Miracle and Other Christmas Stories Part 22

"Unlock," he said. "Get gloves."

"And then what?"

D'Artagnan looked fearfully at James and then back at Touffet.

"I won't let him hurt you," Sergeant Eustis said.

Lady Charlotte nodded at him. "Go ahead, D'Artagnan. Tell the truth. You won't get in trouble."

The gorilla glanced worriedly at James again and then said, "James say. Give me," pantomiming handing over a bunch of keys.

"That's a lie!" James said. "I did no such thing!"

"Then why was this under your mattress inside one of the gloves?" Touffet said, producing a key from his pocket and handing it to Sergeant Eustis.

"But I didn't-!" James said, turning to his sister. "He's lying!"

"How is that possible?" Lady Charlotte said coldly. "He's only an animal."

"A satisfying case," Touffet said as we waited for the train.

We had been driven to the station by a hairy orange orangutan named Sven. "He doesn't have a driver's license," Lady Charlotte had said, bidding us goodbye. She smiled up at Phillip Davidson, who had his arm around her. "But every policeman in the county's upstairs collecting evidence," she said, "so you won't have to worry about being ticketed."

It was easy to see why the police refused to issue Sven a driver's license. He was positively wild, and after he had nearly driven us off the road, he slapped the steering wheel with his hairy hands and grinned a teeth-baring smile at me. But he had gotten us there nearly ten minutes before train time.

Touffet was still preoccupied with the case. "It is a pity James would not confess to the murder when I confronted him. Now the police must spend Christmas Day examining evidence."

"I'm sure Sergeant Eustis won't mind," I told him. He had seemed pathetically eager to look for everything Touffet told him to, even writing it all down. "You've redeemed his reputation. And, at any rate, no one confesses these days, even when they've been caught redhanded."

"That is true," he said, checking his pocket watch. "And all has turned out well," Touffet said. "Lady Charlotte's Inst.i.tute is safe, the apes no longer have to fear being homeless, and you shall arrive at your sister's in time to burn your fingers on the raisins." "Aren't you going with me?"

"I have already endured one evening of Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral. My const.i.tution cannot withstand another. I will disembark in London. You will convey my regrets to your sister, yes?"

I nodded absently, thinking of what he had said about the apes no longer having to fear being homeless. It was true. Until the murder, Lady Charlotte's Inst.i.tute had been in great financial difficulty. She had said it might have to close. And if it did, the ARA and the other animal rights groups would have insisted on D'Artagnan and Heidi's being sent back to the wilds. Like Lucy. Touffet had said everyone in the room had a motive, and he was right, but there were two suspects in the room he had overlooked. James had even accused D'Artagnan of the murder, and D'Artagnan would certainly have done anything to save Lady Val-laday's Inst.i.tute-he was utterly devoted to her. Like D'Artagnan and the other Musketeers, who would have done anything to protect their queen. And he and Heidi were in danger of losing their home.

But killing Lord Alastair would not have saved the Inst.i.tute. James would have inherited the estate. James, who had threatened to shut down the Inst.i.tute, who had threatened to sell the apes to the zoo. Killing Lord Alastair would only have made the apes' situation worse.

Unless James could be made to look like the murderer. Because murderers could not inherit.

What if Heidi had put the sleeping pills into Lord Alastair's cocoa before she brought it up to the nursery,and had hidden the bottle in James's bureau? What if D'Artagnan had only pretended to lose his gloves so that Lady Charlotte would give him her keys? What if he and Heidi had gone up to the nursery while everyone was playing Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral, strangled Lord Alastair in his sleep, and then thrown the furniture about?

But that was impossible. They were animals, as James said. Animals who were capable of lying, cheating, deceiving. Capable of planning and executing. Executing.

What if D'Artagnan had really twisted James's wrist, so that he would accuse him, so that he'd say the apes were dangerous, and it would look as if he were trying to frame them?

No, it was too complicated. Even if they were capable of higher-level thinking, there was a huge difference between solving arithmetic problems and planning a murder.

Especially a murder that could fool Touffet, I thought, looking across the compartment at him. He was rummaging through his bag, looking for his mystery novel.

They could never have come up with a murder like that on their own. And Touffet's explanation of James's motive made perfect sense. But if James had committed the murder, why hadn't he washed the cocoa out of the cup? Why hadn't he hidden the key and the gloves in the pantry, as Touffet had said he intended to do? He'd had plenty of time after we went to our rooms. Why hadn't he dumped the sleeping tablets down the sink?

"Bridlings," Touffet said, "what have you done with my book?"

I found The Murders in the Rue Morgue for him.

"No, no," he said. "Not that one. I do not wish to think anymore of primates." He handed it back to me.

I stared at it. What if they hadn't had to plan the murder? What if they had only had to copy someone else's plan? "Monkey see, monkey do," I murmured.

"What?" Touffet said, rummaging irritably through his bag. "What did you say?"

"Touffet," I said earnestly, "do you remember The Case of the Cat's Paw?"

"Ah, yes," he said, looking pleased. "The little chimpanzee's favorite book. A most satisfying case."

"The husband did it," I said.

"And confessed when I confronted him," he said, looking annoyed. "You, as I recall, thought the village doctor did it."

Yes, I had thought the village doctor did it. Because the husband had made it look as though he had been framed by the doctor, so that suspicion no longer rested on him.

And The Case of the Cat's Paw was Heidi's favorite book. What if she and D'Artagnan had simply copied the murder in the book?

But Touffet had solved The Case of the Cat's Paw. How could they have been sure he would not solve this one?

"You were particularly obtuse on that case," Touffet said. "That is because you see only the facade."

"In spite of all the evidence of their intelligence," Lady Charlotte had said, "people persist in seeing them as animals."

As animals. Who couldn't possibly have committed a murder.

But Heidi could read. And D'Artagnan had scored 95 on IQ tests. And they would have done anything for Lady Charlotte. Anything.

"Touffet," I said. "I've been thinking-"

"Ah, but that is just the problem. You do not think. You look only at the surface. Never what lies below it."

Or behind it, I thought. To the monkey, putting the cat's paw in the fire.

Unless I told Touffet, James would be convicted of murder. "Useless" Eustis would never discover the truth on his own, and even if he did, he wouldn't dare to contradict Touffet, who had saved his reputation.

"Touffet," I said.

"That is why I am the great detective, and you are only the scribe," Touffet said. "Because you see only the facade. That is why I do not listen to you when you tell me that you think it is the gorilla or the vicar. "Well, what is it you wished to say?"

"Nothing," I said. "I was only wondering what we should call this case. The Case of the Country Christmas?"He shook his head. "I do not wish to be reminded of Christmas."

The train began to slow. "Ah, this is where I change for London." He began gathering up his belongings.

If James were allowed to inherit, he would not only shut down the Inst.i.tute, he would also drink and gamble his way through all the money. And D'Artagnan and Heidi would almost certainly be s.h.i.+pped back to the jungle and the poachers, so it was really a form of self-defense. And even if it was murder, it would be cruel to try them for it when they had no legal standing in the courts.

And the old man had been little more than an animal in need of putting down. Less human than D'Artagnan and Heidi.

The train came to a stop, and Touffet opened the door of the compartment.

"Touffet-" I said.

"Well, what is it?" he said irritably, his hand on the compartment. "I shall miss my stop."

"Merry Christmas," I said.

The conductor called out, and Touffet bustled off toward his train. I watched him from the door of the train, thinking of Lady Charlotte. Finding out the truth, that her beloved primates were far more human than even she had imagined, would kill her. She deserved a little happiness after what her father had done to her.

And my sister would be waiting for me at the station. She would have made eggnog.

I stood there in the door, thinking of what Touffet had said about my being incapable of murder. He was wrong. We are all capable of murder. It's in our genes.

NEWSLETTER.

by Connie Willis.

Later examination of weather reports and newspapers showed that it may have started as early as October nineteenth, but the first indication I had that something unusual was going on was at Thanksgiving.

I went to Mom's for dinner (as usual), and was feeding cranberries and cut-up oranges into Mom's old-fas.h.i.+oned meat grinder for the cranberry relish and listening to my sister-in-law Allison talk about her Christmas newsletter (also as usual).

"Which of Cheyenne's accomplishments do you think I should write about first, Nan?" she said, spreading cheese on celery sticks. "Her playing lead snowflake in The Nutcracker or her hitting a home run in PeeWee Soccer?"

"I'd list the n.o.bel Peace Prize first," I murmured, under cover of the crunch of an apple being put through the grinder.

"There just isn't room to put in all the girls' accomplishments," she said, oblivious. "Mitch insists I keep it to one page."

"That's because of Aunt Lydia's newsletters," I said. "Eight pages single-s.p.a.ced."

"I know," she said. "And in that tiny print you can barely read." She waved a celery stick thoughtfully. "That's an idea."

"Eight pages single-s.p.a.ced?"

"No. I could get the computer to do a smaller font. That way I'd have room for Dakota's Suns.h.i.+ne Scout merit badges. I got the cutest paper for my newsletters this year. Little angels holding bunches of mistletoe."

Christmas newsletters are very big in my family, in case you couldn't tell. Everybody-uncles, grandparents, second cousins, my sister Sueann-sends the Xeroxed monstrosities to family, coworkers, old friends from high school, and people they met on their cruise to the Caribbean (which they wrote about at length in their newsletter the year before). Even my Aunt Irene, who writes a handwritten letter on every one of her Christmas cards, sticks a newsletter in with it.

My second cousin Lucille's are the worst, although there are a lot of contenders. Last year hers started: "Another year has hurried past And, here I am, asking, 'Where did the time go so fast?'A trip in February, a bladder operation in July, Too many activities, not enough time, no matter how hard I try."

At least Allison doesn't put Dakota and Cheyenne's accomplishments into verse.

"I don't think I'm going to send a Christmas newsletter this year," I said.

Allison stopped, cheese-filled knife in hand. "Why not?" "Because I don't have any news. I don't have a new job, I didn't go on a vacation to the Bahamas, I didn't win any awards. I don't have anything to tell."

"Don't be ridiculous," my mother said, sweeping in carrying a foil-covered ca.s.serole dish. "Of course you do, Nan. What about that skydiving cla.s.s you took?"

"That was last year, Mom," I said. And I had only taken it so I'd have something to write about in my Christmas newsletter.

"Well, then, tell about your social life. Have you met anybody lately at work?"

Mom asks me this every Thanksgiving. Also Christmas, the Fourth of July, and every time I see her.

"There's n.o.body to meet," I said, grinding cranberries. "n.o.body new ever gets hired, because n.o.body ever quits. Everybody who works there's been there for years. n.o.body even gets fired. Bob Hunziger hasn't been to work on time in eight years, and he's still there."

"What about . . . what was his name?" Allison said, arranging the celery sticks in a cut-gla.s.s dish. "The guy you liked who had just gotten divorced?"

"Gary," I said. "He's still hung up on his ex-wife."

"I thought you said she was a real shrew."

"She is," I said. "Marcie the Menace. She calls him twice a week complaining about how unfair the divorce settlement is, even though she got virtually everything. Last week it was the house. She claimed she'd been too upset by the divorce to get the mortgage refinanced and he owed her twenty thousand dollars because now interest rates have gone up. But it doesn't matter. Gary still keeps hoping they'll get back together. He almost didn't fly to Connecticut to his parents' for Thanksgiving because he thought she might change her mind about a reconciliation."

"You could write about Sueann's new boyfriend," Mom said, sticking marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.

"She's bringing him today."

This was as usual, too. Sueann always brings a new boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner. Last year it was a biker. And no, I don't mean one of those nice guys who wear a beard and black Harley T-s.h.i.+rt on weekends and work as accountants between trips to Sturgis. I mean a h.e.l.l's Angel.

My sister Sueann has the worst taste in men of anyone I have ever known. Before the biker, she dated a member of a militia group and, after the ATF arrested him, a bigamist wanted in three states.

"If this boyfriend spits on the floor, I'm leaving," Allison said, counting out silverware. "Have you met him?"

she asked Mom.

"No," Mom said, "but Sueann says he used to work where you do, Nan. So somebody must quit once in a while."

I racked my brain, trying to think of any criminal types who'd worked in my company. "What's his name?"

"David something," Mom said, and Cheyenne and Dakota raced into the kitchen, screaming, "Aunt Sueann's here, Aunt Sueann's here! Can we eat now?"

Allison leaned over the sink and pulled the curtains back to look out the window.

"What does he look like?" I asked, sprinkling sugar on the cranberry relish.

"Clean-cut," she said, sounding surprised. "Short blond hair, slacks, white s.h.i.+rt, tie."

Oh, no, that meant he was a neo-n.a.z.i. Or married and planning to get a divorce as soon as the kids graduated from college- which would turn out to be in twenty-three years, since he'd just gotten his wife pregnant again.