‘Bit of a handicap, being married to Edmund,’ I said.
Diana shrugged. ‘It would be if music were the only thing he did. But the Amber Band only does a few gigs a year. The rest of the time he’s running the estate and Jane loves being the country squire’s wife.’
In the intervening years, that was the only thing that had changed. Word of mouth had increased the demand for the Amber Band’s services. By last Christmas, the band were playing at least one gig a week. They’d moved up from playing village halls and hunt balls onto the studentunion circuit.
Last Christmas I’d gone for a walk with Diana’s mother on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. As we’d emerged from the back door, I noticed a three-ton van parked over by the stables. Along the side, in tall letters of gold and black, it said, ‘Amber Band! Bringing jazz to the people.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That looks serious.’
Evie laughed. ‘It keeps Edmund happy. His father was obsessed with breaking the British record for the largest salmon, which, believe me, was a far more inconvenient interest than Edmund’s. All Jane has to put up with is a lack of Edmund’s company two or three nights a week at most. Going alone to a dinner party is a far lighter cross to bear than being dragged off to fishing lodges in the middle of nowhere to be bitten to death by midges.’
‘Doesn’t he find it hard, trying to run the estate as well?’ I asked idly as we struck out across the park towards the coppice.
Evie’s lips pursed momentarily, but her voice betrayed no irritation. ‘He’s taken a man on part-time to take care of the day-to-day business. Edmund keeps his hands firmly on the reins, but Lewis has taken on the burden of much of the routine work.’
‘It can’t be easy, making an estate like this pay nowadays.’
Evie smiled. ‘Edmund’s very good at it. He understands the importance of tradition, but he’s not afraid to try new things. I’m very lucky with my children, Jo. They’ve turned out better than any mother could have hoped.’
I accepted the implied compliment in silence.
The happy family idyll crashed around everyone’s ears the day after Boxing Day. Edmund had seemed quieter than usual over lunch, but I put that down to the hangover that, if there were any justice in the world, he should be suffering. As Evie poured out the coffee, he cleared his throat and said abruptly, I’ve got something to say to you all.’
Diana and I exchanged questioning looks. I noticed Jane’s face freeze, her fingers clutching the handle of her coffee cup. Evie finished what she was doing and sat down. ‘We’re all listening, Edmund,’ she said gently.
‘As you’re all aware, Amber Band has become increasingly successful. A few weeks ago, I was approached by a representative of a major record company. They would like us to sign a deal with them to make some recordings. They would also like to help us move our touring venues up a gear or two. I’ve discussed this with the band, and we’re all agreed that we would be crazy to turn our backs on this opportunity.’ Edmund paused and looked around apprehensively.
‘Congratulations, bro,’ Diana said. I could hear the nervousness in her voice, though I wasn’t sure why she was so apprehensive. I sat silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
‘Go on,’ Evie said in a voice so unemotional it sent a chill to my heart.
‘Obviously, this is something that has implications for Amberley. I can’t have a career as a musician and continue to be responsible for all of this. Also, we need to increase the income from the estate in order to make sure that whatever happens to my career, there will always be enough money available to allow Ma to carry on as she has always done. So I have made the decision to hand over the running of the house and the estate to a management company who will run the house as a residential conference centre and manage the land in broad accordance with the principles I’ve already established,’ Edmund said in a rush.
Jane’s face flushed dark red. ‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘You can’t turn this place into some bloody talking shop. The house will be full of ghastly sales reps. Our lives won’t be our own.’
Edmund looked down at the table. ‘We won’t be here,’ he said softly. ‘It makes more sense if we move out. I thought we could take a house in London.’ He looked up beseechingly at Jane, a look so naked it was embarrassing to witness it.
‘This is extraordinary,’ Evie said, finding her voice at last. ‘Hundreds of years of tradition, and you want to smash it to pieces to indulge some hobby?’
Edmund took a deep breath. ‘Ma, it’s not a hobby. It’s the only time I feel properly alive. Look, this is not a matter for discussion. I’ve made my mind up. The house and the estate are mine absolutely to do with as I see fit, and these are my plans. There’s no point in argument. The papers are all drawn up and I’m going to town tomorrow to sign them. The other chaps from the village have already handed in their notice. We’re all set.’
Jane stood up. ‘You bastard,’ she yelled. ‘You in considerate bastard! Why didn’t you discuss this with me?’
Edmund raised his hands out to her. ‘I knew you’d be opposed to it. And you know how hard I find it to say no to you. Jane, I need to do this. It’ll be fine, I promise you. We’ll find somewhere lovely to live in London, near your friends.’
Wordlessly, Jane picked up her coffee cup and hurled it at Edmund. It caught him in the middle of the forehead. He barely flinched as the hot liquid poured down his face, turning his sweater brown. ‘You insensitive pig,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Hadn’t you noticed I haven’t had a period for two months? I’m pregnant, Edmund, you utter bastard. I’m two months pregnant and you want to turn my life upside down?’ Then she ran from the room slamming the heavy door behind her, no mean feat in itself.
In the stunned silence that followed Jane’s bombshell, no one moved. Then Edmund, his face seeming to disintegrate, pushed his chair back with a screech and hurried wordlessly after his wife. I turned to look at Diana. The sight of her stricken face was like a blow to the chest. I barely registered Evie sighing, ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ before she too left the room. Before the door closed behind her, I was out of my chair, Diana pressed close to me.
Dinner that evening was the first meal I’d eaten at Amberley in an atmosphere of strain. Hardly a word was spoken, and I suspect I wasn’t alone in feeling relief when Edmund rose abruptly before coffee and announced he was going down to the village to rehearse. ‘Don’t wait up,’ he said tersely.
Jane went upstairs as soon as the meal was over. Evie sat down with us to watch a film, but half an hour into it, she rose and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not concentrating. Your brother has given me rather too much to think about. I’m going back to the Dower House.’
Diana and I walked to the door with her mother. We stood under the portico, watching the dark figure against the snow. The air was heavy, the sky lowering. ‘Feels like a storm brewing,’ Diana remarked. ‘Even the weather’s cross with Edmund.’
We watched the rest of the film then decided to go up to bed. As we walked through the hall, I went to switch off the lights on the Christmas tree. ‘Leave them,’ Diana said. ‘Edmund will turn them off when he comes in. It’s tradition – last to bed does the tree.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘The number of times I’ve come back from parties in the early hours and seen the tree shining down the drive.’
About an hour later, the storm broke. We were reading in bed when a clap of thunder as loud as a bomb blast crashed over the house. Then a rattle of machine-gun fire against the window. We clutched each other in surprise, though heaven knows we’ve never needed an excuse. Diana slipped out of bed and pulled back one of the heavy damask curtains so we could watch the hail pelt the window and the bolts of lightning flash jagged across the sky. It raged for nearly half an hour. Diana and I played the game of counting the gap between thunderclaps and lightning flashes, which told us the storm seemed to be circling Amberley itself, moving off only to come back and blast us again with lightning and ha
il.
Eventually it moved off to the west, occasional flashes lighting up the distant hills. Somehow, it seemed the right time to make love. As we lay together afterwards, revelling in the luxury of satiated sensuality, the lights suddenly went out. ‘Damn,’ Diana drawled. ‘Bloody storm’s got the electrics on the blink.’ She stirred. ‘I’d better go down and check the fuse box.’
I grabbed her. ‘Leave it,’ I urged. ‘Edmund can do it when he comes in. We’re all warm and sleepy. Besides, I might get lonely.’
Diana chuckled and snuggled back into my arms. Moments later, the lights came back on again. ‘See?’ I said. ‘No need. Probably a problem at the local sub-station because of the weather.’
I woke up just after seven the following morning, full of the joys of spring. We were due to go back to London after lunch, so I decided to sneak out for an early morning walk in the copse. I dressed without waking Diana and slipped out of the silent house.
The path from the house to the copse was well-trodden. There had been no fresh snow since Christmas Eve, and the path was well used, since it was a short cut both to the Dower House and the village. There were even mountain-bike tracks among the scattered boot prints. The trees, an elderly mixture of beech, birch, alder, oak and ash, still held their tracery of snow on the tops of some branches, though following the storm a mild thaw had set in. As I moved into the wood, I felt drips of melting snow on my head.
In the middle of the copse, there’s a clearing fringed with silver birch trees. When she was little, Diana was convinced this was the place where the fairies came to recharge their magic. There was no magic in the clearing that morning. As soon as I emerged from the trees, I saw Edmund’s body, sprawled under a single silver birch tree by the path on the far side.
For a moment, I was frozen with shock. Then I rushed forward and crouched down beside him. I didn’t need to feel for a pulse. He was clearly long dead, his right hand blackened and burned.
I can’t remember the next hours. Apparently, I went to the Dower House and roused Evie. I blurted out what I’d seen and she called the police. I have a vague recollection of her staggering slightly as I broke the news, but I was in shock and I have no recollection of what she said. Diana arrived soon afterwards. When her mother told her what had happened, she stared numbly at me for a moment, then tears poured down her face. None of us seemed eager to be the one to break the news to Jane. Eventually, as if by mutual consent, we waited until the police arrived. We merited two uniformed constables, plus two plain-clothes detectives. In the words of Noel Coward, Detective Inspector Maggie Staniforth would not have fooled a drunken child of two and a half. As soon as Evie introduced me as her daughter’s partner, DI Staniforth thawed visibly. I didn’t much care at that point. I was too numbed even to take in what they were saying. It sounded like the distant mutter of bees in a herb garden.
DI Staniforth set off with her team to examine the body while Diana and I, after a muttered discussion in the corner, informed Evie that we would go and tell Jane. We found her in the kitchen drinking a mug of coffee. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen my husband,’ she said in tones of utter contempt when we walked in. ‘He didn’t have the courage to come home last night.’
Diana sat down next to Jane and flashed me a look of panic. I stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but there’s been an accident.’ In moments of crisis, why is it we always reach for the nearest cliché?
Jane looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili. ‘An accident?’ she asked in a macabre echo of Dame Edith Evans’s ‘A handbag?’
‘Edmund’s dead,’ Diana blurted out. ‘He was struck by lightning in the wood. Coming home from the village.’
As she spoke, a wave of nausea surged through me. I thought I was going to faint. I grabbed the edge of the table. Diana’s words robbed the muscles in my legs of their strength and I lurched into the nearest chair. Up until that point, I’d been too dazed with shock to realise the conclusion everyone but me had come to.
Jane looked blankly at Diana. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Diana said, the tears starting again, flowing down her cheeks.
‘I’m not,’ Jane said. ‘He can’t stop my child growing up in Amberley now.’
Diana turned white. ‘You bitch,’ she said wonderingly.
At least I knew then what I had to do.
Maggie Staniforth arrived shortly after to interview me. ‘It’s just a formality,’ she said. ‘It’s obvious what happened. He was walking home in the storm and was struck by lightning as he passed under the birch tree.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘Edmund was murdered.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘You’re still in shock. I’m afraid there are no suspicious circumstances.’
‘Maybe not to you. But I know different.’
Credit where it’s due, she heard me out. But the sceptical look never left her eyes. ‘That’s all very well,’ she said eventually. ‘But if what you’re saying is true, there’s no way of proving it.’
I shrugged. ‘Why don’t you look for fingerprints? Either in the plug of the Christmas tree lights, or on the main fuse box. When he was electrocuted, the lights fused. At the time, Diana and I thought it was a glitch in the mains supply, but we know better now. Jane would have had to rewire the plug and the socket to cover her tracks. And she must have gone down to the cellar to repair the fuse or turn the circuit breaker back on. She wouldn’t have had occasion to touch those in the usual run of things. I doubt she’d even have good reason to know where the fuse box is. Try it,’ I urged.
And that’s how Evie came to be charged with the murder of her son. If I’d thought things through, if I’d waited till my brain was out of shock, I’d have realised that Jane would never have risked her baby by hauling Edmund’s body over the crossbar of his mountain bike and wheeling him out to the copse. Besides, she probably believed she could use his love for her to persuade him to change his mind. Evie didn’t have that hope to cling to.
If I’d realised it was Diana’s mother who killed Edmund, I doubt very much if I’d have shared my esoteric knowledge with DI Staniforth. It’s a funny business, New Age medicine. When I attended a seminar on the healing powers of plants given by a Native American medicine man, I never thought his wisdom would help me prove a murder.
Maybe Evie will get lucky. Maybe she’ll get a jury reluctant to convict in a case that rests on the inexplicable fact that lightning never strikes birch trees.
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
Arthur Conan Doyle
I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.
‘You are engaged,’ said I; ‘perhaps I interrupt you.’
‘Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one’ (he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat) ‘but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.’
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. ‘I suppose,’ I remarked, ‘that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it – that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.’
‘No, no. No crime,’ said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. ‘Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings al
l jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.’
‘So much so,’ I remarked, ‘that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.’
‘Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is to him that this trophy belongs.’
‘It is his hat.’
‘No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.’
Murder under the Christmas Tree Page 4
