Adam returned to the main bedroom and completed his unsuccessful search for two missing objects.
The village was four miles distant and it was half an hour before Constable Taplow arrived. He was a thickset middle-aged man, his natural bulk enhanced by the layers of clothing he considered necessary for a cycle ride in December. Despite the fact that the snow had subsided, he insisted on wheeling his bicycle into the hall, to the obvious but silent disapproval of the family, leant it with care against the wall and patted the saddle gently, as if stabling a horse.
After Adam had introduced himself and explained his presence, Constable Taplow said: “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get on your way then. No point in hanging around. I’ll deal with this.”
Adam said firmly: “I’ll come up with you. I’ve got the key. I thought it a prudent precaution to lock the door.”
Constable Taplow took the key and seemed about to comment on the over-fussiness of the Met, but refrained. They went up together. Taplow regarded the body with mild disapproval, surveyed the contents of the table, sniffed at the jar of ointment and took up the note.
“Seems plain enough to me. He couldn’t face another family Christmas.”
“You’ve met the family before?”
“Never set eyes on any of them, except for the deceased. It’s known that the family come to the hall every year but they don’t show their faces, no more than he ever does—that is, did.”
Adam suggested mildly: “A suspicious death, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I wouldn’t, and I’ll tell you why. This is where local knowledge counts. The family are all mad, or as near mad as makes no odds. His father did just the same.”
“Killed himself at Christmas?”
“Guy Fawkes Night. Filled all his pockets with Catherine wheels and bangers, stuffed bloody great rockets round his belt, drank a whole bottle of whisky and ran straight into the bonfire.”
“And went out with a bang, not a whimper. I hope there weren’t any children present.”
“He went out with a bang, that’s for sure. And they don’t invite children to Harkerville Hall. You won’t find vicar bringing the carol singers round here tonight.”
Adam felt that he had a duty to persevere. He said: “His desk is almost empty. Someone’s been burning papers. The two half-burnt scraps are interesting.”
“Suicides usually burn papers. I’ll look at them in good time. The paper that counts is here. This is a suicide note by any reckoning. Thanks for waiting, Sarge. I’ll take over now.”
But when they reached the hall Constable Taplow said, with an attempt at nonchalance: “Perhaps you’d drop me at the nearest telephone box. Better let CID have a look at this lot before they take the old gentleman away.”
Adam finally turned the MG seaward in the comfortable assurance that he had done as much as duty and inclination had required. If the local CID wanted him, then they knew where to find him. The Curious Case of the Christmas Cracker—an appropriate title, he felt, for such a bizarre preliminary to Christmas—could safely be left to the Suffolk police.
But if he had hoped for a peaceful evening, he was to be disappointed. He only had time to take a leisurely bath, unpack his case and settle himself before the driftwood fire with the first drink of the evening in his hand, when Inspector Peck knocked on the door. He was very different from Constable Taplow; young for his rank, with a sharp-featured expressive face under the dark hair, and apparently impervious to cold since he wore only slacks and jacket, his only concession to the December night a large multicoloured knitted scarf wound twice round his neck. He was gracefully apologetic to Miss Dalgliesh but wasted no such niceties on her nephew.
“I’ve done a bit of checking up on you, Sergeant. Not easy on Christmas Eve, but someone at the Met was alive and sober. Apparently you’re the Inspector’s blue-eyed boy. They say you’ve got a brain between your ears and eyes in your head. You’re coming back with me to Harkerville Hall.”
“Now, Sir?” Adam’s glance at the fire was eloquent.
“Now, as at this moment, at once, immediately, pronto. Bring your car. I’d drive you there and bring you back, but I’ve a feeling I’m likely to be at the hall for some little time.”
Night had fallen now. As Dalgliesh went to his car the air felt and smelt colder. The snow had finally ceased drifting down and a moon was reeling between the scudding clouds. At the hall they parked their cars side by side.
The door of the hall was opened by Mrs. Dagworth, who, with one malevolent look, let them in silently, then disappeared towards the kitchen. As they mounted the stairs, Harkerville appeared.
Looking up at them, he said querulously: “I thought you were going to have Uncle taken away, Inspector. It’s hardly decent to leave him in his present state. Surely the district nurse can come and lay him out? This is all extremely upsetting for my sister.”
“All in good time, Sir. I’m waiting for the police surgeon and the photographer.”
“Photographer? Why on earth should you want him photographed? I consider that positively indecent. I’ve half a mind to telephone the Chief Constable.”
“You do that, Sir. I think you’ll find he’s with his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren in Scotland, but I expect he’ll be glad to hear from you. It’ll quite make his Christmas, I don’t wonder.”
In the bedroom Inspector Peck said: “I suppose you’re going to tell me that the suicide note isn’t entirely convincing. I’m inclined to agree, but tell that to the coroner. You’ve heard the family history?”
“Some of it. I’ve heard about the ascension of grandfather.”
“And he wasn’t the only one. The Harkervilles have an aversion to natural death. Their lives are unremarkable so they ensure that their deaths are spectacular. So what struck you particularly about this little charade?”
Dalgliesh said: “A number of oddities, Sir. If this were a detective story, you could call it ‘The Twelve Clues of Christmas.’ It’s taken a little mental agility to get the number to twelve, but I thought it appropriate.”
“Cut out the cleverness, laddie, and get to the facts.”
“This supposed suicide note for a start. It reads to me like the last page of a letter to one or more of the family. The paper was originally folded twice to get it into the envelope. The back is slightly singed. Someone has tried to iron out the creases. It hasn’t been entirely successful; you can still see two faint marks. And then there’s the wording. This was to be Harkerville’s last Christmas. It suggests that he expected to suffer Gertrude’s cooking for the final time, so why kill himself on Christmas Eve?”
“Changed his mind. Not unknown. What do you suggest the note means?”
“That he was planning to get away from here, perhaps to go abroad. There’s a small segment of cardboard in the grate, with part of the head of a unicorn. You can just see the horn. I think someone burnt his passport, perhaps to conceal the fact that he’s recently renewed it. There must have been travel documents, too, but the family burnt those together with most of his papers. And there’s this scrap of half-burnt letter. It could be taken as a demand for money, but I don’t think it is. Look at the comma, Sir. There could have been other digits before the eight hundred pounds. For example, suppose it read ‘four hundred thousand, eight hundred pounds not unreasonable considering the amount of land.’ It could have been from an estate agent. Perhaps he was planning to sell up, add the proceeds to his existing fortune and say goodbye to this place for ever.”
“Escaping to the sun? Could be. And his darling will be waiting for him?”