Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 1. Whole No. 785, January 2007

“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 homemade.

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, or Kellogg’s, or someone.”

“How marvellous! But what are you going to wear? I bet you didn’t pack your bikini.”

“Oh, she isn’t taking me,” Rosemary said, as if that went without saying. “You know what Mother’s like. She’s taking some old gent called Mr. Pinkerton from the Tai Chi group. I’m high and dry, Laura. I was wondering if — well — if there’s a spare bed in this stately pile you’re looking after.”

Laura took a step back and there was a yelp from Wilbur, who had got too close. “That wasn’t me. Do I have a spare bed? Dozens. That’s brilliant.”

“I could get a train to Bath tonight.”

“You’ve made my Christmas. I’ll be waiting on the platform.”

She had fitted the fresh lids on those pies, twelve of them, and very appetizing they looked. She’d used a beaten-egg glaze that gave them a lovely amber finish to leave no doubt that they were different from Gertrude Appleton’s insipid-looking offerings. Rosemary was due on a late train at 10:50, so it was likely that the carollers would get their treats. Would eleven pies be enough? She needed to put one aside, of course, for Gertrude, to help her survival plan. If twelve or more carollers came, Laura told herself, it was a sure bet that some wouldn’t want another pie if they’d been eating them all around the village. The mulled wine simmering in a saucepan was another matter.

About eight-thirty, Wilbur howled and Laura heard muted singing. She shut Wilbur in the kitchen and opened the front door. She needn’t have worried about the catering. A mere four men stood under a lantern. Three wore cardboard-and-tinsel crowns and were giving an uneven rendering of “We Three Kings.” The fourth, holding up the lantern, was the vicar, unless his collar was from a carnival shop, like the crowns. He looked too young to be a clergyman. Just like policemen, Laura thought.

When they started on the solo verses, Melchior’s reedy voice almost faded away. For a fat man he was producing a very thin sound. Caspar, with “Frankincense to offer have I,” was marginally better, and Balthazar, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume,” lost the tune altogether. She was thankful when they got to the last chorus. She popped a two-pound coin into the box and invited them inside.

“Muddy feet,” said the vicar. “We’d better not.”

Melchior had already taken a step forward and needed restraining by his companions. Too much mulled wine already, Laura suspected. But she still fetched the tray from the kitchen with the jug of wine and the pies.

“I may have over-catered here. I was expecting more of you,” she said as she invited them to help themselves. The man who’d sung the part of Caspar handed round the plate of mince pies, but it was obvious that they’d eaten well already. Only Melchior took one. The wine was more popular.

“We would have had two shepherds as well,” Balthazar said, “but one didn’t show up and the other dropped out at Long Farm.”

“It’s quite a trek,” the vicar said.

“He was legless,” Balthazar said.

“You don’t live here, do you?” Caspar asked Laura. “You’re not a burglar, by any chance?”

“Giving us mulled wine and the finest mince pie I’ve had all night? You must be joking,” Melchior said to his friend.

A slightly dodgy mince pie, Laura almost confessed. They seemed likable men, even if their singing wasn’t up to much. She introduced herself and explained about the housesitting. They told her their names but she soon forgot them. They were the vicar and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar tonight, and she’d probably never see them again, so why think of them as anything else?

“What do you do when you’re not housesitting?” the tuneless one, Balthazar, asked.

“Gardening, mainly.”

“So do I. Not a lot of gardening to be done this time of year,” little Caspar said.