Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to all my readers! 

I hope you are all going to have a wonderful holiday no matter how and when you celebrate it. 

For us, Christmas begins this afternoon in church, and afterwards we will have dinner, sing hymns aplenty and open our presents.

For the next three-four days I  expect my family will keep me far too busy to blog and visit you, but if the weather is too bad to visit family, I may be back sooner.

Christmas Toffee - the Ending

Rhapsody didn´t really have time to solve a murder mystery in between all the Christmas preparations in the large vicarage so she tried her best to leave it to Archie and his colleagues. She was very pleased, though, when he came to ask for her help the next morning.

“I have something I´d like you to take a look at. Forensics have been and gone so you can come in and tell me what you think about her books.” Primrose knew when it was best to call in an expert, and Rhapsody worked as a part-time librarian.

Rhapsody followed him and took her time to study the sagging shelves thoroughly. As she had guessed yesterday they were all romances. Not really Rhapsody´s taste – at least not if anyone asked her.

“But this is crazy! No one does that … unless?” She chose one of the pink paperback backs and pulled at it until she succeeded in wringing it off the shelf. She checked the back flap and when she found a picture of an old, white-haired woman she let out a low whistle. “So she was actually… Darling, our Miss Toffee Brown was really the famous writer Barbara Cartwheel.”

Primrose nodded. “I thought so but I wanted to hear what you said before I ran out and told my superior. This is awful. When the press find out…” He tore at a tuft of his short hair.

“But then we´ll just have to solve the case before they do!” Rhapsody lifted her chin and looked around her, ready to strike down on any clue the police force had not found yet. All she saw was Barbara Cartwheel paperbacks from floor to ceiling. Thousands of them, mostly in garish colours, and many of them were not even in English.

How sad. So Toffee Brown had really come here to get away from the limelight. And now she was dead.

“The neighbours are getting really curious,” Primrose complained. “They march up and down the street all day as if they have all sorts of errands. It´s just a question of time before one of them will call the local rag.”

Rhapsody looked out of Toffee, or rather, Ms Cartwheel´s windows. Agatha Mistletoe was struggling to push Jim Partridge´s wheelchair over a kerbstone. “I´d better offer to help her. Perhaps I can divert their attention a bit.”

“Hello, Mr Partridge and Miss Mistletoe,” she began while she took charge of one of the handles of the chair. “But where is your sweet cat? I have hardly ever seen you without Kitty.”

“We´ve had to keep her indoors since yesterday,” Agatha Mistletoe snapped. “With that ferocious dog at large poor Kitty has been frightfully upset.”

“Eh, you mean Tweedledee?” Rhapsody didn´t know what to say as her goal had been to keep their minds off the murder of Ms Cartwheel.

“Awful brute,” Jim Partridge grumbled, and Rhapsody had a feeling he didn´t refer to the dog only. She stared at a black leather shoe that stuck out underneath the warm coverlet which covered Partridge´s useless legs.

“Pardon me, but I just remembered something.” She ran back to the cottage and grabbed Primrose´s uniform sleeve. “I´m sure I have found your murderer. You must come with me immediately!”

They caught up with the wheelchair right in front of Partridge´s door.

“Look at those shoes,” Rhapsody exclaimed. “See those salt stains on the leather.”

For a moment, Partridge seemed to forget that he could not see. Swiftly, he adjusted the coverlet so the stained leather was invisible.

“Get down!” Rhapsody wailed.

Agatha Mistletoe raised a heavy frying pan and let it crash down where Primrose´s head had been a split second earlier. The pan continued its trajectory and hit Partridge´s right shoulder. He jumped out of the chair, bellowing like a wounded bear.

“Oh, no. Poor James.” Miss Mistletoe broke down, weeping inconsolably. “I knew it would go wrong.”

“And now you´d better explain what this is all about.” Primrose had not quite forgotten that the nurse had tried to bash his head in as he pushed them both ahead of him into Partridge´s house.

Jim Partridge had turned so white that Rhapsody feared he would faint. His right arm hung down, and she suspected it was broken.

“If you´ll call a doctor, I promise I´ll tell you everything.” He sank down on a sofa, wincing when his arm touched the seat.

“You see, I am here incognito. My real name is James Prattlesome. The thriller writer?” He was vain enough to check that they had recognized his name before he went on. “Somehow, the daft goose in there must have been able to hear us through the wall.” 

“James, no, don´t tell them…” Agatha Mistletoe whispered.

“It´s too late now, Agatha.” He smiled bravely. “The other night at Sir Bellini´s party she as good as told everybody who I was. I sort of lost it and went over there and killed her before she could tell the press that it was my dear, old nanny, Agatha, who wrote all my bestsellers. Nanny has a wonderful imagination. She began by making up the most horrid nursery rhymes for me, and later her stories sort of developed into those scary novels all my fans love so much.”

“Oh, James. And now the whole world will know that I have switched from my cosy puzzles to those gory thrillers.”

Merry Christmas

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Christmas Toffee (part 4)

See part 3.

Rhapsody poured herself a generous glass of cold water in the kitchen. She had come home from the party rather late, and after all that eggnog she felt slightly out of sorts.

What was that? Miss Brown´s little Pekinese darted up and down the pavement outside her semi, yapping furiously. And Miss Brown´s front door stood wide open. Something must be wrong.

“Psally. Psally, where are you?” Rhapsody showed her sister the open door and the agitated dog.

“Something must be wrong,” Psalmonella declared while she put on her coat. “Perhaps Miss Brown is ill. All that eggnog.”

They crossed the street and ran towards the new development of ugly, semidetached houses. Tweedledee bared his teeth and tried to look thrice his size, but in a no-nonsense movement Psalmonella grabbed his collar and told him to sit.

Rhapsody threw one glance into the living room and stepped back. “This is a case for the police,” she informed her sister. “I´ll call Archie immediately.”

Constable Archibald Primrose was Rhapsody´s fiancé. He arrived on his bicycle a few minutes later, all ready to cordon off Miss Brown´s house and garden with his yellow tape.

Someone had killed the old woman in the most horrible fashion and left the axe behind. Rhapsody and Psalmonella told Primrose what they knew while he was waiting for reinforcement.

Back in the kitchen Rhapsody put the kettle on. “Do you remember she claimed she was a famous writer?”

“Of course I do. Poor woman.”

“Her house was full of paperbacks. Hundreds, or probably thousands of romances.”

“Surely you don´t believe it´s true?” Psalmonella wasn´t inclined to fantasize and made short thrift with anyone who did.

“No, of course not, but… Well, if she was just a harmless, old pensioner, why should anyone kill her?”

Constable Primrose dropped in as soon as possible to tell them what he had learned so far and enjoy a nice cup of coffee. “Weird case. Nothing stolen. It´s not as if she had much to steal, of course, but she had a nice wrist watch and some pearls that look expensive enough.”

“So the motive seems to have been personal?” Rhapsody tried.

“Personal, or perhaps even worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

“A mass…” Primrose glanced at Psalmonella and shook his head. “No, is far too early to say yet. But he left something. Or we think he did.”

“What? Please tell me!” Rhapsody urged.

“A postcard. It only says ´Santa was here´ on it, and it hasn´t been delivered by the postman because there is no address or stamp on it.”

“A Christmas card.” Rhapsody couldn´t help feeling disappointed. Anyone could have put a Christmas card through Toffee Brown´s letterbox, and though the police had no clue, she might have known who ´Santa´ was.

“No, not really. It´s not a Christmassy motive but an ordinary postcard from Stockholm.” He took a gulp of his coffee. “It reminds me of something I have read in a novel recently, but I can´t for the life of me remember which one.”

(If you, dear reader, have an idea what Primrose might have read, don´t hesitate to spill the beans – before I publish the ending tomorrow).
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Christmas Toffee (part 3)

See part 2

Toffee´s big chance came when she received an invitation to Sir Bellini´s pre-Christmas Party.

She had been itching to meet the world-famous violinist, Knavesborough´s only celebrity. Apart from herself, that was. She donned her best silk frock, pink with embroidered silver flowers, and a gorgeous hat with ostrich feathers that hid most of her hair. She was not quite certain the new hairdo had been such a good idea after all.

She had not expected quite so large a turnout at Netherdale Manor, and when it began to dawn upon her that all and sundry had received an invitation, she ground her teeth. Drinking eggnog with the hoi polloi of Yorkshire when she could have…

“In the pink, Miss Brown?” The officious nurse intercepted her arm just as she was about to approach her host.

“Now that I have you here, I have been meaning to ask you how a blind man can buy and sell antiques?” Toffee had wanted to know, but she had certainly not meant to ask such a rude question so where did those words come from? She squinted at the cup in her hand, wondering what they put in that tacky brew up here.

Miss Mistletoe laughed gaily. “Jim Partridge has a seventh sense, you might say. Just follow his nose and it will lead you to the good stuff.”

A Goth butler picked up her empty cup and put a new one between her fingers. “Exquisite hair, granny. Who´s your hairstylist if I may ask?”

Toffee was on the brink of tears, but she was on a mission. She had come to speak to Sir Bellini. She looked around her for some place to put down her cup, but all she saw was other people´s elbows. Well, down it would have to go. She drained it surreptitiously and let the cup slide down into someone´s very large tweed pocket.

With a determined hiccup, she squeezed through the throng and swooped down on her tanned host. “What a pleasure to have you on my own,” she flashed, conveniently ignoring two-three hundred villagers.

“Why, nice to meet you, Miss Brown. I hope you´re enjoying yourself. A Christmas cracker?” He handed her one end of a glossy twist of paper, and she had no options but pull at it though the bang always made her heart flutter.

“Hahahahaha,” Toffee laughed shrilly, sensing that this might be her one and only chance. She ignored the paper hat but rolled out the small strip of paper and cried out, “Someone in our midst is a famous writer!”

She heard a gasp behind her. “But how could you…?”

Sir Bellini had already switched his attention to those supercilious vicar´s daughters, and when Toffee turned around to see who was behind her, she stumbled over the wheelchair. She caught hold of the armrest and found herself eye to eye with the blind antique dealer.

Jim Partridge clenched his fists and drawled, “So you´re having a bit of fun, are you, Miss Brown?”

“Sorry to interrupt you two turtledoves, but it´s high time to get home and feed the cat, Jim.” Agatha Mistletoe released the brake of the chair and tore it away so swiftly that Toffee landed very inelegantly on her silken bum. Argh.

To be continued tomorrow.
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Christmas Toffee (part 2)

Vicarage knick-knack

 See part 1

A few days later Rhapsody and Psalmonella Gershwin, the vicar´s daughters, came across the newcomer while shopping in the local grocery.

“Isn´t that Miss Brown?” Psalmonella nudged her sister.

“No, it can´t… Dear me, I´m afraid you´re right. Do you think she was caught up in a duel between a couple of graffiti painters?” Rhapsody bit her lip to keep herself from laughing out loud. Her first impression of Toffee Brown had been a non-descript granny who suited her name admirably. 

Unfortunately, Miss Brown ambushed them with her trolley before Rhapsody could gain control of the wicked grin on her face. Deftly, she bent down to pat the chubby little dog before she had to look at its owner. Toffee´s fluffy, white curls had been coloured pink and green like a peppermint cane.

“Hello, Tweedledee. Good dog.”

Psalmonella was the better actress. “How nice to meet you, Miss Brown. I hope you are settling down in Knavesborough?”

“Oh, well, it´s a bit quiet up here, isn´t it? When one is used to the bright city lights…” Toffee Brown muttered.

“So you lived in a city before you came here?”

“I did indeed. In the limelight, you might say.” She leaned forward, whispering theatrically.

“In the limelight, even. Then I do understand that we must seem a bit trivial for your taste,” Rhapsody smiled.

“You see; Toffee Brown is not my real name. It´s a pseudonym.” Toffee stepped so close to the sisters that they could inhale her latest cup of coffee and screwed up her blue eyes. Nice eyes, actually, if she hadn´t stuck so much goo around them.

Rhapsody took pity on her. “A pseudonym. But why, Miss Brown?”

“I write novels! Romances! World-famous bestsellers. But I came here because I needed a rest. “

“I see. I am sure you have come to the right place, then. Plenty of rest and fresh air and all.” Psalmonella patted her shoulder and stretched out a hand to put a few tins of baked beans into her trolley.

Behind them, the bestseller writer kicked a sack of dog food viciously.


To be continued tomorrow. 
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Christmas Toffee (part 1)

Two weeks ago I promised you a Christmas story. Now the first part is ready, and if I want to finish it before you are sweating over your turkeys, I´d better bring it immediately. When and where will it end? - no one knows, least of all me. 

-------------------------------------------------

When Toffee Brown moved to Knavesborough, no one noticed her the first few weeks. She could just as well have been a ghost. Perhaps she was? No, surely she would have noticed. She tried to poke a finger through her own body and wailed loudly. These country bumpkins just chose to ignore her! How inconsiderate!

She, however, noticed her neighbour in the adjacent house. The blind man in the wheelchair with the afghan coverlet and the blue-eyed cat constantly on his lap. She especially noticed that each time they passed each other on the pavement, the cat ignored her, but the man seemed to be following her with his eyes, but of course that was impossible. Toffee, you are losing it, she whispered to herself.

Every day she made up her face as carefully as always, she did her white hair and put on her tailored, pink coat before she went out to walk Tweedledee, her snow white Pekinese. But invariably, her new neighbours would pay more attention to Tweedle than to herself. Especially the cat which glared as if it wanted to pounce on her poor little doggie. And she had a creepy feeling that its blind owner was laughing at her.

Whenever she passed a shop window, she checked her elegant figure among the glittering Christmas decorations and made sure her beret sat at just the right angle. Nothing wrong with her, as far as she could see.

“Trimming our feathers, are we?”

Toffee jumped, sure she was going to have a heart attack.

“Didn´t mean to scare you, Ms Brown. I am Agatha Mistletoe, your new neighbour.  Jim Partridge´s nurse.” Miss Mistletoe´s creased face cracked up in a broad smile much like the vigilant cat´s.

“Oh, the gentleman in the wheelchair?” Toffee was not sure he was what she´d consider a real gentleman, but she never forgot her manners.

“Sure.” Miss Mistletoe barked. “Mr Partridge is our local antique dealer. Old knick-knacks are his speciality.” She tilted her head and sized Toffee up.

“Have a good day, Miss Thistlemoe.” Toffee spun around and dragged Tweedledee back so fast his short legs hardly touched the pavement, wishing she had never heard about Knavesborough.

Thy´s Day # 36

More Christmas in the vicarage for you.

Thy´s Day # 35

Advent Sunday

In Denmark we don´t celebrate Thanksgiving. Instead, we take the time to celebrate the four Advent Sundays as a family, and the first weekend is special because we also celebrate our son´s birthday. No grandparents this year because of the snow, but we will go to church together, sing some of our beloved Advent hymns - and have a nice (fat) lunch.

James Thompson, Snow Angels (2010)

[Denne krimi er ikke udgivet på dansk endnu, men da den amerikansk-fødte forfatter er bosat i Finland, og hans første engelske krimi er af rigtig god kvalitet, må man næsten regne med den dukker op i Skandinavien inden så længe.]

This ARC was sent to me by the American publisher. The novel was out in the USA in January. The writer was born in Kentucky, but has lived in Finland for ten years. The novel is the first in a planned series about the Finnish Inspector Kari Vaara. It is not the author´s debut, but the first book which has been published in English.

The environment is the northern part of Finland, inside the dark winter of the Arctic Circle, and the temperature is minus forty degrees Celsius!

“There would be silence, but cold has a sound of its own. The branches of trees freeze solid and crack under the weight of snow with sounds like muted gunshots. The snow freezes so hard that its surface contracts and takes on a pebbled texture. It crackles underfoot, even when I think I´m standing still.”

Kari Vaara´s American wife Kate is the competent manager of a local entertainment centre with hotel, bar and restaurant. She is a beautiful, young woman who is expecting their first child, and only recently has she begun to realize that she is less than thrilled about living in the ´exotic´ Arctic Circle among perpetually happy people:

“This winter, I feel like the cold and dark will never end. I get it now that people weren´t happy, just drunk. It makes me depressed. It´s terrible. Being pregnant in Finland seems scary, makes me homesick for the States.”

The plot begins when a murder victim is found on a reindeer farm, a Somali movie star called Sufia Elmi. An unpleasant crime because, as Vaara explains, “Fins are sensitive about race relations because by and large we´re closet racists”, and because the woman has been horribly mutilated.

Within a day or two Vaara believes he has cracked the case when he discovers that his ex-wife´s lover was closely connected to the victim. But is it really so simple, or does he let his hate of his former wife colour his opinion?

This debut has several very strong points: the knowledgeable and observant writer conveys a strong sense of place in the winter-dark Finland, his new home country. The protagonist and his wife are a likeable couple, happily married but with the ups and downs any couple have to live with.

The plot is fine, and though it is dark and dramatic, I ´bought it´ because the writer convinced me that these things could easily happen during the seemingly eternal night of the Arctic Circle. So beware! In spite of the apparent reindeer idyll, this is noir, and not at all a cozy Christmas story.

One small minus because the writer is so eager to portray the Finnish environment that occasionally he tells his reader too much.

I read the book as part of the 2010 Global Reading Challenge, Europe, Finland.

Another review of Snow Angels by Material Witness

The Axe Mass Murderer

Look what my creative daughters gave me in my advent calendar (I would have taken the pictures last week, but we had some problems with the quality of the water). A real crime scene: an X Mass murderer striking his victim!

And when you shake the glass, the scene is covered in falling snow.

And now my intelligent reader may ask: where is the quotation? But you see, this is just a post about a unique bait box, not a bait in the box. Enjoy! And next Wednesday there will be a gruesome titbit for you again.

Mari Jungstedt, I denne stille nat (2008)

Som titlen på Jungstedts anden krimi antyder, nærmer juletiden sig på Gotland. Henry Dahlström, en falleret fotograf, har sit livs held på travbanen, hvor han vinder 80.000 kroner, en pæn formue, hvis den omregnes i flasker. Han får dog ikke lang tid at glæde sig, for blot en uge senere findes han myrdet i boligblokkens kælder, hvor han har sit mørkekammer.

Fjortenårige Fanny holder sig for sig selv. Hun er halvt vestinder og en rigtig hestepige, som trives dårligt og tydeligvis er på grænsen til anoreksi. Fanny ser stalden som et fristed fra skolen, og fra hendes alkoholiserede mor og dennes kæreste, men det er desværre også i forbindelse med sit arbejde her, hun møder manden, som senere forfører og myrder hende.

Kriminalinspektør Anders Knutas, den dygtige efterforsker med den danske kone, bliver sat på sagen sammen med sit team. Journalisten Johan Berg spiller også en vis rolle i historien, selv om han arbejder mindst lige så ihærdigt på at vinde Emma Winarves hjerte. Emma er gift med Olle og har to børn, men selv om hun føler, hun bør blive hos sin mand og holde sammen på familien, er det svært at holde sig fra den spændende og charmerende journalist.

Mit helhedsindtryk: der er mere regulært politiarbejde end i Jungstedts debut, men alligevel lidt tomgang af og til. Forfatteren er bedre til at beskrive miljøet og forholdene mellem mennesker end til at holde dampen oppe i et virkeligt fængende krimiplot. Underholdende, men ikke en uforglemmelig læseoplevelse.

Min anmeldelse af Jungstedts tredje krimi, Den inderste kreds.

Mari Jungstedt, Unspoken (2007).
As the Danish - and Swedish - title indicates (In this Silent Night), Jungstedt´s second police procedural takes place shortly before Christmas. Henry Dahlström, a boozy photographer, experiences the luck of his life when he wins 80,000 krona on the races, quite a fortune when converted into bottles. He does not get much time to enjoy his luck, however, as he is found killed only a week later in his darkroom in the basement of the block of flats.

Fifteen-year-old Fanny keeps to herself. She is half Caribbean and a real horse girl on the verge of anorexia who sees the stables as a refuge from school and from her alcoholic mother.

Unfortunately she also meets the man who seduces her and later kills her, in this environment.
Chief Inspector Anders Knutas, the competent policeman with the Danish wife, is put on the case with his team. The young reporter Johan Berg also plays a certain role though he is just as set on winning Emma Winarve´s heart. Emma is married to Olle and has two children, but even if she feels she ought to remain with her husband and keep the family together, it is difficult for her to stay away from the charming reporter.

My overall impression: there is more proper police work in this one than in Jungstedt´s debut, but as I see it, this author is better at describing the environment and the relationships among people than at keeping up the steam in a really exciting crime plot. Entertaining, but not an unforgettable reading experience.

My review of her third novel, The Inner Circle (Unknown).

Glædelig jul - Merry Christmas

See you in a few days - but now it is time for Christmas.

Merry Christmas to your all, and I hope you are all going to have a wonderful time together with family or good friends.

And to you who do not celebrate Christmas - happy holidays!

Martha Grimes, Jerusalem Inn (1984)

[Den eneste danske krimi, jeg har kunnet finde af Martha Grimes, er den glimrende “Min mor er død”fra 1992]

This novel is the fifth volume in the Inspector Jury series. As usual, this American writer has set her cozy crime novel around an old British pub in the countryside.

A taste of Martha Grimes´ style:
“It was on a windy December day, with only five of them left until Christmas, that Jury saw the sparrows quarreling in a nearby hedge as he stood looking though the gates of Washington Old Hall. The sparrows – one attempting to escape, the other in hot pursuit – flew from hedge to tree to hedge. The pecking of one had bloodied the breast of the other. He was used to scenes of carnage; still he was shocked. But didn´t it go on everywhere?”

Inspector Richard Jury happens to meet the beautiful but mysterious Helen Minton in a graveyard where she studies the gravestones, taking notes in a gold-covered notebook. She tells him about her interesting place of work, Washington Old Hall. The following day Jury goes to see the place (or the lady?) only to discover that Helen Minton has just been murdered.

At the same time, some of Jury´s friends, including the nobleman Melrose Plant, are staying at Spinney Abbey, near the pub Jerusalem Inn where he watches a snooker tournament. Another murder takes place in Spinneyton, and as the two crimes are related, Richard Jury is involved in both cases. As usual Melrose Plant is pleased to lend his friend a hand – and escape the boredom of the affluent bachelor gentleman for a while.

Other pieces of the puzzle are a blizzard, and - not quite unexpected - a neglected, little girl who is far too wise for her age, plus a number of orphans. As connoisseurs of traditional, British crime may have guessed, Martha Grimes´ series has much in common with Dorothy L. Sayers´ Lord Peter Wimsey series and Elizabeth George´s Inspector Lynley series with its romantic depiction of ´England´s green and pleasant land´ (to quote one of the faithful participants in my bait game - and William Blake).

End of Christmas IV

Read part III.

IV. After a perfunctory investigation Constable Archibald Primrose gave up solving the murder of St Nicholas. He did the next-best thing by selling the whole story to BBC, CNN and the Danish prime minister who was grateful that now the press would run off to Longburied Parsley instead of harping on his none-too successful climate conference. “It´s gonna be a cold, cold Christmas” he hummed dejectedly. The prime minister that is, not Constable Primrose, who was quite happy with his position right in the middle of things and a wad of good, American dollars in his pocket. [I know what you think, but you did not expect a realistic story, did you?]

The world press renounced hordes of demonstrators sitting on their freezing behinds in Copenhagen and gathered around the corpse like flies smelling … well, a corpse. They informed a gawping world that Santa had died in a sensational accident, dropping off his high-flying sleigh into a snowdrift, apparently drunk as a skunk.

“Christmas cancelled” cried meter-high headlines. “World Wide Christmas Crisis.” “No Christmas presents.” “Obama promises help if China will also chip in.”

Meanwhile Arnold kept the aunties preoccupied by making sure they had plenty of schnapps on the table so he could sneak down the basement and open Uncle Nick´s Christmas present. How could Mildred´s old uncle know anything about his obsession? As if Arnold had ever admitted to anyone alive that this was his greatest wish. This was sheer Christmas magic!

On Christmas morning Arnold had finished boarding up the basement windows. He had rigged up a huge table on trestles and built a wonderful model railway for his teeny-weeny model train, and the cute, little station was a perfect replica of the ivy-covered train station of Longburied Parsley.

“Arnold, your turkey is ready.”

“Did you remember that I like plenty of gravy? You can leave it on the threshold. Merry Christmas, Mildred.” He grabbed the plate and shut the door tight, before he blew the whistle of the tiny train that was puffing merrily round and round.

“Arnold. Arnoooold? My Christmas present?” Mildred knocked on the door timidly.

“How can you worry about petty details like that when Christmas has been canceled worldwide and all the little children must go without presents. Really, Mildred …”

Relieved, he heard her slippers shuffle off and bent over his railway. Perhaps he should take a peep at the other presents in Uncle Nick´s sack later?

Merry Christmas!

End of Christmas III

Read part II.

III. In spite of all the trouble he had caused, Arnold Kickinbottom had generously let Uncle into the house for a short break and a glass of water, oil-smudged and unkempt as he was. But what was intended as a flying visit in the kitchen had escalated into a ridiculous charade with Uncle Nick and Aunt Augusta playing dominoes and drinking Arnold´s best sherry while Aunt Beryl swallowed pills in various sizes and colours and sang naughty Christmas Carols. No one knew what was in her arsenal of glasses and bottles, but some of them certainly had a stimulating effect on the ancient hag who used to sit quietly in a corner, crocheting pink doilies. When Aunt Augusta had sipped at the sherry so many times that she tried to lure Uncle Nick under the mistletoe to encourage improper behavior, Arnold had had enough. Not in his house!

As usual, Mildred was very far from the rock of support and stability a husband could wish for. In between decorating the house from top to toe in tinsel and paperchains, baking twelve sorts of cookies, cooking mince pies and stuffing the turkey, she just sat about, knitting her scratchy sweaters. At least they had no electric Christmas candles. Arnold had put his foot down firmly; he would not tolerate such waste.

Single-handed, Arnold had marched the aunts off to bed and requested Uncle Nick to leave the premises. And that had been the horrible moment when Uncle had handed him the gift. Arnold nearly wet his pants, but he had a life-long training in disciplining his upper lip and his bladder, so without turning a hair, he had received the large parcel and tucked it safely away underneath a huge pile of hand-knitted sweaters.

But he had known immediately that this was the point of no return! Uncle Nick had turned into an encumbrance Arnold would have to remove immediately.

“You´d better leave now, dear Nicholas, or you will be late for your round, but do come into the kitchen for a bite before you go.” He had grabbed a moth-eaten coat sleeve and dragged Uncle off to the kitchen. His hands shook, and he was sorely tempted to strangle Uncle in some of Mildred´s glittering tinsel, but instead he had put a plateful of her nasty mushroom hotchpotch and a mixture of some of his really advanced homebrewed schnapps in front of the old guy. “Cheers, Uncle Nick.”

“Now, off you go like a good old Santa.“ He patted Uncle Nick on the shoulder and saw him off, certain that no one could survive a sledge trip in that condition.

To be continued tomorrow.

End of Christmas II

Read part I.

II. Arnold Kickinbottom let the living room curtain fall back. What was the local hillbilly trampling around in the snow for? A mysterious death right outside his windows was not good for his indigestion. Mildred would babble about too many samples of the schnapps and sweets, but Arnold knew his tummy was easily upset when something unpleasant and dramatic happened right under his nose.

“Mildred, where is my porridge?” He checked his watch. Already five minutes past seven. His wife was getting so slovenly, and it wasn´t even Christmas yet. He drummed his fingers on the table. The oilcloth had lost most of its vivid colours in front of him though it could hardly be more than ten or fifteen years old.

“Mildred!” He enjoyed seeing her scuttle in with his bowl and glass, but his heart was not really in it. Why wouldn´t the old fuddy-duddy listen? Arnold had told him to stay away from them so many times. This was a respectable home, and Christmas with Mildred´s catty old aunts around the house was already more than most human beings could bear. You couldn´t fart without their smelling it. He shuddered at the idea of several days with this petticoat regime. But Arnold Kickinbottom refused to surrender to their pins and needles.

He raised his spoon and his weak chin like a modern-day Churchill, until he remembered another of Mildred´s insane relatives. Trying to enter a modern house via the chimney. Talk about embarrassment. A fat, middle-aged man trying to get into a house with central heating through the chimney! So he was Mildred´s half-demented old uncle, but why couldn´t he ring the bell like any decent visitor? Arnold had had to take the whole system to pieces, before they could tug him out of a heating pipe in the boiler room together with his huge sack of silly presents. Arnold´s spoon trembled when he thought of those presents. How could anyone know …?

“Arnold, dear, are you okay? It seems as if your eyes are bulging.”

To be continued tomorrow.

DJ´s Bait in the Box # 46

This week´s wonderful bait box is a gift from my daughters.

[Denne hyggelige julekrimi er ikke oversat til dansk]

Here is my last Christmas bait for this year. A bit untimely, but I was not sure you would have time to visit my little game on Wednesday and Thursday. From where? Well, at least I can tell you that the language is English.

“That was when he first thought it: that a meeting in a graveyard was not the best way to begin an attachment. The sparrow fluttered near him, but he shook it off. The next time he saw her, he would certainly find out why she was unhappy.

The next time he saw her she was dead.”

And just for fun, an extra quotation which I enjoyed quite a bit:

“The kids, who were a lot better out of their mother´s way than in it, all had absurdly fanciful names like Jasmine and Christabel, the sorts of names you give your kids when you don´t have enough confidence they can get by with being just plain old Marys and Johns.”

The Rules:
If you recognize the quotation, or if you think you are able to guess who wrote it, please post a comment. Just leave a hint, do not spoil the fun by giving too much away. The book will be reviewed in a few days.

End of Christmas I

A tragic tale in approximately four parts.

I. Very early in the morning of December 24th, village constable Archibald Primrose found a red-and-grey-clad old man in a huge snowdrift right outside Longburied Parsley.

Dead? Primrose pulled off one of his woolen gloves and prodded and probed cautiously, fearing a local alky would jump up and accuse him of harassment. Well, one could not be as cold and stiff as this old geezer and be alive, could one? Primrose looked around him, wondering what to do. Thieves, rogues and drunkards could be put in detention overnight to calm them down and keep them off the streets, but an ice-cold, thickset corpse? No one had quite prepared him for a situation like this. And right now, with Christmas looming up and all his superiors gallivanting in Copenhagen to guard top politicians and arrest hotheaded demonstrators during the climate conference. [Who said this story was British? I didn´t, did I? A global village, perhaps, to make all my readers (un)comfortable.]

First of all, Primrose put his glove back on as it was really disagreeably cold. He looked around him again, but everybody else in the little village seemed to be sound asleep. Second, he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and took a few photos of the crime scene. That was what the CSI guys always did.

What next? Fingerprints? Primrose had never heard of anyone lifting fingerprints off cold and wet snow, so maybe this was his chance of fame and a medal (promotion had been phased out years ago). Looking around him, he could not see any signs of fingerprints. Yet there were several traces of hoofs. Again, Primrose secured the evidence as best he could. Not horses, surely, more like roe or deer. Wasn´t that a bit odd, really? Well, not the missing fingerprints, as anybody would wear gloves or mittens tonight, like the old guy in the heap of snow, but odd that he could not see any footprints apart from his own? Ill at ease he looked around him, certain that now he would have to take himself into custody.

“But I can´t even remember the caution,” he muttered.

Continued here.

R.D. Wingfield, Frost at Christmas (1986)

This British police procedural is the first of six novels about Inspector Jack Frost. The British TV series may be more famous than the books, but in my opinion Wingfield´s books are far better than the television episodes.

Eight-year-old Tracey Uphill never returns from Sunday school [link], and Inspector Frost is put on the case together with the new man, DC Clive Barnard, the ambitious nephew of a policeman of high rank. As Tracey is the daughter of a prostitute, Frost begins by taking a closer look at the mother´s acquaintances, as well as anything else he stumbles upon.

Soon Frost and Barnard are involved in an old bank robbery, including a more than thirty-year-old body. As usual, Frost leaves a trail of digressions, disorder and broken rules behind him, but his instincts are sound and his heart is in the right place. Clive Barnard is not exactly thrilled to work for this careless and untidy fool, however, and Frost´s superior, Superintendent Mullett, is just looking for an excuse to get rid of Frost.

Some of the suspects are one of Tracey´s mother´s customers, the local vicar who sounds just a tad too nonchalant and hides some daring photos, and perhaps her own girlfriend, eleven-year-old Audrey is not as innocent as she should be.

Of course Inspector Frost solves his cases in the end, including the old bank robbery, but not without the assistance of his copper´s instinct and the odd coincidence.

See my review of the third Frost story, Night Frost

R.D. Wingfield, Frost ved juletid (1997).
Denne britiske politikrimi er den første af seks romaner om vicekommissær Jack Frost. Han er muligvis bedre kendt fra den britiske TV-serie, ”A Touch of Frost”, men efter min mening er Wingfields krimier af langt højere kvalitet.

Otteårige Tracey Uphill kommer aldrig hjem fra søndagsskole, og vicekommissær Frost bliver sat på sagen sammen med stationens nye mand, kriminalbetjent Clive Barnard, som er politimesterens nevø. Da Traceys mor er prostitueret, begynder Frost med at kigge nærmere på moderens kunder, og på alt andet, han tilfældigvis snubler over på sin vej.

Snart bliver Frost og Barnard også indblandet i et gammelt bankrøveri, da et over tredive år gammelt lig dukker op af jorden. Sin vane tro, efterlader Frost et spor af sidespring, uorden og brudte regler i kølvandet bag sig, men han kan sit kram og har hjertet på rette sted. Barnard er imidlertid ikke særlig tilfreds med at arbejde for det gamle, rodede fjols, og Frosts overordnede, politiinspektør Mullett, venter bare på en god grund til at slippe af med sin uregerlige vicekommissær.

Blandt de mistænkte er en af moderens kunder, og den lokale sognepræst, som lyder lige lidt for uinteresseret og samler på vovede fotos, og måske er Traceys elleveårige veninde heller ikke så uskyldig, som hun burde være.

Selvfølgelig opklarer Frost både forsvindingssagen og bankrøveriet til slut, men ikke uden hjælp fra sit instinkt og tilfældige sammentræf.

Se min anmeldelse af Nattens frost.