Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

Victoria checked the list on her clipboard.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of a pale blue shopfront and giving her clipboard a quick glance. “Angharad Roberts, dressmaker and seamstress.”

They leaned forward to study the display, which showed a tableau of a mouse family enjoying a quiet Christmas Eve. Three mouse children were tucked up in a bed, while their parents worked in front of a paper fireplace, the mother sewing a little skirt for her mouse daughter while the father assembled a small red fire engine.

Each character was made of satin, the coats a shiny grey and their large ears lined in pink. The expressions on their faces had been painstakingly embroidered to reflect the calm repose of the children, the quiet pride the mother took in her little family, and the father’s apparent struggle to piece together the toy.

“Oh, look!” said Penny, pointing at the children. “The one in the middle… his eyes are slightly open. He’s watching his dad try to put the toy together. There’ll be questions about Father Christmas in the morning!”

Victoria smiled and jotted down a few notes. “Seen enough?” she asked Penny.

Penny nodded, and as they turned to go, the shop door opened and Mrs. Lloyd emerged, looking decidedly downcast.

“Hello,” said Penny. “All right?”

“Oh, hello, Penny. Victoria.” Mrs. Lloyd shifted her handbag to her other arm. “Yes, fine, thanks. How are you?”

“You don’t look fine,” said Penny, ignoring the question and gently touching Mrs. Lloyd’s arm. “What is it?”

Mrs. Lloyd glanced across the street. “It’s getting me down, all this. Everyone knows about Harry’s death, and they think that I had something to do with it. People are avoiding me. I’ve tried to carry on as normal, but it’s difficult when I know they’re all whispering about me behind my back.”

“Oh, surely not, Mrs. Lloyd,” said Victoria. “Folk round here have been your friends for years. They know you couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.”

Mrs. Lloyd shook her head. “No, you should see them at the Over Sixties Club. Hardly anyone speaks to me, and if they do, they’re only being polite. Then they move away as quickly as they can.” She sighed. “About the only friend I have left is Florence.” She shook her head. “That’s what it’s come to, I’m afraid.”

Before Penny or Victoria could respond, Mrs. Lloyd pointed to a woman walking toward them. “Look,” she said, “there’s Ruth from the Over Sixties Club.” As Mrs. Lloyd started to wave to her, the woman caught sight of the little group and quickly crossed the street.

“See what I mean?” said Mrs. Lloyd. “It’s like that everywhere I go. I can hardly hold my head up anymore in this town.” A sob caught in her throat and she turned to go.

“See,” said Penny. “She’s just gone into the bakery. She wasn’t avoiding you.”

Mrs. Lloyd gave her a sorrowful, pained look. “What are you two doing here anyway? Getting some alterations done?”

“No,” said Victoria, “we’re doing the window judging you volunteered us for.”

“Oh, that,” said Mrs. Lloyd, her voice dull and lifeless. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Victoria and Penny watched her walk slowly away, her well-wrapped figure growing smaller, until she turned down the little street that led to the town square.

“She looks older, somehow,” said Victoria. “This is really taking a toll on her. We’ve got to do something.”

Penny nodded. “Yes, we need to get this sorted so she can get on with her life.” She tapped Victoria’s clipboard. “How many windows left on the list?”

“Let me see. There’s the bakery and then the shoe store. The bakery has a distinct advantage, I’d say.”

“Right, but we’re not going in. And we don’t have to spend much time looking at the display. I walk past that window every day and I’ve had my eye on every biscuit, pie, and cake.”

Victoria laughed. “Isn’t that the best thing about Christmas? We can give ourselves permission to be really naughty.”

Half an hour later, as the afternoon sun began to cast long, slanting shadows, they stood on the pavement gazing through a window at the last entrant in the competition.

“I think we agree that it’s down to this one and the dressmaker’s mouse family,” said Victoria.

Penny nodded. “They’re both so charming.” The window display of the shoe store, which also mended the townsfolk’s shoes and boots, featured Santa Claus repairing the sole of an elf’s pointy shoe. As Santa worked away, tiny hammer raised to strike the upturned shoe, the elf, seated on a small stool, used the time to check off items on the list he held on his lap.

Penny leaned closer and, breaking out in a sudden smile, pointed. “Oh look! That’s just too adorable.”

For the elf’s green-and-white-striped stocking had a hole in the toe, which he was trying unsuccessfully to cover up with his other foot.

Victoria jotted down a few notes on her clipboard and then turned to Penny. “Right, well that’s it, then. Shall we go back to mine and tally up the scores? The temperature is starting to drop and I’m getting cold.”

The sky was becoming overcast, and as they made their way through the cobbled streets in the deepening gloom, the threat of snow hung over them.

“So we’re decided?” asked Victoria, reaching for the telephone.

Penny nodded. “I think we did the right thing dropping the best-in-show category and replacing it with most delicious. The bakery was a no-brainer for that one.”

“And,” added Victoria, “I’m glad we were each able to assign a win to our favourites. The mouse family as most beautiful for me and Santa and his elf for the most creative for you.”

“I can’t get over that little hole in his sock,” said Penny. “Absolutely delightful.”

Over the next two days, an iron-cold, frozen fog settled over the valley, draping the hilltops in a misty shroud. And although winter held the town firmly in its grip, just about everyone had last-minute preparations for Christmas that needed seeing to, so bundled up against a bitterly cold wind, the townsfolk hurried from shop to shop, darting in and out of doorways, clutching overflowing bags.

Finally, as the late afternoon gave way to the deepening darkness that signaled the onset of Christmas Eve, they returned to their homes, bearing a last-minute gift, a remembered-just-in-time jar of cranberry sauce, or a few extra batteries to power the children’s toys on Christmas morning.

In the warmth of Mrs. Lloyd’s home on Rosemary Lane, as Florence closed the curtains against the encroaching night, Mrs. Lloyd looked up from her copy of Country Life magazine and frowned.

“I don’t know why we should have to entertain an old lag like that Jimmy fellow tomorrow,” she grumbled. “Just because Penny Branningan asked us to have him over doesn’t mean we have to.”

Florence switched on the Christmas tree lights and then sank gratefully into a wingback chair. With only an hour or so off for a nap, she had been busy all day preparing the sausage stuffing for the turkey, peeling vegetables, setting the table, creating an attractive centrepiece, and ensuring that every aspect of tomorrow’s Christmas lunch would be perfect. She planned to attend church in the morning with Mrs. Lloyd, and then hurry home to see to all the last-minute details. Reverend Thomas Evans and his wife, Bronwyn, had accepted their invitation to join them for lunch, and Florence wanted everything to be exactly right.

“He’s coming over for a couple of hours in the afternoon after lunch because he wants a little visit with us,” Florence explained with exaggerated patience. “You know he lives in that dreadful senior’s home in Llandudno, and according to Penny he’s been looking forward enormously to this Christmas Day outing. It’s a special day for him.”