“Now then, Miss Sissler,” said Peter, “what would you like? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”
“S-strychnine, please.”
“Come now, it’s not that bad. Two coffees, please, and a couple of muffins. Just plain ones, not your holiday specials.” Peter didn’t feel up to snippets of red and green candied cherries this morning.
Neither of them said anything more until after the waiter had brought their coffee and corn muffins and gone back to whatever culinary beguilements awaited him in the kitchen. Peter waited until the lachrymose freshman had creamed and sugared her coffee and taken a timid sip.
“Now then, Miss Sissler, would you care to explain?”
She shook her head frantically. Tears welled again in the big round eyes. “I can’t, Professor Shandy. Truly I can’t.”
“Young woman, are you by any chance trying to be a heroine? Here, have a muffin and tell me whom you’re covering up for. Is it your boyfriend?”
“No!”
“Is somebody blackmailing you into trying to wreck the Illumination?”
“No.”
“Then can you tell me why in Sam Hill you pulled such a stupid stunt? Did you think it was marijuana you were putting in those infernal objects?” Y-yes.
“Where did it come from?”
“I f-found it.”
“Where?”
“Hanging up.”
“Hanging up where?”
“In the k-kitchen.”
“Whose kitchen? Not the college’s?”
“Of course not! Mrs. Mouzouka wouldn’t—”
“No, I don’t suppose she would. Come on, Miss Sissler, let’s get this over with. I have exams to correct. And you have a fresh batch of cowpats to bake, strictly according to the standard recipe, disgusting though it may be. The college is counting on you, drat it. Where do you do your cooking? You don’t live in the dorms, do you? Where are your people?”
“In F-florida. I’m staying with my great-aunt, here in Balaclava Junction.”
“She being—?”
“Miss Viola Harp. You know her. She calligraphs the college diplomas.”
“Does she indeed? I’m afraid I can’t quite place her.”
“Nobody can! Nobody cares. That’s why she—”
Miss Sissler essayed another sip of her coffee, and choked on it As Peter watched her coughing into her napkin, a great light dawned. He took the three bogus twenties out of his wallet and spread them on the table.
“That’s why she got sore enough at the college to do this?”
Yet once more, Miss Sissler fell to sobbing.
“All right, Miss Sissler. Would you kindly explain why your aunt’s venture into counterfeiting inspired you to perpetrate an even more harebrained machination? What did she do it for, anyway? Is she desperately hard up?”
“She has enough to get by on. Just about. But that’s not why. She did it because nobody pays any attention to her. Nobody ever has. She’s been calligraphing the college diplomas for twenty-seven years, and not once, not one single time, has anybody ever come up to her and told her what a lovely job she did. She drew that little picture of the administration building for the college stationery, and nobody even said how nice it was. And it is nice! It’s just lovely! And I think you’re a bunch of old pigs and I don’t blame her one bit, and it serves you right. And I was on the booth last night when she came up, and I stood right there when Kathy took the money from her and didn’t notice it wasn’t real, and I didn’t say one word. And I’d do it again! Again, do you hear me!”
“I hear you, Miss Sissler. Is Miss Harp planning an again?”
“S-she said she’d go on till somebody noticed, no matter what. Aunt Viola’s determined to get some recognition for her work, even if she has to go to jail for it And I don’t blame her! I’ll go with her. Go ahead, Professor Shandy, arrest me!”
“Sorry, Miss Sissler, I’ve already explained that I’m not a campus cop. To repeat my question, what made you decide on the catnip cowpats? And what made you think your aunt would have marijuana in the house? Does she smoke it?”
“Of course not, she’d rather die. I just thought—oh, I don’t know what I thought. A kid in Florida had some pot once and I thought maybe Aunt Viola had picked some by accident. She likes to pick things and hang them up to dry; she thinks it looks picturesque. The stuff was there and I used it. All right, so I flunked botany. It’s the college’s fault, not mine. I never wanted to take botany in the first place. You and your dumb old curriculum!”
“Very well, Miss Sissler, I’ll accept full culpability on behalf of the college if you’ll tell me what gave you the bright idea of hurling yourself into the breach.”
“It was that notice they sent around yesterday from Security, about watching out for counterfeit money. I knew then that Aunt Viola’s work had been noticed, and they were out to get her. And it was all very well for her to say she wouldn’t mind going to jail, but she’d hate it really. Aunt Viola’s not young, you know, and she—well, she likes things nice. She’d miss her canary and her goldfish and I just think she’d die! And I do love her so. So I thought if I put marijuana in the cowpats it would make a stink and take Security’s mind off the counterfeit bills.”
“It never occurred to you that you yourself might get caught? Or that your being arrested might be even harder on your aunt?”
“Oh, no, why would they have arrested me? I mean, lots of people bake for the Illumination, they’re always bringing stuff. It could have been anybody. Well, maybe not just anybody. Anyway, I was going to make up this story about this mysterious stranger wearing a ski mask who—I guess I wasn’t very smart, was I? So what are you going to do, Professor Shandy?”
“I’m going to finish my coffee and pay the check.”
“And then what?”
“Trust me, Miss Sissler. You may wish to do something about your face before we go. Your aunt will be at home this time of day, will she?”
“No! Oh my God, I forgot! She’ll be coming up here to pass another bill. She said she was going to try it in broad daylight this time, because nobody’s noticed the last two times and she thought it might be on account of the dark and all those crazy colored lights. Come on, we’ve got to head her off!”
Pausing only long enough for Miss Sissler to dip her napkin in her water glass and mop the tear streaks off her face and for Peter to leave some money on the table, they rushed forth into the by now fairly thickly touristed Illumination area. The cats were all gone, but a small, slight figure in an outmoded dark-green winter coat with a black astrakhan collar and a black felt hat that Peter vaguely recalled having seen around the village off and on for the past couple of decades was just coming up the walkway, her eye fixed grimly on the third gingerbread house.
“There she is!” cried Miss Sissler. “Hurry!”
He travels fastest who travels alone. Peter left the mobcapped freshman to struggle through as best she might, and plunged straight through the mob, abandoning gentility in the interests of alacrity. He reached the small, slight figure about two elbows’ lengths before she’d got to the fateful counter.
“Miss Harp?” Peter was again the gentleman, his hat raised, his countenance affable. “My name is Shandy. I was on my way to call on you, on behalf of the college. I expect this is a bad time to come asking a favor, but I’d be very grateful if you could spare me a moment Ah, here’s your niece. Miss Sissler, would you join us? I wonder if you’d both do me the honor of stepping over to my house? It’s that little red brick one over there. I’m not sure whether my wife’s at home, but I know she’s been wanting to meet you. She’s a great admirer of your work, as are we all.”
“Really?” Miss Harp wasn’t too dumbfounded to forget her grievance so easily. “I don’t recall anyone’s ever having said so.”
“M’well, Miss Harp, if the college’s having depended on you for twenty-seven years in a row to calligraph its diplomas doesn’t demonstrate our appreciation of your tale
nts, I’d like to know what does. Which brings me to my purpose in seeking you out. Mind the step here, it may be a bit slippery. Would you care to remove your coat?”
“Why, I . . .”
Peter didn’t press her. Miss Harp was like a canary herself, he thought, tiny and fragile and easily fluttered. When she unbent far enough to loosen her top button, he wasn’t at all surprised to see that she wore an old-fashioned lace collar, pinned with a small gold locket-brooch that had a pressed violet inside. Of course a frail creature like this couldn’t go to jail, he’d better get down to business before she started beating her wings at the windows.
“Perhaps we’ll go into the dining room, if you don’t mind. It will be easier for you to write at the table. I’m going to ask for your autograph.”
“My-my autograph?”
“If you’ll be so kind.” Peter took the three twenties from his wallet and laid them out in front of her.
“As I’m sure you realize, Miss Harp, these three bills are going to be valuable collectors’ items. We do appreciate your kindness in contributing them to the Illumination, but we’d have been ever happier if you’d signed them first. Could I prevail upon you to do it now? One will be for the college archives, one a Christmas gift for President Svenson, and the third, I must confess, will go into my own private collection. If you wouldn’t mind? Perhaps here, above the ‘Treasurer of the United States’? I hope I have a suitable pen.
Miss Harp was not too flustered to start digging in her handbag. “Oh, that’s quite all right, Professor Shandy. I have my own.”
It was a slim mother-of-pearl fountain pen with a gold tip, dating probably from the nineteen twenties, like its owner. With sure, deliberate strokes, Miss Viola Harp added her own tiny, perfect signature to those of the Treasurer of the United States and the Secretary of the Treasury.
“There you are, Professor Shandy. Is that what you want?”
“That’s exactly what I want, Miss Harp. And now for the big one. What we’re particularly hoping is that you’ll sell us your master drawing, which is indeed masterful. We want to have it framed, in gold if that can be managed in time, and present it to the president and his wife at a reception which will be held on”—he sneaked a quick glance through the door toward the kitchen calendar—”the eighteenth of February. We’d want the drawing signed, of course, and we further hope that you yourself might consent to attend the reception and make the presentation as a tribute to your artistry and your long association with the college. We—er—don’t know what price you’ve put on the drawing. Would a thousand dollars be— er—adequate?”
Miss Harp was sitting up very straight now, happy as a canary with a brand-new cuttlebone. “A thousand dollars would indeed be adequate, Professor, but I should prefer to donate the portrait This will be my return to the college for its faith and trust in me down through the years. And, yes,” she added with a proud toss of her head, “I shall be pleased to attend the reception. After so many years of having seen my work presented to others by others, it will be a refreshing change to make the presentation myself. I shall deliver the portrait to you as soon as I have it properly signed and mounted.”
“How remarkably good of you, Miss Harp. The committee will be delighted. We’ll be getting back to you, then, with full particulars about the reception and presentation.”
As soon as he and Helen had managed to think up a reasonable excuse to hold the event, settle the details, and whomp up a suitably impressive guest list The actual reason need never be told, except of course to the president, his wife, and maybe Moira Haskins. Surprisingly, the increasing volume of revelry from the Crescent was no longer jarring on Peter’s ear.
“Thank you again, Miss Harp, and a very merry Christmas to you. Miss Sissler, I expect you’d like to see your aunt safely home. I’ll drop over and explain to Miss Bunce and Mr. Pascoe that you’ve gone home to finish your baking.”
“But they won’t understand!”
“They’ll understand. Merry Christmas, Miss Sissler.”
After one last sniffle, the freshman managed a watery smile. “Merry Christmas, Professor Shandy.”
Arm in arm, the great-aunt and the great-niece went down the walkway toward the village. As Peter watched them thread their way among the merrymakers, a repentant tiger lady came to rub against his pant leg. He picked her up and tickled her behind her ears. “Merry Christmas, Jane. If you mend your rowdy ways, maybe we’ll ask Mrs. Santa Claus to bake you a nice fresh catnip cowpat”
REGINALD HILL - THE RUNNING OF THE DEER
We almost didn’t get this story. Fortunately it was just after Reginald Hill completed “The Running of the Deer” that he learned he’d won the British Crime Writers Association’s Gold Dagger award for his novel Bones and Silence. Had the news arrived sooner, he says, he’d have been too excited to write.
So far, the gentleman from Yorkshire has produced only one other short story starring the serendipitous West Indian detective, Joe Sixsmith. That one was selected for the Oxford Book of English Detective Stories . . . not surprisingly, considering Reg Hill’s international reputation for taut writing, wry humor, and wildly original plots.
Nettleton was a tall, tweedy man in late middle age with a face like one of those snooty dogs that rich folk crap up poor folk’s parks with.
Joe Sixsmith was glad to see him, even though he didn’t like the look of him. Being glad to see people you didn’t like the look of was better than being guilty about taking money from people you did like the look of. How a good private eye should feel he didn’t know, mainly because he suspected he wasn’t a good private eye. Not that he didn’t find things out, only they often weren’t the things he was being paid to find out. There was a word for this.
Serendipity.
He thought it meant something like bad breath the first time he heard it and might have been seriously offended if the old girl who told him he’d got it hadn’t been writing a check at the time.
“What’s that then?” he’d asked.
“The knack of making useful discoveries by chance,” said Miss Negus, handing him the check which was the first installment of the money he got to feel guilty about taking. “That’s why I have come to you. I have applied all my ratiocinative powers to my problem and come up empty-handed. So now I am willing to pay for a more oblique approach.”
After a lifetime in education, Miss Negus was devoting her retirement to good works. Her name appeared on the committee list of most major charities in the area, but the apple of her charitable eye was a group she’d founded herself, SPADA, the Small Pet Animals’ Defense Association. SPADA had been functioning for five years, and the “problem” was that its income had gone into a slight decline over the last two. Miss Negus had a “feeling” that something was wrong. As most of SPADA’s income came from collecting boxes, Sixsmith had his own feeling there was sod all he could do about it, even if there were anything to be done about. But Miss Negus was not to be denied and he spent many chilly hours, catching cold and guilt together, lurking around drafty shopping centers in hope of spotting one of SPADA’s elderly collectors attacking her box with a table knife.
So when he found a message on his answering machine saying that a Mr. Nettleton would call at five, both his health and his higher feelings rejoiced at the prospect of a new client
There was a phone number with the message in case he couldn’t keep the appointment. He used the directory to turn it into a very posh address, then, feeling like a real PI instead of a balding, middling-aged, West Indian lathe operator who’d spent his redundancy money most unwisely, he made for the library to check the man out
He came back well-pleased. Nettleton was, among other things, an accountant He could smell real money.
And now the man was sitting before him and about to speak.
“Tell me, Mr. Sixsmith,” he drawled, “when you hear the phrase ‘an English country Christmas,’ what images spring to your mind?”
“Now that�
�s an interesting question,” said Sixsmith, followed by a pause. It was his experience that twits who asked interesting questions were usually bent on answering them as well.
“I hope not an unfair one, though of course different cultures have their different traditions ...”
He dunks I’m just off a banana boat! Time for a bit of role-play.
Sixsmith fixed Nettleton with his steely Pi’s gaze and hit the desk with his fist The dramatic effect was rather spoiled by a protesting howl from the bottom drawer where his cat Whitey slept, but ignoring this, he leaned forward and said, “Okay, let’s cut the cackle and get down to cases. I guess you know who I am, else you wouldn’t be here. Let me return the compliment You’re Antony Nettleton, age forty-three, married, four children, two at university, two at boarding school. You are senior partner in Nettleton and Jones, Chartered Accountants, you are an Independent member of South East Herts County Council, Chairman of Rotary, Captain-elect of the Coif Club, Coordinator of the United Appeal Fund, and Great Unicorn of the Worshipful Order of Stags. Right?”
He sat back with some complacency.
Nettleton was reduced to silence by his surprise.
Then he said, “No, I’m not.”
“Eh?”
“You’re confusing me with my more famous and much more active young brother, Antony, with whom I happen to be staying. I’m Ambrose Nettleton.”
“Oh, shit,” said Sixsmith.
“Not at all,” smiled Nettleton. “A natural mistake. We were talking about a country Christmas ...”
Such generosity of spirit deserved a reward. The least he could do was play the man’s game.
He said, “Dickens, stagecoaches and such?”
“That’s right,” said Nettleton, taking over as Six-smith had guessed he would. “Log fires, skating on the pond, mulled wine, blind man’s bluff, hunt the slipper, all the old games. Well, let me tell you, Mr. Sixsmith, Dickens got it wrong. I live and work in France, but earlier this year I acquired a small estate in Cumbria and my wife and I have been looking forward to spending Christmas there. But the closer it comes, the more we realize it’s not like Dingley Dell. Oh, there are traditional games being played, but nothing like hunt the slipper and blind man’s bluff. These are much rougher games, like poaching the pheasant, and chopping the fir, and running the deer.”
Christmas Stalkings Page 3
