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  The Dead Elf

  A Christmas Mystery

  Alice Webb

  Copyright © 2016 by Alice Webb

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration © 2016 by Alice Webb

  The Dead Elf

  Alma Easter pulled her reindeer scarf a bit tighter and clutched the gift bag through her thick gloves as she stepped off the bus on to the winter streets. It was still dim and the fairy lights strewn through the trees sparkled merrily, lighting up the speckles of frost still clinging to the branches from the night before. The grass was stiff with ice too and made a satisfying crunch underfoot as she took a shortcut through the park.

  It was very cold and really far too early for a woman of Alma’s delicate age to be out of the house. But she was a great believer in only being as old as you feel, of keeping active so you stay active, and of visiting her favourite bakery just as the cakes were being taken out of the oven. Especially now, finally Christmas season again, which meant the Spiced Double Chocolate Yule Log of Joy was back on the menu. Layers of gooey chocolate sponge goodness, flavoured with the subtle taste of spices, encased in a thick layer of chocolate. It even came with a sprig of white chocolate holly on top. That was certainly worth getting festive about, even when you had long outgrown the excitement of presents (except for one present, that is – the traditional hideous bobble hat and matching jumper for her great nephew).

  Alma smiled as she approached the bakery door and savoured the warm smell of cakes and loaves before she went inside. There was a boy at the till, only old enough for a few wispy hairs to have started sprouting on his chin.

  ‘Good morning Madam. How can I help you?’

  ‘Spiced Double Chocolate Yule Log of Joy please. Four slices.’

  ‘Oh,’ he pulled a face, ‘I’m really sorry but that won’t be ready for another half hour. We’re running a bit late but we’ve got croissants if you’d rather have that?’

  Alma decided to ignore the gross implication that croissants could match up to chocolate. ‘A bakery running late? It wouldn’t have anything to do with the Winter Wonderland last night, would it?’

  Winter Wonderland was the annual Christmas market that started innocently enough with hog roasts, frankfurters and hot chocolate, and quickly escalated to a spiced-ale-induced street party that lasted to the early hours.

  ‘It would,’ he admitted, ‘it only really calmed down at like four, so it kept us up all night.’ He gestured his head to upstairs.

  Alma guessed that meant the family lived upstairs. ‘So half an hour for the yule log, did you say?’

  ‘I’ll just check.’ He disappeared out the back for a few minutes. ‘Yep that’s right. Maybe say forty minutes to be safe.’

  ‘See you in forty minutes then.’

  The bell jangled when Alma shut the door behind her. She resumed her walk along the frosted streets, heading into the heart of the shops. She had been planning on visiting Clifford’s Department Store anyway; it didn’t make much odds if that happened before or after the cake.

  Only the most enthusiastic shoppers were out at this time, and there were fewer still inside Clifford’s itself. A few people in knitted jumpers wandered the aisles of stationery set up near the front and a little girl dressed like a fairy screamed at the lost-looking instore Santa Claus before her mother scooped her up. As Alma travelled further back the shelves amassed decorations, ornaments and other bits Alma deemed ‘useless tat’. She did spend a bit of time admiring the selection of teapots before deciding that her own teapot worked perfectly fine and, besides, she had a tea cosy that fit it perfectly. She considered the lift – guilt-free laziness was one of the perks of being old – before opting for a slow and steady journey up the stairs.

  Harold Fern, the reason for Alma’s visit, was in the jewellery section. Though technically old enough to retire, Alma doubted that Harold ever would – it would effectively demote him from manager of a department store to feeder of five cats. She joined him by the large windows that stretched from the floor to the high ceilings, and admired the view of the twinkling lights along the high street.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she joked.

  ‘I know, what are the odds? So what do you want with me?’

  ‘Sarah asked me to drop this off,’ she handed over the gift bag, ‘since she’s gone down to her daughter’s now.’

  He groaned. ‘We said we weren’t doing presents so I didn’t get her anything. What is it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t pretend that you haven’t already looked, and felt it too. What is it? It’s not one of those pinecones she’s sprayed gold again, is it?’

  ‘I’m insulted and shocked that you think I’d look and okay it’s a picture frame. I’d say a glass one, from the weight and the corners, and I’d–’

  Alma stopped when she heard a crash from above. A green blur flashed by the window. She dashed forward and pressed her short fingers up against the glass as she gazed down to the street below. There on the pavement was what looked like a small pile of clothes, a mixture of green, white and red.

  ‘Harold,’ she said, ‘is there an elf that goes with your Santa downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, Matt tonight I think, why?’ He tucked his clipboard and gift bag behind the counter before joining Alma at the window. He took a sharp breath between his teeth before snapping into action. ‘Julia,’ the girl arranging the hats looked up as he ran towards the stairs, ‘call an ambulance and come with me. Roger,’ that was to a blonde twenty-something year old, ‘you too. Grab some towels or tablecloths too.’

  ‘I’ll catch up,’ Alma called as they ran down the stairs. She doubted there was anything that could be done for the elf now. She might be wrong (she hoped she was wrong), but she could not think of many people who had survived a fall of a few storeys on to solid concrete – and she had met some pretty special characters over her lifetime. Either way, pulling a muscle running would help no one. The shop felt eerily quiet as she briskly walked after Harold, and the familiar warbling carols took on a new and tragic undertone.

  Nearly everyone on the ground floor was gathered by the doors and windows, staff and customers huddled into little groups of hushed mutterings and whispers. Only one person hadn’t moved from his plastic green throne, though his eyes were gazing the same way as everyone else from under his faux fur hat.

  ‘You okay, Santa?’ said Alma, making him jump.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not seeing kids right now,’ he muttered.

  ‘I know. I asked if you were alright.’

  ‘Oh yeah yeah,’ he looked at her quizzically for a moment before looking back out the window. Up close the string of elastic keeping his beard up was obvious, badly hidden in his white wig. They stayed in silence until Harold came back in. ‘Harold, is it true? Is it Matt?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Harold walked over, looking white and drawn. He clutched a tea towel in his hand, the crisp white material splattered with drops of crimson.

  ‘I don’t believe it. I mean, he’s been down, but no more than usual. And is he?’

  ‘There’s no pulse. We’ve called an ambulance and Roger’s on the phone to 999 – did first-aid training at his last job – but honestly, nothing can be done for him. It’s for show, really.’

 
; He unwrapped the tea towel from his hand and inspected a deep cut running along his palm, the blood already beginning to fill the gash again. Soon it would be dripping.

  ‘Put pressure on it,’ said Alma. ‘Now tell me, what happened?’

  ‘My fault. I was stupid, went straight for Matt and didn’t see the broken glass and put my hand straight down on it.’

  ‘I mean, what happened? Out there.’

  ‘Oh, right. His name is Matt Miller, just started working as the Christmas elf. Chris recommended him.’ Harold nodded towards Santa. ‘Looks like he must have jumped out of the staffroom window.’

  ‘Did he start later then?’ said Alma, ‘He wasn’t down here when I came in.’

  ‘No, he’d gone to the loo,’ said Chris.

  ‘But quite a bit of time passed between when I went by and,’ she looked out the window to the street, ‘this. Were you not worried? Or was he always a bit flaky?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Chris. ‘Really reliable. To be honest, I thought he looked ill, he was a bit pale, and he said he didn’t feel great, so I sent him up to have a paracetamol and five minutes’ rest.’

  ‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ said Harold, and his voice was involuntarily beginning to rise. ‘Your attitude has just been bang out of order lately. You don’t think that the complaints about Santa and his lazy elves is the last thing I need to worry about on top of everything else? I just don’t