The Christmas Card Crime and Other Stories Read online

  Introduction and notes © Martin Edwards 2018

  ‘The Christmas Card Crime’ reproduced by permission of Cosmos Literary Agency on behalf of the Estate of Gerald Verner.

  ‘The Motive’ reproduced by permission of United Agents LLP on behalf of the Estate of Ronald Knox.

  ‘Blind Man’s Hood’ reproduced by permission of David Higham Associates on behalf of the Estate of John Dickson Carr.

  ‘Paul Temple’s White Christmas’ reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London on behalf of the Beneficiaries of the Estate of Francis Durbridge. Copyright © Francis Durbridge, 1946.

  ‘Sister Bessie’ reproduced by permission of the Estate of Cyril Hare.

  ‘A Bit of Wire-Pulling’ reproduced by permission of the Estate of E. C. R. Lorac.

  ‘Crime at Lark Cottage’ reproduced by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop Ltd on behalf of the Estate of John Bingham.

  ‘Pattern of Revenge’ reproduced by permission of the Estate of John Bude.

  ‘’Twixt the Cup and the Lip’ reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London on behalf of the Beneficiaries of the Estate of Julian Symons. Copyright © Julian Symons, 1963.

  Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be pleased to be notified of any corrections to be incorporated in reprints or future editions.

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  Cover illustration © Mary Evans Picture Library

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  A Christmas Tragedy

  By the Sword

  The Christmas Card Crime

  The Motive

  Blind Man’s Hood

  Paul Temple’s White Christmas

  Sister Bessie or Your Old Leech

  A Bit of Wire-Pulling

  Pattern of Revenge

  Crime at Lark Cottage

  ’Twixt the Cup and the Lip

  Back Cover

  Introduction

  Welcome to the third anthology of winter mysteries to be published in the British Library’s series of Crime Classics. This collection brings together eleven stories written over the span of more than half a century, and features a mix of leading exponents of detective fiction and some less renowned names. The stories, some of which have never been republished subsequent to their original appearance in print, are equally diverse.

  The publication of this book brings up to a round dozen the number of short story collections that have appeared in the Crime Classics series. Sales have far exceeded the levels traditionally associated with anthologies, whether in the crime genre or otherwise, and this is surely a cause for delight. It has long been the received wisdom within the publishing industry that “short stories don’t sell,” but this has always struck me as a self-fulfilling prophecy that deserves to be challenged.

  It’s thought-provoking to reflect that as long ago as 1956, the introduction to the very first anthology of short fiction published under the aegis of the Crime Writers’ Association pronounced, with regret, that the outlook for the short story was “bleak.” Forty years after that, I took over as editor of the CWA anthology, and I’m pleased to report that it’s still going strong. So the doom-mongers should, surely, think again.

  I’m one of many readers (and writers) who love short stories, and in an era of allegedly brief attention spans, it seems extraordinary that the vast commercial potential of short fiction has yet to be fully realized. I hope that other publishers will follow the British Library’s admirable lead in the field of publishing (and marketing enthusiastically) anthologies of crime fiction, just as they have proved keen to supply the ever-growing demand for vintage detective story reprints sparked by the worldwide success of so many titles in the Crime Classics series.

  The difference between a short story and a novel is not merely a question of length. The two forms are different in kind; you might compare it to the difference between having the whole Sistine Chapel to paint and a commission to produce a small miniature. From a writer’s perspective, there simply isn’t the time or space to indulge in leisurely description or painstaking elaboration of character and motive. With a novel, if a few words are wasted, no one is likely to worry. With a short story, or at least with the better short stories, every word must be made to earn its keep.

  Writers often say that writing a short story is harder work than writing a novel. If it’s an exaggeration, it nevertheless has a kernel of truth. And there are plenty of financial reasons to prefer writing novels to short stories. Indeed, these considerations led the late H.R.F. Keating, a distinguished and prolific author of both novels and short stories, to say in his book on Writing Crime Fiction, that the advice he was tempted to give when asked about writing short stories was—“don’t.” But he readily acknowledged that short stories have a special appeal, and they offer a good many benefits to writers. For instance, one can experiment with a style, setting, or set of characters that might not suit a novel, or justify the investment of time that it takes to write a full-length book. Moreover, writing short stories can help to refine one’s literary craft.

  The crime genre seems to me to be particularly well suited to the short form. Indeed, detective fiction as we understand it really began with short stories, written by the American master Edgar Allan Poe. And although Wilkie Collins wrote outstanding novels, it’s fair to say that until the First World War, the dominant form of detective fiction was the short story. Later, things changed, but crime writers continued to enjoy trying their hand at short stories.

  Some wrote a great many—among the contributors to this volume, examples include Baroness Orczy, John Dickson Carr, Cyril Hare, and Julian Symons. In contrast, the short stories of E.C.R. Lorac, John Bude, and John Bingham were few and far between. And whilst connoisseurs of the genre may have come across some of the contributions previously, I suspect that few will have encountered those by Bude or Bingham, let alone the title story, “The Christmas Card Crime,” by a writer who faded from view many years ago; his work strikes me as enjoyable and undeserving of such neglect.

  This collection, therefore, amounts to a seasonal assortment box offering a great deal to whet the appetite during the cold winter months. In researching the ingredients, I have been assisted by fellow enthusiasts John Cooper, Jamie Sturgeon, Nigel Moss, as well as Gerald Verner’s son Chris and his agent Philip Harbottle. I’d like to thank them, and Rob Davies and his diligent team in the
publications department at the British Library, for their support. Books about John Dickson Carr, and Francis Durbridge, by Douglas G. Greene and Melvyn Barnes have also provided me with valuable background information. I’ve much enjoyed compiling this particular assortment box, and hope that readers will derive equal pleasure from devouring its contents, whether at Christmas or any other time of the year.

  —Martin Edwards

  martinedwardsbooks.com

  A Christmas Tragedy

  Baroness Orczy

  Today, Baroness Orczy (1865–1947) is remembered, if at all, as the creator of Sir Percy Blakeney, alias “the Scarlet Pimpernel,” dashing hero of a long series of wildly popular historical romances set at the time of the French Revolution. Ultimately, she became so successful that she was able to move to live in luxury in Monte Carlo. But she first achieved distinction as an author of short crime stories in the early years of the twentieth century, having arrived in Britain from her native Hungary in 1880. Her reputation reached such heights that she was invited to become a founder member of the prestigious Detection Club, formed in 1930. Although by that time her day as a detective writer was past, and she made an annual pilgrimage from her home by the Mediterranean to dine with fellow Club members, the likes of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ronald Knox, and John Dickson Carr.

  Orczy created a number of detectives. The Old Man in the Corner is the most renowned; in all, he appeared in three collections of stories. The exploits of Patrick Mulligan, an Irish lawyer, were ultimately collected in a book with the improbable title Skin o’ My Tooth. Lady Molly of Scotland Yard (1910) recorded the eponymous heroine’s battle to achieve justice for her disgraced husband. Her rapid rise to the top of the Metropolitan Police at a time when true gender equality was scarcely imaginable represents one of the most remarkable career ascents in the whole crime genre. This story first appeared in Cassell’s Magazine in December 1909.

  I

  It was a fairly merry Christmas party, although the surliness of our host somewhat marred the festivities. But imagine two such beautiful young women as my own dear lady and Margaret Ceely, and a Christmas Eve Cinderella in the beautiful ball-room at Clevere Hall, and you will understand that even Major Ceely’s well-known cantankerous temper could not altogether spoil the merriment of a good, old-fashioned festive gathering.

  It is a far cry from a Christmas Eve party to a series of cattle-maiming outrages, yet I am forced to mention these now, for although they were ultimately proved to have no connection with the murder of the unfortunate Major, yet they were undoubtedly the means whereby the miscreant was enabled to accomplish the horrible deed with surety, swiftness, and—as it turned out afterwards—a very grave chance of immunity.

  Everyone in the neighbourhood had been taking the keenest possible interest in those dastardly outrages against innocent animals. They were either the work of desperate ruffians who stick at nothing in order to obtain a few shillings, or else of madmen with weird propensities for purposeless crimes.

  Once or twice suspicious characters had been seen lurking about in the fields, and on more than one occasion a cart was heard in the middle of the night driving away at furious speed. Whenever this occurred the discovery of a fresh outrage was sure to follow, but, so far, the miscreants had succeeded in baffling not only the police, but also the many farm hands who had formed themselves into a band of volunteer watchmen, determined to bring the cattle maimers to justice.

  We had all been talking about these mysterious events during the dinner which preceded the dance at Clevere Hall; but later on, when the young people had assembled, and when the first strains of “The Merry Widow” waltz had set us aglow with prospective enjoyment, the unpleasant topic was wholly forgotten.

  The guests went away early, Major Ceely, as usual, doing nothing to detain them; and by midnight all of us who were staying in the house had gone up to bed.

  My dear lady and I shared a bedroom and dressing-room together, our windows giving on the front. Clevere Hall is, as you know, not very far from York, on the other side of Bishopthorpe, and is one of the finest old mansions in the neighbourhood, its only disadvantage being that, in spite of the gardens being very extensive in the rear, the front of the house lies very near the road.

  It was about two hours after I had switched off the electric light and called out “Good-night” to my dear lady, that something roused me out of my first sleep. Suddenly I felt very wide-awake, and sat up in bed. Most unmistakably—though still from some considerable distance along the road—came the sound of a cart being driven at unusual speed.

  Evidently my dear lady was also awake. She jumped out of bed and, drawing aside the curtains, looked out of the window. The same idea had, of course, flashed upon us both at the very moment of waking: all the conversation anent the cattle-maimers and their cart, which we had heard since our arrival at Clevere, recurring to our minds simultaneously.

  I had joined Lady Molly beside the window, and I don’t know how many minutes we remained there in observation, not more than two probably, for anon the sound of the cart died away in the distance along a side road. Suddenly we were startled with a terrible cry of “Murder! Help! Help!” issuing from the other side of the house, followed by an awful, deadly silence. I stood there near the window shivering with terror, while my dear lady, having already turned on the light, was hastily slipping into some clothes.

  The cry had, of course, aroused the entire household, but my dear lady was even then the first to get downstairs, and to reach the garden door at the back of the house, whence the weird and despairing cry had undoubtedly proceeded.

  That door was wide open. Two steps lead from it to the terraced walk which borders the house on that side, and along these steps Major Ceely was lying, face downwards, with arms outstretched, and a terrible wound between his shoulder-blades.

  A gun was lying close by—his own. It was easy to conjecture that he, too, hearing the rumble of the wheels, had run out, gun in hand, meaning, no doubt, to effect, or at least to help, in the capture of the escaping criminals. Someone had been lying in wait for him; that was obvious—someone who had perhaps waited and watched for this special opportunity for days, or even weeks, in order to catch the unfortunate man unawares.

  Well, it were useless to recapitulate all the various little incidents which occurred from the moment when Lady Molly and the butler first lifted the Major’s lifeless body from the terrace steps until that instant when Miss Ceely, with remarkable coolness and presence of mind, gave what details she could of the terrible event to the local police inspector and to the doctor, both hastily summoned.

  These little incidents, with but slight variations, occur in every instance when a crime has been committed. The broad facts alone are of weird and paramount interest.

  Major Ceely was dead. He had been stabbed with amazing sureness and terrible violence in the back. The weapon used must have been some sort of heavy clasp knife. The murdered man was now lying in his own bedroom upstairs, even as the Christmas bells on that cold, crisp morning sent cheering echoes through the stillness of the air.

  We had, of course, left the house, as had all the other guests. Everyone felt the deepest possible sympathy for the beautiful young girl who had been so full of the joy of living but a few hours ago, and was now the pivot round which revolved the weird shadow of tragedy, of curious suspicions and of an ever-growing mystery. But at such times all strangers, acquaintances, and even friends in a house, are only an additional burden to an already overwhelming load of sorrow and of trouble.

  We took up our quarters at the Black Swan in York. The local superintendent, hearing that Lady Molly had been actually a guest at Clevere on the night of the murder, had asked her to remain in the neighbourhood.

  There was no doubt that she could easily obtain the chief’s consent to assist the local police in the elucidation of this extraordinary crime. At this time both
her reputation and her remarkable powers were at their zenith, and there was not a single member of the entire police force in the kingdom who would not have availed himself gladly of her help when confronted with a seemingly impenetrable mystery.

  That the murder of Major Ceely threatened to become such no one could deny. In cases of this sort, when no robbery of any kind has accompanied the graver crime, it is the duty of the police and also of the coroner to try to find out, first and foremost, what possible motive there could be behind so cowardly an assault; and among motives, of course, deadly hatred, revenge, and animosity stand paramount.

  But here the police were at once confronted with the terrible difficulty, not of discovering whether Major Ceely had an enemy at all, but rather which, of all those people who owed him a grudge, hated him sufficiently to risk hanging for the sake of getting him out of the way.

  As a matter of fact, the unfortunate Major was one of those miserable people who seem to live in a state of perpetual enmity with everything and everybody. Morning, noon, and night he grumbled, and when he did not grumble he quarrelled either with his own daughter or with the people of his household, or with his neighbours.

  I had often heard about him and his eccentric, disagreeable ways from Lady Molly, who had known him for many years. She—like everybody in the county who otherwise would have shunned the old man—kept up a semblance of friendship with him for the sake of the daughter.

  Margaret Ceely was a singularly beautiful girl, and as the Major was reputed to be very wealthy, these two facts perhaps combined to prevent the irascible gentleman from living in quite so complete an isolation as he would have wished.

  Mammas of marriageable young men vied with one another in their welcome to Miss Ceely at garden parties, dances, and bazaars. Indeed, Margaret had been surrounded with admirers ever since she had come out of the schoolroom. Needless to say, the cantankerous Major received these pretenders to his daughter’s hand not only with insolent disdain, but at times even with violent opposition.