Eleven Pipers Piping

by C. C. Benison

  “We’ve had a place set here.” Roger pointed to the end of the table next to Will. “We wouldn’t want you to have to suffer the company of the rabble down that end.”

  Laughter followed Judith to her seat. “I’m sure I’ve suffered worse. This looks lovely,” she added, settling into the chair pulled out for her, indicating the tall fluted crystal glass with contents layered white, red, and gold, set on a crested china plate arranged with a plump berry pastry. “And you had an extra. What luck!”

  “Bless, it’s not luck, Mrs. Ingley,” Roger said. “We have cranachan for twenty-two, but the snow put a stop to half the band. Which reminds me—Lads!” He raised his voice. “There’s seconds of this, if anyone wants.”

  “You’ve got more pluck than some of our lot,” John said to her.

  “I think it was more fright that kept me going.” Judith plucked a raspberry from the top of the cream-and-oatmeal concoction. “When I left Newton Abbot, the snow had become quite startling. I simply clung to the steering wheel for dear life and didn’t stop the car until I saw the Thorn Court sign. I passed quite a few drivers who had skidded off the road.”

  “Did you manage to find anywhere to park?” John asked.

  “Oh, yes.” She gestured with her spoon as she surveyed his face. “In the converted stables.”

  “Then you’ve stayed at Thorn Court before?” Will asked.

  “I grew up in Thornford.”

  “Bless, did you now?” Roger rested his spoon on his plate. “But Ingley is your married name …”

  “I’m Judith Frost that was.”

  “Oh.”

  Roger’s slightly surprised tone made Tom glance up. Both Roger’s and Jago’s heads tilted as if they were searching for some memory.

  “I’m older than you both.” She laughed lightly. “You wouldn’t remember me. And I left to take up training for nursing at St. James’s Infirmary in Leeds when I was eighteen—many years ago—and I’ve never been back. Until now.”

  “Mmm, these are splendid,” Roger interrupted, biting into the tartlet. The berries left a red stain on his lips. “These must be the baking Madrun sent along with you, Tom. You’re not eating yours, Will.”

  “You have no family in the area?” Will’s fingers hesitated over the pastry.

  “I was an only child. Both my parents died when I was young.”

  “Bless! Not at the same time, I hope.”

  “No, not at the same time.” Judith turned to Will. “You’re Australian, of course. Yes, the accent did give you away. How did you come to own a hotel deep in Devon?”

  “I married into it.” Will contemplated the tartlet. “My wife’s father and grandfather had this place,” he added, taking a large bite. “This is very good. Are there nuts in these?”

  “Your wife is …?”

  “Caroline. Stanhope before she married me.”

  “Oh, then she must be Arthur Stanhope’s … granddaughter. He was one of the bigger landowners in the village, wasn’t he?” She frowned in thought. “Then your wife’s father has to be Clive Stanhope. Where has—”

  “He snuffed it.” Nick interjected loudly, pouring himself another whisky. “About five years ago, six.”

  Tom studied Judith as she jerked her head in the speaker’s direction. She looked startled, yes—at Nick’s crudity—but he was intrigued to see another, cooler, emotion—a scrutinising intelligence—glittering behind her lenses.

  “He was my father, too,” Nick added.

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. So many names when I was introduced. I guess I didn’t catch yours.”

  “Different mothers, though,” Nick muttered thickly. “Excuse my fingers.” He leaned past Roger and handed his tartlet to Will. Flakes scattered to the tablecloth. “You eat this, Will. I’m bloody stuffed.”

  “I expect you knew Clive Stanhope,” Tom said to Judith. Will was frowning at Nick’s offering. He looked to the tartlet on his own plate and wondered if he had a cranny left for anything more.

  “Everyone knew everyone then,” Judith replied. “But—”

  Will pushed his chair back, stopping her. He rose unsteadily and gripped the edge of the table. The flickering candlelight cast his features into sharp relief and shadow. “Gentlemen …” His voice slurred. “… lady …” He nodded to Judith. “I think a short break is in order here before we get on to tonight’s entertainments. I think you all know what you probably need to do, so,” he continued over the laughter, “shall we reconvene in about fifteen minutes?”

  Will popped the tartlet into his mouth. Tom popped his into his. He had done what needed to be done a little earlier.

  “Have you been in Thornford long?”

  Tom let the front window drapery fall back into place. He had pulled the heavy fabric aside to look at the deepening cradle of snow visible in the porch light and worried if, in the morning, his route to the second church in his benefice, St. Paul’s, in Pennycross St. Paul, a little over two miles north of Thornford, would be cut off. In fair weather, the drive took about seven minutes. But what about foul? He could walk, he supposed. That would take about forty-five minutes. But how long would the journey be in deep snow?

  “Less than a year.” He turned to Judith. “I was in Bristol for several years before that.”

  “And how are you finding it?”

  “Quite different and oddly very much the same. A rural parish has its peculiar challenges, and yet the problems of people are usually a slightly different edition of a universal fact—suffering of some nature.”

  “All the world in a snow globe, I would say on an evening like this.” Judith lifted the curtain herself and peered out. “You’re quite sure you don’t mind having me to stay?”

  “Not at all. The vicarage was built for a nineteenth-century priest with a wife, six children, and scattering of servants.”

  “Do you mean the vicarage is still the Georgian pile between the churchyard and the Old Orchard? I thought the Church was dedicated to selling off such properties.”

  “It is. But the arrangement here is unusual. A previous incumbent—Giles James-Douglas—did you know him—?”

  Judith shook her head. “I have been gone a long time.”

  “—had considerable private resources, so he bought the property and returned it to the Church in his will as a gift of sorts with sufficient moneys for its upkeep and so forth. Our housekeeper has a flat on the top floor and Miranda—that’s my daughter—and I have the run of the other two.”

  “I hope you don’t think me over-inquisitive, but is there no Mrs. Christmas? That is a wedding band, is it not?”

  Tom glanced at the circlet of gold on his ring finger. “Technically, there never was a Mrs. Christmas. My wife was a pediatrician and kept her maiden name, Rose. But in any case, there is no Mrs. Christmas. Lisbeth died two years ago.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  Tom smiled tightly. He could feel the force of a lively curiosity: The wives of men not yet forty, the mothers of young children, do not die in any way that is not tragic. And yet he was loath to offer details freely. Lisbeth had lost her life to a stranger, some madman—yet to be run to ground—who stabbed her beating heart with a knife as she passed through the south porch of St. Dunstan’s, his church in Bristol. That dreary autumn afternoon, she had borne a gift, a doll, that was to be Miranda’s birthday present, better concealed from their precocious daughter’s eyes in the church office than in a cupboard at home. The horrible concatenation of events haunted him still, troubled his sleep and pierced his waking hours. Anytime he relived the details for strangers, he felt as though he were somehow reburying them. And, of course, he often found the pity unbearable.

  “You must have loved her very, very much,” Judith continued. “The ring has remained.”

  “I’ve never taken it off.”

  Judith studied her own rings, heavy old gold, one set with small diamonds. “I doubt I shall ever remove mine. At my age I don’t expect to marry again.” S
he looked up at him and cocked her head. “But you’re a young man …” She didn’t need to say more. The implication was clear: You could marry again.

  “Odd,” he said. “You’re the first person to remark on this. At least in my hearing.”

  “I don’t mean to offend.”

  “Don’t apologize. I have wondered from time to time what I should do with it … the ring. I expect in some way, I’m not really quite ready …” To let go, to move on, he thought, which removing the ring would imply. “I wonder for instance what my daughter will think …”

  “You do have your own life.”

  “Yes … yes, of course.”

  “Don’t mind me. I’m being intrusive.” Judith laughed lightly. “You have other family, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, at Gravesend. Shall we?” He gestured in the vicinity of the private dining room. “They were all down at Christmas,” he continued, hoping to abandon the topic of rings. “My wife’s parents live in London and dote on their granddaughter. And then there’s my wife’s sister—she used to live here in the village, but she moved to Exeter in the summer, which is a shame, but, still, she’s near enough. So on the whole, I’m not … ill commoded when it comes to rellies.

  “And you?” he added conversationally. “Do you have children?”

  “I have a son,” she answered as they passed into the dining room where Kerra was finishing setting out the coffee service.

  “And where does he live?”

  “My son? Oh! In Shanghai.”

  “So far away. That’s a pity. What does he do?”

  “Oh, what do they call it? IT?”

  “Ah, computers.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not able to come home very often.” Judith resumed her seat.

  Tom glanced around the table as the other guests returned to the room, now chilled slightly in the absence of human bodies and the weak flame in the fireplace. Nick trailed after the others—a little drunkenly, Tom thought—and threw a couple of slender logs onto the glowing embers, which received them with a sudden crackle and flare.

  “I’ve never been to a Burns Supper before,” Judith remarked, watching Roger pour coffee into her cup from a silver pot. “What happens now?”

  “The toast to the immortal memory, for one,” John explained.

  “Which is John’s task,” Roger said.

  “Toasting the immortal memory of Robbie Burns, I presume.” Judith lifted the creamer.

  “Yes, and then there’s a toast to the lassies. To Molly, who cooked our fine meal, and to Kerra, who served it. And bless, to you, too, now. That’s my job.”

  “How kind. But I’ve done nothing but intrude.”

  “We must toast Her Majesty first,” Mark interjected, reaching for the whisky decanter. “I’d better top up.”

  “That’s Will’s job, as host,” John explained, glancing at the empty chair to his left. “Where is Will, by the way?”

  “Will!” Nick roared.

  Jago jerked his body away as if hit. “Christ! Would you stop it!”

  “Get your Aussie arse back here!” Nick continued, oblivious, grinning at his own wit.

  “There’s a lady in the room, you idiot,” Jago snapped.

  “Sorry.” Nick appeared uncontrite.

  Conversation faded around the table as guests poured themselves coffee or whisky and reached for cheese and biscuits, which had been left on the table. Soon an expectant silence fell, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the burning logs and the gentle ping of china cups nestling on china saucers. After a few moments, Tom was certain he could hear a faint humming of “O Come All Ye Faithful.” Soon it grew louder. Then, like a dam bursting, several at the table, led by Nick, began again to chorus loudly, “why are we waiting, we could be fornica—”

  “Is Will in the kitchen with you and Molly?” Jago interrupted loudly, leaning around Nick to address Kerra, who had arrived with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Not now, Dad. He came in for a minute after you broke before coffee, but otherwise …”

  “Odd,” Roger remarked. “Perhaps he’s in the hotel office. Could you look in, Kerra?”

  But she was back in a minute with no joy.

  “Odder still.” Roger’s hands travelled under the table into his sporran, then reappeared with his mobile. “Bless if Mother hasn’t called four times.” He frowned at the screen, then listened to the messages. “Weather reports. Heavens! They might even close the airports if this keeps up. Anyway …” He punched in a number and waited. “Can anyone hear a phone ringing in the hotel?”

  Everyone strained to listen. “We’re a bit insulated back here, Roger,” someone remarked.

  “Yes,” Judith added. “None of you could hear the front desk bell when I rang it.”

  “Gone to message,” Roger said after a moment, closing his phone. A thoughtful look settled over his fleshy features.

  “Will probably switched his mobile off, if he’s even carrying it.” John reached for the cream.

  “He’s probably bladdered, is what he is,” Nick sneered. “Fell over something. He’s been doing a bit of that lately anyway.”

  “I don’t think he’s had any more to drink than most of us—excepting you,” Jago snapped.

  “Perhaps he’s gone next door,” John suggested. The Moirs lived in the Annex, the gatehouse of Thorn Court when it was a private residence, converted and enlarged. Though semidetached, it had a separate entrance, accessible only from the outside. “Shall I go and look?”

  But he, too, was gone only a moment. “I looked out the door.” He brushed wet flakes from his black jacket. “But there’s been much snow in the last hour and there are no new footprints. He has to be in the hotel somewhere.”

  Tom glanced around the table and sensed in that instant that everyone shared the same premonition, that something was terribly wrong. He could see it in the drawn brows and arrested movements. Even Nick, whom he expected to be loudly dismissive, had fallen to silence. Tom’s eyes fell on Judith’s. A certain intelligence passed between them.

  “I think,” he said, pushing his chair back with more force than he intended, “we’d best go and look for him.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s really the only place left.” Tom’s eyes travelled the narrow, carpeted staircase, which disappeared into darkness above.

  “Bless, why would he go up there?” Roger voiced the question on all their minds.

  Three—Mark, Roger, and Tom—had delegated themselves to find Will. Tom had invited a fourth—Judith—reasoning, but not worrying the others at the table, that her medical skills might prove useful. Nick tried to bully his way into joining them—he produced the master key to the rooms from the hotel office—but his bellicose shouting of Will’s name finally drove amiable Roger to steer him back to the private dining room.

  Many of the bedrooms and suites on the first floor needed no keys, as there were no guests. Bed frames, wardrobes, chairs spilled awkwardly into the hallway, a concession to renovations, presumably, for the rooms Tom entered—and he entered with trepidation, switching on the light with foreboding—all were empty but for an amorphous shape or two covered in tarpaulin, a ladder, or a nest of tools. Workmen had not penetrated the smaller chambers on the second floor—once upon a time servants’ quarters, now single rooms with single beds—but many of the doors were unlocked, too, suggesting that renovation was nigh. Dark turned to light with the flick of a switch, but no cry of discovered horror came from any lips.

  And now the three men were gathered on the landing of the hotel’s central staircase, attenuated in its rise to the belvedere tower above.

  “Will?” Roger leaned against the wall and twisted his head upwards. His call held hope more than expectation. “Olly olly oxen free!” He turned back to them, his features falling. “I thought perhaps …”

  He met silence. Will wasn’t the type for this sort of game, Tom thought. If hide-and-seek were the evening’s entertainment, he would have organised it p
roperly.

  “What is up there?” he asked. “I’ve never been past the ground floor.”

  “Nor I,” said Mark.

  “Never,” Roger added. “Odd, given how long I’ve lived in Thornford.”

  “I have.” Judith’s voice came from above their heads. “A long time ago.”

  They turned to see her standing at the top of the staircase, bathed now in a soft light that poured along the walls. She had been in the tower room and had needed no key. Tom studied her face, but her expression telegraphed nothing. He had heard no yelp or muffled cry from above as they had searched the second floor; neither had Judith dashed down the steps calling for them to come quickly. Each little indicator in its way filled Tom with a new hope. It was absurd to be worried, he told himself.

  “Is Will up there?” Mark asked the question on all their minds.

  Judith descended a few steps and rested her hand on the banister. “I’m so very sorry,” she replied, “but it’s the worst you might imagine.”

  Tom felt his feet as weights as he climbed the stairs behind Judith, his heart contracting with pity, his mind flown to Caroline, somewhere in Totnes, or perhaps gone to Noze, where her son, Adam, lived, and to Ariel innocently tucked up in her sleeping bag before the fire in the vicarage sitting room with his daughter and the other girls, all three Moirs unaware of this shattering change about to overtake their lives. When he entered the chamber, he felt the chill immediately. The windows on each of the four sides were opened to the night. They framed the ceaselessly falling snow, drawing in the icy air. His eyes were first taken by the unconventional seating, a chocolate-brown banquette around three of the sides, peppered with bright pillows and blankets, punctuated at each corner with a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcase untidily crammed with books of all heights and thicknesses. He envisioned for a moment the pleasure of retreating here on a rainy afternoon, letting his eyes run from the page of some beloved text to a contemplative view of the garden below or over the roofs of the farther cottages towards south Devon’s soft hills. But then he willed his eyes to travel towards the very human shape lying in shadow under the south window, and felt pity anew.