Mr Campion's Christmas

One

Stir Up Sunday

‘Ho-bleedin’-ho! This suit hasn’t half shrunk!’

‘Santa! Watch your language! There are children about.’

‘No, there ain’t,’ snapped the figure in the red suit sulkily.

‘There will be when you turn up at the church hall on Christmas Eve, which you will do even if I have to sew you into your costume, which has not shrunk since last year. Sadly, neither have you. Now turn around and let me consider my line of attack.’

‘Steady on. I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ said Santa Claus.

‘Do as you’re told.’ Lady Amanda was brooking no nonsense. ‘Now lose the jacket and let me concentrate on the trousers.’

Magersfontein Lugg, normally an irresistible force, knew when he had met an immovable object, and did as he was commanded by the lady of the house. It was, after all, a small price to have to repay the Campions for their hospitality over the Christmas period, and in truth he secretly enjoyed dishing out presents to the village children, ticking them off his nice list and threatening them with his naughty list. He did not even mind the bright red costume, set off by Wellington boots and a thick black belt, although the large false beard had begun to smell slightly over the years and the bright red fur-lined hat was actually quite a comfort to his massive orb of a bald head when it came to keeping out the chill of winter.

Lugg’s position in the Campion household had long been the subject of much speculation, if not police investigation, over the years. Perhaps the description ‘valued family retainer’ was the safest and least likely to provoke a violent reaction from the man in question, although he would certainly amend the description to ‘under-valued and unpaid family retainer’. He had, in fact, been a known associate of Mr Albert Campion since before that gentleman had surrendered his bachelor status by marrying Lady Amanda Fitton and fathering a son, Rupert. Yet to suggest that Lugg had been in any way ‘in service’ as a valet or – heaven forfend – a butler to Mr Campion would be inaccurate as well as potentially dangerous, although he had himself, in a moment of weakness, referred to himself as ‘a gent’s gent’. Mr Campion, when pressed, would simply say that their relationship had been long and fruitful and that he regarded Lugg as his left-hand man; a solid (perhaps too solid these days) ally, a trustworthy guide through the dank criminal underworld into which Mr Campion had often had to dip a toe, and a reliable source of gossip on all matters political and social with the notable exception of horse-racing tips.

On marriage, Lady Amanda had accepted with infinite good grace the fact that her husband came with a Lugg in tow, and quickly christened him ‘Magers’, which immediately made him less threatening, though she did rather approve of the way other people were easily intimidated by his looming bulk. Her faith had only been strengthened by his reaction to the arrival of Rupert, the junior addition to the Campion family who, from his toddling days, had taken to the fat man as other children latched on to a favourite soft toy. To see the pair of them walking together, especially descending stairs, a tiny hand in a giant’s paw, conjured up an image of Christopher Robin and his bear Edward, though in this case it was always the bear safely leading the boy.

Faced with an expansive rear view of the red fake satin which struggled to contain Lugg’s ample proportions, Amanda surveyed the problem with an experienced eye.

‘I can sew in another V segment to give you a bit more breathing space, but you might have to tension your braces and promise never to take the coat off, at least not anywhere you might frighten the horses or a passing maiden aunt.’

The object of this sartorial negotiation grunted in disgust but Mr Campion, observing matters from an armchair over the rim of a glass of sherry, could not contain a chuckle.

‘How fortunate I am to have a wife who is an aeronautical engineer,’ he observed, ‘for who else could give advice on keeping up a pair of recalcitrant trousers in terms of tensioning the braces?’

‘When it comes to fitting Lugg for trousers,’ Amanda said innocently, ‘it always was a question of physics.’

‘Or mind over matter,’ added her husband.

‘Ho, ho – and I says it again – ho. You can snigger all you like,’ said Santa Claus, grasping the waistband of his trousers and hauling them well above ankle height, ‘but I don’t see any other volunteers for this particular duty.’

‘No one else can make such a convincing impression in that costume, old fruit.’

‘You mean no one else can stand the smell of camphor mothballs.’

‘No one we know of.’ Mr Campion grinned. ‘Let me get you a sherry to help take the taste away.’

‘That might help with the indignity.’

‘Something which has rarely troubled you in the past.’

‘Don’t be unkind, Albert,’ Amanda scolded gently, ‘and you, Magers, don’t pretend this is some sort of penance. You love doing it, you know you do, and the children love Father Christmas. The look on their little faces is surely worth a bit of indignity. You remember the way Rupert used to leave a pair of mince pies and a tot of rum by the fireplace every Christmas Eve?’

‘And a big juicy carrot for your reindeer,’ said Albert. ‘Don’t forget the carrot.’

‘I knew he’d rumbled me,’ Lugg sighed, ‘the year he left a typed receipt for Santa to sign to prove I had received ’is offerings. He must’ve been about eight, I reckon. Smart lad. Showed promise.’

‘I remember that!’ Amanda squealed the way only a proud mother could. ‘That year you took the carrot, left the rum, and drew a reindeer’s hoof print on his receipt.’

‘A marvellous piece of deflection,’ added her husband. ‘Santa’s reindeer clearly liked carrots and were not averse to signing a legal document, whereas a Lugg masquerading as Santa would never have signed a document admitting he had broken-and-entered a property by means of the chimney, nor would he have left the rum untouched.’

Lugg attempted to look aloof. It was not one of his best poses.

‘You’ve got the presents sorted, I suppose?’ he asked Amanda, with as much dignity as he could muster whilst wearing drooping red trousers, the thumb of his left hand hooked into his braces stretched over an open shirt and vest, the pinkie of his right extended as it nursed a schooner of sherry.

‘All in the sack waiting for you, wrapped as usual. Blue tags for boys, red for girls, and don’t park the sack up against the radiators, otherwise the Selection Boxes will melt.’

‘Does Santa get to drive to the party in a brand-new Jensen?’ Lugg asked between sips of sherry.

‘He does not!’ declared Mr Campion. ‘I hate to think what his weight plus a sack full of chocolate would do to the suspension.’

Amanda held up a calming hand.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of it. This year the parts of Donner, Blitzen, Prancer, Dancer and the rest – though not of course Rudolph’ – she winked theatrically at her husband – ‘will be played by one of the Alandel Land Rovers which I have commandeered for the occasion. It will, of course, be tastefully decorated with tinsel and spray snow in the absence of the real thing.’

‘Oh, you never know,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We might be lucky and get a white Christmas.’

By Christmas Eve, though, there was no snow, and Santa had to set off to meet his overexcited audience in a green Land Rover, the logo of Alandel Aeroplanes on its bonnet covered by a wreath of holly and ivy secured by a considerable amount of electrical tape. To add to the festive spirit, cardboard cut-outs of two not-to-scale reindeer had been attached to the roof rack which was – Amanda observed dryly – hardly a good advertisement for the company’s reputation for advanced aerodynamics. A large sprig of mistletoe also dangled from the driver’s rear-view mirror, a refinement which Santa declared gruffly had better not give his driver any ideas.

His driver Rupert, the Campions’ son, had repeatedly assured his distinguished passenger that the only idea on his mind was the hope that no one of any importance, by which he meant no one female, attractive and under thirty, should see him in his makeshift uniform as one of Santa’s elves. His costume had been cobbled together on the assumption that as elves had no natural enemies at the North Pole, being best friends with all animals including hungry polar bears, they had no need of camouflage and so opted for a bright green colour palette when it came to fashion. His green corduroy trousers were a pair that had been bought by his father during a mercifully short mid-life crisis when he was tempted by golf; the green blazer had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase by his mother, who assured the would-be elf that on Rupert’s slim frame you could not tell it had been cut for a woman. To complete the ensemble, he sported a long green wool scarf entwined around his throat and a matching byecocket, sometimes known as an ‘archer’s hat’ or, more commonly, ‘a Robin Hood hat’, the medieval headgear that boasted a turn-up brim at the back and a long-pointed beak shape at the front. It was, however, less of a historic artefact and more an unused prop from an amateur dramatic production of Babes in the Wood.

As a red-blooded young man, home from his first exciting term at university in America, where his English accent had been an invaluable social asset, Rupert could have been expected to baulk at the idea of being recruited as one of Santa’s foot soldiers, but it was impossible to refuse his mother anything, and this particular annual pageant was close to her heart. It was Amanda’s personal take on an established tradition among the workforce of Alandel Aeroplanes, whereby the children of all the staff would be treated to a Christmas present from the firm, handed out alongside copious amounts of fizzy drinks, buns and ice cream. There was no doubt this was good for employee relations, and it was an event, in the suitably decorated Alandel staff canteen, which was eagerly anticipated by all.

Once in a position of seniority within the company, Amanda had introduced what she considered to be a morale-boosting improvement: the distribution of presents by Santa himself, or at least, as Mr Campion observed, his vicar on Earth, a role Magersfontein Lugg had surely been born to play. And Mr Lugg had, to the surprise of many who knew him, thrown himself enthusiastically into the role.

Rupert, though no longer an innocent and accepting child, remained a strong supporter of the Santa Claus myth, and whilst he may have had reservations about appearing in public dressed as an elfish assistant, it was only a short four-mile drive to the Alandel works and he was unlikely to encounter any of his peers. In one sense he had little choice in the matter, for he had in a careless moment of homecoming euphoria admitted to his mother that although he found his studies at Harvard Business School interesting, and likely to be profitable in terms of a future career, he had instantly fallen under the spell of student theatricals and had joined several performance groups, an activity which now consumed all his spare time and dominated his daydreams. He was thus in no position to refuse the crucial supporting role (as Amanda cunningly phrased it) of the Christmas elf and – who knew? – there might just be a West End talent agent in the audience …

Unlikely, but Christmas was a time for miracles.

One miracle, Mr Campion had said, was that Santa Lugg had not frightened any of the children nor given their mothers the vapours, for the Alandel party had gone off splendidly, with laughter and carol singing all round and few tears, though Rupert swore he had spotted Santa’s eyes watering at the sight of excited children tearing into wrapping paper.

External duties done, the family home became the centre of operations for the rest of the festive period, though no drawbridges were raised as the Campions followed their traditional policy of offering an open house. Guests were always made welcome, especially so when expected, and doubly so if actually invited. Each year Amanda insisted on cooking the Christmas turkey, complete with the full panoply of ‘trimmings’, with only minimal help from the Campions’ trusted housekeeper Mrs Thursby. Should a guest offer to assist in any way, her dismissal was positively imperious, declaring, ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, it’s only a roast dinner! What’s so difficult about that?’

Mr Campion and Rupert always made the offer in the certain knowledge that it would be rejected, but Lugg had long ago ceased paying lip service to good manners and had resigned himself to household tasks such as laying fires, washing up, making up beds in the guest rooms, serving drinks and decorating the Christmas tree he always provided after disappearing down the lane before dawn with a trusty axe he had found in a garden shed. No questions were ever asked about where the conifer in question had come from, and on Twelfth Night the evidence was turned into logs for the fireplace.

That Christmas, however, was a quiet one chez Campion, or at least it was supposed to be, and on Christmas Day itself the dining room table was, compared to previous years, rather sparsely occupied. As Lugg observed, if any passing carol singers had arrived, they could have pulled up a chair and had a turkey dinner without denting the amount of leftovers for his traditional, some would say infamous, Boxing Day curry.

Usual guests on the big day would normally have included Mr Campion’s sister Valentine and her husband Alan Dell, the founder of Alandel Aeroplanes, but they had decided – quite unreasonably at the last minute in Amanda’s opinion – to spend Christmas in Jamaica. Amanda’s sister Mary, though, and her husband Guffy Randall, were as dependable as always and, along with their eight-year-old son Sam, promised to double the amount of Christmas cheer they would bring to the party.

Guffy was as good as his word, and his word was reinforced by the case of vintage champagne which accompanied him. Such was the good cheer generated over the extended lunch, served immediately after the Queen’s televised Christmas message and well into an evening of charades and chestnuts roasting – and occasionally exploding – over an open fire, that breakfast on Boxing Day was much later than normal and notably subdued. Only Lugg appeared to have emerged impervious to the rigors of the night before, and was frankly disappointed when his offer to do ‘a proper fry-up’ for all and sundry was greeted with groans rather than enthusiasm. Undeterred, he donned an apron and set to with a frying pan until the fragrance and hum of sizzling bacon seeped out of the kitchen so successfully that it even woke Rupert who, as a student, was expected to be unfamiliar with mornings.

The house did come alive, albeit sluggishly, as the Randalls packed up their presents, armed themselves with a brick-sized chunk of iced Christmas cake and prepared to depart. Duty called in the form of the Boxing Day meeting of the Monewdon Hunt back home in Suffolk, where Guffy was the Master and thus required to supervise proceedings, hangover or no hangover. Lugg took a malicious delight in suggesting that a stirrup cup or two was just what Guffy needed to set him up for a bumpy ride cross-country, though he would miss Lugg’s bespoke turkey curry and it was never wise to go riding on an empty stomach. Perhaps Guffy would like to take with him a Lugg ‘special’, an inch-thick bacon sandwich with brown sauce which was palatable both hot and cold, but the Hon. Augustus Randall’s stomach disagreed and he politely declined.

Once the Randalls had been waved down the drive, the Campion household geared itself up for the traditional Boxing Day walk – or tramp, or route march, depending on who was passing an opinion – to get some fresh air into their lungs and to work off the excesses of the day before or, in Lugg’s case, to generate another appetite. With overcoats buttoned up, scarves tied, hats firmly jammed on heads and walking boots clamped to feet, the household set out into the overcast and distinctly chilly countryside, as well protected from the elements as a Himalayan expedition.

The loyal Mrs Thursby, who insisted on working on Boxing Day partly because she thought it unseemly for Lady Amanda to have to clean up after, or around, house guests, and partly because she could never face two consecutive days in a small cottage with only her stone-deaf elderly father-in-law for company, was left holding the fort. Despite Amanda’s protestations every year that her offer of help was appreciated but unnecessary, Mrs Thursby had been adamant and, as she had walked the three miles from the hamlet where she lived to get to the Campions’, it would have been churlish to turn her away. Mr Campion realized he had made a rod for his own back by making Boxing Day the occasion when he presented Mrs Thursby with her ‘Christmas box’, a cash bonus for her dedicated service to Carterers.

To a man who had spent most of his life solving, or at least getting involved in, mysteries of all shapes and sizes, the name of Mr Campion’s country residence remained an irritating and unsolved puzzle. When purchased, during the early years of the war, he had not given the matter much thought. There was, after all, a war on, and an isolated Norfolk farmhouse seemed an eminently safe place for his wife and baby son whilst he was serving overseas. Only later did it occur to him that Carterers was rather odd, both in diction and meaning. Was it a misspelling based on pronunciation in a broad Norfolk accent, of ‘Carter’s’ as, perhaps, in Carter’s Farm? The deeds showed no sign of a previous owner called Carter, and Mr Campion was blissfully unaware of anyone of that name.

Alternatively, did the name indicate a place where someone stored carts, operating a pre-combustion-engine haulage business? Mr Campion doubted that as – whilst the profession of carter had existed in days gone by – he could find no reference to the trade of carterer, and in livery company terms, when it came to the ancient London guilds, the official body was the Worshipful Company of Carmen. On his first visit, Lugg had called the house ‘The Caterers’ and had insisted on referring to it thus ever since. The Campions had considered changing the name but could never keep straight faces long enough to reach agreement; Mr Campion, with an eye on retirement, suggesting ‘Dunsleuthing’, with Amanda insisting on ‘Fitton’s Folly’.

Described as a Georgian farmhouse, Carterers was no longer the focal point of a farm, although it remained surrounded by fields which had been sold off to pay, or avoid, death duties. It now stood in less than two acres of garden and orchard, rather than at the centre of a barley-growing empire, down a narrow lane which eventually joined the road running into Swaffham and then to Fakenham. The Campions’ nearest neighbour was their housekeeper, Mrs Thursby and, apart from the nearby Alandel works, there were no other visible signs of civilization. Mr Campion always claimed that the only improvement possible to his rural retreat would be if the house had been located further north in the village of Little Snoring, which he had always regarded as far more refined than its neighbour Great Snoring. Lugg had grumbled that the nearest village was Cockley Cley, which was ‘just as daft a name’, but he would have preferred to be in any village, whatever it was called, as it would surely have a pub and he loved a good village pub. Campion had responded pointedly to this by claiming that not having a village, a church or a pub on the doorstep made it an ideal location, as it would limit the amount of time house guests from London would stay, assuming they found the house in the first place.

It was not that Albert Campion shunned or avoided company. Indeed, he was the most gregarious of men and a generous host, with a reputation for being able to mix amicably with archbishops and academics, pickpockets and policemen, dustmen and dowager duchesses. He was also a man who, when not engaged in what he described as ‘adventuring on the side of the angels’, and which Lugg disparaged as ‘private narking’, valued nothing higher than having a secure base to which he, his wife and his son could comfortably retreat.

Given the number of shady, indeed downright violent, characters Mr Campion had encountered in his career, the question of security around Carterers might have pressed more on Mr Campion’s mind than it appeared, for the house was, even for Norfolk, extremely isolated. If questioned on the subject, Campion would reply flippantly that Norfolk was so flat one could easily see an enemy approaching, and besides, Carterers was defended by having a moat, or almost a moat.

The ‘almost moat’ curving in a crescent around the eastern side of the house had begun life as a series of badly engineered ornamental ponds, probably designed, Campion would insist, by Incapability Brown on an off-day. By either incompetence of workmanship or quirk of geology, the individual ponds had leaked into each other and now formed a banana-shaped cordon between the house and a small orchard. Two-thirds of the way along, a narrow, Monet-inspired wooden bridge provided a convenient short-cut to the orchard when plums, pears or apples were in season. After the bridge the ‘almost moat’ seemed to abandon defensive duties, and preferred to spread its hips and adopt a more decorative, ornamental posture. As garden ponds went, it was impressively large though, as Amanda constantly pointed out, it was not actually anywhere near the garden.

Mr Campion had always maintained that the ‘third pond’, as he called it, was his ‘personal Giverny’; the bridge was an homage to Claude Monet, and Campion saw no reason why he should not enjoy similar views enjoyed by the painter. The third pond also added to the privacy of his favourite part of the grounds, the unkempt but extremely productive orchard, whilst Amanda preferred the rose garden she had cultivated on the other side of the house. Her husband had joked that when he really did retire and they were strapped for cash, his orchard would provide the basis of a lucrative cider-making concern, but the roses would have to be grubbed out so he could plant potatoes and turnips. Amanda had dismissed the threat by exclaiming that she did not believe Mr Campion would or ever could retire, but that she intended to plant more roses, and ones with longer, more vicious thorns, just in case.

Those who thought they knew the Campions well felt that Carterers had been bought solely to benefit Amanda’s career as an aeronautical engineer with Alandel, and that Albert would never be content to vegetate out in the country cut off from the social life – and the shady underworld – of the metropolis. But as he had aged, Mr Campion had found great pleasures in fresh air rather than smog and in sitting proudly among the books in his library, which had long since outgrown his Piccadilly flat, rather than donning his ‘penguin suit’ and suffering the round of indistinguishable cocktail parties. And he was still able to visit London whenever he wished, by train from Swaffham or by car, as he never minded a long drive through East Anglia. Should anyone question his choice of domestic location, he would point out that East Anglia was the most easily accessible isolated spot in England, and the blinkered had only failed to realize this thanks to the region’s extremely clever advertising campaign which insisted that all roads and railway lines from the capital ended in Cambridge.

Campion would often reject complaints that East Anglia was simply too flat to be interesting, often parroting Noël Coward’s acidic dismissal in his play Private Lives, by praising the number of artists who had found that it was a place where the sky came down to meet the ground. John Constable knew that, and that was good enough for Mr Campion.

That Boxing Day morning, however, few painters – with the possible exception of Mr Turner – would have been inspired by the dark grey sky which glowered above the Campions and Lugg as they set out on their walk.

They were shivering by the time they reached the end of the driveway, marked by two granite gateposts imported from goodness knew where but no actual gate. Mr Campion believed that impressive metal gates in the boundary wall had guarded the entrance to the property until pressed into service as part of the war effort and never replaced. Only a two-foot-long six-inch-high wrought-iron sign at ground level, spelling out Carterers in a flamboyant blacksmith script, now identified it as the entrance to the house, though Campion took great pleasure in telling first-time visitors to ‘turn in between the two standing stones’ and also to assure them, despite what Lugg might say, that they were not gravestones.

Taking the lead, Campion and Rupert, the son matching the father’s long stride, set a brisk pace across the fields to keep warm, their planned four-mile route taking them in a big circle across agricultural land blissfully devoid of any signs of human habitation, although a dozen huddled sheep eyed them suspiciously from a distant hedgerow. By Campion’s reckoning they were almost at the halfway point when the wind, which had been mostly in their faces, seemed to drop.

‘’Ere it comes,’ announced Lugg with a loud sniff.

‘What does?’ Rupert asked over his shoulder.

‘Snow,’ proclaimed the fat man with a dignified resonance.

‘And you, you son-of-the-soil, can tell that simply with your highly sensitive olfactory system?’ said Campion.

‘That and the fact that I listened to the weather forecast on the wireless.’

As the four walkers turned for home, it began to snow.

Heavily.

Two

Let It Snow

‘Do you do requests?’

‘What?’

Graham Fisk was tempted to take a hand from the steering wheel and slap the sign on the windscreen which carried the instruction PLEASE DO NOT DISTRACT THE DRIVER, but to do so would be a distraction and in the present conditions highly dangerous.

He had known from the news and the weather forecasts that a low-pressure system had gathered strength and unleashed blizzards and heavy snowfalls all across East Anglia since Boxing Day, but there had been no government instruction not to travel, and his lords and masters at the coach company had sold the tickets, so there was no question that the Walsingham run should not go ahead. Just at the moment, running might get them to Walsingham faster, as for the last twenty miles a snail wearing snowshoes could have overtaken them with ease.

The ambient temperature of the living, breathing hulk that was London had kept the city streets clear if wet, but across much of Essex, as the sleet set in, driving conditions deteriorated rapidly. Crossing into Suffolk, it was as if the Arctic weather front had decided that the county boundary was where it was going to make a stand. The snow came down like a thrown blanket and the sun disappeared, until the only visible landmarks were abandoned vehicles stuck in the deepening snowdrifts which lined the road. Progress was slow, and only possible in the tracks of heavier vehicles up ahead, but the tenuous paths they carved were quickly losing the battle against a relentless covering of swirling snow reflected in the coach’s headlight beams.

Undipped headlights – and not even noon! Graham Fisk shook his head in despair and admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was. The last thing he needed was one of those tall Yanks looming over him asking bloody stupid questions.

‘I said do you do requests, like request stops?’

‘What?’

Fisk ground his teeth and gripped the steering wheel even tighter.

‘The next stop’s Swaffham, right? How long before we get there?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, squire,’ said Fisk, resisting the urge to suggest that they could easily drive right through it without noticing in the current blizzard.

The figure beside him seemed determined to distract the driver further by leaning in over his shoulder and peering at the dashboard display. Graham Fisk took his eyes off the road, or what little of the road he could make out through the smears left by the creaking windscreen wipers, and risked a glance at the man pressing against him so closely that he could feel the lining of his open parka against his chin. Under the parka was the blue uniform of