Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

The procession slid and scrambled on in silence for what seemed a mile, only to encounter a second stile and a plank bridge over a stream, followed by a brief area of what appeared to be simple bog. As he struggled out of it, Bussy pushed back his dripping hat and gazed at the constable.

“You’re not having a game with us, I suppose?” he inquired.

“No, sir.” The boy was all blush. “The little house is just here. You can’t make it out because it’s a bit low. There it is. sir. There.”

He pointed to a hump in the near distance which they had all taken to be a haystack. Gradually it emerged as the roof of a hovel which squatted with its back towards them in the wet waste.

“Good Heavens!” Sir Leo regarded its desolation with dismay. ‘Does anybody really live there?”

“Oh, yes, sir. An old widow lady. Mrs. Fyson’s the name.”

“Alone?” He was aghast. “How old?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir. Quite old. Over 75, must be.”

Sir Leo stopped in his tracks and a silence fell on the company. The scene was so forlorn, so unutterably quiet in its loneliness, that the world might have died.

It was Campion who broke the spell.

“Definitely no walk for a dying man,” he said firmly. “Doctor’s evidence completely convincing, don’t you think? Now that we’re here, perhaps we should drop in and see the householder.”

Sir Leo shivered. “We can’t all get in,” he objected. “Perhaps the Superintendent...”

“No. You and I will go.” Campion was obstinate. “Is that all right with you, Super?”

Bussy waved them on. “If you have to dig for us we shall be just about here,” he said cheerfully. “I’m over my ankles now. What a place! Does anybody ever come here except the postman. Constable?”

Campion took Sir Leo’s arm and led him firmly round to the front of the cottage. There was a yellow light in the single window on the ground floor and, as they slid up a narrow brick path to the very small door. Sir Leo hung back. His repugnance was as apparent as the cold.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “Go on. Knock if you must.”

Mr. Campion obeyed, stooping so that his head might miss the lintel. There was a movement inside, and at once the door was opened wide, so that he was startled by the rush of warmth from within.

A little old woman stood before him, peering up without astonishment. He was principally aware of bright eyes.

‘Oh, dear,” she said unexpectedly, and her voice was friendly. “You are damp. Come in.” And then, looking past him at the skulking Sir Leo, “Two of you! Well, isn’t that nice. Mind your poor heads.”

The visit became a social occasion before they were well in the room. Her complete lack of surprise, coupled with the extreme lowness of the ceiling, gave her an advantage from which the interview never entirely recovered.

From the first she did her best to put them at ease.

“You’ll have to sit down at once,” she said, laughing as she waved them to two little chairs, one on either side of the small black stove. “Most people have to. I’m all right, you see, because I’m not tall. This is my chair here. You must undo that,” she went on. touching Sir Leo’s coat. “Otherwise you may take cold when you go out. It is so very chilly, isn’t it? But so seasonable and that’s always nice.”

Afterwards it was Mr. Campion’s belief that neither he nor Sir Leo had a word to say for themselves for the first five minutes. They were certainly seated and looking round the one downstairs room which the house contained before anything approaching a conversation took place.

It was not a sordid room, yet the walls were unpapered, the furniture old without being in any way antique, and the place could hardly have been called neat. But at the moment it was festive. There was holly over the two pictures and on the mantle above the stove, and a crowd of bright Christmas cards.

Their hostess sat between them, near the table. It was set for a small tea party and the oil lamp with the red and white frosted glass shade, which stood in the center of it, shed a comfortable light on her serene face.

She was a short, plump old person whose white hair was brushed tightly to her little round head. Her clothes were all knitted and of an assortment of colors, and with them she wore, most unsuitably, a maltese-silk lace collarette and a heavy gold chain. It was only when they noticed she was blushing that they realized she was shy.

“Oh,” she exclaimed at last, making a move which put their dumbness to shame. “I quite forgot to say it before. A Merry Christmas to you! Isn’t it wonderful how it keeps coming round? Very quickly, I’m afraid, but it is so nice when it does. It’s such a happy time, isn’t it?”

Sir Leo pulled himself together with an effort which was practically visible.

“I must apologize,” he began. “This is an imposition on such a day. I...” But she smiled and silenced him again.

“Not at all,” she said. “Oh, not at all. Visitors are a great treat. Not everybody braves my footpath in the winter.”

“But some people do, of course?” ventured Mr. Campion.

“Of course.” She shot him her shy smile. “Certainly every week. They send down from the village every week and only this morning a young man, the policeman to be exact, came all the way over the fields to wish me the compliments of the season and to know if I’d got my post!”

“And you had!” Sir Leo glanced at the array of Christmas cards with relief. He was a kindly, sentimental, family man, with a horror of loneliness.

She nodded at the brave collection with deep affection.

“It’s lovely to see them all up there again, it’s one of the real joys of Christmas, isn’t it? Messages from people you love and who love you and all so pretty , too.”

“Did you come down bright and early to meet the postman?” Sir Leo’s question was disarmingly innocent, but she looked ashamed and dropped her eyes.

“I wasn’t up! Wasn’t it dreadful? I was late this morning. In fact, I was only just picking the letters off the mat there when the policeman called. He helped me gather them, the nice boy. There were such a lot. I lay lazily in bed this morning thinking of them instead of moving.”

“Still, you heard them come.” Sir Leo was very satisfied. “And you knew they were there.”

“Oh, yes.” She sounded content. “I knew they were there. May I offer you a cup of tea? I’m waiting for my party... just a woman and her dear little boy; they won’t be long. In fact, when I heard your knock I thought they were here already.”

Sir Leo excused them, but not with any undue haste. He appeared to be enjoying himself. Meanwhile, Mr. Campion, who had risen to inspect the display on the mantle shelf more closely, helped her to move the kettle so that it should not boil too soon.

The Christmas cards were splendid. There were nearly 30 of them in all, and the envelopes which had contained them were packed in a neat bundle and tucked behind the clock, to add even more color to the whole.

In design, they were mostly conventional. There were wreaths and firesides, saints and angels, with a secondary line of gardens in unseasonable bloom and Scotch terriers in tam-o’shanter caps. One magnificent card was entirely in ivorine, with a cutout disclosing a coach and horses surrounded by roses and forget-me-nots. The written messages were all warm and personal, all breathing affection and friendliness and the out-spoken joy of the season:

The very best to you. Darling, from all at The Limes.

To dear Auntie from Little Phil.

Love and Memories. Edith and Ted.

There is no wish like the old wish. Warm regards, George.