Abracadabra

December 18

It is the beginning of the end; the first time that I find something missing.

I have OCD. So, I know where everything is. I don’t even have to look at what I am bringing out of the cupboards.

When I put my hand up for my cappuccino cup and felt an empty space, I was flummoxed. I looked in the sink, on the draining board, on the bedside cabinet. Nada. Zilch. I took out my second-favourite cup, and… I discovered that all the mocha pods were missing.

December 19

Ah. Today it was a light bulb from the chandelier in the ballroom. I noticed because my troupe was holding rehearsals for the New Year’s Eve Extravaganza...

Now the lights in the chandelier were not symmetrical, and my OCD was palpitating fit to explode.

December 20

Who could the crook be?

The pilfered stuff appeared to be random. I kept my eyes peeled and my ears open, to no avail.

I could never guess where, or when, or how, the next theft would happen. Today it was all the brown eggs – white ones had been placed in their stead. At least the thief had not only taken something, but had given something back. And yet… what if the eggs were poisoned? I threw them away.

I made a couple of phone calls.

And in the afternoon, the bizarre thefts went on. A tin of shoe polish; a bottle of aftershave. All the fruit except for one solitary tangerine, from the bowl in the middle of the dining room table. The X-Files book off my beside cabinet. The pruning shears. The hair crimper.

December 21

At great expense, I had the latest state-of-the-art CCTV cameras installed.

They don’t usually deliver at such short notice – but I have friends of friends, and as we say in Maltese, with money you can make a road in the sea.

The items taken were not valuable enough to support a drug habit of one of the staff; neither could they be sold online, or to a fence for petty cash, because this would surely arouse suspicion.

The hit-and-miss pilfering continued. Today it was a wall fan from my sewing room, and a broken alarm clock that was too pretty to throw away; an opened packet of biscuits; a tub of hardened playdough; a microfibre floor-cloth; all the socks in the orphan sock drawer… which could have been stolen before, but I only found out because I was going to make crafts for the children in the Home.

December 22

The husband suggested we call the Police. I put my foot down. The thief never stole expensive things, or useful ones. The confounding burglar filched things that had no monetary value, but were missed by for different reasons.

The thief, it was clear, wanted to be a nuisance, wanting to create irritation, if not outright anger. And, besides, we would look silly, I said, complaining about the loss of a new packet of felt-tip pens and a 5-litre container of lavender laundry conditioner.

December 23

It was as if the thief knew where the cameras were installed, and which particular spots in a room were not covered; items were always lifted from blind zones. Or perhaps the crook could turn them on and off on demand.

The irrational thievery continued: all the Mozart CDs from my BBC radio discs collection. My favourite blouse; the one I intended to wear as hostess for Christmas Lunch. A tin of corned beef laid out with the rest of the ingredients for a pie, on the kitchen counter. A bespoke bottle of medicated shampoo. A billiards trophy off the mantlepiece. A tattered copy of Dianetics.

December 24

The husband appeared to be getting exasperated. He convened a Staff Meeting to thrash this out, and asked whether by accident, chance, or even need or design any one of them had taken something, anything.

He actually asked whether one of them had seen any other employee acting suspiciously, in which case they were to contact him privately. I just sat there, my mind in a whirl. He hinted at a big reward to the snitch. I watched their faces for micro-expressions, but I didn’t notice any.

The maids, cooks, and chauffeur all stared at one another, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, unsure what to make of the husband. Was he taking the piss? Was he setting them up? What was with the false bonhomie, the implied threats, and the cajoling?

And so it went on. A framed copy of The Class of ’76. The spare keys to the laundry, and the stables, and the car. A fund-raising Christmas Catalogue that featured our ranges of jams and preserves.

December 25

Laughingly, I suggested that a poltergeist was setting up home, and, for all we knew, was stealing stuff from all the mansions in the area.

Angrily, the husband replied that this was not funny at all, and if he found out who the prankster was, he would garrotte him. Or her, he said, with a side-glance at me that spoke volumes. The maid stopped pouring my elevenses cup of tea mid-way. I giggled, and he frowned.

The pilferer didn’t take Christmas off, and the ludicrous list grew longer; an unopened tube of toothpaste from one of the downstairs bathrooms; half the clothespins; all shades of green, pink, and yellow threads from the sewing basket.

It was farcical, with surreal undertones; a tragi-comedy without Troilus or Cressida. He suggested that everyone – including ourselves – take a lie-detector test. I told him he was letting a silly prankster ruin his life.

The CCTV cameras suddenly started picking up blurs, and the microphones began recording static – but nothing that could help identify the suspect. I said it might be Flash Gordon, and he ranted and raved at me for treating the whole thing as a joke. I told him life was too short to allow someone to live rent-free inside his head.

He was furious.

He said he was going out to “clear his head”, and slammed the door on his way out.

I swear I heard him laugh hysterically as the garage door rose. Seconds later, the engine started, revved, and his sportscar careened away down the street.

They couldn’t save him. The car had been totalled, crumpled like a toffee wrapper, and since he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, he had shot out right through the windscreen. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

December 26

I spent the day mostly answering questions… the Police, relatives, friends, and neighbours, all wanted to know the same things, apparently.

1.No, he wasn’t high or drunk – as the tests confirmed.

2.No, we had not quarrelled before he left the house.

3.No, he did not have enemies who wished him dead.

4.No, he did not have depression.

5.Yes, the car was in perfect working condition.

6.Yes, he had a need for speed and loved to drive his Triáncé like the wind.

7.Yes, he rarely wore a seatbelt.

8.Yes, he knew that Christmas dinner was going to be served in an hour.

9.Yes, he knew that we had guests coming.

10.               No, the food wasn’t wasted – the staff portioned it and packed it, and gave it to the guests as take-aways.

December 27

It was the day of the Funeral (upper case mine).

I got to wear my Hervé Léger dress anyway, since it was sort of demure, and black. To decimate gossip, I wore a dowdy, heavy, black cardigan over it, and back leggings under it.

To complete the picture of the grieving widow, I occasionally dabbed at my eyes with a lace-edged, black silk handkerchief which I ran up myself. It pained me to waste a nightie… but it was the best I could do, at such short notice.   

People I had never seen thronged into the church. Some of them even came up to me to offer condolences… but not the Gossip Columnist of the local rag, who was wearing a wig and obviously thinking I would not recognise her.  

I noted the zombie-like demeanour of one of the husband’s secretaries, who, he used to tell me, fancied herself as quite the novelist… indeed she had self-published five books. The last I heard of her - the week before, in fact - she was writing the sixth one.

Something clicked, and it all fell into place. It had been the good old gaslighting technique, all the while. She was - had been! - in cahoots with the husband, for sure.

I caught her eye, smiled at her, and gave her a thumbs-up sign and a cheery wave. To make doubly sure that she understood what I was signing, I made an “O” with my thumb and index finger. Then, I used said thumb and index finger to make that puerile “Bang, you’re dead!” gesture.

She gasped, covered her mouth, sat down heavily... and fainted.

Oh, and…by the way... the thefts stopped as suddenly as they had begun… 

Epilogue:

I gave permission for the ballroom to be used anyway, for the New Year’s Eve Extravaganza.

Since I was in mourning, I did not attend – but I could not help humming along to the music.