“Of course she bloody well can’t,” he retorted. “The others are all sold, you know that. And you know how fussy she is.”
Sheila did know. Mrs. Grundy lived at Much Cluning Hall and. although she was pleasant enough, she disliked being thwarted or inconvenienced. Her manner implied that she expected her life to run as smoothly as the Rolls- Royce her husband drove. Oh, God, Sheila thought, it looked like being a miserable Christmas. Jason would be in a foul mood for days. A terrible thought occurred to her. “Hadn’t you better count them?” she asked.
“I’m going to.”
Jason strode across the yard to the big shed where the dead birds, plucked and drawn, were laid out in rows along the shelves. Sheila followed and watched while he counted them. There should be ninety, she knew. Christmas turkeys might be profitable, but they were only a sideline to the main business of the farm, the crops and sheep.
“There are four gone!” Jason shouted. “Four! That’s the best part of fifty pounds!” He turned furiously. “I’m going to ring the police!”
“Jason, do you think—?” Sheila asked weakly.
But he was in no mood to pay attention, and she followed him uneasily into the house.
It was nearly an hour before P. C. Tom Roberts arrived. He had been at the site of a road accident four miles away and the theft of four turkeys hadn’t seemed like the crime of the century, even in Much Cluning. Clearly Jason Richards didn’t agree with him.
“They must have got in during the night,” he said. Waiting had done nothing to soothe his anger. “You can see their tracks.”
He led the way through the churned-up slush in the yard, past the farm buildings to a small meadow bounded on the far side by a low hedge. It was still freezing hard, and the snow, several inches deep, was crisp and unbroken save for a clearly designed set of footprints leading from the yard to the hedge near the point where it met the road. Jason had said “they,” Roberts thought, but there was only one set. Smallish prints, too.
“Looks like he came this way.” he agreed. “Was the shed locked at night?”
“No.” Jason sounded as if he were daring the policeman to criticize him. “The padlock’s fastened with a peg. We’ve never had anything stolen before.”
Roberts walked back across the yard.
“Where are you going?” Jason demanded.
“Don’t want to disturb the tracks then, do we, sir?” Roberts said. He walked along the road and across to the point where, it seemed, the thief had forced his way through the hedge. There was still just enough light for him to make out the tuft of material caught on a twig. He picked it out carefully and frowned. It was bright-red and thin. Hardly the sort of clothing a man would wear to go stealing turkeys on a freezing-cold night. Not what most men would wear at any time, come to that. He tucked the fragment away between two pages of his notebook and returned to where the farmer was watching.
The turkeys must have been stolen on one of the last two nights, Jason told him. He had counted them two days ago.
Tom Roberts lived in the village. He knew about George Townley’s seeing a figure dressed like Santa Claus disappearing into Brackett’s Wood and about the mysterious parcels which had appeared on certain doorsteps last night. There had been four of them, each one containing a turkey. And four turkeys had been taken from Jason’s shed. Roberts was well aware of the dangers of putting two and two together and making sixteen, but it looked to him very much as if some joker had been playing twin roles, Robin Hood and Santa Claus.
Of all the people in the village, he could think of only one who possessed the sort of mind to think up a ploy like that and the cheek to carry it out: Colin Loates. Colin had never been suspected of dishonesty, but he was— what was the word? —unpredictable. Sometimes his sense of humor ran away with him. After all, everybody knew Jason Richards could well afford the loss of four birds, and the recipients of the parcels were genuinely deserving cases. If it had been up to him personally, Roberts would have felt inclined to say, “Good luck to him,” and write the case off as unsolved. But it wasn’t, and theft was theft, however good the motive. So he promised Jason he would make inquiries and went to see Colin.
He found him at his father’s shop, making up orders for the next day.
When Colin heard why he was there, he laughed. “Serve Jason right,” he
said.
“You’ve no idea who might have done it?” Roberts asked him.
“Me? No. I don’t know why you should come to me about it. You’re the one who’s supposed to know about all the crime that goes on here.”
“Where were you the last two nights?” Roberts asked him.
“What time?”
“Anytime.”
“Home in bed.”
They eyed each other. Colin seemed to think the whole business was a great joke, and that annoyed Roberts a little. He looked down at the other man’s feet. They must be size nines, at least. The boots which made the tracks in the snow on Jason Richards’ meadow had been no bigger than sevens. All the same, “Have you got any Wellingtons?” he asked.
“Course I have,” Colin answered.
“Where are they?”
“In the boot of my car. Why?”
“Do you mind if I have a look at them?”
“Not if you want to.”
They went out to the yard at the back of the shop where Colin’s old Escort was parked. He opened the boot and brought out a pair of worn grey Wellingtons. Roberts studied them. They were size ten.
“All right, thanks,” he said.
Colin just grinned. “Do you think I took Jason’s turkeys?” he asked.
Roberts didn’t answer.
Miss Crindle heard about the theft the next morning when she was doing her last-minute Christmas shopping. It seemed to justify her fears, and she decided that she must talk to Tom Roberts.
“You think the turkeys the Renwicks and the others got were the ones somebody stole from Jason Richards’ shed, don’t you?” she asked him.
“I can’t say. Miss Crindle,” the policeman replied cautiously.
“Of course you can, everybody else is.” Miss Crindle swept his objection aside. “And you suspect you know who it was, don’t you?”
Roberts eyed his visitor. Muffled up in what looked like two or three layers of jumpers and cardigans under her coat, she looked bigger than ever. It would have been easy to put her down as a silly busybody, but Roberts knew better. Miss Crindle was an intelligent woman. And if she took a keen interest in what went on in Much Cluning, she was no mischief-maker. “We’re pursuing our inquiries,” he said.
“So I should hope,” she told him briskly. “Although I must confess, my sympathies are rather with the thief.” She paused, then continued with obvious embarrassment, “I thought I should tell you, I saw Father Christmas last night.”
Roberts gaped at her. For a moment he wondered if she had suddenly gone queer. “I’m sorry?” he stammered.
“Somebody dressed as Santa Claus left the parcels. I happened to look out of my window about one o’clock and I saw them going round behind the Renwicks’ house. I didn’t say anything about it, there didn’t seem any point, and I’ve no wish to be thought mad, but if the birds were stolen—”
“You’ve no idea who it was?” Roberts asked, recovering a little.
“None,” Miss Crindle answered firmly. “I can’t even say if it was a man or a woman. I suppose you know George Townley saw them, too, two or three days ago?”
Roberts nodded. “It looks as if whoever took the turkeys was wearing red,” he said grimly. “He left this caught on the hedge where he pushed through.” He took out his notebook and showed Miss Crindle the fragment of cloth.
She studied it with interest. “It looks like a piece from a Santa Claus costume,” she observed. She gave the
