Eleven Pipers Piping

by C. C. Benison

  “Reasonably?”

  “Well, it’s difficult to assess. Yes, I know you think us all a pack of unreliable witnesses. Or you will, once you’re done with us.”

  “Your words, Mr. Christmas, not mine.”

  The detectives had asked Tom to take them through the events of the evening. He had dutifully relayed his arrival with Roger Pattimore at Thorn Court, through pre-dinner drinks in the reception room, to his first glimpse of the private dining room.

  “The table was originally set for twenty-odd, but because of the snowstorm only about half showed. So at table there were eleven pipers—”

  “Can you give us their names?” Blessing asked.

  “You mean you don’t have them?”

  “Weather’s played havoc with our routines, too, sir. So, if you don’t mind …”

  “A few I’d not met before,” Tom added when he’d completed the task. The evening now seemed like a disjointed series of tableaux. “And others I can’t say I know well, but—”

  “And who else was in the hotel?” Blessing looked up from his pad.

  “Well, Molly Kaif, but you must know that as you were just at GoodGreens …”

  Blessing lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “… and Kerra Prowse, who was serving. Jago Prowse’s daughter.”

  “And that’s everyone?”

  “No, there was an unexpected … guest, I suppose you could say. Judith Ingley turned up in the storm from Stafford and thought mistakenly that Thorn Court would be open for business. She’s been staying at the vicarage since. But I gather she’s already given a statement to a DC.”

  Bliss grunted ambiguously. “And when did Mrs. Ingley arrive?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. I found her in the reception room when I nipped out after the curry, and—” He glanced from one to the other; neither seemed surprised. “You know our Burns Supper was curry, do you?”

  Blessing responded, “So far, we’ve had time to talk to your housekeeper and we’ve had time to pay a quick visit to Thorn Court’s kitchen.”

  “Which I expect was scrubbed down as restaurant kitchens often are.”

  “You’re an expert on restaurant kitchens?”

  “I once worked on a cruise ship.”

  “As a priest?” Incredulity pushed Blessing’s acne-pocked forehead into accordion folds.

  “No, as a magician.”

  Blessing opened his mouth to respond, but Bliss cut him off with a sharp look. “There was curry left over and frozen, which we’re having taken away for examination.”

  “The leftover haggis, neeps, and tatties being binned, I expect,” Tom said, reasoning that such unloved comestibles had little chance of being reheated and eaten. “There was cranachan, too. Cream, oatmeal, raspberries,” he explained.

  “Binned as well.” Bliss jerked in his chair.

  “Does it matter?” Tom glanced to the windowpane, spotting now with driblets of rain. “Surely that taxine was administered to one particular plate or glass or cup and somehow got put in front of Will.”

  “Or a certain tart,” Blessing murmured as he scribbled in his pad.

  “You can’t believe this is Mrs. Prowse’s doing? You heard the pathologist this morning … or you must have read the report by now. The quantity of taxine Will ingested staggers the imagination.”

  Blessing shrugged.

  “And besides,” Tom continued with growing irritation, “how would a particular pastry, doctored with poison or not, be directed to Will specifically? Surely,” he insisted, “one of the other dishes must have contained the poison.”

  “All the food was served individually, yes?” Blessing looked up.

  “Yes … well, no, not quite everything. The extra tartlets were put on a platter and laid on the table, and then there was a cheese course, but …” He considered. “The cheese and biscuits arrived after Will vanished, so …”

  “Did Will take one of the extra tartlets from the platter?”

  “No, but …”

  Bliss regarded him through narrow slits. “But?”

  “Well,” Tom hesitated, remembering, “Will did have an extra one, but it was Nick’s. Nick took it off his own plate and handed it to his brother-in-law, claiming to be too full.”

  He watched the two detectives exchange glances. Then Blessing resumed his scribbling as Bliss said, “At any rate, most of the food was served individually.”

  “Yes. Typical restaurant style. At Thorn Court, you probably noted there’s a serving pantry between the kitchen and the private dining room. I presume Molly plated, say, four or six dishes, set them on a tray, then took them to the serving pantry. Kerra would then pick up the tray, go into the dining room, and serve the food while Molly plated the next batch in the kitchen.”

  Blessing lifted his pencil and peered into the middle distance. But it was Bliss who spoke: “Did the waitress serve the food in a particular order?”

  Tom let his mind’s eye rove over Saturday’s menu. “If I remember correctly, Kerra served from the top down. I mean,” he added, observing the detectives’ puzzlement, “she served the end of the room farthest from the pantry first, then worked her way down one side, which means …” He found himself reluctant to acknowledge it: “Which means Will was likely served first. He was at the head of the table.”

  The two detectives glanced at each other. Bliss said, “Then when she arrived at Mr. Moir’s seat, she would have taken the plate closest to her. The tray was … what shape?”

  “Rectangular.”

  “Even better.”

  “I see.” Blessing dropped his pad and pencil on his lap. “Miss Prowse is right-handed, yes?” Tom nodded, and the detective mimed lifting a tray, balancing it along his left arm, then serving from it. “The closest plate would be the one in the right corner of the tray nearest her body where she could most easily reach it with her right hand. If she were methodical, she would serve the same way every time.”

  Tom shook his head. “But it’s such an awful risk. By some whim, Kerra might easily have taken the plate above or beside and someone other than Will would have died. Isn’t there the possibility that Will was not the intended victim?”

  Bliss shrugged. “Who was served second?”

  “Kerra served the side of the table opposite me each time, which means … Roger Pattimore was the second man served. Good Lord, Roger wouldn’t harm a fly and no one would want to harm him.”

  “Suggesting,” Bliss remarked, “that someone might wish to harm William Moir?”

  Tom felt himself treading in dangerous waters. As always, he felt constrained to balance the need for justice—in this case, getting to the truth of Will’s premature death—with a need to protect his flock. “I’ve been vicar of Thornford less than a year, you understand, so I can’t say I know the depths of the souls of everyone in the village, much less those of my congregation. Roger is one of my churchwardens, so I think I’ve come to know him reasonably well. Caroline Moir is a member of St. Nicholas’s choir, so I see her at least once a week. Will I know rather less well. He didn’t attend church with any regularity. Managing a hotel is time-consuming, for one thing.”

  “I’m not sure you’ve answered my question, Vicar.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Tom insisted. “Will had, as one of my parishioners said to me recently, a rather large personality. He had many involvements in the community, some of which, I suppose, might have involved him in some sort of disagreement. He helped organise a fund-raising fun run for the church—that went well. But he was on the parish council and he acted with Thornford’s amateur dramatic society and he coached the Under-fifteens at the Cricket Club—”

  “Until that episode with that lad, the Kaifs’ son.” Bliss cut him off.

  “That was very unfortunate, and Will regretted his outburst deeply.”

  “It would appear the boy took his life not long after.”

  “You’re suggesting direct cause and effect?”

  Bli
ss shrugged.

  “Harry Kaif was a small, sensitive boy who was being bullied at school, and through the Internet.” Tom glanced at a familiar figure emerging from the bank across the street. Caroline. “There’s a shared responsibility for this tragedy,” he added, watching her stop and fumble with a large envelope.

  “But Mr. Moir’s outburst might have tipped the balance.”

  Tom half watched Caroline pull some papers from the envelope, then turn and move away down the High Street. Of course, how could one possibly know what fervid imaginings troubled the boy’s mind? There had been no suicide note. “I don’t believe Victor Kaif saw it that way—at least in the end. Because I’m chaplain to the Thistle But Mostly Rose and Harry’s death had caused a rift, I tried to bring about a reconciliation between Victor and Will. The meeting was difficult and painful, but I don’t think when we were done that Victor still held Will somehow directly responsible.”

  “Still?”

  Tom regretted the word choice. “It’s not unreasonable that in his grief Victor would look for someone to scapegoat, and he did, at first, with Will. But I think he came to see that no single incident led to his son’s death.”

  “And how did Mr. Moir account for his—‘outburst,’ as you call it?”

  “Well … he couldn’t, really.”

  “Was he prone to fits of anger?”

  “Again, Sergeant, I’ve only been in the village a short time, so I can’t properly say. I think Will could be forceful—if you’ve been a professional cricketer and coach, how could you not be?—but I’m not aware of similar public … explosions. I think the business with Harry Kaif had a shattering effect on him, really. He’s been somewhat subdued, depressed perhaps, in the months since, dropped some of his activities. I gather the year before he did a star turn at the village hall in Abigail’s Party—”

  “I saw that,” Bliss interrupted. “The wife dragged me. She likes theatre. Dress rehearsal for a heart attack, that play. Will’s character had one.”

  “Not poisoned, though?” Blessing looked up.

  Bliss shook his head.

  “Anyway,” Tom continued, draining his cup, “Will wasn’t in the play this autumn and he resigned from the parish council …”

  “You’ve … suggested Victor Kaif bore no ill will against Will Moir.” Blessing read from his notes. “What of Mrs. Kaif?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not party to her mind.”

  “She hasn’t sought your priestly counsel?”

  “No, not in any formal sense. The Kaifs only occasionally attend St. Nicholas’s, although their daughter is in Sunday school and a friend of my daughter’s.”

  “But being a mother, she was, I’m sure, knocked for six by her son’s death.”

  “I don’t think there’s much doubt of that, Detective Inspector.”

  “Found the energy, though, to cook a three-course meal for more than twenty guests, didn’t she.”

  “But it was sheer circumstance that led to Molly’s presence. The band holds its Burns Supper at a different hotel or restaurant each January. This year it was Thorn Court’s turn, but because the hotel is under renovation and the staff on hiatus, someone else was needed to cook the meal. Molly’s a caterer and apparently has a reputation for her curries.”

  “And why curry at a Burns Supper?”

  “Good heavens, Inspector, everyone loves curry. It’s the national food of England.”

  Bliss frowned deeply.

  “DI Bliss much prefers fish-and-chips,” Blessing interjected, flicking a glance at his superior. “I think the question is, why curry at this Burns Supper? Who decided for curry? If you’d all fancied Chinese, who would have cooked your meal?”

  “I get your point, Sergeant.” Tom sighed. “It’s all a question of opportunity. What better food to disguise a poison than a spicy curry? And who had the best access to that curry? The cook, of course. And who was the cook? Molly Kaif. But isn’t it all a bit unsubtle? If she seriously wished to harm Will, wouldn’t she take care not to make herself the obvious suspect?”

  Not if Molly had lost the balance of her mind, Tom thought, worrying the edge of his fingernail as both detectives favoured him with noncommittal stares. He cast his mind over the previous Saturday evening, as if viewing it through the lens of a speeded-up movie. He said, “Gentlemen, you’ve a daunting task sorting out the Burns Supper. All the people, all the moving about the place—”

  “You’d got us to the dining room earlier, sir, in your description,” Blessing interrupted, flipping back in his pad, “twelve of you. And you all remained there for the course of the meal?”

  “Well … no.”

  “No?”

  “Let me see.” Tom strained his memory. “Of course, there was the piping-in of the haggis, so after the soup course Victor left to fetch his bagpipes, as he was the designated piper—”

  “Left …?”

  “Through the door to the corridor that leads to the lobby. There are two doors on the—let me think—east side of the dining room, one to the corridor, one to the serving pantry. I remember Nick Stanhope popping out for a pee early on, possibly before Victor went for his bagpipes, although—”

  “Although?”

  Tom felt as if he were shopping Nick to the police; worse, he was taking some guilty pleasure from it. “Although he took the serving pantry door.” To Bliss’s inquisitorial eyebrow, he added, “possibly by mistake. He was fairly legless early on.

  “And then … I remember John Copeland going to fetch some antacid tablets, which would have been after the haggis course.”

  “But before the curry?”

  Tom nodded. “I’m not sure about the movements of others down the table, though. Oh, and in the interests of full disclosure, there’s me. I headed to the loo after the curry course.”

  “Yes?” Bliss appeared weirdly pleased.

  “I have no trouble digesting curry.” Tom glanced at Blessing, who was snapping back the pages of his notebook.

  “Which would be when you say you encountered … Judith Ingley,” the inspector said.

  “Yes, I was crossing the lobby and glimpsed her in the reception room.”

  “So she had already checked in.”

  “No, no, I already said: Because of the renovating, Thorn Court wasn’t taking guests. Mrs. Ingley didn’t know that.”

  “Didn’t check online or phone?”

  Tom shrugged. “Country hotels aren’t awash in guests after Christmas, I wouldn’t think. She probably assumed a room would be available.”

  Bliss’s face twitched. Whether he was unconvinced or suffering the agonies of irritable bowel, Tom couldn’t tell.

  “So,” Blessing said, taking a cue from his superior, “you came upon her in the reception room—”

  “Yes, she said she had tried the desk, but as we were all in the dining room and being quite noisy, she couldn’t make herself heard.”

  Blessing paused, took a sip of coffee, then looked past Tom down the High Street, which seemed to be drawing in on itself in the growing gloom.

  “Then you don’t know how long she had been in the hotel before you found her, do you?” He returned his eyes to Tom’s.

  Tom thought back to the figure he had encountered in Thorn Court’s reception room. Judith had not removed her jacket, but that meant little as the fire was embers by that time and the room had cooled, and her cheeks had a rosiness to them, as if she had just slipped in from the outdoors, but then they remained rosy through the rest of the evening and all the days after, an effect of her makeup—or makeup itself.

  “No,” he replied slowly, “I suppose I don’t.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  By about the fifty-seventh slide—this one of the Reverend Hugh Beeson, vicar of St. Barnabas in the village of Noze Lydiard, all seventeen stone of him, emerging from what appeared to be a concrete tepee in a place called Holbrook, in Arizona—Tom’s eyelids were feeling the wrench of gravity. It had been very kind of Hugh to com
e to Thornford to fill in as guest speaker at the St. Nicholas’s Men’s Group—though, Tom thought, squeezing the tiny muscles around his eyes in an effort to keep his lids from descending, perhaps he was being kind in thinking that Hugh was being kind. After Tom had mentioned on the phone only hours before his disappointment that Brian Plummer, the well-known Rugby League coach, had to cancel his appearance last-minute due to something that sounded like little more than a tummyache, his colleague in the neighbouring benefice had fairly leapt at the opportunity to come and show his pictures, now ten years old, of the journey he and his wife had taken down Route 66, a highway in America that, according to a song he’d blasted out of a CD player to open his presentation, “wound from Chicago to LA.” Hugh, Tom suspected, was happy for any opportunity to display the flowerings of his great avocational enthusiasm.

  Which was motorcycles. Hugh adored them, in a fashion that struck Tom as faintly idolatrous, but then Hugh wasn’t a lone figure in this mania. There was a little clack of priests in England who received press attention for their affectation and who parlayed their helmeted, leather-clad presence, singly or collectively, into charitable fund-raising deeds. This was a good thing, though. And, he supposed, Hugh’s enthusiasm was a useful thing, as well. Tom counted himself fortunate to have only two churches in his benefice. Hugh had four—four small congregations scattered about the countryside, which meant Sunday-morning services were a bit of a tear. What more efficient way to get from St. A to St. B then by skirting through and around traffic on a marvelous rocket machine? The Holy Hog, Hugh called it.

  Hugh had been an almost alarming sight sauntering into the Church House Inn on a winter’s eve, squeezed into black leather, helmet in the crook of his arm like a severed head, until he pulled the snaps back from his bulging neck to reveal his straining clerical collar. But this walking medicine ball could relieve the regular punters slumped in their chairs of their dull conversation. Tom had fetched him to the pub’s upper reception room where grub was laid on, and a screen, like a stiff white flag, was scrolled into place in front of a projector, a device now as quaint as a typewriter, miraculously unearthed by Joyce Pike in the recesses below the stage of the village hall.