Mr. Christmas and Miranda return home to Thornford this afternoon from their week at Gravesend. Mr. C. called yesterday to ask would I fetch them from Totnes just before 4? I think I told you what with his ankle, he’d decided the train was best there and back. An odd tone to his voice I thought, Mum. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s really the first time we’ve spoken since the events last week at Eggescombe. There wasn’t a moment to talk then, of course. I’m still not quite sure why Lord Morborne (the present Lord Morborne—Dominic) thought to make a dash for the terrace after confessing in the drawing room to strangling his cousin, but perhaps he got all caught up in the drama. I know I was all caught up in it! I can’t think I’ve ever been witness to something quite so thrilling, but awful in its way, of course. I’m still surprised how lieth lyth limber he was. If DI Bliss and DS Blessing shed a stone or two each they might have stood a better chance of nabbing him themselves, but as it was Lord Kirkbride and his brother ran him smartly to ground on the lawn with Bonzo making quite the racket! Mr. Christmas looked to join the maylay them but of course his ankle wasn’t recovered. Anyway, I have written you all this, haven’t I? Though I didn’t say, as I’ve only remembered it now, how put out Lord Fairhaven looked through the whole episode—a little shocked and horrified, but mostly very put out. Sulky, I suppose is the word. I noted in yesterday’s Telegraph that he had withdrawn his bid to be Conservative candidate, so I expect it crossed his mind then and there in the drawing room that it was all about to go off the boil what with scandal brewing. I’m sure he’s sorry now he was host to the Leaping Lords at Eggescombe as it attracted his very disagreeable in-laws—except for Lord and Lady Kirkbride who are very nice. Anyway, this is all to say that in the aftermath, no one seemed wont to linger and have a natter a heart-to-heart about what had happened. All the “upstairs” folk found excuses to slip away, though I think L & L Kirkbride and Mr. Christmas made a trip to the kitchens as they had had no supper. The next morning Mr. C. and Miranda were gone. I think they took a back route out of the park to avoid the reporters and other rubberneckers outside the Gatehouse. I expect Mr. C. thinks I’m disappointed in him, and I am, as I’ve said. I think that’s what must lie behind the tone in his voice. At least he had the grace to look mortified when he confessed in front of everyone in the drawing room to having been with that woman the night of the murder. I know I must set myself to be forgiving, but I worry he’s taken to misbehaving like the previous incumbent at St. Nick’s, Mr. Kinsey, AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM, Mum! I’ve told no one about Mr. Christmas’s behaviour, not even Karla. Most particularly not Karla, as she takes a very dim view of unpriestly behaviour. I do so hate keeping things from her, and it’s been on the tip of my tongue more than a few times, as of course everyone in the village is avid to hear the tale of my time at Eggescombe, including Karla who pretends to be indifferent as she thought poorly of the Leaping Lords fund-raiser to begin with. But of course Mr. Christmas’s breaking Dominic fforde-Beckett’s alibi by admitting he was with that woman is such an ingretal important part of the story, but I’ve had to bite my tongue every time. Anyway, I expect Mr. Christmas will probably say something to me about what happened, as he likes to do that sort of thing, but I don’t know how I shall look him in the eye. We shall see at the station this afternoon. Did you happen to see The Sun this weekend? I chanced to glance at the top copy on the stack at the post office yesterday and there was a lead story about our former verger who’s been living under our noses with a different name—ANOTHER different name—in Abbotswick the last year or so! I still can’t quite believe I thought I saw him coming from the Gatehouse last Monday. I suppose it was the fair hair. Sebastian wore his long the last time I saw him, which was last year. And the new, disgraced Lord Morborne (Dominic) wears his long, too. At any rate, Sebastian—or John as he is called—didn’t look best pleased in the picture, which looked posed for the paper. I can’t imagine what would have made him agree to tell his story to such an awful rag. But I’m not surprised anymore. I must say, Mum, the scales have fallen from my eyes about our aristocracy. I know some of them go off the rails, but I never would have thought a peer of the realm to steal a car! (On top of everything else, of course!) I expect you saw that, too, in the weekend papers. I’ll enclose the clippings. It always did seem a little odd that a man as busy and important as the late Lord Morborne would tarry in the West Country doing much of nothing. He even visited our very good choir director Colm Parry to invite him out of retirement for some big pop concert next year in London, but that was simply a ruse while he was doing a recce on the movements of that poor young man he hit with a car he stole at Ashburton. Such a terrible chance he took, and so brazen! You’d think that community the young man lived in would have supervised him more, but I suppose they try and teach independence where they can. What if David Phillips hadn’t been as regular as clockwork in his movements, an easy target along the road, what would Lord Morborne have done then? But as I wrote you last week after Ellen poured her heart out he’d done as bad. Worse! It’s all too awful, Mum. I’m not sure if knowing after all these years who her sister’s murderer was has been any comfort to Ellen. Poor Mick was after some recompense for Kimberly Maddick, though I don’t think L. Morborne dying by his cousin’s hand was what he had in mind. It’ll all come out in the papers eventually, I suspect, but Mick won’t have the satisfaction of seeing “Mad” Morborne before the judgement seat—the earthly one, that is. “Eye for an eye” Ellen said to me yesterday when we were up at hospital together to see Mick. Biblical that may be, I thought to myself, but I expect Mr. Christmas would find this a v. UN-Christian sentiment. I’ll leave him to sort that out as Ellen will be here at the vicarage another couple of days before they move Mick to a London hospital for rehab. I still think it inconcid rude of the Fairhavens to rush back to London without so much as a visit to Mick or consideration for what Ellen might do in the meantime. I suppose she could have stayed in the Gatehouse, but who wants to be reminded of such unhappiness? The vicarage has lots of rooms and besides, Thornford is much closer to Torbay Hospital than Abbotswick. Nice to have her here! And so nice to be back in dear old Thornford R. where folk are as normal as normal can be except for a few. I don’t think I shall go back to Eggescombe anytime soon, even though I never did have a chance to walk the Labyrinth which I think must surely be a bit spoiled for many folk now, though on the other hand it might well attract others—the wrong sort of course! Anyway, Mum, I best crack on. The garden wants work. It got a bit ratty while I was away, and I need to think about what to have for our supper now that Mr. C. and Miranda are to be back. I did a big shopping at Morrisons yesterday so the larder is full, which reminds me to tell you that I ran into Venice Daintrey and she told me that she had heard that the board of the Thornford Regis Amateur Dramatic Society asked Catherine Northmore to direct their next play at the village hall this autumn—and she accepted! And wasn’t I ever so pleased that a Hollywood actress would volunteer her time? And didn’t I think the publicity would be wonderful for the village! Well, Mum, I was agas ahgas floored, but I didn’t show it to Venice. Catherine didn’t bother to make an appearance at her father’s funeral more than a year ago. She hasn’t been to Thornford in yonks anyway. Besides, last I saw of her in the papers, they were considering her for the remake of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. Do you remember that film? Surely the end of the line for any actress worth her salt! When word spreads that she’s swanning in to take over the dramatics, there will be noses out of joint in the village! And I think you know some of the faces those noses are stuck to. Well, I shall keep well out of it, as is my way! I’m happy to run up some of the costumes, but that shall be my only involvement. I might see the play. “Nine Ladies” it’s called. Anyway, as I say, I must crack on. Cats remain well—they seem to have survived my absence, and Daniel Swan did well enough with Bumble, considering, though he still thinks he’s owed more money. I’ll have a contract for him to sign next time! Love to Auntie Gwen. Glorious day!
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br /> Much love,
Madrun
P.S. I have prevailed over ScootersPlus! They were wrong. I was right! They DID send it to the wrong address. Not Thornton Curtis. Thornford Regis! If you don’t have your ShopRanger Deluxe Mark IV by the time you get this letter heads will roll.
P.P.S. Mark Tucker who you know is the treasurer of the PCC tells me the Leaping Lords and the Thornford folk who parachuted raised nearly £29,000 towards the church repairs. Nine of the peers contributed £1,000 each. The late Lord Morborne’s cheque bounced, however. So, on the whole, something good came of the weekend, though the big plywood thermometer outside the north porch that Mr. Christmas threatens to set on fire is still in place. The red has much shot up the tube, though!
For the Earl and Countess of Orkney,
for many years of friendship and hot dinners
Acknowledgments
With thanks to:
My agent: Dean Cooke
My editor: Kate Miciak
Random folk: Laura Jorstad, Priyanka Krishnan, Marietta Anastassatos, Ben Perini, Martha Leonard, Sharon Klein, Lindsey Kennedy
unRandom folk: Clark Saunders, Warren McDougall, Bradley Curran, Pierre Bédard, Michael Phillips, Janice McKenzie, Rosie Chard, Sandra Vincent, Frances-Mary Brown, Perry Holmes, Spencer Holmes
Vicky Geilas, Brian Forbes, and Skydive Manitoba (all mistakes are mine, some deliberate)
The Reverend David Treby (all mistakes are mine, none deliberate)
BY C. C. BENISON
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Eleven Pipers Piping
Ten Lords A-Leaping
About the Author
C. C. BENISON has worked as a writer and editor for newspapers and magazines, as a book editor, and as a contributor to nonfiction books. A graduate of the University of Manitoba and Carleton University, he is the author of six previous novels, including Twelve Drummers Drumming and Eleven Pipers Piping. He lives in Winnepeg.
www.ccbenison.com
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 40