Eleven Pipers Piping

by C. C. Benison

  Much love,

  Madrun

  P.S. I was thinking on the trip here that I’d be happy to help pay for a mobility scooter for you. I hate to think what the NHS has on offer. You and Aunt Gwen could get one each and be sort of a dynamic duo about town. What do you think?

  P.P.S. I forgot to tell you I made Yorkshire pudding Monday. I’m not sure Mr. C was happy to be having roast beef again so soon, and on a Monday of all days, but I simply couldn’t leave unless I was sure I hadn’t lost my touch. And I hadn’t. Such a relief. I thought if it came out flat again, then I’d have to stay put in Thornford, as something awful would be sure to happen. Anyway, Mr. C and Miranda have lots of cold roast beef for sandwiches.

  P.P.P.S. VERY interesting this, Mum: I happened to look at Mr. C’s hand yesterday morning as he fetched my big case to Jago’s car. He’s moved his wedding ring to his RIGHT hand! I think you know what that means!

  P.P.P.P.S. In the first post yesterday, I had a letter from Ellen Maddick. Do you remember her? We went to Leiths School together, but then she went back to Shropshire and we only stayed in touch through Christmas cards for a time. Anyway, it turns out she has a new position as cook-housekeeper for the earl of Fairhaven who owns Eggescombe Hall, which isn’t far, at the edge of south Dartmoor. She says Lord and Lady Fairhaven spend a fortnight at Eggescombe every August and that I must pay a visit, which I may do. I’m sure Mr. C said the earl of Fairhaven was one of the Leaping Lords and had volunteered Eggescombe for the summer parachuting fund-raiser. Great fun, I expect. As long as Mr. Christmas doesn’t expect ME to step out of a flying airplane!

  For Marjorie Poor, constant reader

  Acknowledgments

  I’m a member of a band of sorts, though it doesn’t play the pipes, and there are more than eleven of us. But you need a band to write and publish a novel and I’m very fortunate to be joined with people who play in perfect harmony. (If anyone’s off pitch at times, it’s muggins here.)

  I am particularly grateful to my redoubtable editor at Random House, Kate Miciak, whose enthusiasm for Tom Christmas and his world keeps my mind buzzing and my backside planted where it needs to be—in front of my computer. I am grateful, too, to her colleagues Randall Klein and copy editor Laura Jorstad for the expertise they bring to turning manuscript into finished book, to designer Marietta Anastassatos and illustrator Ben Perini for the truly delightful cover, and to Kristin Cochrane of Doubleday Canada for her championship in the true north proud and free—which also happens to be the home of my agent, Dean Cooke, to whom I am also most grateful.

  Thank you, too, to Sharon Klein and Leah Johanson, of Random House, for zeal in the name of publicity, and to those who aided and abetted, among them Rory Bruce, Gil Doll, Cathy Tippett, John Toews, Jack and Wendy Bumsted, and Michael and Susan Hare.

  I am also grateful to those who read and criticized portions of the early drafts of the manuscript of this book—Rosie Chard, Sandra Vincent, Frances-Mary Brown, Perry Holmes, and Spencer Holmes—and to those who have lent their help in various ways—Michael Phillips, Clark Saunders, Barbara Huck, Peter St. John, Bill Blaikie, Carl Antymniuk, Pierre Bédard, Bradley Curran, Neire Mercer, Sara Raymond, Gerry Convery, Jill Treby, Barbara Robson, June Milloy, Faye Sierhuis, and John (“Pigblisters”) Whiteway. Lastly but not leastly, thanks to The Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders of Winnipeg for an excellent—and really most scrumptious—Burns Supper.

  I remain most grateful to the Reverend David Treby, vicar of St. Mary and St. Gabriel’s Church in Stoke Gabriel, Devon, England, for his readiness to answer all my questions about the finer points of the Church of England. All inaccuracies and curious interpretations in that quarter are entirely mine.

  Finally, I am very grateful to the good people of Stoke Gabriel whose splendid village set in Devon’s soft hills provides me with much inspiration.

  ALSO BY C. C. BENISON

  Twelve Drummers Drumming

  About the Author

  C. C. BENISON has worked as a writer and editor for newspapers and magazines, as a book editor, and as a contributor to nonfiction books. A graduate of the University of Manitoba and Carleton University, he is the author of five previous novels, including Twelve Drummers Drumming and Death at Buckingham Palace. He lives in Winnipeg, where he is at work on the next Father Christmas mystery, Ten Lords A-Leaping.

  www.ccbenison.com