Rogue's Gallery (18 page)

I suppose I was lucky she didn't sing it. She sometimes takes part in those come-along-and-sing Messiahs which are so very matey and democratic – practically the Labour Party at song. I opened a little square box and found a three-disc set of Luciano Pavarotti's greatest hits. Talk about things being
infra!
‘Perfect!' I said.

So we worked through our presents, eating chocolates and trying things on till at last she laid her hand on the brown padded envelope and took it up.

‘What
is
this one?' she said.

My heart stood still. I tried with all the nonchalance my sweaty state would allow to take up one of my presents and open it.

‘Haven't the faintest idea.'

‘I noticed it the other day. Did it really come by post?'

‘How would I know?'

‘Because neither Margrethe nor I took it in, so you must have done.'

‘Can't remember. I may have done, I suppose.'

‘If so, it must have been Sunday. It's the only day when you were on your own here. I didn't think they delivered parcels on Sunday. What did the postman look like?'

Normally this would have been a cue for a spurt of sarcasm on my part. I hoped Annabelle would attribute it
to the Christmas spirit that it was not forthcoming.

‘Good heavens, one doesn't notice what postmen look like,' I said mildly. ‘If you're wondering who sent it, you'd better open it and find out.'

She was looking at it closely.

‘The postmark is all smudged. In fact it doesn't look like a real postmark at all.' She got up. ‘Georgie, I think we ought to phone the police.'

She walked over toward the phone. I felt my face going red; our positions in my plan were exactly reversed. I forced myself to take up the package.

‘Of course I see what you're getting at, darling, but I really do think that you're panicking needlessly. I don't see any of the things the inspector said should put us on our guard. It's not from Ireland, the name is spelled right – there are none of the signs. A smudged postmark is hardly unusual.'

Her finger was poised over the press-button dial. ‘Better safe than sorry.'

‘No!'

My voice had come out very loud. The police would almost certainly be able to trace the package back to me if they got it intact. Annabelle paused.

‘No?'

‘I mean … we'd look awful fools … disturbing them on Christmas Eve, for nothing.'

‘How unusually considerate of you, Georgie. But you've been unusual for quite a while now. I'm beginning to think that Paul is right.'

‘Paul?'

‘A chap I've been seeing.'

‘
Seeing?
'

‘He said that if I drove you too mad with my Pollyanna act, it wouldn't be divorce I drove you to but murder. He's seen you on television from the House. He thinks you're mad.'

‘Annabelle, look, this really has gone too far. There's no need at all to call the police. I was told all about suspect packages. This one hasn't got the look of one at all.'

She stood there, twenty feet away from me, her hand poised over the dial, very, very cool.

‘All right, buster: open it.'

R
OBERT
B
ARNARD
was born in Essex. He was educated at Balliol College, Oxford, and after completing his degree he taught English at universities in Australia and Norway, where he completed his doctorate on Dickens. He returned to England to become a full-time writer and now lives in Leeds with his wife Louise, cat Durdles and dog Peggotty. He has been awarded both the prestigious CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger, in recognition of a lifetime's achievement in crime writing, as well as the CWA prize for the best short story of the year.

Sheer Torture

The Mistress of Alderley

A Cry from the Dark

The Graveyard Position

Dying Flames

A Fall from Grace

Last Post

The Killings on Jubilee Terrace

A Stranger in the Family

A Mansion and its Murder

Rogue's Gallery (a short story collection)