From the Christmas Diary of a
Retired Detective
2
Mark and Gary's Christmas
Turkey
(or:how to knock the stuffing
out of Christmas)
by
Glyn Timmins
Copyright - All Rights Reserved - Luna Eclipse Ltd
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is
unintentional.
"I have to say that your interest in our vicar is bordering on the
obsessive these days," Mark moaned as we strolled along the high street
towards the little church.
"I thought you liked her too," I protested sulkily.
"I do. Victoria is a charming woman. She is warm, funny, intelligent
and engaging ... oh dear, I shouldn’t use that expression, you’ll be asking her
to marry you next."
After my recent experiences with the fairer sex Mark’s remark was
somewhat barbed, but in the spirit of the festive season I chose to let it go.
"So what is the problem with popping in to see her at work, so to
speak?" I continued unabated.
"Because we are always popping in to see her. If she hands you an
envelope it won't have a Christmas card in it, it'll be an injunction."
"You're just anti-social," I grumbled moodily.
It was another nondescript, grey winter's day. As we neared the church
hall a single shaft of pale sunlight pierced the grey blanket of cloud that
shrouded the sky lighting the modest bell tower that overlooked the
neighbouring houses and shops.
"In any case, I am not anti-social," Mark rallied reproachfully, having
mulled the accusation over during one of the not untypical silences that often
fell between us, "I simply do not need my existence endorsed by the constant
prattle of people I hardly know."
“You do know Victoria, you like her!” I persisted.
“I do, but that does not extend to the reverend’s entire flock,” he
countered grumpily.
"We're popping in to see Victoria and wish her a happy Christmas, I
am not asking you to host the ambassador's ball," I retorted impatiently.
Mark not only liked Reverend Victoria more importantly he approved of
her. She met the requirements of admission to his inner sanctum of friends
which in itself amounted to membership of a very exclusive club. My own
reception into this esteemed association had often intrigued me. Mark often
acted as though it was some kind of annoying but irreversible administrative
error. Maybe he just needed someone like me to keep his lofty outlook
grounded – I had never quite worked it out.
By now we had entered the porch and Mark took off the trilby he had
recently taken to wearing.
"Try to smile," I reminded him as I pushed the inner door leading into
the church hall open, "it is Christmas."
"I hardly need reminding," he sighed as he looked a little
disapprovingly at the glittering decorations that festooned the large open
room.
A small group of young women sat on large brown cushions chatting
to each other whilst watching a group of young children bounding and
bouncing at play in front of them. They interrupted their conversation only to
shriek periodic chastisement at the red-faced toddlers who in turn paused
from their play only long enough to determine how likely the current
warning was to interfere with their abandoned puerile pleasure.
"Hello, is Victoria about?" I asked one of the women.
They eyed Mark and me suspiciously for a moment; two smartly
dressed, middle-aged men unannounced in the hall in the middle of the
afternoon? That couldn't be good news could it?
"What's it about?" asked the woman defensively, narrowing her eyes at
me.
"We're personal friends, we just want to say 'hello'," I said, smiling
reassuringly.
The whole group was scanning us by now their eyes cutting through
us like X-rays. One of the children ran up to Mark and tugged at his
expensively tailored wool coat, a bubble of mucus expanding and shrinking
with every excitable breath.
"Want to play mister?"
Mark looked horrified ... possibly terrified. Mark's general disdain for
people was off the scale where children were concerned. His eyes widened
and his body language yelled 'get this thing off me.' Fortunately the mum and
toddlers group let him off the hook.
"Leave the man's coat alone," a young, dark-haired woman with tattoos
on her exposed, bare arms called to the boy. "Look, you've put sticky lollipop
all over his coat."
Mark's eyes dropped to the hem his coat and he looked as though he
might be physically sick.
"She's through there, in the kitchen," said another member of the
group, pointing with one hand and supporting a very pregnant belly with the
other.
Some kind of telepathic assessment had been conducted on us by the
young mums as they scrutinised us, nevertheless we appear to have passed
muster and were dispatched on our way. As we walked away the clamour of
voices and children at play resumed to it’s ear-splitting level as though we'd
never been there at all.
"Look at my coat," Mark muttered crossly, dabbing at the material with
a handkerchief.
"That won't do any good," I muttered watching him spread the
stickiness with each dabbing motion.
"I've a good mind to give the mother of that, that ... urchin the drycleaning bill."
"Really?"
I propelled Mark into the kitchen by applying gentle force to his
shoulder blades whispering to him in the process "be nice, Father Christmas is
watching!!"
"Victoria," I called across the room, although I could only see the back
of the vicar's head as she stooped down, evidently searching the floor for
something. "Are you ok?"
The vicar paused for a moment and upon recognising my voice she
both stood up and spun round to face me. For a second or two she rocked on
the spot.
"Oh, I shouldn't have done that, the blood's gone right to my head."
"Would you like a chair vicar?" asked Mark gallantly.
"No, I'll be fine. Thank you, Mark. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she
asked pleasantly enough but unable to disguise a deep frown.
"We just came in to say hello and wish you a merry Christmas ... but
you're not ok, are you?"
The vicar was undeniably a pretty woman and the look of concern that
washed across her features had the effect of a raincloud passing across a
summer sky.
"No. No, I'm definitely not ok."
Victoria took a deep breath: deep enough to quell the tears that had
formed across the surface of her lovely eyes.
"I've really done it this time," she lamented, "£300 gone. Lost. And it's
all my careless, stupid fault."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as that ..." I began before those lovely but
sorrowful eyes halted me with a fierce glare.
"I know you're trying to be kind Gary, but I know I've lost all that
money and it's not even mine to lose."
"You're not gambling are you vicar?" asked Mark uncertainly.
"Oh, Mark, thank you for trying to make me laugh. You are lovely."
Mark looked at me nonplussed, any attempt to bring the vicar light
relief had obviously been quite unintentional. I shook my head as if to say
'just go with it, but don't mention gambling again.'
"No, I'm not a secret gambler," she continued, still smiling at Mark's
unwitting jest, "I've lost the money we collect for the Salvation Army each
year. What's worse the Captain from the local corps is coming over tomorrow
to collect it."
"How did you lose the money Victoria?" I asked as diplomatically as I
could.
"I don't know. That's the point Gary. I wish I knew. I had it ready, then
it was gone."
Victoria's blunt explanation, lacking any detail of her transgression,
really wasn’t helpful. I was eager to get to the bottom of the reverend's
problem. In addition to my natural nosiness, borne of thirty years in the
police, I never could resist a 'damsel in distress'. Mark spotted the signs
instantly and began to roll his eyes and shake his head, a gesture with which I
was all too familiar.
Unperturbed I pressed on:
"When did you last have the money?" I began.
"Yesterday," she blurted before being rudely over-taken by a gulping
sob.
It was clear that my attempt to introduce a little cognitive interviewing
technique to assist the vicar’s recall was doomed to failure before it had
begun and I adopted Plan B:
"Would you like some tea?" I asked gently, as Victoria's head plunged
chest-wards in dismay.
"Y-yes, p-please," she replied, stammering as the tears pulsed through
her eyes and nose.
I fixed Mark with a knowing glance and nodded towards the kettle.
Mark had barely stopped bristling from the sticky assault on his wool and
cashmere coat and was now being designated the role of tea-boy. Mark eyed
the pile of half wrung bags discarded in a yellowing dish beside the kettle
and shuddered.
"Earl Grey or Darjeeling vicar?" he asked politely enough, but from
between gritted teeth.
"Oh Mark, you are funny," she replied, dragging a giggle from the
depths of her despairing sobs.
Once again he looked at me nonplussed and I shook my head in
disbelief - Mark Foster-Blythe subconscious comedian! I pointed aggressively
towards the large open box of value brand teabags and the array of
mismatched tea-stained mugs, my narrowed eyes ordering him to man up
and get on with it!
Buoyed by a hot brew Victoria began to wrestle her outward distress
under control.
"So, let's talk this through and maybe we can help you remember what
you did with the money," I began placidly, taking control of enquiries, just the
way I’d done in the old days. Victoria nodded and sipped at her tea. "Where
does the money you collect for the Salvation Army come from?"
"Every December we organise a few events, such as afternoon tea at
the vicarage , a church raffle and a bring and buy sale and the profits go to the
Salvation Army homeless fund at Christmas."
"And where do you keep the proceeds?"
"In a lockable tin in the safe in my office at the vicarage. It stays there
until it’s time to count it."
"When did you count it?"
"I counted it with the verger on Monday afternoon in the verger's
office, here at the church. All donations are double-checked before we make
the entry on the donations book; the auditor says it’s good financial practice.
Then Captain Barnaby will initial the book when I hand the money to him on
Christmas Eve ..." she paused and I could see that once more she was welling
with emotion. Her shoulders began to roll, " ... if I ever find it. Those poor
homeless people, it's all my fault," she blurted as she wept.
"I knew this would happen," Mark whispered irritably, "you're a jinx.
Everywhere you go something seems to happen and you get involved in it ...
which means I get dragged into it too."
"We don't know what's happened yet," I hissed at him, "the vicar might
just have mislaid the cash."
"How do you mislay £300 in notes?" he persisted in a low voice.
"Let's see if we can find out ... and show some sensitivity!" I growled
into his ear.
Fortunately Victoria was too consumed by her own misfortune to
worry about mine and Mark's petty squabble. I squatted beside the vicar and
put my arm around her pulsing shoulders. I handed her a piece of kitchen roll
from a dispenser on the work surface to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
Victoria took full advantage and for a woman of her slender frame generated
a noise not unlike the third trombone in a jazz band.
"When you'd counted the cash with the verger what did you do then?"
"Well, I rolled the notes into a tube and put an elastic band around the
middle. I then have a habit of rolling a piece of newspaper around the notes
and putting it in one of those plastic sandwich bags."
"Why do you do that?"
"The crime prevention man from the local station said to try and
disguise cash if you're carrying it around. I always get a strange look from the
cashier at the bank ... in fact the same way you're looking at me now Gary. I
know! It's awful isn't it, having to do these things in case you get robbed."
"So you were going to take it to the bank?"
"No. I give it to the Salvation Army pastor as a cash donation, but not
until Thursday, Christmas Eve. Until then I usually keep it in the safe at the
vicarage. The insurance company won't insure cash kept at the church
because of the number of break-ins."
"I see. Ok, so what did you do after you had counted the money?"
"I put it in the pocket of my cardigan."
"And then ... ?"
"I went to the kitchen through the church hall with the verger. Well, I
say we went to the kitchen, it's rarely quite that straightforward. As soon as I
came out of the verger's office they pounced ..."
"You were robbed in your own church?" said Mark, horrified.
"No, silly. You are on form today Mark; stop it," giggled the vicar, a
little girlishly if the truth be told.
I looked at Mark and he at me and for a third time his blank face
clearly demonstrated that the source of his incisive humour remained
undiscovered. I was, by now, equally perplexed; Mark the comedian? I really
didn't think so. Victoria gathered herself and her fleetingly beguiling smile
faded like a liturgical rainbow from the vista of her lovely features.
"No Mark, I wasn't set upon by roving bandits, I was attacked from all
sides by people who all seemed to need my attention right there right then.
There was the organiser of the ladies knitting circle, a couple of the mums
from the mums and toddlers group, an assortment of their sticky-fingered
children..." Mark nodded empathetically, sharing the vicar's pain as he
surveyed the lollipop residue glistening on his coat, "... and the choir director
who was eager to sort out the order of music for the Christmas Eve carol
concert. None of them could wait, so I stood there under siege until the verger
interceded and dragged me away. Finally we got to the kitchen."
"Did you still have the money in your cardigan?" I cut in.
The reverend looked suddenly annoyed: "Are you suggesting that I
have a pick-pocket amongst my trusted officials?" she said crossly.
I looked humbled but persisted in a mumble: "So you did still have it
in your pocket?"
"Yes I did. I checked, force of habit!" she replied frowning, possibly in
response to her own doube-standard.
"What were you doing in the kitchen?" Mark chipped in helpfully.
"Thank you Mark, a sensible train of enquiry," she said glaring at me
sternly, "does a career in the police really make you so cynical about people?"
I looked at the floor like a naughty schoolboy mumbling, "Sorry."
The vicar pursed her lips and knitted her eyebrows in a let that be a
lesson to you kind of way and continued.
"We were in the kitchen because the verger and I were due to stuff half
a dozen turkeys," she said directing her answer to Mark.
"We provide turkeys for the homeless shelters, the local butcher
provides them at cost and the local WI makes home-made stuffing for us to
put into the turkeys. We do the necessary in the kitchen at the church hall
then the butcher collects them and puts them in his cold store until we deliver
them after the midnight carol service to the food halls and shelters."
"Was there anyone else in the kitchen when you went in?" I ventured
cautiously.
"The only felon awaiting us was one of the mums making a pot of tea
for the group. We had a brief chat and she left with the tea on a tray. Then it
was just the verger and me. When we were on our own I took off my cardigan
and hung it in the store cupboard. We have to put on the plastic aprons,
protective hats and gloves before we start preparing food – food hygiene
regulations you see. The stuffing was in large jars and the turkeys were in the
fridge."
"So the money remained in your cardigan while you stu... prepared the
turkeys?" I said, my investigative zeal reenergizing slowly.
"No," she said a little sheepishly, "whilst I admit I was still feeling a
little harassed from being mobbed en route to the kitchen I am a little nervous
about leaving that kind of money where I can't see it ..."
Victoria fixed me with a firm stare that dared me to challenge her
pecuniary vigilance. I choked back the words before they could clatter
clumsily over my tongue.
"I took the money out and I ..." she stopped and looked momentarily
panicked, "... I, well, I'm sure I put the money on the work-surface where I
could see it while we worked. Yes, that's what I did." Her words were
convincing but they failed to pass on the same sense of assuredness to her
facial expression.
Before I could ask any more questions the vicar froze and her eyes
widened into a look of abject horror.
"Oh my word," she exclaimed, drawing out each word dramatically, "I
know what I've done!"
Caught up in the gravity of the vicar's sudden declaration Mark and I
hardly breathed. At that moment a pin drop would have assumed the mighty
clatter of a dropped tea tray. Slowly the vicar regained her composure and as
the sudden stiffness ebbed from her frame so Mark and I resumed our lifegiving respiratory processes.
"It is very kind of the WI ladies to provide the stuffing, but putting it in
jars doesn't provide the most practical means of access when you're scooping
handfuls of the stuff into the bird's .. er .. cavity. So we scooped the stuffing
out of the jars and placed it on surface protectors, of course we’d cleaned
them thoroughly with antibacterial solution and hot water first."
The vicar stopped, hardly able to bring herself to proceed with her
theory. She stared vacantly at the ceiling, or maybe even higher?
"Victoria?" I prompted gently.
"Oh, yes. Sorry, but I've been such a fool. Gary, Mark: I think I've
stuffed the Salvation Army collection into one of the turkeys for the
homeless."
When I was young, and before well before Health and Safety would
have sternly and staunchly prevented such practices, Christmas puddings
would traditionally be impregnated with small denomination coins.
However, surely stuffing a turkey with three hundred pounds was taking
tradition too far by any standard?
A smirk began to cut a gorge across my face and I was powerless to
quell its spread. Mark remained expressionless and the vicar, upon seeing my
boyish grin begin to form, scowled. I wrestled my face under control and
during the fight my powers of speech were rendered useless. Victoria
marched towards the door in a rather ungodly huff but I stopped her.
"Victoria I'm sorry. Occasionally the schoolboy in me can't help
escaping. You have to admit it is a little bit amusing ... when you think it
through?"
Victoria stopped in her tracks facing the door for several seconds.
"That's it, the one acquaintance of yours I actually like and you've
ruined it," Mark sighed resignedly.
Given that we were in the very place where faith should be practiced
my faith in Victoria's sense of humour was not disappointed. The reason she
had stood so stoically facing the door was that a massive grin had spread
across her face too and she had kept her back to me whilst she tried to fight it.
She didn't want me to see her inner-schoolgirl escape either. Finally the strain
became too much and a howl of laughter escaped from the vicar's otherwise
tear stained lungs and her shoulders began to undulate uncontrollably. Mark
looked from one to the other of us as we creased up with mirth and once
again he was nonplussed. He really didn't get it.
Victoria turned to face me fighting back waves of laughter to blurt out:
"I can see the funny side Gary, but I'm not sure Captain Barnarby will
on Thursday! Oh, Gary what can we do?"
"And, just to satisfy my own curiosity you understand, you've
searched the kitchen thoroughly. Underneath the work-surfaces, behind the
appliances ...."
Victoria interrupted tersely saying: "Of course I have. The verger and I
searched every cupboard, tin, box and packet as soon as I realised I'd lost the
money. I was searching the floor underneath the work-surfaces again when
you walked in."
The tone of her voice was rising once again with a mixture of concern
and frustration. It was quite unlike our vicar to 'flap'. As surreptitiously as I
could I eased open the door of the fridge freezer and the light flashed on,
right in Victoria's eye-line. I watched a knot of annoyance rise swiftly from
her stomach to her face, and as swiftly she subdued it with the force of
practiced self-control.
"You don't think I checked the fridge, freezer, oven, microwave? Well,
Gary, I did. They were all quite empty ... except for the fridge that is," her
voice assumed a slight tone of contrition, "but the only thing in the fridge
were the giblets."
"Giblets ... urgh," said Mark, his lip curling with distaste.
"The butcher brought them with the turkeys. The Ladies Circle take
them and make them into soup and stock, it's a 'Delia' thing apparently - very
tasty, actually. They collected the giblets yesterday evening after the butcher
collected the stuffed turkeys and I can assure you nothing other than turkeys
and giblets left this kitchen on my watch!"
"Then there's only one solution, I'm afraid," I said decisively, gently
pushing the fridge door to, "we'll have to search the turkeys."
"Search the turkeys?" Mark and Victoria virtually chorused in reply.
I made an upwards gesture with my open hand.
"Oooh, nasty," Mark gulped.
Victoria made the call to the local butcher, a large, affable man called
Sam who famously carried the aroma of his butcher's shop wherever he went.
Being a busy time of year Sam's time was somewhat precious and he wasn't
able to oversee our little search and recover operation until the following day
at close of business. However, we took heart in the fact that the stuffed
turkeys were safely in solitary confinement in big Sam's cold room, and noone breached big Sam's cold room without his say so. That was all the
guarantee the three of us needed.
The following day at around 7pm we mustered on the shop floor at
Sam's.
"Evening vicar, I didn't expect to see you and your friends until after
the midnight service tomorrow," Sam began amiably.
He was a large man in every sense, tall and solidly rotund with a
ruddy complexion from working in cold environments. His thick arms, big
belly and jowly face told their own story about a man who loved meat in all
its forms.
"Did the boy drop off the giblets ok? I know you're ladies like their
giblet gravy. Can't beat a bit of giblet gravy."
As Sam fairly salivated at the thought Mark grimaced in revulsion.
"I wrapped 'em all in paper and put 'em in see through bags in case a
bit of blood run. The boy washed 'em, but you never know."
Victoria looked at Mark and decided to act before he actually fainted.
"Yes thank you Sam. Do you think we can get started? I think we'd like
to get this over and done with as soon as possible please."
"Of course vicar. Sorry but I couldn't let you loose in the cold store
unsupervised, health and safety, you understand? "I wouldn't want you
coming to grief on a meat hook or slipping on a stray piece of offal. "
Mark began to physically sway so Victoria cut in quickly.
"We totally understand," she replied warmly, "and we really appreciate
your time. You've been such a big help with the whole thing already."
"Put these plastic aprons on, and your headwear and I'll give you some
food hygiene gloves when we go into the store. I'll mind the door and you can
do what you have to do. There are a couple of sterile table you can work on, I
had the lad clean them down. When you've .. ahum .. eliminated each turkey
from your enquiry you can re-stuff them safely and hygienically."
We made a sombre procession as we trooped into possibly the oddest
'crime-scene' I had been to led by big Sam, still in his blood and grease stained
apron and butcher's trilby. The storeroom was spotlessly clean and well
maintained. Each stainless steel surface shone in the dim electric light. Even
though I was in the company of a reputable antique dealer and a person of
the cloth there was still something of the Burke and Hare about the whole
thing.
"They're all laid out. The gloves are in that box, good luck," called Sam
good-naturedly from the doorway. His cheery tone almost suggested that we
were participants in some kind of bizarre game show.
Nervously we all took a pair of the latex gloves and faced the enemy.
The butcher's boy had helpfully cut the stitch that secured the parson's nose
of the birds and we stared squeamishly into the abyss.
"Mark," called Sam helpfully, "the latex gloves don't go over your
outdoor gloves."
"You mean ... bare hands covered only with this meagre gossamer
layer ... ?"
"I do," he replied cheerily, "protects the meat from germs and allows
full sensation in your fingers. You can find every organ, sinew and fine bone
wearing those."
Mark's face assumed the colour and sheen of alabaster and he took off
his outer gloves with the gravity and precision of the a man about to face the
firing squad.
Reluctantly we went to work. We had four turkeys each to inspect.
Gloved hands probed into the stuffing filled recesses of the Christmas birds,
the stuffing slopping and squelching in resistance to the morbid unwarranted
intrusion.
The vicar gamely threw herself into the task, no doubt drawing
strength from higher sources. I glanced at Mark whose face was set into a
permanent grimace as he poked and prodded around the opening of the
turkey with just one very reluctant finger.
"You won't find anything inside like that," I chided him, "you look as
though you're administering a rather belated prostate examination to the poor
bird."
"I am doing my best," he griped grudgingly utilising a second finger
whilst straining his head as far from the bird as his long arm would permit, "I
take no great pleasure in digitally penetrating a dead bird."
"Get on with it Mark," I snapped, "we have a job to do."
"But I don’t normally conduct my business with my finger inserted in a
turkey's anus," he protested.
At this timorous outpouring sanity doffed his cap and left the room.
The walls of the cold store echoed with laughter until Victoria piped up
helplessly: "Stop, stop, I think I've had a little accident," and she was forced to
totter awkwardly from the room.
"First door on the left," chuckled Sam as she shuffled past him still
trying to stifle her giggles, knees welded together to prevent further
embarrassment.
Mark stood upright looking hurt and bemused unsurprisingly
impervious to the hilarity he had caused. Big Sam who had been drinking
from a cup of tea the size of a bucket had spat a large mouthful across his
clean floor in a spout not dissimilar to that of a great whale.
"Mark, where's your glove?" asked Sam, wiping tea from the wiry
stubble that framed his mouth.
I looked at Mark whose arms hung limply at his side a look of
helplessness haunting his face. On his left hand a blue latex glove covered his
fingers, disappearing beneath the double-cuff of his expensive and crisply
laundered shirt. His right hand was bare.
"Oh dear," he exclaimed, looking frantically in the direction of one of
the turkeys that he had been so intimately mauling a few seconds before.
"Oh step aside," Sam commanded when he had regained his
composure, "you'll never make butchers, none of you."
With a gusto that clearly defined his aptitude for his chosen profession
he rapidly searched each unexplored turkey recess including the one in which
Mark had recently abandoned a rubber glove, which dangled from its
parson’s nose like regrown latex tail feathers.
"Well? Anything?" I enquired hopefully as he expertly completed the
re-stuffing of the last bird.
Big Sam tore the protective gloves from his huge, thick fingers with a
snap and shook his head. As he delivered his solemn verdict Victoria walked
back into the room. Her face dropped and she looked pleadingly at Sam,
hoping that he was holding something back, hoping it was a big ruse, part of
the merriment of the last few minutes.
"Nothing. Sorry," he confirmed in a deep, serious voice.
Christmas Eve morning and the three of us had reconvened in the
church hall. We sat on three uncomfortable folding wooden chairs we had
taken from a stack at the side of the large open room. Now we knew why the
Sunday School children squirmed so restlessly during bible classes.
"Well, I'm just going to have to let Captain Barnaby down, aren't I? I
shall just have to tell him I've lost the money and my Parish can't help the
homeless people in this town. I could use my own money I suppose but I
don't really keep that sort of money in at home, " said Victoria tearfully.
"Oh that’s no problem vicar, I can write out a cheque here and now,"
said Mark thrusting his hand into his inside pocket.
"You are so lovely Mark, and you Gary, but that's not the answer is it?
It was my carelessness with someone else's money, that's the issue," she said
mournfully, reaching out and gently pushing Mark's hand, which flourished
his cheque book, back towards his pocket, “Besides I did promise a cash
donation, I’m not sure how much use a cheque will be to them on Christmas
Eve.”
"Victoria, you're a busy, lovely, caring person. You spend every day
trying to help people, you can't be so hard on yourself for one small lapse of
concentration," I implored her, taking her free hand in mine and squeezing it
softly.
"And it's not fair for the charity to suffer because of a silly mistake, I’m
sure a cheque will be better than nothing," Mark rejoined, "let’s worry about
the details later. I'm sure Captain Barnaby will understand."
Fortunately Mark had not 're-holstered' his smoking cheque-book and
in a swift movement before Victoria could protest any further he flicked it
open and unscrewed the lid on a very fine fountain pen. But before he could
sweep his ornate signature across the bottom of the cheque the door at the
end of the hall flew open and a smartly dressed middle-aged woman virtually
flew into the room. Her face was flushed and an expression of dire urgency
burnt like a raging fire across her features.
"Oh vicar, I'm so glad you're here. The most extraordinary thing has
happened."
"Has it?" Victoria enquired, her melancholy lifting briefly with the
momentary injection of intrigue.
"The ladies and I were making the turkey gravy from the giblets the
butcher left in your fridge and we found the strangest thing amongst the
offal."
With that the woman thrust a small packet at Victoria. Victoria stared
at the packet disbelievingly at first. Then she raised her eyes towards the
rafters of the church hall. In Victoria's delicate fingers there nestled a torn
sheet of newspaper with several bank notes on top of it.
"They were in this sandwich bag of all things tied up with a rubber
band. Do you know anything about it vicar?"
"I know the Lord moves in mysterious ways," she replied, her voice
oozing with joy and relief.
The red-faced lady assumed a look of bewilderment that rivalled the
expression on Mark’s face during any of the outbreaks of merriment that had
punctuated the previous days activities.
"It's the collection for the Salvation Army," I explained calmly, "the
vicar mislaid it in the kitchen on Tuesday."
"Mislaid it?" said the woman looking more perplexed by the second.
"It was in the fridge with the giblets. I wondered why the butcher had
wrapped one lot of giblets in newspaper when all the rest were in greaseproof
paper. I told you I was a little flustered the other day. I must've put the
money in the fridge when I was checking that the butcher’s boy had delivered
the giblets with the turkey as Sam had promised," Victoria announced to no
one in particular, grinning with elation and clutching the money like the hand
of a long lost friend.
"Why would you put collection money in the fridge?" asked the ladies
circle member, still none the wiser. "Is it some new form of crime prevention
thing? If you ask me our new local PC is a bit odd that way. Told me to keep
my jewellery in an old baked bean tin in the pantry. I ask you, jewels in an
empty bean can! Mind you he did say to wash the sauce out first."
Mark had sat quietly while all this went on around him but there came
the point where his strained and continuing silence was inevitably broken.
"You mean I was forced to interfere with a turkey's arse for nothing?"
His unsolicited admission was met with a look of unfiltered horror
from the smartly attired, and utterly respectable doyen of the Ladies Circle.
"It's a long story, a very long story," I reassured her as I took her arm
and ushered her out of the church hall.
As we approached the door she stopped briefly to shoot a last glare of
suspicion at Mark.
"It all sounds very odd if you ask me," she muttered, by now quite
ashen-faced, before moving on, eyes still glued on Mark and the laughing
figure of the vicar, almost walking into the door in the process.
"Be careful, that's how accidents happen," I alerted her pleasantly,
"merry Christmas," and with that she scurried away.
I returned to Mark and Victoria who were, by now, both chortling.
Mark had finally seen the funny side of the past couple of day's events.
"It's so good to have you two at my side. I don't know what I'd do
without you," announced the vicar warmly.
"We didn't do much really," I said truthfully.
"But you were both there when I needed you, even if it wasn't to do
much really! Now I can't possibly spend Christmas day without you both.
Please, please come to dinner. I know it's short notice but it won't be the same
without you."
Mark looked briefly uncertain. I knew he had a goose and a ham at
home, but they would surely keep for another day. I looked at him
pleadingly.
"An invitation like that is very hard to turn down Victoria. Come on
Mark, what do you say?"
"What are you having reverend?" he asked innocently.
The vicar gave a look of sudden concern.
"Turkey and stuffing!"
The End
Merry Christmas
And
Happy New Year