Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

A sudden movement at the window gave her a wicked shock. The greyhound had emerged from behind the curtain, where he’d been sitting on the sill. Yes, a greyhound on a window sill. It was that kind of room, that kind of window, that kind of curtain. “I’m in charge now, Wilbur,” she told him, wagging a finger, “and if the two of us are going to survive you’d better not play any more tricks like that.”

Treat the place like your home, they’d said, so she took out her Christmas cards and started setting them up. The cards triggered mixed feelings. It was good to hear from old friends, but it could hurt when the envelopes came addressed to Nick and Laura with messages along the lines of “How are you two getting along? Give us a call and let’s all meet up in 2005.”

Wilbur jumped back on his sill and knocked down most of the cards.

“Making some kind of point, are we?” Laura said. But she moved them to the grand piano.

When the doorbell rang a moment later, the rest of the cards dropped out of her hand. It was a chiming bell and her charming friends had set it to the opening bar of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen , which can be pretty startling when you don’t expect it. Wilbur barked, so she had to shut him in the conservatory first.

A tall — six foot tall, at least — thin-faced woman with deep-set, accusing eyes was on the doorstep with a plate covered with a cloth. “And who the devil are you?” she said.

Laura did her best to explain, but it didn’t make much impact.

“Where’s young Maeve? She ought to be looking after the house,” the woman said.

“Yes, but she’s dashed off to New York. A last minute change of plans.”

“What do I do with these, then? I made them for the family.” She lifted the cloth briefly to reveal a batch of underdone mince pies.

“I don’t know,” Laura said, adding with tact, “They smell delicious. I’m sorry, but you didn’t say who you are.”

“Gertrude Appleton from next door. We always exchange mince pies at Yuletide. Have you made yours?”

“I just arrived.”

That didn’t count with Gertrude Appleton. She clicked her tongue and looked ready to stamp her foot as well. “I must have one of yours, or I’ll get bad luck for a year.”

“Why?”

“It’s Wiltshire custom, isn’t it? You eat a pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas, and every one has to be baked by a different friend. Then if the Lord is merciful you’ll survive to see another Christmas. Bless my soul, there isn’t anyone else I can ask.”

“You’d better step inside a moment,” Laura said, not wanting to panic this woman and playing for time while she thought about ways to resolve the problem.

“No, I won’t come in,” Gertrude Appleton said, and those fierce eyes were suddenly red at the edges and starting to water. “I don’t know you from Adam. Couldn’t call thee a friend.”

“Let’s be friends. Why not? It’s the season for it,” Laura said, dredging deep to sound convivial. “Listen, Gertrude, why don’t I do some baking right now and make some pies for you?”

“But you won’t have mincemeat.”

“I’m positive all the ingredients must be in the kitchen. Jane adores cooking, as you know.”

Gertrude raised her chin in a self-righteous way. “Mine was made with the puddings four weeks ago, the week after Stir-up Sunday.”

“Stirrup what?”

“Stir-up Sunday. Haven’t you heard of that? The last Sunday before Advent. That’s when you make your puddings and mince, after the collect for the day; ‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy people.’”

This was getting more and more weird.

“In that case, Jane may have made hers already,” Laura said. “I’ll check. One way or another, you’ll get a mince pie from me, Gertrude. Depend upon it.”

“Take these, then.” Gertrude thrust the plate towards her. “You’ll need some for the waits.”

Laura had a mental picture of old-fashioned kitchen scales, with her mince pie being weighed against Gertrude’s and found wanting.

“The carollers. They come round every Christmas Eve, and they always want a bite to eat and mulled wine, too, the boozy lot. I must be off. I have seasonal jobs to do. There’s greenfly and aphids in the greenhouse.”

“You’re a gardener?” Laura said with interest.

“Ha!” She tossed her head. “Am I a gardener? I wouldn’t bother to go on without my garden. It’s the saving of me.”

“I do some gardening, too. What are you going to do about the aphids — spray them?”

Gertrude looked shocked. “I don’t hold with chemicals. No, I’ll smoke the varmints out, like I always do.”

“Fumigation? Effective, I expect, though I’ve never tried it,” Laura said.

“I’ve got these magical smoke things, like little strips of brown paper. Had them for years. Just close up all the windows and seal the cracks and set light to they strips. Let it blaze for a while, and then I stamp it out so they can smoulder. Soon as the smoke appears I’m out of there quicker than hell would scorch a feather and shut the door behind me. When I go in again, there’s not a greenfly left to say it ever happened.”

Laura refrained from mentioning that the magical smoke things undoubtedly contained chemicals of some kind. “Good luck with it, then. And I won’t forget the mince pies. Which direction do you live?”

She was glad to have a task, although she could think of better ones than this. After closing the door she carried the plate to Jane’s enormous kitchen, plonked it on the table and checked the walk-in larder for jars of mincemeat.

No joy. If you were planning to spend Christmas in Lanzarote, she reflected, you wouldn’t feel obliged to make mincemeat. Even on Stir-up Sunday.

She checked the freezer. Well stocked, but not with seasonal items.

She thought of the supermarket in Bradford on Avon. A bought mince pie wouldn’t suffice of course. Those eyes like calculators would spot a Mr Kipling at fifty paces. The pastry, at the very least, would have to look home made.

Then Laura had her inspiration. She’d save herself the toil, tears and sweat by recycling some of Gertrude’s own mince pies and simply making new lids for them. She picked a sharp knife and prised the lid off one. A neat dissection. The trick would be to spread a little jam over the mincemeat to seal the replacement.

She found all the ingredients she needed and switched on the oven.

When the phone on the wall rang she was up to her elbows in flour.

“You’ll just have to leave a message after the tone,” she said to it.

“This is Calvin Klein’s office in New York. Mr Klein was hoping to speak to Maeve about the trip. We’ll call back.”

Laura said, “Calvin Klein! I could be speaking to Calvin Klein and I’m sifting ruddy pastry?”

She was adding the egg yolk and water when the phone went again. This time she grabbed it with a floury hand. In a come-hitherish tone she said, “Hi, how can I be of service?”

“Laura?”

She knew that voice and it wasn’t Calvin Klein’s. “You! I thought you were someone else. Oh, never mind. It’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s a miracle,” Rosemary said. “I used one of those directory enquiry numbers and I’m sure it was someone in Calcutta, but she seemed to know the Eadingtons. You’re installed in deepest Wilts, then?”

“In deepest sums it up. I haven’t been here an hour and I’m already making pastry for the locals. What’s with you?”

“A change of plans, actually. Mother forgot to tell me. When I got here she was all packed up to leave. You know she does competitions? She won a trip for two to the Bahamas, courtesy of Cadbury’s, or Kelloggs, or someone.”