The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries (28 page)

“Yes, that is odd,” admitted Laura, sitting down on one of the settees. “Having so brilliantly covered up his tracks, why ask you to work out what he had done?”

Rupert sat next to his wife his broad, ugly face expressing puzzlement for a moment whilst he thought,

“I can only assume that what he really wanted was to prove how much cleverer he was than all the people at the bank. At first it must have been sufficient for him just to know that his forged notes were so perfect that no one ever noticed. Then he fulfilled his dream of winning the woman he wanted. Once she died, it must have been a more hollow victory as he lived a lonely life with a lot of money that meant nothing to him. I think in the end he just wanted to give the likes of Gilbert Howe the surprise of their life – he had been pulling off a fraud under his nose for all those years!”

“What will you do?” asked Laura.

“Well, I must admit I’m curious to see if the bank will accept some of the notes as genuine – and I suspect they will. Having said that, now that I believe the money to be forged, I can’t in all conscience spend it. I’ll tell the story to Veronica; perhaps all the proceeds can go to charity.”

“What, give up the house?” asked Laura in mild surprise. “I got the impression you quite liked having a place of your own.”

A very faint blush touched Rupert’s cheeks, as his wife was very close to the truth. “In some ways I did,” he admitted, “but at the same time I never felt comfortable with the whole deal and the house gives me the creeps.”

Laura nodded understandingly.

“Also, Gordon’s request was for me to make his story public, and I don’t know that I will. The idea of his almost bragging about the deception from the grave is a little distasteful. And, as ever, I am only making deductions: it would be a whole different business to go back and prove that Gordon had pulled off a prolonged fraud, dumping tens of thousands of pounds worth of forged notes into the system.”

“So Gilbert Howe will never know?”

“There is a possibility that I will buy him another pub lunch and run the theory past him,” said Rupert, the hint of a wicked gleam in his eye.”

The two of them tidied up the collection of paints and brushes that Rupert had spilled and carefully locked up the house, ready to pick up their daughter and return to the homely tranquillity of their own Claresby Manor.

The Twelve Days of Christmas Mystery

It was Laura Latimer, Lady of the Manor, who made her way down the draughty corridor to open the ancient double doors to her guests. She was greeted by the smiling face of Keith Lowe, the village doctor, and his wife of a few months, Veronica.

“Merry Christmas!” exclaimed Veronica. “We’ve even brought you a seasonal flurry of snow.”

Laura squinted out into the darkness and saw that where the warm light from the mullioned windows of Claresby Manor fell on the ground outside it twinkled on a thin frosting of white. “You’d better come in. I see you came bearing gifts too. What is that you have, Keith? It looks like a small tree.”

“A pear tree, if I am not mistaken,” said Keith. “Complete with partridge. And I didn’t bring it; I found it on the doorstep. At first I thought it was a decoration, but there is a gift label on it.”

Laura raised an eyebrow at the thing, but ushered the couple briskly to the warmth of the Great Hall which boasted a blazing fire of apple wood and festive decorations of holly and mistletoe. Rupert, Laura’s husband, rose from his chair, a flush on his benign but ugly face.

“I’ve been basting the turkey,” he said. “Everything is just about ready. How was your day, Veronica?” He bent almost double to place a kiss on her face, not failing to notice how striking she looked in a scarlet velvet dress which complemented her dark hair and green eyes.

“Just about holding up,” she replied. “Late service last night, early service today – and I noticed you weren’t in the Family Service this morning to hear my Christmas address!”

“I always enjoy the carols on Christmas Eve,” replied Laura smoothly. “And Florence enjoyed the crib.”

“Where is my little goddaughter?” inquired Veronica.

“Taking a much needed nap,” said Laura. “She’s had enough food, presents and excitement for one day; although I don’t doubt that she will wake up in time to eat Christmas dinner with us.”

“I’m not used to waiting until the evening,” complained Keith mildly. “I didn’t realise the perils of being married to a vicar. I’ve sat through three services in the last twenty-four hours and the sides of my stomach are slapping together, I’m so hungry!”

“We had some smoked salmon for lunch,” added Veronica, “but I must say there is a good smell wafting in from your kitchen. Anyway, Keith is on call, and there are a couple of nasty cases of flu in the village, whereas I am very much off-duty now.”

“In that case, let me pour you a sherry,” said Laura. “And I’m sure Keith can have a small one.”

They were soon all seated in the big oak chairs which were set about the fireplace. Keith lifted his eyes to appreciate the view in the lofty Great Hall with its oak panelling, ornate plasterwork ceiling and shadowy musicians’ gallery. He was just contemplating the grand scale of everything, when he fixed upon a very small, artificial Christmas tree placed in a far corner. It somehow seemed anticlimactic given the context.

“I thought you were going to have a noble Norwegian spruce?” Keith said to Rupert. “Did you change your mind?”

Laura and Rupert exchanged slightly humorous glances.

“Well, thereby hangs a tale,” said Laura. “Rupert did indeed specially order a tree – the sort of thing the Norwegians donate for use in Trafalgar Square every year – about sixty-foot tall!”

“Laura is exaggerating,” said Rupert. “It wasn’t more than about twenty-foot tall – perfectly reasonable for the Great Hall.”

“Where is it then?” asked Veronica.

“I decided to put it up in the front drive instead.”

“But only after a struggle to manoeuvre it around in here and the deposit of about a billion pine needles!”

“I didn’t see it out the front. Are there lights on it?” asked Keith.

“Well, it’s not actually up yet: I’m thinking it should be ready by New Year,” admitted Rupert; and they all laughed.

“But what were you saying about a pear tree?” continued Laura, looking about to where Keith had placed a bag of Christmas gifts and what looked like a large potted plant with a brightly coloured soft toy wedged in it.

“The gifts are from us, but the tree was on the doorstep,” Keith reminded her.

Laura stood up and went over to examine the object. “It looks a bit sickly,” she commented.

“Pear trees are deciduous,” responded Keith.

Laura removed the stuffed bird from the branches absentmindedly and said, “Oh, well I’ll put it in the orangery and see if it thrives. I’ll take it there now whilst I go to see if Florence is awake.”

When Laura returned, a still sleepy Florence snuggled into her arms, the others were discussing the gift and its possible origins.

“The label just says Merry Christmas,” observed Rupert. “I suppose the fact that it was left by our door indicates that it is meant for us – but there’s no way of knowing who left it. I do hope it is not someone with a sense of the dramatic who is going to leave something on each of the twelve days of Christmas in accordance with the carol.”

“The five gold rings would be acceptable,” commented Veronica.

“Yes, but the eleven pipers piping could be annoying,” replied Rupert. “Not to mention all the doves, geese, swans and calling birds!”

“Expensive too,” added Keith. “I don’t suppose eight maids to do the milking would come cheap!”

“Arguably it would be more than eight,” said Laura, who had a quick head for mathematics. “In the traditional version of the carol the gifts are repeated every day up until the twelfth, so we can expect twelve partridges and…” she paused to calculate. “…forty maids-a-milking!”

“And forty gold rings,” added Rupert, not to be outdone by his wife. By this time Florence had found the toy partridge and adopted it. With the perversity of a two year old child who was used to her own way, she then refused to be parted from it despite the enticement of all the other gifts she received.

Soon the dinner was served on the old oak table set with goblets of silver, which flashed in the candle light as they drank, and ivory handled cutlery. This was followed by a homemade plum pudding, and Rupert doused it in brandy so that it flamed with a blue light and they all clapped. By the time they finished and presents had been opened and examined, Florence was saucer-eyed with tiredness and dozed on her father’s lap as he sat by the fire with Keith and Veronica whilst Laura played some carols on the piano. It was well after midnight before the two guests departed for a crisp, cold walk back to the vicarage, and Rupert and Laura retired to the four-poster bed in the fire-lit scarlet bedroom.

On Boxing Day morning, Laura was making porridge when Rupert came into the kitchen.

“Another inch of snow fell in the night,” Rupert commented, “but the roads are still passable – not that we are planning to go anywhere today. Oh, and another gift on the doorstep.”

“Gift? What gift?” asked Laura vaguely as she stood on tiptoe trying ineffectively to reach a pot of honey on one of the high shelves which lined the wall of the medieval stone-built room.

“A second day of Christmas gift, unless I am very much mistaken,” responded Rupert as he made use of his lanky six-foot frame to reach the honey.

A slight frown creased the delicate brow of Laura’s pretty, oval face: “Two turtle doves?”

“Actually two dead doves,” admitted Rupert. “But I think that the symbolism is there.”

“That’s rather unpleasant,” said Laura. “What did you do with them?”

“Disposed of them in a sanitary manner,” replied Rupert. “And, for the record, there were two sets of footprints in the snow – one coming and one going. No snow had fallen on top of the prints. I think it stopped snowing at about five this morning and it’s only seven now – so our Father Christmas made an early start.”

“Well, late really – since Christmas Eve has come and gone,” corrected Laura. “But why would anyone bother? You would think that on the day after Christmas everyone would be happily ensconced in a warm house with their family.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Rupert. “The only other light I can shed on the matter is that the gift-giver had large boots on – probably a size ten broad-fitting.”

“So what should we expect next? – Three French hens? Four calling birds?”

“I’m unconcerned right up until the ten lords a-leaping!” responded Rupert. “Still, I do wonder what message the sender is trying to convey.”

The two following days produced three oven-ready chickens – possibly French – left on the bonnet of Rupert’s car, and four small, artificial blackbirds, this time on the doorstep again. It was with some trepidation that Laura greeted her husband at the breakfast table on the fifth day. In response to her quizzical look he answered,

“Not five golden rings, if that is what you are wondering. More like five pork sausages – nice ones, actually, like the butcher usually makes with course cut meat and herbs.”

The issue was discussed with Veronica and Keith that evening whilst the four of them sat in the cosy red drawing room with its fat leather settees and rich Turkish carpet. The room was free of any Christmas decoration other than a few sprigs of holly, being already elaborate enough in its decor. A large jug of mulled wine was keeping warm by the fire, and they helped themselves to the mince pies piled on a plate next to it.

“Does it feel sinister?” Veronica was asking Rupert. She had experienced the malicious actions of some parishioners when she first arrived in Claresby followed by rumours about the death of her first husband and a number of unexplained disappearances.

“Perhaps the dead doves suggested malicious intent,” replied Rupert, “but the chickens and sausages were almost comical. The only thing that makes it all worrying is that anyone should be obsessed enough to carry on delivering these things day after day.”

“And to manage without us being able to catch them at it,” added Laura.

“Well, they’ve got another seven days to go if they are really obsessed,” said Keith. “Personally I’m curious as to how they are going to produce the twelve drummers. Also, I calculated that the full cost of the twelve days of gifts as specified in the carol would be about twenty thousand pounds! But, seriously, is there anyone who could have a grudge against you?”

“Rupert did help put my cousins in prison for murdering their father,” mused Laura. “But that’s another story altogether – and doesn’t explain the delivery of five sausages.”

“There is a bit of a meat theme,” observed Rupert. “Honestly, the chickens on day three looked so nice I regretted disposing of them! But I spoke to Phil Young this morning about our hog roast on Twelfth Night and he was as friendly as he could be.”

“Yes, but he has had a few problems lately,” interposed Veronica. “When I ordered my Christmas turkey from him he complained about how many people had used the new butcher in town this year – his orders were down twenty-five percent on last year.”

“But you had Christmas dinner with us?” said Laura.

“Oh, it was only a small turkey,” said Keith. “Just so we could have our own little dinner together last night – nothing like the splendid bird you had at Claresby. Was that from Phil?”

“Well, it was actually from the new butcher’s in town,” admitted Laura. “It’s the first time I’ve been there and they had an offer on the organic birds if you ordered well in advance.”

“So our own butcher, Phil, may be a little disgruntled,” smiled Veronica, “especially with you being such a prominent person in Claresby.”

“It is true that the Mortimer family have always bought their meat from the village butcher,” acknowledged Laura, “but I can’t imagine that Phil would set such store by this fact. Anyway, he will be here for our Twelfth Night party. He will have full range of the kitchen and will be roasting a whole pig on the spit in the fireplace. I’ll have a gentle word with him then.”