“I’ve been thinking about all these strange deaths,” he said. “That Inspector Newcombe thinks I’m some kind of Scotland Yard miracle worker, but I have to say I’m completely in the dark. Usually when there are a string of murders there is a pattern to them, but there is nothing to tie these together, nor, as far as I can see, any clues to point that they were actual murders.”

“I don’t think Inspector Newcombe is too hot at reviewing evidence,” I said. “I suspect he didn’t dust for fingerprints, make imprints of shoe soles, question witnesses. . . .”

“Hark at you.” Granddad chuckled. “You’re sounding like a proper copper. Young ladies of your station aren’t supposed to know about these sorts of things.”

“I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way,” I said. “Well, as far as we know there were no deaths yesterday, so let’s hope that they’ve stopped.” I turned as I heard a snatch of garbled “Good King Wenceslas” shouted loudly into the air. “Oh, look at Willum. Isn’t he sweet?”

And there was Willum, wearing a paper hat from a cracker, cavorting around the village green, interacting with a snowman.

“You’d better go inside,” I said to Granddad. “You’ll catch cold.”

“My chest is so much better down here,” Granddad said. “Feel as fit as a fiddle, me.”

He looked up as we both heard a distant bell. Not from the church this time, but constant and coming nearer. Then the ambulance came into view, making its way down the winding road. As it came into the village, the village bobby appeared from the police station. The ambulance slowed as it approached and the driver wound down his window.

“Nasty crash over at Gallows Corner,” he called out. “Van skidded off the road and went down that slope into the river.”

“People hurt?” the policeman called back.

“Only one bloke in the van—Skaggs, the butcher from town—and he was killed outright.”

The ambulance went on its way. Granddad and I looked at each other.

“It seems I was wrong about the deaths stopping,” I said.

“A motorcar crash might have nothing to do with the other deaths,” Granddad said. “Only too likely if someone was in a hurry on roads like this.”

For some reason I had to swallow back tears. “He was on his way to deliver geese to us this morning. He’d been told we needed them by nine o’clock, so he was probably driving too fast to get here. Poor man. And what about his family too, on Christmas Day. I’d better go and tell them at the hall what happened.”

Granddad nodded and put a big, comforting hand on my shoulder. “Happy Christmas, ducks. Don’t let it get you down. Whatever’s going on down here, it ain’t nothing got to do with us.”