The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (14 page)

“That’s
right,” said Sir Septimus. “Start right away. Hate the sight of it.”

He
savagely hauled a great branch of holly down from the mantelpiece and flung it,
crackling, into the fire.

“That’s
the stuff,” said Richard Dennison. “Make a good old blaze!” He leaped up from
the table and snatched the mistletoe from the chandelier. “Here goes! One more
kiss for somebody before it’s too late.”

“Isn’t
it unlucky to take it down before the New Year?” suggested Miss Tomkins.

“Unlucky
be hanged. We’ll have it all down. Off the stairs and out of the drawing room
too. Somebody go and collect it.”

“Isn’t
the drawing room locked?” asked Oswald.

“No.
Lord Peter says the pearls aren’t there, wherever else they are, so it’s
unlocked. That’s right, isn’t it, Wimsey?”

“Quite
right. The pearls were taken out of these rooms. I can’t tell yet how, but I’m
positive of it. In fact, I’ll pledge my reputation that wherever they are, they’re
not up there.”

“Oh,
well,” said Comphrey, “in that case, have at it! Come along, Lavinia—you and
Dennison do the drawing room, and I’ll do the back room. We’ll save a race.”

“But
if the police are coming in,” said Dennison, “oughtn’t everything to be left
just as it is?”

“Damn
the police!” shouted Sir Septimus. “They don’t want evergreens.”

Oswald
and Margharita were already pulling the holly and ivy from the staircase, amid
peals of laughter. The party dispersed. Wimsey went quietly upstairs and into
the drawing room, where the work of demolition was taking place at a great
rate, George having bet the other two ten shillings to a tanner that they would
not finish their part of the job before he finished his.

“You
mustn’t help,” said Lavinia, laughing to Wimsey. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

Wimsey
said nothing, but waited till the room was clear. Then he followed them down
again to the hall, spluttering, suggestive of Guy Fawkes night. He whispered to
Sir Septimus, who went forward and touched George Comphrey on the shoulder.

“Lord
Peter wants to say something to you, my boy,” he said.

Comphrey
started and went with him a little reluctantly, as it seemed. He was not
looking very well.

“Mr.
Comphrey,” said Wimsey, “I fancy these are some of your property.” He held out
the palm of his hand, in which rested twenty-two fine, small-headed pins.

“Ingenious,”
said Wimsey. “but something less ingenious would have served his turn better.
It was very unlucky, Sir Septimus, that you should have mentioned the pearls
when you did. Of course, he hoped that the loss wouldn’t be discovered till we’d
chucked guessing games and taken to ‘Hide-and-Seek.’ The pearls might have been
anywhere in the house, we wouldn’t have locked the drawing-room door, and he
could have recovered them at his leisure. He had had this possibility in his
mind when he came here, obviously, and that was why he brought the pins, and
Miss Shale’s taking off the necklace to play ‘Dumb Crambo’ gave him his
opportunity.

“He
had spent Christmas here before, and knew perfectly well that ‘Animal,
Vegetable, and Mineral’ would form part of the entertainment. He had only to
gather up the necklace from the table when it came to his turn to retire, and
he knew he could count on at least five minutes by himself while we were all
arguing about the choice of a word. He had only to snip the pearls from the
string with his pocket scissors, burn the string in the grate, fasten the
pearls to the mistletoe with the fine pins. The mistletoe was hung on the
chandelier, pretty high—it’s a lofty room—but he could easily reach it by
standing on the glass table, which wouldn’t show footmarks, and it was almost
certain that nobody would think of examining the mistletoe for extra berries. I
shouldn’t have thought of it myself if I hadn’t found that pin which he had
dropped. That gave me the idea that the pearls had been separated, and the rest
was easy. I took the pearls off the mistletoe last night—the clasp was there, too,
pinned among the holly leaves. Here they are. Comphrey must have got
a
nasty shock this morning.
I
knew
he was our man when he suggested that the guests should tackle the decorations
themselves and that he should do the back drawing room—but I wish I had seen
his face when he came to the mistletoe and found the pearls gone.”

“And
you worked it all out when you found the pin?” said Sir Septimus.

“Yes;
I knew then where the pearls had gone to.”

“But
you never even looked at the mistletoe.”

“I
saw it reflected in the black glass floor, and it struck me then how much the
mistletoe berries looked like pearls.”

FATHER CRUMLISH
CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS

by Alice Scanlan Reach

Alice Scanlan Reach is well
known in the mystery field for her charming and frequently exciting stories
about Father Crumlish. For evidence of her skills, just read on.

“Eat
that and you’ll be up all night with one of your stomach gas attacks.” Emma
Catt’s voice boomed out from the doorway of what she considered to be her personal
sanctuary—the kitchen of St. Brigid’s rectory.

Caught
in the act of his surreptitious mission, Father Francis Xavier Crumlish hastily
withdrew the arthritic fingers of his right hand, which had been poised to
enfold one of several dozen cookies cooling on the wide, old-fashioned table.

“I—I
was just thinking to myself that a crumb or two would do no harm,” he murmured,
conscious of the guilty flush seeping into the seams, tucks, and gussets of his
face.

“It
would seem to me that a man of the cloth would be the first to put temptation
behind him,” Emma observed tartly as she strode across the worn linoleum
flooring. “Particularly a man of your age,” she added, giving him a meaningful
look.

The
pastor swallowed a heavy sigh. After Emma had arrived to take charge of St.
Brigid’s household chores some twenty-two years ago, he had soon learned to his
sorrow that her culinary feats were largely confined to bland puddings, poached
prunes, and a concoction which she called “Irish Stew” and which was no more
than a feeble attempt to disguise the past week’s leftovers.

So
he was most agreeably surprised one day when Emma miraculously produced a batch
of cookies of such flavorful taste and texture that the priest mentally forgave
her all her venial sins. And since it was Father Crumlish’s nature to share his
few simple pleasures with others, he promptly issued instructions that, once a
year, Emma should bake as many of the cookies as the parish’s meager budget
would allow. As a result, although St. Brigid’s pastor and his housekeeper were
on extra-short rations from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, many a
parishioner’s otherwise cheerless Christmas Day was brightened by a bag of the
sugar-and-spice delicacies.

Now,
today, as the priest quickly left the kitchen area to avoid any further
allusions to his ailments and his advancing years, the ringing of the telephone
was entirely welcome. He hurried down the hallway to his office and picked up
the receiver.

“St.
Brigid’s.”

“It’s
Tom, Father.”

Father
Crumlish recognized the voice of Lieutenant Thomas Patrick “Big Tom” Madigan of
Lake City’s police force and realized, from the urgency in the policeman’s
tone, that his call was not a social one.

“I’m
at the Liberty Office Building,” Madigan said in a rush. “A guy’s sitting on a
ledge outside the top-story window. Says he’s going to jump. If I send a car
for you—”

“I’ll
be waiting at the curb, Tom,” Father interrupted and hung up the phone.

“Big
Tom” Madigan was waiting outside the elderly office building when Father
Crumlish arrived some minutes later. Quickly he ushered the priest through the
emergency police and fire details and the crowd of curious onlookers who were
gazing in awe at the scarecrow figure perched on a ledge high above the street.

“Do
you know the man, Tom?” Father asked. He followed the broad-shouldered
policeman into the building lobby, and together they entered a self-service
elevator.

“And
so do you, Father,” Madigan said as he pressed the elevator button. “He’s one
of your people. Charley Abbott.”

“God
bless us!” the pastor exclaimed. “What do you suppose set Charley off this
time?” He sighed. “The poor lad’s been in and out of sanitariums half a dozen
times in his thirty years. But this is the first time he’s ever tried to do
away with himself.”

“This
may not be just one of Abbott’s loony notions,” Madigan replied grimly. “Maybe
he’s got a good reason for wanting to jump off that ledge.”

“What
do you mean, Tom?”

“Last
week a man named John Everett was found murdered in his old farmhouse out in
Lake City Heights. He was a bachelor, lived alone, no relatives—”

“I
read about it,” Father interrupted impatiently. “What’s that got to do—”

“We
haven’t been able to come up with a single clue,” Madigan broke in, “until half
an hour ago. One of my detectives, Dennis Casey, took an anonymous phone call from
a man who said that if we wanted to nab Everett’s murderer we should pick up
the daytime porter at the Liberty Office Building.”

“That’s
Charley.” Father nodded, frowning. “I myself put in a good word for him for the
job.”

“Casey
came over here on a routine check,” Madigan went on as the elevator came to a
halt and he and the priest stepped out into the corridor. “He showed Abbott his
badge, said he was investigating Everett’s murder, and wanted to ask a few
questions. Abbott turned pale—looked as if he was going to faint, Casey says.
Then he made a dash for the elevator, rode it up to the top floor, and climbed
out the corridor window onto the ledge.”

“But
surely, now, Tom,” Father protested, “you can’t be imagining that Charley
Abbott had a hand in that killing? Why, you know as well as I that, for all his
peculiar ways, Charley’s gentle as a lamb.”

“All
I know,” Madigan replied harshly, “is that when we tried to ask him a few
questions, he bolted.” He ran a hand over his crisp, curly brown hair. “And I
know that innocent men don’t run.”

“Innocent
or guilty,” Father Crumlish said, “the man’s in trouble. Take me to him, Tom.”

When
Father Crumlish entered the priesthood more than forty years before, he never
imagined that he was destined to spend most of those years in St. Brigid’s
parish—that weary bedraggled section of Lake City’s waterfront where
destitution and despair, avarice and evil, walked hand in hand. And although,
on the occasions when he lost a battle with the Devil, he too sometimes
teetered on the brink of despair, he unfailingly rearmed himself with his
intimate, hard-won knowledge of his people.

But
now, as the old priest leaned out the window and caught sight of the man seated
on the building’s ledge, his confidence was momentarily shaken. Charley Abbott
had the appearance and demeanor of a stranger. The man’s usually slumped,
flaccid shoulders were rigid with purpose; his slack mouth and chin were set in
taut, hard lines; and in place of his normal attitude of wavering indecision,
there was an aura about him of implacable determination.

There
was not a doubt in Father Crumlish’s mind that Abbott intended to take the
fatal plunge into eternity. The priest took a deep breath and silently said a
prayer.

“Charley,”
he then called out mildly, “it’s Father Crumlish. I’m right here close to you,
lad. At the window.”

Abbott
gave no indication that he’d heard his pastor’s voice.

“Can
you hear me, Charley?”

No
response.

“I
came up here to remind you that we have been through a lot of bad times
together,” Father continued conversationally. “And together we’ll get through
whatever it is that’s troubling you now.”

The
priest waited for a moment, hoping to elicit some indication that Abbott was
aware of his presence. But the man remained silent and motionless, staring into
space. Father decided to try another approach.

“I’ve
always been proud of you, Charley,” Father said. “And never more so than when
you were just a tyke and ran in the fifty-yard dash at our Annual Field Day
Festival.” He sighed audibly. “Ah, but that’s so many years ago, and my memory
plays leprechaun’s tricks. I can’t recall for the life of me, lad—did you come
in second or third?”

Again
Father waited, holding his breath. Actually he remembered the occasion clearly.
The outcome had been a major triumph in his attempts to bring a small spark of
reality into his young parishioner’s dreamy, listless life.

Suddenly
Abbott’s long legs, which were dangling aimlessly over the perilous ledge,
stiffened, twitched. Slowly he turned his head and focused his bleak eyes on
the priest.