Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas)

by Benison, C. C.

  “Of course. Grannies are waiting! We won’t be able to stop and stay with Aunt Julia, though.” He paused in thought, then heaved himself off the edge of the bed. “I wonder …,” he muttered, gingerly moving behind the screen to pull his mobile from his trouser pocket.

  “Wonder what, Daddy? Oh! Your foot seems much better.”

  “If Dosh or Kate has called back.” He kept the ringer on vibrate most of the time. He scrolled through the received calls in the last twelve hours: His sister-in-law Julia had called in the evening as had a number of folk from Thornford, prompted, he expected, by the news of the death at Eggescombe. “I left a message yesterday explaining what’s happened to us, though of course they’ll have heard it on the radio or seen it on TV. Ah, they have called. Shall we call them back or is it too early?”

  “Not too early,” Miranda said slyly.

  Breakfast had been a cheerless affair, though mercifully absent the drama of the morning before. Hector passed Tom and Miranda on his way out, turning to announce to those remaining—Georgina, Jane, Jamie—that he would be in the chapel, his tone a warning: Woe to him who dared disturb. But after a decent interval of toast and coffee and conversation tempered by respect for Georgina’s evident suffering, Tom made his way to Eggescombe’s private chapel, his heart laden but his mind bent nevertheless on disturbing a man at prayer. But Hector was not at prayer.

  Gripping the ring of the door handle, Tom had sent the inside latch shooting up with a noisy clank. Entering, he’d pushed the oak door creaking on iron hinges. He’d shambled down the shadowed nave along the blue-and-white-checkered marble, soon realising from the set of Hector’s head and shoulders along the front pew that his was the posture of sleep, not devotion. Bonzo, on the pew next to his master, raised his head a little, blinked, and settled back to his own rest. He’d taken a few moments to glance around at the exuberant use of marble, an indication that the chapel was clearly post-Reformation, a later renovation to Eggescombe Hall, before noisily clearing his throat and setting Lord Fairhaven’s eyelids to flutter open.

  “I was resting my eyes.” He focused blearily on Tom, though his sleep-thickened voice betrayed him.

  “I thought I might pay the chapel a visit, while I had the chance,” Tom lied, adding another: “I thought you might have left by the time I arrived.”

  “Have you a ticket?” Hector’s smile stopped short of his eyes.

  “I must have left it in my other trousers.”

  Hector grunted at the riposte and straightened his posture. “The chapel sees mostly day-trippers now. Part of the package for some, with the Labyrinth.” He flicked an uncertain glance at Tom, as if remembering their encounter there, before looking away, to the sanctuary lamp burning before the altar.

  “Built in 1836 by my several-times-great-grandfather,” he continued. “Of course, in earlier times the Mass had to be celebrated in the attic because, well …” He trailed off, patting the dog’s head.

  “Lord Fairhaven—”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something I want to speak to you about.”

  Hector regarded him sulkily. “I thought there might be.”

  Tom settled into the pew across the nave from Hector. Stained glass fetching a bit of light from the sky cast dancing shadows over pews. “I’m sorry if this sounds like an accusation, but I don’t believe I’m wrong in thinking that in the Labyrinth yesterday morning you removed something from Lord Morborne’s pockets.” When Hector didn’t respond, he continued. “By all accounts, Lord Morborne was wedded to his mobile—I noted it myself at the Plymouth airfield—but the device seems to be missing. I’m deducing, I don’t think unfairly, that you took it.”

  Hector’s lower lip slipped from its mooring. He regarded Tom with barely concealed displeasure. “Have you mentioned this to anyone?”

  “If you mean the police, no. I have, however, discussed it with Lady Kirkbride. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I think she’s of very good character and has your best interests at heart.”

  “And what would my best interests be, Vicar?”

  “In being forthright.”

  “I’m not sure that would be in my best interests.” Hector glanced away.

  “Much depends on whether your interests lie with God or mammon.”

  Hector didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat to face forwards. Finally, he said, as if addressing the altar, “I’ve been sitting here since breakfast wrestling with my conscience, Vicar. I do have one, you know. I realise people think that if you have any association with party politics, then your morals and ethics and what-have-you are suspect. But, you see, it’s so often a question of efficacy. How might one get things done—good, worthwhile things—if one must constantly worry about the minutiae of some moral equation or consider every single possible consequence. Sometimes one must push on.”

  “Ends, not means, in other words.”

  Hector turned his head and shot him a cold glance. In the moment he took studying Tom’s face, Tom could see a beginning crack in the façade of hauteur. “I did take Oliver’s mobile—his iPhone,” he said finally.

  “I see. I assume you believe you had a good reason.”

  “Apparently, it contains some … information that could be damaging. Oliver said so and I … could find no reason not to believe him.”

  “Information damaging to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Might the information implicate you in some fashion in Lord Morborne’s death?”

  Hector didn’t respond to the question. Instead, he said with rising anger: “Do you know they’ve barred Father Downes from Eggescombe for the time being? It’s an outrage.”

  “You take Communion daily?”

  “Yes. Here, and in London.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of use.”

  Hector cast troubled eyes on him for the first time. “Will you go to those idiot detectives?”

  “My lord, you’ve told me that the information on Lord Morborne’s mobile could damage you in some fashion. That suggests a motive. How can I not tell the police what I know? A man has been murdered. Am I to protect his killer?”

  “If I’d killed Oliver, why wouldn’t I have taken his mobile at that moment rather than later?”

  “Because you were disturbed in the act? Because you were in a terrible emotional state? Because you didn’t think about the phone until later? I’m sorry to be so blunt, but there might be a number of reasons.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Much as I detested my brother-in-law, I wouldn’t wish him dead.”

  “You were seen at a run on the grounds around dawn yesterday.”

  “I often take exercise early in the morning. What of it?”

  “You didn’t mention it to the police at our interview in the great hall yesterday.”

  “I didn’t want to complicate matters. It’s a routine activity. How do you know anyway? Mrs. Gaunt, I suspect,” Hector continued when Tom hesitated. “She’s an early riser.”

  “She claimed to the DI that she had seen nothing ‘out of the ordinary.’ ”

  Hector shrugged. “And so it was, quite ordinary.”

  Tom tried a new tack: “I couldn’t help notice that the belt on your robe was absent in the Labyrinth.”

  “What!”

  “Lord Fairhaven, the police are also looking for a weapon, as well as a motive. Lord Morborne was strangled, as you know.”

  Hector’s face coloured dangerously. “But that’s outrageous! You’re suggesting—”

  “I’m simply pointing out that you’re in somewhat of an invidious position.”

  “Then the bloody belt slipped out of the loops somehow. I don’t know. The redoubtable Gaunt laundered that robe yesterday. It had grass stains on it. You’ll have to ask him. There was a belt on it this morning. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “What then of the mobile?” Tom felt the full force of Hector’s anger, which dissipated slowly, like air from a balloon, until after a minute pallor was r
estored to his face. He said,

  “I’m not accustomed to including virtual strangers in what I regard as purely private business.”

  “Can it be private any longer in these circumstances, Lord Fairhaven? Should it be private?”

  “Yes, it bloody should be private!”

  “I see.” Tom struggled to rise from his pew. “I was only seeking you out—”

  “Then you weren’t simply playing the tourist.”

  “No, I suppose I wasn’t. Despite the size of this house, privacy isn’t always guaranteed, and I didn’t expect anyone else to come into the chapel.”

  “An indictment of the state of the Faith, I daresay.”

  “Possibly. Anyway, I only came to let you know, as a courtesy, that I feel duty-bound to tell the police what I saw. The nature of your conflict with Lord Morborne is not my business. But you must be aware that whatever information happens to be on Lord Morborne’s device is also likely to be in another computer somewhere or on a server or in a ‘cloud.’ If needs must, the police will eventually find it.”

  Hector, who had set his head in one hand, stared at him through splayed fingers. “Sit back down, Vicar. I have something I might as well confess to you. If Father Downes were here, I would talk to him. But I guess you’ll have to do in the circumstances.”

  “Confess?” Tom hesitated over the word. “I can’t offer you what your own priest would offer you, Lord Fairhaven. We’re of different churches. I can’t give you absolution. Nor, in any case, would I offer absolution unless you were willing to meet certain conditions, going to the police being one of them. Do you see?”

  Hector shifted his arms to cross them over his chest. “I said I had been wrestling with my conscience. I didn’t say a winner had been declared.” He flicked a glance at Tom. “Perhaps you are my dress rehearsal.”

  “Telling the police is not telling the public. If the police think your information is irrelevant to their investigation, I’m sure it would go no farther.”

  “I think you may be naïve, Vicar.”

  Tom waited as Hector appeared to gather his thoughts. Finally, he took an audible breath, as if he were to plunge into a frigid pool, and said: “Oliver apparently had evidence that I …” He paused. “… that I hired the services of a … certain young man.” His eyes slewed towards Tom’s. “You’re not—”

  “Shocked? No. Human frailty isn’t unknown to me.”

  “Of course.” Hector frowned. “I doubt others shall be so forgiving.”

  “I’m not sure I’m being forgiving, Lord Fairhaven. I’m trying to be understanding. I gather, however, that your brother-in-law was in the mood for neither.”

  “No. I wouldn’t credit Oliver with finer feeling.”

  “Why was Lord Morborne bringing this … information up to you now? It is true, I presume.”

  Hector nodded. “The young man in question was a member of some third-rate ‘boy band’ that Oliver managed some few years ago, one that failed to capture the public imagination, apparently. It broke up and some of its members have found little success since. One is particularly low on funds.”

  “And he’s … entered the sex trade?”

  “No, no. He was in the sex trade—as you call it—before Oliver plucked him and others out of some bar or off the street and did his Svengali bit on them. I’m not sure how much he really was in the sex trade, this boy, but for a time he was … available, shall we say.”

  “Through some website, I presume?”

  Hector nodded vaguely. “I only … saw him a few times and, as I said, this is some few years ago. I don’t have a terribly vivid memory of him.”

  “There have been others?”

  Hector’s face flushed, but he didn’t reply. “This boy seems to remember me, at least according to Oliver. This is what I was trying to glean from his mobile. Oliver claimed he had compromising photos—I can’t imagine how photos would have come about at all!—and some diary entries that suggest—”

  “But if this boy is bent on blackmail, why wouldn’t he approach you himself? Why would he have Lord Morborne act as … intercessor?”

  Hector shrugged. “I suspect Oliver has known about this for some time—”

  “In other words”—Tom’s mind raced ahead—“this boy, this young man, may not even be aware that you were one of his … clients. That Oliver had his own reasons—”

  “I don’t know! That’s why I wanted to see what was on his mobile. Yes, it’s true, I was with this … young man, but is there proof?”

  “Why would Lord Morborne choose to reveal to you his knowledge of such a … well, ominous secret at this time?” Tom was finding this all very puzzling.

  “To ruin my political success, of course,” Hector snapped. “I’m one of three on a short list for the open primary the Conservative Association is running in this constituency. You must know about this, of course.”

  “I’ve been told,” Tom said dryly. Rural Devon was such a redoubt of Tory England, its politics so uncontested, he only ever gave it a passing thought. But he was aware that the MP for South Central Devon constituency had stood down over some dubious financial mismanagement, triggering a by-election, scheduled for late autumn. Rather than have a candidate selected by the local Tory nobs, as usual, the Conservative Association had short-listed three suitable candidates, one of which local Conservatives would select by postal ballot.

  “I believe my chances are very good,” Hector continued. “I’ve chaired the local Conservative Association. People remember my father, who sat in the Lords, until Blair buggered with the Upper House. I shouldn’t be surprised if I wasn’t offered a place in the cabinet after the next general election. And now this intrudes! After Mr. Horsham disgraced himself, you can imagine the prime minister will have no toleration for other misconduct from this quarter. I’m to join the other two candidates at an open primary on Saturday. If this story is likely to become known, I had better withdraw my candidacy, lest I embarrass the PM. But I don’t want to withdraw.” His lip slipped out in a pout.

  “I think these days people are rather more fascinated with politicians’ private lives than their public policies,” Tom said, musing that Hector’s conduct might squeak by with a grovelling apology in the metropolis, where his conduct could hardly be unknown (Lucinda and Dominic had smirking knowledge), but never in the deep countryside. “Even a breath of—”

  “We sacrifice our time and our energies,” Hector interrupted, “and the minute anyone finds we’re a little bit human, a little bit fallible, then apparently we can go swing for our credibility.”

  Tom glanced at Bonzo, who had raised his heavy head to regard his master. He sometimes thought—though he would not give this voice within the Church—that the sale of sex might just as well be legalised and monitored, much as the Dutch had done to salutary effect. But this would give no quarter in the case of Hector Strickland, Lord Fairhaven, husband, family man, and devout Roman Catholic. Revelation of his dangerous double life (if indeed rentboys were a habit) would embarrass more than the PM and some Tory grandees. It would deeply humiliate his wife, whom he had betrayed in violation of his wedding vows. Had he no concern for her? Her name had not entered their conversation.

  “What I find repellent,” Tom began, wishing to abandon the topic of politics, “is that if Lord Morborne went ahead with threats to make your story public, he would bring great suffering to his sister—your wife. That seems beyond the pale. Why would he want to do that?”

  Hector regarded him warily. “Because Oliver fforde-Beckett was a shit, that’s why.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “Isn’t it? Oliver has always behaved as a complete cad as long as I’ve known him.”

  “And you’ve known him how long?”

  “It’s a small world, ours, Vicar. Our fathers knew each other from various involvements. I think I first met Oliver at a shoot in Scotland, at Tullochbrae. We were each in the Parachute Regiment, of course, though at
slightly different times. It was Oliver who introduced me to my wife, at a dinner given by the Indian high commissioner, though I can’t think now why Oliver had been invited. And of course we each belong to the Leaping Lords, although Oliver has always been spotty in his attendance.” He paused and seemed to study Tom’s face. “What does a Christian do if he absolutely despises someone?”

  “Do good to them who hate you. You know this, Lord Fairhaven.” Tom frowned. “This incident on Saturday. You were at blows over this threat of revelation, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what of the parachute—your parachute—not opening as it should have? Did Lord Morborne tamper with it?”

  “The parachute was tampered with, yes.”

  Something in Hector’s syntax gave Tom pause. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “It was tampered with. I tampered with it. But, stupidly, I ended up wearing the bloody thing.”

  “You mean”—Tom was aghast—“you intended to have Lord Morborne die in this cruel fashion?”

  “Of course not! Oliver knows what he’s doing in a parachute. If it gets tangled, you pull the emergency chute. Simple! My intent was to give him a … a little fright.”

  “If I may say so, how very childish. You scared the daylights out of everyone on the ground, including your mother.”

  Hector glowered. “Then it’s a day they shan’t forget anytime soon.”

  “It will likely be on YouTube, too, you know.”

  “Will it?” Hector reflected: “It will show me in a good light, don’t you think?—fortitude under pressure.”

  “Sounds like spin to me. The truth is less flattering.”

  “Only if you choose to reveal it.”

  Tom paused, then said with reluctance: “You can rely on my discretion. I can’t think this episode has relevance to Lord Morborne’s death.

  “However, Lord Fairhaven, what I still don’t quite understand is why, if Lord Morborne has been, for some time, in possession of information damaging to your reputation, he chose this moment, this past week, of all weeks, to threaten you with it?”

  Hector looked away. “I really have no idea.”