Deadvent Calendar - December 1st

Our two heroes introduce themselves, take part in a pub quiz and unwittingly grab hold of one end of a scarlet thread of crime that will lead a labyrinthine path through December, danger and death all

Deadvent Calendar is a seasonal murder mystery told in 24 crimes. It follows the adventure of amateur detective Shilo Coombes and his companion as they try and unravel a sinister plot to murder the unChristmassy - a plot that doesn’t seem very Christmassy itself.

A fairground accident.

Mr Jackson Petit, estranged father of Ollie and Olivia, killed when the Sensational Swinging Sleigh sensationally came away from its moorings at the very top of its swing. Mr Petit had been planning to ruin his ex’s Christmas by snatching away the kids to Euro Disney, paid for, no doubt, by the child support he’d been skipping. One would like to say that the last thing that went through his mind as he sledded to his end was his poor children, or the dreadful way he had treated his ex-wife but no, it was, as he tore, screaming, through the shy, a coconut.

December 1st

“Christmas is a poor time for detectives,” said my friend Shilo Coombes, “A season of cheer and good will to all men is not conducive to theft and murder.”

I’m afraid I have to tell you that he actually does talk like that.

“What are you talking about?” I said, “If you knew anything of the actual world beyond what you read in Victorian pulp fiction, you’d know that Christmas is a time of stress, loneliness and antagonism, all booze and no money. It is absolutely the perfect time for crime. Your problem is that you’re not a detective, you’re an idiot. And a deluded one at that.”

And I’m also afraid that I talk like that.

“I mean look at this.”

We were sat in a pub. Whatever Christmas might be, it is undoubtedly a time for pubs, especially in London where on a late afternoon in early December the streets outside are dark and wet and cold and all of London is belligerently shoving past each other in a rush to get somewhere they don’t want to be.

Inside, however, there was a fire lit and in the dim light the worn red velvet and dented dark wood looked almost magical, as only a warm, dark pub on a chilly night can be. And then on top of that someone had slathered Christmas on with a great, big, glittery trowel. Swags of tinsel looped from the light fittings and corrugated foil decorations spun in the hot air. Fairy lights and a hopeful sprig of mistletoe hung over the bar above a strip of shiny letters reading ‘Happy Chris’. The lounge bar round the corner made do with a gnomic ‘tmas’.

It was everything you could want from a winter pub. Apart from the pub quiz and Shilo reflexively muttering the answers to every question not entirely quietly enough.

“The next round is the solar system,” said the amplified voice of the quiz master.

“I would remind you,” I said to Shilo, “That Sherlock Holmes famously knew nothing about astronomy and said it was a distraction from important knowledge.”

“Well there,” said Shilo, “I have the advantage of the great detective.”

I should tell you, in my defence, that my friend Shilo Coombes was indeed a deluded idiot. I have never satisfactorily determined whether is was simply a case of nominative determinism, but the man was obsessed with the detective stories of Arthur Conan Doyle and had at some point, in defiance of deducing the truth from the available evidence that his hero so monotonously maintained, that he too was destined to be a detective. He wasn’t. He was a nuisance. He didn’t solve abstruse cases that foxed the finest minds, he annoyed people. Especially the police. Especially me.

“Listen,” I said, trying to distract him, “This proves my point entirely.”

Someone had left a flier on our table. It was the size of a postcard and had on the front an illustration of a leering demon with a long, scarlet tongue who was waving a stick about and carrying on his back a wicker basket with a crying child in it. Above him in ornate gold lettering were the words ‘Gruss vom Krampus’. On the back was a message. I read it to Shilo.

“Happy Christmas! Or is it? Is someone making your Christmas hell, is someone being unseasonal or unkind? If we’re good, we go on Santa’s list, but if we’re bad, Krampus is there to punish us. Do you know someone who deserves a visit from Krampus? Get in touch.”

“What is the name,” said the amplified voice, “Of the body that some claim is the other moon of Earth?”

“See?” I said, “There’s a vision of Christmas: unkindness, misery and revenge.”

“Cruithne,” said Shilo.

“Bless you,” I said.

“And it’s not a moon. Let me see that,” and he took the flier, “Heavy stock, perhaps about 240 gsm. Recycled card. Digital printing. The front is a nineteenth century illustration, undoubtedly German: ‘Greetings from Krampus’ - Krampus is their traditional companion to Father Christmas, who punishes bad children. Black letter digital font on the back, not professional, probably free online. Protonmail account for the contact, secure, anonymous. Interesting. Where did this come from?”

There was a damp man with wet trainers and battered courier bag standing at the bar, having a half pint. He took a postcard out of his bag and put it on the bar. Shilo evidently hadn’t noticed him because he got down on his hands and knees and looked at the carpet.

“Still just a trace of wet shoe prints,” he said from under the table, “Worn, close treads, a distinctive pattern. Trainers, almost certainly.”

He emerged and spidered across the room, face to the floor, towards a table by the fire where a large, red-faced man was arguing with his wife about how many moons there were.

Shilo’s head popped up over the edge of the table.

“Are you Krampus?”

“Who’s a compass?” the man was taken aback.

“Never mind,” said Shilo, “Carry on,” and he bent back down, scrambling across the sticky carpet, his arse in the air.

“You’re a compass,” said the man.

“What was the name of the first manmade satellite to orbit the Earth?” said the quizmaster.

Shilo came creeping up on the bar where the man with the courier bag hadn’t yet noticed the strange, angular man scampering about at his feet.

“Sputnik!” said Shilo from knee height, and the man jumped, spilling beer on Shilo’s head.

My friend sprang up and the man took an involuntary step back.

“Are you Krampus?” said Shilo.

“What do you want?” said the damp man.

“This postcard,” said Shilo, brandishing it at him, “Did you put it on our table?”

“I do not know which is your table,” said the damp man.

“Which of the moons of Jupiter is believed to have water on it?” said the amplified voice.

“Europa,” said Shilo.

“I am not,” said the damp man, “How dare you say.”

“What’s going on?” the red faced man heaved himself out of his chair, “What’s the compass doing now?”

“He’s a weirdo,” said his wife, a sentiment I found it hard to disagree with.

“What was the name of the moon lander abandoned by Apollo 10?” asked the voice.

“Snoopy,” said Shilo.

“He’s saying the answers,” said the man’s wife, “Stop saying the answers, you’re spoiling it.”

“I’m just trying to ascertain whether this man,” said Shilo, waving the card, “Is Krampus.”

“I am not Krampus,” said the damp man, “I am not roper.”

“Course you aren’t mate,” said the red faced man, “What’s your problem, compass?”

“Why you call me these things?” said the delivery man.

“What planet was originally called George?” asked the voice.

“Uranus,” said Shilo.

“You what?” roared the red faced man.

“Is there a problem here?” said a voice that was all too familiar.

I think I have mentioned that Shilo was unpopular with the Metropolitan Police. Of all the force, though, he was most unpopular with Inspector Street, a detective based at our local station. She and I would probably have found much to agree on about quite how irritating Shilo could be if she didn’t also, by association as much as anything else, dislike me too.

“No,” said the red faced man, deflating, “No problem, Inspector.”

“Good,” said the Inspector, “Now, lanky, outside, and your friend too.”

Inspector Street ushered us out into the drizzle as the amplified voice said:

“Next round: Sherlock Holmes.”

Shilo’s shoulders sagged.

“This is my night off,” said the Inspector, “I am trying to do the quiz.”

“You do the quiz?” I said.

“We ask the questions,” said the Inspector.

“Oh, yes, right, sorry.”

“No, that’s the name of our team,” she said, “A team from the station, who are already fed up with your nonsense and are going to be even less pleased when they find out it’s you interrupting them. Which is why you are going to go away.”

“There is the curious matter of this flier,” said Shilo, waving it at her.

“There is the curious matter of me not arresting you,” said the Inspector, “Because, and only because, it is my night off. There is the curious matter of you not pushing your luck and going home.”

“But I’ll miss the Sherlock Holmes round, “said Shilo.

“Yes, yes you will,” said the Inspector, turning and opening the door. From inside the voice of the quizmaster said:

“Who is the only actor to have played Sherlock Holmes is adaptations of every one of the original stories?”

“Clive Merrison,” said Shilo, “In the radio series.”

“Merrison,” said the Inspector, “I’ll take that as an apology. Go away.”

And the door shut behind her.

“All I wanted,” I said, “Was a quiet night in the pub. You deluded idiot.”

“Christmas,” said Shilo, “Is a poor time for detectives,” and, turning his collar against the weather, he stalked away into the night.