Murder on the Short List (25 page)

About eight-thirty, Wilbur howled and Laura heard muted singing. She shut Wilbur in the kitchen and opened the front door. She needn't have worried about the catering. A mere four men stood under a lantern. Three wore cardboard and tinsel crowns and were giving an uneven rendering of
We Three Kings.
The fourth, holding up the lantern, was the vicar unless his collar was from a carnival shop, like the crowns. He looked too young to be a clergyman. Just like policemen, Laura thought.

When they started on the solo verses, Melchior's reedy voice almost faded away. For a fat man he was producing a very thin sound. Caspar, with “Frankincense to offer have I” was marginally better, and Balthazar, “Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume”, lost the tune altogether. She was thankful when they got to the last chorus. She popped a two-pound coin into the box and invited them inside.

“Muddy feet,” said the vicar. “We'd better not.”

Melchior had already taken a step forward and needed restraining by his companions. Too much mulled wine already, Laura suspected. But she still fetched the tray from the kitchen with the jug of wine and the pies.

“I may have over-catered here. I was expecting more of you,” she said as she invited them to help themselves. The man who'd sung the part of Caspar handed round the plate of mince pies, but it was obvious that they'd eaten well already. Only Melchior took one. The wine was more popular.

“We would have had two shepherds as well,” Balthazar said, “but one didn't show up and the other dropped out at Long Farm.”

“It's quite a trek,” the vicar said.

“He was legless,” Balthazar said.

“You don't live here, do you?” Caspar asked Laura. “You're not a burglar, by any chance?”

“Giving us mulled wine and the finest mince pie I've had all night? You must be joking,” Melchior said to his friend.

A slightly dodgy mince pie, Laura almost confessed. They seemed likeable men, even if their singing wasn't up to much. She introduced herself and explained about the house-sitting. They told her their names but she soon forgot them. They were the vicar and Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar tonight, and she'd probably never see them again, so why think of them as anything else?

“What do you do when you're not house-sitting?” the tuneless one, Balthazar, asked.

“Gardening, mainly.”

“So do I. Not a lot of gardening to be done this time of year,” little Caspar said.

“You're wrong about that,” Laura said. “There are no end of jobs. I'll be out there tomorrow.”

“Cutting some holly and mistletoe?” the vicar said.

“Good suggestion. The house could do with some, as you see.”

“Christmas roses? You've got some in the front.”

“If you mean the
helleborus niger,
they're not such good specimens. The ones you buy in florists come so much taller and whiter, thanks to forcing,” Laura said, thinking Rosemary would have been proud of that bit of expertise.

“Nasty things. Poisonous,” Melchior said, slurring his words even more.

“Mistletoe berries are poisonous, too,” Balthazar said.

The vicar decided not to go down that route. “We'd better drink up, gentlemen. Three more houses and a long walk to go.”

“Have you been to Gertrude Appleton?” Laura asked.

“The house afore you. Stingy old mucker,” Melchior said.

“That's a bit unseasonal, isn't it?” the vicar said.

“We all know Gertrude,” Caspar said. “Before we get a glass or a bite to eat from her, we have to promise to take
her
a mince pie after Christmas.”

“And if we forget, she'll come hammering on our doors,” Balthazar said.

Laura was about to explain that it was a superstition, but stopped herself. These villagers didn't miss a thing. They'd know all about Gertrude.

“Thanks for these, good lady,” Caspar said as he returned the plate, with ten of the eleven pies remaining. “Sorry we couldn't all do justice to them.”

Melchior said without warning, “I need to sit down. I'm feeling dizzy.”

“You'd better come in,” Laura offered. “I was wondering about you.”

“And It's not the wine,” said Balthazar. “He's a teetotaler.” Laura gave Balthazar a second look, but he seemed to be speaking in all seriousness. She noticed Melchior didn't have a glass in his hand.

“Would you mind, Mrs Thyme?” the vicar said. “I don't think he's capable of continuing.” He picked the crown off the fat man's head. “I'll have to be Melchior now.” Judged by the speed of the change he'd wanted a starring role all evening.

Laura took a grip on Melchior's arm and steered him inside to an armchair. Then she said something she was to regret. “Why don't you gentlemen finish your round and come back for him?”

“He farms just up the lane,” Caspar said, and Laura thought she detected a suggestion that they might not, after all, return for their companion. “Blackberry Farm. It can't be more than three hundred yards.”

They waved goodnight.

After closing the door, Laura glanced at her watch. There was still ample time before she needed to collect Rosemary.

Melchior had slumped in the chair and was snoring softly.

“Strong coffee for you,” Laura said.

He made a sound she chose to take as appreciation. It could have been a belch.

In the kitchen, Wilbur was round her feet. She found the store of dog food and opened a tin. She said, “Consider yourself lucky, Wilbur. I've got other demands on my time.”

When she took the coffee to Melchior his snoring was heavier and his chin was buried in his chest. This wasn't good. She didn't want this overweight man settling into a deep sleep and being immovable just when she needed to drive to Bath. She checked the time again. She really ought to be leaving in less than an hour. She wasn't certain how long it would take to drive to the station.

“Coffee?”

No response.

“Have some coffee. It'll brighten you up.”

Wishful thinking. He didn't make a murmur that wasn't a snore.

In a louder voice she said, “I made the coffee.”

This was becoming a predicament. She'd have to touch the man's face or hands to get a response, but she'd only just met him. Didn't even know his real name. How do I get myself into situations like this? she thought.

She put down the coffee and stood with her arms folded wondering how to deal with this. Wilbur came in and sniffed at the mud on the boots.

Fresh air, she decided. She flung open a couple of windows and an icy blast of December ripped through the room.

Wilbur streaked upstairs, but Melchior didn't move a muscle.

“Come on, man!” Laura said. She found the remote and switched on the television. The Nine Lessons and Carols at full volume. Switched the channel to the Three Tenors.

No result.

In frustration Laura brought her two hands together and slapped her own face quite hard. She'd have to overcome her innate decorum and give him a prod. Alone with a strange bloke in someone else's house, but it had to be done.

First she switched off the three of them belting out
Nessun Dorma.
Her nerves couldn't take it.

Tentatively she put out a finger and touched the back of Melchior's right hand, resting on the arm of the chair. It remained quite still. She placed the whole of her hand across it and squeezed.

There was a slight reaction, a twitch of the eyelids, but they didn't open. Laura leaned closer and blew on them. Nothing. She drew a deep breath and patted his fat face.

He made a sound, no more than “Mm” – but a definite response.

“Wake up, please,” she said. “I don't want you asleep.”

A triumph. The eyes opened and stared at her.

“It's no good,” she told him. “You can't sit here for ever. Let's see if you can walk to the car and I'll drive you home. Blackberry Farm, isn't it?”

At the mention of his address, Melchior made a definite effort to move. He rocked forward and groaned. Laura thrust her hand under his armpit and encouraged the movement. Out of sheer determination she got him to his feet. He was still unsteady, but she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hung onto it and kept him upright.

“The car's outside. Come on. Start walking.”

It was slow progress and a huge physical effort, but she kept him on the move, talking all the time in the hope that it would keep him conscious. Getting down the two small steps at the front door was hard enough, but the real challenge was hoisting him onto the passenger seat of the Land Rover.

She swung the door open with her free hand. “I'm going to need your help here, Melchior. One giant leap for mankind.”

He moaned a little, maybe at Laura's attempt to be cheerful.

To encourage him, she curled her hand under his knee and lifted his right leg up to the level of the vehicle floor. It felt horribly limp. She found places for his hands to grip. “On the count of three,” she said, “and I'll probably end up with a slipped disc. One, two, three!”

If he made some gesture towards the performance it wasn't obvious. Laura found herself making a superhuman effort. Dignity abandoned, she put her shoulder under his rump and inched him upwards. All those hours of heavy gardening paid off. He got one buttock onto the seat and she rammed him like a front-row forward until he was in a position where she could snap the safety belt across.

She ran back to the house and closed the windows and door. Wilbur was inside, but did she have the key? She hoped so.

The Land Rover, bless its antiquated ignition system, started first time.

Blackberry Farm. Which way? Her passenger was in no condition to say. Laura swung right and hoped. The lanes were unlit, of course. Her full beam probed the hedgerows ahead. Can't be more than three hundred yards, Caspar had said. She'd gone that distance already. She continued for another two minutes, then found a gate entrance. Nothing so helpful as a sign. She reversed into the space and retraced her route. Maybe she should have turned left coming out of The Withers.

Then she saw the board for Blackberry Farm fixed to a drystone wall. Drove into the yard and sounded the horn. She'd need help getting Melchior down. It would be useful if he had a couple of hefty sons.

From one of the farm buildings came a wisp of a woman wearing overalls and wellies. She was about Melchior's age, Laura judged. Two sheep dogs came with her, barking.

“I've brought the farmer home,” Laura said, competing to be heard. “He's rather tired. Is there anyone who can help get him down?”

The little lady spread her hands. “There's only me, my love.”

Laura got out and opened the passenger door. “We'll have to manage together then. Is he your husband?”

“Yes, and I don't like the look of 'un,' the little lady said.

“Douglas, you gawpus, what's the matter with 'ee?”

Laura looked. Her passenger had taken a definite turn for the worse. He was making jerky movements with his head and left leg. Change of plan. “I think we should get your husband to a doctor fast,” she said. “Jump aboard.”

“I can't come with ‘ee,” the farmer's wife said. “I've got a cow in calf.”

“But I'm a stranger here. I don't know where to take him,” Laura almost wailed.

“Horse piddle.”

“What?”

“Royal United, Bath. Agzy-dennal Emergissy.”

Laura understood now. “Which way?”

“Left out of the yard and straight up the lane till you reach the A36. You'll pick up the horse piddle signs when you get close to the city.”

“Can you call them and say I'm on the way with a man having convulsions?”

“After I've seen to the cow.”

Laura swung the Land Rover towards the gate, scattering the dogs, and started up the lane. “Don't worry,” she said to Melchior, or Douglas, “you'll be getting help very soon.” The only response was a vomiting sound.

“Please! Not in the Land Rover,” she muttered.

She was forced to concentrate on the drive, trusting in the Lord that she wouldn't meet anything as she belted along the lane. Passing points seemed to be unknown in this part of Wiltshire. The beam picked out the scampering shape of a badger up ahead. It saved itself by veering off to the left.

Then she spotted headlights descending a hill and guessed she was close to the main road. Right or left? She'd have to make a guess. Her instinct said right.

Forced to stop at the intersection, she glanced at her passenger. His face was still twitching and looked a dreadful colour in the passing lights. This was much more serious than over-indulgence in mulled wine.

Now was when she could do with an emergency light and siren. Out on the A36, with a long run into Bath – and a sign told her she
had
taken the right direction – she was overtaking like some teenage joyrider in a stolen Merc. Other drivers flashed their lights at her and one idiot got competitive and tried to force her to stay in the wrong lane. But there came a point when she was high on the downs and the city lights appeared below her. At any other time she would have been enchanted by the view. All she could think was where is the hospital?

At the first traffic lights she wound down the window and asked. Of course it had to be on the opposite side of the city. Another hair-raising burn-up through the streets and she found seriously helpful signs at last.

A&E. She drew up behind an ambulance. Someone was rolling a stretcher on wheels towards the Land Rover. The farmer's wife must have alerted them. The passenger door was opened.

‘Is this the man with convulsions?”

Laura took this to be one of those inane questions people ask in times of crisis. Of course he had convulsions. He'd been convulsing all the way to the hospital.

But when she turned to look at him, he'd gone still.