Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

  The party seemed as merry as ever. The fiddles and harp had taken over again and Thomas Traherne and his ensemble were helping themselves to refreshments. Their bass guitarist, a long slim youth with bushy red hair and delicate, freckled features, passed Arabella a glass of punch with a courteous little bow.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘You’re welcome, lady,’ he said. ‘You look as if you’ve been out in the cold.’

  My! she thought. Aren’t you the sharp-eyed one!

  ‘I put my head out of the door for a breath of air. But only for a second!’ she lied. ‘It’s nasty.’

  ‘Still bad, is it? I hope it clears by Boxing Day. We don’t want to get stuck.’

  ‘Well, certainly no one’s getting away from here in the next few hours!’ said Arabella.

  The full implications of the thought struck her coldly. Whoever had pushed the dead (or unconscious) Wardle through the ice wouldn’t be able, even if he wished, to head for the hills. The roads would be quite impassable and anyone on foot would find it hard to survive. The only place for him to go was back to the house. No wonder Boswell had been so keen to get back here as quickly as possible!

  She finished her drink, smiled at the worried musicians and made for the door. She felt utterly at odds with all the merriment that was going on here. There was too much she didn’t understand. And far too much that she suspected.

  Her hand was grasped as she crossed the dance floor.

  ‘You with me will dance? Yes?’ boomed Herr Bear, damply red from drink and exertion.

  ‘I with you will dance, no,’ she answered pushing by. Frau Cow stared at her coldly from an isolated wallflower position. Near the door, she passed the elder Swinburnes having a polite, totally non-animated conversation with Jules Leclerc. They paused as she went by, and she felt their eyes on her as she left the room.

  It was with relief that she found herself alone in the hallway once more, a relief that modified into unease as she mounted the stairs and the light and noise of the ball receded behind her. Her previous train of thought was picked up once more. Wardle’s killer was in the house. It was very quiet and lonely up here. The pseudo-candelabra which lit the landing took authenticity to the point of dimness. She gathered up her skirts round her ankles and made for her room at the best speed she could. But she’d only gone a couple of yards when the sound of someone approaching brought her to a halt.

  The thought went rapidly through her mind that tonight it was a good idea to see others first without being seen. Quietly she slipped sideways into the linen-cupboard alcove through which she had earlier gained access to the attic. Seconds later a figure swept rapidly by.

  It was Suzie Leclerc.

  And on her pale face was such an expression of panic and dismay that Arabella could see at once that not all the unpleasantnesses of the evening had happened outside.

  For a second Arabella hesitated between going after Suzie to see if she could help, and going in search of Boswell to seek his advice. Selfishly she decided that neither alternative was equal to getting back to her own room as quickly as possible, locking the door and sitting down to have a good, clear think.

  But seconds later, as she stood clutching the door-jamb for support, her hand at her mouth in the classic gesture of nearvomitory shock, she knew she had been wrong. Anything was better than standing here looking down at the pathetically fragile body of Stephen Swinburne, whose candlewax pallor flamed into the startling crimson of the blood which had poured through his matted hair and stained the white pillow beneath his head.

  I didn’t shriek! she found herself thinking proudly. I didn’t shriek. Or did I? Twice in a night, and this time I didn’t shriek. I must be getting hardened.

  The crazy whirl of thoughts did their work of cutting her off from the horrifying reality of the situation long enough for her rationality to regain control. Absurdly she found herself completing the return to normality by bending down to pick up a sheaf of typewritten papers which lay scattered by the door and stuffing them into her bag. Keep Britain tidy, even when there was a dead boy in your room. A dead boy? She recalled her protests when she and Boswell had left Wardle. It seemed impossible that this pale figure could contain any life, but she quickly approached the bed and took the boy’s hand. To her surprise and relief there was an easily perceptible pulse, not strong, but not desperately faint either. Steeling herself, she peered down at the boy’s head. The initial impression that the top of his skull must have been crushed like an eggshell also turned out to be wrong. There had clearly been a substantial blow given and God knew what damage might have been done to the skull. But the wound itself was only two or three inches long. Only! she thought wryly. Still it was better than the gaping hole which at first had seemed necessary to let all this blood out.

  Medical attention was now much more the priority than investigation of the crime. She seized the bedside phone and jiggled the rest impatiently.

  ‘Yes?’ said a man’s voice. Cool. Impersonal.

  ‘This is Arabella Allen,’ she said rapidly. ‘There’s been an accident. No, an assault. The thing is, Mr. Swinburne’s been injured. Seriously. He’s in my room. Now can you get hold of a doctor …?’

  But she tailed off, realising the phone had gone dead. She was still angrily trying to re-establish contact when she heard footsteps sprinting down the corridor and seconds later Boswell and two other men she recognised as the gamekeepers appeared in the doorway.

  Boswell strode over to the bed and peered down at the wounded youth.

  ‘Oh, that Swinburne,’ he said.

  ‘Does it matter which?’ demanded Arabella furiously. ‘What he needs is a doctor, not you and your gun-dogs.’

  ‘It’s being taken care of,’ said Boswell, unaffected by her anger which subsided immediately as a new problem rose in her mind.

  ‘How will he get here?’ she asked. ‘The blizzard …’

  She crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered out. The snow was still being whirled frenetically round the house by the shrieking wind. Boswell’s hand took the curtain from her and covered the window once more. The gesture appeared casual but it did not feel so.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘No one will get through this. Fortunately one of the guests is a doctor.’

  ‘One of your guests?’ she asked sharply,

  ‘No, actually,’ he replied. ‘It was a need we did not anticipate.’

  ‘Like a great deal else,’ retorted Arabella, but Boswell had turned away and was talking in a low voice to the gamekeepers. They turned to go, meeting in the doorway Alf, the coach-driver, who had with him Mrs. Hislop.

  She went straight to Stephen and began her examination, moving with a precise efficiency which belied the impression she gave of the prototype middle-class suburban housewife.

  ‘I have no equipment,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Dingley Dell has a fairly well-stocked medical room,’ said Boswell with easy charm. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘An X-ray machine for a start,’ Dr. Hislop said coldly. ‘I take it it’s impossible to get him to a hospital in this weather.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Then if we can’t move him to hospital, I suggest it would be better not to move him at all. This isn’t his room?’

  She looked at the evidence of Arabella’s occupation clearly to be seen.

  ‘No. It’s mine.’

  ‘He’ll have to stay here,’ said the woman. ‘Now quickly. Show me this allegedly well-equipped medical room.’

  Twenty minutes later she proclaimed Stephen to be as comfortable as she could make him. He was still unconscious, but there was some colour in his cheeks; and now that his head wound was washed and dressed, and the gory pillow had been removed, he no longer looked like an escapee from hell. His parents had arrived in the room after the best part of the transformation had taken place and Boswell had ushered them away in the face of Dr. Hislop’s clear disapproval. Arabella herself
had unconsciously fallen into the role of nurse and her efforts at assistance had won a couple of approving grunts from the doctor.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mrs. Hislop finally, and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. When she came out she had almost visibly reverted to her housewife self.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve both ruined our dresses,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘Thank God they belong to the hotel!’

  ‘Mine doesn’t,’ said Arabella.

  ‘No? That explains it! I’ve been admiring it all night and wishing they’d given it to me instead! Never mind. Get those blood-stains into cold water right away and you should be all right.’

  There was a tap at the door and Boswell came in.

  ‘OK? How’s he going to be?’

  ‘Hard to say till he recovers consciousness. We’ve done all we can with what we’ve got here. The surface wound’s nothing. That’ll heal. It’s the possible skull fracture and, more importantly, any brain damage we’ve got to worry about.’

  ‘We’ll get him to hospital as soon as possible,’ said Boswell. ‘Meanwhile, Doctor, if you could say something reassuring to his parents it would be a kindness.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak with them, of course.’

  At the door she paused.

  ‘By the way, Mr. Boswell. How did you know my profession? I deliberately keep quiet about it when I’m on holiday, otherwise I get everybody’s ailments with my breakfast.’

  Boswell shrugged.

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it was something your uncle said.’

  She looked at him disbelievingly, then left. Arabella looked down at the young man on the bed. He seemed to be peacefully sleeping and she felt suddenly optimistic. He would be all right. She picked up the telephone.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Boswell.

  ‘Coffee,’ she answered. ‘And answers.’

  ‘Answers? Later. There’s things to be done.’

  She ignored him. ‘Hello?’ she said into the phone. ‘Miss Allen here. Mr. Boswell would like some coffee to be brought to my room. Quickly please. And two cups.’

  She replaced the receiver and spoke to Boswell.

  ‘I want to know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And this time, try to make it the truth.’

  9

  I am delighted to hear it… I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth.

  MR. SAMUEL PICKWICK

  Boswell sat, bleary-eyed, at the end of Arabella’s bed and felt himself disadvantaged by the clear grey eyes which surveyed him coolly through the steam of a coffee-cup.

  He had not known such a bad start to a Christmas Day since at the age of six, over-enthusiastic to see what presents lay at the foot of the family Christmas tree, he had tripped in the pre-dawn darkness and arrived at the bottom of the stairs with a broken ankle. Now the memory filled him with deep nostalgia.

  ‘The truth?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes,’ the girl said firmly. ‘Forget your commercial interests and business consortium. Speak truth and shame the devil.’

  The truth, he thought. He might as well, it made little difference. He hadn’t made up his mind yet about Miss Arabella Allen. She might well be in the business in which case there was little he could tell her which she wouldn’t know already. Or she might be straight. In which case she’d be better off—and safer—knowing. In any case, the wise move was to persuade her he accepted she was straight and the best way of doing this was through the truth.

  ‘It’s been a hell of a night,’ he said bitterly. ‘And you want me to start Christmas with the truth? All right. What I’m going to tell you is restricted information. That means it’s only known to the Prime Minister, security top brass, and evidently anyone in the northern hemisphere who cares to ask. For all I know it’s been a popular topic of discussion today over iced plum-duff on Bondi Beach.’

  He paused. Arabella smiled sweetly.

  ‘Are you going to tell me or shall I wait till I read the Australian newspapers?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. I wasn’t being altogether untruthful when I told you yesterday that there was a European business consortium meeting here at Dingley Dell. The need for a rationalisation of European commercial energies has been long recognised. That’s what the Common Market’s all about. And as the modern state is essentially an economic unit, economic modifications must by definition lead to political modifications. You follow me? This was clearly recognised in the Treaty of Rome. Eventually it’s quite clear we’ll work our way to a United States of Europe situation, those of us who don’t join the other United States, that is.’

  ‘Boswell for president? Is that it?’

  ‘Thank you but no. The point is this. Everything’s in the melting pot, the heat’s on, and I don’t think it’ll slacken off till we are all indissolubly joined. But the most difficult thing of all isn’t economic or military or even strictly political. The hard core, the most heat-resistant bit of all, lying at the centre of every state, is security. When everything else is nice and liquid the little hard lumps still rattling around the bottom of the pot will be the national security agencies. If you let the mixture cool with those still in it, you might as well not bother.’

  ‘Like a lumpy rice pudding?’

  ‘Your domestic images don’t impress me,’ said Boswell. ‘Anyway, feelers have been going out for some time about a merging of interests. Imagine what it would mean! If we could bring together all the expertise and information of all the Western European systems, we could make the CIA and KGB look like the Women’s Institute!’

  ‘Don’t get carried away,’ said Arabella, looking at him curiously, ‘What’s your stake in all this? You don’t really want to be president after all, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Boswell sheepishly. ‘No, I’m just an enthusiast. Not for security work itself, you understand. I’ve been at it too long. I was recruited while I was still at university.’

  ‘You mean Dickens is a cover?’ Arabella was incredulous.

  ‘Hell, no. But being a well-known academic does give one plenty of opportunities for world-wide travel, so I’ve received every encouragement from my masters. But, as I was saying, it’s the idea of a United Europe I’m enthusiastic about. And I don’t see how it can be achieved without bringing together the national security forces. And that’s what this is all about. Everything’s still at such an early stage that any formal open meeting is out of the question. The very nature of our business makes it undesirable for these men to appear officially in public anyway.’

  ‘These men being …?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ asked Boswell. ‘We’ve got the top men of nearly every security force in Western Europe gathered here. It seemed the best cover we could devise. A Christmas break with the family! The set-up here is quite legitimate. But it’s been under our aegis since it started. So here they came from far and wide. A Dickensian Christmas. Peace and goodwill to all men.’

  He spoke bitterly. Arabella felt an urge to comfort him, but when she spoke her voice was still neutral.

  ‘Is it your fault that two men are dead?’

  He was startled by the question.

  ‘No!’ he said, then more quietly; ‘No. Wardle is—was—in charge of security on the ground while we are here. I’m just an educated office boy. Till now. Now I take over; there’s no one else. Not while the blasted snow keeps falling.’

  He drew back the curtains and peered out of the window.

  ‘Don’t you share responsibilities then?’ she asked, irony just audible.

  ‘Not in this game. You’ve enough of your own without sharing. But you do inherit them. The next one to be killed, that’ll be my responsibility.’

  It was her turn to be startled. She rose and joined him by the window.

  ‘You expect more killings?’

  ‘Sawyer’s still loose. He doesn’t seem to set himself any limits.’

  �
�Sawyer? How do you know it’s Sawyer?’

  ‘Who else? No one else got in here who hadn’t had our famous one hundred per cent security check which only misses out three or four times a week. I should have locked the bastard up the minute he appeared.’

  ‘Have you done any checking on him?’

  ‘Naturally, but nothing’s through yet. Nor is likely to be till they get the phones working again.’

  ‘But what about the radio?’

  He laughed grimly at her.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you about the radio? I went straight up to the radio room when we got back inside. We thought the damn’ thing had just gone on the blink. But closer examination proved us wrong. It’s been beautifully, expertly, wrecked!’

  The bedroom door opened and the Swinburnes peered in.

  ‘Please come in,’ said Boswell. ‘I’m afraid he’s still out.’

  ‘Dr. Hislop told us,’ whispered Mrs. Swinburne, ‘but I would just like to sit for a while…’

  ‘Of course. I’ll send some more coffee.’

  Taking Arabella firmly by the elbow, he led her to the door. ‘Boswell!’

  It was Swinburne.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’d like a word. Fifteen minutes? In the conference room then.’

  Arabella raised her eyebrows questioningly at Boswell as he carefully closed the door.

  ‘Swinburne? Is he …?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘He is. Our Man in Whitehall. Mother. Uncle. C. M. Z. You can make up your own code-name. He’s the one who walks the corridors of power and when things start going wrong for poor bastards in the field he presses the button that brings the lions streaming into the arena.’

  ‘Poor Boswell,’ said Arabella with real sympathy.

  ‘At least I’m alive,’ he said gloomily. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back in there. I want my clothes for a start. And I’ll want somewhere to sleep. Stephen’s room, I suppose. You are still running an hotel here, aren’t you? Good. So can you please arrange things?’