Eleven Pipers Piping: A Father Christmas Mystery

by C. C. Benison

  “Mrs. Prowse, I want you to know that I believe you are. I know from sharing this house with you that you’re meticulous in every way.” He stopped himself before he got to the damning coordinating conjunction but—but accidents happen. Life can change in an instant. Horrible, terrible things can befall you and send your life hurtling down some unforeseen path.

  He had a thought. “Do you always make a contribution of your baking to the Burns Supper?”

  “What?” Madrun frowned.

  Tom repeated the question.

  “No.” She shook her head vaguely. “This was the first time.”

  “Oh? Well, it was kind of you to do so, a nice addition to the traditional offerings, except for …”

  “I was asked to supply some berry tartlets. I don’t think I would have thought to offer them myself. Mr. James-Douglas always said he got so full at the main course, he could barely tuck into pudding, so—”

  “You mean someone asked you to supply the pastries?”

  Madrun nodded.

  “Who asked you?”

  “I don’t know, really. I thought it was Roger.”

  Tom frowned, confused. “I always think the way Roger speaks rather distinctive.”

  “No, Mr. Christmas. The request came in the form of a note, not over the telephone.”

  “You mean, in the post?”

  “Not as such. But it was among the letters in the first post, in an envelope pushed through the letter box … last Tuesday, I think it was.”

  “And you weren’t sure whether Roger had written it?”

  “It wasn’t signed.”

  Tom caught his breath. Unbidden came a sharp memory of standing at his cluttered desk at St. Dunstan’s one spring afternoon in the year that Lisbeth died, telephone jammed between ear and shoulder (he had been talking to the archdeacon), absently opening the post he’d retrieved moments earlier from the church office in-box. Among the letters and flyers, too, had been an envelope, unsealed, unaddressed, unremarkable, really, until he fished out the note within, unfolded it against his thigh, and casually scanned the first sentence, disbelieving scanned it again, his eyes racing over words that followed, the phone receiver, his interlocutor forgotten, slipping from his shoulder and crashing to the desk, along with a fluttering of another paper tucked into the note’s fold. His stomach clutched with disgust at the invective, the blast of pure extruded hate, the assault on Lisbeth as a woman, as a Jew, as his wife—and its implications. Half blindly, oblivious to his name barked anxiously through the phone receiver, he sank against a rank of filing cabinets, hand groping—with dread—for the other thing, the thing that fluttered, the thing—a photograph—that would, for a time, shatter his faith in their marriage.

  “Mr. Christmas?” Madrun regarded him curiously.

  “Sorry, I …” Tom pushed the awful memory away. “I was going to say, how odd this is. Did you think it odd at the time?”

  “I did think it a bit previous, Mr. Christmas.” Madrun took a more confident sip of tea. “But as the request was for the Burns Supper and as Roger is pipe sergeant of the Thistle But Mostly Rose and an old friend, I assumed he was busy in the shop and dashed off the note and had it delivered … and forgot to sign it.”

  “The telephone would have been quicker.”

  “There were three twenty-pound notes in the envelope—perhaps that’s why. I put the money in the offertory box in the church.”

  “That’s very generous, Mrs. Prowse, thank you.” Tom thought a minute, glancing absently at a cabinet against the wall between the two windows filled with china figures. “But it couldn’t have been a note from Roger. He was curious about the box you gave me to take up to Thorn Court on Saturday.”

  A silence descended on the room, broken only by the sound—muffled by snow and the vicarage’s stone walls—of St. Nicholas’s chimes sounding the time, two thirty. Faced towards the south windows, Tom glimpsed through net curtains the pale midwinter light already waning as the sun edged towards the folds of the hills, his mind niggled by this queer departure from the Burns Supper customs, the curry notwithstanding. Who among the Thistle But Mostly Rose so adored Madrun’s pastry he had to have it at the meal, an addition to the traditional cranachan? He glanced at Madrun, whose fingers were worrying the hem of her jumper, her face now as stubbornly inexpressive as an Easter Island statue.

  “Was the note handwritten, Mrs. Prowse?”

  She blinked. “It was typewritten.”

  “Really?” Tom had a notion that typewriters had all kinds of minor idiosyncrasies that could be spotted—cockeyed e’s or smudgy n’s or wonky t’s.

  “Not like my Olivetti, mind. More like a page in a book.”

  “A computer printer, then,” Tom groaned. The note he’d received that day at St. Dunstan’s had been similarly devised. “The printing’s usually very tidy—although I suppose there are experts who do forensic identifications. Oh, well, perhaps the writer of the note will come forwards at the inquest, though I shouldn’t wonder that he keeps mum.”

  “I’m not sure that will help me, Mr. Christmas.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Tom bit along his lip. “You didn’t happen to keep the note, did you?”

  Not keeping his had been a mistake. Rage had triumphed over shock then. Foolishly—for he could have provided some scrap, some lead, to police after Lisbeth was murdered—he had torn the evil thing to shreds and flushed them down the loo, watching to ensure every bit was consigned to oblivion. But the damning photograph—a drab image on copy paper, surely captured by a mobile phone lens, of Lisbeth in the passionate embrace of another man outside a restaurant on Bristol’s harbourside—he had slipped into his pocket.

  “I’m not sure.” Madrun’s brow furrowed. “I remember folding it into the pocket of my apron. No. I did take it out again, and used the back of the paper to make a grocery list.”

  “Was there letterhead? Distinctive paper?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Mr. Christmas, what I don’t understand is why Mr. Moir wouldn’t have noticed seeds in one my berry tartlets. Yew seeds would be hard on the teeth, I’m certain, and—I gather, I’ve never had one—really quite bitter. And”—she warmed to her argument—“you would need many seeds, many—a tablespoon at least, I should think—for it to be—”

  She stopped herself; the word fatal hung in the air between them. But Madrun’s contention had been Tom’s, too. How much taxine did it take to fell a man the size of Will Moir, surely weighing more than thirteen stone? Màiri didn’t know. The finer details of the postmortem remained undisclosed. But Tom recalled a story from his childhood in which a neighbour girl had ingested some yewberries, seeds and all, and had been rushed to hospital to have her stomach pumped. This prompted a warning from his mother about the dangers of noshing on the alluring red berries that formed on the yew in September. “Not even one!” she had warned, though it had taken more than one to make the girl ill.

  “Well, Mrs. Prowse, let us hold on to that thought. If it takes that many seeds, there must be some sort of mistake.”

  What he didn’t report to Madrun was the remark Will made at table when he bit into one of her tartlets: “Are there nuts in these?”

  It was the plural that was troubling.

  The Vicarage

  Thornford Regis TC9 6QX

  13 JANUARY

  Dear Mum,

  Something dreadful has happened—much, MUCH worse than my troubles with the Yorkshire pudding. Mr. Christmas told me yesterday that Will Moir died may have died of the sort of poison produced by parts of the yew. Remember last week I told you I had got a note asking if I would send some of my berry tartlets up to Thorn Court to the Burns Supper? Well everyone thinks some folk think Mr Christmas thinks it’s thought that perhaps I didn’t tweezer out all the seeds from the berries and that Mr. Moir swallowed some of them. I can’t believe this could be true. Mum, I can’t believe that EVEN ONE slipped my notice! I went over and over in my mind how one could have s
lipped through my counting system. And even if one or two slipped through, which can’t have happened, I can’t believe there would be such a horrible aeffect. The only creature I can remember being affected by yew was one of the heifers at Thorn Barton who ate a Christmas wreath some fool had tossed onto the property. There’s to be an inquest, Mr. C says, and all this will come out and people will think my tartlets were to blame and how will I be able to look Mrs. Moir in the face? Or Ariel? I can’t bear the idea of the child blaming me for losing her father. Or Adam. I can’t think how I shall hold up my head in the village after this. If it’s true, which I can’t believe it is. It can’t be, so you mustn’t worry, Mum. I’m sure it will be all right in the end and Mr. Moir will be shown to have died of something else entirely. But perhaps this morning I ought to rid the freezer of the remaining yewberries. I don’t think I shall have the heart to bake with them again, and also who will want to eat them now? Anyway, I mustn’t dwell on this. I talked to Aunt Gwen on the phone last night, as you probably know, and decided not to mention it. She says you are both well and untroubled by all the snow, which is a great relief. It’s good to know you have such good neighbours. I’m glad you didn’t have to go out in it. I know Florence Daintrey sprained her ankle on some ice on the path outside their cottage. No school again today. The snow stopped early yesterday and some of the roads are beginning to be cleared, and for many of the village children, like Miranda, the walk to school isn’t far. But perhaps the teachers want a day off more than anyone, even if they only just got back from their Christmas holidays. I know Miranda is anxious to get back, especially so she can make her lantern for the Wassail. I did look in Karla’s shop yesterday morning when I posted your letter to see if she had any lantern-worthy miterial things, but no. I am feeling more optimistic that the Wassail will go on as planned on Saturday. The radio last night said mild air is on its way from the Azores, which promises to make short order of all this snow. Soon it will be like a dream, I suppose. Judith Ingley is still our guest at the vicarage while she’s waiting for someone from the estate agents to get to Thornford and she’s been making herself useful. She likes a good natter the way Mr. James-Douglas did when he was alive, which is such a pleasure as Mr. Christmas does tend to frown on what he calls “tittletattle.” I’ve been filling her in on various village doings and such, though much has changed in the years she’s been away—at least as far as people go. The buildings are much the same! She’s been curious mostly about those she met at the Burns Supper, so I told her about Mark and Violet’s lovely baby and Roger’s marterdom martyrdom to his mother, and how the poor Kaifs lost their son last autumn, and why John Copeland comes to St. Nicholas’s rather than to the perfectly good church at Noze, and why Nick Stanhope’s stint in the army got short shrift. She was curious about Clive Stanhope, but as it’s thirty years or more since any one of us last saw him, I couldn’t say, other than how he died, poor silly poor man. I’m not sure I told you this as it only came on my “radar” recently, but apparently about five or six years ago he was at his second wife’s funeral tea at a country hotel somewhere in Cumbria where he had landed up after coming back from Australia when he took it upon himself to drive himself home and ploughed straight into a tractor as he was tearing through the hedgerows. I expect he was very drunk. This meant Caroline was planning a second funeral within days of the first, though of course it wasn’t her mother who had died the few days before, but then I expect Nick is fairly useless at such things—or perhaps he was in the army then. I’m not sure. Now that’s made me think that Caroline must plan a funeral for a loved one and perhaps I am the cause, though I simply know I cannot be. I did tell Judith last night after teatime what Mr. Christmas told me, as she must have seen I was not my usual self, though I did try to hide my upset at least for Miranda’s sake. She told me she thought Mr. Moir looked a bit off BEFORE they sat down to pudding and Judith trained as a nurse so I’m taking heart from this though I think Mr. Moir has been “off” in a way for some months. When he was at lunch Sunday before last he wasn’t terribly cheerful, the way he used to be. Anyway, I must buck up and get on with things, breakfast to start with. It will be nice when there’s light in the morning. January is always a bit of horror isn’t it, Mum. So dark! We are all well otherwise here. Even Powell and Gloria are bearing the snow a little. I hope you have a very good day. Love to Aunt Gwen.

  Much love,

  Madrun

  P.S. Mr. Christmas has a little bee in his bonnet about Old Bob’s spectacles. Do you remember them? Large, with pink frames, very the thing twenty years ago. I’d forgotten they were originally yours, Old Bob’s been wearing them so long. I expect he found them at a jumble sale. I think when Mr. Christmas takes him for his next medical appointment, he’s going to see if he can get him fitted with some new frames, something better suited a man, I suppose. I can’t think Mr. Christmas will have much luck. Old Bob is awfully attached to those things for some reason.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Madrun had suggested he roll socks over his wellies to give him some traction if he were going to attempt walking over black ice, which was indeed his intent. But the notion of strolling through the village to the Daintrey cottage thus shod struck Tom as haberdashery beneath the dignity of the priesthood—an invitation to ridicule. Still, he understood Madrun’s wisdom now, as he began to climb Thorn Hill. The road was covered here and there between the snowdrifts with the most remarkable sheet of ice, almost invisible, as if the macadamised surface had been given little more than a light polish. Adding to the delicacy of his task was the object he was toting with him—hot soup in a large plastic container itself inside a Morrisons carrier bag, which, should he take a tumble, would most likely burst its lid and cover the ice with steaming stock and vegetables.

  “You look like you’re in trouble, Father,” remarked a cheerful male voice behind him.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” Tom released a sort of embarrassed chuckle and stopped, resting his free hand on one of the crooked stones in the wall lining the road. It was Rorie, the postman, whose bright red cagoule proclaimed him and whose last name eluded Tom. He was usually to be seen dashing through the village, so much like a cartoon blur that Tom had little firm idea of the man’s physical appearance. Now he did. Rorie was short and stocky with a fringe of dark hair over a large, ruddy face split by a huge grin.

  “The entire country’s virtually shut down.” Tom eyed the large red bag slung over the man’s left shoulder.

  “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor … something, something …”

  “Isn’t that an American saying?”

  “Yes, but a good one. As it happens, the road to the village has been cleared, some trains are getting through from London, and there’s mail!”

  But Tom was more interested in Rorie’s footwear, Doc Martens embossed with ROYAL MAIL on the heelcap, but wrapped in a crisscrossing of steel chains.

  “I used to work in North Yorkshire,” Rorie explained, following Tom’s eyes. “Terrible black ice we would get. These work a treat. You know, Father, if you put socks over your—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” Tom interrupted with rising impatience.

  “Here,” Rorie continued, shifting his bag so it hung down his back. “Let me help you. Take that carrier bag in your other hand. There, that’s the way.” He took Tom’s hand in his own beefy one and led him up the slope, half pulling him, encouraging his progress with lively invocations. The question was whether it was sillier to wear socks over your boots or hold hands with your postman. Tom wondered if he would be rewarded with a sweetie for being a good boy when they reached the Daintreys’ gate. He wasn’t. He was rewarded with a sheaf of letters.

  “Here. Give these to the girls, would you, Father?”

  The girls? “One moment, Rorie.” Tom steadied himself on the gatepost. “If someone gave you an unstamped envelope and asked you to take it to someone down the road or across the village on your rounds, would you do it?”

&n
bsp; “Well, we’re not supposed to. We’re not carrier pigeons, Father. But if someone asked and it was on my way, I might. Why? Is there something …?”

  “No. I was just wondering … You haven’t delivered something under those circumstances in the last week, have you, by any chance?”

  “Can’t say I have.” The postman paused. “No, I tell a lie. Mr. Sainton-Clark asked me to pass a note to Mr. Snell next door. You know they refuse to speak to each other? There was some urgent need of communication. Still, that was about four months ago. Shall I leave you here? Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, thank you for your help. Will we see you in church?”

  “You saw me Christmas Eve.”

  “So I did,” Tom white-lied.

  “Our Theo was one of the shepherds at the Crib Service.”

  “Of course, yes.” Tom poked through the deck and picked out the right card: Young Theo had used his crook to hit one of the other shepherds; unholy screeching ensued. “I hope you’ll come again.”

  “Easter, I should think, Father.”

  Of course. More C & E than C of E.

  “Hello?” Tom poked his head through Uphill Cottage’s door into a small square hall with a small round table with a small parched poinsettia dead centre, on which he placed the Daintreys’ post. “Hello?”

  A muffled response came from behind the closed door to the left. Tom stepped out of his boots and padded across the hall in his Barbour. A blast of warmth rushed along his face when he opened the door. Not only must the central heating be cranked up, but a fire in the grate was blazing at good mid-tempo. One hand went automatically to his zipper.

  “Oh, hello, Vicar!” Florence Daintrey boomed from one of the two identical couches perpendicular to the fireplace. She was lying flat, her greying head to the fire, swathed in a patchwork quilt. She placed the book she had been reading onto her stomach. “How kind of you to visit.”