Now that he mentioned the fact, I did. I gave a nod.
“That’s all right, then,” Cribb said, taking back the spade and shouldering it like a rifle. “We’ll have a use for this, I think.”
Hammond had by now got some way ahead. We stepped out and caught up with him a short distance from the evergreen copse.
“Now, Mr Hammond,” Cribb said, “kindly show us precisely where the Christmas tree was growing.”
Hammond started to point and then drew back his hand and scratched his head instead. “Well, I’ll be jiggered.”
To borrow the words of the carol, the snow lay deep and crisp and even.
Even was the operative word.
“You dug out a large tree,” Cribb said to him, “so where’s the large hole?”
“Caught out, Mr Hammond,” I said. “In spite of all the instructions to the contrary, you sawed the thing off at the base.”
“I swear I didn’t, sir. It took six of us a morning and an afternoon to dig under the roots.”
“Perhaps you filled in the hole?” Knollys suggested.
“I wouldn’t do that. Not when the tree has to be put back after Twelfth Night. May I borrow that spade?”
He started scraping away the layer of snow. Below it, the ground was even, but the soil was soft. “Someone else filled it in.”
“Keep at it, Mr Hammond,” Cribb said. “Dig out the soft stuff.”
Hammond went at it with a will. We all had to stand back as the spadefuls of earth flew about us.
Cribb said, “Wait. What’s that dark material?”
“It’s fabric.” Hammond bent down and scraped with his fingers and unearthed a brown bowler hat.
“Just the beginning,” Cribb said. “Dig some more, Mr Hammond.”
In only a few minutes Hammond exclaimed, “Oh, my Lord.”
He’d uncovered a human hand and part of a sleeve of yellow and green tweed.
“Horace Digby, poor fellow,” Garrard said.
In the warmth of the house I treated them to hot punch. We’d left some gardeners outside to warm themselves by extracting the rest of the corpse from the hole.
I waited for Alix to join us, and then said, “This is all very remarkable, Sergeant Cribb, but it hasn’t brought back the missing jewels unless they’re in the hole as well.”
“No, they’re not, sir. I recovered them earlier. Excuse me a moment.” He left the room.
We were lost for words. We simply stared at each other until he returned carrying a valise and a large silver object that I recognised as an inkstand, Alix’s Christmas present.
“What’s that ugly thing?” Alix said.
“The murder weapon, ma’am,” Cribb said.
All my good intentions dashed in a couple of sentences.
“Then who is the murderer?”
“Gripper, the cabman,” Cribb said. “I have him cuffed, hand and foot. He’s quite secure, lying on the floor of his own cab. It was a crime of opportunity and it happened on the 21st, before the snow came. Digby got into his cab at Lynn station and said he wanted to be driven to Sandringham. It was pretty obvious that the valise contained something valuable. All the way here the cabman planned the robbery. Inside the gates where it was quiet, he stopped and told Digby to hand over the booty. Digby put up a fight, but the cabbie grabbed something heavy — and I think it was that silver object — and brained him with it. He may not have intended murder, but that’s what it became. It was his good luck that a hole big enough for a grave had been dug nearby. He dropped the body in and used his own spade to cover it with the excess soil beside the hole. That’s how he got the pine needles in the mud. And there was more good luck for him when the snow came, levelling everything.”
“But bad luck when you came along,” Alix said, her voice overflowing with admiration.
“Yes, I got the gist of the story from the stationmaster at Lynn. It was a risk using the same cab, but I fancy the killer thought he’d got away with it. And he wasn’t likely to attack me with nothing in my hands. I arrested him on suspicion as soon as I got here.”
“You’re a brave man, as well as a fine detective,” Alix said, actually clapping her hands. “Isn’t he a brave man, Bertie?”
“Where were the stolen jewels?” I asked.
“In the box seat he sits on.”
“Speaking of boxes, do we have a Christmas box for Sergeant Cribb?” Alix asked.
She looked to me, I looked to Knollys and he sniffed, sighed and took a couple of gold sovereigns from his pocket.
“And there’s his fee, of course,” Alix said. “Twenty-five pounds, I suggest.”
Cribb looked as if his Christmas was just beginning.
As for me, I’ve never felt the same about Christmas trees. Before Papa made them popular, we had something rather better. The custom was to hang up a bough entwined with mistletoe, holly, ivy and other evergreens, candles, apples and cinnamon sticks. It was called the kissing bough and when I’m King I intend to reinstate it.
If the Queen allows.
Say That Again
We called him the Brigadier with the buggered ear. Just looking at it made you wince. Really he should have had the bits surgically removed. He claimed it was an old war wound. However, Sadie the Lady, another of our residents, told us it wasn’t true. She said she’d talked to the Brig’s son Arnold who reckoned his old man got blind drunk in Aldershot one night and tripped over a police dog and paid for it with his shell-like.
Because of his handicap, the Brigadier tended to shout. His “good” ear wasn’t up to much, even with the aid stuck in it. We got used to the shouting, we old farts in the Never-Say-Die Retirement Home. After all, most of us are hard of hearing as well. No doubt we were guilty of letting him bluster and bellow without interruption. We never dreamed at the time that our compliance would get us into the High Court on a murder rap.
It was set in motion by She-Who-Must-Be-Replaced, our so-called matron, pinning a new leaflet on the notice board in the hall.
“Infernal cheek!” the Brig boomed. “They’re parasites, these people, living off the frail and weak-minded.”
“Who are you calling weak-minded?” Sadie the Lady piped up. “There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”
The Brig didn’t hear. Sometimes it can be a blessing.
“Listen to this,” he bellowed, as if we had any choice. “‘Are you dissatisfied with your hearing? Struggling with a faulty instrument? Picking up unwanted background noise? Marcus Haliburton, a renowned expert on the amazing new digital hearing aids, will be in attendance all day at the Bay Tree Hotel on Thursday, 8th April for free consultations. Call this number now for an appointment. No obligation.’ No obligation, my arse — forgive me, ladies. You know what happens? They get you in there and tell you to take out your National Health aid so they can poke one of those little torches in your ear and of course you’re stuffed. You can’t hear a thing they’re saying from that moment on. The next thing is they shove a form in front of you and you find you’ve signed an order for a thousand pound replacement. If you object they drop your NHS aid on the floor and tread on it.”
“That can’t be correct,” Miss Martindale said.
“Completely wrecked, yes,” the Brigadier said. “Are you speaking from personal experience, my dear, because I am.”
Someone put up a hand. He wanted to be helped to the toilet, but the Brigadier took it as support. “Good man. What we should do is teach these blighters a lesson. We could, you know, with my officer training and George’s underworld experience.”
I smiled faintly. My underworld links were nil, another of the Brig’s misunderstandings. One afternoon I’d been talking to Sadie about cats and happened to mention that we once adopted a stray. I thought the Brig was dozing in his armchair, but he came to life and said, “Which of the Krays was that — Reggie or Ronnie? I had no idea of your criminal past, George. We’ll have to watch you in future.”