The Gift of the Mangled Magi by Connie Berry

 

Cast of Characters:

Ivor Tweedy:  A small man in his seventies, he looks like something out of a Dickens novel.  After traveling the world with Her Majesty's Merchant Navy, Ivor opened the Cabinet of Curiosities, a fine antiques and antiquities shop in Long Barston, a village in Suffolk, England. Sentimental at heart, he tries to maintain a stiff upper lip.       

 Kate Hamilton:  An American antiques dealer from Ohio, a widow with two college-age children. After meeting Detective Inspector Tom Mallory, Kate has settled in Long Barston where she works with Ivor Tweedy at the Cabinet of Curiosities.   

Lady Barbara:  The closest thing Long Barston has to the titled nobility. In her upper sixties, Lady Barbara is the last of the Finchleys. Sensible and down-to-earth, she has recently gifted her crumbling Elizabethan mansion to the National Trust. 

Vivian Bunn:  Seventy-something, a take-charge woman in tweeds. She might have led the British troops on D-Day. As ex-secretary to Lady Barbara's late husband, Vivian lives in a tied cottage on the Finchley estate. She is Kate's landlady.

Miss Bembridge:  A poor widow of the parish.

The Gift of the Mangled Magi

by Connie Berry

The phone call came at a most inconvenient time.

 

It was Christmas Eve. Ivor Tweedy was closing the shop early, his mind already on the gathering that evening at Finchley Hall, Lady Barbara’s annual holiday supper. A small group of close friends would be present—Vivian Bunn; Kate Hamilton and Detective Inspector Tom Mallory; Edmund Foxe, rector of St. Æthelric’s, and his fiancée, Angela Vine; and of course, Ivor himself. Francie Jewell, the Hall’s cook, was sure to produce a meal to remember. Afterwards there would be carols around the tree, a small gift exchange, and a toast with the Hall’s seemingly endless supply of vintage Vieil Armagnac Delord.

 Ah, the Delord! Winner of three gold-medals, a five-star rating, and an astonishing 97 points—the ultimate hand-crafted brandy. Ivor could almost taste it—the complex flavors of spice, roasted apricots, and hint of tobacco. And that long, silky finish. This would be a night to remember. 

He was about to head upstairs to his flat above the shop when the phone rang. Should he ignore it? The call might be from a customer, looking for a last-minute Christmas gift. He couldn’t afford to turn away business—especially at this time of year.

 

He picked up the receiver. “The Cabinet of Curiosities. Ivor Tweedy speaking.”

 

“Oh, hello,” came an elderly female voice. “I was afraid I’d get a recording.” The voice quavered. “I am sorry to bother you, but I have an emergency, and I thought you might be able to help.”

 

“This is an antiques shop, madam, not Emergency Services. If you—”

 

“Not that kind of emergency. I was hoping you could stop by this afternoon and have a look at some old family items. I’d like to sell them, you see.”

 

Ivor suppressed a groan. He’d dealt with this before, the old dears who considered the detritus of previous generations to be worth their weight in gold sovereigns. He’d poke through musty books, pot-metal jewelry, cheap souvenirs from Brighton and Blackpool, and perhaps a dented medal or two from the Crimean War. If he was incredibly lucky, there might be a Wedgewood biscuit barrel (probably cracked) or an incomplete set of old Minton china. He’d offer her a sum, more than the items were worth. She’d accept his offer and show him to the door with a withering final glance—We both know you’ve cheated me, but what recourse does a poor widow have? She would be insulted, and he would be lumbered with a box of junk to drop off at the charity shop in Sudbury.

 

Ivor sighed. “Could this wait until after the holidays?”

 

“Oh, dear.” She dithered. “It’s just my nephew and his little boy are stopping by to see me on Boxing Day. I’ve knitted my nephew a scarf. I do that every year. But that’s not what a child wants, is it? There’s a wooden car at the toy shop on the High Street. Half price.” Ivor heard a small, cry cough. “I must have something to wrap for the little’un, mustn’t I?”

 

Ivor felt the beginnings of a lump at the back of his throat. He consulted the clock on the shelf. “I could spare a couple of hours as it happens. Do you live in Long Barston?”

 

“Holly Gardens, the Council flats on the Cambridge Road. My name is Bembridge. Ground floor, number twenty-three.”

 

“I’ll be there by half two. Do you mind if I bring my colleague, Mrs. Hamilton?”

 

“I’m sure that will be fine. Thank you. I’ll see you soon, then, shall I?”

 

She rang off, and Ivor dialed Kate’s mobile.

 

Yes, he knew exactly how this would go.

 

 

The seat warmer on Kate Hamilton’s Mini Cooper did little to ease the pain of Ivor’s aching hips. Only surgery would accomplish that, and the question was when. He’d been on the list for bilateral hip replacements for months. At this rate his heart would give out first. Or his patience.

 

Kate turned west at the junction of High Street and the road leading to Cambridge. The morning frost had melted, leaving a glistening sheen on the roughly triangular greensward south of St. Æthelric’s Church.

 

Ivor squinted against the pale winter sun. “Have you decided on a gift for Lady Barbara?”

 

“I managed to locate a bottle of her favorite perfume,” Kate said. “It’s been discontinued, but I found it on Ebay. What about you?”

 

“That’s my dilemma.” Ivor shifted his weight, stifling a groan. “What do you buy for a peer of the realm? I can’t afford what she really needs—roof repairs and an army of plasterers. And now, with the National Trust taking over at the Hall, she’ll be getting rid of things, won’t she? Downsizing. I’d like to find something special, something that will mark this year of change.” He sighed. “I’ll probably get Harvey’s Bristol Cream again. She’s been giving it to me for years. I can’t stand the stuff.” He shuddered. “Much too cloying. Tastes like melted raisins. But I can’t say that out loud, can I? Not when she thinks I adore it.”

 

Last year he’d gone on and on about the DeLord. Had she gotten the hint?

 

“There it is—Holly Gardens, on the left.” Kate pulled into an empty parking space at the end of the cul-de-sac.

 

“Lovely place for the elderly,” said Ivor, who was elderly himself.

 

The small housing estate had been constructed in the late seventies for the aged poor. Beyond the brick-and-roughcast buildings, an area of garden allotments stretched toward a green park. “Thank you for doing this,” Ivor said. “Waste of time, no doubt.”

 

Ivor and Kate looked at the first of five buildings, a stair-stepped affair, designed so each flat had a miniscule patio or balcony. “There’s number twenty-three,” Kate said. A tinsel wreath hung on the door. “Ready for Christmas.”

 

A woman answered their knock. She was very old and tiny, bird-like, with impossibly thin arms and legs. Sparse strands of pure white hair formed a short fringe and hung, stick-straight, to just below her chin.

 

“Mrs. Bembridge?” Ivor asked.

 

“Miss Bembridge.” she said. “Come in. I’ve put the kettle on.”

 

A wave of heat hit them. Ivor took in the small parlor with its ancient furniture and three-bar heater on full blast. Neat as a pin. Poverty with a respectable face. A tiny kitchen occupied half of an el-shaped alcove. A table had been laid for tea.

 

They’d never get out of there now. Or they might cook to death.

 

“You’re busy people,” said Miss Bembridge. Was she psychic? “I have no wish to delay you, so I’ve laid things out in boxes. Take what you will and leave the rest. I’ve provided beakers so you can drink your tea whilst you work.”

 

A steaming electric kettle added even more hot moisture to the room’s near-tropical climate. Near the kettle, a chipped plate held exactly two dark treacle biscuits. The little woman opened a tea tin and spooned a scant tablespoon of shredded leaves into an old, flowered teapot. She filled the pot with hot water from the electric kettle and swished it around. As they waited for the tea to steep, Ivor noticed that the sugar bowl and cream pitcher were only about a third filled. Were they taking the last she had?

 

“You’re retired now, is that right?” asked Kate, who must have been wondering the same thing. 

 

“You could say that.” Miss Bembridge lifted her chin. “In the government’s eyes, I never had a proper job. Kept house for my father and my older sister. She wasn’t well. Both gone now, of course. I receive a small government pension.”

 

Ivor remembered the article he’d read recently about poverty rates among Britain’s elderly, the worst in western Europe. The minimum pension totalled just over a hundred and thirty pounds a month.

 

Miss Bembridge pushed up the sleeves of her threadbare cardi and poured the tea through a strainer into two small ceramic mugs.

 

Ivor and Kate added milk, no sugar, and took a biscuit each.

 

“The gentleman upstairs helped me with the boxes.” Miss Bembridge glanced at the ceiling. “If you’ll just lift them onto the coffee table, we can get started. I’m sure you have plans for Christmas Eve.”

 

Kate hoisted two sturdy cardboard boxes onto the low table.

 

Ivor unfolded the interlocking flaps and began unwrapping the contents. If the old lady’s practical attitude surprised him, the items she’d gathered to sell did not. There wasn’t value enough in all the boxes combined to replenish her tea tin, much less purchase a toy car—even at half price.

 

As Ivor feared, the first box held mostly reading material. A set of mildewed encyclopedias bound in faux leather. Several dozen book club editions from the seventies, most missing their dust jackets. A stack of Woman’s Own weeklies from before the war. Several commemorative magazines celebrating the investiture of Charles as Prince of Wales in 1969 and his later, ill-fated wedding to Lady Diana Spencer.

 

“These should be quite valuable now he’s King,” said Miss Bembridge, thumbing through photographs of the nineteen-year-old prince on the ramparts of Caernarvon Castle, robed in ermine and sporting a strangely oversized crown.

 

Ivor made a small sound—almost agreement.

 

The second box held family mementoes—a silver-plated lawn bowling trophy, once presented to Miss Bembridge’s father; a pink celluloid dresser set of hand mirror, brush, and comb; a small, embroidered tablecloth and matching napkins, carefully pressed and folded in tissue. Beneath the tissue-wrapped linens, Ivor found a wooden jewelry box. He held his breath. Surely there’d be something of value inside—a thin gold chain, maybe, or a cultured pearl ring; perhaps a string of the Bakelite beads popular in vintage boutiques.

 

Miss Bembridge had disappeared into the kitchen to refill the kettle.

 

“There’s nothing here,” Kate whispered. “Nothing at all.”

 

She was right. There was no gold, no silver, no gemstones—not even a mid-century enamel pin. If the Bembridge women had ever owned such things, they’d sold them off years ago, leaving tarnished metal bangles, a few gaudy rhinestone brooches, and strands of fake pearls in improbable pastel colors.

 

Miss Bembridge returned. She looked hopeful. “What do you think?”

 

“Very pretty.” Ivor forced himself to smile. He could hardly choke the words out.

 

“The kettle will be ready in a moment. I’ll top you up.” She shuffled out of the room.

 

“This is awful,” Kate said in a low voice. “We can’t just walk away. I don’t think she has enough to eat, much less serve us tea. What will you do?”

 

“Finish unpacking. And pray.”

 

Five minutes later they’d reaching the bottom of the second box. There, nestled in a layer of crumpled newsprint, was a battered toffee tin from J. Lyons & Co Ltd, Kensington.

 

“The tin’s pretty,” Kate said.

 

“Art Deco,” Ivor agreed. “The box itself would be worth a few quid if it were in better shape.” He attempted to pry off the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.

 

“Let me try.” Using her fingernails, Kate worked the lid up and off, bit by bit.

 

Inside they found a trio of felted wool ornaments, wrapped in cotton wool.

 

“It’s the Three Magi,” Kate said. “Hand sewn out of old clothing, is my guess.” She turned one over in her hand. “They’re lovely, Ivor. Just look at the detail—the gold threads in the crowns, the tiny crystals on the chests they carry.” She handed him the first two.

 

“Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar,” said Ivor. “Mice got to them at some point in their history. Shame. They’ve been pretty badly mauled.”

 

“Three Mangled Magi,” Kate said. “How old do you think they are?”

 

“Late nineteenth century? Early twentieth?”

 

“That’s what I was thinking. In the States we’d call them folk art. Too bad they’re not in better condition.” She handed him the third figure. Sawdust trickled to the worn carpet beneath their feet.

 

Miss Bembridge reappeared with the teapot. “I see you found the Three Kings. My great-grandmother made them. Are they worth anything, do you think?”

 

“Well, yes—they’re worth something,” Ivor lied. The truth was the figures, while charming, were barely intact. Balthazar’s turban was missing. One of Gaspar’s arms hung by threads. Melchior’s dark woolen face was barely recognizable. Seams in the fabric had disintegrated, spilling fine wood-fiber stuffing everywhere. There were probably insects living inside.

 

Kate was poking through the cotton wool. “Look—there’s something else in the tin.” She lifted out an ornament. “It’s Finchley Hall.” The blown-glass castle, accented with mica and glitter, had been painted to resemble the Hall’s rose-red brick walls, towers, many windows, and dark slate roof. “Tiny bit of paint loss,” Kate said, “but otherwise in amazing condition for its age.”

 

“Where did you get this?” Ivor asked Miss Bembridge.

 

The old lady furrowed her brow. “I don’t know. It always hung on our tree.”

 

“I’ve only seen one other like it,” he said. “They were made to order in the early nineteen hundreds by a German manufacturer of hand-blown glass ornaments. Presented as Christmas gifts from Lady Barbara’s grandfather to all the estate workers.”

 

“That makes sense. I had a great uncle who was Under Gardener at the Hall around that time. Is it worth much?”

 

Ivor considered his answer carefully. He could probably sell the ornament for twenty-five or thirty pounds. On the other hand, this was exactly the kind of thing Lady Barbara would love. She might not know such ornaments existed. If she’d ever owned one, he’d never seen it on the big tree in the Great Hall.

 

Miss Bembridge’s lip quivered. “There’s not much of worth here, is there? I can see it in your faces.” She wiped away a tear. “Oh, dear. I was hoping to raise at least thirty pounds—to purchase the little car and a few extras for my nephew’s visit. A nice ham, perhaps, and some Christmas crackers.”

 

Ivor saw defeat in the watery blue eyes. He also saw keen intelligence. She wouldn’t be easily fooled, and she wouldn’t look kindly on charity.

 

“You’re right, Miss Bembridge. While these items undoubtedly have sentimental value for you, they wouldn’t bring much in the shop.” Her face fell, but he kept going. “However, the Christmas ornaments are worth something to me. I know someone who would love them. I’d like to offer you a hundred pounds. You keep the rest of the items. Maybe one day you’ll make a fortune with those commemorative magazines.”

 

Miss Bembridge put a wrinkled hand on her flat chest. “Are you sure?”

 

“I’m sure,” he said. “The ornaments are exactly the kind of gift I was hoping to find. We won’t take any more of your time.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted five twenty-pound notes.

 

Two pink spots appeared on Miss Bembridge’s papery cheeks. She accepted the money, thanked them for their time, and showed them to the door. “Thank you for coming. I hope your friend likes the ornaments.”

 

             Lady Barbara’s Christmas Eve gathering was everything Ivor had hoped. The Hall had been decorated in traditional fashion with wreaths of fir and holly tied up with red velvet bows. The huge tree in the Great Hall sparkled with lights. Francie Jewell’s supper was incredible as always—chunks of tender English beef with potatoes and vegetables, cooked in a savory wine sauce.

This year’s carol-singing was especially fine with the rector’s steady tenor blending with his fiancée’s clear soprano and Tom Mallory’s mellow baritone. The Armagnac had been warmed in front of the fire and was presented in cut-crystal snifters. Outside, defying the predictions, snow was softly falling.

 

Ivor felt a lump in his throat again. Everyone he cared about was here. He’d spent half his adult life at sea, exploring the far-flung corners of the globe. Then he’d spent the next several decades pursuing the treasures of the ancient world, building a business, counting pounds and pence. He was an old bachelor—no family, no children to comfort him in his old age—but these dear people had taken him to their hearts.

 

He wiped away a treacherous tear.

 

The gifts exchanged were small treats, thoughtfully chosen. For the women, boxes of handmade chocolates, colorful silk scarves, bottles of perfume, tins of Angela Vine’s homemade caramels. For the men, the requisite ties, warm mufflers, and (from Vivian, who didn’t believe in treats) pairs of thermal socks.

 

Ivor saved Lady Barbara’s gift for last, the box wrapped in silver paper and tied with a wide green bow. Okay, so Kate had done the wrapping. That wasn’t the point. The gift was meant to express what everyone felt—that Finchley Hall, and Lady Barbara herself, represented all that was good and true and lasting about Long Barston. Had done for as long as anyone could remember, and longer than that. Now, with the National Trust taking over, the five-hundred-year-old family seat of the Finchleys would belong to the nation. For a time, hopefully ten or twelve years, Lady Barbara would continue to occupy rooms in the east wing, but that couldn’t last forever. One day the Finchleys would be as much a part of history as the objects Ivor dealt in—or the Hall itself.

 

But not yet. Not this year.

 

He pulled the silver-wrapped box from beneath his chair. “Happy Christmas, my lady.”

            Kate joined them.

 

“Lovely!” Lady Barbara pulled off the ribbon and unfolded the silver paper. “What an interesting old tin.”

 

“Open it.” Ivor’s heart beat faster.

 

“Oh, my!” Her face glowed with delight. “Ivor, however did you know?” She lifted the glass castle and held it by the faded blue ribbon. “We had one of these on the tree when I was a child. It was broken—one of our cats, I believe.” She poked around in the cotton wool. “And three lovely old Wise Men.”

 

“A bit worse for wear,” Ivor said. “They belonged to Miss Bembridge, an elderly lady whose great uncle once worked at the Hall as an under gardener.”

 

“They’re perfectly charming.” Lady Barbara put her small hand on his arm. “I’ll get Francie to do a few discreet repairs, and—” She was running a finger along a gaping seam at the back of Balthazar’s robe. Tiny bits of sawdust fluttered out. “Wait—there’s something inside.”

 

Ivor and Kate leaned closer.

 

From within the fine wood shavings Lady Barbara pulled a large coin. “It’s a gold sovereign.” She handed it to Ivor, who turned it in his hand.

 

            “Dated 1831,” he said, holding the coin by the edges. “Yes—the famous ‘bare-head’ portrait of William the Fourth. And on the reverse—” He turned over the coin. “—a crowned shield bearing the Royal Arms of Hanover.”

 

“Sovereigns were cast of fine gold,” Kate said, staring at the coin. “This coin has to be worth a great deal today.”

 

Lady Barbara was busy examining Melchior and Gaspar, picking apart their seams. She gave a little crow of triumph. “Two more coins. They look brand new. Probably never circulated.” She frowned. “Why put gold sovereigns inside the Magi?”

 

“Good luck,” Ivor said. “It was a superstition. A way of ensuring the family would always have money.”

 

“Over the years, they must have forgotten the coins were there.” Kate held up one of the coins, careful to touch only the rim. “How much do you think they’re worth, Ivor?”

 

“In this condition? At least ten thousand pounds each. Maybe more. And very saleable. Let’s not handle them. Here.” He pulled a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and folded the coins inside.

 

“Miss Bembridge must be told.” Lady Barbara clasped her hands in delight. “Just think of it, As of old, the Magi have come again, bearing treasure.”

 

 “I’ll phone Miss Bembridge straightaway,” Ivor said. “I believe her money worries may be over.”

 

“I haven’t given you my gift yet.” Lady Barbara handed Ivor a long black velvet bag, bottle-shaped, and drawn at the top with a golden cord. “Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Your very favorite.”

 

Ivor’s heart fell.

 

“I’m joking.” Lady Barbara gave him a little shove. “And I’m no fool. I saw your face last year when you opened the Bristol Cream. Open it.”

 

And there it was. A slim bottle with a hand-penned label—Bas-Armagnac DeLord, Recolte 1991. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

This would be a Christmas to remember.