Early Winter, 1968

  The moment that the life flowed out of Dave Allison, Pru Allison opened her eyes to find herself in hospital wired up to beeping machines. At exactly the same moment, her little son opened his eyes and started crying. His pain was real, but it was a sure sign that he was going to recover.

  Dr Carmichael was sitting in the room just off the intensive care ward, studying the notes of both patients, when Sister Samantha Rokeby entered. The frisson between nurse and doctor was evident as they studied the notes together.

  “It’s almost like a miracle,” said Sister Rokeby, smiling. “If you had asked me last night what were the chances of either mother or child recovering, I wouldn’t have given you twopence for them. But now, well, I’m amazed at the progress. I can’t wait to phone Mr Allison with news.”

  “I’ve just tried his number, Sister,” said the doctor, handing her the patients’ notes and standing up. “He doesn’t answer. Probably on his way now.”

  “Yes, he must be. I hope he got some rest. Last evening he looked dead beat. I can’t wait to tell him the good news.”

  But both Dr Carmichael and Sister Rokeby had a long wait ahead of them.

  

  “I can’t understand it, vicar,” said Mrs Harper, bringing him his elevenses as usual.

  “Can’t understand what, Mrs Aitch?” Bernard’s eyes lit up when he saw the steaming hot buttered muffins.

  “Dave’s always so reliable and ’e promised ’e’d be ’ere first thing to look at the copper in the kitchen. ’E told me not to pay fancy prices getting it fixed as ’e ’ad time on ’is ’ands now the garden and churchyard are up to scratch. ’E said winter was ’is time to catch up on all sorts of odd jobs and this would be ’is first challenge. Said ’e was looking forward to it. Now I can’t do the washing until ’e fixes it.”

  Bernard started to munch happily on his muffin. “I shouldn’t worry, Mrs Aitch, probably overslept.”

  “Not like ’im, that ain’t,” said the housekeeper worriedly. “Not like ’im at all.”

  After two days, Mrs Harper was more than just a little worried. Apart from the copper packing up, she was worried that Dave hadn’t shown up and hadn’t even offered an explanation for his non-appearance.

  “Are you sure ’e ain’t called?”

  Bernard was worried too, now. “No. He hasn’t even turned up for his wages. It’s very odd. Perhaps he’s ill.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder,” said Mrs Harper. “Do you think you should go and see ’im and take ’im ’is wages?”

  Bernard thought for a minute. “Er, no, I don’t have time, Mrs Aitch. Maybe you could go? See that nice wife of his and little kiddie while you’re at it.”

  Mrs Harper was very happy to run this errand. Dave’s no-show had been eating away at her and she couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  But there was no reply when she rang the doorbell. Tooting was a long trek, and she was feeling quite tired. She had been looking forward to a cup of tea and a warm by the fire before journeying back, but now it seemed she would have to return unrefreshed. As she was retracing her steps down the front path, a large, rubicund woman came out of the house next door and addressed her.

  “You lookin’ for Mrs Allison?”

  “Er, well, yes. Or Mr Allison. There doesn’t seem to be anybody in.”

  “No. And there’s milk bottles on the step not been taken in. I’ve been worried.”

  Mrs Harper smiled. Perhaps she’d get her cup of tea and warm after all.

  

  It was decided to call the police. It was certainly worrying that nobody had been at home for at least two or three days. The milk was piling up on the doorstep, and where was little Joey? If they had gone on holiday they would have told Mrs Dennison, their neighbour. She always looked after the place for them if they went away.

  “They always ask me to feed their goldfish,” Mrs Dennison said, pouring out the tea. Nancy Harper was seated in the cosy parlour, warming her toes by the open fire. She could feel them again. This December was one of the coldest she could remember. Not since that winter shortly after the war could she recall such icy conditions.

  “So you think we’d better call the police then?” Mrs Harper wasn’t sure, but the circumstances were certainly very odd. She explained to Mrs Dennison that she had brought Dave’s wages from the vicar, and that he was supposed to come and fix her copper.

  “It’s just not like ’im not to show up. Not without any explanation.”

  “Let’s toddle off round to the station now, shall we, ducks?” said Mrs Dennison. “When you’ve finished your tea.”

  So it was that the police were persuaded to gain entry to the Allisons’ house. What they found there was reported swiftly back to Bernard by a horrified Mrs Harper.

  “Apparently there was a lot of blood. The police said that ’is wife and son were in ’orspital and knew nothing about it. The ’orspital ’ad been tryin’ to contact ’im for days.”

  Bernard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Dorothy and Robbie were soon at the vicarage trying to assimilate the news too. Mrs Harper was all of a-tremble and a-dither and her upside-down cake was served to them the right way up.

  “But why on earth did he do it?” cried Bernard.

  Robbie was equally shocked. “A man like that – with everything to live for – nice wife, lovely kiddie. What was he thinking?”

  “The balance of his mind must have been disturbed. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “There’ll be an inquest of course...”

  Dorothy was thoughtful, however, before she spoke. “I’m not so shocked at what he did,” she said unexpectedly. “I think it was inevitable...”

  “Inevitable? Why? How can you say such a thing, Dorothy?”

  “He was cursed – seeing those black auras all the time. He couldn’t get away from them. It’s my belief he finally saw one round his own head when he looked in the mirror...”

  “So he pre-empted his death, so to speak?”

  “Yes. Rather than waiting for what he saw as inevitable, he took the quickest way out.”

  “How horrible!” said Bernard and Robbie in unison.

  Early Winter, 1968

  “I get fed up with all this post that Neverholme still gets,” grumbled Chief Inspector Victor Wallace. “He’s been retired for three and a half years, yet he still gets post!”

  Wallace wasn’t the most patient of men and he wasn’t popular among his subordinates. Since the departure of Chief Inspector Anthony Neverholme, the team had never quite gelled with their new leader. Stepping into the popular man’s shoes, Wallace knew he would never fill them as he did, but didn’t much care. He was efficient at his job, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t have time to spend down at the local with the likes of Sergeants Mellor and Hadleigh, and he didn’t care if it offended them. There was more to life than drinking beer and discussing last Saturday’s football match.

  Sergeant Mellor had just brought the morning post to his boss and was standing politely to attention. Neverholme still got post because people liked him and remembered him, thought Mellor, unlike you. No one will be sending you post when you retire. “The letters are mostly invites to socials and such, sir,” he pointed out, “He was such a great guy. Everybody liked him.” Mellor smirked as he watched Wallace’s reaction to that remark.

  Wallace shuffled through the letters, looking for ones actually addressed to himself. There were one or two, but the majority were for his former boss. As Mellor had suggested, most of them didn’t look important, or even work-related, except one. The envelope was written in a hasty scrawl, but somehow it looked significant. He held it up to the light.

  “I wonder,” he thought, rubbing his chin. “I think I ought to open this, Mellor. What do you think?”

  Mellor took the proffered envelope and turned it over in his hands. “Hmm,” he said. “Could be personal, boss.”

  “If it were personal, then surely the writer would know he was retired.”

  “Not necessarily, sir.”

  “No, I suppose not. Oh well, bundle it up with the others and send them in a bunch at the end of the week as usual.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  

  Anthony Neverholme had been at leisure for several years but he was still unused to it. Police work was all he knew how to do and he missed the camaraderie of his mates at the station, as well as the actual detective work that he loved so much. No matter how grisly the crime, he never wished to be removed from it. He loved his job much more, it must be said, than his wife or son. Particularly his son, who was the personification of a sulky teenager, even in his early twenties. And still living at home; that rankled too.

  Then there was his dear wife. Okay, she was a good sort, there was no denying it, but she did tend to nag, like most wives, of course. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She always managed to find a job for him about the house: just how many shelves needed putting up, he wondered. And he was no plumber, and unblocking the kitchen sink on a much too regular basis got on his nerves.

  The only relief he found was in his memoirs, which he had started writing the morning after his retirement do. These were still only half-finished, and almost as long as ‘War and Peace’ already. He loved sitting down at his desk on the long winter evenings, sucking on his pipe and reminiscing. Now that he had a proper typewriter, he found it even easier to put down all his cases; in chronological order, too. He was very proud of that.

  It was one morning in early December when the letter from Dave Allison finally arrived on his breakfast table, along with various invitations to Christmas socials from his former colleagues and associates. His wife was happy that he was so popular; it meant she could buy a new dress for each occasion. This didn’t make Neverholme happy, of course, even though his police pension was more than ample for such extravagances.

  When he came to the letter in question, he was instantly intrigued. He, like Wallace, turned it over and held it up to the light. Why he didn’t just open it, he wasn’t sure, but he was enjoying savouring the moment. This hastily scrawled letter promised well. He wasn’t sure how he knew this by just looking at the envelope, but he did.

  Doreen Neverholme watched her husband across the breakfast table with amusement. “Are you going to open it or just stare at the envelope?”

  “Just about to, dear,” he said, looking around for the letter opener. “Where is it?” he demanded.

  “What’s wrong with your finger?”

  “I like using the opener. It was a retirement present...”

  “I put it in the sideboard, top drawer on the left hand side,” she sighed. Him and the force. She knew he’d rather divorce her ten times over than have left his job. He had worked two years over the normal retirement age for coppers, but that was all he could get away with. Mrs Neverholme felt sorry for him. He was like a fish out of water, always under her feet. She scraped around to find him jobs to do around the house, but she knew these didn’t fulfil him. Still, one day he’d be grateful that he didn’t suffer a heart attack from working too hard.

  Then she saw Neverholme’s grin as he read the letter.

  “Good news?” she asked curiously.

  “I should say. This vindicates me completely. I was right! I need to get on to Wallace right away...”

  “I think you need to get a grip, Tony,” she said quietly. “You’re no longer a policeman, remember?”

  “I know, I know. I must tell Wallace straightaway. I’ll have that Lady High and Mighty bang to rights before the day is out!”

  Mrs Neverholme just sighed once more and began clearing away the breakfast things.

  Winter, 1968

  “You’re the first to know, Richenda.”

  Richenda Crosby was clearing away the remnants of Lady Mountjoy’s tea as her mistress uttered these words. She looked up, puzzled. “I am, madam?”

  “Oh, Richenda, stop calling me madam, for goodness’ sake. We’ve known each other long enough now to address each other by our Christian names, don’t you think?”

  “Er, well, yes, I suppose so.” Richenda, herself possessed of a rather unusual name, baulked at the idea of saying ‘Forsythia’ instead of ‘madam’. It was a mouthful and a half, and no mistake.

  “Anyway, be that as it may, don’t you want to hear my news?” Lady Mountjoy was smiling bountifully at her minion.

  “Of course, mad- er, Fors-yth-ia...”

  “I’ve been given the all clear. The doctor’s just called me. The cancer’s gone into remission. Isn’t that great?”

  Richenda was genuinely pleased. She respected and liked her employer enormously, and couldn’t understand why other people thought of her as a ‘stuck-up bitch’, an epithet unkindly used by the butcher only the other day when she was buying the Christmas turkey. Richenda had been very offended, almost as much as if he had been describing herself and not her mistress.

  “Oh, that is good news! I’m so pleased for you.”

  “Yes. Apparently they didn’t hold out much hope for me, but the treatment worked after all. Dr Oakley said that he was astonished at my recovery, but delighted, of course.”

  Richenda smiled and repeated her assertion that she was pleased for her. But there was a cloud on her brow.

  “Now I can have a lovely Christmas here with little Marty and you. We’ll have a nice time, just us three. I always prefer my Christmases quiet...”

  Richenda Crosby broke in on her train of thought. “I’m sorry, er – I don’t think I’ll be here.”

  “Nonsense!” grinned Forsythia. “Not here? Where else will you be? You’ve just bought the turkey haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but that was before...”

  “Before what? Spit it out.”

  “I found out that my mother’s dying...”

  “Your mother? I didn’t know you had a mother – I mean, of course, I knew you must have had a mother, but not living. You’ve never mentioned her...”

  “No, well. We don’t really get on. Besides, she lives in Dublin. But I think I must go and see her now that she’s dying...”

  “Well, of course, you must,” said Lady Mountjoy, trying not to sound resentful. Now she would be on her own for Christmas, apart from her son, naturally. He was the light of her life, but he wasn’t much good for intelligent conversation and challenging games of Scrabble. “When do you want to go?”

  “Er, well, the thing is... I phoned the airline and all seats in economy class have gone. There’s only first class left and I can’t afford that...”

  “Oh, is that all? I’ll pay your fare, don’t worry. Have it as a Christmas present, Richenda. You deserve it after all you’ve done for me...”

  “Oh thank you!” Richenda, if she had been a young teenager, would no doubt have clapped her hands in glee. “I’ll book it straightaway. But, first, I’ll get your Christmas present from me...”

  Richenda left the room hurriedly, leaving Forsythia with a sad smile on her face. Who could she spend Christmas with now? Then she brightened up. Of course! The vicarage. That nice doctor – he was sweet on her, she knew. She would phone the vicarage and get herself invited for Christmas. She was sure they’d be delighted at her good news, too.

  When she phoned, Bernard was indeed delighted to hear of her recovery. “I’m very happy for you, Lady Mountjoy,” he said politely. He still didn’t like her very much, and was apprehensive, now that she had been given a clean bill of health, as to how Robbie would react to the news.

  “Thank you, vicar. Is Dave Allison still working for you, by the way?”

  Bernard gulped. She didn’t know. Of course, there was no reason why she should. He broke the news to her as gently as he could.

  “My God!” She nearly dropped the phone. “Suicide? He committed suicide? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Bernard nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t see him.

  “Vicar?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. He – he – that is – the police found him. You don’t want to know the details, I’m sure.”

  Lady Mountjoy didn’t. She knew that Dave wasn’t in love with her, had never been in love with her, and she had come to terms with that at last. No point in flogging a horse that was well and truly dead. Her attention was now firmly focussed on Robbie, but the thought of her former lover’s death had taken the wind completely out of her sails. She had been looking forward to telling him he had no need to worry about the fate of Martin, now that she was well again. How could he have done such a terrible thing?

  “Are you all right, Lady Mountjoy?” he asked after a few moments. He knew she was still on the line, he could hear her breathing.

  “It – it’s such a shock,” she managed to say. “I was hoping to come and visit you all this Christmas. Now I’m well I wanted to share my happiness. I’ve presents for you all...”

  Oh dear, it was as he feared. She wanted an invitation for Christmas. The vicarage would be a good place to be, there was no doubt. Robbie would be there, so would Dorothy. Mrs Harper and Lucy Carter would be the cooks, of course, but they would also sit down with them to enjoy the meal. There would be rejoicing, but he didn’t want to ask Lady Mountjoy to share in the festivities. He wasn’t being a Scrooge, he told himself. He just didn’t want Robbie to get his hopes up. The woman wasn’t for him, he was convinced of that.

  However, there didn’t seem to be much help for it, when she went on to say that her companion would be away in Ireland and she would be on her own. He invited her, of course, and then shuddered when he realised she would be bringing her little boy with her. He still had nightmares about the time Mrs Harper’s great nephew Ronnie came to stay at the vicarage. It was only for a few days, although it seemed like months, if not years at the time. That was ten years ago, but he still remembered it as if it were yesterday.

  He swallowed hard. “It will be delightful to have your little boy with us. Christmas is for children, after all.” No it wasn’t, he said to himself. It was to celebrate the birth of Christ, not for snotty little kids to tear open present after present, unappreciative until the last wrapping had been removed. But he didn’t say this.

 

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