A Killing for Christmas ( Paperback )

Friday, 9th May 1930

The night out had been a bad idea. Benjamin Scott felt sure of that as the train screeched into the station and came to a stop alongside him.

He’d thought an evening out in town would be just the thing to cheer everyone up. But their dinner had been mediocre, the musical dreadful, no one’s mood had lifted, and he wished he’d accepted the invitation to his golf club’s anniversary dinner instead.

The carriage doors opened with a squeal, and Benjamin waved his wife and daughter inside before stepping in behind them. He settled the two women into their seats, then took one opposite and set his top hat on the seat alongside, snatching it away a moment later as the fourth member of the party fell down beside him. Benjamin shot Maxwell an exasperated look, which his son-in-law entirely failed to notice, for his attention was solely on his cigarette case. Maxwell took out a cigarette and lit it. Blowing out a plume of smoke, he appropriated the armrest between them, stretched out his legs, leant his head back and closed his eyes.

Benjamin folded his arms over his chest, his eyes upon his wife and daughter. Victoria, fat and vulgar in a revealing dress she thought made her look at least a decade younger than her fifty-nine years, was flicking through the theatre programme while Imogen, still lovely at thirty-two, stared out of the window, clutching a beaded handbag in her lap, her satin gloves straining at the seams. Familiarity and experience warned him a row was brewing.

The doors closed, and the train lurched as it pulled away from the station, jolting them all. Imogen let out a small cry, put a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

Victoria tutted and closed her programme. ‘What is the matter with you?’ she demanded.

And they’re off! Benjamin rolled his pouchy eyes.

‘It’s the motion.’ Imogen said, keeping her eyes closed. ‘I have a headache, and it’s making me queasy.’

‘You and your headaches. Take something if it’s that bad.’

‘I don’t like taking pills, you know that.’

Victoria picked up her programme again with a loud tut. ‘I don’t
think you’ve got a headache at all. You just want attention.’

‘My head’s been hurting all day, Mother.’

‘Then you should have said so earlier and saved your father the cost of your ticket. If I’d known you’d be complaining all evening, I’d have told Max to leave you behind.’

‘I haven’t complained.’

‘You were moaning all through the interval.’

‘I suffer from headaches.'

'Then get the doctor to have a look at you.’

‘Imogen won’t go to the doctor,’ Maxwell piped up, tapping the ash from his cigarette to drop onto the wooden slatted floor. ‘She positively refuses. Don’t you, darling?’

‘What’s this?’ Victoria said sharply. ‘I thought Imogen saw the doctor every three months.’

‘Not anymore, she doesn’t,’ Maxwell said. ‘Imogen cancelled all those appointments.’

‘And you let her? Oh, Max, how do you expect her to get pregnant if you let her do things like that?’

‘Shush, Mother, please.’ Imogen looked around the train carriage uneasily. ‘People will hear you.’

‘I don’t care if they do. They shouldn’t be listening.’ Victoria glared at the heads that turned towards her. ‘Now, about the doctor. I'll make an appointment for you.’

‘Please don’t,’ Imogen begged. ‘I’m tired of being pulled about and prodded by doctors. I just want to be left alone.’

‘And what about Max? Doesn’t it matter what he wants?’

‘Of course it matters, but—’

‘But nothing.’ Victoria sliced the air with her hand. ‘You tell her, Ben.’

‘Your mother’s right, Imogen,’ Benjamin said. ‘Max wants a son, and it’s your duty to do everything you can to give him one.’

‘After all,’ Victoria went on, ‘he’s waited long enough. Most men would have got rid of you long ago. Isn’t that right, Max?’

Maxwell smiled at his mother-in-law and took a drag of his cigarette.

‘So,’ she carried on, picking up her programme once more, ‘you will see the doctor. I don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense.’

Victoria resumed her reading, and Benjamin watched his daughter, glad Imogen had decided not to argue. She was staring down at her silver satin shoes, the only sign of her anger a biting of her bottom lip, a familiar curb on her temper. He glanced at Maxwell beside him, who had gone back to dozing. Not a bad idea, Benjamin thought, and closed his eyes.

As the train’s motion rocked him with its predictable, soothing rhythm, Benjamin decided he would organise no more nights out for his family. He should have learnt by now they never turned out well.