It’s that time of year again. All my writing is finished for the year, Christmas cards are done, the tree has been decorated and the presents wrapped at last!
I’m already making plans for next year. In late January my sixth Joe Plantagenet mystery, KILLING IN THE SHADOWS, will be out. After a long break I really enjoyed writing about Joe’s adventures in Eborby (a thinly disguised York) again. His latest case finds him investigating the murder of a TV celebrity found dead in her swimming pool. Has she fallen victim to a stalker? Or is her death linked to a strange haunting in a house that was once an ancient pub? With a thrilling denouement in a reconstructed Victorian street, it’s a must read for those who enjoy a twisty mystery with just a hint of spookiness!
I’m very much looking forward to taking part in events to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Agatha Christie’s death. I was thrilled to be asked to contribute an article to a book published by the British Library. The subject is Agatha’s use of the past and archaeology in her books, a subject close to my heart. I also hope to take part in local celebrations in my village (where Agatha’s sister, Madge, once lived and the inspiration for many her mysteries). The plans are at an early stage so I’ll say more at a later date.
I’d like to finish by wishing all my readers a very happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year. Happy Reading!
PS I hope you enjoy this short ghost story, The Dead of Winter, a little gift to my readers featuring Joe Plantagenet!
THE DEAD OF WINTER
It was raining; a thin rain falling half-heartedly from the leaden sky. This time of year it should have been snowing, Joe Plantagenet thought. But that was for sentimental songs and Christmas cards. In real life North Yorkshire rain was the norm.
It was Christmas Eve and he’d been glad to receive the call from his old friend, Canon George Merryweather. ‘Come round for a Christmas tipple,’ he’d said. ‘I bought some mince pies today so we can make an evening of it.’ Joe had to smile. George’s idea of a wild night wasn’t exactly the same as his. Even so, he was looking forward to the evening.
George’s house in the cathedral close was Georgian and symmetrical as a doll’s house. George greeted him with his usual warmth and led him into the drawing room. The Christmas tree by the window twinkled while the open fire glowed. Joe felt he needed a little relaxation because he’d had a particularly tough day. His team at police headquarters had been investigating the theft of a consignment of frozen turkeys when they’d received word of a murder in an affluent suburb near the racecourse. All this meant he’d been working late and he hadn’t been feeling very festive. But the cosy scene in George’s drawing room suddenly kindled a sense of seasonal cheer.
His host was a small man with a chubby face that radiated benevolence, a benign clergyman from central casting. He was also Joe’s oldest friend in the city of Eborby, the man who’d offered him a listening ear and wise counsel after he’d gone through a hard time.
George had the bottle of sherry ready, not Joe’s usual tipple but somehow it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Joe soon found himself sitting by the fire, facing his friend with the sherry glass raised to his lips. The liquid warmed as it went down and he felt more relaxed than he had done in weeks.
George drained his glass and sat back, gazing into the glowing fire. ‘Want to hear a ghost story?’
To Joe the idea of a ghost story told by a roaring fire at Christmas seemed like a cliché but somehow it suited the mood perfectly. ‘Go on. I’m all ears.’
George put his sherry glass on the side table and leaned forward. ‘It was told me by a friend of mine, Andrew Hall, who was the rector of St Saviour’s church on Gallowgate before his retirement.’
‘That’s the church with the old box pews and no electric light, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. A spooky place at the best of times. In fact it’s reputed to have a resident ghost, not that Andrew had ever seen it . . . well, not until one Christmas Eve ten years ago.’
George’s statement piqued Joe’s curiosity. ‘What did he see?’
George cleared his throat. ‘Andrew unlocked the church to make preparations for the midnight candlelit carol service. There was no electricity so he was carrying a powerful torch and when he entered the church he saw a man standing in the north aisle. He was a tall, cadaverous-looking individual dressed in what appeared to be Victorian dress, a top hat and frock coat. Andrew spoke to him but he didn’t seem to register his presence at all. He just stood absolutely still, pointing to an elaborate stone monument on the wall. Andrew was feeling nervous by this point as you can imagine. Then his torch flickered and he looked down at it, just for a split second. And when he looked up again, the man had gone. Vanished. The church is only small and Andrew made a thorough search but the stranger was nowhere to be found - and it was impossible for him to have made for the door without Andrew knowing.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Andrew went outside and told a passing policeman what had happened. The constable reluctantly made a search, although he made it clear that, as nothing appeared to be missing, he considered it a waste of time.’
Joe felt obliged to nod but he felt some sympathy for the constable who was called out on a wild goose chase on a Christmas Eve.
‘The constable said the strangely dressed man was probably a drunk who’d somehow been locked inside the church. But Andrew couldn’t bring himself to believe this.’
‘Maybe he imagined it?’ Joe suggested. ‘The dark church in the torchlight must have been full of shadows.’
‘That’s what I thought . . . at first.’
‘What do you mean?’
George took a deep breath. ‘A few years ago a local historian conducted some research into St Saviour’s and the people buried there. One of those people was a wealthy factory owner called Jonah Pethroyd. In 1896, during the reign of Queen Victoria, a shopkeeper called Elijah Sheldon was accused of murdering a groom in Pethroyd’s employ. On Christmas Eve Sheldon visited Pethroyd’s house to try to recover money he was owed; a large sum Sheldon could ill afford to lose. His livelihood at risk, Sheldon pleaded with Pethroyd to repay the debt but he refused. Thanks to Pethroyd Sheldon was facing financial ruin.
‘The next day Sheldon was in St Saviour’s church praying after the Christmas service, perhaps begging for Pethroyd to have a change of heart,’ he said with a smile. ‘But things were about to get worse for poor Elijah Sheldon. As soon as he left the church he was arrested for the murder of Pethroyd’s groom who had been beaten to death outside the Cathedral Tavern the previous night. Pethroyd told the police that he had witnessed the crime and that Sheldon was guilty of the murder. The lack of any other witnesses ensured the shopkeeper’s arrest.’
‘I take it he was innocent?’
‘Pethroyd was a powerful man who employed a lot of people. Nobody questioned his story so when the case came to the Assizes his testimony was enough to get Sheldon hanged. Sheldon protested his innocence to the end. The strange thing is . . .’ George paused, as though he was about to divulge the juiciest part of the story.
‘What?’ Joe suddenly felt impatient to know more.
‘A couple of years after that incident in the church I told you about, Andrew came across a book on a stall at a church jumble sale; Old Murders of Eborby. There was a very old photograph in the book of a man who’d been hanged for murder at Eborby Prison in 1897. His name was Elijah Sheldon.’ He took a sip of sherry, preparing for the dramatic denouement of the story. ‘Andrew identified the picture of Sheldon as the same man he’d seen in the church that Christmas Eve two years before. And when he went back to check, he realised that the elaborate memorial Sheldon had been pointing to was that of Jonah Pethroyd, the man who’d testified against him.’
‘Are we sure Sheldon was innocent?’
‘Three years after he was hanged a former servant of Pethroyd’s came forward to say the groom had argued with the master on the day of the murder and Pethroyd had threatened to kill him. He talked of how everyone was terrified of Pethroyd’s volcanic temper and he only dared to speak up once he’d left his service. However, he’d been dismissed for dishonesty so nobody took the accusation very seriously.’
‘But you think he was telling the truth?’
‘He stuck to the story until his dying day.’
Joe raised his hand. ‘How’s this for a theory - Pethroyd killed the servant in a fit of temper and saw the opportunity to put the blame on Sheldon who was making a nuisance of himself by demanding he repay his debt.’
‘According to Pethroyd’s memorial, he died at the age of eighty four on Christmas Eve 1936.’
‘You think the innocent man Pethroyd caused to be executed appeared on the anniversary of his death to accuse him?’
The fire flickered, throwing dancing light on George’s face. ‘That was the conclusion Andrew came to. And you have to admit, it’s possible.’
Joe sat silently for a while, gazing into the flames. Then he spoke quietly. ‘The story reminds me of the case I’ve been dealing with today. A wealthy businessman called Jimmy Tadcaster has just accused a builder called John Smithers of murdering his wife. Yesterday Smithers turned up at Tadcaster’s house demanding that he pay a debt; a considerable sum of money for work he’d carried out for him a while ago. He claimed he’d be ruined if he didn’t receive payment and, according to Tadcaster, he became aggressive and violent, even threatening to kill his family if Tadcaster didn’t pay what he owed. Earlier today Tadcaster’s wife was found battered to death in the back garden. Tadcaster says he was out when she died but he saw Smithers’ van driving away fast just as he arrived home. Smithers is now in custody although he’s protesting his innocence. He claims that Tadcaster is involved with another woman and that he was planning to get rid of his wife because he doesn’t want her to get half his business in the case of a divorce. Of course Tadcaster denies this.’
‘Believe him?’
‘Not sure.’
George smiled. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t take everything Tadcaster says as gospel. Remember Elijah Sheldon.’
On his way home that night Joe passed St Saviour’s church. And, although the gate to the tiny churchyard was locked and chained, he thought he saw a pale glow behind the stained glass windows, there for a moment then gone.
Then soft flakes of snow began to fall from the night sky.
THE END