Christmas Stalkings (20 page)

Then, of course, he had to go and spoil it. He said, “I’ve been worried lately, Mary. About you.”

“Me?”

“Well, I know how soft-hearted you are. Either of those two young rascals could persuade you to part with my money once I’m dead and you’ve inherited.”

“My dear, I assure you—”

“So I may as well tell you, I’ve changed my will. You will get a handsome income for life, so you needn’t worry. But the capital is well and truly tied up until the youngest girl is forty.” Runfold sat back in his chair with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Yes, they’ll have to wait until they’re forty, or until we’re both dead. That’s why I can have so much confidence in you, Mary.”

“Couldn’t you have trusted me anyway, Robert?”

Robert laughed. “Oh, I know you wouldn’t try to kill me. It wouldn’t be in your interest. But the thought of you being in control of all that money, without me around to advise you ...”

“I’m sure you did the right thing, my dear,” said Mary Runfold.

Two days later, on Christmas Eve, the daughters and their husbands arrived, and preparations went ahead for a jolly family Christmas. Everybody took turns at stirring the pudding—Robert could hardly object to this, since the mixture had been made months ago by Mrs. Benson, but he kept an extremely sharp eye on his sons-in-law all the same. Mary put in the little silver charms carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper—the spinster’s thimble, the bachelor’s button, the lucky wishbone, the Christmas bell, and the threepenny bit and the sixpence—two silver coins saved from Christmases long past.

That afternoon, Anne Walters (nee Runfold) managed to corner her father on his own in the library, where he had taken refuge to escape helping with the holly-and-paper streamers which were being festooned over the drawing room.

Anne, a gravely dark beauty of twenty-eight, turned on all her charm. “You see, Daddy, Derek could make a whole lot of money with a pharmacy of his own. As it is, he’s working for a rotten salary, and I can’t possibly give up my job, and . . . you do want grandchildren, don’t you?” Anne smiled and put a persuasive arm around her father’s shoulders.

Robert shook it off. “Whether or not you have babies is nothing to do with me, Anne. You and Derek are grown-up people. You must make your own decisions.”

“But decisions often depend on money, Daddy.”

“Not on mine.” Robert shut the book he was reading with a snap. “If you want to talk about babies, go and have a word with your mother.”

Anne looked at him reflectively. “Maybe I will,” she said.

A little later, Alison Watts (nee Runfold) came into the library. She was twenty-four, with her mother’s dark-golden hair and a pert, pretty face which was currently marred by the fact that she was crying.

“What on earth is the matter, Ally?” In Robert’s view, people had no right to spoil Christmas by displays of emotion.

“Oh, Daddy, it’s about Philip. I’m so terribly unhappy.”

“Then leave him,” said Runfold bluntly.

“No, Daddy, you don’t understand ... I love Philip and I’ll stand by him through anything— absolutely anything. But things are much worse than you know. If he can’t pay his debts he’ll have to go bankrupt, and his career will be finished! It’s really not his fault—he’s been too generous ...”

“Which is a mistake I’m not about to make,” remarked her father. “It’s no good coming in here and weeping all over the place. You and Philip have got yourselves into this mess, and you can get out of it.”

“But how?”

“Bankruptcy isn’t the end of the world. Plenty of people have climbed out of it and made a success of their lives. In fact, it might be the making of that shiftless husband of yours.”

Still in tears, Alison ran out of the room and went in search of her mother. She found her in the drawing room with Anne. Derek and Philip had been packed off on a long country walk to keep them out of the way.

One look at her sister’s face was enough for Anne. “No luck?” she said.

Alison shook her head mutely. Mary Runfold said, “I’m so sorry, darling. I did think your father might help when it actually came to bankruptcy—but you know what he’s like.”

Alison blew her nose, stopped crying, and said, “I wish he was dead. I honestly do.”

“You mustn’t say such things, Ally. He’s been a wonderful father to you.”

“He’s been no such thing!” Anne was vehement. “Ally’s right. If he’d only drop dead, you’d have his money, and we know you’d help us!”

Mrs. Runfold shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid he’s thought of that. You know his heart is weak—he can’t live forever. So he’s made a new will, giving me an income for life and putting all the capital in trust for you two girls—until Ally is forty.”

“Forty!” Anne was outraged. “That means I’ll be forty-four! It’s wicked. Can’t you break the trust, Mummy?”

“I very much doubt it. You know how thorough your father is. Anyway, please don’t talk as though he were dead already. He may live for many years yet, please God.”

“Well, we’re in for a really merry Christmas, aren’t we?” Alison was bitter. “When he actually invited us, we thought that he’d changed his mind.”

“He never changes his mind,” said Mary Runfold quietly. “That’s one of the reasons why he’s so rich.”

Later that evening, Anne went to the kitchen. She and the cook were old friends.

“Hello, Bensy,” she said.

“Why, good evening, Miss Anne! Merry Christmas! How well and pretty you’re looking! And no wonder, with that handsome husband to look after you.” Mrs. Benson, stout and good-humored, went on rolling pastry.

“Thank you, Bensy. Yes, I’m very happy.” A little pause. “What’s that you’re making?”

“Pastry for this evening’s apple pie, dear. Your father’s favorite.”

“Can I help?”

“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Benson looked up, red-faced and flustered. “Why, I’d quite forgotten! The mistress said none of you young people were to come in the kitchen. You’d better go, or I’ll be in trouble.”

“Not come into the kitchen?” Anne was puzzled. “Why ever not?”

“Don’t ask me, Miss Anne. I expect your mother wants everything to be a surprise for you. Anyhow, off you go. And tell Miss Ally, will you? And your young men—husbands, I should say. I somehow can’t get used to the idea of you two being married ladies. It seems no time at all since . . .” Mrs. Benson wiped away a furtive tear on the edge of her apron. “Well, run along now, dear.”

Anne left, far from pleased.

Dinner that evening was a glum meal, although Robert Runfold gave no sign of noticing anything untoward. He tucked with relish into the apple pie and regaled his family with stories about his early struggles in the business world, and how he had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, with no help from anybody. This information was received in bleak silence, broken only by Mary Runfold’s urging of second helpings on everybody. After dinner, there was another visit from carol singers, which put Robert into a thoroughly bad temper. Parker was sent to get rid of them, and soon afterward the family went gloomily to bed.

Gloomily, that is, apart from Robert, who remarked cheerfully to his wife, “Well, I think they got the message, eh, Mary? Nothing like being firm and making oneself clearly understood.” The look on Mary’s face must have caught his attention, because he patted her hand and gave her his charmer’s smile. “Now, stop worrying, dear. They’re young and they’ll pull out of these little difficulties. It’ll do them good. You’ll see.”

On Christmas morning, the whole family went to Matins in the village church. The vicar, the local doctor, and other worthies thought how pleasant it was to see a really united family praying together, in these days.

The vicar preached a short, hearty sermon on the meaning of Christmas, emphasizing how the festival united families and spread goodwill. Then the congregation streamed out into the crisp winter air. A fine sprinkling of snow was beginning to fall, and the phrase “A white Christmas after all!” was repeated on all sides. Then everybody scurried for their cars, and home to the turkeys and plum puddings which had been cooking all the morning.

Christmas lunch at the
Runfolds
’ went as well as could be expected. Mrs. Benson had excelled herself. The turkey was succulent, the bread sauce creamy and with just the right hint of onion and nutmeg, the cranberries-and-chestnut stuffing made delicious contrasts of taste. However, the main course was not so heavy as to leave appetites blunted when the Christmas pudding was carried in by Parker, aflame with brandy and accompanied by a positively alcoholic hard sauce.

Mrs. Runfold served the pudding herself, making sure that everybody got one of the wrapped favors. Derek got the sixpenny piece and Philip the threepenny, which caused Robert to remark that it was a lucky omen for their future finances. Alison drew the
lucky
silver wishbone and Anne the Christmas bell, and there was laughter when Mary and Robert found, respectively, the spinster’s thimble and the bachelor’s button in their portions.

The meal over, everybody agreed that a short siesta would put them into good shape to tackle Mrs. Benson’s royally iced Christmas cake. Only Mary Runfold decided to go first to the kitchen to confer with Mrs. Benson about the cold supper which was to be served before the young people departed for home.

Consequently, it was not until about half past three that she went upstairs, to find her husband slumped across their big double bed, not sleeping but dead.

Dr. Carlton arrived within a few minutes of Mrs. Run-fold’s anguished telephone call. He was not particularly surprised at what had happened. He knew only too well of Runfold’s potentially dangerous heart condition.

“But
why? Why,
Dr. Carlton? Why should he die now? What happened?” Mary was obviously not far from the breaking point.

The doctor, who was engaged in writing out the death certificate, looked up. “Who can tell, Mrs. Runfold? Perhaps you know better than I do?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that heart failure, in his condition, can be brought on by hypertension. Has he been worked up or overexcited lately? Has he been eating too much rich food?”

“I suppose he has,” Mary admitted. “What with Christmas—and then, we have the girls and their husbands here, and . . . well, yes, he has been worried. Family matters, you understand.”

“Of course. Please accept all my sympathy, Mrs. Runfold.” Dr. Carlton signed the certificate and handed her a copy. “There. This will enable the undertakers to arrange everything without any bother.” He cleared his throat. “I’m very glad, Mrs. Runfold, that you have your family with you. They will be a greater comfort to you than anybody else.”

Hesitantly, Mary said, “You don’t think ... I mean, could he have been given something . . . something in his food or drink that could have brought on the attack?”

The doctor smiled sadly. “What a bizarre idea, Mrs. Runfold. In theory, of course—yes. Somebody could have administered something. But there was nobody here but the family, was there?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, there are several substances—an overdose of digitalis, for instance.”

Mary Runfold had gone very pale. “Digitalis? I thought that was a
cure
for heart disease.”

“Given in very careful doses—yes, it can be helpful. But an overdose, coupled with high blood pressure— however, don’t even think about it. You husband died from natural causes—heart failure, which had been threatening for some time. You must put anything else out of your mind.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Derek, the pharmacist, took control of the situation with easy expertise. The undertakers arrived, muted and unruffled, and removed Robert’s body to their chapel of rest. By common consent, Mary’s daughters and their husbands agreed to stay on until after the funeral. Derek was on a week’s holiday, and Philip had left his veterinary practice in the hands of a young locum, who was blithely unaware of the fact that he would probably never be paid.

The next morning, Mary Runfold assembled her family in the drawing room. She was very calm.

She said, “There is something I have to ask all four of you, and I want truthful answers.”

They looked at her, silent and surprised. She went on, “Did any of you tamper in any way with Robert’s food or drink yesterday?”

There was a chorus of indignant denials. Mary rang the bell, and when Parker appeared, said, “Ah, Parker. Please ask Mrs. Benson to come here.”