‘Well no, not exactly’ Sheila sounded a little embarrassed. ‘Mike was still angry, you see, because Kenneth really had been infernally casual. He suddenly decided to be obstinate. Mother had asked him to do the job, he said, and he was going to do it. I thought they were going to have an open row about it, which would have been quite too absurd, but at that moment the most idiotic thing of all happened. Old Mr Welkin, who had been prowling about listening as usual, came in and told Kenneth he was to ‘give way’ to Mike – literally, in so many words! It all sounds perfectly mad now I’ve told it to you, yet Mike is really rather a darling.’
Mr Campion detected a certain wistfulness in her final phrase and frowned.
Pharaoh’s Court looked unexpectedly mellow and inviting as they came up the drive some minutes later. The old house had captured the spirit of the season and Mr Campion stepped out of a cold grey world into an enormous entrance hall where the blaze from the nine-foot hearth flickered on the glossy leaves of the ivy and holly festooned along the carved beams of the ceiling.
George Turrett, grey-haired and cherubic, was waiting for them. He grasped the visitor’s hand with fervour. ‘So glad you’ve come,’ he murmured. ‘Devilish glad to see you, Campion.’
His extreme earnestness was apparent and Sheila put an arm round his neck.
‘It’s a human face in the wilderness, isn’t it, darling?’ she murmured.
Sir George’s guilty protest was cut short by the first luncheon bell, a reminder that the train had arrived late, and Mr Campion was rushed upstairs to his room by a harassed manservant.
He saw the clock as he came down again a moment or so later. It burst upon him as he turned a corner in the corridor and came upon it standing on a console table. Even in his haste it arrested him. Mae Turrett had something of a reputation for interior decoration, but large country houses have a way of collecting furnishing oddities, however rigorous their owner’s taste may be.
Although he was not as a rule over-sensitive to artistic monstrosities, Mr Campion paused in respectful astonishment before this example of the mid-Victorian baroque. A bewildered-looking bronze lady, clad in a pink marble nightgown, was seated upon a gilt ormolu log, one end of which had been replaced by a blue and white enamel clock face. Even as he stared the contraption chimed loudly and aggressively, while downstairs a second luncheon bell rang.
He passed on and forgot all about the clock as soon as he entered the dining-room. Mae Turrett sprang at him with little affected cries which he took to indicate a hostess’s delight.
‘Albert dear!’ she said breathlessly. ‘How marvellous to see you! Aren’t we wonderfully festive? The gardener assures me it’s going to snow tonight, in fact he’s virtually promised it. I do love a real old family party at Christmas, don’t you? Just our very own selves … too lovely! Let me introduce you to a very dear friend of mine: Mrs Welkin – Mr Campion …’
Campion was aware of a large middle-aged woman with drooping cheeks and stupid eyes who sniggered at him and looked away again.
Lunch was not a jolly meal by any means. Even Lady Turrett’s cultivated chatter died down every now and again. However, Mr Campion had ample opportunity to observe the strangers of whom he had heard so much.
Mike Peters was a surprise to him. He had expected a nervy, highly-strung young man, afflicted, probably, with a generous dose of self-pity, as the innocent victim of his father’s misdeeds or misfortunes, but found instead a sturdy silent youngster with a brief smile and a determined chin. It was obvious that he knew what he wanted and was going for it steadily. Mr Campion found himself wishing him luck.
Since much criticism before a meeting may easily defeat its own ends, Mr Campion had been prepared to find the Welkin family pleasant but misunderstood people, round pegs in a very square hole. But here again he was mistaken. Kenneth Welkin, a fresh-faced, angry-eyed young man in clothes which managed to look expensive while intending to appear nonchalant, sat next to Sheila and sulked throughout the meal. The only remark he addressed to Mr Campion was to ask him what make of car he drove and to disapprove loudly of the answer to his question.
A closer inspection of Mrs Welkin did not dispel Mr Campion’s first impression, but her husband interested him. Edward Welkin was a large man with a face that would have been distinguished had it not been for the eyes, which were too shrewd, and the mouth, which was too coarse. His attitude towards his hostess was conspicuously different from his wife’s, which was ingratiating, and his son’s, which was uneasy and unnecessarily defensive. The most obvious thing about him was that he was complacently alien. George he regarded quite clearly as a nincompoop and Lady Turrett as a woman who so far had given his wife value for money. Of everyone else he was sublimely unconscious.
His plus-fours, of the best Savile Row old-gentleman variety, had their effect ruined by the astonishing quantity of jewellery he chose to display at the same time. He wore two signet rings, one with an agate and one with a sapphire, and an immense jewelled tiepin, while out of his waistcoat pocket peeped a gold and onyx pen with a pencil to match, strapped together in a bright green leather case. They were both of them as thick round as his forefinger and looked at first glance like the insignia of some obscure order.
Just before they rose from the table Mrs Welkin cleared her throat.
‘As you’re going to have a crowd of tenants this evening, Mae, dear, I don’t think I’ll wear it, do you?’ she said with a giggle and a glance at Mr Campion.
‘Wear what, dear?’ Lady Turrett spoke absently and Mrs Welkin looked hurt.
‘The necklace,’ she said reverently.
‘Your diamonds? Good heavens, no! Most unsuitable.’ The words escaped her ladyship involuntarily, but in a moment she was mistress of herself and the situation. ‘Wear something very simple,’ she said with a mechanical smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be very hard work for us all. Mike, you do know exactly what to do, don’t you? At the end of the evening, just before they go home, you put on the costume and come into the little anteroom which leads off the platform. You go straight up to the tree and cut the presents off, while all the rest of us stand round to receive them and pass them on to the children.’
Mrs Welkin bridled. ‘I should have liked to have worn them,’ she said irritatingly. ‘Still, if you say it’s not safe …’
‘Mother didn’t say it wasn’t safe, Mrs Welkin,’ said Sheila, who was fond of the village and resented bitterly any aspersions on its honesty. ‘She said it wasn’t suitable.’
Mrs Welkin blushed angrily and forgot herself.
‘You’re not very polite, young lady,’ she said, ‘and if it’s a question of suitability, where’s the suitability in Mr Peters playing Santa Claus when it was promised to Kenny?’
The mixture of muddled logic and resentment startled everyone. Mike and Sheila grew scarlet, Sir George looked helplessly at his wife, Kenneth Welkin turned savagely on his mother, and Edward Welkin settled rather than saved the situation.
‘That’ll do,’ he said in a voice of thunder. ‘That’s all been fixed, Ada. I don’t want to hear any more from either of you on the subject.’
It was altogether a very awkward moment and the table broke up with relief. Sir George tugged Campion’s arm.
‘Cigar – library’ he murmured, and faded quietly away. Campion followed him.
There were Christmas decorations in the big book-filled study and, as he settled himself in a wing chair before a fire of logs and attended to the tip of a Romeo y Julieta, Mr Campion felt once more the return of the Christmas spirit.
Sir George was anxious about his daughter’s happiness.
‘I like young Peters,’ he said earnestly. ‘Fellow can’t help his father’s troubles. Mae objects he hasn’t any money, but, between you and me, Campion, I’d rather see her in rags tied to a decent fellow than sittin’ up in a Rolls-Royce beside that little Welkin bounder in the next room.’
Mr Campion agreed with him and he went on.
/> ‘The boy Mike’s an engineer,’ he said, ‘and makin’ good at his job slowly, and Sheila seems fond of him, but Mae talks about hereditary dishonesty. Taint may be there. What do you think?’
Mr Campion had no time to reply to this somewhat unlikely theory. There was a flutter and a rustle outside the door and a moment later Mr Welkin senior came in with a flustered lady. George got up and held out his hand.
‘Ah, Miss Hare,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you. Come on your annual visit of mercy?’
Miss Hare, who was large and inclined to be hearty, laughed.
‘I’ve come cadging again, if that’s what you mean, Sir George,’ she said cheerfully, and went on, nodding to Mr Campion as if they had just been introduced. ‘Every Christmas Eve I come round collecting for my old women. There are four of ’em in the almshouse by the church. I only ask for a shilling or two to buy them some little extra for the Christmas dinner. I don’t want much. Just a shilling or two.’
She glanced at a little notebook in her hand.
‘You gave me ten shillings last year, Sir George.’
The Squire produced the required sum and Mr Campion felt in his pocket.
‘Half a crown would be ample,’ said Miss Hare encouragingly. ‘Oh, that’s very nice of you. I assure you it won’t be wasted.’
She took the coin and was turning to Welkin when he stepped forward.
‘I’d like to do the thing properly,’ he said. Anybody got a pen?’
He took out a chequebook and sat down at George’s desk uninvited.
Miss Hare protested. ‘Oh no, really,’ she said, ‘you don’t understand. This is just for an extra treat. I collect it nearly all in sixpences.’
‘Anybody got a pen?’ repeated Mr Welkin.
Campion glanced at the elaborate display in the man’s own waistcoat pocket, but before he could mention it George had meekly handed over his own fountain pen.
Mr Welkin wrote a cheque and handed it to Miss Hare without troubling to blot it.
‘Ten pounds?’ said the startled lady. ‘Oh, but really …!’
‘Nonsense. Run along.’ Mr Welkin clapped her familiarly on the shoulder. ‘It’s Christmas time,’ he said, glancing at George and Campion. ‘I believe in doing a bit of good at Christmas time – if you can afford it.’
Miss Hare glanced round her helplessly.
‘It’s very – very kind of you,’ she murmured, ‘but half a crown would have been ample.’
She fled. Welkin threw George’s pen on the desk.
‘That’s the way I like to do it,’ he said.
George coughed and there was a faraway expression in his eyes.
‘Yes, I – er – I see you do,’ he said and sat down. Welkin went out.
Neither Mr Campion nor his host mentioned the incident. Campion frowned. Now he had two minor problems on his conscience. One was the old matter of the little piece of information concerning Charlie Spring which he had forgotten, the other was a peculiarity of Mr Welkin’s which puzzled him mightily.
The Pharaoh’s Court children’s party had been in full swing for what seemed to Mr Campion at least to be the best part of a fortnight. It was half-past seven in the evening and the relics of an enormous tea had been cleared away, leaving the music-room full of replete but still energetic children and their mothers, dancing and playing games with enthusiasm, but their eyes never straying for long from the next sensation of the evening, the fourteen-foot tree ablaze with coloured lights and tinsel.
Mr Campion, who had danced, buttled, and even performed a few conjuring tricks, bethought him of a box of his favourite cigarettes in his suitcase upstairs and, feeling only a little guilty at leaving George still working like a hero, he stole away and hurried up the deserted staircase to his room.
The main body of the house was deserted. Even the Welkins were at work in the music-room, while the entire staff were concentrated in the kitchen washing up.
Mr Campion found his cigarettes, lit one, and pottered for a moment or two, reflecting that the Christmases of his youth were much the same as those of today, but not so long from hour to hour. He felt virtuous and happy and positively oozing with goodwill. The promised snow was falling, great soft flakes plopping softly against his window.
At last, when his conscience decreed that he could absent himself no longer, he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor, to come unexpectedly face to face with Father Christmas. The saint looked as weary as he himself had been and was stooping under the great sack on his shoulders. Mr Campion admired Harridge’s costume. The boots were glossy, the tunic with its wool border satisfyingly red, while the benevolent mask with its cotton-wool beard was almost lifelike.
He stepped aside to let the venerable figure pass and, because it seemed the moment for jocularity, said lightly:
‘What have you got in the bag, Guv’nor?’
Had he uttered a spell of high enchantment, the simple words could not have had a more astonishing effect. The figure uttered an inarticulate cry, dropped the sack, which fell with a crash at Mr Campion’s feet, and fled like a shadow.
For a moment Mr Campion stood paralysed with astonishment. By the time he had pulled himself together the crimson figure had disappeared down the staircase. He bent over the sack and thrust in his hand. Something hard and heavy met his fingers and he brought it out. It was the pink marble, bronze and ormolu clock.
He stood looking at his find and a sigh of satisfaction escaped him. One of the problems that had been worrying him all day had been solved at last.
It was twenty minutes later before he reappeared in the music-room.
No one saw him come in, for the attention of the entire room was focused upon the platform. There, surrounded by enthusiastic assistants, was Father Christmas again, peacefully snipping presents off the tree.
Campion took careful stock of him. The costume, he decided, was identical, the same high boots, the same tunic, the same mask. He tried to remember the fleeting figure in the corridor upstairs, but the costume was a deceptive one and he found it difficult.
After a time he found a secluded chair and sat down to await developments. They came.
As the last of the visitors departed, tired and smiling, their coats buttoned against the snow, and Lady Turrett threw herself into an armchair with a sigh of happy exhaustion, Pouter, the Pharaoh’s Court butler, came quietly into the room and murmured a few words in his master’s ear. From where he sat Mr Campion heard George’s astonished ‘God bless my soul!’ and rose immediately to join him. But although he moved swiftly Mr Welkin was before him and, as Campion reached the group, his voice resounded round the room.
‘A burglary? While we’ve been playing the fool in here? What’s gone, man? What’s gone?’
Pouter, who for some obscure reason of his own objected to the form of address, regarded his master’s guest coldly.
‘A clock from the first floor west corridor, a silver-plated salver, a copper loving-cup from the hall, and a brass Buddha and a gilt pomander box from the first-floor landing, as far as we can ascertain, sir,’ he said.
‘Bless my soul!’ said George again. ‘How extraordinary!’
‘Extraordinary be damned!’ ejaculated Welkin. ‘We’ve got valuables here. Ada!’
‘The necklace!’ shrieked Mrs Welkin, consternation suddenly welling up in her stupid eyes. ‘My necklace!’
She scuttled out of the room and Sheila came forward with Santa Claus, who had taken off his mask and pushed back his hood to reveal the stolid but not unhandsome features of Mike Peters.
Lady Turrett did not stir from her chair, and Kenneth Welkin, white-faced and bewildered, stared down at her.
‘There’s been a burglary,’ he said. ‘Here, in this house.’
Mae Turrett smiled at him vaguely. ‘George and Pouter will see to it,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired.’
‘Tired!’ shouted Edward Welkin. ‘If my wife’s diamonds—’
He got no further. Ada Welkin
tottered into the room, an empty steel dispatch case in her trembling hands.
‘They’ve gone,’ she said, her voice rising in hysteria. ‘They’ve gone. My diamonds … My room’s been turned upside down. They’ve been taken. The necklace has gone.’
It was Mike who had sufficient presence of mind to support her to a chair before she collapsed. Her husband shot a shrewd, preoccupied glance at her, shouted to his son to ‘Look after your mother, boy!’ and took command of the situation.
‘Now this is serious. You, Pigeon, whatever your name is, get all the servants, everyone who’s in this house, to come here in double-quick time, see? I’ve been robbed.’
Pouter looked at his master in mute appeal and George coughed.
‘In a moment, Mr Welkin,’ he said. ‘In a moment. Let us find out what we can first. Pouter, go and find out if any stranger has been seen about the house or grounds this evening, will you, please?’
The manservant went out instantly and Welkin raged.
‘You may think you know what you’re doing,’ he said, but my way was the best. You’re giving the thief time to get away, and time’s precious, let me tell you. I’ve got to get the police up here.’
‘The police?’ Sheila was aghast.
He gaped at her. ‘Of course, young woman. Do you think I’m going to lose twelve thousand pounds? The stones were insured, of course, but what company would pay up if I hadn’t called in the police? I’ll go and ’phone up now.’
‘Wait a moment, please,’ said George, his quiet voice only a little ruffled. ‘Here’s Pouter again. Well?’
The butler looked profoundly uncomfortable.
‘Two maids, sir,’ he said, ‘the under housemaid and Miss Sheila’s maid, Lucy, were waiting in the hall to tell me that they saw a man running down the drive just before the Christmas tree was begun.’ He hesitated. ‘They—they say, sir, he was dressed as Father Christmas. They both say it, sir.’ Everyone looked at Mike and Sheila’s cheeks flamed. ‘Well?’ she demanded.
Mr Welkin suddenly laughed. ‘So that’s how it was done,’ he said. ‘The young blackguard was clever, but he was seen. You weren’t so bright as you thought you were, my lad.’
A Very Murderous Christmas Page 2
