was discovered and there was a general feeling that, having been cooked, it might as well be eaten. But Henry said firmly that the combination of Christmas pudding and violent death would be intolerably indigestible; the pudding would keep until next year. So we ate mince pies instead. I had the healthy appetite of youth and was embarrassingly aware that I was eating with undisguised enjoyment while the adults toyed with their lukewarm turkey and shredded Brussels sprouts.
Afterwards Poole served coffee in the hall and we listened in silence to the three o’clock King’s broadcast. Nineteen thirty-nine was the occasion on which he finished with the quotation about the man standing at the gate of the year and asking for a light to guide him into the unknown. I have heard it many times since, but it has never sounded so poignant as it did spoken in the King’s slow and careful voice on that Christmas of 1939.
It was a relief to us all when, at four thirty, Inspector Pottinger left the manor, leaving his Sergeant to continue the search for the gun. Poole, bringing in the tea, told us that the Inspector had gone to report to the Chief Constable; Poole had his own mysterious ways of discovering what the police were up to.
But we were not left in peace for long. Just before seven the Inspector returned. His imperious knock on the front door, clearly heard in the hall, was like the knock of doom. Poole showed him in with his usual insolent formality, and I watched the eyes of my companions turn to him with a mixture of apprehension and enquiry. The drinks tray had been brought in early and Gloria was noisily mixing cocktails for herself and Henry. But she must have been drinking earlier; even my inexperienced eyes could see that she was half-drunk. Before the Inspector could say more than a stolid “Good evening” she swayed up to him glass in hand.
“Here comes our village Poirot with his little grey cells clicking away. But no handcuffs. Haven’t you come to arrest poor little Gloria?”
Henry went quietly up to her. I heard him whisper urgently. But she laughed and advanced to the Christmas tree. Suddenly she began pulling off the decorations and throwing them wildly over him. A strand of tinsel caught on the Turville Grace, but Mrs. Turville seemed not to care. Gloria began chanting.
“Time for pressies, everyone. We always have pressies off the tree at seven. Mustn’t break with tradition. Victor wouldn’t like it. One for you, Poole, and one for Mrs. Banting. Catch!”
She tore the parcels from the tree and tossed them to Poole. He said an expressionless “Thank you, Miss” and placed them on a side table. Henry moved forward and caught hold of her arm. But she wrenched herself free and seized another present from the tree.
“It’s for you, darling. Henry, written in Victor’s own hand.”
Henry’s voice was like ice. I had never heard him speak in that tone before.
“Leave it. This isn’t the time for presents. I’ll take it home with me.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport, darling! You want to see your pressie. Let Gloria open it for you.”
There was one of those moments of absolute silence which seem in retrospect so portentous. Perhaps I only now imagine, forty-four years later, that the whole room froze and watched breathless as she tore off the gaudy Christmas paper. Inside was a further wrapping of red and yellow crêpe; surely the paper from the Christmas cracker? This was wrapped round a couple of large linen handkerchiefs. But that wasn’t all. Gloria unfolded them, gasped and let out a shrill scream. Her shaking hands parted. And the revolver, found at last, fell with a dull thud at Pottinger’s feet.
After the discovery of the gun, the atmosphere subtly changed. Before then we had comforted ourselves with the theory, which we all strenuously promoted, that a stranger had gained access to the manor by the unbolted side door while Henry and Miss Makepiece were checking the windows. He had discovered the cracker while searching the study and had stabbed the message to the body as a bizarre gesture of contempt.
Now it was less easy to believe that the killer came from outside. We stopped discussing the murder, afraid of what we might say or suggest, wary of each other’s eyes. Mrs. Turville, who looked suddenly like a very old woman, tried to reassure and comfor
t me. Relishing my shameful excitement in the face of murder, which has never left me, I was glad she didn’t know how little I needed or deserved her kindness. The police questioning went on, more rigorous, more insistent. By the time Inspector Pottinger left we were all exhausted and glad of an excuse to seek an early bed.
It was ten o’clock when I heard a knock at my door. My heart thudded; I slipped out of bed and whispered, “Who is it?” There was a second more insistent knock. Cautiously I opened the door. Gloria sidled in, trembling with fear and with cold.
“Charles, darling, could you bear to sleep in my room? There’s a big armchair, and you could bring your eiderdown. I’m too terrified to be alone.”
“Can’t you lock the door?”
“There isn’t a lock. And I daren’t take my sleeping pill in case he comes when I’m unconscious.”
“Who comes?”
“The murderer, of course.”
What sixteen-year-old could resist that appeal to chivalry? Flattered to be asked, and not sorry to have company, I pattered along the corridor behind her. We pushed the heavy armchair against the door and I settled down in reasonable comfort. It was curiously cosy in her bedroom with the pool of light from the bedside lamp shining on her fair hair. We spoke in whispers like conspirators.
“They think Victor was doped with my sleeping pills and then shot while he slept. Pottinger keeps on asking me if any are missing. How can I tell? My Mayfair doctor lets me have what I ask. I’ve got a whole bottle here in my bedside drawer. Anyone could have helped himself. I don’t count them.”
I said, “But wouldn’t he taste the pills?”
“Not in his whisky. I never can.”
She propped herself on her elbow and leaned towards me.
“Have you thought about Poole? Poole could have done it. He knows that Victor killed the Saunders child. He lied about the Daimler never leaving the garage. He had to. Victor had something on him.”
