“So she may be, but on the Costa Brava, not in Heaven. You should take a look next door at the maid’s room, Sir. Nothing of any value left in the wardrobe and a pile of old clothes dumped unceremoniously in the waste-paper basket. Mavis is probably even now sitting in the sun waiting for a call from the aged person of her heart, dreaming of a few years of pampered luxury together, and then the rest of her life as a wealthy widow. Perhaps that’s why he bothered with the hair restorer. It’s rather pathetic, really.”
“You’ll never make Inspector, lad, if you don’t curb that imagination. As for the lass, she lives in the village. Easy enough to check whether she’s at home.”
Adam said: “Three clues so far: the singed note, the half-burnt passport, the scrap of letter. And then there’s the ointment. Why bother with hair restorer if you’re planning suicide?”
“Could be habit. Suicides don’t always act rationally. Well, the act itself is totally irrational. Why take the one option that cuts out all the other options? Still, I grant that plastering on that ointment was odd.”
“And he plastered it on thickly, Sir. Clue number four, the stained pillow. Rigor was just beginning to set in when I first saw him but I lifted the head. The pillow is sticky with the stuff, much more so than the paper hat. The hat must have been put on after he was dead. Then there’s the cracker. If that was pulled here in the bedroom, where’s the toy? The motto’s in the cracker still but not the favour.”
Inspector Peck said: “You’re not the only one to search. I asked the family to leave the kitchen for a while and sit in the drawing room. I found this under the dresser.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a sealed plastic envelope. Inside was a cheap gaudy brooch. He said: “We’ll check with the manufacturers but I don’t think there’s much doubt where this came from. God knows why they didn’t pull the cracker in the bedroom, but some people are superstitious about making a noise in the presence of the dead. I’ll grant you the Clue of the Christmas Cracker, Sergeant.”
“And what about the Clue of the Counterfeit Cook, Sir? Why would Harkerville instruct his nephew to advertise for one? He’s known to be mean, a miser, and the note makes it plain that it was usually Gertrude who cooked the indigestible Christmas dinners. I think Mrs. Dagworth was brought in, not last night but this morning, to provide that evidence about hearing the cracker pulled just after nine o’clock and to give the others an alibi. If she arrived with them last night, as they claim, why is her case lying unopened on her bed next door? And she stated that the note was in Harkerville’s handwriting. How did she know? It was Helmut Harkerville who claims he engaged her, not his uncle. And there’s another thing: you’ve seen what a mess that kitchen is in. When she made tea for us and got out the old biscuits she knew exactly where to find what she wanted. She’s worked in that kitchen before.”
“When do you suggest she arrived?”
“On this morning’s early bus. It was important, after all, that Cuthbert Harkerville never saw her. She must have been here before. I think the family met her at Saxmundham. The car may be out of commission now, but when I arrived I saw two sets of tyre marks quite plainly in my headlights. They’re obliterated by the snow now, but they were plain then.”
“Pity you didn’t preserve them. They’re not much good as evidence now. Still, you didn’t know at the time there was anything suspicious about the death. I’ll give you two clues for the counterfeit cook. A bit risky, though, wasn’t it, putting themselves in the power of a stranger? Why not keep it in the family?”
“I think they did keep it in the family. If you call Mrs. Dagworth Mrs. Helmut Harkerville, I think you might get a reaction. No wonder she’s so sour, waiting on the others isn’t exactly congenial.”
“Well, go on Sergeant. We’re not up to number twelve yet.”
“There’s the holly, Sir. The stem is extremely prickly. There’s no holly in this room, so someone must have brought it up, probably from the hall. If it were Cuthbert Harkerville, how did he manage to avoid pricking his fingers either when he carried it or when he pushed it through the buttonhole? And the stem of the holly isn’t sticky with ointment.”
“He could have put the holly in place before he smeared that stuff over his scalp.”
“But would it have stayed in place? It’s very loose in the buttonhole. I think it was put there after he was dead. It might be worth asking the counterfeit cook why her finger has a plaster. One point for the holly, Sir?”
“Fair enough, I suppose. I agree it must have been sticky if he’d stuck it in the buttonhole after he’d applied the ointment. All right, Sergeant, I know what you’re going to say next. We’re not exactly daft in the Suffolk CID. I suppose you’re going to call it the Clue of the Christmas Pudding?”
“It does seem appropriate, Sir. It’s obvious from examining the pudding—an unseasonably pale concoction I thought—that a piece has been gouged out of the top, not sliced. Someone stuck in a hand. If that hand was Cuthbert Harkerville’s, why isn’t there pudding under his nails? The only splodge of pudding is in his right palm. Someone smeared the palm after his death. It was a stupid error, but then the Harkervilles strike me as more ingenious than intelligent. I’m not sure that the final clue isn’t the strongest. Judging by the onset of rigor, he probably died between eight and nine, early anyway. I think the family put an overdose of his sleeping pills into the thermos of strong coffee knowing that they’d be fatal taken with a generous slug of whisky. So why were the ashes in the grate still warm when I examined the fire eight hours later? And, more important, where are the matches? And that, by my reckoning, brings the number up to a seasonal dozen.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Sergeant. God knows how I got drawn into this arithmetical nonsense. We’ve got a dozen questions. Let’s see if we can get any answers.”
The Harkervilles were in the kitchen sitting disconsolately round the large central table. The cook was sitting with them but, as if anxious to show that this familiarity was unusual, almost sprang to her feet at their entrance. The wait had had its effect on the family. Adam saw that he and Inspector Peck were now facing three frightened people. Only Helmut attempted to hide his anxiety with bluster.
“It’s time you explained yourself, Inspector. I demand that my uncle’s body be decently laid out and removed and the family left in peace.”
Without replying, Peck looked at the cook. “You seem curiously familiar with the kitchen, Mrs. Dagworth. And perhaps you can explain why, if you arrived last night, your suitcase is still lying packed on your bed, and how you knew that the suicide note was in the deceased’s handwriting?”
The questions, although mildly put, were more dramatic in their effect than Adam could have expected. Gertrude turned on the cook and screamed: “You stupid bitch! Can’t you do even the simplest thing without making a mess of it? It’s been the same ever since you married into this family.”
Helmut Harkerville, trying to retrieve the situation said loudly: “Stop it. No one is to answer any more questions. I demand to see my solicitor.”
“That, of course, is your right,” said Inspector Peck. “In the meantime, perhaps the three of you would be good enough to come with me to the station.”
Amid the ensuing expostulations, accusations and counter-accusations, Adam murmured a brief goodbye to the Inspector and left them to it. He pulled back the car hood and drove in a rush of cold cleansing air towards the growing rhythmic moaning of the North Sea.
Miss Dalgliesh had no objection to her nephew’s job, thinking it entirely proper that murderers should be caught, but on the whole she preferred to take no active interest in the process. This evening, however, curiosity overcame her. While Adam was helping to carry the boeuf bourguignon and winter salad to the table, she said: “I hope your evening wasn’t interrupted for nothing. Is the case concluded? What did you think of it?”