The Christmas Puzzle

By Cecilia Peartree

This is the eighth novel in the Pitkirtly Mystery series.
Through a random combination of circumstances, Jock McLean and Amaryllis find themselves playing Santa Claus and his elf respectively at the Pitkirtly Christmas Market, a blatant attempt to lure tourists away from Edinburgh. Proceedings are interrupted by a murder on Pitkirtly Island (not really an island) and by the activities of a new organisation called FOOP.
A sequence of events occurs which results not only in Christopher and Amaryllis having a picnic in the Cultural Centre but in Jock McLean buying new socks for the first time in living memory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cecilia Peartree
• Release date: Oct 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311222879

Cecilia Peartree

Cecilia Peartree is the pen name of a writer from Edinburgh. She has dabbled in various genres so far, including science fiction and humour, but she keeps returning to a series of 'cosy' mysteries set in a small town in Fife.The first full length novel in the series, 'Crime in the Community', and the fifth 'Frozen in Crime are 'perma-free' on all outlets.The Quest series is set in the different Britain of the 1950s. The sixth novel in this series, 'Quest for a Father' was published in March 2017..As befits a cosy mystery writer, Cecilia Peartree lives in the leafy suburbs with her cats.

Book preview

The Christmas Puzzle

Cecilia Peartree

Smashwords edition

Copyright Cecilia Peartree 2014

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 One of our elves is missing

Chapter 2 Elf in cuffs

Chapter 3 FOOP

Chapter 4 Melting the Ice

Chapter 5 Field trip

Chapter 6 The island that wasn’t an island

Chapter 7 Elf and Safety

Chapter 8 Archaeology

Chapter 9 Police Harassment

Chapter 10 The far side of the law

Chapter 11 Laying down the law

Chapter 12 Liberating Jason

Chapter 13 Confidences

Chapter 14 From the archives

Chapter 15 Breakthrough

Chapter 16 Revenge – what kind of a dish?

Chapter 17 Entertaining visitors

Chapter 18 Encounters of the Unwanted Kind

Chapter 19 The Day After

Chapter 20 Repelling the Roman threat

Chapter 21 Doughnuts and deductions

Chapter 22 Jock’s proactive strategy

Chapter 23 Among my souvenirs

Chapter 24 The picture on the box

Chapter 25 Serious Repercussions

Chapter 26 Arriving at a strategy - or is it a tactic?

Chapter 27 Tidying up

Chapter 28 Confused, of Pitkirtly

Chapter 1 One of our elves is missing

The first warning sign was that he had woken up while it was still dark.

The second was that he could hear somebody else breathing. He reviewed the events of the previous evening to see if there were any clues. For instance, had he been so drunk that he hadn’t noticed Charlie Smith’s dog following him home from the Queen of Scots and getting into bed with him? It wasn’t impossible. He vaguely recalled that it had been somebody’s birthday, and....

‘You’re going to have to be Santa Claus,’ said a horribly familiar voice.

Jock McLean reached out and switched on the bedside lamp, an innovation Jemima and Dave had installed for him a couple of months back when he had caught the flu and had been in bed for five days. Up until then he had managed perfectly well without it, preferring to get up in the freezing cold and stumble across to the light switch by the door, catching his shins every time on the drawer that didn’t close properly.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said to Amaryllis, who was standing by his bed staring down at him. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Santa Claus is dead,’ she said.

‘He can’t be!’

‘He isn’t really,’ she admitted. ‘He got a special deal on flights to New York, so he and his wife are on their way to the airport. You’ll have to do it.’

‘There must be somebody else... Dave? Christopher? You?’

She shook her head, causing her dark red hair to spike out round her head like the crown of thorns on one of those all-too-graphic crucifixes that were sometimes displayed in churches in order to intimidate people.

‘I’ve got to be an elf,’ she said mournfully.

Jock heaved himself up to rest on his elbows. ‘An elf? I thought elves were meant to be incredibly beautiful with long blonde hair and an aura of other-wordly serenity based on their innate self-knowledge of immortality.’

‘I don’t know where you got that idea,’ said Amaryllis, sitting down with a thud on the end of the bed. ‘There’s a nice red cloak and a big beard. No-one will know it’s you.’

‘Hey! How did you get into my house anyway?’

‘That would be telling.’

‘Why have you got to be an elf?’ said Jock.

‘We’re one down,’ she said. ‘There’s no time to find anyone else.’

Jock rubbed his eyes. ‘Are you sure I’m not dreaming this?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Why didn’t you ask Christopher to be Santa Claus?’

‘I tried him first,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Hurry up, it’s past seven o’clock. We’ve got to go down to the Queen of Scots for a rehearsal.’

‘Seven o’clock in the morning? So you couldn’t talk Christopher round?’

‘He claims to be too busy.’

Ha! Too busy hiding in his office trying to ignore the rest of the world, said Jock scornfully to himself as he searched for a clean shirt and struggled into his trousers. He had banished Amaryllis from the room before doing any of this, of course. She didn’t need to know what was in his chest of drawers.

She had tea and toast waiting by the time he got downstairs.

‘You’re quite domesticated really, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘You’d better hurry up. She doesn’t like people to be late.’

Jock had lost the will to question her about who was in charge. He knew Amaryllis was completely ruthless and would get him to the rehearsal even if he staged a dramatic collapse on the way and she had to drag him there by the feet.

‘What are we going to rehearse?’ he asked plaintively once they were walking down to the Queen of Scots. ‘Have I got to say anything?’

‘You can manage ho ho ho, surely,’ she said.

They passed the newsagents. The owner, a grumpy man who looked like a pit bull terrier, only larger and uglier, stood outside, staring up and down the street as if waiting for a first glimpse of Santa Claus, his sleigh, elves and reindeer. Well, he’d had one now, thought Jock, smiling to himself at this small joke. He had a strong feeling he was going to regret agreeing to this. Not that he had actually agreed. It was more a case of giving in for the sake of peace. Appeasement. He would need all the private jokes he could think of to get through it.

There were huskies.

‘Don’t pat any of them unless you’re prepared to pat them all,’ said the man who appeared to be in charge of the pack. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

In Jock’s opinion it was asking for trouble to go around with a pack of huskies in the first place. ‘I thought there would be reindeer,’ he grumbled to Amaryllis. ‘Have I got to get on that thing?’ He indicated the flimsy-looking sledge that trailed along behind the huskies.

‘Of course not!’ She laughed for such a long time that he was sure she was faking it. ‘You’ve got to be a trained husky racer to get on that. You’ll be on the tram.’

‘That’s all right then – did you say tram?’

‘There it is!’ Amaryllis pointed out the large hulking shape that lurked to one side of the pub. They approached it with caution. It was an old-fashioned double-decker tram which had seen better days. Jock could remember only too well what it had been like to ride on the top deck of trams like that. The seating tended to be Spartan, and you had to hang on for dear life whenever it negotiated a corner.

‘How did that get there?’ said Jock. He knew he hadn’t been all that alert when he left the Queen of Scots the night before, but he didn’t think he could have missed seeing the tram, which appeared to be decorated for Christmas with flashing lights and sparkly stuff.

‘They brought it on a lorry in the night. It’s from a tram museum.’

‘There aren’t any rails for it to run on,’ said Jock uneasily.

‘It’s not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘It’ll just be parked there for the duration. You’ll be nice and cosy inside.’

‘Hmph! That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘They wanted to turn on the sound as well,’ said Charlie Smith gloomily, coming up behind them with his dog. The huskies all started barking at once.

‘You keep that mongrel away from my huskies!’ shouted the husky man.

‘Don’t you worry,’ said Charlie. ‘He wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole.’

‘Or the North Pole!’ yelled Amaryllis.

‘Oh, ha ha,’ retorted the man.

‘Ha ha to you with knobs on,’ said Amaryllis.

They returned to the matter in hand.

‘It plays Christmas carols,’ said Charlie. ‘Not that you can really call them carols.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Jock. ‘Mushy songs about Santa Claus.’

‘Musical marshmallows,’ agreed Charlie.

‘I don’t know what you’re both so grumpy about,’ said Amaryllis, although surely to goodness she was used to them being grumpy. They were Scotsmen, after all, and it was so early in the morning that it was still dark. ‘I’m the one that has to dress up in green leggings.’

‘Do you have false ears too?’ said Jock.

‘No, they’re all my own.’

The question was, why was Amaryllis so chirpy? Either she had already assassinated somebody today, or...

‘Morning, all,’ said Giancarlo Petrelli suddenly. ‘Coffee?’

He was balancing several paper cups, which he began to hand round.

‘Are you still running that coffee kiosk in the old beach shelter?’ said Jock, accepting one of the cups. He watched Amaryllis gazing at Giancarlo, and sighed. It was about time the boy got himself a girl-friend of his own age, instead of going around encouraging middle-aged women who should know better.

‘Not for much longer,’ said Giancarlo. ‘But my mum thinks we might get quite a bit of custom once this Christmas thing starts up. So we’re going to give it a try.’

He turned away and started walking back towards the kiosk.

‘Who’s this woman we’re waiting for anyway?’ said Jock to Amaryllis. ‘Why didn’t Christopher take it on?’

Amaryllis laughed. ‘No way. He’s got something important going on in the Cultural Centre. A historical thing. There’s a proper historian coming up from London for it. There are going to be events.’

‘Events, eh?’ said Jock. ‘As if we hadn’t had enough events round here lately.’

‘But they’ve got nothing to do with all the Christmas stuff. That’s being organised by somebody from the Council,’ said Amaryllis. ‘She’s called the Community Engagement Advisor. She tries to stir people up to take part in things.’

‘Did she have anything to do with the Healthy Eating fiasco?’ said Jock.

‘No. That was Mr Hargreaves. He’s gone now. He said he’d got a snazzy new job in HR in Cumbernauld, but everyone thinks he’s been fired.’

‘You’re surprisingly well-informed about what the Council people are up to,’ said Charlie.

She gave him a look, and took a sip of her coffee before replying. ‘I’m keeping an eye on them.’

‘In what way? In your professional capacity?’ said Charlie.

‘I don’t have a professional capacity any more... I might as well tell you, I suppose. I’m thinking of standing.’

‘Standing?’ said Jock, feeling stupid. ‘Standing where?’

‘For the Council. There’ll be a bye-election soon. I want to do my bit as a concerned local citizen.’

Jock, who had just taken a huge gulp of coffee, spluttered slightly.

‘Ah,’ said Charlie, making a quicker recovery than Jock. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, eh?’

‘I’ve never poached anything in my life!’ said Amaryllis.

A nondescript silver-grey car drew up near the tram, and a nondescript woman got out.

‘That’s her,’ said Amaryllis.

‘Morning, everybody!’ called the woman, sounding to Jock McLean’s cynical ears like a Sunday school teacher desperately trying to convince a group of children it would be cool to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and then play with a very small quantity of sand. ‘Are we ready to rehearse?’

Somebody growled. It was either the husky man or one of his dogs.

‘I’d better get on,’ said Charlie Smith.

‘What, you mean you’re not going to play Rudolph and guide the sleigh?’ said Jock.

Charlie made a gesture he must have learned during his years in the police force and trudged off in the direction of the harbour.

‘His nose isn’t all that red,’ said Amaryllis, staring after him.

The nondescript woman came over to them. Jock realised the reason she looked so nondescript was because she was wearing a long shapeless sludge green coat, a sludge green scarf, a sludge green hat and wellies that looked as if they were sludge brown in the flickering light from the nearest street lamp but were quite possibly sludge green.

‘Great news!’ she said, looking at Jock.

‘What’s that?’ said Jock, baffled.

‘That you’re available to take over, of course. I don’t know what Mr McAndrew was thinking of, jetting off like that. Some people just have no community spirit.... But it’s good to have you on board. I’m Elizabeth French.’

Jock avoided shaking hands with her by taking his pipe out of his coat pocket. He didn’t usually smoke this early in the day, but in his experience the mere sight of a pipe was enough to deter most people from coming too close.

‘Well, better get going, then!’ she added, taking a step back. ‘The costumes are in the tram.’ She stared critically at Jock. ‘We’re going to have to pad you out a bit. Mr McAndrew’s a well-built man.’

Jock almost wanted to apologise for not having eaten himself into the appropriate shape for a performance as Santa Claus. However, he knew instinctively that the Community Engagement Advisor was immune to sarcasm. She would never have taken the job if she hadn’t been.

‘When does it happen?’ he said, making conversation as they got closer to the tram.

‘When does what happen?’ said Elizabeth French.

‘I think he means when does it start?’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s this week,’ she added, to Jock.

‘What day?’ he said. ‘I might be busy.’

‘Oh, it’s every day from this coming Thursday until Christmas Eve,’ said Elizabeth French airily. ‘Two o’clock to eight, except Sundays. The launch is this afternoon.’

‘Two in the afternoon? Eight at night?’ Jock was hoping he had misunderstood what he was expected to do. ‘But I don’t have to be there all the time, do I? Not every day?’

His words were lost in the clattering Amaryllis caused by falling over as she boarded the tram. He knew she had done it on purpose to try and kill the conversation.

‘It wouldn’t be much of a festive attraction without Santa Claus, now would it?’ said the Community Engagement Advisor. Her tone had gone from ebullient and overbearing to wistful and forlorn. ‘And you’ll have Sundays off.’

Jock swore to himself, using expressions he had learned from his former pupils but which he had never expected to use, not even in the comfort of his own mind. Standing up to a bully was one thing, but disappointing a worn middle-aged woman dressed all in sludge green who was only trying to do an impossible job was something quite different. Not to mention that she had set herself above most public servants, in his opinion, by turning up so early in the morning.

With these mitigating factors in mind, he pushed all his instinctive objections aside and clambered aboard the tram, which rocked alarmingly. One winter gale would topple it right over. Maybe the idea of being padded out wasn’t so bad after all.

‘Here’s your outfit, Amaryllis,’ said the Advisor, picking up a pile of green stuff and handing it over. ‘And this,’ she added, crossing to a huge mound of red and white, ‘is yours, Mr McLean. Where would you like to get changed?’

‘Are you sure that’s all for me?’ he said, recoiling as she lifted the fleecy pile and, staggering slightly under the weight, presented it to him.

‘I’ll go upstairs and transform myself into an elf,’ said Amaryllis, sounding amused. ‘You can have the whole of the downstairs.’

He just had time to wonder if that was the most unlikely sentence he had ever heard her say – the one about transforming herself into an elf, that was – before the Advisor said briskly,

‘Come along, now, Mr McLean. We need to see if there are any adjustments to be made. Better start with the trousers.’

‘Can I take it home to try on?’ said Jock.

‘No, of course not! Don’t worry, I’m sure you can get it all on over your usual clothes. There’ll be no need to take anything off. Not that I haven’t seen it all before,’ she added darkly. Jock saw that resistance was useless.

Ten minutes later, standing outside the Queen of Scots with Elizabeth French stuffing a pillow up under his red coat, and with Charlie, from whom the pillow had been borrowed, laughing his head off, he thought resistance might have been worth a try after all. The only consolation was that Amaryllis looked extremely silly in green leggings, a tunic with vaguely medieval sleeves, and a pointy hat resting precariously on top of the spikes of her hair. At least she couldn’t laugh at him without fear of retaliation in spades.

Just as the situation seemed unlikely to get any more bizarre, a man came along on a bicycle and, catching sight of the little group, made a sharp turn into the Queen of Scots car park, fell off, picked himself up and took a few steps towards Amaryllis.

‘Miss Whitmore!’ he said. ‘Good of you to turn up after all.’

Chapter 2 Elf in cuffs

Christopher had to force himself to get out of bed and go to work. He hadn’t felt so reluctant to face the day since his time as a supermarket assistant, before he had become director of the Cultural Centre. Amaryllis’s late night plea for him to take over as Santa Claus was only a part of it. Analysing all that was wrong while he made toast, he decided Jason Penrose was the fly in the ointment, with the good people of FOOP acting as only a minor irritation, like midges compared to a horse-fly.

Jason Penrose was a famous historian. They were honoured to have him in Pitkirtly. Christopher had welcomed him at first, not really expecting him to stick around for long. He had been conscious lately that the Cultural Centre was being used for purposes other than culture – such as the ill-fated healthy eating campaign – and he wanted to guide it back towards its true function. He had seen Jason Penrose’s visit as a chance to start doing that.

On second thoughts, it was probably the interaction between Jason Penrose and FOOP that was at the heart of the problem.

He sighed heavily as he crunched through the last mouthful of toast, and his steps dragged as he made his way down the road towards his place of work. He was so wrapped up in his own dark thoughts that he almost bumped into the very solid figure of the man from the newsagents’, who was stomping around on the pavement outside his shop, muttering to himself.

Christopher contemplated crossing the road to get away, but it was too late for that. Instead he nodded a cursory greeting and tried to walk on. For some reason the man blocked his way.

‘It’s Mr Wilson, isn’t it?’ said the newsagent gruffly. His tone didn’t encourage Christopher to linger, but for the sake of politeness, and to avoid anything getting physical, he paused and replied,

‘Yes, Christopher Wilson from the Cultural Centre. Is everything all right?’

‘Not really,’ said the man. ‘My Jackie’s away, and