Dahlia Decks the Halls by Katy Watson

 

“A murder? For me? Really, Johnnie, you shouldn’t have.”

Dahlia Lively in A Very Lively Christmas

by Lettice Davenport, 1943

Christmas Eve,

London

Annie smiled as she peered through the doorway into the lounge, and saw her wife bickering with her two friends as they attempted to string Christmas lights around the tree that stood in the bay window of their London townhouse.

Annie hadn’t expected to spend Christmas with two film stars, but she’d learned quickly when one was married to Caro Hooper anything was possible. Including national treasure Rosalind King wearing a lopsided velvet Santa hat as she directed former child star Posy Starling to adjust the lights once again.

“That’s looking good,” Annie said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Does that mean we’ve earned presents?” Caro asked, hopefully. “Or at least some more mulled wine…”

There were two pans of spiced, hot wine on the stove in the kitchen. One with real wine, the other with a fruity cordial Caro had found somewhere and squirrelled away early in November, just in case Posy and Rosalind said yes when she asked them to join them for Christmas.

Her wife had made new friends, ones who seemed to genuinely get everything that was wonderful about Caro, and that made Annie happier than any Christmas present could.

“As it happens…” Annie pulled a large, padded envelope from behind her back. “This arrived this morning. Addressed to the three of you.”

Posy raised both eyebrows. “The three of us? Who even knows we’re here?”

Caro had already snatched the package from Annie’s grip. Much as she loved her, her wife was not famous for her patience.

“It’s from Libby!” Caro tipped the contents of the envelope onto the coffee table, where they sat amongst the unhung tree decorations. Fishing out a smaller envelope, she shoved a finger under the seal to open it, her eyes moving left to right as she scanned the text. “She says she found this story in the boxes of papers she took from the attic at Aldermere, before Hugh put it on the market. It’s an unfinished Dahlia Lively short story! She wants us to read it, and see if we can figure out the solution.”

The excitement in her eyes as she looked up was matched by the expression on the other two Dahlias’ faces. They looked like kids on Christmas morning, which seemed appropriate.

Rosalind grabbed the small stack of A4 paper that had slid out of the package. “Dahlia Decks the Halls.”

“Sounds festive.” Posy perched on the arm of the chair at Rosalind’s side, leaning in to read over her shoulder. Rosalind moved the manuscript to the side, out of view.

“I’ll read out the story.” Rosalind looked first at Caro, then at Posy, as if daring either of them to disagree. “You two can keep hanging decorations on that blasted tree.”

Annie hid a smile. “I’ll go fetch some more mulled wine.”

Dahlia Decks the Halls

Christmas Eve,

Banebury Village, Hertfordshire

Lady Detective, Dahlia Lively, adjusted the holly on the mantle of her friend Bunty’s fireplace, and decided her decorating work was probably done. Bunty seemed to be making a perfectly good job of hanging baubles on the tree without Dahlia’s help, and Dahlia’s talents would probably be better used fixing them both cocktails anyway. Next to solving murders, mixing the perfect cocktail was what she did best.

“The tree looks splendid,” she said, making Bunty beam. “Now, how about I fix us something festive to drink?”

“An excellent suggestion. It is Christmas Eve, after all.” Bunty flashed her a grin, and turned back to her tree decorating.

Dahlia hadn’t been sure about leaving London to spend Christmas with Bunty and her new husband in the depths of Hertfordshire, but Bunty had been so insistent it had been hard to say no — even for Dahlia, who normally excelled at not doing anything she didn’t want to. She was immune to pleading eyes and guilt inducing statements like, ‘It’s been so long since we’ve spent any time together,’ and so had only promised her friend she’d think about it when the subject had first been raised back in October, fully intending to turn down the invitation long before any plans were made.

But Bunty had been a dear friend ever since school, and was already wise to all of Dahlia’s ways. She’d simply booked the train tickets, told her husband they’d have an extra guest for Christmas, and then – when Dahlia could hardly politely back out anyway – promised her the finest goose dinner she’d ever tasted.

Add in the top-class cocktail cabinet in Bunty’s husband’s study, and really, Dahlia was rather glad that Bunty had insisted. What would she have been doing all alone at Christmas in London, anyway? Christmas was a time to be with friends. Or family, she supposed, as long as it wasn’t her family.

Overall, she was glad she’d come to stay with Bunty. The spiced mulled wine warming on the stove was also a treat. Perhaps tree decorating called for mulled wine rather than cocktails…

But before Dahlia could reach the kitchen, the old ship’s bell that hung beside the front door clanged out, and she swerved to answer it.

Standing on the doorstep were six carol singers, four men and two women, decked out in fur trimmed robes that belonged to an older age. They all held their leatherbound carol books before them, and one – a fresh faced looking youth – was carrying a lantern on a long pole, with a small bag hanging from it.

“Glad tidings this Christmas Eve!” The oldest of the men stepped forward to greet her, grinning behind his bushy beard. “My name is Glenn Rudicorn, and we are the Pinkerton Players, here to spread joy and merriment this festive season!”

Before Dahlia could respond, they launched into a rousing chorus of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen that brought Bunty hurrying from the front room.

“Carol singers!” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, how perfect.”

Dahlia felt a little awkward standing in the open doorway, watching the snowflakes start to fall beyond the lantern light, an audience of only two for the performance. But Bunty seemed enraptured, so Dahlia attempted to manage the same.

In truth, she studied the carol singers in turn, instead. Her experiences as an amateur detective over the last few years had trained her to always pay attention to the details, to spot the little things about a person that others might miss. Often the things that the person in question was trying to hide.

Glenn was clearly the leader of the troupe, with the others looking to him for when to move or end notes. He didn’t look back at any of them, obviously trusting them to follow his lead.

To either side of him, a pace behind, stood the two women. One was a pretty, young woman only a few years younger than Dahlia, with strawberry blonde curls peeking out from under her bonnet, and a small frown line between her pale blue eyes as she concentrated on the notes printed in her book. Dahlia would guess that she was a newer addition to the group, as none of the others seemed to do more than glance down at the pages in front of them.

The other woman in the group was a statuesque brunette, probably a decade older than the blonde, and well into her thirties. She glanced nervously between the man at her side, and their leader, although try as she might Dahlia couldn’t quite put her finger on what was perturbing her.

The man beside her was, quite possibly, one of the most handsome men Dahlia had ever stumbled across outside of London. Of an age with the brunette, his black hair hung a little too long for fashion, but even the lamplight couldn’t hide his dark eyes and strong jaw. He sang in a warm baritone that Dahlia swore she could almost feel in her bones.

The two men on the other side of the group were rather more disappointing. Both younger, the one holding the lantern had the same strawberry blonde hair as the girl, just with some stronger stripes of red – a brother perhaps? The other man’s hair was hidden under a hat, but his hazel eyes were warm. As Dahlia studied him, he fumbled his carol book, almost dropping it, but juggling it between his hands to save it before it hit the floor.

He never missed a note.

The carol came to an end, and Bunty clapped her hands together again. “Just delightful! You must all come in and have some spiced wine to warm up, though. And maybe we can persuade you to sing one more tune for us…”

Inside, Dahlia only found herself more intrigued by the interplay between the group, as she and Bunty handed out warming mulled wine.

“You must be the players group I heard about?” Bunty asked. “Here to perform at the village hall for a few nights between Christmas and the new year?”

The leader nodded. “That’s right. The Pinkerton Players, up from London. We’re touring the villages around Hertfordshire this festive season, for your amusement.”

The statuesque brunette moved beside him in front of the fire. “Glenn thought it would be a nice gesture to perform for some of the houses in the village tonight, since it is Christmas Eve.”

“Glenn thought it was a good opportunity to drum up business,” the handsome man murmured from his position beside Dahlia – a position that was not entirely accidental on Dahlia’s part. She raised a single eyebrow at him, and he returned the look with what was probably supposed to be an innocent smile, but looked positively devilish on him.

Glenn didn’t seem to have heard him, however, as he was busy launching into introductions.

“Like I said, I’m Glenn, and this is my wife Helena,” he said, indicating the brunette, who smiled and dipped her head ever so slightly. “The boy with the lantern over there is Percy, and beside him is his sister Rose.”

Dahlia bit back a knowing smile. She’d known they must be siblings. Rose gave them all a little wave, while Percy seemed more interested in the way the lights skittered over the decorations on the tree.

“The gentleman with the ironic smile over by the Christmas tree is our baritone, Thomas.” Beside her, Thomas nodded a welcome, too. “And the young man by the window is Jamie.” Jamie looked up suddenly at Glenn’s words, and Dahlia worried he was about to drop his mulled wine the same way he’d almost dropped his carol book. “What are you looking at out there anyway, boy?”

“The snow,” Jamie said, in a pleasant, light tenor. “It’s coming down a little heavier now, I think. You can barely see the houses across the green.”

Rose and Percy moved past the Christmas tree to join him at the window. “He’s right,” Rose said.

“Then we should probably move on.” Glenn put his empty cup down on the nearest table. “Thank you, ladies, for your hospitality. But we must brave the elements once more!”

Jamie stepped away from the window, and held out a small circle of wood, a finger width thick with the initials PP carved in amongst holly leaves, and hanging from a tartan ribbon. “A small token for your tree, for you to remember us this festive season.”

“How kind! But perhaps you could grace us with just one more song?” Bunty asked, sweetly, as she hung the decoration on the tree. And, much like Dahlia had over her Christmas plans, the Pinkerton Players conceded.

“Rose?” Glenn said. “Would you like to take the opening verse?”

The pure strains of the first verse of Once in Royal David’s City filled the sitting room, demanding everyone’s full attention. In an obviously practiced movement, the six of them drifted dance-like into their previous formation, this time in front of the fire. Glenn took hold of Helena’s arm, pulling her forward, and she glanced backwards part way through the first verse to where Thomas standing glowering behind them both. Rose and Percy stood together, sweet and strawberry blonde beside the lantern, while Jamie glanced nervously out of the window instead of focussing on the song — or the way Rose kept sending him yearning looks, obviously desperate for his attention.

They all joined in with the harmonies for verse two, and for once Dahlia lost herself in the music, allowing the voices to flow over her like snowflakes, welcoming in the season.

Yes, maybe getting away from London for Christmas, leaving behind all the crimes and mysteries she might be called on to solve – and one very intriguing Detective Inspector – hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. A proper countryside Christmas. That was what she needed.

Christmas Day,

Banebury Village, Hertfordshire

Christmas morning arrived with another flurry of snowflakes, a cooked breakfast, a promise of presents under the tree once their other guests arrived — and then a knock on the door.

Dahlia answered it, and found a rather stunned looked policeman staring back at her.

“Why, Detective Inspector Swain,” Dahlia said, trying to hide her own surprise. It never did to be seen to be thrown off balance by a man. “Whatever are you doing here in Hertfordshire?” DI Johnnie Swain had been her partner in more than a few murder cases in London already, but she had hardly expected to see him out here in the country. “I thought the biggest mystery here was what Bunty did with the missing silver angel decoration for the tree.”

Johnnie recovered from his own surprise quickly enough. A policeman had to learn to roll with the punches, she supposed.

“And season’s greetings to you too, Miss Lively,” he replied. Whatever had brought him to Banebury, he didn’t seem very happy about it. “I should have known that if there was a murder to solve you’d be around somewhere.”

“A murder?” Dahlia stepped back to let him into the house. “Why, whoever has been murdered now?”

“The leader of the Pinkerton Players,” Johnnie replied.

“Glenn?” Dahlia had to confess to surprise this time. If she’d expected any of last night’s visitors to come to harm, it hadn’t been him.

Johnnie sighed. “Of course you’re on first name terms with the victim already.”

“They stopped by to sing carols last night,” Dahlia said. “Bunty – my friend – invited them in to warm up and take some refreshment.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here,” Johnnie said, cryptically. “I think I’d better speak to the whole household together, if that’s all right with you?”

If he was there on official business, Dahlia rather imagined it didn’t matter whether it was all right with her or not. After all, she was only an occasional consultant for the police, in her self-styled role as one of a growing number of lady detectives.

She led him through to the breakfast room where, after he’d apologised for interrupting their Christmas morning, and Bunty had fussed about fetching him a plate of breakfast and some coffee, he explained the situation.

“It seems that after the Pinkerton Players completed their round of carol singing in the village, they returned to their rooms at the Star Inn and, later that night, their leader, Glenn Rudicorn, was shot dead out back by the stables. The body was discovered this morning.”

“Good heavens!” Bunty’s husband, Phillip, looked genuinely alarmed, despite not having met the man. “I was just at the Star last night!”

“As were half the village, by all accounts,” Johnnie said.

“I wasn’t,” Dahlia said, pointedly.

“Half the men, then,” Johnnie amended. “The point is, a man is dead. There were no witnesses, no obvious clues at the scene, and the snow covered any footprints. Time of death must have been after the Inn closed for the night, as the owner checked the stables before locking up and going to the midnight church service with his wife.”

“Any other guests staying at the Star Inn?” Dahlia asked.

Johnnie shook his head. “Just the six of them. Since they’d only arrived in the village that afternoon, and had no connections to Banebury that we can find, we’re working on the assumption that one of the other members of the Players must be responsible.”

“Makes sense,” Dahlia murmured. “But then, why are you here? I’d assume you’d come for my help, if you hadn’t been so surprised to see me.”

Johnnie rested his elbows on the breakfast table and steepled his fingers as he looked at each of them in turn. “My colleagues at the local station are talking to the five surviving members of the Pinkerton Players right now, and I’m sure they’ll have this solved before you carve the goose this afternoon. But just in case… the Players visited almost every house in the village to sing last night, but they were only invited inside four of them. Yours.” He gave Bunty a nod. “The Bakers’, the Wesleys’ and the Vicarage. So my job is to visit those four houses, and see if anyone in them observed or noticed anything that might lead us to the solution.”

Dahlia stood. “In that case, you’d better talk to Bunty while I fetch my coat and bag.” When Johnnie looked at her in surprise she added, “Well, you didn’t think you’d be investigating without me, did you?”

The Bakers’ House

Banebury

“So what brought you to Banebury?” Dahlia asked, as they trudged through the light snowfall. “I’m assuming you were already here for Christmas, rather than in London?”

“I was visiting family, two villages over.” Johnnie’s shoulders were hunched under his heavy overcoat, and Dahlia noticed that somebody had tucked a festive red and green scarf around his neck for warmth. She couldn’t help but wonder who, even though she’d never ask. The friendship they’d build up over the handful of cases they’d solved together didn’t extend to their private lives, which left her in the strange position of knowing almost exactly how his investigative mind worked, and nothing about his family or home life, except that he wasn’t married.

And that sometimes, when he smiled at her, she wondered if perhaps he wished they did know each other better. Or if she did. 

Johnnie was still talking about the case. “There hasn’t been a murder hereabouts in years, so when this one pitched up and they called into the Chief for help, he sent me over to lend a hand.”

“And do you have any preliminary theories? Motives and the like?”

He shot her a dark look. “You know I don’t like to try and predict cases. I’ll wait for the hard evidence, thank you, then make an informed assessment.”

Dahlia nudged his arm with her elbow. “You do rather take all the fun out of these things sometimes, you know.”

“Murder isn’t supposed to be fun.” He came to a stop outside a large, thatch roofed cottage, and checked his notebook. “Here we are. House number two — the Bakers.”

“Let’s find out what they have to say.” Dahlia skipped forward and knocked.

The door was answered by a harried looking maid in a traditional cap, who brightened instantly when Johnnie introduced himself.

“Oh, thank goodness. Mr Baker has been beside himself. Come through, come through.”

Dahlia and Johnnie exchanged a look before following the maid through into the main house, past a large Christmas tree that dominated the hall. Dahlia noticed an identical decoration to the one the carol singers had given Bunty hanging on one of the lower branches.

The maid hovered nervously in the doorway to what looked to be the main reception room. “Mr Jones? The police are here.”

A brusque, balding man stood up from his chair and sharply motioned them in. “About bally time.” He frowned at Dahlia, and she knew he was wanting to ask why Johnnie had brought his secretary, or something equally demeaning.

“Dahlia Lively.” She held out her hand before Johnnie could say anything. “Lady Detective. What seems to be the problem here?”

Mr Jones glared at the maid. “I thought you said they were the police?”

“Detective Inspector John Swain, sir,” Johnnie explained. “We’re actually here to talk to you about a murder that occurred in the village last night.”

“A murder?!” A woman Dahlia assumed was Mrs Baker shrieked from the doorway behind them. “In Banebury?!”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Johnnie replied. “A member of the Pinkerton Players. I understand they were here singing carols last night?”

“But you’d called for the police for another reason,” Dahlia said. “Hadn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Mr Jones said awkwardly. “We’d noticed this morning a few small – but valuable – trinkets were missing from this room. They were definitely there yesterday evening, when the carol singers were here, but we didn’t return to this room after bidding them goodnight, and this morning… gone.”

“So you were calling because you thought one of the carol singers stole from you while they were here.” If they’d been responsible for thefts, that could widen the investigation right up, Dahlia thought — and from the frown that had settled on Johnnie’s face, he knew it too.

“I reckon it was that woman’s husband.” Mrs Baker leant forward and spoke her accusation in a loud, stage whisper. “You know the type. Too handsome. Too smooth.”

“Smooth?” Dahlia asked sharply, but Johnnie spoke over her.

“Before we get into wild speculation, perhaps we could go over the facts?” Johnnie’s expression was looking increasingly sour. “Could you tell me what happened when the Pinkerton Players were here last night, and if you noticed anything unusual between them?”

The Wesleys’ House

Banebury

“Well, that told us next to nothing,” Johnnie said, as the door to the Bakers’ house closed behind them. “Nothing much there that you and your friend Bunty hadn’t already said. They came, they sang, they left again – possibly with some apparently valuable, monogrammed trinkets belonging to Mr Baker’s late mother – something the local police will be dealing with, since they already have them all down at the station.” He sighed. “We’ll have to check if anything is missing at any of the other houses – and if the thefts could be a motive for the murder, I suppose.” He sounded downhearted at the idea that this investigation might be more complicated than it first appeared – and swallow up even more of his Christmas holiday.

Dahlia squeezed his arm, and kept hold of it as they navigated an icy patch of pavement. “Stick with it. Who knows what house number two will tell us?”

He smiled down at her and she took her next step without looking. Foolish, she realised, as she felt the ground slide beneath her heeled boots. She clung onto Johnnie as his arm swept around her waist and hauled her upright, and suddenly she was standing much, much closer to him than she thought she’d ever been before. Close enough to see snowflakes landing on his eyelashes.

“Oh, for a bunch of mistletoe right now,” she teased, but her voice came out rather more husky than mocking.

Johnnie cleared his throat, made sure she could stand on her own, then stepped away, ready to continue their walk to the next house. But Dahlia had a sneaking suspicion that the pink tinge to his cheeks wasn’t only because of the cold, which warmed her insides despite the ice and snow.  

The Wesleys’ house was one of the largest in the village, almost exactly across the green from Bunty’s new abode. They were greeted at the door by Mrs Wesley, who seemed full of the joys of the season – until Johnnie explained why they were there. He repeated the story to Mr Wesley, as his wife called down their daughters.

Seated in the Wesley’s front parlour with cups of tea, they listened to the whole family recount their evening sojourn with the Pinkerton Players. Once again, it was almost identical to what had happened at Bunty’s house, and the Bakers’ – although they hadn’t noticed anything missing as yet. Perhaps, Dahlia thought as she glanced around the place, because there wasn’t anything worth stealing.

“You just can’t countenance it, can you?” Mrs Wesley said, shaking her head sadly. Sat beside her, her three daughters copied the movement, the eldest looking down at her hands in her lap with genuine distress. “A murder in Banebury. I suppose it’s because they came from London. That sort of thing happens all the time there, doesn’t it?”

“Not quite all the time,” Johnnie said, mildly.

Mrs Wesley continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “That’s why Derek didn’t want Rowena – that’s our eldest – going back to London to stay with her aunt this winter. Too dangerous. Isn’t that right, Derek? Rowena?”

Mr Wesley, a tall man, still handsome into his fifties, nodded a sad agreement. So, after a slight nudge from her mother, did Rowena. Her eyes, Dahlia noticed, were just a little red as she looked up suddenly at her father’s next question.

“And it was the leader of the group, you say?” Mr Wesley asked. “The chap with the beard?”

“That’s right,” Johnnie said. “Did you notice anything unusual in his interactions with the other members?”

Mr Wesley shrugged, apologetically. “Not that I can remember.”

“He hurried that boy with the lantern out pretty fast,” Mrs Wesley said. “Said something about not outstaying a welcome meaning you would be welcomed back? But that was all. Of course, they’re all actors. I’m sure we only saw what they wanted us to see.”

But Dahlia wasn’t so sure about that. She was starting to think that maybe they’d all seen more than they realised. If only she could put her finger on what it was…

It was only as they stood to take their leave that she noticed the Christmas tree – or rather, what was missing from it.

“Did the Pinkerton Players leave you a decoration?”

Mrs Wesley frowned. “Do you know, I think they did. Rowena, didn’t the young man give it to you?”

Rowena nodded, looking brighter. “Oh, yes. I hung it at the back of the tree, since it didn’t really go with the rest of the decorations. It must have fallen off.”

“Dahlia?” Johnnie ushered her towards the door, as he thanked the Wesleys for their time.

But Dahlia was still wondering about that missing decoration.

The Vicarage

Banebury

Reverend Jones was, unsurprisingly, having a busy Christmas morning. He was not, however, at all surprised to see them.

“News of the murder was all around the congregation at the second service,” he told them, as his daughter fetched fruit cake and more tea. “Those who only came to last night’s midnight service surely missed out on all the best gossip.” He gave them a mischievous smile that suggested he rather thought that served them right. “Now, how can I help you?”

Once more, they went through the events of the previous evening, and then asked the vicar if he’d noticed anything unusual in the interactions between the six members of the Pinkerton Players.

Reverend Jones sat back in his armchair beside a small, table top tree, where the wooden ornament from the troupe hung on a middle branch. He stroked his chin, and considered the question. “When you spend as much time counselling parishioners as I do, one develops a knack for knowing things about a person – sometimes even before they know it themselves. But they’re not facts, so much as feelings, I suppose. Faith rather than evidence, as is the way of the church.”

From the sceptical rise of his eyebrows, Dahlia suspected Johnnie was dismissing anything the vicar had to say from his mind even before the words were spoken. But she had rather more confidence in this sort of thing – and she wanted to know how the vicar’s observations tallied with her own, as a fellow observer of people. “And what did you sense about them?”

The reverend looked pleased to be taken seriously. “The leader, Glenn – the victim I believe… he was unhappy about something. No, not just unhappy – angry. I couldn’t be sure where his anger was targeted, since his glares seemed to bounce around the room at all of them. But angry he was.”

Could the motive for the murder hide in that anger? Perhaps. “And the others?”

“The red-headed lad with the lantern – Percy, was it? He was sulking about something. And Jamie, the boy who gave me the tree decoration, his hands were positively shaking – but that might have been to do with the pretty red head at his side. I wouldn’t know about that, although she did seem to be singing only for him at times. The other two… I don’t know. I couldn’t read them at all. Perhaps they’re just very well practiced at hiding their secrets.”

Dahlia and Johnnie took their leave shortly afterwards, as the vicar and his daughter prepared to head out to perform some Christmas Day visits. They strolled together across the village green, past a large evergreen tree in the centre that had been strung with lights – until Dahlia spotted something glinting in the snow.

Bending down, she picked up a small, silver bowl – with the letters MMB engraved upon it.

“Well. That’s all four houses where the Pinkerton Players stopped last night.” Johnnie had his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up by his ears despite the scarf. “They sang a last couple of carols here by the tree, then headed back to the Star Inn.”

“Yes. Of course they did,” Dahlia said, absently. She turned the bowl over and over in her hands, as she surveyed the houses surrounding the green, and the Star Inn at the far end.

“I’ll have to go back to the station and tell them we learned nothing – and picked up a bonus case of theft to boot,” Johnnie went on, despondently. “Hopefully they’ve had better luck.”

“Oh, we don’t need luck, Detective Inspector.” Dahlia flashed him her brightest, most celebratory smile. “Don’t you know? I’m a Christmas miracle all by myself.”

“You mean you’ve solved it?” Johnnie sounded incredulous. “How?”

“Why, by looking at the people, not just the facts, of course. Come on. Let’s get down to the police station. I have a couple of questions I need to ask to confirm if I’m right.”

Christmas Eve,

London

“And that’s it,” Rosalind concluded. “That’s all she wrote.” She turned the paper over to show them there was no more.

Annie watched with interest as Posy and Caro took seats either side of Rosalind, identical looks on all three faces. A combination of puzzlement, deep thought, and a determination to figure things out.

That, Annie supposed, was the real Dahlia look – even though Caro always claimed it had something to do with an eyebrow.

“Well, go on then.” She perched on the arm of the chair nearest the Christmas tree. “Whodunit, so to speak?”

Posy already had a notebook out on her lap, and was scribbling something down. “So, our victim is Glenn Rudicorn, leader of the Pinkerton Players. And our suspects are the other five members. His wife, Helena. Thomas, Jamie, and siblings Percy and Rose. Yes?” The other two nodded in agreement. “So, what do we know about them all?”

“One of them was a thief,” Caro said, promptly. “They stole that bowl – and who knows what else – from the Bakers, then left it by the Christmas tree on the green – who and why?”

“My money is on Percy,” Posy said. “The vicar said he was sulky – if he’d been caught stealing and Glenn had told him to get rid of it, he’d be in a mood, but he’d do it. Right?”

“Could be,” Caro said. “Although would that be enough for him to kill him later? And if so, why drop the bowl? Anyway, Mrs Baker said she suspected Glenn of the theft, didn’t she?”

“No, she didn’t.” Rosalind flipped through the pages to find the relevant lines. “She said I reckon it was that woman’s husband. You know the type. Too handsome. Too smooth.”

“And Glenn was Helena’s husband.” Caro frowned, and Annie knew she’d seen whatever Rosalind had – even though it was still eluding her.

“Glenn had a beard – a bushy one,” Posy jumped in. “The handsome, smooth one… that was Thomas.”

“So what did Mrs Baker see that made her think Thomas was Helena’s husband, not Glenn?” Rosalind sat back and looked between the other two Dahlias.

“Wait. You think Helena and Thomas were having an affair?” Annie asked, trying to catch up.

“Looks like.” Posy flipped through the pages back to the beginning. “Look, in the first scene, Helena glances back at Thomas when Glenn takes her arm, and Dahlia notices Thomas glaring at them. That could be the clue.”

“So Thomas killed Glenn to win Helena,” Rosalind surmised. “Or Helena killed him to be free to love Thomas. Could be. More plausible than Percy the thief, anyway. What about the other two?”

“Rose was Percy’s sister,” Posy said, thoughtfully. “She could have done it to protect her brother, if Glenn found out about his pickpocket tendencies?”

“And Jamie…” Caro shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got nothing.”

“Which means it was probably him, knowing Lettice,” Rosalind grumbled. “Always the least likely suspect.”

There was a lull in the debate. Annie assumed they were all running through the facts of the case again in their heads, looking for new angles.

She didn’t have that kind of mind – didn’t want it, either. So instead, she looked at the baubles left on the coffee table, wondering if there was even room for them on the tree with the extra ornaments Posy and Rosalind had both brought with them…

That was strange. She’d never seen that decoration before.

“What about the decorations they handed out?” Caro took the pages from Posy and flicked through them as she spoke. “They’ve got to mean something, haven’t they? Why else would Lettice put them in there?”

Annie leaned forward and picked up the heavy, circular, wooden decoration with its tartan ribbon, and read the words burned into the front of it.

Open me.

Open me? But it was a solid wood circle. Unless…

“And what happened to the Wesleys’ decoration?” Posy shifted closer to Caro to peer at the pages again. “I think the answers have to be in the scene where the carollers visit Dahlia and Bunty, because that’s the only time we actually meet them.”

“Let’s read it again, then,” Rosalind suggested. “See what we missed.”

Annie pulled at the two sides of the decoration, and it came easily apart along an almost hidden line. And there, poking out of one side, was a USB memory stick.

“Um, this might help.” She held up the stick, and watched as the three Dahlias blinked in astonishment. “I think it must have been in the envelope. Want me to grab the laptop?”

But Rosalind, Caro and Posy simply shared a slow smile.

“I don’t think we need it anymore, do we?” Rosalind said.

“She used the false premise thing,” Caro grumbled. “I always hated it when she did that.”

“Clever, though,” Posy said, admiringly. “Hiding it in the ornament like that.”

“And when he looked out of the window,” Rosalind added. “We should have seen that.”

“Dahlia did,” Caro said. “Dahlia saw everything.”

Posy nodded. “And heard it. That note about London.”

“And the innkeeper and his wife being at the midnight service.” Rosalind reached out to pick up a small golden bell from the coffee table. “The bells, you see.”

Annie had no idea what any of them were talking about now. “Well, I want to read whatever this says, even if you don’t.”

Maybe she was coming around to the idea of murder mystery stories, after all these years.

Dear Rosalind, Caro and Posy

Merry Christmas!

I hope you enjoyed this festive story from the Lettice Davenport archives. I can’t believe nobody found it before! I’ve got more boxes to go through, so I’m hoping there will be some more treasures in there somewhere…

I’m sure you managed to solve it between the three of you. But just in case, here’s my ending, written according to the notes Lettice left behind…

Love, Libby

Christmas Day,

Banebury Village, Hertfordshire

“How did you know?” Johnnie asked, as they sat by the Christmas tree on the green in the fading afternoon light. “We all thought it had to be one of the Pinkerton Players. What made you think different?”

“I didn’t, to start with,” Dahlia admitted. “I realised that Percy was probably our thief – he was fascinated with Bunty’s tree that night, and then the silver angel was missing afterwards. Bunty couldn’t remember if she’d hung it or not, but I suspected she had, and Percy had taken it. It seemed logical that he had been spotted by Glenn taking something from the Bakers’ and told to lose it – which is why he dropped the bowl here – but that didn’t seem like quite enough for Percy to kill, however sulky the vicar thought he was. Likewise, it didn’t seem like her brother was in enough trouble for Rose to be defending him either.”

“What about Helena and Thomas? They confessed to their affair when you confronted them at the station.” Johnnie had been rather embarrassed by her bluntness addressing that one, Dahlia suspected.

 “Passion is always a good motive,” she said now. “And they admitted that they’d planned to meet at the stables – I’d guessed as much when I saw them lock eyes over that line in Once In Royal David’s City. And his shelter was a stable, and all that. I suspect that Glenn knew, too, which is why he was there in the first place.”

“The wrong place at the wrong time, you mean?” Johnnie shook his head. “And it cost him his life.”

“Once Helena and Thomas confirmed they’d planned to be there, I knew my theory was correct.” They’d called off their meeting due to a ‘bad feeling’ on Helena’s part, apparently caused by Glenn’s foul mood after things with Percy, and she’d taken a sleeping powder and gone to bed, not noticing until morning that her husband didn’t join her. “You see, Glenn had been lying in wait in the stables to catch them. But he didn’t know that they weren’t the only people planning a clandestine encounter there that night.”

“Jamie,” Johnnie guessed.

Dahlia nodded. “And Rowena Wesley.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Johnnie admitted. “How could you possibly know that?”

“It was a number of little things.” Dahlia tucked her hands into her pockets to ward off the chill. “When they were at Bunty’s house, Jamie was distracted – kept looking out of the window. We thought at the snow. But then I realised that the Wesleys’ house was directly opposite.”

“He was looking at Rowena’s house.”

“Yes. I didn’t realise the significance of that until we were here earlier, and I found the bowl that Percy dropped. I realised that they hadn’t just taken things from a house, they’d left them too.”

“The tree ornaments.” Johnnie frowned. “Except the Wesley’s ornament was missing.”

“That bothered me,” Dahlia said. “Until the reason behind it snapped into place. Do you remember Mrs Wesley talking about how dangerous London is?”

Johnnie blinked in confusion, and flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Uh, yes. She said that they hadn’t let Rowena go there for Christmas because of it.”

“No,” Dahlia correctly, gently. “They wouldn’t let her go back there.”

She watched as the dawning light of comprehension filled Johnnie’s eyes. “That’s how you guessed that she’d met Jamie and the others last time she was in London? And formed an attachment with Jamie?”

“Why else would she have looked so upset at the death of a man she’d only met for a few minutes? Or brighten up when you confirmed that it was Glenn who had died, not Jamie?” Dahlia shifted on the bench. It was too cold to drag this out any longer. “Here’s what I think happened. Jamie and Rowena met in London and fell in love. They’d planned to elope when she came back for Christmas.” Jamie had confirmed as much when she’d confronted him down at the station. “But when her parents stopped her, he persuaded the others to add Banebury to their tour. He’d planned to slip her a note – which he did, concealed inside the wooden ornament he handed Rowena – telling her to meet him and run away with him tonight. He’d made the ornaments, you see, so it was easy to make a special one for Rowena, with a hidden compartment.”

“But Mr Wesley found the note first, and stormed down to the Star Inn with his gun to kill Jamie.”

“Only Glenn was there, waiting for Helena and Thomas, hidden in that thick cloak he wore for the carol singing. And in the dark of the stables, Mr Wesley didn’t stop to check he was shooting the right man. He just ran away and hoped the shot wouldn’t be heard, or noticed, over the church bells ringing out for the midnight service.”

“And the snow covered his footprints well before morning.” Johnnie shook his head. “No wonder he asked twice who the dead man was.”

“It’s a sad affair.” Across the green, Mr Wesley was being led away by uniformed police officers, while his wife sobbed into the arms of her eldest daughter. All around the village, neighbours watched from their front doors, the peace of Christmastide broken forever.

Banebury might not be filled with Christmas cheer this year, but Dahlia knew that justice had been served. That had to be enough.

“Come on,” she said, jumping to her feet and reaching out a hand to pull Johnnie up behind her. “Let’s go see if Bunty still has that mulled wine on the stove. I think we could both do with a glass. Don’t you?”

And perhaps there would even be some mistletoe, hanging in a doorway somewhere. Just in case she found herself in DI Johnnie Swain’s arms again.