Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

He gave Connie a long, wondering look. “Is that crazy? To feel glad it’s over? Do other people feel that way?”

Connie asked Dan and Jane to wait in the small office. He came in ten minutes later; he looked tired. The plumber came in with him.

Connie said, “Me, I hate this business. I’m after him, and I bust him, and then I start bleeding for him. What the hell? Anyway, you get your badge. Miss Raymer.”

“But wouldn’t you have found out about the plumber anyway?” Jane asked.

Connie grinned ruefully at her. He jerked a thumb toward the plumber. “Meet Patrolman Hilbert. Doesn’t know a pipe wrench from a faucet. We just took the chance that Kistner was too eager to toss the girl out the window— so eager he didn’t make a quick check of the Men’s Room. If he had, he could have laughed us under the table. As it is, I can get my Christmas shopping done tomorrow. Or is it today?”

Dan and Jane left headquarters. They walked down the street, arm in arm. There was holly, and a big tree in front of the courthouse, and a car went by with a lot of people in it singing about We Three Kings of Orient Are. Kistner was a stain, fading slowly.

They walked until it was entirely Christmas Eve, and they were entirely alone in the snow that began to fall again, making tiny perfect stars of lace that lingered in her dark hair.

MISS CRINDLE AND FATHER CHRISTMAS – Malcolm Gray

Christmas comes reluctantly to Much Cluning. Huddling in its valley, the village looks even drearier than usual under grey December skies. There is no tree outside the village hall, and the single string of fairy lights along the High Street hardly creates an air of festivity. The housewives complain about the extra work Christmas brings and the men about the expense. They only do it for the kids, they say. All the same, it is doubtful if they really mean it, or if they would want to see the season abolished even if they could, and a fair number go to church or chapel on Christmas morning.

A few days before Christmas last year. Harriet Richards stood in the yard at her brother’s farm giving him a piece of her mind. At twenty-two, Harriet was as generous and warm-hearted as she was pretty. “Do you have to be such a Scrooge?” she demanded angrily.

“Go away,” Jason told her coldly. He was nine years older than his sister and he had no use for the season of goodwill. The only good thing about it to his mind was the profit he made on his flock of chickens and turkeys. He was damned if he was going to give any of them away to layabouts who weren’t prepared to get off their backsides and work. He said as much to Harriet.

“Layabouts!” she exclaimed furiously. “Do you call old Mrs. Randall a layabout?”

“It’s her husband’s job to provide for her, not mine.”

“When he’s nearly eighty and crippled with arthritis?”

“Ach!” Jason said, disgusted.

“And she’s not the only one,” Harriet went on. “There’s Josie Gardner with her three kids. And Bert Renwick and Phoebe,” she added, forestalling her brother’s attempt to interrupt her. “It’s not their fault they can’t afford anything but the bare necessities.”

“They get their pensions,” Jason retorted. “And benefits. They wouldn’t get those if people like me didn’t pay too damned much in taxes.”

“Oh,” Harriet said, exasperated, “I don’t know how Sheila puts up with you!” And, turning, she started toward the house.

“If you think I breed those birds to feed all the lame ducks in the village, you’d better think again!” Jason called after her.

There were times when she could strangle him, Harriet thought furiously. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford three or four turkeys. By local standards, he was well off. But he seemed to feel that people expected him to give them. It put him on the defensive, and he resented it.

Her sister-in-law was in the kitchen. “Have you and Jason been arguing again?” she asked, amused.

“You could say so.” Harriet, still boiling with indignation, explained.

“He works hard,” Sheila reminded her. “And he’s inclined to think other people don’t. There’s so much to do at this time of year, he gets worn out.”

“He could afford to pay another man if he wasn’t so mean,” Harriet said bitterly. “Anyway, it’s not just this time, it’s always.”

Soon afterward, she left. Sheila watched her go, thinking.

Later that evening Harriet had a very public quarrel with Colin Loates, her boy friend. Nobody who heard it was quite sure what it was about, but Harriet went home in tears.

Miss Crindle met her in the street the next day. Miss Crindle was a large woman with greying hair and a cheerful manner. Until her retirement three years ago, she had taught at Much Cluning Primary School for more than thirty years, and both Harriet and Colin had been among her brightest pupils. So had Jason, who hadn’t been as clever as his sister but by hard work had gained a scholarship to Leobury School and gone on to university. Harriet could have gone, too, but she preferred to stay home and work with the horses her father bred for show jumping.

Colin had been the brightest of the three, a cheeky little boy with charm and a talent for mischief. Miss Crindle had never quite forgiven him for leaving school at sixteen to go into his father’s grocery shop.

“And how is Colin?” Miss Crindle inquired that morning.

Harriet looked surprised. “Haven’t you heard, Miss Crindle? I thought everybody had. We had a row last night and it’s all over.”

Miss Crindle noticed that Harriet’s left eye was twitching and that she looked embarrassed. All the same, she didn’t seem too distressed. She had always been a sensible girl, Miss Crindle thought, and things were different nowadays. In her time, if a girl and her boy friend split up she would be upset for days. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Harriet shrugged. “I’ll get over it,” she said ruefully.

Miss Crindle was sure she would. A girl like Harriet, vivacious and attractive, would find no shortage of young men.

That afternoon, Colin, driving back from Leobury, slewed off the road into a ditch two miles from the village. He explained that he had swerved to avoid a pheasant and skidded, but the popular theory was that his mind hadn’t been on his driving, he was thinking about Harriet and their row. Whatever the cause, his car was well and truly stuck and he had to walk to the nearest house and phone the garage to come and tow him out.

They were still doing it when Billy Powis, having run all the way home, blurted out breathlessly to his mother that he had just seen Santa Claus. Mary Powis was busy making mince pies. She laughed but didn’t pay too much attention. She was used to her son’s tales.

“Oh, dear?” she said.

“But I did. Mum,” the seven-year-old insisted.

“Had he got his sledge and reindeer?”

Billy hesitated. He was a truthful little boy and he couldn’t really remember, he had been too excited. “He’d got something,” he mumbled. More certainly he added, “And he had a sack over his shoulder.”

“Where was he?”

“I told you, at the edge of Brackett’s Wood. He went into the trees.”

“You shouldn’t make up stories, Billy,” Mary told him mildly. “It’s telling fibs, and that’s naughty.”

“I did see him,” Billy persisted. He was learning early that it is bad enough to be suspected when one is guilty, but much worse when one is innocent. “He was all in red, with white stuff on his coat, and he had a big red hood and boots. Like he does when he comes to our school party.”