“… you were, too!” he heard Penella say.
“I just went for a pee, that’s all!”
“Adam wasn’t with me when we did the last round.” Penella addressed Tom with a look of frightened fury on her face.
“Shut up, Penella. I went for a pee, Mr. Christmas, that’s all. They were arguing about what sort of tree they were wassailing so I went over to the wall in the dark and, you know … Then they started again and I only had time to zip up so I fired from a different …”
“Where’s your uncle?” Tom snapped at Adam, cutting him off. “I thought he was one of the Guns.”
It was Penella who replied. Wiping her puffy eyes, she croaked, “Nick had an emergency and had to leave. A call came through on his mobile.”
“What kind of emergency?”
Penella flicked a glance at Adam, who remained mute. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“And when was this?”
“Half an hour ago?”
“Be more precise—there were three shots after each tree was wassailed. Did he—”
“The call came a little before we fired the rounds for the second tree—that’s right, isn’t it, Adam? He left as soon as we’d finished.”
“And you have no idea where he’s gone?”
“No.”
“Were you expecting him back, Penella?”
Penella frowned, as if confused. Then understanding dawned in her wet eyes. “Well, no. I mean … we’re only … friends. But, you can’t think that Nick would—”
“He was smiling.” Adam found his voice. “When he picked up the call he was smiling—grinning. I could see his face in the light from the screen on his mobile.”
“And what,” Tom asked with asperity, “is that supposed to mean?”
“He was happy, like. He wouldn’t …” Adam’s voice trailed off.
Disgusted, Tom had walked off, into the dark. The first of two cars, blue lights flashing, arrived outside the gate of the Old Orchard. With Màiri, he had greeted the officers and relayed a gloss of the events. At her insistence, he returned to the vicarage, feeling, as he glimpsed the cosy golden lozenges of light that were the windows of his home, like a weary traveller returned after years abroad. His heart gladdened as he passed through the unoiled gate and walked the stone path to his well-lit door. But his hand stopped at the door handle. Suddenly he was conscious that once inside the vicarage and bathed in its homely light, his appearance would telegraph to his daughter and his housekeeper his frightful proximity to the evening’s tragic event. He fumbled at his neck and stripped off his clerical collar. He stared for a second at the violations to its pristine surface, then stuffed it in the pocket of his splattered jacket, which he could only hope to bury in the back of the vestibule closet. But what of his skin? His hair? He glanced towards the Church House Inn and gave a passing thought to washing in its men’s loo, but it was too late. Bumble, attuned to the creaking of the gate and the idiosyncrasies of his footfall, was in a lather of barking, dashing to snuffle around his feet as Madrun flung open the door. He could see the strain behind her glasses give way to relief.
“Where’s Miranda?”
“In the kitchen. I’ve given her some rice pudding.” Madrun moved to shut the connecting door to the hall. “We had something to eat outside the Scout Hut, but I thought it best we not tarry. People were talking.”
“Does she know?”
“Only that someone’s been hurt.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes. Mr. Christmas, you don’t look at all well. Someone told me you were standing very near Judith.”
“Very.” Tom stepped into the vestibule and struggled out of his jacket as Madrun switched on the light. When he turned, Madrun was rubbing her fingers along the fabric of one of its arms. She peered at some residue on the skin of her thumb, frowned, then shot him a horrified glance.
“Mrs. Prowse,” he said, “Miranda mustn’t know—about me being … nearby.”
“But—”
“Daddy?” came a muffled, faintly querulous voice in the direction of the kitchen.
“But Mr. Christmas, you’ve got blood—”
“Daddy’s got a bit chilled, darling.” Tom opened the door and called down the hall in what he hoped was his best cheery voice. “I’m going up for a nice hot shower and then I’ll be right down.”
But the shower, though cleansing, had been insufficient restorative. Afterwards, after he had changed into fresh clothes, after he had joined Miranda in the kitchen and answered her blunt questions as best he could, after he had hugged her tightly and she had gone to her bedroom, Powell and Gloria trailing after her, after he had brooded with deep unease and not a little astonishment that his daughter took this cursed event so in her stride, he began to shiver like a juddering kettle with no cutout switch. Only the cocooning blanket and the hot, sweet tea began his restoration and the onset of new thoughts:
Surely police enquiry would move quickly to the absent Gun. Who else in the orchard, besides Adam and Penella, was in possession of a shotgun? But was Nick Stanhope so arrogant, so impulsive that he thought he could pull off this outrageous act and somehow escape scrutiny? A simple forensic examination would quickly determine that the slug, if slug it was, came from his shotgun, would it not? Unless he had tucked away a second shotgun somewhere in the orchard, accessible at an opportune moment, then quickly abandoned—that, at least, would indicate some forethought.
But surely motive would elude investigators. Why would Nick seek to execute a woman he barely knew?
Tom had a notion why, but if it were true it gave him no satisfaction. He would have no qualm passing along to the police what Judith had told him: that Nick had threatened her, yesterday, outside the Church House Inn. This he could do with a clear conscience. He had no reason to believe she was dissembling; her telling him was a bare fact and a starting point for an investigation. What he could not—and would not—do was speculate in front of the police about the nature of that threat. In truth, he had no details about the content; Judith had provided him none. But he could guess. As he nursed his tea and waited for the vicarage door chimes to herald Bliss and Blessing’s arrival, he reflected on the fine line he felt obliged to tread.
The Vicarage
Thornford Regis TC9 6QX
18 JANUARY
Dearest Mum,
The most awful thing has befallen us! Much worse than ruined Yorkshires or perhaps even wandering yew seeds. And I’ve hardly slept a wink! Yesterday at the Wassail our houseguest was shot. You recall how shotguns are fired into the air after each tree is wassailed. Well, this time someone didn’t shoot into the air. They He They Someone shot into a human being—Judith Ingley, as I said, and upsetting as it is to sit here and type on this piece of paper, she was killed. Instantly, which is a blessing, I suppose, though at the time most thought there’d been an accident of sorts. I hadn’t even intended to join the wassailing last evening, but I’m glad I did now. I stayed behind to mind the cake stall, but as sales weren’t brisk, I went into the orchard as the third tree was being wassailed in time to hear Florence Daintrey impung inpune criticise my baking in front of everyone—I gave as good as I got, I must say—but minutes later, after the guns went off, someone shouted that someone had been shot, which set everyone into a bit of panic, it being so dark and all and of course you wonder these days with all sorts about if some depraved soul hadn’t happened upon the orchard with evil intent. Anyway, I could see Miranda near the tree and thought it best to get her away, back to the Scout Hut at least, as I couldn’t see where her father was, but I had barely enough time to buy her a hot dog (awful things!) before someone whispered to me that it was the VICAR who had been shot. Well, I was very nearly reeling, horrified for Miranda, and knew I had to get her home before some addle-brain blurted it out in front of her. I have to say I was almost quite relieved when Rab Sorley, who does the MC’ing each Wassail, announced in the carrying voice of his that a visitor to the vill
age had been shot—accidentally, he said—but then, Mum, I had a worrying thought who it might be, and Bob Cogger confirmed it when we were turning into Poynton Shute. He was VERY upset, poor man! Mum, I was so glad when Mr. Christmas arrived at the door, but oh he looked shattered. He cleaned up before talking to Miranda—there were telltale spots of blood on him, awful!—but I’m not really sure if she understood what happened, as some of their conversation was in French, as usual. I’m not sure I understand what’s happened either. Mr. C told Miranda that nobody knows yet if it was an accident or not, which I expect is true, but he told me after Miranda had gone up to her room that the shotgun contained a slug rather than shot. Mr. C didn’t say, but of course that means someone deliberately had it in mind to take Judith’s life, which is the most appalling thing! Or perhaps someone else’s life, which is even worse, though Mr. C seemed certain the intended victim was poor Judith. Why and who would do this, I asked, but I’ve told you before how circomspec cercum he’ll go all quiet about what he’s thinking sometimes. Anyway those two CID, Bliss and Blessing, arrived before long and Mr. C had a longish chat with them in his study. I took them tea and listened at the door thought I might glean something but no chance. I phoned Karla to tell her the incredible news as she thinks the Wassail is un-Christian and so never goes and isn’t at all happy that the vicar put in an appearance and said if he was going to attend such nonsense then he should be prepared to suffer the consequences, which I thought was rather harsh, but then she was a bit short over the phone as I had caught her in the middle of watching coverage of the select committee proceeding on the Parliament channel, which is one of her favourite programmes. She said she thought something was askew as she had only finished closing the shop when someone raced past the door, then not much later, all kinds seemed to be moving through the village, on their way home and such, and she thought the Wassail went on past 7 and here it was barely 6. Anyway, she thought what with Will Moir’s poisoning only a week ago, Thornford was going to get a reputation, and it occurred to me maybe if we did that would put a stop to Thorn Court being turned into housing, as no one would want to move here, but then I thought I was being very uncharitable to think that way. I wondered to Karla if we really ought to go to Tenerife Tuesday, given what’s happened—I hate to think of Miranda coming home from school and no one here with some gunman loose about the village—but Karla’s determined the only thing keeping us away from a sunny beach would be another snowstorm or some volcano erupting in Iceland and making a mess of everything. Cross fingers then they find the gunman in time, Mum. Anyway, after the two CID left, Mr. Christmas remained a long time in his study—revising his sermon, he said—then went up for an early night, though I could hear him talking to Miranda when I went up to my bed. I usually sleep like a stone, but I’ve had the worst sleep since that time last June when there were those doings in the churchyard, if you remember, when Sybella Parry died. I woke up about three and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I listened to the World Service for a bit, then I drifted off, but I woke up again before five, and thought maybe some warm milk might do the trick, but then I realised my Teasmade would go off in an hour, so I thought I might as well give up trying to sleep. So I had a nice cup of tea, after which I had the brilliant notion of going down and making a start sorting and packing Judith’s things and putting the guest bedroom to right, being that the rest of Sunday is so busy as I’m trying to prepare enough ready meals for Mr. C and Miranda while I’m away. So I did, though it did feel odd and sad and so very final and even a little eerie—almost as if Judith’s ghost were there when I took her things from the wardrobe and folded them into her suitcase. She did like bright solid colours, I must say. A change from the drab things she had to wear when she was a nurse, she told me. Anyway, I was going through happened to open her purse to put back some pills she’d left out on the bureau (for blood pressure, I think) when a wallet tumbled out that had a number of papers, driver’s licence and so forth, in it which scattered onto the rug. One was quite an old piece of folded paper with a slight tear that I thought I might have caused, but when I unfolded it, I realised it was one of those heavy linen-backed birth certificates with the handwriting they used to give out. Do you remember? (I’ve got mine tucked away in a box in my bedroom.) I assumed it was Judith’s. I wasn’t sure precisely how old she was, so I glanced at it just to see, and wasn’t I surprised, Mum, to see that the certificate wasn’t hers, but her son’s! I suppose some mothers keep their children’s birth certificates or only give them to their children when they need them, like getting a first passport or the like. Anyway, it had the Registration District—Leeds—and her son’s full Christian names, William Anthony Sean. But what was odd was that the father’s name had been left blank and Judith had only recorded her maiden name. Then I looked at the date of birth and thought, AHA! So her son living in China isn’t her husband’s natural child at all, which made me think Judith must have been pregnant when she left Thornford all those years ago. Mum, do you remember any of this? Of course, I couldn’t help wondering who Tony Ingley’s father might be and then it sort of crept up on me as I sat down on Judith’s bed and had a think that it might have been that tear-away Clive Stanhope. After all they were the same age, and Judith lived at Thorn Court then. What do you think? Anyway, all in the past I thought and was about to return the certificate to her purse with her mobile and other things, but then I began to think that if Tony Ingley was Clive Stanhope’s child, then he’s a half brother to both Caroline Moir and Nick Stanhope and might this mean something? Could it be that Tony Ingley could make some sort of claim on his natural father’s estate, even five years after Clive’s death? I’m no solicitor, so I haven’t a clue, but I began to wonder if it all linked in some way to Will Moir’s death (and Judith’s, perhaps), but I couldn’t at all see how. Anyway, I have the certificate with me right beside the typewriter, and I’ll show it to Mr. Christmas later this morning. Perhaps he will be able to make sense of it. I must tell you before I sign off that I had a nice chat with Tamara before all the terribleness happened. Mr. C drove her in from Exeter as he happened to be there with his daughter visiting poor Julia Hennis, though I gather Adam was to fetch her, but didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t or something, which she seemed to find very vexing. Young people! Anyway, her studies are going well, Miranda was very complimentary about her and Shanks Pony, which I didn’t get a chance to hear, minding the cake stall as I was. Jago might have shown up to hear his daughter, but then he probably had his head stuck in a motor, as usual. I hope Tamara is writing to you regularly. And Kerra, too. Anyway, must go. I think poor Mr. Christmas has a hard day ahead, so I must be sure he is fortified. The menagerie is well, though Bumble is a trial sometimes. Love to Aunt Gwen.
Much love,
Madrun
P.S. I spotted Màiri White at the Wassail looking very glammed up for a little village affair event! You have to watch these women like a hawk. At least with Mr. James-Douglas I never had to worry about that sort of thing! Also, Penella Neels, who was hovering around Mr. C last year at her confirmation classes, seems to have taken up with Nick Stanhope, which certainly tells me what poor judgement she has!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A word, Father?”
Tom turned from the small mirror over the vestry table where he had been examining the dark circles under his eyes, the effect of a night of fitful sleep. Colm Parry, St. Nicholas’s choir director and organist, was leaning around the door, his caramel, glazed skin such a visible rebuke to Tom’s cheerless winter pallor Tom couldn’t help remark on it.
“Not a cloud in the sky in Barbados, I have to tell you.” Colm stepped into the cramped vestry, its chill barely vanquished by a wall-mounted electric fire. His hand grazed his spiky gelled hair, as if checking it was still there. (Whether Colm’s hair was his own remained a village controversy.)
“And I thought we weren’t seeing you this Sunday.”
“Otis has come down with something, a cold,
flu. I could barely understand him. Didn’t he phone you?”
“He might have.” Tom had stayed in bed later than he ought and Madrun had trailed after him through the vicarage, plying him with toast, coffee, messages, instructions, queries—none of which he had been able to properly ingest before racing off in his car through the mizzly rain to Pennycross St. Paul. Returning to Thornford from Pennycross, the engine light on his car had flashed on. Worried, he had dropped the car with Jago at Thorn Cross Garage and ran most of the way through the village to St. Nicholas’s. Tom felt extremely fizzy and tired, rather as if he had stepped off a plane himself after a very long flight. “Good thing you were available.”
“Well, Otis would have struggled in, if he had to, so he must be quite under the weather.”
Tom caught Colm’s meaning. Otis Croucher, St. Nicholas’s new assistant choir director and organist, was a reedy young man from Totnes with a certificate from the Royal College of Organists, no less, but with a whiff of troubled psyche, which seemed to grow more apparent with each quarterly meeting to select hymns and anthems. Finding musicians for small parishes was no easy task, but Otis seemed increasingly wont to go off into little tantrums that evinced a narrow view of music and a generous view of his own importance. That Colm had had a bubble of pop-star fame in the eighties and was loved for it by the villagers buttered no parsnips for Otis Croucher.
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