Eleven Pipers Piping: A Father Christmas Mystery

by C. C. Benison

  “You’d rather have been with your father?”

  “Oh, no, my mother was the much better parent. I love her dearly, though she’s a bit flighty. I’d rather have been in England, though. I could never quite get used to Australia. Perhaps if we had moved when I was four or five, but at ten … Australia seemed so alien, like another planet—all the plants and animals are so unlike anything here, the heat can be absolutely scorching, and of course in school, you’re teased unmercifully for being a Pom. Once we moved to Melbourne after the divorce it was better, but my first years were spent in a little village called Edenhope, where we were very much the outsiders.

  “However”—she regarded him slyly—“the boys were very attractive. Not quite so … tentative as here.”

  Tom smiled. “I recall you saying that at the marriage preparation course in autumn.”

  With the Reverend Barbara Boswell, vicar of All Saints in nearby Hamlyn Ferrers, he had invited engaged couples in the area to a Saturday gathering, in the Old School Room, to help them build the foundations of a lasting marriage. Caroline had gamely volunteered herself and Will to join them and be the “old marrieds” and offer the wisdom of their experience. The icebreaker had been for each couple to tell the story of how they met. Tom, though without his better half, volunteered his: A hopeless non-swimmer, he’d been pitched off the punt he’d been guiding down the River Cam by some clever dick grabbing the top of his pole as he passed under Clare College Bridge; an awfully attractive young medical student, possessing a very good senior swimming certificate, reading by the bordering lawn responded to his helpless flopping about and saved him from drowning in the water’s green gloom.

  Somewhat less farcical was the meeting of Caroline Stanhope and Will Moir: Will had returned to Australia from England one blazing December to be in a friend’s wedding party. To the wedding rehearsal dinner, he wore shorts and a polo shirt, a coordinated ensemble of brown and maroon he had bought in the hotel men’s store. At the door of the restaurant an attractive woman shot him an amused glance and said, “Are you dressed for supper or are you dressed for Christmas?” To those untroubled by colour-blindness, such as the attractive woman named Caroline, he was wearing bright red shorts and an electric green shirt. And so it began. Within six months they were married.

  As Will had related the story in his twangy accent, Tom had been struck forcefully by a wellspring of tenderness flowing between them. He thought Will possessed by wonder and a kind of irrational pride at having captured the heart of a woman of Caroline’s poise. At the start that morning, he had been fidgety, restless, as if he didn’t really wish to submit to this kind of public inspection, dragged to this event by his wife, but Will had relaxed as Caroline, seated beside him on one of the Old School Room’s dilapidated couches, placed her hand over his and seemed to press it into the chink between cushions with a kind of restrained passion. The set of her features, next to Will’s, was perhaps less decipherable—pleasure and embarrassment at the tribute being paid, yes, but something, too, of regret, a tenderness of pity in her lowered eyes. Perhaps other memories had penetrated her thoughts then, for as the morning progressed, in an exercise on forgiveness that placed the men on the opposite side of the room from the women, Caroline revealed that beds of roses do contain thorns: She and Will had parted company for a time in their marriage, though the details, at least within Tom’s earshot, were not forthcoming.

  Now, as they sipped their coffee in silence, Tom wondered what had pushed them apart and what had returned them each to the other. Married lives are communities in miniature, the Queen Mother had once said, an observation he had woven into a sermon. Her Majesty hadn’t elaborated, but she had provided him the seed. Marriages had private and public identities, and like communities were marked by constant renegotiation and recommitment.

  “I haven’t offered you a biscuit,” Caroline said, breaking into his reverie.

  “I shouldn’t.” Tom shifted in his chair. “I’m sure I gained half a stone over Christmas.”

  “Are you sure? I have some pastry here, which I think your housekeeper must have made—it certainly looks to have Madrun’s touch. Nick brought it over yesterday—he’s been staying in the hotel—along with some leftover curry, although how he could think either Ariel or I would have an appetite for something like that … and something associated with that terrible dinner, I really don’t know. He is remarkably obtuse,” she added with a flash of anger. “Anyway, I binned it all. I did keep these tartlets, though. Were they part of the meal?”

  “They accompanied the cranachan.”

  “Oh.”

  “You might bin them, too.”

  “I think I will. Sorry, I know what fine work Madrun does, but … oh, and there’s the casserole she very kindly gave me yesterday. What—?”

  “I handed it to Nick. You needn’t feel obligated, Caroline. I know at times like this simple foods are best.”

  “Well, it will be eaten in time. She’s such an awfully good cook.” She sighed. “Will and I had been planning to hire a new chef, you know. This break for renovations was giving us a chance to make some personnel changes. But now …” Her hand fluttered in a vague manner. “I’ve just remembered something: The belvedere tower was the first place in the hotel I took Will when we came to view it. I sort of raced him up the stairs. The estate agent was rather startled. I think it was the view that brought Will around.”

  “You mean, Will wasn’t keen on the purchase?”

  “Well, he needed a little persuading. He had a good job with Sport England, but we were living in Toot Hinton, near Oxford, where I managed one of the Van Haute hotels, and it was a long, wearying journey in and out of London each day. Ariel was about to turn five, so it seemed like a good time to settle into a new place with a good school. And of course, we had some money after Father died. Still, Thornford had none of the associations for him that it had for me, but he gave in to my enthusiasm and grew, I think, to love this village as much as I. Perhaps that’s why …”

  She trailed off, but her implication was clear: Perhaps that’s why Will had sought the comfort of the tower. It held for him, too, a cherished memory. But what would he have seen on a January night? Tom wondered. Pitch black broken only by twinkles of light from this window or that. A snow-burdened sky devoid of moon or stars. He hewed to his initial notion: that Will must have sensed he was dying, realised the impossibility of getting help, and like a canny animal, sought solitude for his final moments. Thorn Court’s tower was a place of convenience, as Gethsemane, despite its later cultural accretions, had been a place of convenience for Jesus, a place to be alone with His fears and His prayers. He glanced at Caroline. Her expression was forlorn. He said nothing. Those who grieve need comfort.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It’s Nanette of the North!”

  “Isn’t it Nanook of the North?” Màiri White gasped between gulps of air. Her breath hung in the chilled air like little silver clouds.

  “Probably,” Tom agreed, regarding the village bobby’s footwear with considerable interest. “Where on earth did you get those?”

  “From my neighbour. From my neighbour’s wife, I should say. When Griff finds these gone, he won’t be pleased. But Roz—his wife—has finally got her wish to rid their cottage of these things.” Màiri’s feet were encased in a pair of wellies, which in turn were lashed by what appeared to be loops of leather to two large, curved wooden frames strung with crisscrossing grids of rawhide strips, all of which was clotted with fresh, wet snow. “They take a bit of getting used to.”

  Tom imagined snowshoes did. He had managed to distract himself from the travails of the weekend watching Miranda and half the other children in the village sliding, slithering, glissading, toppling, and pranging into one another on sledges improvised from cardboard and plastic on the piste that was now Fishers Hill. The frosty air was pricked with shrieks and laughter, underscored by the wail of some smaller child crushed in the melee, and the insistent yelps
of delighted dogs. Adults, mostly mothers, gathered in conversational knots, sipping takeaway coffee from the Waterside Café and Bistro, occasionally sending forth an emissary to arbitrate some dispute or other among the children. (Many of the fathers, Tom suspected, had drifted towards the pub.) As Fishers Hill was the only route to the quay and the Waterside, Tom, too, found his bottom planted on what looked like someone’s draining board and careening down the icy road, narrowly avoiding the smaller, lighter hominoids in his path, feeling vaguely foolish but helplessly happy. It had crossed his mind to suggest Caroline join him on this downhill adventure, but he could tell from her strained expression that she was anxious to avoid awkward exchanges with other villagers, who would, of course, cast opprobrium on a new widow’s carefree behaviour. She’d parted from him at the top of the hill when she had gathered Ariel.

  When he reached the bottom of the hill he had noticed in the middle distance along the snowy path by the millpond a figure vaguely familiar by shape and haircut, but quite unfamiliar in her gait, which was more of an unhurried but comic bowlegged hobble. It was only as she drew near that he realised with a fizz of happiness that made him smile that it was Màiri White slogging along in a pair of snowshoes.

  “Why would this Griff own footwear like this?”

  “They lived in Canada—in Quebec—for many years. Griff loved it. He was an engineer. Roz hated it, and couldn’t wait to get back to England. Do you not know them?”

  Tom shook his head. “They don’t come to St. Paul’s,” he said, referring to his second church, in Pennycross St. Paul.

  “Griff brought back a wee crate of souvenirs of their time in the colonies to decorate their home,” Màiri continued, removing her woollen Nepal hat and giving her abundant hair a shake, “all of which Roz is burning in her back garden.”

  “Would I be correct in thinking Griff is not home?”

  “Trapped in London. Not many trains running to the West Country.” Màiri’s lips curved into a smile. “He’s a bit of a bully, Griff. According to Roz, he told her Devon would need to freeze over before he’d let her take down any of his precious mementos. Well, Devon’s frozen over”—she gestured towards the millpond and its surface of thin ice like a grey skin—“and she’s taken him at his word. I helped her heave the moose’s head that used to be over the fireplace in the sitting room onto the flames.”

  “Burning fur?” Tom grimaced. “Must give off a pong.”

  “There’s only me to smell it. I rent the little stone cottage attached to the farmhouse Griff and Roz had converted. You’ve never been, have you? Well, you must one day.” She gave him another fetching smile. “Anyway, Roz came round to warn me what she was planning to do, and that’s when I saw these great buggers and thought they’d be just the thing.”

  “For what?”

  “Getting about on, of course. Although I think my ankles will be playing up before long.”

  “Come and have a coffee at the Waterside,” Tom suggested. “You’ll want to take those off first, of course. Can I help?” he added, as Màiri crouched to untie the leather bindings, which appeared damp and unyielding. He looked down on the top of her head, at her chestnut hair, which was becomingly tossed.

  “Och, these are tight.”

  Tom stuffed his gloves in his pocket and bent to work on the bindings of her left snowshoe. With half an eye on her nimble fingers working the right, he said, “Saw you at The Pig’s Barrel on Saturday.”

  “Oh? You should have come over and said hello.”

  “You looked engaged.”

  “Workmates, that’s all. What were you—?”

  “Wedding. The snow made me think better of lingering at the reception.” Tom struggled with a knot. “What’s brought you down from Pennycross?”

  “You,” she grunted.

  “Really?” Tom couldn’t keep the delight from his voice.

  She flicked him a glance he couldn’t interpret. Their faces were so close he could smell the lovely scent of citrus coming from her. “It’s business. Of a sort.”

  Business? he thought, disappointed. Of a sort? “Sounds a bit dire.”

  “There! Got yours?”

  “Yes,” Tom replied, giving the leather strand a final loosening tug. He rose in tandem with Màiri, who stepped out of the snowshoes. “How did you find me here?”

  “Caroline Moir. I was about to turn into the gate at the vicarage when I spotted her and Ariel coming up Poynton Shute. I went over to give her my condolences, and she said you were here.”

  “So you know …”

  “I didn’t hear it from the bush telegraph, if that’s what you’re thinking, Tom.” She picked up the snowshoes and clacked them together. Snow tumbled out in little balls. “It’s something else.”

  “From dire to ominous.”

  “I’ll tell you when we get inside. You’ve a very unhappy snowman, by the way. I snowshoed through your garden to the millpond path.”

  “That’s Miranda’s doing. She feels badly for Ariel. I’ll just pop over and let her know where I’ll be.”

  “You’re getting to be Thornford’s favourite server.” Tom smiled up at Kerra Prowse, trying for light effect. Madrun’s niece, dressed in jeans and a black polo neck, looked faintly harried, pushing a loose strand of hair behind one ear with her pencil. Most late weekday mornings in January, the Waterside would be blessed with little more than a few pensioners eager for distraction, but this late weekday morning, all the tables but one farthest from the cash register, which he and Màiri had nabbed, were filled with cherry-cheeked folk, jackets and coats opened against the warmth of the room, all chattering away.

  “Liam called and asked if I would do a shift,” Kerra said, flipping to a new page in her pad. “With school closed, I had hoped to do nothing at all, but …” She shrugged, her pencil poised.

  “And how are you getting on with His Nibs?” Màiri asked. “You’ve lasted longer than most.”

  Kerra glanced down the room at Liam Drewe. The Waterside’s owner was rubbing his shaved bullet head and frowning fiercely at something in his hands, while an elderly couple leaned away, as if expecting a gale force of displeasure.

  “Looks like someone’s dared question the bill,” Tom remarked before Kerra could reply.

  “Stuff him,” Kerra snapped, then amended her remark: “Liam, I mean. I got an A-star in my GCSE maths. I can sort it out.”

  “Then we’ll try to be quick,” Tom continued. “Two coffees and … oh, let’s see …” His thumb absently pushed his wedding band around his finger. “I don’t know what I want.”

  Màiri glanced at his hand and shot him a teasing smile. Throatily, she said, “Don’t you?”

  Tom blinked, amused by the subtext. “I suppose I do know what I would like. The question is whether I should indulge myself.”

  “Might you be on a sort of diet?”

  “Let’s say I am obliged to live by certain rules.”

  Màiri’s eyes twinkled. Her smile widened. “Och, you know what they say about rules.”

  “Aye, lassie,” he mimicked her accent, “but there are consequences to breaking them.”

  Màiri threw her head back and laughed. Brow furrowed, Kerra tapped her pencil along her pad.

  “Sorry, Kerra, the vicar is dithering. Very vicarish of him. Just bring us something nice. Off you go, now. Poor lass,” she remarked as Kerra edged between the crowded tables towards the front counter. They watched her shoulder her way past Liam, snatch the check from his fingers with a withering glare, and smilingly address the customers.

  “I take that back,” Màiri observed. “Looks like she’s tamed the beast.”

  “She served at the Burns Supper at Thorn Court. She was very good, quite capable. Her father’s one of the Thistle But Mostly Rose—Jago Prowse, you must know him—and she very ably got him to not thump Ni—one of the other men who pinched her bottom. I’m not really a ditherer, you know,” he rushed on, not wanting to bring Nick Stanhope to the altar of
conversation.

  “You dithered just then.”

  “Last thing I want is to be a dithering priest. Two cats, a bicycle, and a housekeeper is caricature enough.”

  “You do have Bumble.”

  “Saved by a dog.”

  Màiri smiled. “So Nick was misbehaving at the Burns Supper.” She removed a paper napkin from a holder on the table.

  “I—”

  “I know he’s a member of the pipe band, Tom. I don’t know if you know this, but I did see him for a wee while—”

  “Er—”

  “Not long, mind you. I soon realised he wasn’t boyfriend material.” She began to fold the napkin. “I also realised any connection with him wasn’t going to do my career any good.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m thinking of taking the training to become a police officer. Being associated with Nick wouldn’t exactly burnish my résumé. They check.”

  “But he’s ex-army. He’s started a home security business.”

  “I’ve already said too much.”

  Tom regarded her solemnly, deliberating whether to ask her the question that had troubled him at the Burns Supper as Nick grew increasingly obnoxious: What on earth had been her attraction to him? He glanced around at the other tables, noting that not a few Waterside patrons were casting eyes his way with what could only be described as avid curiosity. Marg Farrant acknowledged his glance with a teasing wave, while Anne Willett’s eyebrows perched above her glasses in a censorious arch. He felt rather on display.

  He sighed, returned his eyes to Màiri, who continued making elaborate folds in the napkin, and asked the Nick question, prefacing it with a “I hope you don’t think this intrusive, but …”

  “But?” Màiri looked up and smiled. “I know what you’re going to ask. Well, I could say Nick was a great laugh and could tell a good joke—and all of that isn’t untrue, particularly if he hadn’t had a skinful. But”—the smile broadened, crinkling her eyes—“I would have to say this: Nick Stanhope is a very fit lad—aye, a verra fit lad, and a girl”—she rolled her r’s extravagantly—“has needs.”