A Stitch in Time:

A Christmas Mystery

The murder of Neville Vaughan, two days before Christmas, would have appeared at first sight to be a straightforward affair, had it not been for two discrepancies: the locked French doors – implying the killer had no means of escape – and the footprints in the snow leading away from said doors. 

Oh! And the murderer was dressed as Father Christmas…

It was a case that had me stumped, and would have been recorded in the annals of famous, unsolved crimes, had it not been for Inspector Graves and his nonpareil brain.

Our participation in the murder inquiry was fortuitous; fine snow had fallen in skiffs on and off throughout the day, but towards dusk the snow thickened, which inevitably resulted in the disruption caused to motor vehicles. However, Graves and I were close at hand; a series of post office robberies had brought us to nearby Hampton, and when the call came, we battled our way through the blizzard to Myrtle Manor. 

Neville Vaughan was the custodian of the Manor, which was (and I imagine, still is) a large Georgian house situated near the village of Sunbury-on-Thames, not far from Kempton Racecourse. That part of outer London was greener than it is today, the growing population of the city having overflowed into the surrounding fields considerably since nineteen-hundred and twenty-seven, when the events described here occurred. 

Myrtle Manor, sitting in the middle of ten acres of lawns and gardens, preserved a village charm which was apparent even on that frostbitten night that I first looked upon it. 

Graves and I were about to depart Hampton Police Station; we were wrapping our scarves fast about us preparing to venture into the night, when the telephone rang. Graves took the receiver from the constable on duty and uttered a few remarks before replacing the instrument in its cradle.

‘Do you know Myrtle Manor?’ he asked the constable. ‘Is it far?’

‘Twenty minutes on foot, normally. A half hour in this weather.’

The constable pointed a finger at a map on the wall beside him. Graves took it in, blinked once or twice, then nodded.

‘Right you are. Thank you.’

I followed Graves outside. My shoes crunched in the snow as I gulped in the icy air.

‘What’s the trouble at this Myrtle Manor, sir?’ I asked, my breath billowing before me.

‘Murder, Carver! Murder!’

Graves knew little else. Apparently, the lady at the house who telephoned for the police was in a state of shock. Her call had been put through to Scotland Yard, the duty sergeant who took it being able to decipher little else other than the bare fact that an unnatural death had occurred. Knowing Graves to be in the area, he endeavoured to speak to him, but couldn’t pass on any information of use. And so, we trudged through the snow to the manor where we would have to find our answers.

The constable at the station was correct. It was almost thirty minutes from when Graves took the call to when we found ourselves at the driveway which led to the house. It ran straight, though was blanketed with thick snow. There were two distinct sets of footprints separated by about three yards. We followed the footprints to the door. A Delage DI motor car was parked under a large portico that extended out from the front door. Graves rang the bell. After a moment the door swung open, held by a straight-backed butler of uncertain age. I put him at fifty, but his slow movement under the grievous circumstances when he led us to the drawing room implied he was older.

Four people were there to greet us, and each looked at the others as if they were waiting for the appropriate person to make the introductions. Graves, impatient as ever, took matters into his own hands.

‘I’m Inspector Graves of Scotland Yard. This is Detective Constable Carver. A death has been reported, is that right? Which of you telephoned for the police?’

‘I did,’ said a timid-looking girl of perhaps twenty-five. Her eyes were tinged with red, but her tears had stopped falling. She stood next to a blazing fire that threw shadows on the walls. 

‘And you are?’

A man who had hitherto been standing beside a Christmas tree, moved closer to the woman and put his hand to the small of her back.

‘This is my wife, Inspector, Beatrice Bowles. I’m Albert. Mister Vaughan is – sorry, was – her father.’

‘Ah! I take it Mister Vaughan is the reason we’re here. I’m sorry for your loss.’ At that moment, the butler who had greeted us returned carrying a tray. He handed each of us a sherry.

‘Blimey, Herbie, something a bit stronger wouldn’t go amiss. I got the old man a bottle of single malt for Christmas, he won’t be needing it now. Why don’t you run off and fetch that.’

‘Really, Redvers! You can be damned inconsiderate at times!’ Albert Bowles said. ‘Inspector, this is my wife’s cousin, Redvers Marshall, and his sister Lucille Marshall. They’re staying for Christmas, up from Devon.’

Redvers Marshall was smiling broadly, as though his words had had their intended effect. His sister looked at him with disgust, then turned to us, her sherry glowing red and green, illuminated by the Christmas tree lights.

‘Please excuse my brother, he’s travelled a lot as he often likes to remind us. He must have left his manners in some far-flung cesspit.’

‘I don’t recall having any before I packed my suitcase. I am what I am, Inspector, whatever that may be.’

‘I can think of a few words,’ Albert said through gritted teeth. ‘But enough of your tomfoolery; the inspector is here to find out who killed Neville.’

‘And how…’ Redvers added with a smirk.

‘What do you mean, how?’ I asked, wishing to get on with things.

‘It appears the killer escaped through locked doors, or locked French doors to be more precise. He vanished!’

‘I don’t think we should be forgetting poor Tom Layden,’ Lucille said.

‘Who?’ Graves asked.

‘Uncle Neville’s solicitor. I’m sure you saw his motor car parked outside. He was with Uncle Neville when the attack happened, and I’m sorry to say he was badly hurt by the assailant; Doctor Bashford is in with him now.’

‘All accurate points for your notebook, Inspector. Though one thing my sister failed to mention is that we know who killed old Uncle Nev.’

‘Oh, who might that be, Mister Marshall.’

‘Father Christmas.’

Graves bared his teeth like a wolf. I knew his thoughts insofar that murder was a serious business and should not be mocked.

‘I am not receptive to jokes-’

‘Unfortunately, Redvers isn’t joking, Inspector.’ Albert Bowles looked embarrassed at the words he’d spoken as though by collaborating Redvers’ statement he became complicit in the man’s foolishness. ‘What I mean is, my wife saw a man dressed as Father Christmas enter my father-in-law’s study seconds before the attack happened.’

‘I thought it was odd, Inspector, though hardly murderous.’ Beatrice Bowles glanced at her cousin before continuing, ‘In fact, I thought it was Redvers, but he was actually behind me, it’s the type of thing he’d do…’

‘Me? Ha! I like a joke but I’m not partial to dressing up. I say, Herbie, where’s the damned scotch?’

The servant’s eyebrows arched higher on his creased forehead. He looked to Beatrice who gave a small nod then turned tail and left the room quietly.

‘Inspector, if I may speak with you privately…’ Albert said.

‘Very well, Mister Bowles, though I am enjoying this fire; it wasn’t the most pleasant walk to get here.’

‘Of course, Inspector,’ interrupted Beatrice. ‘Lucille, Redvers, why don’t we go to the library.’

‘The library?’ said Redvers, who looked dismayed. ‘But all the excitement is happening here, why would I want to go to the stuffy old library?’ 

Lucille Marshall took her brother by the arm and pulled him towards the door. Beatrice attempted a weak smile at us as she left the room, leaving only myself, Graves, Albert Bowles and the prancing shadows.

‘Look, gentlemen,’ Albert said. ‘I expect you’ll want to see the crime scene and talk to everyone as witnesses individually and all the other palaver one reads about in detective stories, but thought I ought to speak to you first.’

‘Something you wish to share with us, Mister Bowles?’ Graves asked.

‘Only that this has come as a great shock to my wife, as I’m sure you can understand; the phrase “kid gloves” springs to mind…’

‘I’m never rough with a suspect if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Suspect? Surely you can’t suspect Beatrice! It was a man disguised as Father Christmas who murdered Neville and almost killed Tom,’ Albert Bowles replied.

‘You’re certain it was a man? You saw his face?’

‘Well… I didn’t see him at all, but Beatrice said he was too tall to be a woman and Redvers said much the same thing.’

‘Ah, Mister Marshall saw Father Christmas too?’ Graves enquired.

‘Yes. He’s a fool but there’s nothing wrong with his eyes. Both he and my wife were passing along the far end of the hallway when they saw the intruder. My wife looked at the Grandfather clock, it was a quarter past seven. And then there are the footprints to consider.’

‘Yes, we saw footprints leading up to the house. You’ve already told us that the solicitor – what was his name?’

‘Tom Layden,’ Albert returned.

‘Yes. Your sister told us that Mister Layden’s motor car is parked out the front, and that a doctor is seeing to his injuries now. Well, we saw two sets of footprints leading to the house, isn’t that right, Carver?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘One set of the footprints must belong to the doctor, am I right?’

‘Yes, we telephoned to Doctor Bashford right away, he lives in one of the cottages Neville owns – owned – not too far away,’ said Albert.

‘So the other set of footprints must therefore belong to the mysterious Father Christmas since you said the Marshalls are staying here.’

‘But, Inspector, I was referring to the footprints leading away from the house, I had no idea there were any leading to the house. So surely you agree that the killer can’t be a member of the household. He must be a wandering madman or suchlike.’

‘I agree to no such thing. You’re right about two things though; I do want to see the crime scene, and I also wish to interview the witnesses, but first tell me about the victim.’

❄️

After working on a number of murder cases with Graves, I was beginning to appreciate his techniques. I will, however, admit that I often found it testing when he decided on a course that I would have deviated from. Here was the perfect example. We had been called to this manor house knowing nothing other than someone had died. We had learnt that the victim was the owner of the house and that a suspect dressed as Father Christmas had been seen entering the study where he was killed. We had also learnt that a solicitor by the name of Tom Layden had survived an attack by the culprit and was being treated for his injuries close by. I itched to interview this man who I thought it reasonable to assume could hold information pertinent to the case. A close second on my list of priorities would’ve been an inspection of the crime scene, but Graves had opted to learn more about the victim.

Despite my relative youth and inexperience in those days, I knew better than to second-guess Graves.

‘Mister Vaughan was the kindest man you could meet,’ said Albert Bowles, who had insisted we sit while we spoke, another point which rankled me, eager as I was to crack on with the case. ‘Beatrice and I have only been wed a matter of weeks, in fact, our engagement was quite sudden, but Neville welcomed me into the family like I was a long-lost son. Speaking of sons, we had better wire Humphrey, he deserves to know what has happened.’

‘Humphrey?’

‘Beatrice’s brother. He’s in Cornwall for Christmas, been there a few weeks. Neville has a holiday cottage there and another close by in Devon.’

‘Cornwall is more of a summertime holiday destination I would’ve thought,’ Graves said.

‘So would I, Inspector. Humphrey is – how shall I say – he thinks differently than the rest of us. He’s impulsive. He hasn’t visited the south coast in ten years and out of the blue decides to spend Christmas there alone. He’s an artist, you see. You and I think of Cornwall and imagine sandy beaches and a pleasant hotel. Humphrey looks for art in everything. He wants crashing waves and thunderstorms, electricity bristling in the air, yellows, greys, and blues slashing across his canvas.’

‘The household; Humphrey and Beatrice are the only children?’ the inspector asked.

‘Yes, Humphrey is the eldest by three years. Their mother died ten years ago; I know Beatrice misses her very much.’

‘The Marshalls, they are frequent visitors?’

‘Lucille is. She and Beatrice are very close; they’re more like sisters than cousins. Redvers… well, you’ve met him…’

‘Not the most pleasant chap,’ I said, thinking about the crude remark regarding the whisky bottle.

‘No. Beatrice didn’t want him here, but Neville was such a gent he wouldn’t have him excluded. As Lucille alluded to, he spends a considerable amount of time abroad. Redvers’ father was quite well off and left him a generous allowance through their mother, Mrs Marshall, who is still kicking about down in Devon; she inherited the estate and most of the money.’

‘I see.’ Graves looked at his watch. ‘Just one more question, Mister Bowles, before young Carver and I look at the crime scene. What time did Tom Layden arrive here this evening?’

‘I’d say it must’ve been six-thirty.’

‘Do you know why Neville Vaughan invited his solicitor here at that time? Two days before Christmas?’

I watched as Albert Bowles shifted in his chair. He gulped the last of his sherry then coughed.

‘You’ll see when you go in the study; I think it was to do with Neville’s will,’ Albert replied.

❄️

 

The body of Neville Vaughan had been covered with a sheet, like a valuable painting set in storage. Albert Bowles had accompanied us as far as the splintered study door, but was keen to attend to his wife, her grief still raw. In his place, the butler, Herbert Woodstock, showed us the morbid sight.

‘Who discovered the murder? Did Mister Layden cry out when attacked?’

‘No, Inspector,’ said the butler. ‘Mister Layden was knocked unconscious during the attack. He took a terrible blow to the head and suffered a nasty cut. After the dinner gong sounded, the master of the house didn’t make an appearance, so young Mister Bowles went looking for him. Knowing him to have been entertaining Tom Layden, who was due to join the family for dinner, Mister Bowles knocked but received no answer. He tried again, then peeped through the keyhole. He then shouted for help and aided by myself, we broke in the door to enter. The key to the study door was found on the desk, next to those papers, where it remains. Mister Tom Layden was sitting there, slouched over to one side.’

Herbert pointed at a chair facing the desk. The doorway which we were standing in was behind the chair.

‘So, Mister Layden had his back to the assailant as they entered,’ Graves said, looking about the room. 

‘Neville Vaughan would have seen them enter, though,’ I said. 

The body of Neville Vaughan lay next to the chair he died in. Stepping over the threshold, Graves rounded the desk and pulled back the sheet, lingering no longer than was necessary.

‘A single stab wound. The killer left the blade where he planted it,’ Graves said, matter-of-factly.

I shuddered. I wouldn’t say I’m squeamish; let’s just say I have a vivid imagination. It can be useful as a detective but has its drawbacks, too.

‘So,’ said Graves, standing up. ‘The killer comes in and clouts Mister Layden on the back of the head. He then goes for Mister Vaughan, who being frail and sitting in the chair, had no chance of defending himself. The killer stabs him in the heart and then…’ 

Graves looked for the French doors we’d heard of. They were behind the victim’s body, obscured by a pair of curtains. He strode past Neville Vaughan’s lifeless corpse and thrust back the curtains. The darkness outside was so absolute, Graves’ reflection shone back as though he was standing in front of a mirror. He cupped his hands around his face and pressed close to the windows.

‘Hmm, yes, I can just about make out footprints,’ he said.

His hand went to the door handle. It rattled in his grip.

‘Here is the problem, sir,’ Herbert began, and we turned to him as he produced a key from his pocket. ‘That door is locked as you can see. This is the only key to the French doors and it’s been in my pocket since I did the rounds at seven o’clock.’

‘You locked these doors?’ Graves asked.

‘Certainly did, as I do every night. Not just this one, all of them.’

‘I see, and when you locked the doors, Mister Vaughan and Mister Layden were the only two persons in here?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, sir. You see, I locked it from the outside. I start doing the rounds at seven on the dot, like I say. I lock the kitchen, then this here study, then the tradesman’s entrance, and the door to the cellar. I leave the front door if we have guests, such as Mister Layden tonight. I lock them from the outside because it’s quicker than doing it in the house, but also because it saves disturbing Mister Vaughan when he’s at his desk.’

‘May I have that key?’ Graves held out his hand and was rewarded. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door. I felt a stab of cold as the fresh air spilled into the room. The snow had abated but not ceased. I joined Graves by the doors. Two sets of footprints were before us. One set went from left to right, hugging close to the house. Graves pointed at these.

‘Mister Woodstock, these are your shoe prints from doing your rounds locking up, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hmm. The other set go across the lawns, away from the house. Look at the tread, lad, the spacings. I’d say the person was running as fast as they could.’

I looked at the prints Graves was pointing at. I assumed him to be right; it certainly looked like the maker of the prints was in a hurry.

‘He’ll be long gone by now,’ observed the butler. ‘Behind the lawns is a road that leads to London.’

‘Were these footprints there when you locked the door? What I mean is, could they have been made earlier?’ Graves asked.

‘I don’t know, I wasn’t looking at the ground, I was locking the doors!’

‘You’re sure you locked the door at seven o’clock?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And this is the only key? There is no spare?’

‘It’s the only one, sir. I’ve been at Myrtle Manor for thirty years; I was here when the doors were fitted.’

I picked up the key that lay on the desk, the one that belonged to the broken door we had entered the room through.

‘What about this key?’ I said. ‘Is there a duplicate to this? Maybe the killer came out this door, then ran out through the kitchen and walked over the footprints you had made on your rounds until they reached the French doors. They then could’ve taken a sharp left over the lawns to the road, making it look like they left from the study.’

‘No. Again, that’s the only key for that door.’

‘I’m afraid that theory wouldn’t hold even if there was a duplicate key,’ Graves said. ‘Look at the footprints. Mister Woodstock’s shoe size is smaller than the man dressed as Father Christmas. There’s no way the killer could have used Mister Woodstock’s footprints to cover his own, as if he did, all the prints would be the same size.’

My shoulders slumped. The implication of Herbert Woodstock’s testimony was clear. If the good butler locked the French doors at seven o’clock, how could the killer leave through them over fifteen minutes later when Beatrice Bowles and Redvers Marshall saw the mysterious Father Christmas enter the room?

‘I have another question, sir?’ I said. ‘Why would the killer lock the door to the study? And when?’

‘Hmmph. Yes. Certainly after kicking out Tom Layden and presumably, therefore, after stabbing Neville Vaughan, as we don’t think the old man had much time to cry out. But if that’s the case, why lock it at all? Why not just make your getaway?’

‘Perhaps the murderer wanted to give themselves more time to get away,’ Herbert put in. ‘By locking the study, they could postpone discovery of the crime?’

‘Hmmph.’

Graves closed the doors and we continued our inspection. It was warm, despite there being no fire blazing in the hearth.

‘Hmm. What’s this?’ I said, crouching beside a piping hot radiator. I picked up the object that intrigued me and held it out for inspection. It was soft and grey, about the size and shape of a slug. One side was a rusty-coloured brown.

Graves peered at the object in my hand, his brow creased. He let out a “Hmmph” and carried on inspecting the room, moving next to a small patch of blood on the floor next to the chair Tom Layden had occupied. I moved across the room.  A hatstand held a long black overcoat and bowler hat, and I presumed they belonged to Tom Layden. Above the fireplace a festive ring of holly adorned the wall. The desk and chairs were the only furniture, barring a side table that contained a selection of spirits and a red Chesterfield sofa that occupied a corner of the room. Two shelves, decorated with candles and festoons, held an assortment of photographs. For a study, I thought the room to be decidedly bare, and certainly would’ve expected more books, there being only one I could see. From a shelf, Graves picked up the paperback. I guessed it must have been the deceased’s current read.

‘The Secret of Chimneys,’ I said, looking at the title.

‘An Agatha Christie. Mrs Graves got it for me for Christmas a year or two ago.’

‘Any good, sir?’

‘I can’t remember too much about it, other than the setting was a country house called Chimneys and there was a bit of espionage involved, I think.’ 

Graves set the book back on the shelf, moving a Christmas decoration as he did so. It was a Christmas cracker made from green felt with red stitching proclaiming a seasonal greeting, “Happy Christmastime”.

‘Mister Woodstock, do you know why your employer invited his solicitor here tonight?’ asked Graves, looking at the desk.

‘I’m a humble servant, sir. I know my place.’

‘So you do then. I thought so.’ Graves trod the short length of carpet to the victim’s desk. It was fastidiously arranged. A pen lay between two neat stacks of papers. A blank notepad filled one of the desk corners nicely, and a picture frame showing a middle-aged lady stood proudly at the head of the desk. There was nothing else. Graves picked up the stacks of papers and compared them. It seemed an age before he spoke.

‘Wills. As Mister Bowles alluded to. This is interesting, Carver. This one is signed and dated, it was made two years ago. But this one,’ Graves said, holding up his right hand, ‘is new, and it isn’t signed! It appears Mister Vaughan was killed before he could change his will. I think it’s about time we spoke to the unfortunate Mister Layden. Hopefully he’s well enough for visitors.’

The butler, Herbert Woodstock, guided us to a small sitting room at the end of the ground floor and left us. The solicitor was propped up on a chaise longue, with the doctor kneeling behind him, stitching the gaping wound on the poor man’s head. Lucille Marshall sat on a chair next to them, her face a mask of worry. The room was lit by a single low lamp next to the lady. Graves and I sat on armchairs facing Tom Layden.

‘Miss Marshall, what are you doing!’

‘I came looking for my thread and needle. I’m making a cushion cover for Herbert’s wife as a Christmas gift. I make something every year.’

‘You’re supposed to be waiting in the library.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve had rather enough of my brother’s company, Inspector. He can be rather tiresome, and I’d like to keep busy. Needlework always takes my mind off things.’

‘Undoubtedly. But I’m pursuing a murder inquiry. I can’t have suspects wandering about as they please; there could be evidence compromised.’

‘I’m hardly a suspect, Inspector. Uncle Neville meant the world to me. I’m the last person who would wish him harm.’

‘You’re a suspect until I say you’re not. I saw a needle and black thread in the study.’

‘Oh, that’s right; I had them in my hand when I was talking with Uncle Neville earlier, before…’ The poor girl looked lost. 

Doctor Bashford, a look of pity on his face, said, ‘I have a spare needle,’ and reached into his medical bag.

The girl smiled weakly and took the thin line of metal.

‘I don’t suppose you have any red thread, Doctor? I used the last of mine this morning and there’s none anywhere in the house. So stupid really, those were my last words to Uncle Neville, you remember, Tom? I spoke those utterly inane words then left you to your business. If I had’ve known I wouldn’t see him alive again, I’d-’

The poor creature cupped her hand to her mouth and sobbed silently. Graves, feeling pity, permitted her to stay. She sat on a divan and stared at the floor. Graves turned to the man on the chaise longue. He was looking at us with half-open, tired eyes.

‘Would you mind pushing the door a tad? The light is hurting my head,’ he said.

I obliged the man. He was young – not yet thirty, yet completely bald, a fact that made the doctor’s work easier. A nasty gash rippled across the back of his head, half sewn up. Tom was a short man; his feet didn’t quite reach the end of the chaise longue he rested on.

‘I’m Inspector Graves from Scotland Yard-’

‘Yes, Lucille mentioned.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve been better, Inspector. The blighter caught me unawares. Didn’t even hear him come in.’

‘Did you see him? What do you remember?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I didn’t see him. All I remember about the attack is a sharp pain to the back of my head. The next thing, everything is going fuzzy. I remember seeing a blur of red. I thought it was blood, my blood, but Lucille says the attacker was dressed as Father Christmas, so I guess that explains it. Then I passed out. I came to a little while ago, lying here.’

‘Do you remember the time you were attacked?’

‘I do. That’s the one thing I can be positive on; it was a quarter past seven. I know because I’d just looked at the clock on the wall, then a moment later, I felt the blow.’

‘Why did Mister Vaughan ask you here tonight?’

I remember coughing at this point, wary of Miss Marshall’s presence. Graves looked at me as did the solicitor; I nodded in the lady’s direction.

‘If you think I shouldn’t speak in front of Lucille, do not worry yourself, Constable. Nothing I’m about to tell you isn’t known by the family, at least as I understand it. You see, Mister Vaughan called me here a week or so ago. He wanted to – let me see, how did he put it? Ah yes, he said he wanted to alter his will to reflect the family’s change of circumstance.’

‘You mean the marriage between his daughter and Mister Bowles?’

‘Exactly that, sir.’

‘I’ve read the new will. The new Mrs Bowles would be considerably compensated compared to previously.’

‘I’m a solicitor, Inspector, I do as instructed. If my client wished to favour his daughter, that’s his business.’

‘At the expense of his son, Humphrey?’ Graves asked.

‘As I say. That’s none of my concern.’

Graves stroked his chin and stared at the ceiling.

‘You say it was a week ago that Neville Vaughan asked you to draw up a new will…’

‘Yes, then I came back a few days ago. I wanted to confirm I’d got the changes correct before presenting the forms for him to sign.’

‘Mister Vaughan’s son, Humphrey… He’s been in Cornwall for some weeks I’m told.’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Did he know about the alterations? That he was effectively being cut out of the will?’

‘I don’t know, Inspector. Neville didn’t mention, I didn’t ask. Perhaps Beatrice would be able to answer your question. She and her father were very close.’

‘Whereas you are merely a solicitor.’

‘Tom is more than that! He’s a trusted family friend,’ Lucille blurted out.

‘What Lucille means, Inspector, is that I have had the pleasure of being intimate with the family my entire life. My late father was best man at Neville’s wedding as well as being his solicitor. When my father died, Neville saw fit to pass the legal responsibilities onto me. But like I say, why Neville chose to change his inheritance plan and who should inherit his money and estate is not my concern.’

‘What time did you arrive at Myrtle Manor this evening?’

‘Around six-thirty. Just as the snow became heavy.’

‘I thought so; we saw your motor car parked by the house, a very nice one it is, too. The snow was thick when Constable Carver and I arrived, but there were no tyre tracks.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. Speaking of footprints, did the killer leave any coming to the house?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I was just thinking, in that case your job is harder.’

‘How so?’ Graves asked. ‘If we can match a boot to the footprint we may have a suspect.’

‘Yes, but in that case, it could be anyone. If, however, there were no footprints leading to the house then the killer must have hidden himself somewhere in the house before attacking. There was nearly an hour between the snow thickening and the assault.’

‘What would that tell us?’ I asked, confused.

‘What Mister Layden means, lad, is that the killer would know where to hide, in other words, they’d be familiar with the house.’

‘Exactly,’ Tom said, ‘but as that’s not the case, perhaps you’re looking for a lunatic.’

‘I’m looking for a ghost,’ Graves mumbled.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Tom’s brows contorted in confusion.

Graves elaborated. 

‘It’s all well and good talking about the killer arriving, but it’s how the killer got away that I can’t fathom.’

‘Through the study’s French doors, surely.’

‘The footprints outside them certainly point us in that direction, but those doors were locked when Neville Vaughan was killed, and you were attacked!’

‘They were… What?’

‘Yes, Mister Layden, locked. So how did the killer get away?’

❄️

 

With the revelation of the locked French doors, I feared we left the solicitor with a worse headache than when we arrived. We made a quick stop in the kitchen. The cook confirmed that Herbert Woodstock began his rounds locking up at seven o’clock, but she could tell us nothing else of interest.

Doctor Bashford, who had finished sewing up Tom’s wound, was waiting in the hallway when we came out of the kitchen.

‘This head injury, is it likely to have affected his memory?’

‘I shouldn’t say so, Inspector. He has had a very nasty knock on the head. The bump itself is quite pronounced from the skull but he’s lucky there’s no fracture. The bleeding was quite bad; I had to apply a number of stitches.’

‘This bump, what would have caused it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, without making you too privy to my methods, my thinking is thus: there was no object in the room with blood on it barring the knife protruding from Mister Vaughan’s chest. Therefore, I can deduce one of two things: either the killer took the weapon used to clout Mister Layden with him, or the wound to the solicitor’s head was inflicted by the knife – the murder weapon, possibly the handle.’

‘No, I saw the handle of that knife, it’s wooden and round, certainly not heavy enough to inflict the contusion on Tom’s head,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘And before you say it, yes, the blade of the knife could’ve caused the bleeding but not the bump! No, I’m afraid it’s therefore likely the killer took the weapon with them.’

‘Right. You see the problem?’

‘Sorry, Inspector, I don’t.’

‘Carver?’

I was just as much at sea as the doctor. I shrugged and waited for Graves to put us out of our misery.

‘Alright. If the culprit came with the intention of killing Mister Vaughan, why bring two weapons? The knife to stab Neville and whatever he used to cosh the solicitor. And why kill Neville Vaughan when he was with Tom Layden? Why not kill him when he was alone?’

‘Well, I can answer the second question, sir,’ I said.

‘Go on, lad. Impress me.’

‘Time was of the essence,’ I continued. ‘Neville Vaughan was about to sign a new will; everything was about to change.’

‘No. That won’t cut it.’ Graves frowned, the seriousness of the situation pervading the narrow hallway. ‘If the motive for the murder was a new will being made, why did the killer leave it until the last moment before they intervened. Why not stop Neville from signing it by killing him yesterday, or the day before, or a less risky time of day – very early in the morning perhaps. Why dress up as Father Christmas? And why the locked room?’

❄️

 

Beatrice Bowles and her husband sat together on a red two-seater Chesterfield in the library. At a guess, I thought it to be the twin of the Chesterfield I’d seen in the study. Redvers Marshall sat opposite them, whisky in hand.

‘Any sign of sis?’ he asked us. ‘Let me guess, she’s playing nurse with the handsome solicitor.’

Graves ignored him. 

‘Mrs Bowles-’

‘Inspector, call me Beatrice, please.’

‘If you insist. Are you aware of the changes your father wished to make to his will?’

‘Changes to his will? Why would Father wish to do such a thing?’

‘It seems he wished to favour you quite considerably.’

‘Rubbish. He said he had a surprise for me; a Christmas present he called it. He said he would call Tom round to get everything sorted, so I wasn’t surprised when Tom arrived tonight.’

‘But you didn’t know your brother Humphrey was being cut out, that you would inherit absolutely?’

‘Certainly not, Inspector! Father would never do that to Humph. He may not be cut from the same cloth as my father, but he’s still flesh and blood, and my elder brother, I might add. We’re an old family; primogeniture and all that.’

‘Your brother…your father disapproved of his lifestyle?’ Graves asked.

‘A sceptic would call Humphrey a freeloader, a kinder term would be free spirit. When he’s not off seeking artistic inspiration-’

‘Using your father’s money,’ Redvers added.

‘That’s enough, let my wife speak!’ Albert Bowles glared at his wife’s cousin.

Redvers Marshall smiled where other men might’ve looked abashed.

‘As I was saying, Humphrey goes away often,’ Beatrice continued. ‘When he’s here, he spends most of the time in the attic. His studio, you see, where he makes his sculptures and paintings.’

‘He got on with your father?’

‘Oh yes. Father was the most forgiving of men. He didn’t judge. Of course, he’d have liked Humph to join him at his London club, or perhaps enter politics, but Father understood Humph to be his own person. You can’t turn a lamb into a lion by wishing it.’

‘I see. Tell me; have you been in correspondence with your brother in the past week or so?’ Graves enquired.

‘Not I. He rang though, I think. Spoke to Father-’

‘Probably asking for more money to be wired…’

‘I’m warning you, Redvers!’ Albert Bowles lifted a warning finger then took his wife’s hand.

Graves looked from one to the other then asked, ‘When did he telephone, do you recall?’

‘Two days ago. I remember because it was the morning after Lucille and Redvers arrived.’

‘What did your father say about the conversation?’

‘Nothing in particular. Merely that Humph had called and that Father had tried to persuade him to come back for Christmas, but Humphrey was adamant that Cornwall was doing his artistic energy the world of good. That’s the type of thing he says, “artistic energy”.’

We were then interrupted by a gentle rap on the door. Herbert the butler poked his head in. 

‘Inspector, sir, there’s a Mister Llewellyn at the door, he says you’ll be expecting him.’

‘Excellent. Please take him to the crime scene directly. Mister Llewellyn is the Scotland Yard pathologist; he’s made it here in good time considering the snow.’

Percy Llewellyn lived in Putney, and although he liked to complain about late night murders and often being dragged out of his bed, he wouldn’t have let anyone but himself inspect one of Graves’ crime scenes, such was the bond and, dare I say, rivalry between the two men. For although Percy knew the boundaries of his role, to examine but not interpret, he quietly resented Graves’ reputation as being the smartest man at the Yard. Graves, after all, hadn’t enjoyed the education Percy had; Graves learnt his trade through scrapes and bruises, Percy through books and lectures. Despite this, the mutual respect between the two men was absolute.

Graves concluded our interview with Neville Vaughan’s closest relatives by asking if any of them could think of a reason why someone would want the man dead. Beatrice began to sob, her husband answering for her.

‘Really, Inspector, I can’t think of a man in the world who would wish Neville harm.’

‘What about you, Mister Marshall?’

‘Maybe old Uncle Nev had enemies we’re ignorant of. He was rich, after all. Rich men attract animosity.’

‘How profound!’ Albert Bowles said, and Redvers sneered at his sarcasm.

‘You know, I’d think it was you who did him in if it wasn’t for the fact that the old man was killed before he could sign the new will,’ Redvers said.

Albert tutted, and we left the library to meet Percy Llewellyn. The pathologist stood by the front door and was unburdening himself of his great overcoat and thick woolly scarf when he saw us.

‘Graves! Constable Carver! There you are. I brought a fingerprint kit, thought it might come in handy.’

‘Excellent. You thought right, Percy,’ said Graves, who then brought his friend up to speed and added, ‘Shall we start with the body?’ 

We led the way to the study. Graves sat in the chair Tom Layden had occupied when he was attacked as Percy examined Neville Vaughan’s mortal remains.

‘It won’t surprise you that he died from the knife wound to the heart…’ he said after fifteen minutes or so of methodical examination.

‘How quickly?’

‘Practically instantaneous.’

‘Alright. My next quandary. You see this patch of blood here?’ Graves stood and pointed to a round pooling behind the chair he’d just been sitting on. ‘The victim of this attack, Mister Layden, has a wound to the back of his head. I want you to examine it, and don’t complain about him being alive!’

Percy began to argue, ‘I’m a pathologist, not a-’

‘A wound’s a wound; the recipient doesn’t have to be dead for you to express an opinion!’ Graves interrupted. ‘Now look… I suspect the killer took whatever instrument they used on Mister Layden with them, I want you to examine the wound and tell me what it was.’

Percy sighed. ‘Very well.’

A knock at the broken door disturbed us. Lucille Marshall stood on the threshold.

‘How may we help you, Miss?’ Graves asked, stepping to his right to block Neville Vaughan’s body from the young lady’s view.

‘I wondered if I might have a word, Inspector…’

‘Of course… Perhaps the drawing room would be better suited,’ Graves said, no doubt conscious of the body behind him.

I moved, but Lucille Marshall was rooted to the spot, staring beyond me.

‘What is it, Miss Marshall?’ Graves asked. 

‘That stitching…’ She pointed at the decorative Christmas cracker I’d noticed earlier. I looked again. “Happy Christmastime” was stitched in red, surrounded by a border of holly leaves.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s odd.’

‘What’s odd?’ Graves asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

‘I made that cracker for Uncle Neville for last Christmas. But it said, “Happy Christmas”, not “Happy Christmastime”.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course. I remember giving it to him quite clearly.’

I looked at Graves and shrugged. In my inexperience, I was dismissive of Miss Marshall’s remarks, merely thinking her grief had confused her. I couldn’t foresee the importance of her observation in the solving of the case.

Without resolution, we returned to the purpose of Lucille seeking us. We sought privacy and a room without a dead body in it. 

We left Percy to dust for fingerprints, and went to the drawing room where we had been taken by Herbert the butler when we first arrived.

The fire still blazed, freshly fed I guessed. I looked at the Christmas tree, unashamedly glittering despite standing in a house of mourning. 

‘The thing is, Inspector,’ Lucille began once the three of us were seated, ‘I was very close to Uncle Neville as I mentioned earlier. In fact, I would’ve considered myself a confidante.’

Graves murmured encouragingly seeing the poor girl’s hesitation.

‘Uncle Neville, he told me he was going to give Beatrice and Albert a special gift for Christmas…’

‘Yes…’

‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it. Changing your will is not a gift, is it? He was in good health, they might’ve had to wait years to benefit and I’m sure they’d rather that than… you know…’

‘What do you think this gift was then?’

‘I don’t know, but Uncle Neville said something about Devon. He was quite playful and mysterious about it, would only drop little hints. I’m sorry I can’t help more.’

Graves thanked the young lady.

Lucille Marshall left us. Graves remained seated, staring into the sprouting flames of the fire. I recognised the thoughtful look in his eyes and knew better than to interrupt the machinations of his mind.

Eventually, he spoke, though it took a minute before he could break his gaze.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s see how Percy’s getting on with those fingerprints; I still want him to examine Tom Layden’s head.’

 

❄️

 

Percy was as busy as the proverbial beaver. He’d started on the murder weapon, dusting its handle.

‘You’re in luck, Graves!’

‘You have a fingerprint?’

‘Not a full one. The handle has been wiped clean – well, clean-ish. They seem to have been in a hurry. They left slightly more than half a print for us, enough to get excited about. Now we just need to find a corresponding print, providing, of course, that the killer is a member of the household, and Bob is said uncle.’

‘Excellent, thank you, Percy.’

‘I haven’t finished, Graves. This is not an ordinary knife. In fairness you wouldn’t know when it’s planted in a man’s chest, but once extracted…’

Percy held up the weapon in his gloved hands. At first glance I didn’t see anything unusual about the blade. In fact, I’ll admit, had I examined it for an hour I doubt I would’ve commented on anything peculiar about it. Therefore, I was glad when Percy elaborated.

‘It’s been sharpened rather crudely. In fact, it’s not a knife, not one for cutting, anyway.’

‘It seems to have done a good job of stabbing,’ I said.

‘Indeed. Sharpened to a nasty point. I’d say it’s a palette knife. I only know because my brother-in-law fancies himself as a bit of a Monet. It’s used for mixing paints on the palette and applying it to a canvas.

‘Not in this case,’ Graves gruffed. ‘Come. We’re going to the attic.’

‘The Christmas decorations have already been put up,’ Percy said, nudging me in the ribs.

❄️

Herbert, the kindly butler, showed the way. The room he led us to was comfortable, not cold or cramped as I had imagined. Easels and cavasses hung and leaned all around. The air was thick with plaster dust and acrid smells, the residue of an artist’s toil.

‘Percy, I want you to start here. Print everything, see if you can find a match.’

Percy Llewellyn nodded and looked around. He chose a pot of paintbrushes and began extracting them from their watery abode, carefully laying them on a cloth for examination. 

‘You don’t believe Humphrey is in Cornwall, do you, sir?’ I asked.

‘I don’t believe anything. But let’s see where the evidence points us, eh, lad.’

After a few minutes, Percy straightened, looking pleased as punch.

‘There you are, Graves. The same fingerprint on these paintbrushes matches the one on the murder weapon. I’ll carry on with the rest of the room, but I’ll be surprised if those fingerprints aren’t infesting this room.’

Percy was right. Humphrey Vaughan’s fingerprints were on every surface in the room, the thumbprint of his right hand matching the partial fingerprint we recovered from the murder weapon.

‘There’s something else, Graves, over here.’ Percy led us to a wooden case which sat on top of a paint-spattered bureau table. ‘Look inside.’

We peered our heads in unison. 

‘It’s putty! That’s what we found on the study floor, the soft, grey lump with the reddish stain on it,’ I said in surprise.

‘Used for moulding small sculptures, practice for larger works,’ Percy explained.

‘I think that settles it, sir, don’t you?’

‘How do you mean, lad?’

‘The fingerprint on the murder weapon, the bloody putty; the Father Christmas disguise, it all points to Humphrey Vaughan being the killer.’

‘Doesn’t it just.’

‘His father must’ve told him when he phoned that he was changing his will. Humphrey raced up here from Cornwall, dressed as Father Christmas so his relatives wouldn’t recognise him, and killed his father. He wiped the handle of the knife but missed a bit in his haste.’

‘And the putty? Graves questioned. ‘Why bring that to the murder scene? And how did he escape from the study? It all seems a bit too convenient, don’t you think, all this evidence pointing to the soon-to-be-disinherited son? And I wouldn’t be surprised if those footprints lying outside were made by shoes the same size Humphrey Vaughan wears.’

Graves, of course, was right. We left the attic and found Herbert, who took us to the tradesman’s entrance where there was a nook containing an assortment of boots and shoes. He pointed out a pair of sturdy walking boots belonging to Humphrey Vaughan and we soon matched them to the deep footprints in the snow that led away from the French doors of the study.

When we re-entered the house, we were greeted by Redvers Marshall who was swirling a glass of whiskey.

‘Find the killer yet?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘You can’t have looked very hard; you were only outside for a jiffy.’

‘We were performing forensic analysis,’ I said, annoyed.

‘Forensic analysis, eh?’ Redvers let out a long whistle. ‘I bet the blighter is quaking in his boots. Anyway, I ‘ve just reminded my dearest cousin that we found her dear father when he didn’t show for the dinner gong, and that we still have not eaten. Cook has kept the food in the oven, it’s probably cremated but that might mark an improvement on the old girl’s cooking. Beatrice wants to know if you’d like to join us? She said you probably haven’t eaten in a while.’

Indeed, neither Graves nor I had enjoyed a bite since breakfast. Graves accepted the invitation, whispering to me as we walked to the dining room that it would be productive to talk to the family altogether. Percy returned to the crime scene to carry on his work.

The family had waited for us. The seat at the head of the table was vacant, its usual occupant no longer requiring any sustenance. 

Beatrice Bowles sat next to her husband, opposite them was Lucille. With one hand, Redvers clumsily pulled out the chair next to his sister and plonked himself down in it, spilling whisky onto the cream-coloured tablecloth as he did so.

‘Inspector, Constable, please sit,’ Beatrice offered.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bowles.’ 

Graves sat next to Albert Bowles, meaning I was lumbered with Redvers Marshall. 

I enquired after Tom Layden.

‘He’s not well enough to eat,’ Lucille informed us. ‘His head injury has made him queasy, he said.’

‘That’ll be concussion,’ Graves said.

‘Yes, concussion. That’s the word Doctor Bashford used.’

‘Poor old Tom might have to do some real work now,’ Redvers commented maliciously.

‘What do you mean! Tom is very hard-working.’ Lucille Marshall cast an accusing stare at her brother, the years spent suffering his troublesome remarks seeming not to have numbed her to them.

‘All I mean, sis, is that old Uncle Nev used to pay him a pretty penny, he doesn’t have many other clients does he, but he’s never short of a bob or two to throw away at the horses at Kempton.’

‘What Tom chooses to do with his money is his business.’

‘Absolutely, sis, couldn’t agree more. I’m just saying, if he asks you to marry him as you so desperately hope, you’ll have to keep an eye on the amount of worthless betting slips in his wallet.’

‘You know, Redvers,’ Albert interrupted, ‘this family is happier when you aren’t here.’

‘How would you know? You’ve only been a member of it for five minutes. Although the irony isn’t lost on me. You married my cousin for her money and my sister wants to marry a man who throws his away.’

‘How dare you! Why don’t you clear off back to Devon!’ Albert seethed.

Graves stepped in, so to speak.

‘You said Humphrey is in Devon, correct?’

‘No, Cornwall.’ It was Beatrice who replied.

‘Ah, yes. But your father has a cottage in Devon too, yes?’

‘That’s right. Father used to love going down there, but he hasn’t been since Mother died. Too many memories, he said, and then he got too old and frail to travel.’

‘Do you ever holiday there, Mrs Bowles?’

‘Never. I stay with Father, he was always encouraging me to go but I didn’t like leaving him, I-’ The poor girl erupted in fresh tears, her husband taking her hand. 

‘I say, this roast chicken isn’t as dry as I thought it’d be,’ Redvers said, ignoring or oblivious to the emotion on display. ‘Although, why cook thought we’d like a roasted bird to eat two days before Christmas is beyond me. The old gal gets battier by the day. No crackers on the table at least, can’t stand the things. Still, I hope the stuffing tastes this good on Christmas Day.’

Graves, who as I said was seated opposite me, dropped his knife and fork onto his plate with a clatter. He muttered to himself for a few moments, oblivious to the attention he was garnering from all around him. I couldn’t make out all he said, but I caught the words, “Stuffing”, “Cracker”, “Christmastime”, “Hat”, and “Footprints”.

‘Speaking of crackers, I think your inspector has gone completely.’

‘Shut up, Mister Marshall,’ I said, sensing the solution unravelling in Graves’ mind and wanting him to be able to think unimpeded. 

Being familiar with Graves, I knew the magnitude of this moment, however, looking around the dinner table, I saw a mixture of expressions ranging from curiosity to mirth to bemusement. I looked for fear. 

‘Carver. Come.’

‘Yes, sir.’

My chair screeched as I stood, my chicken would remain uneaten.

Percy was examining the fireplace when we entered the study. He turned to us, The Secret of Chimneys in his hand.

‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ he said.

‘Dinner was most productive, not for sustenance, but hey-ho. I know who the killer is, but Carver, I want to hear your thoughts. How did the killer escape this locked room.’

I had suspected Graves might ask my view; he usually did. Knowing this, I’d kept two theories to myself, both of which I thought could be the answer to our problem.

‘Alright, sir. What if it’s not one killer but two, or rather, a killer and an accomplice. What if Herbert lied about when he locked the door and let the killer escape, then locked the door after he’d left?’

‘Not a bad guess, but no, that’s not what happened. Remember, the cook saw Herbert go out at seven o’clock to begin locking up, and Beatrice and Redvers both saw “Father Christmas” enter the study fifteen minutes later. Care to have another guess?’

I looked at Percy who gave me an encouraging nod accompanied by a fleeting smile. 

‘The problem which has confounded us, sir, is how the killer got out of the room. Well, there’s one way we haven’t discussed.’ My eyes moved to the fireplace.

‘You’re right, lad, there is one way we haven’t discussed, but the killer, despite being dressed as Father Christmas, did not climb up the chimney!’

‘Well then, I’m all out of guesses, sir.’

‘Very well. I want you to imagine that the French doors weren’t locked. That the footprints outside were completely normal in the event of someone stabbing Neville Vaughan then fleeing across the lawns to the road at the end to the gardens. We would’ve been drawn to Humphrey Vaughan being the killer, the evidence points that way, but the locked doors confused matters from the start. They didn’t fit with what we saw before our eyes. Here is the first point – if the killer wanted to throw suspicion onto Humphrey Vaughan, they wouldn’t want to misalign our thinking by complicating matters with an elaborate and unnecessary locked-room trick. So, what can we deduce from that?’

‘The killer didn’t know the doors were locked,’ I said, hesitatingly.

‘Exactly, lad. That’s correct. So…who does that cast suspicion on?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Tom Layden, of course! He is intimate with the members of the household but not the routine of the house itself. He wouldn’t know Herbert locked the doors at seven o’clock, and remember his shock when we told him the French doors were locked. He nearly fell off his chaise longue. His plan had gone awry, and he didn’t know! He thought he could kill Neville and make it look like the murderer fled across the lawns to get away.’

‘But he was in the room when Father Christmas entered. He was attacked!’ I tried to point out.

‘He was neither of those things,’ Graves corrected. ‘Listen, here’s what happened. Tom Layden was contacted by Neville last week, most probably by telephone. The old man told him that he wanted to give his daughter a nice surprise for Christmas, let’s say it was a cottage in Devon. Tom Layden is responsible for Neville Vaughan’s legal estate. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that a man who gambles like he does may have dipped his hands into the till, so to speak. As a solicitor, he could change the deeds, making the cottage his property. I think Tom either sold the cottage under his name, or has been renting it out and keeping the rental income. Either way, he now has a big problem! 

‘He knew the game was up when Neville told him he wanted the cottage gifted to his daughter, perhaps Neville had previously implied he’d never sell the property so Tom thought he’d be safe stealing it; Neville would be dead in a few years anyway, and neither Neville nor Beatrice ever visit the cottage. Thus, the solicitor hatches a plan. He comes back here a few days ago under the auspices of making sure he has the correct instructions – remember, the Christmas gift to Beatrice is a surprise, Neville won’t tell anyone about it – although he did hint to Lucille – so Tom thinks he is safe in that regard. What he really comes here for is to steal one of Humphrey’s palette knives as well as a pair of his boots. 

‘Now we come to tonight. Tom arrived on time. He was shown into Neville’s study where he promptly killed him. He stabbed him in the chest. Time was of the essence. I know what he did next because of that decorative Christmas cracker Lucille made, but we’ll come back to that.’

I sighed heavily. Graves seemed confident in his revelations thus far, but I knew the real proof of his convictions was about to be revealed. Percy Llewellyn also appeared rapt by the explanation.

‘Tom put on a Father Christmas costume he brought with him in his case. On his feet, he tied the soles of a pair of Humphrey’s boots to the soles of his own shoes. From his case he took out the two wills we found and placed them on the desk.’

‘But, sir, the new will-’

‘There is no new will, lad. It was an invention to impress culpability onto poor Humphrey Vaughan. Tom drew up the document, but Neville knew nothing about it. As I was saying, dressed as Father Christmas and with the wills on the desk, Tom left through the French doors, hence the footprints. He did something else before leaving, but I’ll come back to that in a moment. 

‘He ran across the lawns until he reached the road. He then ran all the way along the road, around the perimeter of the manor estate until he came to the front gate we entered through tonight. He walked up the driveway and entered the house. That explains the footprints. Initially, we thought the footprints leading to the house was the murderer arriving and the ones leading away from these doors him fleeing, but they were made the other way around – the ones outside the French doors were made first, the ones leading to the front door second. Redvers and Beatrice saw Tom dressed as Father Christmas go into the study which he then locked, placing the key on the desk. Do you follow me so far?’

Percy and I both nodded.

‘Good. Now, a moment ago I said that Tom did something before he left the study. I believe he removed the stitching from the back of the red Chesterfield sofa and removed some of the stuffing from inside. He disposed of the stuffing and the removed stitching on the road before he re-entered the house.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he had to hide the evidence somewhere. Nothing in the room could look out of place. Nothing! Tom couldn’t risk a diligent policeman tearing the place apart, so he had to ensure there was no reason to arouse suspicion. Think about it; he was now setting the scene that he had been attacked when Neville was murdered, but he was wearing a Father Christmas costume, he couldn’t be found dressed in that, the game would be up, and he didn’t have time to hide it in the gardens. Once he was back in this room he wasn’t leaving it. He couldn’t make any more footprints in the snow! 

‘Now, time was Tom’s enemy. Remember, he planned this days ago; it’s been a cold week, but he couldn’t have known it would start snowing when it did. No, he had to hide the evidence in this room. Look around, where is there to hide a costume, a knife, and the soles of a pair of boots?’

I followed Graves’ instructions. The small room indeed offered little in the way of concealed spaces. Unless the desk had a secret compartment as some do, there was nowhere to hide the articles Graves described.

‘What do you mean he hid a knife?’ Percy asked.

‘The knife found in Neville’s chest won’t be the murder weapon. Tom won’t have risked wiping off Humphrey’s fingerprint by accident when stabbing Neville. The victim could have put up a fight, grabbed the handle, upset the plan. No, Tom stabbed Neville then withdrew the knife. He then took the knife we found and inserted it into the wound. Both knives will be the same size; Tom is not a stupid man.’

‘No,’ Percy mused, ‘I don’t believe he is.’

‘Here comes his unravelling, though.’ Graves picked up the Christmas cracker decoration and held it up for our inspection. ‘Notice how the stitching in Christmastime is red, just like the stitching on the Chesterfield? Tom put the costume, knife and boot soles in the back of the sofa where the stuffing had been and sewed the Chesterfield together again, hiding the evidence of his crime. But here we come to the second part of the plan that didn’t go so well. 

‘He brought too much red thread with him and realised his error once the sofa was sewn up. A needle wouldn’t look too out of place, Lucille sews as a  pastime, after all. But she’d told him there was no red thread anywhere in the house. If the excess was found, someone, a housemaid or Lucille even, might mention that it wasn’t in the room before the murder. He couldn’t burn it because the fire wasn’t lit, so thinking on his feet, the solicitor stitched “TIME” onto the cracker, the one Lucille Marshall said she made for Neville last year. The young lady was adamant that the design she made said, “Happy Christmas”, not “Happy Christmastime”, so the discrepancy had to be explained somehow. But enough blather from me, let’s see if I’m right.’

Graves took a small pocketknife from his pocket and pulled the Chesterfield out from against the wall. As I looked, I noticed that the red stitching he put the knife to was a shade darker than the rest on the sofa. Needless to say, dear reader, after plucking away the thread, Graves extracted a folded Father Christmas costume with a bloody knife and the soles of two boots wrapped within.

‘Why just the soles, sir?’

‘Because Tom knew he wouldn’t be able to fit two whole boots in here. The soles are nice and flat, and did their job of making footprints bigger than Tom’s own feet. He was lucky, neither Beatrice nor Redvers noticed his footwear when they saw him enter the study dressed as Father Christmas.’

‘There’s still one thing, sir…’

‘You mean the wound on Tom Layden’s head?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s real alright, you see, that’s where the putty comes into play and also why Tom chose to dress as Father Christmas for his disguise. Tom deliberately injured himself yesterday. He collected the blood, maybe he froze it because he needed it here tonight to make the patch on the floor to make his attack look real. He used Humphrey’s putty, which he collected at the same time as the boots and palette knife, to seal the wound in his head. Being bald, he didn’t have to worry about any hairs being stuck to the putty. When he arrived here tonight, he was wearing his bowler hat-’ Graves pointed to the hatstand in the corner. ‘Nobody other than the murder victim saw him again until the trick was finished. He chose the Father Christmas costume because the red hat hid the wound – which he shouldn’t have had – from the sight of anyone who might see him – Beatrice and Redvers as it turned out when he entered this room before the attack was supposedly carried out. And here’s the proof.’ 

Graves lifted the Father Christmas hat. On the inside, dark, dry blood could be seen. ‘The wound reopened when Tom removed the putty. I fear Mister Layden will not escape the noose,’ he concluded.

Graves gave me the task of informing Beatrice who killed her father. She was in the library staring at a festive Christmas tree in the corner, Albert beside her.

‘Mister Bowles, the inspector would like to see you.’ 

At that moment I didn’t know why Graves had summoned Albert Bowles, but I later found out he wanted the man to assist Percy in apprehending Tom Layden and ensuring he didn’t leave the room he was confined in. You may think it odd that Graves did not immediately arrest the man and question him; I did. But once caught, a murderer was no longer in the forefront of Graves’ mind if there were anyone who needed his kindness. 

Graves sought Lucille and gently told her that the man she hoped to marry was a killer. I don’t know precisely what he said, but an hour or two later, as we left Myrtle Manor, I saw Lucille Marshall in the doorway, looking stronger than I could’ve hoped. 

All thanks to Graves.