🔴"A Winter's Tale" 15-Min. Mystery🔴

A new (2022) longer story in the mini-mystery series I created for a Brit. ex-pat newspaper over 30 years ago! (and starring my amateur detective Miss Rudwell-Horace and her little sidekick Mr. Trotter the postman).

My aim: light, cosy, small-village-y Agatha-Christie-ish, no murders, post-war retro (c. 1950) and just a bit over the top/tongue-in-cheek...

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A WINTER'S TALE by Winnie Czulinski

...It was through the benevolence of the late Lady Beamish that the village of Little Avalon should enjoy such a festive holiday party, and in Her Ladyship's own stately home!

And better, it was an unusually-mild winter season. Even outside, there was still greenness and floral adornment from the autumn.

Lady Beamish had occasionally shaken her cane and shouted at small boys and older youth who had tried to steal her apples and do other naughty things (some of those very youngsters here tonight) – and she could wither mere humanity with a glance.

Those who were inclined to imagine, wondered if she'd had some dark secret in her life that had turned her so sour. And yet she, or her estate, had given the village this party, in her ancestral stately home.

“I’m sure I’ve heard the old lady loved a good rum punch,” grumbled old Mr. Oddie, who was rarely sober more than he had to be. Seemingly unimpressed by the feudal grandeur around him, he looked gloomily at the jugs of fruity and spicy liquids he'd briskly been told were non-alcoholic. "Might as well be at The Balls and Meadow."

While it was true this gathering could not replicate a pub, it seemed to be a ripping success. The children of the village were ecstatic, while their parents looked on dazedly at this level of highly-visible energy, alternating that with marvelling at being inside "the mansion." Built of brooding stone with turrets to spare, it was more a fortress than a house to live in.

And even accounting for post-wartime shortages, the food was impressive, no village assortment, but from the best of caterers in London itself. There also was a genteel brass band, with all the seasonal songs, and shrieks of delight, with Father Christmas distributing gifts.

Miss Rudwell-Horace’s eyes travelled the opulent-looking room. She enjoyed the spirit of Christmas. At her side, Mr. Trotter the postman said, “Look at that! With all these fancy old artworks around, everyone's gone mad over that! Mind you, it's well done."

Indeed, the event also featured a table bearing a large painting of many of the villagers, at the big harvest church picnic, and including Lady Beamish herself, as trustee of the church. Surrounding this were a number of photographs, also of the residents of Little Avalon at the picnic.

There were many gasps of admiration, just as there was much merriment and jostling, as people looked to identify themselves, a loved one, a disliked one.

The woman responsible for this wealth of visuals, Ellen Thorn-Rosen, was an artist/photographer up from London, seemingly enjoying the baronial-setting festivities, and here with her Little Avalon friend Nelda Berrington. (Nelda, former London stage actress whose thespian lover James Harlow had died tragically, was now wed to Aldous Hargrave of Hargrave's Hardware, and blissfully happy.)

Miss Rudwell-Horace’s eyes moved around the large room, resting on Mrs. Bunn (the village baker) and Miss Burton-Crabbe (Majestic Tearoom proprietress) critiquing the "posh" pastries, young Jimmy Tiddler who'd got into trouble when he molded snow into obscene shapes (but with the evidence melting before anyone could prove it), other young miscreants, mums and dads, Nelda Berrington and her artist-friend Ellen...

Then there was young Linda Farnsworthy, eyes shining with those of her young son Simon. The child was thin, his hair like straw, and Miss Rudwell-Horace knew Linda to be often prickly and defensive. The young woman hadn't had any love for the domineering Lady Beamish ("sour old cow," she'd called her). Linda was raising a son on her own, and was young herself, seemingly not much older than some of the naughty youth here. She had been in Little Avalon only several months, living in rooms in the house of a distant cousin, and with the whisper of a "difficult" past with her ex-husband.

What was more, her young Simon had been one of the apple-nickers, and so, it was rumoured, had Linda also been.

Mr. Addington the vicar stopped a moment in passing. "Quite a party, Miss Rudwell-Horace! And to be inside the fortress." His eyes twinkled. "I must also say that never has our parish been graced with such a unique art event." He bustled off. It was possible that he, too, was not referring to the grand paintings on the walls.

“Highly irregular,” murmured the voice of Mr. Petherick the solicitor at her side.

Miss Rudwell-Horace turned inquiringly.

“That I must lecture these young people here, these...er, culprits who took Her Ladyship's apples, and made such mischief...I must do it as part of the deceased's wishes. And that I must talk to this young woman, Miss Farnsworthy, also. And here. It stretches my professionalism to the limit. And it would be difficult to do so where she lives, as she is sharing quarters with others...” The solicitor’s murmurs had turned to a sputter.

“That is very understandable,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace. “And it must be here, I understand, rather than at your office?"

The solicitor looked as if he would like to say more, then pursed his lips. “You will understand I cannot...”

He had come dangerously close to violating further confidentiality of his profession; that was sometimes the effect Miss Rudwell-Horace had on people. “It is good to know, though,” she said reassuringly, “that Lady Beamish has been so generous as to both fill the coffers of the Little Avalon Post-War Benevolent Fund, and endow the beautification of the church and community hall – indeed the village, with funds from her estate."

Mr Petherick relaxed a little. That, he was at liberty to talk about. “Yes, indeed, most generous of Her Ladyship. Let us face it, Miss Rudwell-Horace, seemingly everywhere in England is still a little rough around the edges – “ and he gave a dry little laugh – “after wartime.”

The party continued, with festivities and shrieks of delight. Young Dermot Brashley from The Courier in Big Avalon darted about, taking photos (some of the children acting up near a fearsome figure of 15th-century armour), leaving a few staggering from the impact of his flash.

“Cor, but I can hardly see,” said Mr. Trotter to Miss Rudwell-Horace. The little postman blinked. “I see spots. 'Have you seen a doctor?' 'No, just spots.'" And he chuckled.

Miss Rudwell-Horace glanced at the closed door, behind which Mr. Petherick had been secluded with young Linda Farnsworthy. As if on cue, it opened. Miss Rudwell-Horace’s eyes narrowed a little. Linda was pale, but with two spots of red in her cheek. She seemed uncomfortable, even shocked. Mr. Petherick looked more discomfitted than ever, but also a little relieved, as though he had done his duty. He patted the young woman awkwardly.

Miss Rudwell-Horace gave them both a reassuring smile. She would have liked to discuss the matter with him, or her, but knew it was not yet for her to know. Children aside, it was a pity there was no rum punch. Mr. Petherick, she knew, liked a drink as much as anybody.

She watched, as Linda stood there a moment, as though undecided. Then the young woman raised her head as Nelda’s artist friend, Ellen Thorn-Rosen, came up to her. They seemed to be talking earnestly. And then Linda shook her head, almost violently, turned, and went to find her young son. There were some protests, but not many, as he had had his present from Father Christmas. But what was wrong? Was Linda in some kind of trouble?

Was she being taken to task for her rudeness towards the late Lady Beamish - and her son's apple-nicking? And there was, after all, some mystery about her background and Simon's late father...

“Dear me, what’s the matter with the girl?” said Ambrosius Link. The butcher had a soft heart, and was known to slip Linda and her Simon an extra sausage or two. “Should we – “

But Linda quickly gathered her son Simon and their coats, and bundled themselves out. The kindly Mr. Link strode after them. "Miss, if you're leaving, I'll walk you home. It's dark."

Miss Rudwell-Horace nodded her approval, looked at Ellen Thorn-Rosen, who seemed a little at odds herself, and heard a few of the village women commenting, concernedly, a little unfavourably, about the young mother.

Then she turned inquiringly to the elderly lawyer at her side.

“All is well,” said Mr. Petherick weakly. "Do you care for shrimp, Miss Rudwell-Horace?"

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Next day, she served a glass of her blackcurrant wine (for which she was justly famous) to Mr. Trotter, as he came off afternoon post. He tossed his bag down, his eyes brightening at the bottle and glass. “Cor...that’s a lot of packages I've had today. Bundles for Britain! And a lot of cards. Odd how some receive them, too.”

“Odd?” inquired Miss Rudwell-Horace.

“Yes, like Mrs. Atkinson. Looked upset, even began crying a little. But then she said, 'Oh dear goodness, I can’t believe it. That they’d remember me.'” He sipped his wine. "I sometimes feel a little awkward, with how much a postman is privy to."

"Your observance has helped us solve some little mysteries," said Miss Rudwell-Horace with a smile. She thought of the elderly Mrs. Atkinson. "Such emotions can be two sides of the same coin," she said, almost to herself. She found herself thinking of the Christmas party, and the emotion a face could hold...even the answer to a mystery, perhaps.

She passed the cheese and biscuits to Mr. Trotter, and they settled in to discuss the evening of Her late Ladyship's party...

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Miss Rudwell-Horace was taking tea next day in the Majestic Tearoom. Who really needed more cake after the Christmas party? But there was much feeling of loyalty towards the Majestic, and proprietress Miss Burton-Crabbe’s excellent, non-London efforts. Miss Rudwell-Horace had a copy of The Courier with her.

“...You mean...let me see, her name now...Ellen Thorn-Rosen,” she heard Mrs. Littlebrim the milliner say at the table behind her.

“What sort of name is that?" said a companion. "Of course, she’s an artist. Wears something called a poncho. Sounds Mexican."

“Yes – an artist and a photographer.” Mrs. Littlebrim sounded slightly disapproving. “It's those trousers she wears, too. 'Course, sometimes they were worn during the war – had to be, with so many ladies doing men’s work." A pause. "Not only that, but working so close to the men. A lot of births nine months later."

Primary schoolteacher Miss Ardley sighed, and stirred her tea, clinking a little longer than she need have. “An artist….Wouldn’t I fancy doing that, being an artist, instead of...”

“Now, now, you teach our kiddies, and if that isn’t important, I don’t know what is. The future generation, after the war...” The talk burbled on.

Miss Rudwell-Horace looked to the left, and saw Mr. Petherick with his briefcase. She raised a hand. After a moment he came over. “Ah, Miss Rudwell-Horace. You caught me in a moment of weakness. I admit I have quite a fondness for Miss Burton-Crabbe’s fruitcake. Better than any from London."

He sat down with a sigh. She tapped her pen on the newspaper and its crossword, and frowned a little. “I agree with you about the fruitcake. I also hear there is a new sherry at The Balls and Meadow. The person given it is happy indeed."

There was a pause. It was a gentle game (when she was on the track of information) she sometimes played with the solicitor, when of course he could not share confidential information with her. “And I am looking for a word, of, let me see, eleven letters," she said, "Beginning with 'B'...” And she showed him the clue.

Mr. Petherick flushed a little and fiddled with a teaspoon. “My dear Miss Rudwell-Horace. Yes...there is a word that might fit."

They exchanged a smile. And she felt that, once again, she had arrived at a truth, a piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

Later that afternoon, Miss Rudwell-Horace put in a telephone call to The Courier’s Dermot Brashley, who had been instrumental in solving the springtime mystery at Mr. Jenkins’ pub, The Balls and Meadow. Dermot, having been offered a "possible exclusive," obligingly came around, and took a few photographs of the painting, also examined and snapped the photos Ellen Thorn-Rosen had taken. “Bit more artsy than what I do,” he said generously.

Miss Rudwell Horace explained a little further what she wanted. “It would be in a particular section of wartime photos. Not many of them, I imagine. And perhaps some printed information to be found. You can look in your archives?”

“No fear. I like digging into things. I know how to get the goods. And if I can’t get it there, I’ll go up to London," said the fresh-faced young man, with the grim enthusiasm of a news-hound on the trail.

Miss Rudwell-Horace thanked him heartily, and reflected he had every right to be proud, with the deductive work and part he’d played in the resolution of the mystery at the pub earlier that year. Perhaps the Big Avalon Courier would eventually lose him to Fleet Street.

She clapped her hat on her head, buttoned up her coat, and took up her capacious carry-all. In it were various items, including a bottle of her currant wine, a pair of cheery drinking glasses from Little Avalon's "general shop," and some of her homemade gingerbread biscuits. She had cut some out in the shape of a lorry, a train engine, an aeroplane. Her destination was the house where she knew Linda Farnsworthy, and her young son Simon, had rooms.

Miss Farnsworthy, Miss Rudwell-Horace knew, could be 'short,' bordering on rudeness, but she doted on her son – and a glass of this currant wine had never failed to soften and open up the most secretive, reluctant or recalcitrant villager of Little Avalon. Yet Miss Rudwell-Horace was quite sure that she now "knew" about Linda Farnsworthy...

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At the community church centre, where the "art event" now resided, Miss Rudwell-Horace peered more closely, at the painting, with the magnifying glass she'd pulled from her large handbag. "Interesting, how it was done," she murmured to herself.

But the village's elderly inquisitive spinster Miss Treadwell, all a-quiver, had overheard. “Another painting underneath it, perhaps?" she said, her breath quickening. "A secret message? I’ve heard someone had a painting worth thousands! It had been painted over, for disguise.”

“Yes, there is a message that perhaps was meant to be a secret – but with the right knowledge is made clear.” Her posture indicated there was little more to be said now.

Miss Treadwell stared at her, mouth open...then huffed a little, shrugged, and moved away. The entire village knew that Miss Rudwell-Horace was a mistress at solving mysteries, but sharing it only in her own time. That could be frustrating.

Miss Rudwell-Horace continued to examine the pictures. That Little Avalon church picnic that Lady Beamish had insisted on managing, at its helm like a mother ship in full-prow, though she graciously had sat with them, like a stern queen amongst the peasantry...From that gathering had come this painting and the photographs... and the answer to a mystery.

Ellen Thorn-Rosen’s painting. It was a masterpiece, there was no doubt about that. What was remarkable about the group picture was how many people the artist had managed to render – and actually look like the individuals they were. Nothing abstract or dashed-off. They were all expert, loving portraits of humanity, with great attention to detail.

As were the photographs. Miss Rudwell-Horace looked through them, and paused at one, the photo of one particular person. Perhaps no one had ever seen this person look thus. And, situation now known, one was almost capsized by the agony of emotion on that face.

Miss Rudwell-Horace heard a footstep behind her. It was the smart-booted artist, Ellen Thorn-Rosen, in a sleek black skirt. Her fine features, her dash and bearing, suggested a dramatic stage presence as much as that of her actress friend Nelda.

“We are very happy to have you here, and to see you grace our gathering," said the older woman. "And may I wish you all the joys of your season.”

"Thank you, Miss Rudwell-Horace." Ellen touched the Star of David at her throat with long slender fingers.

“I feel this is a difficult time for you,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

Ellen's hand froze. “Did Nelda tell you…? No, she wouldn’t.”

“Oh, my dear. Please forgive me, but I can see it in your face. The way you look at others and can deduce their pain. It is a difficult time of year for you to be alone, too. And your eyes, so expressive.”

“The vision of an artist?” said Ellen with a sardonic little laugh.

“Indeed,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace. “The artist so often sees – and can capture and preserve – what the rest of us do not. Do you know what you captured with your art? Nothing less than the truth.”

“I'm not sure what you mean. I only paint what I see, photograph what I see.”

“But you see things the rest of us do not.”

“The rest of them, perhaps. But I have heard you are very perceptive.” This time Ellen's smile was warm. “Of course Nelda told me about Aldous Hargrave, herself, and you.”

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. “I am pleased for them. And thank you for the gift of your art," she said. “I hope we will see you often. You are a part of us here; do you know that?”

Ellen’s eyes seemed to glitter, and her mouth trembled a little. Their eyes met and held. "Thank you," she said.

"Thank you," said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

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The sun had been almost non-existent all day, showing only a little, weak and watery, towards the end. The day was drawing to a close, with a light snow falling, and Mr. Trotter was at the door, his Royal Mail bag at his hip.

“Second post done,” he said. "Late today." And then, “Ooops – forgot my crumbs. The birds and squirrels are going to badger us. Do you mind bringing me something for them?”

Miss Rudwell-Horace, who was familiar with the starlings fluttering in front of her door, and an insistent squirrel or two rattling on the frame (though more so in the morning), smiled and went to the kitchen. It was one of her soft spots, and Mr. Trotter knew it.

A few minutes later they sat down in the warm kitchen, as she brushed flour off her apron. She was in the midst of further baking for the St. Stephen’s Day tea hours at the church, but she would not have thought of stopping it for Mr. Trotter, nor would he have wanted her to. He sniffed appreciatively, and watched more so, as Miss Rudwell-Horace soaked her Christmas pudding (not meant for the church) with a final installment of precious hoarded brandy.

“Well, I am supposing the mystery is a mystery no more,” he said to Miss Rudwell-Horace.

She passed a glass of her currant wine to Mr. Trotter. “You are correct.”

He smiled with appreciation, and took a sip. “But what was the mystery?” he said.

“What the painting and the photographs showed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. 'And, indirectly, why young Linda was so upset after being closeted with Mr. Petherick. But especially, what accounted for the expression on the face of – ” She paused.

Mr. Trotter stared at her, his glass halfway to his mouth.

“...Lady Beamish."

"What? Lady Beamish?"

"In the painting and photographs," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "She was seeing, you see, what might have been her life." A sip of wine. "When she was barely 18, Lady Beamish was engaged to a young soldier, who was called up. The Boer War. She never saw him again. And then she had a child – but of course in those days, and as she had not been married to him, such things were hushed up. No doubt the baby was given in adoption to a couple to raise."

By now, Mr. Trotter had forgotten about his wine. His eyes were rooted on his hostess.

“And as it turned out," she said, "and so many decades later, there was a remarkable resemblance of Linda's young boy Simon to Lady Beamish’s fiancé. The child looked as Her Ladyship might have imagined her own son to look."

"And were you able to..."

"The reporter Dermot Brashley from The Courier was able to unearth an old photograph of the young soldier," said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

Mr. Trotter’s eyes were enormous, even his shortbread forgotten. “Was there any connection?”

“Most likely, no. Just a remarkable coincidence. But it was a moment caught in time for Lady Beamish – to see the face of something that had meant such heartbreak in her life. And to see this young single mother, struggling to raise her son, and with difficulties, and perhaps some disapproval. Likely, Lady Beamish could feel some of this, and she felt strongly she should do something. It was reflected in her face. And Ellen Thorn-Rosen, a professional, had captured it all, with her lens and her paintbrush, without knowing."

“But what about young Linda...being so upset at the party, and all?”

“Overcome with emotion, I imagine," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "And it was you who reminded me, in a chance remark, that one might be upset to be happy. In shock. We may have assumed Mr. Petherick was informing her of a problem, or taking her to task for some behaviour.

"But it was not a problem, as such – not like the issues he had lectured some of the village's young people on, as instructed to do so by her late Ladyship...a rather quirky request. Instead, he had just informed the young woman that she was a beneficiary to Lady Beamish’s will. It had specified that Linda was to be told, at this party, in the grand house – I imagine it was Lady Beamish’s way of playing Father Christmas.

“Ah. And if she'd been able to raise her own son..." said Mr. Trotter slowly, "her Ladyship would have been able to give him everything – a grand home, the finest education, an easy, wealthy life. Linda Farnsworthy had none of that. Yet she had her prickly pride."

"Yes. Lady Beamish felt she could not simply help her with a cheque – but also knew she herself was not long for this world. She was able to assuage some of her own pain by ensuring that the young woman, and this young boy – without a father – would not want for anything. And for Lady Beamish, it was like being given a second chance for happiness.”

Mr. Trotter shook his head in a marvelling kind of way. “What secrets a village can hold.”

“And Ellen, the artist, captured the truth to a mystery with the tools of her profession. Not entirely, of course. But the sheer expression she caught on Lady Beamish’s face, and rendered, was a path to the answer. And Ellen herself had had a loss, though I don't know much more about it."

“Once again,” said the little postman, brushing crumbs from his trousers, “You proved you could see what the rest of us couldn’t. Though why we couldn’t, when it’s that obvious...”

“Only now. As humans, we see only what we want to see, unless we are on a specific quest. And there was so much happening in the painting and the photographs, so many elements to focus on and be absorbed with. When people looked at the pictures, they wanted to find themselves, or a spouse or friend, or sibling or child."

“Still – that you could know from an expression...”

“I could only deduce,” she said. “Then it was a matter of a little research. Once again, Dermot Brashley came through. A promising future as an investigative reporter."

"Indeed," said Mr. Trotter, his eyes very thoughtful. He frowned a little. "Just had a thought...the naughty young lads, who'd nicked Her Ladyship's apples...?"

"And were taken to task by Lady Beamish from beyond the grave." Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled and shook her head. "But she wasn't heartless. She ensured the boys, and their families, would have a small gift, so that there was no longer any need to steal fruit from trees. However..."

Her companion's eyes twinkled. "Boys will be boys. It's not a matter of money but the dare and fun of it. Why, I once – " His eyes slid away, and they both smiled. “Well...” The little postman sighed with satisfaction. “I’ll be off, then.” And he hitched up his bag.

Miss Rudwell-Horace frowned a little. He had done that too easily. His bag had been full when he came (which in itself had made her wonder, as he’d just said he’d finished second-post delivery), but now it seemed deflated, lying flat against his frame. Another mystery?

He was gone. She stood a moment, then looked into the sitting room. And there, on the mantle, she saw a basket of holly and ivy, with a small cluster of red roses and white anemones, misted with sprigs of gypsophila (also known as baby’s breath). Surely among the best of everything at the struggling Little Avalon Florist and Greenhouse (or from Big Avalon?), they seemed to quiver with life. They would have cost her friend Mr. Trotter a pretty penny.

The firelight flickered. It was said that one could see the past in flames. They seemed, suddenly, a little blurry to her eyes, just as everything else around them was. The small fir tree, from beyond the village and sold at Hargrave's Hardware Shop. The family antique manger-crèche scene that had belonged to grandmother Rudwell, and which showed the two holy parents hovering over their child...

Then Miss Rudwell-Horace shook herself briskly, and with a smile, carried Mr. Trotter's floral arrangement into the kitchen. It would keep her company as she washed up and prepared for Christmas.

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