the tractor up to the road to clear a path for us. It’s lonely out here. If you’d seen a light in Blackstoneburn last night you’d have gone in. Glad of the company and old Shaftoe’s whisky.”
Helms shook his head helplessly.
“Did he pay you to keep quiet?” Hunter demanded. Suddenly, with a reluctant witness to bully he was in his element. “Or did he threaten you?”
“No,” Helms said, “it were nothing like that.”
“But she was there with some man?” Hunter was jubilant.
“Oh.” Helms’s wife said quietly, shocking them with her interruption, “she was there with some man.”
Ramsay turned to the farmer. “She was your mistress?” he said, and Hunter realised he had known all along.
Helms said nothing.
“You must have met her at the agricultural suppliers in Otterbridge. Perhaps when you went to pay your bill. Perhaps she recognised you. She often came to Blackstoneburn.”
“I recognised her,” Helms said.
“You’d hardly miss her,” the woman said. “The way she flaunted herself.”
“No.” The farmer shook his head. “No. it wasn’t like that.”
He paused.
“You felt sorry for her... ?” Ramsay prompted.
“Aye!” Helms looked up, relieved to be understood at last.
“Why did you bring her here?” Ramsay asked.
“I didn’t. Not here.”
“But to Blackstoneburn. You had a key? Or Rebecca did?”
Helms nodded. “She was lonely,” he said. “In town. Everyone thinking of Christmas. You know.”
“So you brought her up to Blackstoneburn,” Hunter said unpleasantly. “For a dirty weekend. Thinking you’d sneak over to spend some time with her. Thinking your wife wouldn’t notice.”
Helms said nothing.
“What went wrong?” Hunter demanded. “Did she get greedy? Want more money? Blackmail? Is that why you killed her?”
“You fool!” It was almost a scream, and as she spoke the woman stood up with her huge red hands laid flat on the table. “He wouldn’t have harmed her. He didn’t kill her. I did.”
“You must tell me,” Ramsay said again, “exactly what happened.”
But she needed no prompting. She was desperate for their understanding. “You don’t know what it’s like here,” she said. “Especially in the winter. Dark all day. Every year it drives me mad....” She stopped, realising she was making little sense, and continued more rationally. “I knew he had a woman, guessed. Then I saw them in town and I recognised her too. She was wearing black stockings and high heels, a dress that cost a fortune. How could I compete with that?” She looked down at her shapeless jersey and jumble-sale trousers. “I thought he’d grow out of it. that if I ignored it, he’d stop. I never thought he’d bring her here.” She paused.
“How did you find out?” Ramsay asked.
“Yesterday afternoon I went out for a walk. I left the boys with my dad. I’d been in the house all day and just needed to get away from them all. It was half-past three, starting to get dark. I saw the light in Blackstoneburn and Joe’s Land Rover parked outside. Like you said, we’re desperate here for company, so I went around to the front and knocked at the door. I thought Tom Shaftoe was giving him a drink.”
“There was no car,” Ramsay said.
“No,” she said. “But Tom parks it sometimes in one of the sheds. I didn’t suspect a thing.”
“Did you go in?”
“Not then.” she said calmly. “When there was no reply I looked through the window. They were lying together in front of the fire. Then I went in....” She paused again. “When she saw me she got up and straightened her clothes. She laughed. I suppose she was embarrassed. She said it was an awkward situation and why didn’t we all discuss it over a cup of tea. Then she turned her back on me and walked through to the kitchen.” Chrissie Helms caught her breath in a sob. “She shouldn’t have turned her back,” she said. “I deserved more than that....”
“So you hit her,” Ramsay said.
“I lost control,” Chrissie said. “I picked up the poker from the grate and I hit her.”
“Did you mean to kill her?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to mean something.”
“But you didn’t stop to help her?”
“No.” she said. “I came home. I left it to Joe to sort out. He owed me that. He did his best, but I knew we’d not be able to carry it through.” She looked at her husband. “I’ll miss you and the boys,” she said. “But I’ll not miss this place. Prison’ll not be much different from this.”
Hunter walked to the window to wait for the police Land Rover. He rubbed a space in the condensation and saw that it was snowing again, heavily. He thought that he agreed with her.
GRIST FOR THE MILLS OF CHRISTMAS – James Powell
The tabloid press dubbed the corner of southern Ontario bounded by Windsor, Sarnia, and St. Thomas “The Christmas Triangle” after holiday travelers began vanishing there in substantial numbers. When the disappearances reached twenty-seven, Wayne Sorley, editor-at-large of
So when the middle of December rolled around, Sorley flew to Detroit, rented a car, and drove across the border into snow, wind, and falling temperatures.
He quickly discovered the bed-and-breakfast people weren’t really crazy about the Christmas Triangle slant. Some thought it was bad for business. Few took the disappearances as lightly as Sorley did. To make matters worse, his reputation had preceded him. The current issue of
On the evening of the twenty-third of December, and well behind schedule, Sorley arrived at the last bed- and-breakfast on his prearranged itinerary to find a handwritten notice on the door. “Closed by the Board of Health.” Shaking his fist at the dark windows, Sorley decided then and there to throw in the towel. To hell with the damn Christmas Triangle! So he found a motel for the night, resolving to get back across the border and catch the first available flight for New York City. But he awoke late to find a fresh fall of snow and a dead car battery.
It was midafternoon before Sorley, determined as ever, was on the road again. By six o’clock the snow was coming down heavily and aslant and he was still far from his destination. He drove on wearily. What he really needed now, he told himself, was a couple of weeks in Hawaii. How about an article on “The Twelve Luaus of Christmas”? This late they’d have to fake it. But what the hell, in Hawaii they have to fake the holidays anyway.
Finally Sorley couldn’t take the driving anymore and turned off the highway to find a place for the night. That’s when he saw the “Double Kay B & B” sign with the shingle hanging under it that said “Vacancy.” On the front lawn beside the sign stood a fine old pickle-dish sleigh decorated with Christmas tree lights. Plastic reindeer lit electrically from within stood in the traces. Sorley pulled into the driveway and a moment later was up on the porch ringing the bell.
Mrs. Kay was a short, stoutish, white-haired woman with a pleasant face which, except for an old scar from a sharp-edged instrument across the left cheekbone, seemed untouched by care. She ushered Sorley inside and down a carpeted hallway and up the stairs. The house was small, tidy, bright, and comfortably arranged. Sorley couldn’t quite find the word to describe it until Mrs. Kay showed him the available bedroom. The framed naval charts on the walls, the boat in a bottle, and the scrimshawed narwhal tusk on the mantel gave him the word he was looking for. The house was ship-shape.
