Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  Even now she refused to give way to panic. She decided to rest until her strength came back and she could, by exercising it, loosen her bonds. But her strength did not come back. It ebbed as the night advanced and the fire died and the room grew cold and colder. For the first time she regretted not accepting May’s suggestion that she should spend Christmas with her, occupying the flat above in place of Dorothy. Between them they could have defeated those little monsters. Or she could herself have gone to Leatherhead. She was insured for burglary.

  She regretted those things that might have saved her, but she did not regret the gamble of refusing them. She recognized now that the gamble was lost. It had to be lost in the end, but she would have chosen a more dignified finish than this would be.

  She cried a little in her weakness and the pain she now suffered in her wrists and ankles and back. But the tears ran down her nose and blocked it, which stopped her breathing and made her choke. She stopped crying, resigned herself, prayed a little, considered one or two sins she had never forgotten but on whose account she had never felt remorse until now. Later on she lapsed into semiconsciousness, a half-dream world of past scenes and present cares, of her mother, resplendent in low-cut green chiffon and diamonds, the diamond brooch and bracelet now decorating the tree across the room. Of Bobbie, in a fever, plagued by itching spots, of Dorothy as a little girl, blotched with measles.

  Towards morning, unable any longer to breathe properly, exhausted by pain, hunger, and cold, Mrs. Fairlands died.

  ***

  The milkman came along the road early on Christmas morning, anxious to finish his round and get back to his family. At Mrs. Fairlands’s door he stopped. There were no milk bottles standing outside and no notice. He had seen her in person the day before when she had explained that her daughter and family were not coming this year so she would only need her usual pint that day.

  ‘But I’ll put out the bottles and the ticket for tomorrow as usual,’ she had said.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to order now, madam?’ he had asked, thinking it would save her trouble.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she had answered. ‘I prefer to decide in the evening, when I see what milk I have left.’

  But there were no bottles and no ticket and she was a very, very old lady and had had this disappointment over her family not coming.

  The milkman looked at the door and then at the windows. It was still dark, and the light shone clearly behind the closed curtains. He had seen it when he went in through the gate but had thought nothing of it, being intent on his job. Besides, there were lights on in a good many houses and the squeals of delighted children finding Christmas stockings bulging on the posts of their beds. But here, he reminded himself, there were no children.

  He tapped on the window and listened. There was no movement in the house. Perhaps she’d forgotten, being practically senile. He left a pint bottle on the doorstep. But passing a constable on a scooter at the end of the road, he stopped to signal to him and told him about Mrs. Fairlands. ‘Know ’oo I mean?’ he asked.

  The constable nodded and thanked the milkman. No harm in making sure. He was pretty well browned off—nothing doing—empty streets—not a hooligan in sight—layabouts mostly drunk in the cells after last night’s parties—villains all at the holiday resorts, casing jobs.

  He left the scooter at the kerb and tried to rouse Mrs. Fairlands. He did not succeed, so his anxiety grew. All the lights were on in the flat, front and back as far as he could make out. All her lights. The other flats were in total darkness. People away. She must have had a stroke or actually croaked, he thought. He rode on to the nearest telephone box.

  The local police station sent a sergeant and another constable to join the man on the beat. Together they managed to open the kitchen window at the back, and when they saw the tray with a meal prepared but untouched, one of them climbed in. He found Mrs. Fairlands as the thieves had left her. There was no doubt at all what had happened.

  ‘Ambulance,’ said the sergeant briefly. ‘Get the super first, though. We’ll be wanting the whole works.’

  ‘The phone’s gone,’ the constable said. ‘Pulled out.’

  ‘Bastard! Leave her like this when she couldn’t phone anyway and wouldn’t be up to leaving the house till he’d had plenty time to make six getaways. Bloody bastard!’

  ‘Wonder how much he got?’

  ‘Damn all, I should think. They don’t keep their savings in the mattress up this way.’

  The constable on the scooter rode off to report, and before long, routine investigations were well under way. The doctor discovered no outward injuries and decided that death was probably due to shock, cold, and exhaustion, taking into account the victim’s obviously advanced age. Detective-Inspector Brooks of the divisional CID found plenty of papers in the bureau to give him all the information he needed about Mrs. Fairlands’s financial position, her recent activities, and her nearest relations. Leaving the sergeant in charge at the flat while the experts in the various branches were at work, he went back to the local station to get in touch with Mrs. Fairlands’s daughter, Dorothy Evans.

  In Devonshire the news was received with horror, indignation, and remorse. In trying to do the best for her mother by not exposing her to possible infection, Mrs. Evans felt she had brought about her death.

  ‘You can’t think of it like that,’ her husband Hugh protested, trying to stem the bitter tears. ‘If she’d come down, she might have had an accident on the way or got pneumonia or something. Quite apart from shingles.’

  ‘But she was all alone! That’s what’s so frightful!’

  ‘And it wasn’t your fault. She could have had what’s-her-name—Miss Bolton, the old girl who lives at Leatherhead.’

  ‘I thought May Bolton was going to have her. But you couldn’t make Mother do a thing she hadn’t thought of herself.’

  ‘Again, that wasn’t your fault, was it?’

  It occurred to him that his wife had inherited to some extent this characteristic of his mother-in-law, but this was no time to remind her of it.

  ‘You’ll go up at once, I suppose?’ he said when she was a little calmer.

  ‘How can I?’ The tears began to fall again. ‘Christmas Day and Bobbie’s temperature still up and his spots itching like mad. Could you cope with all that?’

  ‘I’d try,’ he said. ‘You know I’d do anything.’

  ‘Of course you would, darling.’ She was genuinely grateful for the happiness of her married life and at this moment of self-reproach prepared to give him most of the credit for it. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I could face it. There’d be identification, wouldn’t there? And hearing detail—’ She shuddered, covering her face.

  ‘Okay. I’ll go up,’ Hugh told her. He really preferred this arrangement. ‘I’ll take the car in to Exeter and get the first through train there is. It’s very early. Apparently her milkman made the discovery.’

  So Hugh Evans reached the flat in the early afternoon to find a constable on duty at the door and the house locked up. He was directed to the police station, where Inspector Brooks was waiting for him.

  ‘My wife was too upset to come alone,’ he explained, ‘and we couldn’t leave the family on their own. They’ve all got chicken pox; the youngest’s quite bad with it today.’

  He went on to explain all the reasons why Mrs. Fairlands had been alone in the flat.

  ‘Quite,’ said Brooks, who had a difficult mother-in-law himself and was inclined to be sympathetic. ‘Quite. Nothing to stop her going to an hotel here in London over the holiday, was there?’

  ‘Nothing at all. She could easily afford it. She isn’t—wasn’t—what you call rich, but she’d reached the age when she really couldn’t spend much.’

  This led to a full description of Mrs. Fairlands’s circumstances, which finished with Hugh pulling out a list, hastily written by Dorothy
before he left home, of all the valuables she could remember that were still in Mrs. Fairlands’s possession.

  ‘Jewellery,’ said the inspector thoughtfully. ‘Now where would she keep that?’

  ‘Doesn’t it say? In her bedroom, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, yes. A jewel box, containing—yes. Well, Mr. Evans, there was no jewel box in the flat when we searched it.’

  ‘Obviously the thief took it, then. About the only thing worth taking. She wouldn’t have much cash there. She took it from the bank in weekly amounts. I know that.’

  There was very little more help he could give, so Inspector Brooks took him to the mortuary where Mrs. Fairlands now lay. And after the identification, which Hugh found pitiable but not otherwise distressing, they went together to the flat.

  ‘In case you can help us to note any more objects of value you find are missing,’ Brooks explained.

  The rooms were in the same state in which they had been found. Hugh found this more shocking, more disturbing, than the colourless, peaceful face of the very old woman who had never been close to him, who had never shown a warm affection for any of them, though with her unusual vitality she must in her youth have been capable of passion.

  He went from room to room and back again. He stopped beside the bureau. ‘I was thinking, on the way up,’ he said diffidently. ‘Her solicitor—that sort of thing. Insurances. I ought—can I have a look through this lot?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Inspector Brooks answered politely. ‘I’ve had a look myself. You see, we aren’t quite clear about motive.’

  ‘Not—But wasn’t it a burglar? A brutal, thieving thug?’

  ‘There is no sign whatever of breaking and entering. It appears that Mrs. Fairlands let the murderer in herself.’

  ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it? An old lady, feeling lonely perhaps. The doorbell rings. She thinks a friend has called to visit her. She goes and opens it. It’s always happening.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. It could have happened that way. Or a tramp asking for money—Christmas—’

  ‘Tramps don’t usually leave it as late as Christmas Eve. Generally smash a window and get put inside a day or two earlier.’

  ‘What worries you, then?’

  ‘Just in case she had someone after her. Poor relation. Anyone who had it in for her, if she knew something damaging about him. Faked the burglary.’

  ‘But he seems to have taken her jewel box, and according to my wife, it was worth taking.’

  ‘Quite. We shall want a full description of the pieces, sir.’

  ‘She’ll make it out for you. Or it may have been insured separately.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Go ahead, though, Mr. Evans. I’ll send my sergeant in, and he’ll bring you back to the station with any essential papers you need for Mrs. Fairlands’s solicitor.’

  Hugh worked at the papers for half an hour and then decided he had all the information he wanted. No steps of any kind need, or indeed could, be taken until the day after tomorrow, he knew. The solicitor could not begin to wind up Mrs. Fairlands’s affairs for some time. Even the date of the inquest had not been fixed and would probably have to be adjourned.

  Before leaving the flat, Hugh looked round the rooms once more, taking the sergeant with him. They paused before the mantelpiece, untouched by the thieves, a poignant reminder of the life so abruptly ended. Hugh looked at the cards and then glanced at the Christmas tree.

  ‘Poor old thing!’ he said. ‘We never thought she’d go like this. We ought all to have been here today. She always decorated a tree for us—’ He broke off, genuinely moved for the first time.

  ‘So I understand,’ the sergeant said gruffly, sharing the wave of sentiment.

  ‘My wife—I wonder—D’you think it’d be in order to get rid of it?’

  ‘The tree, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Put it out at the back somewhere. Less upsetting—Mrs. Evans will be coming up the day after tomorrow. By that time the dustmen may have called.’

  ‘I understand. I don’t see any harm—’

  ‘Right.’

  Hurrying, in case the sergeant should change his mind, Hugh took up the bowl, and turning his face away to spare it from being pricked by the pine needles, he carried it out to the back of the house where he stood it beside the row of three dustbins. At any rate, he thought, going back to join the sergeant, Dorothy would be spared the feelings that overcame him so unexpectedly.

  He was not altogether right in this. Mrs. Evans travelled to London on the day after Boxing Day. The inquest opened on this day, with a jury. Evidence was given of the finding of the body. Medical evidence gave the cause of death as cold and exhaustion and bronchial edema from partial suffocation by a plaster gag. The verdict was murder by a person or persons unknown.

  After the inquest, Mrs. Fairlands’s solicitor, who had supported Mrs. Evans during the ordeal in court, went with her to the flat. They arrived just as the municipal dust cart was beginning to move away. One of the older dustmen came up to them.

  ‘You for the old lady they did Christmas Eve?’ he asked, with some hesitation.

  ‘I’m her daughter,’ Dorothy said, her eyes filling again, as they still did all too readily.

  ‘What d’you want?’ asked the solicitor, who was anxious to get back to his office.

  ‘No offence,’ said the man, ignoring him and keeping his eyes on Dorothy’s face. ‘It’s like this ’ere, see. They put a Christmas tree outside, by the bins, see. Decorated. We didn’t like to take it, seeing it’s not exactly rubbish and her gone and that. Nobody about we could ask—’

  Dorothy understood. The Christmas tree. Hugh’s doing, obviously. Sweet of him.

  ‘Of course you must have it, if it’s any use to you now, so late. Have you got children?’

  ‘Three, ma’am. Two young ’uns. I arsked the other chaps. They don’t want it. They said to leave it.’

  ‘No, you take it,’ Dorothy told him. ‘I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to be reminded—’

  ‘Thanks a lot, dear,’ the dustman said, gravely sympathetic, walking back round the house.

  The solicitor took the door key from Dorothy and let her in, so she did not see the tree as the dustman emerged with it held carefully before him.

  ***

  In his home that evening the tree was greeted with a mixture of joy and derision.

  ‘As if I ’adn’t enough to clear up yesterday and the day before,’ his wife complained, half angry, half laughing. ‘Where’d you get it, anyway?’

  When he had finished telling her, the two children, who had listened, crept away to play with the new glittering toy. And before long Mavis, the youngest, found the brooch pinned to the star. She unfastened it carefully and held it in her hand, turning it this way and that to catch the light.

  But not for long. Her brother Ernie, two years older, soon snatched it. Mavis went for him, and he ran, making for the front door to escape into the street where Mavis was forbidden to play. Though she seldom obeyed the rule, on this occasion she used it to make loud protest, setting up a howl that brought her mother to the door of the kitchen.

  But Ernie had not escaped with his prize. His elder brother Ron was on the point of entering, and when Ernie flung wide the door, Ron pushed in, shoving his little brother back.

  ‘’E’s nicked my star,’ Mavis wailed. ‘Make ’im give me back, Ron. It’s mine. Off the tree.’

  Ron took Ernie by the back of his collar and swung him round.

  ‘Give!’ he said firmly. Ernie clenched his right fist, betraying himself. Ron took his arm, bent his hand over forwards, and, as the brooch fell to the floor, stooped to pick it up. Ernie was now in tears.

  ‘Where’d ’e get it?’ Ron asked over the child’s doubled-up, weeping form.

  ‘The tree,’ Mavis repeated,
‘I found it. On the star—on the tree.’

  ‘Wot the ’ell d’she mean?’ Ron asked, exasperated.

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ their mother cried fiercely from the kitchen where she had retreated. ‘Ron, come on in to your tea. Late as usual. Why you never—’

  ‘Okay, Mum,’ the boy said, unrepentant. ‘I never—’

  He sat down, looking at the sparkling object in his hand.

  ‘What’d Mavis mean about a tree?’

  ‘Christmas tree. Dad brought it in. I’ve a good mind to put it on the fire. Nothing but argument since ’e fetched it.’

  ‘It’s pretty,’ Ron said, meaning the brooch in his hand. ‘Dress jewellery, they calls it.’ He slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘That’s mine,’ Mavis insisted. ‘I found it pinned on that star on the tree. You give it back, Ron.’

  ‘Leave ’im alone,’ their mother said, smacking away the reaching hands. ‘Go and play with your blasted tree. Dad didn’t ought t’ave brought it. Ought t’ave ’ad more sense—’

  Ron sat quietly, eating his kipper and drinking his tea. When he had finished, he stacked his crockery in the sink, went upstairs, changed his shirt, put a pair of shiny dancing shoes in the pockets of his mackintosh, and went off to the club where his current girlfriend, Sally, fifteen like himself, attending the same comprehensive school, was waiting for him.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said over her shoulder, not leaving the group of her girlfriends.

  ‘I’ve ’eard that before tonight. Mum was creating. Not my fault if Mr. Pope wants to see me about exam papers.’

  ‘You’re never taking G.C.E.?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Coo! ’Oo started that lark?’

  ‘Mr. Pope. I just told you. D’you want to dance or don’t you?’

  She did and she knew Ron was not one to wait indefinitely. So she joined him, and together they went to the main hall where dancing was in progress, with a band formed by club members.