About 12:30, there was a quiet period. Pauline asked Zena to keep an eye on her counter for five minutes.
“I want to check the stocklists in the sports department.”
“Whatever for?”
“To see if a crossbow is missing.”
The sports department was located next to the toys on the same floor. Disappointingly, Pauline found that every crossbow was accounted for. She told herself that if the murderer was on the staff, he could easily have borrowed the weapon and replaced it later. But what about the bolt?
She examined the crossbow kits. Six bolts were supplied with each. She checked the boxes and found one with only five. She hadn’t been hallucinating.
“What are you going to do about it?” Zena asked, when Pauline told her.
“I’ve got some more checking to do.”
“Proper Miss Marple, aren’t you? You’re wasting your time, darling.”
“Coming from you, that’s good.”
Zena said without a hint of embarrassment, “Jealous of my coffee breaks, are you? That’s all water under the bridge. Look, I still say this is someone playing silly games. It could even be Mark himself.”
Pauline shook her head. “Zena, he’s dead, and I’m going to find out why. Tell me, did you and Ben arrive together this morning?”
Zena smiled. “You bet we did.”
“What’s funny?”
“He guards me like a harem girl since he found out Mark was after me. We had a monumental row last week, and I told Ben straight out that he shouldn’t take me for granted. Now he watches me all the time.” She adjusted her pointed hat. “I find it rather a turn-on.”
“But you definitely finished with Mark last week?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t say he was heartbroken. You know how he is. Adaptable.”
“That isn’t the word I’d use,” said Pauline, thinking of all the women Mark had chatted up.
During her lunch hour, she went downstairs and talked to the security man on the staff entrance, a solemn Scot who’d made himself unpopular with everyone but the management by noting daily who was in, and at what time. Pauline asked if Mr. Mark Daventry was in.
“Yes, he’s here. He arrived early this morning, just after 8:15.”
She said, “Are you sure?”
To prove his point, the security man showed her Mark’s overcoat in the staff locker-room. There was no question now that what she had seen was true.
She asked the security man about Ben and Zena. They’d arrived together at their usual time, 9:50 — which was odd, not to say suspicious, considering how late the grotto had opened.
She decided to have it out with them. The grotto closed between 1:00 and 2:00, so she found them in the staff canteen. They’d finished lunch and Ben had his arm around Zena. They looked like two innocent choirboys on a Christmas card.
She warned them that she’d been checking downstairs. “I want a straight answer. Why weren’t you ready to open the grotto at ten this morning?”
“There’s no mystery, darling.” answered Zena. “We had to wait ages for the lift.”
A reasonable explanation. The lift was their only means of access to the grotto. Pauline had to accept it for the moment. She said, “I’m going to search the grotto.”
Ben said affably, “Fine. Let’s all make a search.”
They had twenty minutes. Pauline had hoped to find bloodstains on Santa’s throne, but it was painted red. She went behind the scenery, where it was supported on wood and chicken wire. “There’s something under here.”
It was a wooden packing case. Ben dragged it out and pulled off the lid. There was a layer of the small, white chips of polystyrene used in packing. Ben dug into them with his large hands.
Zena screamed as a tuft of dark hair was revealed. It didn’t take long to confirm that Mark’s body had been crammed into the packing case.
“We’d better report it,” said Ben in a shocked voice. Reassuringly, he and Zena seemed genuinely surprised at the discovery.
“Before we do,” said Pauline, “look in his pockets.”
In an inside pocket Ben discovered the note Pauline hoped to find. Something must have lured Mark to his death in the grotto.
It was a short, typed message: “See what Santa has for you, darling. Tuesday morning, 8:45.”
“I’ve seen that typestyle recently,” said Ben.
“On our letter of appointment,” said Zena.
“Sylvia?” said Ben, frowning. “Mr. Beckington’s secretary?”
Pauline and Zena exchanged a long, uncomprehending look.
They covered the body and took the lift to the management floor above. On the way up, Pauline said, “I’ve thought of something terribly important. Did you find out why you had to wait so long for the lift this morning?”
“It’s usually because a storeman’s delivering goods,” Ben answered.
Pauline said, “I believe it was the murderer jamming the lift door open at our floor so that no one would interrupt the killing. When it finally arrived, did you see a storeman?”
“No,” said Zena, “it was empty.” She hesitated. “But we smelled cigar smoke.”
There wasn’t time to reflect on that, because the lift doors opened at the top floor and Mr. Beckington was waiting there, a cigar jutting from his mouth. At the sight of the three of them together, his features twisted in alarm. He turned and made a dash for the stairs.
“Ben!” shouted Zena.
The commotion brought people from their offices, among them Sylvia. Pauline grabbed her arm and drew her into the lift. Zena pressed the ground floor button and the three women started downward.
“Mr. Beckington,” Zena blurted out. “He murdered Mark.”
Sylvia’s hand went to her mouth.
“But why?” said Pauline.
Sylvia said in a small, shocked voice, “He was jealous. Silly man. He was forever trying to start something with me, but I wasn’t interested. I mean, he’s married, with a daughter my age. Then last week Mark started taking an interest in me. I always thought him dishy, and... well, on Friday evening we spent a little time in the grotto.”
“By arrangement?”
Sylvia nodded. “When everyone else was gone.” Pauline showed her the note they’d found in Mark’s pocket. “I didn’t type this!” said Sylvia.
“Mr. Beckington did,” Pauline explained, “on your typewriter, to make sure Mark turned up this morning. He killed Mark in the grotto and he must have still been in there when the child sneaked in. He must have been hiding behind the scenery when I came in. I raised the alarm, and while I was standing outside like a lemon, he hid the body in a packing case. I just hope Ben catches him.”
The lift gave a shudder as they reached the ground floor. When the doors opened, a police sergeant was waiting. Two constables were nearby, standing at the foot of the stairs.
“All right, girls,” said the sergeant. “Just stand over there, well out of the way.”
In a moment, there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, then Mr. Beckington ran straight into the arms of the waiting policemen. He offered no resistance.
Pauline felt a tug on her skirt and looked down at the small girl. “You?” she said. “You called the police?”
The child smiled smugly and nodded.
“And you believed her?” Pauline asked the sergeant.
“She’s my daughter, miss. The way I see it, if my little girl tells me Santa’s snuffed it, I’ve got to be very, very concerned.”
Shhh, Shhh, It’s Christmas
Carolyn Banks
“ ‘Shhh, Shhh, It’s Christmas’ is, for me, an experiment in voice,” Carolyn Banks says. “The narrator has what I think of as a wee voice, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take a reader to realize that the information she is imparting might be sinister. In other words, is it true that ‘It ain’t what you say; it’s how you say it?’ ”