The Christmas Stocking Murders by Meyrick Denzil

Author:Meyrick, Denzil [Meyrick, Denzil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Cozy, Holidays & Vacation, Police Procedural, Holidays, Traditional, Historical, General
ISBN: 9781529936353
Google: uFvoEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2024-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

23

I intend to question Juggers on his intentions. But as I’m about to, he grabs my arm and tells me that Barclay thinks we should go below and have some tea. I must admit, as this sounds infinitely preferable to standing on deck, quietly shedding the family jewels, I agree instanter.

Juggers shuffles off to a hatch, which he pulls open, no doubt as instructed by Barclay. Below, in near-complete darkness, one can discern a steep set of steps heading down into the abyss. Of course, utterly undaunted, Juggers takes to them as though he were jumping out of a car on a sunny day in York.

Before I can comment, the place is illuminated by the torch that Juggers has produced from his coat pocket. I swear, he’s like a veritable ironmonger.

‘Stick on your torch too. Barclay says there’s a lantern down here.’

‘Sorry, sir. I don’t carry one,’ say I, rather sheepishly.

‘You what?’

‘I had a torch when I was in uniform, obviously. For checking locks on the nightshift, and suchlike. But I’ve never seen the point of having one in plain clothes, sir.’

Juggers shakes his head in the sepia light of the torch. ‘I don’t know. That’s the whole art of being prepared, is that. Carry stuff you don’t need day to day but might be essential at some point in the future – like now! You’ll be telling me you don’t have your truncheon next.’ He laughs at the thought.

Luckily, Juggers thinks this such an unlikely occurrence that he doesn’t question me any further on the matter. In actual fact, I stopped carrying a truncheon not long after I became a detective. In the absence of the special baton pockets sewn into police uniform trousers, one can hang a truncheon from a belt by use of a leather thong. But it’s so unsightly as to be utterly impractical, certainly for yours truly. Though if Juggers had asked, I’d have been happy to remind him that I’m carrying a Colt pistol under my armpit.

Soon enough, resourceful man that he is, Juggers locates the big storm lantern and sets it into life with one of his long pipe matches. It produces a cosy, flickering glow that would be quite welcoming, were it not for the shambles below deck of the Empty Heart. There are two unmade bunks bearing filthy sheets, a tiny table about which are two chairs, and, worst of all, a bucket with a toilet seat affixed to its rim. It’s hanging in a rough metal frame, no doubt fabricated by our captain himself.

‘Goodness, how primitive,’ I say to Juggers. ‘One will just have to cross one’s legs until we get back to port.’

‘I’ll never understand how you managed in the army. Places I had to bunk down in in the first war make this look like a palace.’

Mind you, with a brother who shovels shit for a living, the great giblet-packer’s idea of what constitutes a palace is no doubt far removed from mine.

‘Be a good lad and get the tea on.

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