A Spider on the Stairs by Cassandra Chan

heavy rains.
    â€œI was going to head home,” Bethancourt answered his father, “but something’s come up. Jack’s in York, looking into a murder, and I thought I might join him there and have a look in.”
    â€œOh,” said Robert. He eyed his son speculatively.
    When Bethancourt had first shown an interest in criminal cases, Robert had prevailed upon his old school chum, currently the chief commissioner of New Scotland Yard, to allow Bethancourt access to official investigations, in the hope that his son would be inspired to take up a career with the police. But that had been some time ago, and Bethancourt did not seem any nearer to collecting a policeman’s salary than he had been at the beginning.
    â€œCertainly,” said Robert now. “The house is empty at the moment, there’s no reason you shouldn’t use it. Have Jack in to stay, too, if you like. It’s sure to be more comfortable than wherever he’s billeted.”
    â€œThere’s not much available in York at the last minute,” agreed Ellen. “Not during Christmas at any rate. The poor lad’s probably stuck in some grotty B and B.”
    Bethancourt had not thought of that. “I didn’t think to ask,” he admitted.
    â€œWhat kind of case is it?” asked Robert.
    â€œHe came up on the trail of a serial killer,” answered Bethancourt, “but I think now he’s helping the Yorkshire CID with something else—half the force is apparently down with the flu.”
    â€œI heard about that,” said Robert. “The Ashdon killer, isn’t it? The first time he’s struck this far north.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Bethancourt. “I don’t actually know toomuch about the case—Jack got put onto it after I left town. I’ll drive over tomorrow after lunch then.”
    â€œDo let us know whether or not the house is all right,” said Ellen.
    â€œOf course,” said Bethancourt. “Thanks.”
    But his luck seemed to have turned. A fresh squall swept over the Dales during dinner and heavy flooding was predicted as a result. The guests who were not staying at the Grange left soon after the meal in order to make sure they would reach their homes before the rivers rose.
    Bethancourt’s father, having seen the last of them out, remarked, “You might want to leave tonight, Phillip, instead of tomorrow. I doubt any of us will be getting out of Wharfedale by morning.”
    Margaret looked up from her seat by the fire. “But tomorrow’s Boxing Day,” she said. “Aren’t we taking the donations down to Harrogate in the morning?”
    â€œI doubt it,” answered Robert. “If they’re right about the rain keeping up, I imagine the road will be flooded at either end by morning. Half your mother’s luncheon guests won’t be able to make it here, either.”
    â€œWell,” said Bethancourt, doing his best to control his eagerness, “if we’re not going to make it to Harrogate anyway, I might as well go to York tonight.”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” said his father. “You could be stuck here for days otherwise, depending on the weather. I swear, I’ve never seen such a holiday season.”
    â€œI’ll just go pack my things then,” said Bethancourt happily.
    He drove into York just after midnight under a pitch-black sky with not a star to be seen. He had left most of the rain behind him in the Dales, however; in York it had been reduced to a steady drizzle.
    Gibbons was waiting for him at the back gate, having been alerted to his friend’s imminent arrival by phone.
    â€œHello, Cerberus,” he said, bending down to scratch the bigdog’s ears as Bethancourt let him out of the car. “Happy Christmas, Phillip.”
    â€œIf you say so,” replied Bethancourt ungraciously. “Let’s get in, shall we? I’m not dressed