Eleven Pipers Piping: A Father Christmas Mystery

by C. C. Benison

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  “But then how would anyone ensure that Will took the right tartlet? Or the wrong tartlet? Or tartlets?” An incredulous look descended over Mark’s face. “Maybe the poison was intended for someone else.”

  “But who?” said Jago.

  “Bless, and why?” Roger added.

  “Taxine must be bitter,” Mark mused. “Most poisons are. I’ve been doing some research.”

  The others smiled at him indulgently. Mark Tucker’s literary ambitions weren’t unknown in the village.

  “Better to doctor the curry,” Jago said. “You could disguise anything in all that spice. Well, at least our Madrun had no hand in that! Would you bloody look at him!” Jago jerked his head towards Nick as he tossed his cigarette away and loped after the pathologist exiting the village hall, her hair swimming becomingly over her black coat. “He doesn’t half fancy his chances, does he.”

  They watched in silence as Nick detained the woman aiming her car starter at the door of a Mercedes. She appeared to be listening to Nick with some concentration.

  “Perhaps he’s asking some sort of technical question?” Mark offered.

  “Pull the other one.” Jago thrust his arms across his chest.

  “I doubt she’d tell him anything of importance.” Tom’s eyes shifted from Nick’s chatting up the pathologist to Judith exiting the hall with Old Bob, and shifted again, as a familiar red Astra parked next to a fat green Citroën van that could only belong to the coroner. Through the windscreen’s smoky glass, he glimpsed two familiar figures. So had Jago.

  “They’re late,” he said.

  “Who?” Mark asked.

  “The coppers.”

  “Detective Inspector Derek Bliss and Detective Sergeant Colin Blessing,” Tom supplied. “Totnes CID.”

  “Well, I’ve got work to get back to.” Jago turned up the collar of his jacket. “Caroline’s car was towed in earlier this morning.”

  “Bless! Poor woman! What now?”

  “Someone crashed into her.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “On Saturday or Sunday, Roger. Where she’d parked it, no damage to her. Buggered the steering a bit, but nothing to worry about.” Jago frowned. “Best we hold off band practice and the like for a while, yes?”

  “Bless, I suppose we’ll all be having those two to tea.” Roger sighed as they watched the two policemen squeeze out of the Astra. “I don’t know what possible use I can be, though.”

  “Nor I,” said Mark.

  “They won’t have an easy time of it, I shouldn’t think. All the evidence has likely gone into the bin, for one thing.”

  Roger wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. “Molly was a fiend to clean up last Saturday. Perhaps she finds activity soothing, poor woman. I suppose neither she nor Victor was here this morning because attending another inquest so soon would be unbearable.”

  Tom had attended the inquest into the death of Harry Kaif, in September, and it had indeed been unbearable. The day had been exceptionally warm, the venue the same. The pathologist had not been the smart young woman currently being importuned by Nick Stanhope, but a middle-aged man with prominent ears, who read through his report emotionlessly. Few villagers bore witness in the stuffy room. There was no mystery, after all, no ambiguity, nothing to be curious about. Perhaps people felt they would do best to not attend the Kaifs’ grief in this perfunctory exercise. Perhaps, too, Tom thought at the time, some felt the taint of guilt for their own absence of consideration to the boy who had found living too intolerable. Molly did not attend; she was at home, at Damara Cottage, sedated. Victor did, sitting stone-stiff next to a table where someone—Joyce?—had failed uncharacteristically to tidy a vase of wilting red roses, which released three or four petals, like drops of blood, in the lazy stir of air onto the table’s white surface. Will had attended, slipping in as the proceeding began, slipping out just as it finished, acknowledging Tom with a pained expression. Events moved swiftly to adjournment, cause of death was undisputed; the small hall heard no lamentation, but the atmosphere seemed drenched desolation. Tom had been reminded too painfully of the inquest into his own wife’s death, with its brisk, uncomforting ritual and its verdict of unlawful killing—a murder whose perpetrator had yet to be winnowed from the masses.

  Mark interrupted his thoughts: “You said earlier that you were going into town.”

  “I have hospital visits this afternoon, and I’m driving Old Bob in for a medical appointment. I have a notion—if there’s a minute—to take him to the optician in Fore Street.”

  “Eye trouble?” Roger frowned down at his zipper, which was being uncooperative.

  “I’m willing to stand him some new frames.”

  “Bless, folk have been saying that for years, but you’ll never get them off him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah, Tom, those spectacles of his once belonged to Mrs. Prowse.”

  Tom frowned.

  “Old Mrs. Prowse, I should say. Madrun’s mother. She was quite the looker in her day.”

  “You mean she and Old Bob had a …?” Mark interjected, eyes twinkling with incredulity.

  “Bless, I wouldn’t really know,” Roger retreated quickly. “I was much too young to notice. At any rate, he’s very fond of those frames. He’d hardly be Old Bob without them. There!” He rolled the zip up. “Got it! Well, I’d best be off before Mother has one of her spells.”

  Tom and Mark watched him pass through the gate and turn into Pennycross Road, followed at a short distance by Nick, who turned in the direction of Thorn Cross. The pathologist backed her car out of its parking space.

  “I’m sorry I blurted out that bit about Will’s life insurance to you the other night.” Mark made a face. “Will you say anything to those detectives, if they ask? I don’t want to drop Caroline in it.”

  “It’s hearsay, Mark, as far as you and I are concerned. I shouldn’t worry anyway. They’ll be digging through such things on their own, and won’t need our help. I’m afraid some focus on Caroline is inevitable.”

  “Spouses potentially standing to benefit and all.”

  Tom grimaced.

  “Your experience? Sorry, shouldn’t ask.”

  “It’s all right. In my case, it was simple proximity. When Lisbeth was killed I was in the same building—in St. Dunstan’s Church. She was in the south porch. I was in the office. Bristol CID found that interesting—at least for a time.”

  “Opportunity.”

  “But no motive. They did dig around, though. It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “Lucky for Caroline, she was in town last Saturday.”

  “Yes, that will help.”

  “I must go, too. My father will be wondering where I’ve got to. I was finally able to deposit Sunday’s collection money at the bank, by the way.” Mark pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. “John looks grave,” he added over his shoulder as he departed.

  Tom watched John Copeland push through the doors of the village hall with Adam Moir, passing Bliss and Blessing with a frowning glance. John’s open jacket revealed a three-piece of olive tweed and a tie loosened at his neck; Adam was more informally dressed, in jeans and waxed jacket.

  “I’m so very sorry for this appalling consequence,” Tom said to Adam, feeling, as he sometimes did, the very meagreness of words.

  Adam stared at him mutely.

  “He’s a bit cut up,” John answered for the younger man, putting one hand on his shoulder briefly. “We all are. I suppose no one’s wanted to believe that this”—he gestured towards the village hall—“would be the result.”

  “How’s your mother been?” Tom addressed Adam.

  “Caroline’s being very brave.” John answered once again.

  “I think she wants to meet with you.” Adam’s voice was thick with suppressed emotion. “I mean, because of the …”

  “Yes, I know,” Tom said gently. Now that the autopsy was complete and its results know
n, Will’s body could be released from the hospital morgue and a funeral planned. “Tell her I’m happy to come tomorrow morning, if she would like. Or earlier. Anytime, really. Others will understand if I’m unavailable. This evening, perhaps.”

  “There’s the men’s group,” John reminded him.

  “Ah, yes.” Tom had launched the St. Nicholas’s Men’s Group as a low-key way of spreading Christian fellowship. “Perhaps we ought to cancel, in the circumstances. What do you think?”

  “Isn’t Brian Plummer coming from Plymouth to talk about coaching Rugby League? It might be a welcome distraction.” John frowned at the flat cap in his hand.

  “Tomorrow’s fine, Mr. Christmas. I’ll tell Mum.” Adam stepped towards a villager who had stopped to offer her condolences.

  “Are you not busy at Noze?” Tom asked John conversationally while they waited.

  “We were to have a German syndicate this week, but the snow put paid to that.” He peered at the grey sky. “The weather’s turned better than expected so the Americans won’t cancel their shooting party. They’re coming on Monday. They’re already in London with their wives, probably obliged to shop, so I expect nothing will put them off coming down here.”

  Tom smiled. He regarded John’s ruddy complexion. On Tuesday night, as he and Mark had stepped out of the Old School Room, he had glimpsed a quickly moving vehicle blaze for a second under the pub’s single security light as it turned off Poynton Shute onto Pennycross Road. Land Rover, distinguishable for its boxy frame, had registered in his mind. Land Rovers were unremarkable transport in the country, but this one had a singular feature that even in the flash of light distinguished it: the badge of the earl of Duffield on the side, which marked it as one belonging to the Noze Lydiard Estate. That John had sent his regrets to the PCC meeting when in fact he had been in the village was disappointing, but it had triggered a niggle.

  “John, a question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you ever sort of shot up in bed, suddenly awake, seemingly for no reason?”

  John frowned. “Not … recently, that I can recall.”

  “Well, I did. Last night. And I realised something that had been swimming around in my unconscious suddenly decided to spring into my conscious, although I suppose it could have picked a more convenient time.”

  “Yes …?”

  “Anyway …” Tom took a breath. He’d no reason to doubt John’s honesty before, and he felt a bit of a fool for asking. “Sunday morning you went to pick Caroline up in town, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the odd thing is, when I went up to Thorn Court after the service, your car, your Rover—at least I think it was yours—appeared to be sitting under a mound of snow and there were no tyre tracks running along the forecourt. So how …?”

  John cast him a vacant look. His brow furrowed, then enlightenment gleamed in his eyes. “Sorry, I must have given you the wrong impression Sunday. I went to Thorn Court intending to get the Rover to fetch Caroline, but Adam here … Adam?” He flicked a glance at the young man, who excused himself from what had turned into a group of condolence-givers. “Adam had already brought Caroline in from Noze and dropped her off. Sunday morning, Adam,” he prompted.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the younger man said. “I had one of the other estate vehicles and was able to drive Mum back. Her car got stuck in the snow.”

  “Sorry, Tom.” John put his cap on his head. “I didn’t mean to give the impression I was the hero of the hour.”

  “I see.” Tom turned to Adam sympathetically. “Then you couldn’t have known what happened.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You—”

  Tom saw Adam’s eyes dart to his left, and he was suddenly conscious of a new figure at his elbow. “Judith. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. This is Adam Moir, Caroline’s son. Adam, Judith Ingley. She lived in Thornford as a child.”

  Judith tilted her head and peered up at him. “I can see the resemblance to your father. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Adam smiled wanly.

  “My apologies, I think I interrupted your conversation.” Judith twined her scarf between her fingers.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Tom responded. “I was saying Adam brought his mother in from Noze Lydiard on Sunday morning, but of course as there’d been all the trouble with the phones and such, neither of them was aware of what had happened—”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Adam flushed. “Yes, I dropped Mum off at the gate to the hotel—she … she wanted to get back to Ariel—and I drove straight back to Noze, never knowing. Of course, Mum called me later and so …” He faltered suddenly.

  “And then I expect with all the new snow you couldn’t get back to the village until the next day.” Tom felt the boy’s distress as if it were his own.

  Adam blinked rapidly, but one tear escaped. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he struggled to regain his composure. Tom felt his heart contract with pity. Adam was, in a way, blooded by this death, initiated into the millionfold congregation that suffered the shattering loss of a loved one—a parent, a spouse, a child, a lover—and was struggling with profound and terrible feelings. He glanced at Judith, who had lost her husband only months ago. She regarded Adam, studying him, almost clinically, Tom thought at first, until he noted her unfocused pupils, suggestive of thoughts straying to another realm. John, too, had lost his spouse—more than a decade earlier—but perhaps it was this span of time that coloured his reaction to Adam’s shattered composure: No sympathy softened the edges of his broad features; rather there was an indrawing, a faint furrow to the brow, a slight narrowing of the eyes, a pinching of the lips. It was the expression of a man who sat in judgement and what he was seeing he did not like.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tom glanced at the gauge. The needle now dipped perilously into the red that meant “empty.”

  “I’d better stop for petrol,” he said to Old Bob as his car reached the outskirts of the village. “Otherwise we may find ourselves hitchhiking into Totnes.”

  “Did tha’ a bit when I were a lad, puttin’ me thumb out,” Bob remarked, gesturing with his own digit. “Remember hitchhikin’ all the way to Plymouth to see Beryl Davis sing. Folk would stop for you then. Not now, I don’t think.”

  “People are more cautious now, it seems.” Tom waited for a lorry to pass, then turned off Pennycross Road. He had ventured hitchhiking in Europe when he had busked his magic act for a year or so after university at street cafés and local festivals, but had met with little success. People had soured on picking up strangers. Too bad, really.

  “I remember—”

  “Keep that thought,” Tom interrupted slowing the car into the petrol bay of Thorn Cross Garage—or, rather, as the sign over the service bays proclaimed, TH RN CR SS GARAGE.

  When no one came out to serve them, and thinking better of embarking on an impatient bout of honking, Tom stepped from the car and studied the filling pump, which, with no credit card slot, was clearly not intended for self-serve. He glanced around the yard and noted a flatbed lorry with what looked like a load of building materials on it, a half-red, half-butterscotch vintage Mini, an old motorcycle, several saloon cars of more recent vintage, a mini cab with its bonnet open, and nothing with a human form.

  “Halloo,” he called into the garage’s service bay, a shadowy cave illuminated by a single naked bulb. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he noted a pair of dungaree-encased legs stretching out from under a car.

  “Jago?”

  The legs twitched. Tom heard a soft thud followed by a string of curses. The body of a stocky middle-aged man in a boilersuit rolled out on a wooden dolly. On his forehead was a spot of grease like a black bindi; in his hand was a pair of snips. He glared up at Tom, but his expression softened when he saw who it was.

  “Sorry to trouble you.” Tom reached in his pocket for his billfold. “Look, I’ll fill it myself and lea
ve you fifty pounds.”

  “No, don’t do that.” Jago rubbed his forehead, turning the grease spot into a black smudge. He scrambled off the dolly and yawned. “I need to stand up. I must have nodded off.” He snatched a flannel from a hook by the door and rubbed at his hands.

  “That looks like Caroline’s car.” Tom glanced at the hulk of a Subaru Estate as they passed from the darkness of the service bay into the light of the afternoon.

  “It is. It’s not in bad shape. Pound out the dents where the tractor hit it and it should be right as rain. I was just under, giving it an oil change. The Moirs have been a bit negligent lately with maintenance on their vehicles. And I can’t say I’ve seen yours in here and you’ve lived here for nearly a year.”

  Tom pulled back the petrol tank cover as Jago lifted the hose from the pump. Something Thorn Cross Garage’s owner said confused him. “A tractor? What was a tractor doing on the streets of Totnes?”

  Jago inserted the hose, frowned. “I don’t know. Is this a riddle? What was a tractor doing on the street of Totnes?”

  “You said this morning that someone had hit Caroline’s car where she parked it.”

  “That’s right. She left it just off the A435 where Bursdon Road intersects.”

  “What? But that’s barely halfway to town.”

  “I think she got stuck or reckoned she couldn’t go on in that bloody weather Saturday and abandoned it. At any rate, she left it in the lane into Upper Coombe Farm, by a hedgerow, the AA guy told me. But by Monday, it was under a mound of snow and when Dave took his tractor out on Tuesday to do God-knows-what, he nicked its fender and bent it into the tyre.”

  “I just assumed someone had hit it in town. Then however did Caroline get to Totnes?”

  “Walked?” Jago’s eyes darted over the figures clicking on the petrol pump.

  “I suppose she must have.” Tom calculated the distance: It was at least a couple of miles. Not impossible.

  “Or someone gave her a ride on the A435.” Jago squeezed the pump handle. “Though walking might have been faster in Saturday’s conditions.”