Crimson Snow
Winter Mysteries
Edited by Martin Edwards
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by
Introduction and notes copyright © 2016 Martin Edwards
Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library
First E-book Edition 2016
ISBN: 978146420 ebook
‘The Case of the Man with the Sack’ by Margery Allingham reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the Estate of Margery Allingham.
‘The Carol Singers’ reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London, on behalf of the Estate of Josephine Bell.
‘Deep and Crisp and Even’ reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London, on behalf of the Estate of Michael Gilbert.
‘Death in December’ © Estate of Victor Gunn.
‘Mr. Cork’s Secret’ by Macdonald Hastings reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the Estate of Macdonald Hastings.
‘Off the Tiles’ © Estate of Ianthe Jerrold.
‘Christmas Eve’ © Estate of Sir Sydney Roberts.
‘The Santa Claus Club’ reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London, on behalf of the Estate of Julian Symons.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Crimson Snow
Copyright
Contents
Introduction
The Ghost’s Touch
The Chopham Affair
The Man with the Sack
Christmas Eve
Death in December
Murder at Christmas
Off the Tiles
Mr. Cork’s Secret
The Santa Claus Club
Deep and Crisp and Even
The Carol Singers
Solution to Mr. Cork’s Secret
More from this Author
Contact Us
Introduction
Crimson Snow gathers vintage crime stories set in winter. The mysterious events chronicled by a distinguished array of contributors frequently take place at Christmas. There’s no denying that the supposed season of goodwill is a time of year that lends itself to detective fiction. On a cold night, it’s tempting to curl up by the fireside with a good mystery—and rather more pleasurable than indulging in endless online shopping. And more than that, claustrophobic Christmas house parties, when people may be cooped up with long-estranged relatives, can provide plenty of motives—and opportunities, as some of these stories demonstrate—for murder.
Winter also offers interesting possibilities for the crime writer. The ‘impossible crime’ story, a favourite sub-genre with readers ever since Edgar Allan Poe wrote The Murders in the Rue Morgue, is a striking example. An appealing variant on the concept of murder in a locked room, with no apparent means by which the killer could get in or out, is to have a crime committed somewhere surrounded by snow—with no footprints leading to or from the corpse.
The classic Christmas crime story has enjoyed a remarkable resurgence of popularity in recent years. J. Jefferson Farjeon’s long-forgotten Mystery in White was a runaway best-seller in the final weeks of 2014, and twelve months later, two more titles published in the British Library’s Crime Classics series also enjoyed remarkable success. One was Muriel Doriel Hay’s The Santa Klaus Murder, an even more obscure title first published in the 1930s, and the other was the anthology Silent Nights, in which I collected a variety of short Yuletide mysteries by authors as diverse as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dorothy L. Sayers. The British Library’s lead has been followed by other publishers, who have revived several crime novels set at the festive season, occasionally giving them new titles to underline their suitability as presents for the crime fan in one’s life. There is, it seems clear, a real enthusiasm for snow splashed with crimson…
Excellent as many Christmas mysteries are, it is inevitably the case that the seasonal background is more relevant in some novels than in others. The same is true when it comes to short crime fiction, but arguably the shorter form of mystery is better suited to making the most of such a setting. In the space of a few weeks, Silent Nights became one of the UK’s fastest-selling crime anthologies for many years, and sales were matched by a very positive reception from reviewers. Duly encouraged, the British Library asked me to delve into its vaults once again, to see if there was scope for another book of classic tales set amid the mist and snow.
As with previous anthologies in the Crime Classics series, my approach was to look for a mix of stories, some of them rarities, some of them slightly more familiar (at least to connoisseurs of vintage mysteries). I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of material available. Assisted by the invaluable know-how of experts in the field, such as Jamie Sturgeon and Barry Pike, I managed to track down a number of previously hidden gems. Only one author, Margery Allingham, features both in Silent Nights and this book.
I have been struck by the sheer number of leading crime writers who have, over the years, tried their hand at a seasonal mystery. No fewer than seven of the eleven authors featured here were members of the prestigious Detection Club, the world’s first social network for crime writers. Yet two of their stories are exceptionally obscure—those written by Christopher Bush and Macdonald Hastings, which feature their regular detectives, Ludovic Travers and Mr. Cork respectively.
In keeping with the playful nature of the puzzle story—which during the Golden Age of Murder between the two world wars often saw authors laying down an explicit ‘challenge to the reader’ to guess whodunit and why—Hastings’ story was published in the form of a Christmas prize competition. It appeared in the December issue of the monthly magazine Lilliput, and the solution was printed several months later after all the entries had been judged. The prize winners proved themselves to be excellent detectives, and readers of this book will have the chance to emulate their success: the solution to Hastings’ conundrum appears at the end of this book.
The other contributors include Julian Symons, whose reputation is as a stern critic of the light-hearted detective story who much preferred psychological suspense. Yet ‘The Santa Claus Club’ demonstrates that, especially in the early years of his career as a writer of fiction, Symons enjoyed indulging himself in the old-fashioned pleasures of the puzzle story. His friend of many years, Michael Gilbert, who was less bashful about his enthusiasm for the traditional mystery, is represented here by a characteristically readable tale.
Gilbert was an accomplished but unpretentious crime writer who never made any secret of the fact that his primary aim as an author was to entertain, and that is an aim I share as an anthologist. I think of the stories in Crimson Snow as comparable to the contents of a luxurious box of assorted chocolates. Their purpose is to give pleasure. I hope that the variety and quality of the selection as a whole will provide plentiful enjoyment for readers, and help for a few hours to take their minds off the c
old reality of winter.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
The Ghost’s Touch
Fergus Hume
Fergus Hume was one of the most intriguing crime writers of the nineteenth century. His real name was Fergusson Wright Hume, and he was born to Scottish parents in England in 1859, before moving with them in infancy to a new life in New Zealand. He studied law, and was called to the New Zealand Bar, but promptly emigrated to Australia, where he worked as a law clerk while seeking to develop a career as a playwright. After studying the crime fiction of the French writer Emile Gaboriau, he wrote a murder mystery set in Melbourne. Failing to interest a traditional publisher, he resorted to self-publishing, and The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (which appeared in 1886, a year before Sherlock Holmes made his debut in A Study in Scarlet) became a best-seller. Unwisely, Hume sold his copyright; the company which bought it later became insolvent, and the rights passed to the British publisher Jarrolds, who persuaded Hume to revise the book, cutting out some of the ‘local colour’.
Hume returned to Britain in 1888, which became his home for the rest of his life. A highly prolific writer, he lived until 1932, but his many later novels or stories have been almost wholly overshadowed by The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, which ‘caught the moment’ in a manner achieved by few crime novels. ‘The Ghost’s Touch’ is set in an English country house, but as elsewhere in Hume’s fiction, the events have their roots in Australia. This highly traditional mystery is a period piece, yes, but also offers a reminder that Hume was a capable storyteller; he deserves more than to be remembered solely on the strength of a single book.
***
I shall never forget the terrible Christmas I spent at Ringshaw Grange in the year ’93. As an army doctor I have met with strange adventures in far lands, and have seen some gruesome sights in the little wars which are constantly being waged on the frontiers of our empire; but it was reserved for an old country house in Hants to be the scene of the most noteworthy episode in my life. The experience was a painful one, and I hope it may never be repeated; but indeed so ghastly an event is not likely to occur again. If my story reads more like fiction than truth, I can only quote the well-worn saying, of the latter being stranger than the former. Many a time in my wandering life have I proved the truth of this proverb.
The whole affair rose out of the invitation which Frank Ringan sent me to spend Christmas with himself and his cousin Percy at the family seat near Christchurch. At that time I was home on leave from India; and shortly after my arrival I chanced to meet with Percy Ringan in Piccadilly. He was an Australian with whom I had been intimate some years before in Melbourne: a dapper little man with sleek fair hair and a transparent complexion, looking as fragile as a Dresden china image, yet with plenty of pluck and spirits. He suffered from heart disease, and was liable to faint on occasions; yet he fought against his mortal weakness with silent courage, and with certain precautions against over-excitement, he managed to enjoy life fairly well.
Notwithstanding his pronounced effeminacy, and somewhat truckling subserviency to rank and high birth, I liked the little man very well for his many good qualities. On the present occasion I was glad to see him, and expressed my pleasure.
‘Although I did not expect to see you in England,’ said I, after the first greetings had passed.
‘I have been in London these nine months, my dear Lascelles,’ he said, in his usual mincing way, ‘partly by way of a change and partly to see my cousin Frank—who indeed invited me to come over from Australia.’
‘Is that the rich cousin you were always speaking about in Melbourne?’
‘Yes. But Frank is not rich. I am the wealthy Ringan, but he is the head of the family. You see, Doctor,’ continued Percy, taking my arm and pursuing the subject in a conversational manner, ‘my father, being a younger son, emigrated to Melbourne in the gold-digging days, and made his fortune out there. His brother remained at home on the estates, with very little money to keep up the dignity of the family; so my father helped the head of his house from time to time. Five years ago both my uncle and father died, leaving Frank and me as heirs, the one to the family estate, the other to the Australian wealth. So—’
‘So you assist your cousin to keep up the dignity of the family as your father did before you.’
‘Well, yes, I do,’ admitted Percy, frankly. ‘You see, we Ringans think a great deal of our birth and position. So much so, that we have made our wills in one another’s favour.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, if I die Frank inherits my money; and if he dies, I become heir to the Ringan estates. It seems strange that I should tell you all this, Lascelles; but you were so intimate with me in the old days that you can understand my apparent rashness.’
I could not forbear a chuckle at the reason assigned by Percy for his confidence, especially as it was such a weak one. The little man had a tongue like a town-crier, and could no more keep his private affairs to himself than a woman could guard a secret. Besides, I saw very well that with his inherent snobbishness he desired to impress me with the position and antiquity of his family, and with the fact—undoubtedly true—that it ranked amongst the landed gentry of the kingdom.
However, the weakness, though in bad taste, was harmless enough, and I had no scorn for the confession of it. Still, I felt a trifle bored, as I took little interest in the chronicling of such small beer, and shortly parted from Percy after promising to dine with him the following week.
At this dinner, which took place at the Athenian Club, I met with the head of the Ringan family; or, to put it plainer, with Percy’s cousin Frank. Like the Australian he was small and neat, but enjoyed much better health and lacked the effeminacy of the other. Yet on the whole I liked Percy the best, as there was a sly cast about Frank’s countenance which I did not relish; and he patronized his colonial cousin in rather an offensive manner.
The latter looked up to his English kinsman with all deference, and would, I am sure, have willingly given his gold to regild the somewhat tarnished escutcheon of the Ringans. Outwardly, the two cousins were so alike as to remind one of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; but after due consideration I decided that Percy was the better-natured and more honourable of the two.
For some reason Frank Ringan seemed desirous of cultivating my acquaintance; and in one way and another I saw a good deal of him during my stay in London. Finally, when I was departing on a visit to some relatives in Norfolk he invited me to spend Christmas at Ringshaw Grange—not, as it afterwards appeared, without an ulterior motive.
‘I can take no refusal,’ said he, with a heartiness which sat ill on him. ‘Percy, as an old friend of yours, has set his heart on my having you down; and—if I may say so—I have set my heart on the same thing.’
‘Oh, you really must come, Lascelles,’ cried Percy, eagerly. ‘We are going to keep Christmas in the real old English fashion. Washington Irving’s style, you know: holly, wassail-bowl, games, and mistletoe.’
‘And perhaps a ghost or so,’ finished Frank, laughing, yet with a side glance at his eager little cousin.
‘Ah,’ said I. ‘So your Grange is haunted.’
‘I should think so,’ said Percy, before his cousin could speak, ‘and with a good old Queen Anne ghost. Come down, Doctor, and Frank shall put you in the haunted chamber.’
‘No!’ cried Frank, with a sharpness which rather surprised me, ‘I’ll put no one in the Blue Room; the consequences might be fatal. You smile, Lascelles, but I assure you our ghost has been proved to exist!’
‘That’s a paradox; a ghost can’t exist. But the story of your ghost—’
‘Is too long to tell now,’ said Frank, laughing. ‘Come down to the Grange and you’ll hear it.’
‘Very good,’ I replied, rather attracted by the idea of a haunted house, ‘you can count upon me for Christmas. But I warn you, Ringan, that
I don’t believe in spirits. Ghosts went out with gas.’
‘Then they must have come in again with electric light,’ retorted Frank Ringan, ‘for Lady Joan undoubtedly haunts the Grange. I don’t mind as it adds distinction to the house.’
‘All old families have a ghost,’ said Percy, importantly. ‘It is very natural when one has ancestors.’
There was no more said on the subject for the time being, but the upshot of this conversation was that I presented myself at Ringshaw Grange two or three days before Christmas. To speak the truth, I came more on Percy’s account than my own, as I knew the little man suffered from heart disease, and a sudden shock might prove fatal. If, in the unhealthy atmosphere of an old house, the inmates got talking of ghosts and goblins, it might be that the consequences would be dangerous to so highly strung and delicate a man as Percy Ringan.
For this reason, joined to a sneaking desire to see the ghost, I found myself a guest at Ringshaw Grange. In one way I regret the visit; yet in another I regard it as providential that I was on the spot. Had I been absent the catastrophe might have been greater, although it could scarcely have been more terrible.
Ringshaw Grange was a quaint Elizabethan house, all gables and diamond casements, and oriel windows, and quaint terraces, looking like an illustration out of an old Christmas number. It was embowered in a large park, the trees of which came up almost to the doors, and when I saw it first in the moonlight—for it was by a late train that I came from London—it struck me as the very place for a ghost.
Here was a haunted house of the right quality if ever there was one, and I only hoped when I crossed the threshold that the local spectre would be worthy of its environment. In such an interesting house I did not think to pass a dull Christmas; but—God help me—I did not anticipate so tragic a Yuletide as I spent.
As our host was a bachelor and had no female relative to do the honours of his house the guests were all of the masculine gender. It is true that there was a housekeeper—a distant cousin, I understood—who was rather elderly but very juvenile as to dress and manner. She went by the name of Miss Laura, but no one saw much of her as, otherwise than attending to her duties, she remained mostly in her own rooms.
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