Twelve Drummers Drumming

by C. C. Benison

  “And would you know who they would be?” Tom gave a passing thought to leaving the outside door to the vestry unlocked. Perhaps art thieves with poor taste might be glad of an opportunity.…

  “I don’t. There must be a record somewhere.”

  Tom looked at the vestry’s paper middens and thought about the middens in the vicarage office. Somewhere indeed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The south porch of St. Nicholas Church opened to a pea shingle path that descended through a terraced lawn to vanish into a shadowy border of trees that stood sentry along the millpond. To the east and to the west, gravestones—those nearest the church lichened, worn, and as irregularly set as wobbly teeth; those in the farther corners of the churchyard straight-edged, upright, and as evenly set as dentures—were a spectral counterpoint to the surround of sunlit blue and vivacious green. Adjusting his eyes to the brilliance of the midmorning, waiting by the porch’s door for his tiny flock to pass and make their way along the downward path, Tom espied Fred Pike, a spade over his shoulder, standing above—just barely, it seemed, given his height—the new gravestones at the far southwest near the churchyard’s high stone wall.

  It was Sebastian who kept the grass between the gravestones closely mown and maintained the grounds, but by long-standing tradition, grave-digging duties were given over to Fred, rather than the funeral director’s contractor, because he seemed to relish the task. Although Tom wondered why a man of his age—or any age—would willingly shift great clumps of Devon’s red soil on a warm day all by himself. Fred took great pride in his tidy excavations, though Tom considered the pride a bit misplaced. He had taken only one funeral in Thornford to date—it had been Ned Skynner’s, more than a year earlier—and he’d thought when he’d glanced down into the cavity just before the coffin was lowered that he’d seen better spadework. He wasn’t badly placed to adjudicate these things—who, other than priests, sextons, and funeral directors’ contractors, spends much time gazing into open graves?—but he allowed that perhaps country standards were less exacting.

  He had a notion to ask after Fred’s son. The previous evening, he had pulled a couple of umbrellas from the hall stand and accompanied Charlie down Poynton Shute and Orchard Hill to his parents’ small wisteria-wreathed cottage. His unexpected presence at their door, he was assured to know, was the spur that sent the Pikes to the police.

  “Vicar?”

  The ladies—and they were all ladies—stood like birds in a flock at the top of the first terrace, regarding him inquisitively.

  “Coming,” he shouted, turning back momentarily to push shut the south porch door, thinking as he did so of the door to the village hall, and one of the last questions he had for Charlie as they tramped down Orchard Hill the evening before: After he had escorted Sybella into the hall, had he left the front door latched or unlatched? Did he turn the key partially—which opened the door but left it locked once it closed behind—or did he turn it fully—which left the door unlocked? Charlie couldn’t remember, simply couldn’t remember. And Tom could only imagine that in the excitement and fear he wouldn’t remember. Too bad. But if the boy left it unlatched, anyone could have wandered in. If latched, then whoever Charlie had heard come in had had a key.

  And who, as Eric had mentioned, had keys to the village hall? Far too many people, most of them unaccounted for, just as too many people, many of them unaccounted for, likely had keys to the church—a circumstance that warranted scrutiny.

  He stepped down the path, his feet crunching the gravel. The only other sounds came from bees, busy among the bluebells poking through the lawn between the gravestones, and the breeze brushing through the canopy of sycamore and alder trees. Fred, he noted, had placed his spade in the shadow of a great copper beech and had begun measuring along an untrammeled patch of grass. Several of the ladies followed his glance and by the time he reached them, they were all turned solemnly towards the southwest corner as though it were Mecca.

  “Poor child,” someone murmured.

  “So wretched for Colm.”

  “I can hardly believe something like this has happened in Thornford.”

  There was a hubbub of agreement, then a weighted pause, pierced by the call of gulls over the millpond.

  “Did you hear?” Someone broke their silence. “Colm’s having this black choir come for the funeral.”

  “Oooh, never! Really? How interesting! What do you think, Vicar?”

  “Anything that gives him peace of mind,” Tom replied evenly, sensing a rising tide of tittle-tattle as they resumed walking, passing down through the canopy of trees to the millpond path.

  “And Oona!”

  “Won’t that be something!”

  “She’s ever so thin, you know. It’s the drugs.”

  “Yakking up in the toilet, more like. They don’t eat, of course.”

  “She must be well past her sell-by date as a model, surely.”

  “Who else do you think is coming? Do you think Cliff Richard will be here?”

  “Oh, Enid, don’t be silly.”

  “You’re showing your age, Enid. Sir Cliff was big in the sixties. Colm was a star in the eighties.”

  “For about two minutes.”

  “Who’s Cliff Richard?” asked Violet Tucker, at twenty-three by far the youngest of the party.

  “Good people,” Tom interrupted in his best “good people” voice. He had been casting his eyes over the millpond waters sparkling in the sunshine, half his mind on the day he and some fellow ordinands had hired a punt at the Mill Pond in Cambridge. Some smartarse standing on the Clare College Bridge had reached down and grabbed the top of his pole, tipping him into the water. Shallow as the Cam was, not being able to swim was Tom’s secret shame. As the punt drifted unguided under the bridge, he had panicked. Sitting on the bordering lawn reading had been medical student Lisbeth Rose. Her senior swimming certificate and her St. John’s Ambulance first-aid course had proved most useful.

  “Good people,” he said again. “Remember, a young woman has died.”

  “We’re not gossiping, Vicar,” Florence Daintrey boomed in the voice that commanded the WI. Added her more demure sister-in-law, Venice: “We’re simply very … concerned.”

  Tom was hard-pressed to see the distinction.

  “Very concerned,” Venice repeated for emphasis. “We’ve been double-bolting our door the last two nights.”

  “Me, too,” Marg Farrant piped up.

  “Do you think it’s someone from the village?” Enid glanced tentatively at Tom. She was overdressed for the warmth of the day in a purple anorak and mincing along the path, as though each step required consideration.

  “There was blue and white tape around the hall yesterday,” Marg interjected before Tom could reply. “And these people wearing transparent overalls and boots going in and out and such.”

  “That would be scene-of-crime officers, dear.”

  “I do watch television, Flo,” Marg responded witheringly, patting the braid knotted into a crown on the top of her head.

  “But do you think …?” Enid began again.

  “That it was someone from the village?” Florence finished her thought. “Oh, surely not. Isn’t there a Gypsy caravan over at—?”

  “I thought it had to do with drugs?”

  “Gypsies sell drugs, Ven.”

  “This is highly speculative, ladies.” Tom managed to get a warning word in.

  “But if it isn’t someone from—”

  “Well, who, Enid?” Flo interrupted with her carrying voice. “Sybella wasn’t the most charming child in the village, but who would want to hurt her so?”

  In the pause Tom thought he could see little thought clouds hovering in wooly bunches over his flock’s heads. They were nearing the turn where the millpond path curved to join the walkway along the quay. Early season visitors sat on wooden benches, some with children (this being half-term) nearby feeding the geese.

  “Liam!” Tilly Springett blurted, s
peaking for the first time. Her hands flew to her mouth. She looked at Tom guiltily.

  The thought clouds vanished one by one. Breath passed sharply up five female noses.

  “Do you think?” Ven squeaked.

  “He was in prison at Bristol.” Tilly was studying Tom nervously. “Did you know he’d been to prison, Vicar?”

  “It crossed my mind he might have been,” Tom allowed, the provenance of the tattoos on Liam’s fingers on his mind. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “I remember!” Florence interrupted, oblivious. “It was for GBH. He was one of those door-supervisor people at a club in Cheltenham. He wouldn’t let some lad in …”

  “That’s right,” Venice picked up the thread. “Hit him over the head.”

  “Really?” Tom interjected.

  “Can’t remember with what,” Marg added with new excitement, as if Tom’s interest had given them leave to gossip unrestrainedly. “But it caused permanent brain damage. He was sent down for four years or something.”

  “Oh, dear, I’d forgotten that bit,” Venice said.

  “I’ve always wondered why Mitsuko married him?” Enid murmured.

  “I know why.” Violet started to giggle. “He’s ever so muscle-y. You know what I mean? Sort of … forceful.” She hugged her purple cardigan around her middle.

  “Violet!” several exclaimed.

  “Makes my Mark seem a milquetoast,” Violet added, a bright silly expression enlivening her chubby cheeks.

  Marg cleared her throat loudly and jerked her head warningly in Tom’s direction.

  “Sorry, Vicar.” Violet blushed. “My Mark’s lovely.”

  “Really!” Florence added before Tom could remind them that wearing a dog collar didn’t make him a prude. “Anyway, it’s not funny. He has the most wretched temper—Liam I mean. He looks very capable—”

  “And he’s awfully jealous of Mitsuko, that’s for certain,” Venice added.

  “I remember him once glaring at Mr. Kinsey,” Marg said. “If looks could kill!”

  “That’s right,” Enid added. “Mitsuko never much came to church when Mr. James-Douglas was vicar.”

  “Enid!”

  “Well, it’s true, Flo.” Enid glanced at Tom speculatively.

  “And what would this have to do with Sybella Parry anyway?” Florence harrumphed.

  That silenced them for the moment. Tom looked over at Tilly, who had absented herself from the chatter and was wearing a worried frown.

  Violet broke the silence. “Mark and I were able to get someone to sit with Ruby so we could have a meal at the Waterside Sunday evening,” she began, lowering her voice as they approached the quay. “There was an awful row in the kitchen.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, Liam’s often banging on about something,” Florence butted in dismissively. “You can hear him through the doors to the kitchen cursing the chip pan.”

  “Liam doesn’t do chips, Flo,” Venice corrected her sister-in-law. “Remember, Marg, your Laura, when she was visiting that time, asking for chips with her sea bass rather than herbed potatoes?”

  “Yes, he did get a bit shirty, now you mention it.” Marg frowned, as if at the memory. “Anyway, I really think in the end, it’s more of a bark-bite thing with Liam. The bark being worse and all. Hasn’t he taken one of those anger-management thingies?”

  “No, Marg, this was different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. It was …” Violet paused, then added darkly, “the tone.”

  The bunch of them had stopped, as if not daring to step farther if they were going to continue this conversation. They were crushed together like commuters at Euston Station platform Friday after work. Tom could see various people on the quay regarding them with mild curiosity, then abruptly turn their attention towards some disturbance, possibly, on the other side of the Waterside.

  “How do you mean—tone?” Marg asked.

  Violet appeared to think about it. “Well, it wasn’t the usual back-and-forth, no-we’re-not-having-Sunday-lunch-with-your-mum, oh-yes-we-are-having-Sunday-lunch-with-my-mum sort of thing. It was mostly Liam carrying on. Quite sort of … distressed he sounded.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No, not really. I thought perhaps I heard something about money, but maybe I think that because Mark and I always argue about money. Anyway, that’s what I mean by ‘tone.’ It was embarrassing. rassing. We tried to ignore it. We’d only sat down. There was no one else in the place but for some couple I didn’t recognise. We just gave each other these gruesome looks and tried to make light of it.” Violet grimaced to indicate the expression they wore. “And then Sybella popped out of the kitchen.”

  “Oh!” Venice exclaimed. “Liam was shouting at Sybella. I thought it would be—”

  “No, Mitsuko had been in the kitchen, too. At about the same time Sybella appeared in the dining room, I happened to glance out the window—we were seated sort of facing west—and I could see Mitsuko walking back up Fishers Hill with that determined little walk of hers.”

  “Then I wonder which one he was shouting at?” Enid asked.

  Violet shrugged. “Both of them?”

  “How did Sybella appear?” Tom asked despite himself. Over the women’s heads he could see Bliss and Blessing walking from the restaurant towards a red car parked under the trees near the quay.

  “Like the cat that got the cream. She sort of rolled her eyes at us, but she looked awfully pleased with herself.”

  “She does—did—like to provoke,” Florence commented to a murmur of assent. “I mean, her ears! They looked like pincushions! Oh, look! There’s those two detectives! Did you know they’re commandeered the Old School Room? I wonder if they’ve been interrogating—”

  “Really, Flo!” her sister-in-law interrupted. “ ‘Interrogate’ is a little strong, don’t you think?”

  “Shall we go in?” Tom sighed, eyeing the sandwich board glinting in the sun. “We look like we’re waiting for a bus. If we stand here much longer, it’ll be time for lunch.”

  “I’m afraid it’s self-serve this morning, ladies … Vicar,” Liam said gruffly, gesturing to coffee urns on a side table that he was busy wiping with a cloth. “I’m a little understaffed at the minute and I’ve had other … interruptions this morning.”

  He turned to glance at them. No one had moved. It seemed as if the women had stepped into the restaurant as one and chosen to remain in a huddle. They stared at Liam. Liam stared at them. Then he scowled. His brow furrowed under a kerchief wrapped around his skull.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Nothing,” Tom lied. Bringing up the rear he had bumped into Venice’s substantial backside, then ricocheted off her slimmer sister-in-law, setting the women jostling and swaying like bowling pins trying to right themselves.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with self-service.” Liam continued, his voice edged with sarcasm, mistaking the source of his patrons’ reaction, “It’s what you’d bloody get most places.”

  A gasp arose.

  Liam looked taken aback. “Well, pardon me for—”

  “Really, Mr. Drewe!” Florence huffed. “A young woman has died!”

  Where have I heard that admonishment before? Tom wondered as Liam, first quizzical then comprehending, retorted:

  “You don’t think I know that?” His expression struggled for contrition as he lifted used coffee cups from a nearby table. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve given offence. I’ve been run off my feet these last days.” He gave his customers an assessing gaze as they unknotted themselves and plunked proprietary handbags on various of the small tables. “If any of you ladies fancy a job …?”

  “Oh …!” Venice began.

  “Don’t you dare,” Florence hissed. “You have a perfectly good pension.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Well, if you do, Miss Daintrey …” Liam’s face fell as he studied Venice edging her girth between the tab
les. “Anyway, as I say, coffee’s here. There’s a French roast and decaffeinated. And there’re pastries baked fresh this morning. I have pear croissants; most of the chocolate croissants have gone, I’m afraid. There’re some rosemary muffins and … a few other things—they’re in back.”

  “Oh, goodie,” Venice clapped her hands.

  “Really, Ven!” Florence snapped as Liam cast his cloth over his shoulder and retreated through the push doors into the kitchen.

  Tilly held back as the others stirred towards the serving table, cooing over the artful baking.

  “Mrs. Springett?” Tom said to the old lady who appeared glued to the flooring. “Nothing for you?”

  Tilly looked up at him. She seemed to have made a decision. “Will you sit with me, Father?”

  “Of course.”

  “Alone?”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. Tilly blushed and slapped at his hand. “Now don’t be silly, Father. I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

  Tom smiled. “Shall I get us two coffees? You sit and I’ll bring them.”

  “And a chocolate croissant, please, if there’s one left. Mr. Drewe’s baking is awfully good.”

  Tom was the last in the queue. As he was pouring the coffee, Liam reemerged from the kitchen, a tray of pastries in hand. As he placed it on the table, Tom noted again the tattooed letters, one on each knuckle.

  A C A B.

  Always Carry A Bible.

  All Coppers Are Bastards.

  All something Are Bastards.

  His eyes travelled from fingers to face. Liam witnessed the inspection and glowered at him.

  “They came to see me yesterday,” Tom remarked.

  “Who?”

  “The detectives who left here earlier. Bliss and Blessing.”

  “Wankers,” Liam muttered.

  “Do they have any idea who—?”

  “Yeah, me, of course.”

  “You mean,” Tom began, taken aback, “they’re about to—?”

  But Liam cut him off again. “They will. Just because in the past I … never mind! Look, you’re spilling.”