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The Complete Boxset · Books 1–3
Guide to Murder, Death by Hot Chocolate and Dead Before Pudding, complete and unabridged in one ebook. A truly excessive amount of cake included.
Book 1
£1.99 £4.65
Book 2
£3.49 £4.65
Book 3
£3.49 £4.65
Book 4
Coming soon
Release date to be announced.
A one-hour murder mystery puzzle to solve with a cuppa. Completely free.
Suzy K Quinn
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Enjoying it? The story is just getting started.
Murder?
In our quiet, little English village?
Great Oakley is a place of hanging baskets, tearooms and riverside walks. We’ve won ‘Britain’s safest village’ 10 years running. I keep three pound coins, a box of toffees and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on my dashboard at all times, and I’ve never needed to lock my car.
So, no. I do not think Bevvy Hogg was murdered.
Certainly, she was disliked. Bevvy ran the local Waist Watchers group, yet came to our pub for fish and chips, treacle tart and a bottle of Chardonnay every Friday. She enjoyed our roast on a Sunday too, which includes three large slices of beef or lamb, buttered carrots, cauliflower cheese, a giant Yorkshire pudding and a generous pile of crispy roast potatoes.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no judgment about Bevvy’s eating habits. We like hearty meals here at the Goose and Gander.
Our main customers are elderly walkers and tourists wanting big portions, real ale and large-print menus. That’s why our meat pie slices are so large that they hang off the plate. But Bevvy lectured her Waist Watchers members about saturated fat and alcohol, whilst regularly eating deep-fried fish and chips and swigging prosecco.
Nobody likes a hypocrite. But that doesn’t mean she was murdered. It was just all very odd.
Especially her unexplained weight loss.
Bevvy Hogg? Oh yes. Suspicious circumstances, for sure. The oddest of which being … well, she’d lost a lot of weight.
Bevvy was a larger lady for as long as we knew her. There’s nothing wrong with that. My wife, Shirley, is fuller figured and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.
Shirley enjoys her meat pies, roast dinners, syrup puddings, Guinness, wine, gin and prosecco. Sometimes, all in the same sitting. She makes no apology for her weight, and nor should she. But Bevvy was a slimming coach who helped others reach a healthy BMI. She hated being clinically obese, yet could never quite manage to lose weight herself.
So it was strange to find her both dead and, well … so much slimmer.
Did I mention it was me who found the body?
Bob found her. Bevvy, I mean. At 6am on Sunday morning.
The poor woman was face down on the flagstones in our pub garden with an empty treacle tart plate beside her.
Bob always starts his day early. He’s up at dawn tending to his vegetables. Then he’ll jet-wash the patio, clean the parasols, trim the lawn edges with manicure scissors, weed the flower beds, fill the bird feeders and put out water for Cyril the fox.
Bob keeps himself fit. He’d look like a hunky Dr Who if he didn’t cut his own hair with nail scissors and wear high-vis clothing. And don’t get me started on his woolly bobble hat. I call it his instant idiot hat. It’s especially bad when he wears it abroad. We become an immediate target for pickpockets.
Bob was very calm about finding a dead body in the garden. He used to be a fireman, so he’s seen worse. He didn’t bother me with it, knowing I like a lie-in on Sundays.
Once Bob had attempted mouth-to-mouth, he got his gardening clipboard and made notes for the paramedics and the police. He noted ‘weight loss’ as the most remarkable thing.
Bob had two more observations.
First, Bevvy had taken her cardigan off and was showing her bare arms.
Well, I was shocked by that. It might not sound odd to you, but Bevvy never showed her arms in public. I won’t say why out of respect for the dead. But let’s just say she had her reasons.
Second, Bob observed a strange, yellow mark on the patio, which he noted as ‘unidentified’.
After Bob took Bevvy’s vitals, he called the emergency services. But since Bevvy was already dead, well … the paramedics were in no hurry.
I didn’t notice Bevvy at first, because she was on the patio. And I’d gone straight to my tomatoes. They’re coming up well this year, and I wanted to harvest a few bags for our Ploughman’s lunch.
Our Ploughman’s is the best in Suffolk and comes with a large wedge of Suffolk Blue, Guinness cheddar, a selection of home-made pickles, tomatoes from our garden and four slices of freshly baked bread.
As I headed to the shed for my secateurs, I saw Bevvy. She was face down on the patio, looking rather blue in colour. There was a broken plate nearby and an unusual, bright-yellow streak on the flagstones. Bevvy’s beige cardigan seemed like it had been flung off in a hurry and hung damp with morning dew from a garden table.
I could tell Bevvy was dead. And also, that she was a lot thinner than usual. The way her dress draped over her body … well, I don’t mean to be ungentlemanly, but it showed her frame very clearly.
Bevvy wore those big, billowy floral dresses in summer. You know the sort where the skirt goes all the way to the ankles, like a patterned tent? Good for church and ladylike lunches. I imagine those dresses feel very cool and comfortable, especially in hot weather.
Shirley hates outfits like that. She likes to have her cleavage on display at all times. I’m proud of my wife’s fabulous fuller figure, but I do hope she covers up a little for the funeral. Which I imagine they’ll hold next week.
Hopefully, Bevvy’s relatives will drop by the pub so we can offer a free drink and our condolences. We do pride ourselves on looking after the community. A good village pub is a home from home.
Obviously, most homes don’t have a full-size bar with real ale pumps. But we like to think that the brick fireplace, comfy leather chairs and Tudor beams make for a warm welcome. And customers can perch on a bar stool if they fancy a chat with me or Shirley. One of us is usually around. Also worth knowing - we serve barista coffee and pots of tea if anyone fancies a hot drink. You don’t have to drink alcohol.
Watch out for Shirley if you ask for tea. She has strong opinions about how it should be made.
A proper English tea is made with milk. And it’s important to put the milk in after the hot water, otherwise the hot water cooks the milk. When Bob and I were first married, he used to put the milk in first. It was our first post-marriage argument. Luckily, I managed to educate him, and he’s made proper tea ever since.
I’ve made Shirley countless cups of tea, and I always put the milk in first.
She never notices.
The night before Bevvy died, we had a pub quiz.
We hold a quiz most Saturdays, because Bob says it brings the community together. Personally, I think it does the opposite. Bob’s quiz is extremely difficult, and people get angry. I mean, what are the chances of anyone knowing Napoleon’s mother’s maiden name? I try to lighten the mood with my Random Round, but sometimes people get angry about that, too. Even though Roger Moore definitely is the best James Bond, and yes, that is the correct answer.
Several teams come every week, and Bevvy’s Waist Watchers group was one of them.
The Waist Watchers team left early that night, though, because Bob offended them.
My husband can be very tactless, at times.
When the Waist Watchers arrived, Bob told them to be careful with the jukebox because it had been swallowing pound coins.
‘But perhaps you’d all be happy to lose a few pounds!’ he joked. Which obviously wasn’t funny for a slimming group.
Then Bob announced a new quiz round titled, ‘Health Problems’. He turned to Bevvy’s table and said: ‘Waist Watchers – you might finally get some answers right. Overweight people usually many more health complaints than their slimmer counterparts.’
At the end of the round, Bob scored everyone’s quiz sheets and said:
‘The Waist Watchers have done well here, identifying five type-II diabetes symptoms. Quite a few of them have type-II diabetes, I suppose. It’s common among overweight people over forty.’
To be fair, I’m not sure Bob realised he was talking into the microphone at that point.
So there were plenty of reasons why the Waist Watchers left early that night.
We just don’t know how Bevvy ended up, bare-armed and face down in the garden, several sizes smaller than usual.
I called the emergency services as soon as I found the body, but they take their time around here. We don’t have a police station in the village anymore due to a lack of crime, so the police drive in from the local market town. And they often grab a Cornish pasty and a cup of tea on the way from Honkers farm cafe.
Cornish pasties are delightful things, aren’t they? Beef, diced carrot and peas in golden shortcrust pastry. The pastry itself is crescent-shaped with a rolled, fluted edge. Years ago, factory workers had toxic stuff on their hands, and clean, running water was in short supply. So the workers would hold the fluted edge of the pasty, eat the meat and veg, then throw the edge away. But now most people eat the fluted edge, and jolly tasty it is too. Certainly, the town police don’t waste good pastry if their tight uniforms are anything to go by.
Anyway, I wasn’t expecting the police to arrive quickly on a Sunday morning. At least not until after breakfast. So it was a real surprise when young PC Ndlovu came within about five minutes of my phone call.
PC Nia Ndlovu is twenty years old and taking a policing degree at the local university. She has a baby face, sparkling eyes and thick, straight slices of hair.
Nia is from Birmingham originally, but has moved to Great Oakley for on-the-job training. She’s a very bright, mature girl, but she’d never seen a dead body before, so Bevvy’s corpse was a bit of a shock.
After I’d got PC Ndlovu’s breathing under control and given her hot, sweet tea, I showed her my notes. These included weather conditions, humidity, likelihood of external interference, etc.
‘I couldn’t see any bruising,’ I said. ‘Which suggests Bevvy didn’t fall. It’s almost like she came out here and lay down on the paving.’
Then I showed PC Ndlovu the strange, bright-yellow mark on the flagstones.
‘It’s a very odd colour, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘What could it be?’
‘Perhaps mould growth?’ PC Ndlovu suggested.
‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘I clean this patio every morning. And again in the evening, sometimes, if walkers have come in with muddy boots. This garden is my pride and joy. We’ve won the Bouquet Award for best-tended rose bushes and the Little Mower trophy for greenest lawn. If you like, I can show you my prized hybrid tea roses, the Queen Elizabeths, Whispering Charms and Ruby Perfections –’
I seemed to be losing PC Ndlovu’s attention, then. So I told her my theory about Bevvy’s time of death.
‘You see how her skin doesn’t blanch?’ I said, pressing Bevvy’s dead arm to demonstrate. ‘When someone’s just died, the blood is still mobile in the capillaries. But after about eight hours, the blood has settled. It’s fixed in the tissues. That’s called livor mortis. Once that’s set, you can press all you like and the colour doesn’t change. Which means she’s been dead for at least eight hours.’ …
Do I think Margaret was cursed? I wouldn’t rule it out. As a pub landlady, I keep an open mind. I found a ferret in the ladies’ toilet last week, and didn’t bat an eyelid. But it was strange, wasn’t it? The way Margaret looked when they found her.
There’s talk of spells, black cats and bewitched hot chocolate, but Great Oakley isn’t known for witchcraft. We’re famous for thatched cottages, horse and cart tracks, idyllic riverside walks and the best Ploughman’s lunch this side of Norfolk.
People in this village like to gossip.
Me included.
I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Margaret wasn’t well liked around here. She wrote bad reviews about local businesses, including a terrible review of the Goose and Gander, titled: ‘Angry Geese and Angrier Landlady’.
I lose my temper from time to time, but running an award-winning country pub is stressful. Bob says I just stand behind the bar chatting, while he does all the hard work. But who tells Bob to do the hard work?
Me.
And it’s not as if I do nothing. I invent the sandwich specials, sample the ales and help Yorkie, our drunkest customer, find his dental bridge at closing time.
I also do all the DIY. Today, for example, I’m fixing the jukebox with a large hammer. It’s playing ‘Whisky in the Jar’ on repeat, which is annoying. Although it has upped our whisky orders.
Of course I don’t think Margaret Bone was cursed.
People often assume that, as landlord of a village pub, I’m a red-nosed drunk who believes in superstition and folklore. But I have a physics A-level and can do a Sudoku puzzle whilst boiling the kettle. I don’t believe in witchcraft and magic spells.
Mind you, Margaret Bone’s death was odd.
Margaret was a frugal woman. She ran a bed-and-breakfast without central heating and rationed guests to 10 pieces of toilet paper a day. Yet she died with a cup of luxury hot chocolate beside her. Specifically, 70% Swiss hot chocolate from Goldi’s Chocolatier.
Goldi’s is run by a self-proclaimed witch – hence the curse rumours. The chocolate shop only opened a few weeks ago and is spectacularly overpriced. The chocolate slabs in the window, resplendent with whole hazelnuts, strawberries, fresh cream and roasted pistachios, cost £5 per shard. A single hot chocolate costs £7 a cup, and the ‘enjoy at home’ flakes are £5 a bag.
I wouldn’t spend my hard-earned money there, and I’m certain Margaret wouldn’t either.
Predictably, my wife Shirley is one of Goldi’s best customers. She buys Goldi’s hot chocolate and half-pound slabs of creamy Swiss chocolate on a near-daily basis.
There is a rumour that Margaret’s hot chocolate glowed green when her body was found, but rumours are easily exaggerated in small villages like ours. A raised voice in the Co-op becomes a full-blown fistfight by the time it reaches the hairdresser.
A German tourist named Dorte found the body. Poor woman. She was staying at Margaret’s Bed and Breakfast and woke to find her host dead in an easy chair.
I’m not sure what to feel most sorry about. Dorte finding the body, or the fact she was staying at Margaret’s Bed and Breakfast in the first place.
Truthfully, Margaret’s hospitality may have improved in death. She was not known for her warm welcome. Still. A corpse is not what you expect to find on a cycling tour of the British countryside.
Dorte has come to the pub a few times since for a Ploughman’s lunch with freshly baked bloomer bread and an extra portion of Blue Bomber cheese. She swears she saw an eerie green light around Margaret’s hot chocolate mug.
‘The green glow disappeared before the police arrived,’ Dorte told me. ‘But I know what I saw.’
‘I believe you, Dorte,’ I said. ‘Running a pub has made me an expert people-reader. In my experience, cyclists are practical and unlikely to hallucinate. My husband, Bob, is a cyclist and sees the world literally. He doesn’t even believe in aliens.’
Dorte also says she saw an empty bag of Goldi’s ‘enjoy at home’ flakes on Margaret’s kitchen counter. That’s probably the strangest thing of all.
Why on earth would a woman like Margaret have a bag of Goldi’s luxury Swiss hot chocolate? She removed every other lightbulb in the B&B to save money.
Goldi’s is run by a glamorous Swiss-Hungarian lady named Anna Goldi, who has been divorced three times and claims to be a white witch. If Anna did curse Margaret, well … Margaret only has herself to blame. Margaret wrote a shocking review about Goldi’s Chocolatier.
The chocolate shop has been open for a few weeks now, and there haven’t been many days when I haven’t stopped by for a thick, frothy cup of hot chocolate with a square marshmallow on top. Frankly, I don’t know how I managed without it.
If anyone else gets cursed, I’ll think twice about my daily visit to Goldi’s Chocolatier – perhaps cutting down to every other day. But until then, I see no reason to change a healthy habit. Everyone knows Swiss chocolate is good for you.
I’ve met the German tourist – Dorte – several times now. We don’t always talk about Margaret’s dead body, but if conversation goes in that direction, I don’t dissuade her.
Last night, Dorte came into the pub for steak and ale pie, crinkle-cut chips and a double whisky.
We’ve had a real run on whisky of late. I’m not sure why.
Dorte is absolutely certain that Margaret’s hot chocolate glowed green.
‘There was an eerie glow around the mug,’ she told me. ‘As though supernatural forces were at work.’
Most likely, Dorte was in shock. She seems a sensible woman, in the main, and we’ve had lengthy conversations about bicycle panniers and high-vis jackets.
I obviously don’t believe Anna Goldi is a witch, although I’ll admit she’s a talented businesswoman. Her latticed windows are filled with tempting chocolate slabs, marzipan fruit, truffles, edible gold-leaf and boxed chocolates in a variety of shapes and colours. She has village residents without self-control in the palm of her hand.
My wife included.
The police visited the pub today to accuse me of murder.
We don’t have a police station in the village anymore, but we do have a young police trainee, PC Ndlovu, who’s taking a policing degree at the local university.
PC Ndlovu hasn’t been worn down by the job yet, so wears a clean, pressed uniform, gleams with health and looks much younger than her 20 years. It would be better if her helmet didn’t slip over her eyes, but hopefully she’ll grow into it in time.
Today, PC Ndlovu visited the pub with Sergeant Moffat – partly to accuse me of murder, but also because Sergeant Moffat wanted a friendly ear.
Sergeant Moffat – aka Bernie the Pig – was based in Great Oakley before being transferred to the local town to do proper work. He rarely wears his helmet because of scalp psoriasis and often has pastry crumbs on his uniform.
Once I’d given Bernie the obligatory ‘free policeman’s pint’, he said, ‘I don’t really think you murdered anyone, Shirley, but I have to ask. Margaret left a bad review about your pub. That’s a motive.’
‘It’s not a motive,’ I said. ‘Margaret left bad reviews about every business in the village. She gave the supermarket a one-star review for not stocking sandwich paste.’ Then I turned to PC Ndlovu and said, ‘Do you want a drink too, love? Obviously no charge for our hard-working officers of the law.’
‘No thank you, Shirley,’ said PC Ndlovu. ‘As I’ve told you many times, I don’t accept free drinks on the job.’ Then she glanced at Bernie and added, ‘It could lead to corruption.’
PC Nia Ndlovu is a wholesome, church-going type who doesn’t drink alcohol on or off duty. Or accept free food and drink from local businesses. That’s unheard of in village policing.
After Bernie had accused me of murder, he told me his troubles.
‘I’m up for a disciplinary at work,’ Bernie admitted. ‘I accidentally uploaded pictures of Margaret Bone’s dead body to the ‘Buy, Sell and Free’ Great Oakley Facebook page.’
‘How on earth did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘It was an innocent mistake,’ said Bernie. ‘I was trying to upload pictures of a garden gnome I have for sale. And Margaret’s grimacing, dead face looked a lot like that gnome.’
‘You shouldn’t be using Facebook on your police-issued phone, Bernie,’ PC Ndlovu admonished. ‘Work and leisure should be separate.’
‘I know, I know,’ Bernie lamented. ‘But you know how this job is. You sit for hours in the car.’
‘At least you’ve taken the Facebook pictures down now,’ said PC Ndlovu. ‘Perhaps not too much damage has been done.’
‘Yes, I should get around to that,’ said Bernie. ‘I’ll set an alarm so I don’t forget again.’
Well.
Obviously, I excused myself to have a quick look on the ‘Buy, Sell and Free’ Great Oakley Facebook page.
Bernie’s post was still right at the top.
Garden gnome for sale, fishing rod missing – £10
Underneath were pictures of Margaret Bone’s dead face.
I’ve been told about Margaret’s appearance, of course. But the reality … well. As a pub landlady, I’ve seen a lot of things. And let me tell you, those photos were disturbing.
I was changing a beer barrel in the cellar when Shirley climbed down the ladder and showed me pictures of Margaret’s dead body.
I was horrified.
First, by Bernie’s unprofessionalism. Second, by Margaret’s face.
Margaret’s skin seemed oddly contorted, pulling in different directions into a sort of mask. Her eyes were black as old pennies – dark, and staring. And I’ve never seen such a sinister smile, either in life or death.
A beer cellar is a gloomy place at the best of times, but it took on a creepy turn as Margaret’s dilated pupils leered back at me.
‘What do you think, Bob?’ said Shirley. ‘Maybe the curse rumours are true after all?’
As mentioned, I don’t believe in curses. But I must admit, Margaret’s face looked possessed by an evil spirit.
‘Margaret wasn’t one to invest in makeup or skincare,’ said Shirley. ‘She had more bad lines than the village Christmas play. So what happened to her face? Why is her skin so tight and smooth?’
‘It’s the smile that’s bothering me,’ I said. ‘Margaret never smiled in life. Why would she smile in death? A dying person has even less to be happy about.’
Margaret’s grinning, dead face has now been seen by half the village. So the other half will see it soon. You’d think the Facebook pictures would be bad for Goldi’s Chocolatier, but quite the opposite.
Since that photograph of Margaret’s doe-eyed, line-free face appeared on Facebook, Anna Goldi is doing a roaring trade. There are queues out the door most mornings. It means an earlier start for me to miss the crowd, but I don’t mind it. Early mornings are when Anna gives out the most free samples.
Bob goes on and on about Goldi’s Chocolatier being overpriced, but I think £7 for a luxury Swiss hot chocolate is very reasonable. Bob is stuck in the Dark Ages when it comes to money. He still uses a thermos flask rather than buying hot drinks and insists he is ‘frugal’ rather than mean.
‘Saving money is something to be celebrated, Shirley,’ Bob says, far too often for my liking. ‘If it weren’t for me, you’d have a terrible rate of interest on your savings account.’
But the last laugh is on Bob, because there’s absolutely no money in my savings account.
Personally, I’m delighted to have a continental business like Goldi’s on our doorstep. We’re a traditional English village of tea rooms, narrow streets and rose gardens, so we’re a magnet for the boring and the small-minded. And I include my husband in that number.
If Bob had his way, this pub would have no jukebox, pizza oven or swinging sausage BBQ, and the village would be worse off for it. He still has items of clothing from the 1970s that he sees no reason to throw away, and cuts his own hair and beard with nail scissors.
Bob and I may run a British pub, but you have to move with the times. People get bored with Tudor beams, a roaring log fire, real ale and cosy leather snugs. What’s wrong with having sushi on the menu every so often? …
Charlie was dead to begin with. There was no doubt about that. He fell down, clutching his chest, after an excellent lunch of roast beef, crispy roast potatoes, buttered carrots and cauliflower cheese. Even more tragically, he died before the plum pudding was served. And it was an excellent pudding. Dark and rich, filled with sweet, dried fruit and topped with dairy-fresh whipped cream from Armstrong Farm.
The death wasn’t suspicious.
Until last night, when Charles walked into our pub garden, sat on a cold bench by the river and completed a cryptic crossword.
My wife, Shirley, is superstitious. She calls it ‘keeping an open mind’, but there’s a difference between plant-based pub menu options and believing in ghosts.
Charles Crow is dead. He’s buried in the village graveyard between Ian Tuggle (made the best chutney in Suffolk) and Mary Rattihands (mother of seven, she did what she could).
Charles died around a year ago, at a Christmas luncheon. I didn’t attend the funeral because I didn’t like Charles very much. He was an angry, rich man who seemed to get angrier the richer he got. Also, Christmas is a busy time at the pub. But had I known the funeral would be so poorly attended … well, I would have stopped by.
I’ve visited Charles’s grave once or twice to say a few prayers, and my word – what a sad grave it is. The headstone is almost bare. No ‘in loving memory’ or any other sentiment. Only Charles’s name, year of birth and year of death.
I said to Shirley, ‘Of course Charles didn’t come into the pub last night. He has a grave. They don’t make gravestones for living people. More importantly, Charles dropped down dead in a room full of people. At least 10 witnesses saw him die of a heart attack. So Charles can’t have attended our pub quiz. A dead person does not participate in a cryptic crossword round. I don’t know why someone wrote ‘Charles Crow’ on that crossword sheet, but we have to assume it was a practical joke played by someone who enjoys cryptic puzzles.’
Shirley still isn’t convinced. She now believes our pub is haunted.
Utterly ridiculous.
There’s no such thing as ghosts.
I could tolerate a friendly ghost. Ian Tuggle, for example, was a lovely man who gave us jars of homemade chutney. He’d be more than welcome to haunt the pub. But Charles was selfish and spent a lifetime taking from others. His own family didn’t attend his funeral. So I am a little worried that his malevolent ghost is hanging around our pub garden.
Charles didn’t come into the pub often, but occasionally he’d stop by for Bob’s quiz night cryptic crossword. Charles would sit by the river, do the crossword round, then go home without saying a word to anyone.
The only person Charles got along with was Sambuca, our pub cat. Which makes sense, because Sambuca is unfriendly too. He’s an angry, aloof Persian who is prone to violence.
Sambuca’s ‘About Me’ book is on the bar, and I always recommend new customers read it. There’s a particular warning, underlined in red, about standing between Sambuca and his food bowl. If you do that, you could get scratched to smithereens. And making eye contact isn’t a good idea either.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Sambuca has his kind moments. He has a soft spot for the brokenhearted and will come and sit on your lap if you’re in emotional pain. Just don’t make any sudden movements while he’s there.
Charles Crow must have had pain in his life, or Sambuca wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him. Then again, Charles gave Sambuca whisky, so that might also explain the friendship. Our cat has a mild drinking problem. It’s my fault. I’ve spoiled him with neat vodka on a matchstick and occasional sips of Guinness.
I do wish Bob would take this haunting seriously. December is a busy time of year at the pub. The last thing we need is a ghost causing trouble.
True, Charles hasn’t caused trouble yet. All he’s done is sit in our cold garden and fill in Bob’s notoriously difficult cryptic crossword. But give him time. He’s warming up the ethereal veil. Yesterday, it was a crossword. Tomorrow, Charles will scare the pub-garden geese and turn Bob’s winter vegetables rotten.
I wish I’d collected those crossword sheets myself, so I could have got a good look at the ghost. But sadly, I was too busy arguing with Bob about my ‘Random Round’ question:
‘What is the best biscuit to dunk in tea?’
Well, obviously it’s a custard cream. For Bob to say it’s subjective is utterly ridiculous.
While Bob and I were arguing, my youngest daughter, Brandi, went around the pub collecting crossword sheets.
Brandi is heavily pregnant, so should have been upstairs, putting her feet up. We have lovely family accommodation above the pub. Tudor beams. Huge kitchen. A great big roaring fire. I love sitting up there on a soft sofa with a tin of Quality Street, watching TV.
Unfortunately, Brandi has mine and Bob’s worst qualities. She won’t be told what to do, like me. And works too hard, like Bob.
Brandi and my 12-year-old grandson, Callum, moved back into the pub a few months ago. Brandi isn’t happy about living with her parents again and keeps saying she’s let herself down, but that’s just silly. Why shouldn’t families be together? I love having all my birdies in one nest.
While Brandi was collecting cryptic crosswords, she noticed someone sitting in the garden.
Our pub garden is on the riverbank, with willow trees, wild geese and the neatest, greenest rolling lawn you ever saw. A nice place to sit in summer, but not in December. Even the smokers huddle near the back door at this time of year for residual warmth from the kitchen extractor fan.
Brandi collected the crossword sheet from the garden and said, ‘There’s a real weirdo outside, Mum. All alone on the table by the river. Grey coat, grey hair, blue hands and all hunched over. I couldn’t see their face. I had a horrible feeling they might be frozen solid. But then they started giggling in this weird, high-pitched way.’
‘Who on earth would sit outside in winter?’ I asked. ‘They must be very drunk. I imagine they’ll get zero on the crossword. Your father’s cryptic clues are notoriously difficult. Tell whoever it is to come in and sit by the fire.’
We have two large pub fireplaces, and - despite Bob’s miserly attempts to ration firewood - always have a good blaze going in winter.
‘I already told the person to come inside,’ said Brandi. ‘That’s when they started giggling. They sounded like a real nutter.’
While Brandi and I were talking, Sambuca shot past us and out into the frosty garden.
Which was odd.
‘Where’s Sambuca off to?’ I asked. ‘He hates going outside in the winter. He likes the bar, where the drinkers are. There’s more chance of him getting a sip of beer that way.’
I didn’t think much more of it, to be honest. I was too busy arguing with customers about custard cream biscuits.
Later, when Brandi scored the crossword sheets, we had the usual mess of answers. Letters squeezed in where they shouldn’t be. Made-up words. That sort of thing.
The average score on Bob’s cryptic crossword is 0%. But lo-and-behold, someone had got a few answers right.
And guess whose name was written on that sheet?
Charles Crow.
Well.
I nearly dropped my pint of Guinness when I saw that name.
‘Is this a joke?’ I asked Brandi, waving the sheet at her.
‘No,’ said Brandi. ‘Nothing about Dad’s cryptic crossword is funny. That sheet is from the person in the garden.’
‘But Charles Crow died nearly a year ago,’ I said. ‘How could he have done this crossword?’
‘Beats me,’ said Brandi. ‘I’m going upstairs to redo my eyebrows.’
Obviously, I went out to the garden to confront this so-called Charles Crow. But the garden was empty.
It was odd, seeing Charles Crow’s name on that cryptic crossword sheet.
Shirley saw the name first. She called me to the bar and said, ‘Bob, we have a problem.’
‘The answers are final, Shirley,’ I said. ‘Sydney is not the capital of Australia. And the UK has nine time zones, when you include overseas territories.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Shirley. ‘Charles Crow has filled in a cryptic crossword.’
‘He couldn’t have done,’ I said. ‘Charles Crow died at last year’s church Christmas lunch for widows and widowers. Except it’s not called that. It’s called the Care Café luncheon for the free and single. Charles may have been wealthy, but he was also mean. He disliked paying staff double time at Christmas. And Val Gunn and those church ladies make an excellent roast. Only £7.50 for a full plate of food with two slices of roast meat, followed by plum pudding with fresh, dairy cream from Carol Armstrong’s farm.’
‘Val Gunn’s roast dinners aren’t a patch on ours,’ said Shirley, ‘Her meat slices are thin, Bob. Thin. Our roast comes with three thick slices of meat and a Yorkshire pudding so large that it needs its own plate.’
‘I imagine whoever wrote ‘Charles Crow’ on this crossword is playing a practical joke,’ I said. ‘But even so, I’m impressed with their puzzle abilities. It was a particularly difficult crossword this evening, requiring specialist knowledge of medieval weaponry and the specifics of tea passage from India during the 1800s.’
‘It’s no joke,’ said Shirley. ‘We’re being haunted.’
Obviously, we’re not being haunted. But I confess, I don’t have any other ready explanation. A practical joke is one thing. Getting answers right on a tricky crossword is quite another. Charles Crow was someone who scored well in the crossword round, so I’m a little perplexed.
Once Shirley had finished worrying about ghosts, she started worrying about Brandi.
‘Brandi shouldn’t be working in the pub in her condition, Bob,’ Shirley fretted. ‘Especially not with a ghost lurking around. Will you have a word with her? She won’t listen to me.’
‘Brandi won’t listen to me any more than she listens to you,’ I said. ‘And personally, I don’t see why she can’t still be a useful member of the family whilst pregnant. What else would she be doing? Most likely, looking in a mirror.’
My youngest daughter, Brandi, is training to be a beautician. Consequently, she is obsessed with her appearance. Even in late pregnancy, she has full, blonde hair extensions, false lashes and long, pointed fingernails. She spends many wasted hours on pointless vanity.
‘Being pregnant isn’t the same as being ill,’ I told Shirley. ‘My Scottish mother used to haul coal sacks into the cottage when she was nine months pregnant. And lucky she did, or the family would’ve frozen to death.’
Shirley muttered about my ‘difficult’ upbringing, but I don’t think my childhood was especially difficult. And it’s given me a huge appreciation for electricity and running water.
Bob is out tonight at bell ringing practice.
Every December, Bob and his bell-ringing friends go into a frenzy, preparing for the ‘special Christmas Day bells’. It’s annoying, because December is our busiest month and I need all the help I can get. …