“Well, then, you may address me as Màiri. Long on the a and a wee roll of the r wouldn’t go amiss.”
Tom tried, but failed the r test. Over-rolled it.
“Never mind.” PCSO White lifted an eyebrow. “ ‘PCSO White’ will do in a pinch.”
“ ‘PCSO’ for short?”
“But not forever, I don’t think.”
“PC, then? Joining the regular force?”
“Perhaps.” Her smile turned enigmatic. “And you? Bishop’s throne? A yen for Lambeth Palace?”
“I’m happiest in the trenches.”
“Not happy trenches at the minute, are they?”
“No, they are not,” Tom agreed, eyeing the villagers filing into the room. None had been in the small hall when Tom had found Sybella’s body. Colonel Northmore was in hospital; Madrun was likely busy rolling pastry with Miranda helping her; Julia was managing a milkless cup of tea; and the boys were probably up Gratton Lane with a football, more likely to be the targets of Neighbourhood Watch than its advocates.
“Do you happen to have any news on Peter Kinsey’s death?” he asked PCSO White.
“I understand the pathologist’s report has come down, if that’s what you’re after.”
“And …?”
She looked at him, seeming to weigh something in her mind. “I should keep my gob shut, but—as he died on your patch, so to speak, and as he was a previous incumbent, and”—she lowered her voice—“as long as you keep it to yourself—”
“I will.”
“—the DSI, I expect,” she nodded towards a man in a smart suit by the tennis table, “may not be forthcoming just yet about cause of death—”
“Oh?”
“Still early days. Sometimes they like to keep cause close to their chests to see if they can catch out any possible suspects. Anyway, between you and me, it appears the Reverend Mr. Kinsey died from severe head trauma.”
“Merciful God, another one.”
“It’s not an uncommon way to dispatch someone, Vicar … Tom.”
Tom accepted the likely truth of this reluctantly. “In the wider world, I suppose. But this is a little end-of-the-road village. It’s supposed to be … arcadian.”
“You’re naïve.”
“I realise I’m indulging in wishful thinking.”
“You know what Sherlock Holmes said of village life, don’t you?”
“Something to prove your point, I’ll wager. What is it?”
“ ‘… That the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’ ”
“I might point out that Sherlock Holmes is fictional.”
“You might, but it would do you little good.” Màiri studied his face. “I understand your unwillingness to disavow the”—she groped for a word, then smiled—“wickedness … of village life.” The smile vanished. “I know about your wife, and I’m very sorry.”
“You’re well informed.”
“It’s my business to be so, I’m afraid.”
They both noted Mitsuko enter and survey the room.
“A case in point,” Màiri remarked softly.
“You mean her husband,” Tom murmured, for Liam had been flickering in the corner of his mind since PCSO White had passed on the intelligence about Peter Kinsey’s death. All Clergy Are Bastards.
“No, I meant her recent burglary. What did you mean?”
“Oh!” Feeling he had been caught out tittle-tattling, Tom stammered. “I just meant … I mean …”
Màiri said evenly, “Tom, I know all about Liam Drewe’s conviction for GBH. But I think the whole village does, too, does it not?”
“I suppose it does.” Tom groaned. “I’m beginning to discover how difficult it can be to have a private life in a place this small.” He heard the rue in his own voice: He had a sudden wild notion to ask Màiri if she fancied a coffee sometime, but instantly thought better of it. If he was seen at the Waterside with her in anything but her uniform, it would be all around the houses before he’d settled the bill. And if he was seen with her in a café outside the village, it would look like he was sneaking about. And, anyway, she might rebuff him. And—good heavens!—he was having anxieties he hadn’t had since he picked up the phone in his rooms at Cambridge to thank the delightful Lisbeth Rose, again, for rescuing him from the turbulent (ha!) Cam and invite her out for a meal.
“At any rate,” he heard Màiri say in a low voice as Mitsuko approached them, “I doubt Mr. Drewe is the only man in Thornford to have had trouble with the law.”
“Come out into the garden. We can talk there,” Tom told Sebastian, pouring each of them a whisky after everyone else had been ushered out through the front door of the vicarage. The late afternoon meeting of the church council, along with two members of the local constabulary, including PCSO White, had been called to sort through some security details in advance of the next day’s funeral, and had proceeded smoothly but for the occasional brandishing of a tut-tut, until Sebastian made the disconcerting announcement that he could not—or, rather, would not—be present at Sybella’s funeral. Several people in Tom’s sitting room had regarded Sebastian with puzzlement—though vergers weren’t required at funeral services, they usually attended anyway—and looked to Tom for guidance on how to react. Karla, about to bite into a slice of Madrun’s excellent gingerbread cake, beat Tom to the punch.
“And why not?” she snapped as if confronted at her wicket at the post office by a customer who refused to pay for stamps.
“My reasons are entirely private,” Sebastian had replied evenly, informing them that he had asked Dickie Horton, the verger at St. Paul’s in Pennycross, if he would fill in. Dickie, who had filled in on occasion the thirty years he had been verger of St. Paul’s, was happy to do so. Thrilled, Tom suspected, as he’d found Dickie poring over a copy of Hello! magazine in the vestry of St. Paul’s the first Sunday he’d taken services there. Still, Tom was not pleased: Dickie was adequate to the task, but apt to be unreliable, due in part to a fondness for drink and possible interferences from the steel plate in his head. And Sebastian had not consulted him first, before approaching Dickie, which was surprising and out of character. Taking their cue from Tom, however, whose only comment was, “I expect we’ll have to manage,” the others quickly moved on to other matters.
“I would have to say I’m disappointed,” Tom told Sebastian, taking a deep breath of the air frothy with the scent of elderflowers in bloom. He settled into one of a set of wicker chairs under an ancient pear tree that grew next to the side of the house, lifted his glass of whisky to his eye, rather than his lips, and peered through the cut crystal at refracted images of St. Nicholas’s. Bright rainbows limned the edges of the church tower, which stood black against the late afternoon sun. His ears picked up the muffled tremolo of the organ—Julia in rehearsal—and the muted chorus of Revelation Choir, and he gave a passing thought to the spectacle the next day’s funeral might be. Several of the downmarket tabloids had already seized upon Sybella’s death as an excuse to revisit her mother’s very public excesses. “I know you said your reasons were private, but now that the others have left, I wonder if you might share your reasons with me.”
Sebastian balanced on the edge of his matching wicker. “I’m sorry, Tom. It’s not my intent to upset anyone … or anything. But it’s vital I absent myself.”
“I am your priest, you know,” Tom responded, lowering the glass, surprised. What could be so vital? “If there’s something troubling you, you can tell me. It won’t go any farther, you have my word.”
“I know that.”
Tom’s attention was drawn to a butterfly, its wings tipped with bright orange, which had fluttered in under the pear’s low-hanging branches. It hovered over Sebastian’s glass.
“I’m surprised,” he continued, noting Sebastian’s expression soften almost imperceptibly as he watched the delicate creature fan the air, “that you wouldn’t wish to h
elp. You work with Colm in his garden nearly every day. I can only assume—”
Here, Tom caught himself, suddenly recalling another expression on Sebastian’s face—the one on Monday when he’d burst into the village hall. Tom chose his next words carefully.
“I can only hope,” he began again, “that you don’t harbour some … antipathy towards Sybella …”
The butterfly settled on the edge of Sebastian’s glass.
“… because,” Tom continued with a dash of provocation when no response was forthcoming, “I think Sybella found you not uninteresting.” He allowed a smile to play along his lips. “A sort of crush, you might say. Which might explain her presence in church the last month.”
Sebastian leaned forwards and blew gently on the butterfly. They both watched it unfold its wings and flit off towards the lawn, where Powell—or, possibly, Gloria—streaked into view from a bed of hyacinths and narcissi and began pawing at the air.
“Tom, I paid her no attention. She’s a child. Was a child.”
“You paid her enough attention to tear up a drawing she was making of you.”
“I see Eric’s been free with information.” Sebastian lifted his whisky and took a grim sip. “All right, yes, I did destroy a sketch she was doing of me in the pub. But she didn’t ask my permission. I found her drawing me without my permission intrusive.” He attacked the whisky again. “I expect she got me at a bad moment, that’s all. I did apologise.” He glared down the lawn, where the cat continued to jab mercilessly at the orange-tip. “Look, Tom, as I think you know by now, I very much value my privacy.”
How much do you value it? Tom couldn’t help thinking. And to what length would you go to protect it? Instead he grunted: “You’re sort of a riddle, wrapped in a cassock, inside an enigma—to make a pig’s breakfast of Churchill. You do know that, don’t you? By being so circumspect about your life, you provoke the opposite—you arouse curiosity.”
“I can’t help that.”
“I’m sure some in the village have trawled the Internet to see what they might glean.”
“You, for instance?” Sebastian turned from the cat swatting at the butterfly.
“No, Sebastian. Despite your … guardedness, you’re a welcoming and calming presence in the church. And a great help to me in many matters. If you want to keep yourself to yourself, that’s perfectly fine with me. Only …”
“Only?”
“… occasionally it occurs to me to ask where you went to school. Or what your father does for a living. Or where you were confirmed. That sort of thing. Such questions don’t seem all that intrusive.”
“And the answers aren’t all that interesting,” Sebastian replied evenly, then tensed. “That bloody cat! Look—it’s caught that butterfly.”
Tom turned to see Gloria—or, possibly, Powell—bring the insect to ground and leap upon it with feline glee.
“Too late.” He watched the butterfly’s orange tip disappear into the cat’s greedy maw. “You should see what it brings me some mornings in bed. Tributes of mice and birds. I even had a vole last month.” He noted Sebastian’s pained expression. “Not fond of cats, I take it.”
“No, not really. We always had dogs when I was growing up.”
“Really. Where did you grow up?”
Sebastian smiled. “Somewhere in the United Kingdom.”
“Well, I suppose that narrows it a bit,” Tom responded dryly. He sipped his whisky. “Presuming the police asked you the same question, what did you reply? I expect Bliss and Blessing have interviewed you. You work for Sybella’s father, after all.”
“I gave them a more precise answer.”
“And were they satisfied?”
A shadow passed over Sebastian’s face. “For the time being.”
Tom studied him. How long, in the face of a police investigation, could Sebastian preserve his privacy? Surely, if Sybella had had a crush on Sebastian, it couldn’t have escaped the attention of other, gossipy, villagers. And surely that snippet, feeble as it was, would send the two detectives back to the verger’s cottage with more questions.
“I expect Eric hasn’t been as free with information as you might think,” he mused.
“You mean about the incident with Sybella’s drawing? I expect you’re right. The police didn’t ask.”
“And should the police ask?”
“I shall tell them what I told you.”
Tom lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. Mightn’t the detectives wonder, too, how much Sebastian valued his privacy? He took another sip of his whisky. It was an excellent single malt, left over from Giles James-Douglas’s day, which made him think to ask:
“It was Phillip Northmore, was it not, who approached Giles James-Douglas about taking you on as verger?”
“Yes.” Sebastian hesitated. “Phillip was a great friend of my grandfather’s. They were in the same regiment in the war.”
“Presumably, then, they were in the same prisoner-of-war camp.”
Sebastian nodded. “Unfortunately, the experience shattered my grandfather’s health and he died sooner than he ought to have. On the other hand, given what they endured, Phillip’s stamina has been remarkable … well, until recently.”
Tom waved his arm at the approaching cat. A wing jutting from its mouth fluttered helplessly. “Perhaps if Powell and Gloria weren’t pitch-black …”
“Yes, a priest with two black cats …”
“It doesn’t do, does it?”
“At least King Dumb—Powell and Gloria’s brother—was calico.”
“So I understand … but I heard the previous incumbent ran over him with his car.”
“Peter wasn’t fond of cats either.”
Tom glanced at Sebastian sharply, then laughed. “You’re not suggesting …?”
“King Dumb was aptly named,” Sebastian replied. They both watched the rest of the butterfly disappear into the cat’s mouth. “Slept in traffic. Probably deaf.”
Tom frowned. An oblique reply. But then he had an oblique verger. He lifted his glass and sloshed the tawny liquid absently. “So,” he continued, one eye on Powell—yes, it was Powell—who made his way to the base of the tree, extended his body along the trunk, and began ferociously scratching at the bark, “it was a familial connection brought you here. I didn’t know that.”
Sebastian hesitated again. “No one does,” he replied finally.
Tom blinked. “Well, one does now. I’m sort of surprised you’ve shared even this detail with me.”
“I think I can trust you, Tom.”
“I’m flattered. But why? I’ve had the living barely two months. You can’t say you know me well.”
“No, but I know enough. Perhaps I’ve become adept at watching and listening. I’ve watched you and listened to you. I don’t think you’re someone who would intentionally let someone down.”
“I could go rooting through some regimental history,” Tom joked, faintly embarrassed by the vote of confidence. “I know which one Phillip was attached to, and that could lead me to—”
“You could, Tom,” Sebastian interrupted, “but I know you won’t. And in any case,” he added with a tight smile, “you would find it of little use.”
“I see.” He didn’t really, but was grateful for the expression of trust, though he wasn’t sure what engendered it. “But surely Giles knew your background. Whatever it might be,” he added. Candidates for verger had to go through a Criminal Records Bureau check, for one thing.
“No. Giles was remarkably incurious. Some on the church council questioned Phillip when he introduced me as a candidate, but I gather he was able to persuade them of my merits.”
“Then what about introducing you to the parish? ‘Sebastian John comes to us from …’ oh, Ham Parma in Gloucestershire where he was under-gardener to the Marquis of Tiswas or something like that.”
“I believe Giles introduced me by saying that I arrived in Thornford thanks to the grace of God.”
Tom laughed. “Tr
ue, perhaps, but a bit over the top.”
“More than a bit. But Giles was rapidly descending into senility when I arrived. He probably wouldn’t have remembered, even if he had been told.”
“Surely the villagers expressed some curiosity?”
“A little. But I don’t think they expected me to last very long. Giles, you see, ran through rather a few vergers later in life.”
“Odd.”
“Well, the villagers were fond of Giles, you see, so they turned a blind eye to his—”
“Ah, yes, that was just crossing my mind. The vergers were likely all young, possibly blond, most certainly male, very likely low on funds, and probably not from these parts.”
“I’m not sure about blond, but the rest of the description fits, I believe. I don’t think there was ever any scandal. Most of them grew bored with country life soon enough and returned to London. Giles was never anything but kind and decent to me.” Sebastian’s eyes followed Powell as he scrambled up the tree into the thicket of branches. “And anyway, he died within a few months of my arrival.”
“And Peter Kinsey? What did he—”
But Sebastian’s expression shifted suddenly as he continued to stare into the tree.
“What …?” Tom began. Then he, too, saw. “Miranda, what are you doing up there?”
“Daddy, the branch goes right by my window!”
Tom twisted his head towards the back of the vicarage. It was true. The branch did run by Miranda’s bedroom window, but it looked barely strong enough to support even a cat’s weight.
“Miranda, come down. You’re too high. What if you fall?”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“Powell’s in the way.”
Tom contemplated tossing his whisky tumbler at the cat.
“I’ll get him,” Sebastian volunteered, standing. Powell, just within reach, howled as Sebastian peeled him off the tree.
“How long have you been up there?” Tom asked when his daughter had slipped down the branch safely to the lawn. His heart was pounding. He glanced at Sebastian, who was gripping the struggling cat. The shift in his expression had been to one of alarm and it had little modified.
Twelve Drummers Drumming Page 18