Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

He had stood up and was immediately regretting it. But to sit down again would be fatal. He began pushing his feet into his shoes.

  ‘That Alka-Seltzer. Were you joking?’

  Eager to please now, Joe passed him a tumbler full of gently bubbling water which he downed in a single draught.

  ‘Jacket,’ he said. Valet-like, the Fat Boy helped him put it on.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You get downstairs, see who’s not in the ballroom. Report back here.’

  Glad to get out, Joe left swiftly. Boswell picked up his phone and dialled an internal number.

  ‘Hello,’ said a cautious voice.

  ‘Johnson? Boswell here. Get everyone on alert, will you? Check security up there, and do a scan along the attic, see what’s going on in the rooms.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Boswell replaced the receiver and went to the window. His room overlooked the front of the house. He felt like some fresh air and pushed the window open, letting in a flurry of snowflakes. As Wardle had forecast, the wind was rising and already it was difficult to see any distance through the oblique lines of snow. Straining his eyes, he could make-out the barn and perhaps even the beginnings of the double colonnade of trees which marked the drive. Much more of this and they would be cut off.

  The Fat Boy returned, looking worried. Following him through the door came a gust of distant music. Whatever else was happening, T.T. and T.T.H.M. were still going strong. Another thought came to Boswell as he heard them.

  ‘Has anyone seen Mr. Wardle?’

  ‘No. I mean, I haven’t. And he’s not around downstairs.’

  ‘Blast!’

  His former unease came back. Wardle should be back in the house by now. No one would stop outside in this weather longer than he had to. Unless he had to. He shook the thought from his head. Half an hour unconscious and he was assuming everything had gone haywire. Prima donna Boswell they would call him!

  But better a prima donna than a red-nosed fool. The point where you stopped worrying about your own efficiency rating and alerted the outer security ring was far from being a fixed mark. To Boswell it came when he found himself thinking if things get worse in the next hour, then I’ll get in touch. When that thought came he usually got in touch immediately.

  ‘About downstairs,’ began Joe.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Boswell, reaching for the telephone. Before he could pick it up, it rang. It was Johnson again.

  ‘Everyone’s alert,’ he said. ‘We checked around. One thing, the radio’s on the blink.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Boswell. ‘Can you fix it?’

  ‘We’re looking at it now. It could be bad,’ Johnson said cautiously. ‘We’ve checked the rooms. Nothing going on except that Miss Allen’s observation point’s been blocked off. And Mr. Bloodworth’s too.’

  So Arabella, quite rightly, hadn’t accepted his reassurance that her peep-hole would no longer be used! But Bloodworth … why should the old man want to keep himself hidden? And how did he know?

  He replaced the receiver and immediately dialled an outside number. It would be an open line. With the radio, it hadn’t seemed necessary to fit a scrambler. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  A beggar’s choice was even more limited, it seemed. Nothing was coming through the receiver. He jiggled the rest. Quite quite dead.

  The lines must be down along the road. From the road to Dingley Dell itself they were laid underground so that no anachronistic telegraph poles should spoil the outward effect. The snow must be really heavy. Soon they could be absolutely cut off.

  Quickly he dialled Johnson’s number again.

  ‘Radio?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead as a doornail.’

  ‘Who’s our best local man?’

  ‘Colley, I’d say. He knows hereabouts like the back of his hand.

  ‘Get him.’

  He nodded at Joe who had been standing patiently by the door. The Fat Boy cleared his throat.

  ‘Everyone’s in the ballroom or accounted for, except these. Miss Allen, Madam Leclerc, young Mr. Swinburne. And Sawyer.’

  Boswell swore.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Colley’s voice in his ear.

  ‘Not you. Listen, Colley, have you seen the snow outside? OK. Do you think you can get through it to the village?’

  A pause.

  ‘I think so, Mr. Boswell. If I went now.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Not sure. But there’s places I could hole up at on the way if I got stuck. The old gate-cottage for instance. And Adam’s Farm up along Two-Lane Hill.’

  ‘Fair enough. I don’t want you getting yourself frozen to death. When you reach a phone that’s working, ring this number and ask for the Major. No message, just answer questions, that’ll be enough. Here’s the number.’

  Twice he recited it, then replaced the receiver, feeling relieved. Colley would get through if anyone could. Though probably he was being an old woman in any case.

  Joe was still waiting.

  ‘You not gone yet?’ said Boswell rudely.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Find those people. Get everybody on to it. I want them located.’

  ‘Do you want them taken?’ asked Joe hopefully.

  ‘Taken? Taken? You mean, “Hands up. Quick march!” Don’t be a bloody fool. Just find them and watch them, that’s all. And Mr. Wardle too. See if you can get hold of him.’

  Joe left and Boswell followed soon after. His first stop was Arabella’s room. There was no reply to his knock and he opened the door. The room was empty. Swiftly he moved on. As he passed the linen-cupboard alcove he heard a noise and stopped. For a moment he wondered if Arabella or someone else was trying to repeat her feat of climbing into the attic via the trapdoor. She would be disappointed. It had been securely screwed down earlier in the evening. But a few seconds listening at the door convinced him that someone had found a much more personal use for the warm, clean-smelling darkness within. A man’s voice and a woman’s voice, too low to be distinguishable, but the activity they were engaged in was unmistakable.

  Boswell passed on, knowing he should have interrupted them. Wardle would have done, but Wardle had been in the business much longer than he had. In fact this was probably his swan-song. Soon the stout man would be entering on a well-earned retirement. Boswell wished to God he would turn up quickly and safely.

  Next stop was Bloodworth’s room. He knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ quavered the old man’s voice.

  Boswell entered. Bloodworth was in bed, reading a book. He did not look well, but his eyes were bright.

  ‘Just checking to see you’ve got all you need, sir,’ said Boswell. ‘Would you like anything sent up?’

  ‘No, thank you. Just stop that blasted noise downstairs, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘It won’t be too long now,’ smiled Boswell, opening the bathroom door. ‘Soap, towels. You seem to have everything. Good night then.’

  He left and went on towards the sealed-off conference area but was intercepted near the stair-head by the Fat Boy.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a sign,’ answered Joe. ‘Mr. Wardle must have come back though. There’s a set of waterproofs hanging up to dry in the back kitchen.’

  Boswell’s heart jerked.

  ‘Waterproofs?’ he said, remembering Wardle immersing himself in the long, multi-caped Victorian greatcoat.

  ‘Show me.’

  The wet waterproofs hung neatly among four or five others on a row of hooks along the wall of the small alcove which led from the back kitchen to the outside door. Some of the snow had not yet melted and a steady trickle of water-drops splashed to the tiles below. Something of the shape of their last wearer still remained to give the black oilskins an air of menace, as if they might have climbed down from the peg themselves and gone out into the night.

  Boswell opened the door and once again looked out into the blizzard. There was a sill of snow three feet deep against the door and deeper still a
long the outside wall. The main strength of the wind which was gusting to gale force was being hurled from the east obliquely against the rear of the house, otherwise the drifts would have been much deeper. He dreaded to think what they must be like against the eastern side-wall. He hoped to God Colley would have the sense to turn back if necessary.

  ‘Come on,’ said Boswell suddenly.

  ‘What? Into that?’

  ‘Come on, I said,’ snapped Boswell, pulling on a waterproof top.

  ‘Hello. What’s going on?’ said another voice from the shadows at the end of the large kitchen.

  Out into the pool of light shed by the solitary bulb which lit the alcove stepped Arabella.

  ‘Something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Boswell, uncertain how to deal with this development. His training told him to stop and question her but his instincts were driving him out into the blizzard. At least it seemed unlikely that she had been the woman in the linen room.

  ‘It’s Wardle,’ he said finally.

  ‘Mr. Wardle?’ she said uncomprehending. ‘You don’t mean you think he’s out in that?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.

  Before he could answer she seized the freshly used waterproofs from their peg, pulled the cape over her head, and began clambering into the rubber boots.

  ‘You’ll ruin your dress,’ was all Boswell could find to say.

  ‘No,’ she said, and with a dismissive glance at Joe she pulled her skirts up above her knees, bent forward to pull her short train through between her legs and fastened it with a brooch-pin at her midriff.

  She did it expertly. As if she had done it before, thought Boswell. Was he mistaken, but did her face look rather chapped as though it had been offered to the elements recently? Her hair did not quite fit into the souwester hat she pulled on. Were the stray tresses damp? But before he could test his. theory she had stepped out into the storm and invalidated any evidence there might have been that she had been out before. Which was nice and handy too.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ said Boswell, and followed Arabella.

  ‘Which way?’ she screamed.

  It was a good question. Shading his face from the wind and snow, he studied the ground. Any tracks there might have been would have been covered up in a matter of seconds. Except perhaps out ahead in the relative shelter of the grove of elms which stood between the house and the Jockey Pond.

  Head down he plunged forward towards the trees and moved his flashlight slowly over the snow, still thick here despite the vault of protective branches overhead.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ shouted Arabella, clinging to his arm. Behind her, looking as miserable as the Ancient Mariner, stood the Fat Boy, obviously feeling the bitter cold even through his very generous layers of protective fat.

  ‘Tracks,’ said Boswell. ‘Though bloody Tonto and the Lone Ranger would be hard pushed to find anything in these conditions.’

  The snow did look as if it might have been disturbed here, but by what and when was beyond his powers of interpretation. He moved forward hopelessly. Then in the yellow ring of torchlight he saw a beautifully delineated boot-print. It was alongside a huge-boled elm, to the leeward, which explained why it had not yet been filled in. It was pointing towards the house.

  Boswell looked out into the shifting whiteness of the snowstorm, straining his eyes in vain for a sight of movement.

  ‘Wardle!’ he shouted. ‘Wardle!’

  But the wind slipped between his mouth and the words and span them off sideways into the night.

  ‘It’s no good!’ shouted Joe, clearly eager to get back.

  He was probably right. But Boswell was deeply concerned now. If Wardle was out here somewhere, and in need of help, any delay would certainly be fatal. No one could survive this stuff for long, especially someone unable to move.

  He ignored Joe, brushed off the silent girl and moved forward again. Only a faint hollow in the snow told him he had reached the pond. He hesitated here, eyes straining again. Ahead he thought he could see something dark against the whiteness of the snow. The flakes eddied and whirled. The dark patch faded, then reappeared.

  Reluctant though he was to risk the strength of the ice, he knew he had to go forward. It might be Wardle lying there.

  ‘What are you doing?’ called Arabella, as he began to move forward. ‘Don’t be so stupid!’

  He ignored her and took another step. Through the cushion of snow he felt the ice, hard and solid. With growing confidence he trod another couple of steps.

  Behind him and to the side, wisely keeping a couple of yards away, came Arabella. Even more wisely, Joe kept his bulk shivering on the bank.

  The mystery of the dark shape was solved when Boswell got within a couple of yards of it. It was quite simply not a solid shape at all, but a hole. The hole in the ice which Frau Cow had sunk by her accident that afternoon.

  At the same time disappointed and relieved, Boswell turned to go, becoming aware for the first time that Arabella had accompanied him.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled angrily. ‘We don’t want another accident.’

  She held her ground, staring at the hole, and said something.

  ‘What?’ he shouted impatiently.

  ‘Shouldn’t it have frozen again?’

  This time he caught the words, but it took a second or two for their significance to sink in. Then he turned back to look at the hole.

  It was true. With the sub-zero temperatures they had had all day it was almost certain that a new skin of ice would have rapidly reformed on the surface of Frau Cow’s hole. Only a thin skin, perhaps, but certainly strong enough in a few hours to bear the weight of the snow.

  In which case, there shouldn’t be a hole visible at all.

  He began to move forward again. Beneath his weight as he neared the hole, the ice began to groan and protest.

  ‘Careful!’ shouted Arabella.

  He glanced at her and for a second forgot Wardle in his fear that she had plunged down through the ice. Then he realised that she had dropped on all fours, spreading her weight around as she moved forward. It seemed like a good idea and. he did the same.

  Two feet from the hole, he halted and shone the torch into the water. Nothing. But quite clearly the new ice-skin had formed and had once again been shattered. He felt sick with worry.

  Then beside him the girl screamed. There was no panic in the scream, no hysteria. Just an outcry of shock, horror, quickly bitten off.

  He moved towards her.

  ‘What is it?’ he called, ‘Are you all right?’

  She didn’t answer but knelt there staring down at the ice. He shone his torch where she was looking. Her hands had brushed away the snow as she crawled forward and for a moment he could see nothing as the yellow light reflected back from the polished surface. Then, like a vision in a crystal ball, it formed tremulously to his sight.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ he said.

  Dimly visible through the flawed and semi-opaque ice, staring sightlessly upwards at the world of air and sky he had left forever, was a man’s face.

  It was hideously distorted, unrecognisable without further clues. But even as they watched, some deep current in the water caught at the body and it slid out of sight, moving down obliquely so that the whole body slid past the clear patch. Three fur-trimmed capes on a long warm coat, Boswell counted.

  Then it was gone, and the snow was already covering the window in the ice.

  8

  There was just such a wind, and just such a fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect… It was Christmas Eve too, and I remember on that very night he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.

  THE OLD LADY

  Arabella wasn’t the swooning kind, but her legs felt so weak and nerveless that it was only with a considerable effort of will and much help from Boswell that she made it back to the bank. It was not a labour of love on his part. She
could sense his straining impatience under his stiff waterproofs. The moment he was sure she was off the treacherous ice he released her and yelled for Joe. The Easter-egg shape of the Fat Boy came rolling through the unceasing lines of snow.

  ‘Wardle’s dead,’ grunted Boswell.

  ‘He may not be!’ protested Arabella. ‘Shouldn’t we try to…’

  ‘He’s dead,’ snarled Boswell. ‘Joe, get Miss Allen back to the house. We’ve got trouble, so make it quick. I’ll be in the radio room. That bloody thing’s got to work. You cover the back of the house, I’ll send round one of the others to cover the front. If anyone’s stupid enough to try to leave on a night like this, stop them.’

  ‘Won’t they be gone now?’ queried Joe.

  ‘Whoever it was didn’t just come here to kill Wardle,’ said Boswell. ‘Quick as you can.’

  Without even a glance at Arabella, he turned and ran off towards the house.

  ‘Come on,’ grunted Joe, jerking the girl to her feet. His touch completed the process of recovery through indignation which Boswell’s callousness had started.

  ‘I can manage!’ she snapped, and set off bravely through the snow.

  Back in the warm kitchen of Dingley Dell she divested herself of her snow-caked waterproofs.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Joe, and hardly waited for her distant nod before disappearing into the night once more. Immediately she felt boorish and stupid. Boorish because he had only helped her, after all, and stupid because there were questions she needed answers to.

  She ran down the short passageway and flung open the door. He had only gone a few steps and was still visible among the whirling flakes. At the noise of the door, he turned and stepped back towards her. In his hand, black and menacing, was an automatic pistol.

  She stared at him for a moment, then gently closed the door and went back into the kitchen.

  Surprisingly her ball-dress had suffered very little from being kilted and crushed beneath the oilskins. She recovered her reticule from the kitchen table, combed her hair (which had not been quite so resilient) and decided that the first thing she really needed was a stiff drink. The distant music sounded as gaily as ever. Clearly news of Wardle’s death had not yet reached the revellers. And clearly also, if the precedent of the groom’s death was anything to go by, Boswell would do his best to keep it from them. Just where she herself stood in these mists and twists of intrigue she had not yet decided. But if the wassail was still flowing she surely deserved some of it to flow her way.