Murder in the Manger Read online

  “What, seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness? Are you saying I should be more autumnal? I suppose raspberry is a summer fruit.”

  He tapped the date. “No, more sombre. It’s Remembrance Day.”

  “Oh.” I was taken aback. “I never knew there was a dress code.”

  His brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed.

  “Sorry, Sophie, I was forgetting you’re so new to the village. You won’t know what we do here on Remembrance Day.”

  “Not that new,” I objected. “I’ve been here nearly six months.”

  “That might not seem new in Earth years, but in Wendlebury terms, you moved in yesterday. What you don’t know is that when Remembrance Day falls on a school day, everyone in the village goes up to join the children in two minutes’ silence. I always shut the shop and go. I wouldn’t serve anyone if they came in then anyway.”

  I glanced at the clock. “Please may I borrow one of your sweaters, to save going home to change?”

  He looked at his watch. “If it means you will be on time for work for once.”

  I smirked. “People will talk!”

  He chuckled. “They’ll do that anyway. Besides, it’s not as if my name’s emblazoned across the chest of my sweaters. Help yourself, and I’ll meet you downstairs in the shop.”

  He jumped down from his stool and came over to give me a quick kiss before we resumed our dutiful daytime personae of mere colleagues. We’d agreed we shouldn’t be seen hugging or kissing in the bookshop, but I liked the idea of secretly being embraced by Hector’s sweater all day instead.

  As I passed the main till, I slid a pound coin into the British Legion box and picked up a paper poppy to pin on to my charcoal-coloured top.

  “Nice sweater, Sophie,” said one of the early morning mums as I set a caramel latte in front of her. “Lovely fit.”

  “It’s cashmere,” I told her. “It’s ever so cosy, but it feels like I’m wearing nothing at all.”

  As soon as the shop was empty, Hector asked in a low voice, “You are wearing something under it, aren’t you, Sophie?”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, OK. Just wondered.” He was looking a little feverish.

  Mid-morning, as I was boxing up some returns in the stockroom, I heard Kate’s distinctive voice trilling in the shop.

  “Just on my way to school, Hector, darling. I trust you’ll be coming, as usual?”

  I heard Hector agree. “And Sophie too.”

  “Ah yes, Sophie. What have you done with her?”

  It seemed polite to emerge at that point, although I was nervous of seeing her again since her inadvertent revelation about Celeste’s baby.

  She came over to give me her trademark double kiss, resting her hands lightly on my shoulders, made kitten-soft in the cashmere. She stood back to appraise the sweater.

  “Why, Hector, you old dog, isn’t that your sweater? The one I gave you last Christmas?”

  She gave him a stagey wink before turning back to me. “I bet that’s not the only way he’s been keeping you warm, eh, Sophie? I’ll see you both at school shortly.”

  As she marched out of the shop, Hector avoided meeting my eye and changed the subject.

  “The vicar usually takes the services, but in his absence, she’s standing in for him.”

  I frowned. “She seems a bit frisky to be standing in for a vicar.”

  He passed me my coat.

  “You won’t say that once you’ve met the Reverend Murray,” he said, slipping on his own jacket. “Kate may be a loose cannon in adult company, but she knows where to draw the line with children. She’ll hit just the right mark, you’ll see.”

  We joined the queue to file into the back of the school hall. As at the Friday Celebration Service, chairs had been put out for the adults, while the children sat cross-legged on the floor. Teachers on chairs at the edge of the room kept an eye on their classes.

  In the visitors’ seats at the back, I spotted lots of familiar figures from the village, all smartly dressed in dark colours. Some surprised me with evidence of a military background that I didn’t know about – Forces berets, medals. Even Billy was wearing what looked like an old regimental tie.

  Kate, standing at the front of the hall, had apparently left her natural frivolity at the school gate. She led the simple, short proceedings impeccably, explaining the significance of the service in terms that even the youngest child could understand. Her words made me feel unworthy for my earlier thoughts about her.

  Two older children holding wooden descant recorders went to stand beside her, and Kate said some prayers for those who had sacrificed their lives for others and for the serving military. She instructed everyone to stand. Then one of the recorder players sounded “The Last Post”. Kate’s timing was perfect. As the wall clock clicked round to the eleventh hour, we began two minutes’ silence, which by some miracle even the youngest pupils managed to keep.

  As the second hand reached the twelve for the second time, the headmistress Head Mrs Broom raised her arm and the second recorder player sounded the “Reveille”.

  Next a group of about twenty children filed up to stand in line, and in turn announced the name of a member of the military. Wondering why the names sounded familiar, I realised after a moment I’d seen them all on the village war memorial.

  Kate’s voice, as penetrating as a fingertip circling the rim of a crystal glass, completed the ceremony. “‘Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them’.”

  At the far corner of the room, one of the teachers hit “play” on the sound system to start a CD of “Toll for the Brave”, so familiar from the national Remembrance Day commemorations that would be broadcast from the Cenotaph in Whitehall the following Sunday. Each class was signalled by the headmistress to file out, while the parents remained seated. Some of the older girls were hugging each other or holding hands, faces wet with tears. I hoped none of their names would ever be added to the war memorial.

  As if reading my thoughts, Hector leaned over and whispered to me, “Each child who said a name is related to that person. Separated by several generations, but of the same blood, though so many of those serviceman never had the chance to have children of their own.”

  I slipped my hand into Hector’s and he gave it a gentle squeeze. As the last class filed out, I became aware of a rustling in front of me. Carol, in huge dark glasses, was fumbling in a large black handbag for a fresh tissue. As the other adults got up to leave, Carol remained seated, so I let go of Hector’s hand and lingered to make sure she was OK.

  Hector hurried off to catch up with the man wearing the most medals. Together they strolled more slowly across the school playground towards the gate.

  14 We Can Be Heroes

  Carol lowered her sunglasses to reveal red eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d lost someone in the military.” Casting my mind back to my history A Level, I realised the Falklands War would have taken place in her prime.

  “Oh no, Sophie, I didn’t. I just feel the pain of what others have lost. Those little children, their families.” She stood up, and we began to walk to the door together. “Then I think of the young lads in the village who would be called up if there was another war today. Tommy Crowe, for example, wouldn’t have to wait long for his papers. And your Hector.”

  I shivered.

  Putting my arm around Carol’s shoulders, I guided her gently across the playground, out into the High Street, towards the shops. Hector, well ahead of us, had already reopened the bookshop. As we reached Hector’s House, I could see several of the school’s guests taking seats in the tearoom. I was relieved when Hector called to me through the open door.

  “You walk Carol back to the shop, Sophie. I’ll do the teas till you get back.”

  Carol flashed him a damp smile of gratitude. As we continued up the High Street, she told me more about the village war dead,
stories of heartrending tragedy and remarkable bravery, such as the farming family that lost all three sons on the Somme.

  “Just because we’re a little village doesn’t mean we can’t produce heroes,” said Carol proudly. Then her voice became very small. “But, Sophie, do you know what? In a selfish way, I envy them their loss, because if there was a war tomorrow, I would have no-one to fear for. No husband, no sweetheart, no son to send off into battle.”

  I fumbled for something consoling to say. “I’m sure we won’t have another war like the First or Second World Wars, Carol. War’s different these days. With terrorism, anyone can be killed on the street, any time, anywhere in the world.”

  Cringing at my ineptitude, I was glad that Carol didn’t take it amiss.

  “Of course, I care about my friends and my customers and everyone in this village, but that’s not really my point. My mum used to say she was glad I was a girl, so that I could never get called up to fight.”

  We stopped outside the village shop, where Damian was up a ladder cleaning the big plate glass window with a rag, whistling contentedly. Her hand on the door handle, Carol gazed up at him wistfully.

  “You’re lucky, Sophie. Some people spend their entire lives looking for the kind of love that would make them feel that way, but they never find it. I thought I had once, but—”

  Damian looked down quickly, then back up at his task, and Carol clammed up. Following her through the door into the shop, I steered her round to the stool behind the counter and sat her down.

  I wanted to ask more, but Damian, insensitive as ever, bashed hard on the window from outside, still up his ladder.

  “Could you open this top window, Carol? Save me getting down. I want to clean right under the latch.”

  She blinked up at him tearfully, then stood up to do his bidding before turning back to me.

  “I was always so sure when I was a child that I’d have lots of kids myself when I grew up. Of course, it’s too late for that now. Still, I try to look on the bright side. At this rate, I will never be heartbroken. But I’ll never give up looking for that special someone.”

  She gave me a watery smile, and I realised she considered the conversation closed. She glanced up at Damian.

  “You know, Carol—” I hesitated, following her gaze, “—maybe you just keep looking in the wrong places.”

  The doorbell jangled – another unwelcome interruption, just as I thought we were getting somewhere. In marched a man in a white coat and matching hat carrying a blue plastic mesh tray of fancy cakes.

  “Morning, ladies. Any chance of seeing the manager, please?”

  I broke away from Carol and came back to the customer side of the counter.

  “That’ll be me,” said Carol, getting up from her stool. “There is only me.”

  15 A Military Two-Step

  By Monday lunchtime, the first snowflakes were falling – in our shop window, anyway.

  “So what else do I need to know about the village Christmas?” I asked Hector as I glued a collection of starched lace doilies that he’d kept from his parents’ antique shop for this purpose on to the glass.

  Standing on a chair to reach the ceiling, Hector paused with a vintage wicker sleigh and reindeer in his hands.

  “Ooh, it’s one long sleigh ride from now till C-Day. Wendlebury doesn’t do Christmas by halves. Apart from doing this window display, I don’t rush to embrace the onslaught until absolutely necessary.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t leave it too late. One of the things I was expecting to miss about life on continental Europe was the traditional Christmas market. No matter how Scrooge-like you were feeling, they’d give you an instant fix of festive spirit.

  “Besides the church’s Advent services, there’s the school Christmas fair, the carol singing, the big Christmas tree on the village green, the plethora of lights that villagers put in their gardens and on their houses, and the official switch-on of the Christmas tree lights.”

  He suspended the model sleigh from the hooks in the bay window ceiling and stepped down from his chair to assess whether it was hanging straight.

  “Here in Hector’s House, a visit from Santa on the first Sunday in Advent kicks off our Christmas marketing campaign proper. We open every Sunday afternoon from then until Christmas, just long enough for a story, a coffee and a bit of gift-buying.”

  He stepped back up on to the chair.

  “Sorry, Sophie, I should have thought to tell you that at your job interview.”

  I passed him the knitted Santa to tuck into the sleigh, and he positioned the leather reins in its tiny hands.

  “I’m amazed that people in the village buy enough books to justify you opening seven days a week,” I said.

  Hector adjusted the leading reindeer.

  “It’s not just Wendlebury folk who come in. I get people from all around at this time of year, by reminding them on social media, and any other way possible, of how much more civilised it is to do their Christmas shopping here than in the madness of town.”

  “I don’t blame them,” I said. “I hate crowded shopping centres at the best of times.”

  “I also offer free gift-wrapping throughout December, and I put a pot of gold and silver pens in the tearoom to encourage people to stay and write their Christmas cards here while drinking our coffee and eating festive food. Hector’s House – the one-stop Christmas present shop.”

  I liked the sound of that.

  “What a good idea. You must feel really festive by the time Christmas actually comes around.”

  Anyone this thoughtful and inventive in the shop would be a wonderful companion for the Christmas holidays.

  “Yes, but dare I confess that such total immersion in Christmas makes me sick of the sight of the shop for a little while. So on Christmas Eve, I shut up shop till New Year, and jump in the car and escape.”

  I waited for him to tell me his destination, sure it would be somewhere exciting. I hoped he might invite me too. The Scottish Highlands, perhaps, or an isolated cottage on the Cornish coast? Maybe the opposite extreme – a balmy tropical island where Christmas lunch would be exotic fruits and local rum punch. Not that he could get there by car. Perhaps he just meant driving to the airport.

  Or – surely not – Australia for roast turkey on the beach with Celeste and their child? For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

  “It keeps my parents happy, anyway.” Ah, tropic of Clevedon, then. “After all, Christmas is all about family, isn’t it?” Maybe Celeste came to them. “No matter how old your kids are, you want them around. I’m guessing you’ll be off to your folks in Inverness?”

  That burst my bubble. My personal festive vision morphed from opening romantic Christmas gifts on the shag-pile carpet in front of Hector’s wood-burner to post-lunch Scrabble with my folks.

  “Have you booked your flight yet?” he asked. “You’ll need to apply early to get a decent price.”

  Now he couldn’t wait to be rid of me.

  “No, I’d better get on with it.”

  There didn’t seem much else I could say without sounding offended or needy. I made an excuse to turn away from him so he couldn’t spot the disappointment on my face.

  “I’ll make us a pot of tea in a minute, but first I’ll need to get more teabags from the shop. I’ll get my coat.”

  As I slipped out of the door to the High Street, Hector started to suspend plastic icicles in the window, like a latter-day Snow Queen.

  16 The Christmas Kitchen

  Having spent the morning festifying Hector’s House, I thought the village shop looked awfully dull. When I arrived, Carol was sorting potatoes by size into three piles on the counter.

  I fetched a box of teabags and held it up for her to see the price label. I couldn’t help thinking there was more to her dislike of Christmas than the unhappy ending of her ill-fated romance half her lifetime ago, and I decided to do some gentle investigating.

  “So does your birthday fall on Christmas Da
y? Is that why you’re called Carol?” I asked innocently.

  “Bless you, no, Sophie, though I am a Capri Sun.” As she reached for the accounts book to log my purchase against Hector’s account, the door jangled to admit the man in the white coat who had been delivering cakes the previous week.

  “Down there on the right, please,” said Carol, pointing listlessly. “And remember you said you’d replace unsold stock with fresh cakes for free.”

  I stood back to let him pass.

  “Actually, my birthday’s on Twelfth Night,” said Carol, turning back to me. She’d meant Capricorn. “Not that it’s much cause for celebration when you reach my age. No more than Christmas, really. Though I suppose it means I get a day off for once.”

  “So what do you do on Christmas Day?” I wondered whether she had relatives in the village.

  “Once I’ve shut the shop on Christmas Eve, I’m on my own,” she said, categorising the last of the potatoes and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “But I expect you go away to relatives?” I assumed she must have some family members somewhere, even if not in the village. “I’m off to Inverness to stay with my parents.”

  She shook her head sadly. “No, I’ve no family left. I can’t spend it with my parents or my husband or my children. So I do the obvious thing.”

  That sounded ominous. I wondered what she was going to say next. Cry? Get drunk? Take sleeping pills and hibernate till it was all over?

  “I go and help the homeless, of course. Not that we have any in Wendlebury, but there’s a place down in Slate Green where they cook Christmas dinner for anyone who’s hard up or lonely. People who use the foodbank can come, and anyone living in hostels or on their own. We serve dozens of dinners and give everyone a present and a card. I knit plenty of hats, gloves and scarves each autumn and wrap them up specially.”

  This was the obvious thing only for someone as kind-hearted as Carol. I felt churlish now for sulking about Hector’s plans. Goodness, I was lucky.