Candied Crime

by Dorte Hummelshoj Jakobsen

  As usual, Mildred was very far from the rock of support and stability a husband could wish for. In between decorating the house from top to toe in tinsel and paper chains, baking twelve sorts of cookies, cooking mince pies and stuffing the turkey, she just sat about, knitting her scratchy sweaters. At least they had no electric Christmas candles. Arnold had put his foot down firmly; he would not tolerate such waste.

  Single-handed, Arnold had marched the aunts off to bed and requested Uncle Nick to leave the premises. And that had been the horrible moment when Uncle had handed him the gift. Arnold nearly wet his pants, but he had a life-long training in disciplining his upper lip and his bladder, so without turning a hair, he had received the large parcel and tucked it safely away underneath a huge pile of hand-knitted sweaters.

  But he had known immediately that this was the point of no return! Uncle Nick had turned into an encumbrance Arnold would have to remove immediately.

  “You´d better leave now, dear Nicholas, or you´ll be late for your round, but do come into the kitchen for a bite before you go.” He had grabbed a moth-eaten sleeve and dragged Uncle off to the kitchen. His hands shook, and he was sorely tempted to strangle Uncle in some of Mildred´s tinsel, but instead he had put a plateful of her nasty mushroom hotchpotch and some of his really advanced homebrewed schnapps in front of the old guy.

  “Now, off you go like a good old Santa.“ He patted Uncle Nick on the shoulder and saw him off, certain that no one could survive a sledge trip in that condition.

  IV After a perfunctory investigation Constable Archibald Primrose gave up solving the murder of St Nicholas. He did the next-best thing by selling the whole story to BBC, CNN and the Danish prime minister who was grateful that now the press would run off to Knavesborough instead of harping on his none-too successful climate conference. “It´s gonna be a cold, cold Christmas” he hummed dejectedly. The prime minister that is, not Constable Primrose, who had pocketed a wad of good, American dollars.

  The world press renounced hordes of demonstrators sitting on their freezing behinds in Copenhagen and gathered around the corpse like bluebottles smelling … well, a corpse. They informed a gawping world that Santa had died in a sensational accident, dropping off his high-flying sleigh into a snowdrift, apparently drunk as a skunk.

  “Christmas cancelled,” cried meter-high headlines. “World Wide Christmas Crisis.” “No Christmas presents.” “Obama promises help if China will chip in.”

  Meanwhile Arnold kept the aunties preoccupied by making sure they had plenty of schnapps on the table so he could sneak down the basement and open Uncle Nick´s Christmas present. How could Mildred´s old uncle know anything about his obsession? As if Arnold had ever admitted to anyone alive that this was his greatest wish. This was sheer Christmas magic!

  On Christmas morning Arnold had finished boarding up the basement windows. He had rigged up a huge table on trestles and built a wonderful model railway for his teeny-weeny model train, and the cute, little station was a perfect replica of the ivy-covered train station of Knavesborough.

  “Arnold, your turkey is ready.”

  “Did you remember that I like plenty of gravy? You can leave it on the threshold. Merry Christmas, Mildred.” He grabbed the plate and shut the door tight before he blew the whistle of the tiny train that was puffing merrily round and round.

  “Arnold. Arnoooold? My Christmas present?” Timidly, Mildred knocked on the door.

  “How can you worry about petty details like that when Christmas has been cancelled worldwide and all the little children must go without? Really, Mildred …”

  Relieved, he heard her slippers shuffle off and bent over his railway. Perhaps he should take a peep at the other presents in Uncle Nick´s sack later?

  7. Spring Cleaning

  “What are you doing?” Our neighbour´s little son suddenly appears in the yard with his collie.

  “I´m just clearing up a bit.” The dog sniffs at me, and I let him lick my hands. If I had known they would pop in, I could have left a titbit for him. “Old junk, you know.”

  “What have you used that one for?” He bends over the chain saw.

  “If you want to throw out really large items, it´s much simpler if you take them apart first and carry them out in pieces.” I show him the last bag before I throw it into the boot of our old estate car.

  ”Where´s Larry?”

  ”Larry? He´s moving out.”

  ”Are you going to move too?” He picks at a scab on his mud-brown knee.

  ”No, I like it here.” I pause for a second to take a look around me. I love the sight of the red farm buildings in the spring sun.

  At the rubbish dump I sort out my boxes and bags carefully before putting them in the proper containers. I wave at a farmer who lives in our neighbourhood.

  I have a feeling the men at the dump are sending me curious looks. Is it still a novelty that women can handle their own rubbish? Or do they think I could have taken a bath and changed my clothes before my trip to the dump? Actually, I remembered protecting the driver´s seat with a plastic bag!

  Well, whatever they think that is hardly my problem. I honk an optimistic salute on my way out the drive. That was the first item on my list. Scrap superfluous luggage. What was point two, now?

  8. Shots

  Annabella Kickinbottom took a sip of the cooking sherry. How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seemed to her all the uses of this world. Her mother had been after her again yesterday, claiming she had a regular drink problem, and this morning the cook had threatened to count the bottles in the pantry. As if that wasn´t enough, the gardener had refused to save her sorry arse again after last week. And if she was fired from this job, there wouldn´t be anyone left in Knavesborough who didn´t know her reputation. She had been so lucky that her new employer, Sir Bellini, had not asked for references or anything.

  Lazily she cocked the butler´s shotgun at the cook´s ugly tomcat that had flung itself like a dead crow on the garden wall. She loathed Mrs McVities´ pretentious food anyway. Tasted like cat crap. She took another sip. If they fired her, she would have to move back home. Not that she minded her mother´s scones or her father´s whisky, but actually living in the middle of the battlefield?

  Overcome by a spirit of perverseness, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. A split second later she saw that she had not been aiming at the mangy cat after all, but at the butler´s moth-eaten wig. Lipton jumped up from his deckchair behind the low wall, shouting terms of abuse even Annabella hadn´t heard before.

  My, she´d better scarper now. What a fortune she was such a lousy shot, she must have missed him by yards.

  She dived into the protective shade of the kitchen, just as Sir Bellini came rushing up the basement stairs, flailing his long arms. Hastily, she hid the shotgun behind the refrigerator.

  ”Who on earth has taken a shot at my best cask of Amontillado,” he thundered. ”The one I´ve been saving for my 60th birthday.”

  Congratulating herself on her cool head, Annabella decided to offer him a sip of his own sherry to mollify him a bit, only to realize it must be the bottle she had stuck behind the fridge.

  9. Trick or Treat

  ”You daren´t …” Their voices taunted me all the way up the drive.

  I knocked on the heavy oak door, and an ancient butler opened the creaking door. ”Whom may I announce?” he lisped.

  ”Get out of my way, you old fart.” With my heart in my mouth I crossed the threshold of Crow House. “Trick or treat,” I shouted.

  “But certainly. Please come this way, young man. I´m Dr So Wat.” A tall guy with slanting eyes materialised out of nowhere. He turned around without waiting to see if I was following him.

  “What´s your problem?”

  Cautiously, I lay down on the leather couch. “When I see a pretty girl, I want to bite her in the neck.”

  “Don´t we all? What´s your real problem?”

  “I´m not sure I believe in all this Halloween
stuff.” Whew, I had said it.

  His intense eyes studied me for a while. “I really don´t think that makes any difference to us. Boy, you are in for a trick.”

  10. Tea for Ten

  Characters:

  Earl Grey - host

  Lady Grey - hostess

  Jasmine - their young daughter

  Lipton - hussar

  Darjeeling - hussar

  Bai Mu Dan - karate teacher

  Lapsang souchong - Chinese ambassador

  Shui Xian - his wife

  Medova - Russian maid

  Pickwick - butler

  Rooibos - gardener

  Assam Khongea - detective inspector

  ”You may pour the tea now, Medova.” Lady Grey nodded at the Russian maid and the butler Pickwick who stood armed with the Chinese teapots and dishes of exotic canapés.

  It was such a scoop that she had roped in the Chinese ambassador, Lapsang Souchong, and his slight little wife, Shui Xian, during their first week in London. The ambassador couple were the stars, but the two young hussars, Darjeeling and Lipton, also gave lustre to the company in their dazzling uniforms. She was certain they both intended to propose to Jasmine, and she couldn´t wait to hear whom her husband, Earl Grey, preferred. Jasmine was so stubborn, she would probably insist on making her own choice, but surely that would just be a question of withholding her allowance for a week or two.

  “Sushi fishi takey waiki” Lady Grey was genuinely proud of her talent for languages and never missed a chance to practice. She pointed to the canapés, but the tiny Chinese just looked confused. Bai Mu Dan, who was sitting opposite her, crammed most of his napkin into his mouth, but that was probably some Asian custom. She must remember to ask him.

  The guests chatted merrily, especially the young, until Lipton suddenly started panting and rattling, and soon after Darjeeling got up and tried to get away from the table, holding his starched napkin to his mouth.

  Earl Grey rose and turned towards his wife. “Hibiscus dear, what have you trotted out for us this time?” He pushed his plate away while he turned his head from one sick guest to the other like an engaged tennis spectator.

  “Medova, what did you put in the tea?” Lady Grey was not proud of her childhood in the general teashop, but she had developed a sound survival instinct.

  “Milady, an individual wants to speak to you.” Pickwick´s classic profile revealed nothing, and that was never a good sign.

  “Inspector Assam Khongea at your service, Milady.” The tweed jacket bowed slightly. “I hear you have had a couple of deaths this afternoon.”

  “You are in good time, my good man, but perhaps you are in the cavalry?” Earl Grey stood by his wife. “You can still observe the dying twitches.”

  Inspector Khongea bent over the jerking hussars, his nostrils quivering. “Hm. Undoubtedly a severe case of tannic acid.”

  Medova broke into a wail. “Me never put nothing in the teapot.”

  ”Medova is right, Inspector. May I speak to you in private?” Jasmine´s metre long eyelashes fluttered like butterflies, and a drooling Inspector Khongea followed her into the library.

  “I really don´t know how to say this. It is so embarrassing,” she sobbed. “But I do fear it is our gardener, Rooibos, who has poisoned the two hussars by adding weed killer to the tea. You see...” She put a delicate hand on the worn tweed sleeve. “I just tried to be kind, but I fear he may have misunderstood something I said and...”

  “You mean that he was captivated by your irresistible beauty and tried to get rid of his rivals?” Khongea leaned forward to comfort her while he threw a discreet look down her low-cut dress. Whoops, he´d better keep his head.

  The beauty nodded unhappily while a single tear stole down her alabaster cheek. “I am so relieved that you understand me.”

  “But no, it was nothing like that!” An agitated Medova swept into the library. “She there is lying through her teeth. She is so naughty, that one. She say Rooibos weedkills them hussies while she tell him do it! She cuddle gardener on back stair and afterward she squeeze Bai Mu Dan in the hall.” She raised an accusatory finger towards the unhappy Jasmine.

  “Foreign servants!” Inspector Khongea shook his head sadly. He snapped his fingers, and two uniformed men stood ready. “Take the gardener into custody, and you´d better bring miss Medova here in for interrogation. My instinct tells me she is involved in the conspiracy.”

  “Now you need not fear any more, miss Grey. The police are here to protect you.” He patted her pale cheek and hastened out the door.

  “Finally alone, my love!” Bai Mu Dan crept out from the antique tapestry and held her in his muscular arms.

  “But my parents?” Wondering, she looked around her.

  ”Well, there was plenty of tea in that pot.”

  11. Toffee´s Christmas

  I When Toffee Brown moved to Knavesborough, no one noticed her the first few weeks. She could just as well have been a ghost. Perhaps she was? No, surely she would have noticed. She tried to poke a finger through her own body and wailed loudly. These country bumpkins just chose to ignore her! How inconsiderate!

  She, however, noticed her neighbour in the adjacent house. The blind man in the wheelchair with the afghan coverlet and the blue-eyed cat constantly on his lap. She especially noticed that each time they passed each other on the pavement, the cat ignored her, while the man seemed to be following her with his eyes, but of course that was impossible. Toffee, you are losing it, she whispered to herself.

  Every day she made up her face as carefully as always, she did her white hair and put on her tailored, pink coat before she went out to walk Tweedledee, her snow white Pekinese. But invariably, her new neighbours would pay more attention to Tweedle than to herself. Especially the cat which glared as if it wanted to pounce on her poor little doggie. And she had a creepy feeling that its blind owner was laughing at her.

  Whenever she passed a shop window, she checked her elegant figure among the glittering Christmas decorations and made sure her beret sat at just the right angle. Nothing wrong with her, as far as she could see.

  “Trimming our feathers, are we?”

  Toffee jumped, fearing she would have a heart attack.

  “Didn´t mean to scare you, Ms Brown. I am Agatha Mistletoe, your new neighbour. Jim Partridge´s nurse.” Miss Mistletoe´s creased face cracked up in a broad smile much like the vigilant cat´s.

  “Oh, the gentleman in the wheelchair?” Toffee was not sure he was what she´d consider a real gentleman, but she never forgot her manners.

  “Sure.” Miss Mistletoe barked. “Mr Partridge is our local antique dealer. Old knick-knacks are his speciality.” She tilted her head and sized Toffee up.

  “Have a good day, Miss Thistlemoe.” Toffee spun around and dragged Tweedledee back so fast his short legs hardly touched the pavement, wishing she had never heard about Knavesborough.

  II A few days later Rhapsody and Psalmonella Gershwin, the vicar´s daughters, came across the newcomer while shopping in the local grocery.

  “Isn´t that Miss Brown?” Psalmonella nudged her sister.

  “No, it can´t… Dear me, I´m afraid you´re right. Do you think she was caught up in a duel between a couple of graffiti painters?” Rhapsody bit her lip to keep herself from laughing out loud. Her first impression of Toffee Brown had been a non-descript granny who suited her name admirably.

  Unfortunately, Miss Brown ambushed them with her trolley before Rhapsody could gain control of her wicked grin. Resolutely, she bent down to pat the chubby little dog before she had to face its owner. Toffee´s fluffy, white curls had been coloured pink and green like a peppermint cane.

  “Hello, Tweedledee. Good dog.”

  Psalmonella was the better actress. “How nice to meet you, Miss Brown. I hope you are settling down in Knavesborough?”

  “Well, it´s a bit quiet up here, isn´t it? When one is used to the bright city lights…” Toffee Brown muttered.

  “So yo
u lived in a city before you came here?”

  “I did indeed. In the limelight, you might say.” She leaned forward, whispering theatrically.

  “In the limelight, even. Then I understand that we must seem a bit trivial for your taste,” Rhapsody smiled.

  “You see; Toffee Brown is not my real name. It´s a pseudonym.” Toffee stepped so close to the sisters that they could inhale her latest cup of coffee and screwed up her blue eyes. Nice eyes, actually, if she hadn´t stuck so much goo around them.

  Rhapsody took pity on her. “A pseudonym. But why, Miss Brown?”

  “I write novels! Romances! World-famous bestsellers. But I came here because I needed a rest. “

  “I see. I´m sure you have come to the right place, then. Plenty of rest and fresh air and all.” Psalmonella patted her shoulder and stretched out a hand to put a few tins of baked beans into her trolley.

  Behind them, the bestseller writer kicked a sack of dog food viciously.

  III Toffee´s big chance came when she received an invitation to Sir Bellini´s pre-Christmas Party.

  She had been itching to meet the world-famous violinist, Knavesborough´s only celebrity. Apart from herself, that was. She donned her best silk frock, pink with embroidered silver flowers, and a fabulous hat with ostrich feathers that hid most of her hair. The new hairdo might not have been her most brilliant idea.

  She had not expected quite so large a turnout at Netherdale Manor, and when it dawned upon her that all and sundry had received an invitation, she ground her teeth. Drinking eggnog with the hoi polloi of Yorkshire when she could have…

  “In the pink, Miss Brown?” The officious nurse intercepted her arm just as she was about to approach her host.