Quarles leaned towards Acrise. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right.’ The slurring was very noticeable now. Acrise ate no pudding, but he drank some more wine, and dabbed at his lips. When the pudding was finished he got slowly to his feet again, and toasted the Queen. Cigars were lighted. Acrise was not smoking. He whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and left the room. Acrise got up again, leaning heavily on the table.
‘A little surprise,’ he said. ‘In the spirit of Christmas.’
Quarles had thought that he was beyond being surprised by the activities of the Santa Claus Club, but still he was astonished by sight of the three figures who entered the room. They were led by Snewin, somehow more mouselike than ever, wearing a long white smock and a red nightcap with a tassel. He was followed by an older man dressed in a kind of grey sackcloth, with a face so white that it might have been covered in plaster of Paris. This man carried chains which he shook. At the rear came a young middle-aged lady, who sparkled so brightly that she seemed to be completely hung with tinsel.
‘I am Scrooge,’ said Snewin.
‘I am Marley,’ wailed grey sackcloth, clanking his chains.
‘And I,’ said the young middle-aged lady, with abominable sprightliness, ‘Am the ghost of Christmas past.’
There was a murmur round the table, and slowly the murmur grew to a ripple of laughter.
‘We have come,’ said Snewin in a thin mouse voice, ‘to perform for you our own interpretation of A Christmas Carol—oh, sir, what’s the matter?’
Lord Acrise stood up in his robes, tore off his wig, pulled at his beard, tried to say something. Then he clutched at the side of his chair and fell sideways, so that he leaned heavily against Endell and slipped slowly to the floor.
4
There ensued a minute of confused, important activity. Endell made some sort of exclamation and rose from his chair, slightly obstructing Quarles. Erdington was first beside the body, holding the wrist in his hand, listening for the heart. Then they were all crowding round, the red-robed Santas, the guests, the actors in their ludicrous clothes. Snewin, at Quarles’s left shoulder, was babbling something, and at his right were Roddy Davis and Endell.
‘Stand back,’ Erdington snapped. He stayed on his knees for another few moments, looking curiously at Acrise’s puffed, distorted face, bluish around the mouth. Then he stood up. ‘He’s dead.’
There was a murmur of surprise and horror, and now they all drew back, as men do instinctively from the presence of death.
‘Heart attack?’ somebody said. Erdington made a noncommittal noise. Quarles moved to his side.
‘I’m a private detective, Sir James. Lord Acrise feared an attempt on his life, and asked me to come along here.’
‘You seem to have done well so far,’ Erdington said dryly.
‘May I look at the body?’
‘If you wish.’
As soon as Quarles bent down he caught the smell of bitter almonds. When he straightened up Erdington raised his eyebrows.
‘He’s been poisoned.’
‘Bravo.’
‘There’s a smell like prussic acid, but the way he died precludes cyanide I think. He seemed to become very drunk during dinner, and his speech was blurred. Does that suggest anything to you?’
‘I’m a brain surgeon, not a physician.’ Erdington stared at the floor, then said, ‘Nitro-benzene?’
‘That’s what I thought. We shall have to notify the police.’ Quarles went to the door, spoke to a disturbed Albert. Then he returned to the room and clapped his hands.
‘Gentlemen. My name is Francis Quarles, and I am a private detective. Lord Acrise asked me to come here tonight because he had received a threat that this would be his last evening alive. The threat said: “I shall be there, and I shall watch with pleasure as you squirm in agony.” Lord Acrise has been poisoned. It seems certain that the man who made the threat is in this room.’
‘Gliddon,’ a voice said. Snewin had divested himself of the white smock and red nightcap, and now appeared as his customary respectable self.
‘Yes. This letter, and others he had received, were signed with the name of James Gliddon, a man who bore a grudge against Lord Acrise which went back nearly half a century. Gliddon became a professional smuggler and crook. He would now be in his late sixties.’
‘But dammit man, this Gliddon’s not here.’ That was the General, who took off his wig and beard. ‘Lot of tomfoolery.’
In a shamefaced way the other members of the Santa Claus Club removed their facial trappings. Marley took off his chains and the young middle-aged lady discarded her cloak of tinsel.
‘Isn’t he here? But Lord Acrise is dead.’
Snewin coughed. ‘Excuse me, sir, but would it be possible for my colleagues from our local dramatic society to retire? Of course, I can stay myself if you wish. It was Lord Acrise’s idea that we should perform our skit on A Christmas Carol as a seasonable novelty, but—’
‘Everybody must stay in this room until the police arrive. The problem, as you will all realize, is how the poison was administered. All of us ate the same food, drank the same wine. I sat next to Lord Acrise, and I watched as closely as possible to make sure of this. I watched the wine being poured, the turkey being carved and brought to the table, the pudding being cut and passed round. After dinner some of you smoked cigars or cigarettes, but not Acrise.’
‘Just a moment.’ It was Roddy Davis who spoke. ‘This sounds fantastic, but wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who said that when you’d eliminated all other possibilities, even a fantastic one must be right? Supposing that some poison in powder form had been put on to Acrise’s food—through the pepper pots, say—’
Erdington was shaking his head, but Quarles unscrewed both salt and pepper pots and tasted their contents. ‘Salt and pepper. And in any case other people might have used these pots. Hallo, what’s this.’
Acrise’s napkin lay crumpled on his chair, and Quarles had picked it up and was staring at it.
‘It’s Acrise’s napkin,’ Endell said. ‘What’s remarkable about that?’
‘It’s a napkin, but not the one Acrise used. He wiped his mouth half a dozen times on his napkin, and wiped his greasy fingers on it too, when he’d gnawed a turkey bone. He must certainly have left grease marks on it. But look at this napkin.’ He held it up, and they saw that it was spotless. Quarles said softly, ‘The murderer’s mistake.’
‘I’m quite baffled,’ Roddy Davis said. ‘What does it mean?’
Quarles turned to Erdington. ‘Sir James and I agreed that the poison used was probably nitro-benzene. This is deadly as a liquid, but it is also poisonous as a vapour, isn’t that so?’
Erdington nodded. ‘You’ll remember the case of the unfortunate young man who used shoe polish containing nitro-benzene on damp shoes, put them on and wore them, and was killed by the fumes.’
‘Yes. Somebody made sure that Lord Acrise had a napkin that had been soaked in nitro-benzene but was dry enough to use. The same person substituted the proper napkin, the one belonging to the restaurant, after Acrise was dead.’
‘Nobody’s left the room,’ said Roddy Davis.
‘No.’
‘That means the napkin must still be here.’
‘It does.’
‘Then what are we waiting for? I vote that we submit to a search.’
There was a small hubbub of protest and approval. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Quarles said. ‘Only one person here fulfils all the qualifications of the murderer.’
‘James Gliddon?’
‘No. Gliddon is almost certainly dead, as I found out when I made inquiries about him. But the murderer is somebody who knew about Acrise’s relationship with Gliddon, and tried to be clever by writing the letters to lead us along a wrong track. Then the murderer is somebody who
had the opportunity of coming in here before dinner, and who knew exactly where Acrise would be sitting. There is only one person who fulfils all of these qualifications.
‘He removed any possible suspicion from himself, as he thought, by being absent from the dinner table, but he arranged to come in afterwards to exchange the napkins. He probably put the poisoned napkin into the clothes he discarded. As for motive, long-standing hatred might be enough, but he is also somebody who knew that he would benefit handsomely when Acrise died—stop him, will you.’
But the General, with a tackle reminiscent of the days when he had been the best wing three quarter in the country, had already brought to the floor Lord Acrise’s mouselike secretary, Snewin.
Deep and Crisp and Even
Michael Gilbert
For many years, Michael Gilbert (1912–2006) combined a career as a busy Lincoln’s Inn solicitor with that of a leading crime writer. His versatility was astonishing, as he moved from producing highly readable novels and short stories to working on television screenplays and stage plays, and proved himself equally adept in the fields of espionage, adventure story, courtroom drama, and classic whodunit. For good measure, he contributed incisive introductions to a series of classics of mystery and adventure, and edited a book of essays about the genre called Crime in Good Company.
Gilbert created a wide range of recurring lead characters, although his desire to avoid formula meant that none of them appeared in a long series of novels. The policeman Patrick Petrella, son of a Spanish cop and a British woman, combined, in his creator’s words ‘a Spanish temper and a British sense of equity. Such dangerous opposites were capable… of blowing Patrick Petrella clean out of the carefully regulated ranks of the Metropolitan police.’ Fortunately, his career proved long-lasting, and he featured in many short stories, although only two novels. Amazingly, Blood and Judgement and Roller Coaster were published more than thirty years apart, in 1959 and 1993 respectively.
***
Eventually, therefore, Detective Sergeant Petrella spent most of Christmas Day in bed with influenza and a rocketing temperature, and it was well on in the New Year before he reported back for duty. And during the uncomfortable nights, while the disease sweated itself out and the patient slept and woke and slept again, one face seemed to dominate his imagination; a face at once strong and ruthless, touched by a dangerous humour, but unrelieved by any other weakness.
It started a week before Christmas, when Superintendent Haxtell went on seven days’ special leave. Things were quiet enough. Quieter than usual, perhaps, because Chief Superintendent Barstow had at last been moved and his successor not yet appointed. A policeman’s troubles do not all come from below.
The snow lay deep on North London that December. People were busy buying Christmas presents, laying in unusual quantities of food and drink, hanging holly over pictures and mistletoe in the front hall, devising excuses to prevent their in-laws coming to stay, and generally behaving exactly like everybody else all over the civilized world—except Scotland where, as is well known, is celebrated a curious deviationist festival known as Hogmanay.
Crime followed the seasonal pattern. A little shop-lifting in the crowded shops by day. A marked increase in brawling as the public houses stayed open for an extra half-hour to celebrate the season of goodwill; and the ever-present problem of people who went away and left their houses unguarded and at the mercy of housebreakers, who recognize no close season.
In Petrella’s experience, the average Highside householder, on leaving for a few days in the country, omitted to inform the milkman—so that a lengthening line of milk bottles might clearly mark his house for preferential treatment—deposited his valuables handily arranged in unlocked cupboards, and was careful to leave a scullery window ajar.
On Haxtell’s departure, Petrella came nominally under Detective Inspector Finch, at the adjacent Sub-station in Bridge Road, but that excellent officer was busy with his own affairs and happy to leave Petrella alone until he asked for help.
After a day or two of nervous attention to his enlarged command, Petrella felt easier. By Christmas Eve, indeed, he felt relaxed enough to accept an invitation from his old friend, the Reverend Philip Freebone, to join a carol-singing party.
The Reverend Philip Freebone, the curate of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, Highside, was an earnest and energetic young man, and, within the limitations of their different temperaments, the closest thing to a real friend that Petrella possessed. They met at the Boys’ Club, well wrapped in coats, scarves, and gloves, and there they were issued with a carol book apiece, a storm lantern among six, and last-minute instructions.
‘Take your time from me,’ said the Reverend Freebone. ‘All sing the same carol, and stop when I tell you. If they don’t open the door at the end of the first verse we’ll be wasting our time. Maurice’—this to a particularly angelic-looking member of the Harrington family—‘you can hold the collecting-box. Remember to smile when you hold it out, and say Merry Christmas. The bottom’s screwed on, by the way. All ready?’
Two hours later, their collecting-box full and their feet cold, they headed up the driveway of The Firs.
‘There’s a new man here, a Mr. Hazel. I believe he’s a solicitor. His predecessor always used to give us a hot drink and a pound note. I hope this one’ll co-operate. Oh dear! It looks as if he’s out.’
‘It’s just that the curtains are very well drawn. There’s a light on in the dining-room,’ said Petrella. ‘I can see a chink.’
‘We’ll give him Silent Night. That ought to wake him up. Plenty of support from the tenor and bass, please.’
The choir let itself go.
‘One more verse.’
A light went up in the hall, the door opened, and a middle-aged man peered out. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice indeed. I wonder if you’d all care to come inside and have a drink?’
‘Why, how very kind of you,’ said the Reverend Freebone. ‘If you’re sure we’re not trespassing on your hospitality?’
‘Not at all. I’m afraid I’ve only got the one room in use at the moment. But I’m sure we can find something for all of you. Come along, come along.’
He led the way into the dining-room. A big electric fire was burning at one end of it, but it could not have been long switched on, for the room, even on coming into it from the night air, struck cold. However, their host was soon bustling about, opening cupboards and unearthing bottles.
‘I think there’s some ginger beer in the larder,’ he said. ‘Whisky for you, sir, or would you rather have rum? There are some biscuits in that box. No, my mistake. They’re figs. Here are the biscuits.’
Soon the room was warming up, and by the time the second drink had gone round, toes were thawing. Petrella, who was professionally interested in all who came to live in Highside, took unobtrusive stock of Mr. Hazel.
He noted a man of about fifty, large but not flabby, with a shrewd eye and a masterful mouth. He had the look of a lawyer; a lawyer who had seen perhaps, some active service during the war.
‘We really must be getting along now,’ said the Reverend Freebone. ‘It’s been very kind of you.’
‘Not at all,’ said their host. ‘A seasonable duty. Oh—that’s the collecting-box you’re waving at me, is it?’
‘Really, Maurice!’
‘See if you can squeeze this in.’ A pound note was folded and inserted into the box, and then the party were trooping out into the snow.
Back at the church hall the box was opened and the proceeds were counted.
‘Nineteen pounds twelve and sixpence, a ten-franc piece, and an Irish shilling. That’s nearly four pounds better than last year. Well sung, everybody. And well done, Maurice—only I don’t think you should have stuck Mr. Hazel up quite so blatantly. We must have drunk more than a pound’s worth of his whisky as it was.’
‘That
wasn’t Mr. Hazel,’ said Maurice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know Mr. Hazel. He’s on my paper round. He’s older an’ he wears glasses.’
Petrella and the Reverend Freebone looked at each other.
‘Well, whoever he was,’ said the Reverend Freebone, ‘he behaved very handsomely. Put your carol books in that cupboard, and the lanterns go on the shelf. Who do you think—’
But Petrella was already on his way. An uneasy suspicion had crept into his mind. However recently a man had taken over a house, would he really not know where the drinks were, and whether a box contained figs or biscuits?
He found Station Sergeant Rampole on duty in front of a roaring stove.
‘Let’s just have a look at the Notified Away List,’ he said.
Almost the first item that jumped out at him was: A. E. Hazel, The Firs, Crown Road. And in the remarks column. Touring.
Petrella hesitated for a moment, and then, realizing that seconds might count, he banged his hat back on his head and took to his heels. Sergeant Rampole stared after him. He took a fatherly interest in Petrella’s welfare, and suspected that he had been overworking.
***
Petrella covered the distance to the front door of The Firs in two minutes and a half. The trampled footprints of the choir were visible in the snow. But superimposed on them was a new track: the track of car wheels. No light showed now from the chink between the curtains.
Petrella knocked, first softly, then loudly. He also rang the bell. The house remained silent and unresponsive. He walked round towards the back. The garage stood set back to one side of the house, and the fresh car tracks that he had noticed came from it. The doors were a-swing and the garage was empty.
It was all of a piece. A burglar with the nerve to entertain the choir to drinks could certainly use the garage to shelter his car.
Crimson Snow Page 24
