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Woodward and Woodward Solicitors was located in a posh district of London known as Belgravia. Gorgeous, creamy 19th century buildings lined the streets, the only difference between some of them the colors of their doors or the elaborateness of their doorknockers.
I’d taken a cab straight from the rail station, even though it meant dipping into my meager savings. Perhaps Mr. Woodward would pay me back, seeing as how this was, technically, a business expense.
At some point we passed a sign advertising Cinderella, the new ballet to premier two days before Christmas, December 23, 1948.
“Imagine that, Tippy,” I whispered. “I bet it’ll be amazing. I wish I could be there.”
Tippy reminded me I was dead broke and could in no way afford a trip to the ballet. He was right. Still, a girl could dream.
The cab stopped in front of a familiar imposing white stone building with a solid red door and a doorknocker in the shape of a lion. The driver kindly handed me my train case before zipping off into the night.
Inside was an impressive lobby with a marble floor and a front desk manned by a young gentleman with dark hair pomaded into elegant waves. A crystal vase which usually held tulips or gladiolus overflowed with red roses and white lilies, and an eight-foot Christmas tree decorated in red and gold sat against the back wall.
“Hello, Henry,” I said as Tippy’s nails clicked against the marble. “Happy Christmas. Mr. Woodward is expecting me.”
“Happy Christmas, Miss Martin, Tippy. I’ll take your case for you. Go on up. He’s waiting.”
I ascended the staircase, which wound upward around the oval wall to the first floor, stopping in front of an unmarked door. I’d visited Mr. Woodward’s office many times, but I was unaccountably more nervous than usual. Taking a deep breath, I rapped on the door.
“Come in.” The voice was deep and masculine and a bit hoarse, as if the owner had smoked too many cigarettes.
Mr. Woodward sat behind a massive oak desk. A window took up nearly the whole back wall and overlooked a park, though currently all I could see was the streetlamp illuminating a bench. By the time the train arrived in London, night had already fallen. In fact, it was near to my bedtime—although I often stayed up late reading, so could hardly say I had a proper bedtime.
Tippy wandered over to greet his friend.
Mr. Woodward looked the same as ever. Fit, handsome for an older gentleman, with a shock of white hair, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit. He was precisely the sort of sophisticated person one expected in a lawyer. Or, in this case, solicitor. As far as I could tell, barristers tried cases, solicitors did paperwork. It was like they’d taken the American lawyer and split his job in half. Or rather it was like we Americans had taken two jobs and smooshed them into one. It was, after all, the American way.
“Sugar, good to see you. Please have a seat.”
I sat in the comfy leather chair across from him and looked around. The only sign of Christmas was a little silver Santa figurine on his desk.
“Jack’s not here?” It was out of my mouth before I could reel it back in.
Mr. Woodward had the kindness not to point out my idiocy. “Afraid Jack’s been called away again.”
“Another investigation?”
“Something like that.” He cleared his throat. “The reason I asked you here today is that I have something for you.”
“For me? Really?” Mr. Woodward had never given me anything that wasn’t required for my job.
“From your great-great-Aunt Euphegenia.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “How’d she manage that?” It was a joke, but Mr. Woodward wasn’t laughing.
“She arranged for three gifts to be delivered this, the first Christmas after her death.” He placed a small wrapped parcel on the desk. “This is, of course, for Tippy.”
Tippy’s ears perked up.
A second, slightly larger parcel joined the first. “This one is for you. Both of these are to be opened on Christmas day.”
“Thank you. It’ll be hard to wait, but we’ll manage.” I reached out, but he stopped me.
“And this,” he laid a manila envelope on the desk, “is for Mr. Croswell.”
“Mr. Who?” Tippy and I exchanged confused glances.
“That,” Mr. Woodward said, “is a very good question.”
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MR. F. CROSWELL
No. 9 Church Street
Upper Snow Falls, Devon, England
The name and address were written in my aunt’s spidery handwriting across the front of the manila envelope. I’d sorted through enough of her correspondence and paperwork at the cottage to recognize it immediately.
“Who are you, Mr. F. Croswell? And who were you to Aunt Euphegenia?”
Tippy gave me a look that clearly said, “Woman, you have lost your mind.”
No doubt he was right. Talking to oneself was the first sign one had gone doolally. The second, as my mother often said, was answering yourself. Fortunately, I hadn’t gotten to that point. Yet.
Whoever this Mr. Croswell was, it was my duty to see he got this envelope. It was annoying, my aunt still bossing me around from the grave. As if she hadn’t made a big enough ruckus in my life already.
“We’re going to have to make a trip to this Upper Snow Falls, Tippy. We have no choice.”
Tippy made it clear he didn’t care. He was more interested in the scenery flying by the train window.
After my visit with Mr. Woodward, I’d gone straight to the hotel where George, the sweet bellboy from my previous visit, showed me to my room and offered to take Tippy for a walk in the park before feeding him his dinner. That gave me the opportunity to grab a quick bite at a nearby sandwich shop before they closed and then speak to the front desk clerk, Mr. Dix. He’d looked up Upper Snow Falls for me and discovered it was a village not far from Plymouth in Devon.
After a restful sleep and a breakfast of eggs and toast, Tippy and I caught the early train home.
“We could go straight there, I suppose,” I told Tippy as I stuffed the envelope back in my train case with the other gifts, “but I don’t want to haul everything all over creation. Better to drop it off at home, don’t you think so?”
Tippy didn’t care one way or the other.
I’d been relieved when Henry, Mr. Woodward’s receptionist, slipped me a bit of petty cash “for expenses.” It was enough that I hadn’t had to worry about the expense of taxis or sandwich shops while in London. It also meant I could afford a trip down the hill with Old Tom when he caught me at the station.
“Hullo, Miss. Need a lift?” His “lift” was a rusty green truck that had seen better days. I supposed it must have once had shocks, but they were long worn out.
“That’d be great, Tom,” I said, allowing him to manhandle both my train case and Tippy into the vehicle. I managed to climb up into the cab on my own steam. I’m sure he’d have helped if I’d have asked but, based on how quickly my case had been tossed, I was a little afraid to have him try.
As we lumbered over the cobbled streets, conversation topics ranged from the nice weather we were having (it was sprinkling) to the latest menu item (plum charlotte—a dessert made of fruit, sugar, butter, and breadcrumbs, not unlike a bread pudding; it sounded delicious) at the Sullen Oyster (the local—in fact, the only—pub in Meres Reach). By the time he set Tippy and me down at the front door of the cottage, we were all caught up on the day’s village gossip.
It only took a short time to unpack my train case, place the presents from Aunt Euphegenia under the tree, and fix lunch for me and Tippy. While munching on my cheese and pickle sandwich—a tasty if bizarre English invention which involved slices of Cheddar cheese slathered with a sweet, vinegary chutney nestled between two slices of bread—I inspected the manila envelope for any clues. I even held it up to the light, but there was nothing to see. Just the last name and address. Not even a full first name.
“Well, I suppose we better get it over with,” I told Tippy. “Let me freshen up, and we can catch the next train to Plymouth. We’ll figure out how to get to Upper Snow Falls from there.”
Tippy did not appear pleased about having to leave the house again so soon, but he hunkered down near the front door and waited patiently while I changed dresses, patted my hair into place, and swiped on fresh lipstick.
“Now,” I said as we braced ourselves for another journey, “let’s find out who this Mr. Croswell is, shall we?”
Tippy figured we might as well give it a try.