Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

  Boswell did not try the handle or even knock. He merely ran his forefinger lightly under the upper lip of the bottom panel. After a moment the door was opened by a gross figure who stood there silently, making no effort to let him in.

  ‘All well, Joe?’ asked Boswell.

  The Fat Boy nodded.

  ‘Is Colley in there with you?’

  Again the nod.

  ‘Right. Send him up to my room with Miss Arabella Allen’s file, will you? Right away.’

  He turned, then stopped.

  ‘For God’s sake, cheer up, Joe. You’re supposed to add local colour, not bloody gloom! Don’t forget. I want that file as quickly as possible.’

  This time he moved off without hesitation. Behind him the door swung silently to.

  Down by the pond, the fun was in full swing. Suzie Leclerc, gorgeous in a figure-hugging ski-suit, span and glided in a series of graceful loops and turns. Frau Himmelstor, grosser than ever in a totally style-less fur coat, moved doggedly round the outermost circle of the ice, content simply to move forward but displaying a competence which many of the others envied.

  A brazier filled with hot coals had been set up by the pond, and on the metal sheet lying on top of it chestnuts cracked and popped. Suzie hopped elegantly on to the bank and teetered on her skates to the brazier, balancing herself when she reached it against the shoulder of the sturdy countryman in charge of the chestnuts.

  ‘Warm work, missus,’ he said with a grin. ‘What’s your pleasure? Chestnut? Or a drop of the master’s punch?’

  ‘Both please.’

  The man bent down to the small urn of rich brown liquid which rested against the brazier, and Suzie, deprived of her support, nearly slipped.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stephen Swinburne, one of the only three men with the party.

  ‘Allo, Monsieur Swinburne. May I lean on you while I stand? I wish to skate again soon, so I have retained the skates.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply but transferred her weight to his shoulder, pinning his arm to his side with her breasts. He looked at her warily but made no objection.

  ‘This is good, is it not?’ said Suzie, with a gesture that included the pond, the weather, the landscape and the punch which was being placed in her hand.

  ‘Yes.’ said Stephen. ‘It’s funny, though. I would have thought there’d have been more men.’

  Suzie eyed him closely.

  ‘You do not feel safe with so many women?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ protested Stephen.

  ‘Or are you, what is it they say? Gay? No,’ she said, pressing herself a little harder against him. ‘You do not feel gay.’

  Stephen ignored the comment.

  ‘I just meant that it’s usually the men who are active and hearty while the women like a cosy fireside chat.’

  ‘Active and hearty? Active, yes. But I am not hearty! Some of the others, perhaps yes.’

  She glanced to where a little gaggle of middle-aged women were being girlishly jolly as one of Wardle’s young men tried to initiate them into the mysteries of skating. He was using Frau Himmelstor as an object lesson as she went sailing majestically by.

  ‘And her, the German, she is not hearty. They are not a race with much of heart.’

  ‘Frau Cow, you mean?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Who? Ah yes! Frau Cow. That is good!’

  ‘It’s not original,’ confessed the youth. ‘I overheard Mr. Boswell say it after dinner. But the husband, I’ve christened him Herr Bear. That’s original.’

  ‘Good also,’ murmured Suzie. ‘Mr. Boswell. An interesting man, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very. I’ve read some of his books. He’s a fine scholar.’

  ‘I was not thinking of his books.’

  ‘Where is Monsieur Leclerc this afternoon?’ asked Stephen suddenly.

  The question never got answered. Suddenly, as though with Teutonic thoroughness she had been keeping an exact check of her revolutions and had reached the appointed number, Frau Cow turned sharply and headed across the centre of the pond towards the bank where the brazier stood. The ice creaked protestingly, then, almost precisely in the middle, it let out a grating, crackling shriek; cracks zig-zagged frantic ally away from the huge woman, jagged panes of ice rose momentarily into the air and she sank slowly, steadily, into the water until it reached her chest. Everyone else had scrambled on to the bank at the first sound of disaster. There were one or two cries of dismay, but these died quickly away in the face of the German woman’s own apparent indifference to the situation. For a long moment everyone stared in silence at the bright circle of ice from the centre of which Frau Himmelstor, seemingly oblivious to the bitterly cold water lapping her bosom, stared stolidly back. Finally she spoke, not loud nor in agitation, but clearly, rather commandingly.

  ‘Zur Hilfe, bitte,’ she said.

  Such an unpleasant eventuality had not, it seemed, been ignored. The chestnut-roaster and the skating instructor rapidly manoeuvred into position over the ice two long ladders which were lying amongst some nearby trees. Nimbly they made their way out over them to the sunk woman and hauled her out. The ice creaked and groaned threateningly, but no more cracks appeared and the woman was soon being helped to the safety of the bank.

  Here there was some debate as to what was best to do with her—remove her sodden clothing here, subjecting her to the freezing air, or get her back to the house as quickly as possible.

  Frau Cow herself said nothing, drank very rapidly about a pint of the hot punch, chewed a couple of chestnuts, then brought the debate to a close by marching determinedly away towards Dingley Dell.

  Nearly everybody followed and soon Suzie and Stephen were left alone by the brazier.

  ‘Disasters are like omelettes,’ opined Suzie, looking after the departing crowd. ‘Best served up fresh.’

  ‘It’s spoiled the skating,’ said Stephen.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Suzie.

  She leaned all her weight on the youth’s shoulder and began taking off her skates.

  ‘What are we to do instead?’ she asked softly, dropping the first skate to the ground.

  ‘I thought I might go for a walk,’ he said uncertainly.

  Suzie laughed and released the other skate.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘But first, let us see if Frau Cow has left us any punch. Then we shall try how well you walk, mon ami!’

  There was trouble at the station too. The last train of the day had gone leaving two passengers for the Dingley Dell coach, a woman in her late thirties and an elderly man whom she addressed as ‘uncle’ and who obviously felt his age and relationship entitled him to be embarrassingly irritated.

  ‘Come along, come along,’ he said, thrusting his head out of the coach window and brandishing at the driver the rough-hewn oak stick on which he leaned heavily as he walked. ‘I don’t particularly care to travel in this archaic vehicle and the less time I have to spend in it, the better.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the driver. ‘There should have been another passenger. A Mr. Bennett. You didn’t see anything of him, did you?’

  ‘How should I know?’ said the old man testily. ‘The train was full of people, most of them very sensibly making their way home for Christmas instead of to some cranky, gimmicky hotel.’

  ‘Uncle, please!’ said the woman.

  ‘He was middle-aged, small, dark-haired, with a moustache,’ said the driver, consulting the sheaf of papers he had in his hand.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ said the woman. ‘And I’m sure he didn’t get off.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Hislop,’ said the driver. ‘Must have missed the train.’

  ‘Best be moving, Alf,’ said the guard. ‘Want to use the daylight, don’t you?’

  They glanced up at the rapidly declining sun. Night came early and quickly at this time of year and though it was still mid-afternoon, dusk was not far away. To the north there was an ominous build-up of dark grey cloud obscuring the pale blue of the winter
sky. Whatever the clouds carried was too far away to bother them on their journey back, but they were already nibbling at the fringes of the sun.

  ‘Right, let’s be off,’ said the driver, climbing up on his box. The guard made sure the doors were fast, hauled himself up behind and set his key-bugle to his lips. But before he could play his usual fanfare there was an interruption.

  ‘Hey! Wait for me!’

  From behind the small cluster of buildings which comprised the small unmanned station a man had appeared. He ran towards the coach, waving. He was tall, fair-haired, with a fresh, open face. He wore a sheepskin jacket and carried a large tartan grip. And he was smiling widely.

  ‘You’re for Dingley Dell? You got to be with this outfit Hey, I like it,’ he said with a soft American accent.

  He walked round the coach, smiling up at the guard and driver. His smile was not returned.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Well, you can take me to the hotel, I guess,’ said the man.

  ‘Do you have a reservation, Mr.—er…?’

  ‘Sawyer. Why yes. In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What manner of speaking would that be, sir?’ asked the driver. ‘You don’t seem to appear on my list anywhere.’

  ‘I can explain that,’ said the American, opening the coach door.

  ‘What on earth’s happening now?’ demanded the old man.

  The driver climbed down and looked enquiringly at the American, who smiled again.

  ‘You mean you would like me to explain now? And if I don’t satisfy you, what then? You leave me stuck here?’

  He waved round at the deserted scene.

  ‘There’s a village just around that comer, sir,’ said the driver. ‘Now if you don’t mind…’

  ‘OΚ. This guy I know, now he did have a reservation, but something’s come up and he can’t make it. So I thought as long as I’m footloose and with nowhere special to go at Christmas, I might as well try a slice of the old-fashioned kind of English hospitality. Which is what I’m getting now?’

  ‘Your friend’s name?’ pursued the driver stolidly.

  ‘Bennett,’ said Sawyer. ‘Peter Bennett.’

  The driver looked up at the guard, who shrugged non-committally.

  ‘When is this contraption going to move?’ demanded the old man.

  ‘It is getting rather cold,’ said Mrs. Hislop.

  ‘Right, sir,’ said the driver, making up his mind. ‘You’d better hop in. I’ll put your grip on the roof.’

  ‘That’s OK, driver. I’ll hang on to it,’ said Sawyer, stepping into the coach. ‘Don’t you stop for any Indians!’

  ‘All snug? Then off we go!’

  He shook out the reins; the horses, impatient of standing waiting in the cold, bounded forward eagerly, the guard released the butt of the Walther PPK which his hand had been resting on for the past two minutes and once more took up his bugle.

  The notes stretched poignantly away behind him as the coach rattled forward into the gathering dusk.

  They fell gently on the ears of the sole inhabitant of the little ticket office which British Rail’s penny-pinching frugality had closed down. Passengers for the hotel were privileged to be dropped here at all. Someone somewhere must have influence.

  The man in the office, whose name was, and had been for many years, solely Jimmy, was unsurprised and unimpressed by privilege. He looked with pleasure at the gift of two rabbits and a pheasant which had just been presented to him. It had been the act of a gentleman, though there had been a moment when some kind of most ungentlemanly action had seemed possible. But it had passed.

  He bent down and pulled up a loose floorboard. He had been right, he thought, scratching his free-sprouting ginger beard. Someone had moved it.

  From the depths he pulled up a waterproof jacket. It felt heavy. It took him a few seconds to find the shotgun barrel. He let it drop back into the pocket.

  Quickly but carefully he replaced the jacket under the floor. Privilege he didn’t given a rap for. But with some people and matters he did not care to interfere.

  Besides he owed something for the rabbits and pheasant. He wrapped them up carefully in newspaper, tucked them under his ragged coat and went off down the road, whistling.

  It was nice some people remembered it was Christmas

  4

  It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am.

  MR. SAMUEL PICKWICK

  Arabella knew she was being watched.

  She had felt a vague uneasiness since re-entering her room after her walk, but had been unable to pin it down. In the end she made up her mind it was merely the effect of the odd collection of small incidents which seemed to have taken place since her arrival, plus the fatigue of the journey and her walk. A pleasant soak in a hot bath, she decided, was the answer. But first she picked up the house telephone, an anachronism which even the brass-mounted receiver could not conceal.

  ‘Reception,’ said a bland, featureless voice. Probably male.

  ‘Arabella Allen here,’ she said. ‘I was wondering, the man who got hurt in the fall, how is he?’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘Oh, he’s very well, thank you, Miss Allen.’

  ‘Good. I was quite concerned. Would he like a visitor, do you think? If he’s in bed, he’ll probably be bored to tears and I’m sure the staff must be very busy at the moment.’

  Another pause.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Miss Allen, but in fact he’s no longer here. Mr. Wardle insisted that Custer, that’s his name, should be driven to our nearest hospital for a thorough check-up. You can’t be too careful, can you?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. Thank you,’ said Arabella, re-placing the receiver. She stood by the table for a moment, then with a shake of her head she started getting undressed.

  By the time she had stripped down to her bra and pants, she knew for certain she was being watched. A year in Africa, living rough, had familiarised her with the feeling of being under constant scrutiny. No one could live and move in the bush without being aware of dozens of pairs of unseen eyes watching at any given moment. Curious, wary, indifferent, the gazes touched you and moved on, or you moved on. You became used to them. But when the scrutiny was more intense, when you and you alone were the object of it, when it was purposeful, assessing, or menacing, you recognised its touch as something out of the ordinary.

  This was what Arabella felt now. The only question was, where was the watcher?

  Clearly it was the act of undressing which had made his vibrations so strongly to be felt. She went into the bathroom and turned on the water. When she returned to the bedroom she paused in the door and unhooked her bra, trying to catch the further intensifying of feeling this would almost certainly cause.

  The window seemed the obvious viewpoint, but it looked out on to the hillside up which she and Boswell had climbed and she knew there was no cover for a watcher there. In any case, it felt nearer, stronger than that.

  She tossed the bra on to the bed, a casual movement, but her eyes were triangulating every square inch of the room and her mind was working furiously to check and correlate data. Notions of two-way mirrors, eyeholes in paintings and secret passages behind the wainscotting were considered and discarded.

  There was something frightening but at the same time rather exciting in this blind-man’s-buff striptease, she thought, as she lay back on the bed and began to ease off her pants.

  Then she had it. In the ceiling panels, above the ornate pseudo-candelabra, a knot-hole that wasn’t. Nothing so startling as an actual eye peering whitely down at her, in fact no real evidence at all. But she knew. And, knowing now where the watcher was, there was no need to give him the pleasure of the full strip-show.

  Pants resting on her hips, she rolled off the bed and warmed herself in front of the glorious open fire which was one area in which Dingley Dell went in for complete authenticity. She took her time. No need for the whole show, but no nee
d either to let him see he was detected. Him? Certainly. Or a very queer her.

  The bathroom she felt quite certain was not overlooked. This she was very glad of as she slid luxuriatingly into the scented water. There were some things she did not care to do under supervision.

  She took her time, but when she came out again the eye was still there. So she quickly dressed and though not at all hungry descended to the parlour, where, her hotel brochure told her, tea and toasted muffins would be available for those who found the gap between dinner and supper too long.

  The parlour presented an interesting spectacle. A long pleasantly proportioned room, it displayed a pleasing and effective gradation from Dickensian kitchen at one end to early Victorian parlour at the other. A fine Christmas tree, beautifully decorated, stood here, but the kitchen end was the main centre of activity.

  There was a huge fireplace in which there glowed wickedly a huge fire. A large brass kettle sang merrily on a hob. The floor immediately surrounding the fire was of red-brick on which the embers and sparks which occasionally popped out died away harmlessly. The walls were decorated with several hunting whips, two or three bridles and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it intimating that it was loaded.A fine grandfather clock stood in the corner.

  A tray loaded with muffins and a cool stone platter of superbly yellow butter were laid out for the attention of any who wanted them. It was a do-it-yourself arrangement and half a dozen toasting forks, all of them at least four feet in length, had been provided. They looked dangerous weapons in the hands of the ladies of the skating party who were jostling for position in front of the fire and at the same time excitedly discussing Frau Himmelstor’s recent immersion.

  ‘It’s like a scene from the Inferno, isn’t it?’ said Boswell.

  She didn’t even glance round, but replied as though she knew he had come silently in behind her.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ she answered. ‘The Christmas tree’s a bit of a bloomer, isn’t it? That was post-Albert, surely?’

  ‘Do you fancy a muffin?’ he asked politely, ignoring her quibble.