Eleven Pipers Piping (23 page)

“What?” Tom said, suddenly conscious of an atmosphere.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Venice said in a hoarse voice.

“As long as it isn’t yew noodle!” Florence cackled.

“Florence!” her sister-in-law managed to croak, then sneezed loudly.

Tom caught a breath. “How could you possibly …?”

“Know? Really, Tom! How long have you lived in Thornford?
Anyway I know you don’t approve of tale-bearing, so I shan’t disclose my source.”

From the corner of his eye, Tom noted Venice’s mouth moving with exaggerated effect. He deciphered a name.

“Judith Ingley,” he intoned.

“No one can accuse you of being thick, Vicar.”

“But how—”

“Judith telephoned this morning. I think she’s looking to connect with people she once knew in Thornford, and happened to let the news slip. I knew her a little when I was young. Or knew
of
her, rather. I’m somewhat older than she is, and I can’t say our families travelled in the same social circles.”

Venice rolled her eyes at Tom, then sniffed loudly. Florence turned her head and cast her sister-in-law a suspicious glance.

“For heaven’s sake, Vicar,” Florence continued, “you’re stood there like a lemon. Take a pew.”

“I’ll make some tea.” Venice wrestled with her quilt. A chubby pink foot appeared briefly from beneath a fold.

“Why don’t you rest?” Tom suggested, pushing out of his coat. “I’ll make it.”

“But you won’t know where things are.”

“He may be a man, Ven, but he’s not a complete boob. He can boil a kettle!”

“Nevertheless, I’ll make it. The vicar is our guest.” Venice’s feet found the carpet and slipped into a pair of pink, rabbit-ear slippers. She pulled back the blanket to reveal a pair of loose pink trousers and a matching sweatshirt. “Goodness,” she added, patting her permed snowy hair, “I must look a sight.”

“Truer words, Ven!” Florence cackled again.

Venice gave Tom a look of long suffering as she took his jacket. “You might try to have more sympathy,” she called over her shoulder to her sister-in-law. “I sympathise with your ankle.”

“You’re not
that
bad off, Ven. It’s a simple cold.”

“I have no appetite. It might be flu.”

“You should cancel that appointment.”

“No!”

Venice shut the door behind her with audible force.

“And losing a stone wouldn’t go amiss,” Florence remarked airily. “As you seem to refuse to sit down, Tom, would you mind throwing another stick on the fire? Venice doesn’t have flu, you know,” she added, as Tom pulled a beech log from a basket by the fireplace and felt the blaze of the flames against his bedewing forehead. “It’s her way of saying she won’t be touching Madrun’s soup. Nor will I, come to that.”

“But Mrs. Prowse is a superb cook.”

“I know … or, rather, I’ve heard.”

“You can’t tell me you really do think poison has found its way into her soup.”

There was a beat of silence. Tom looked at her sharply as he sat down on a wing chair placed near the end of the couch. “Florence?”

“Of course not. I was simply testing you, Vicar. I really have trouble imagining Will Moir dying from a misplaced yew seed or two. If that’s what it was. I know a
little
of poisons, having worked for a time for the ministry.” She paused, running her fingers absently over the spine of her book. Protuberant veins, like purple twine, ran over the back of her hand. Florence had mentioned working for the ministry more than once in his presence. Which ministry remained the mystery, but it seemed to trump anything in an exchange of views.

“You mean, you don’t know?” she enquired.

“Don’t know what?”

“Exactly. This is my point: This is what happens when you disassociate yourself from intelligence-gathering.”

“You mean gossip.”

“I mean what I said, Vicar. If you mean to tend your flock diligently, then it’s best you know all you can about them, don’t you think?”

“Well …” Tom shifted in his seat, which was lumpy and unforgiving.

“Anyway, before Venice returns, as she doesn’t care to be reminded of this episode … You of course know that Madrun’s mother is deaf.”

“Yes. Something to do with being struck by lightning, wasn’t it? At the May Fayre, thirty years ago or so.”

“And did you know that my brother Walter—Venice’s husband—was killed by lightning?”

“I had heard.” From whom? he wondered. In his first weeks at Thornford, he had been bombarded with details about the village’s
dramatis personae
. Seems lightning had an unusual affection for Thornfordites.

“Well, as it happens, the same bolt out of the blue—or out of the grey, as it happened—that turned Edith Prowse deaf also felled Walter. My idiot brother was having an affair with her.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Some fools in the village thought it was divine punishment. Not me of course. Too medieval. Still, you can see why Madrun’s gift is unwelcome.”

“I don’t see, really. Madrun is innocent of any trespass.”

“Memories run deep in Thornford, Vicar. We don’t forget.”

“You might forgive. As Jesus said,
If you forgive sins of any, they are forgiven
.”

“Well, He would say that, wouldn’t He. He didn’t live in a village.”

“He did too live in a village. Nazareth was a village.”

“It wasn’t an
English
village, was it?”

Tom opened his mouth to remonstrate, but the protest of an
unoiled door hinge and the discreet rattle of china announced Venice’s return. Tom rose and offered to carry the laden tray, but Venice seemed wont to prove her strength despite a dangerous waver in her step, though she did sink back onto the couch with a sigh after placing the tray on the table.

“What were you talking about?” she asked, frowning at the tea things.

“You! Ha!” Florence smirked.

“I was remarking to Florence how I thought for the longest time that you two were sisters.” Tom decided he could afford the cost of a white lie.

“Oh, our names.” Venice sniffled. “Tom, would you be mother? I’m hoping not to spread any more germs.”

“And I said I was named after one of Father’s aunts who was probably named after Miss Nightingale.” Tom caught Florence’s knowing glance as he poured the milk into the cups. She seemed to be enjoying this small deception. “But Venice’s parents named her after the city.”

“My parents were dedicated Italophiles, despite Mussolini and the coming war,” Venice explained, pointing Tom to the tea strainer. “My poor older brother was lumbered with Arno, after the river, of course—did Flo tell you?—but as a boy he insisted on being called Arnold.”

“Imagine if you had married Venice’s brother?” Tom addressed Florence as he aimed the teapot spout over a cup.

“Too silly, Vicar. Besides, chance there would have been none.”

“My brother died in the Korean conflict, you see.” Venice took a proffered cup from Tom and passed it over to her sister-in-law, who looked unwilling, or unable, to shift herself. “Battle of the Imjin River. He was with the Gloucestershire Regiment. His picture’s on that shelf, if you’d care to look.”

Passing another cup to Venice, Tom dutifully rose and examined the sepia-toned photograph, set in a nest of other family pictures, of
a very fresh-faced young man, khaki shirt opened at the collar, posed jauntily, hands on hips, pipe in mouth.

“His loss must have been very painful for your parents, and for you, of course,” he said.

“Nick Stanhope was in the same regiment,” Florence remarked.

“Not at all, Flo. Nick was with the Royal Green Jackets when it merged with other units and became … The Rifles, I think they’re called.”

“Yes, I know, Ven. But the Glorious Glosters were part of the merge, so—”

“I’m not going to argue with you about anything as Byzantine as the army.” Venice blew on her tea, then coughed. Her face reddened.

“He was discharged, wasn’t he? And not with honour, I believe. Told an officer he would shoot him if he put him on guard duty again, can you believe it!” Florence scowled at her sister-in-law. “He’s something, that one. Like his father.”

“You knew Clive Stanhope?” Tom returned to his seat.

“Well, yes. He was younger than I so I can’t say I paid him too much mind. But Clive did have a reputation for cutting a swath through the local girls, for one thing. Anyway, I was gone and living in London by the time he finally settled down with one of them, a vicar’s daughter—Dorothy somebody—from somewhere near here, I believe.”

“Caroline and Nick are really quite different from each other,” Venice snuffled. “Not that I can say I really
know
Nick Stanhope. Have a biscuit, Vicar.”

“Different mothers,” Tom remarked, reaching for the plate.

“Same father, though,” Florence murmured throatily.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Ven glanced over her teacup.

“Caroline may seem like an angel, but …”

“Really, Flo! The woman has just lost her husband! I lost my husband when I was in my forties, too. I feel for Caroline terribly. I wish there was something I could do.”

“You might take her a casserole,” Florence said dryly. “When you’re up to it.”

“I think not.”

“My question is,” Florence continued, oblivious, “who benefits?”

“What? Do you mean money? Florence, really! This is all because you’re reading that nasty mystery novel.”

“It’s not nasty. It’s very good, and it makes the mind ponder, you know. Who benefits? Wives do, for one—when their husbands die.”

Tom felt a drop in temperature instantly. This he did know, as indeed did most of the village: In best male primogeniture fashion, Walter Daintrey had inherited very nice Uphill Cottage in Thornford and a few other properties that were part of his and Florence’s parents’ estate when they died, with the time-honoured expectation of continuing the male line. Reproductive challenges (apparently) and a bolt of lightning put paid to that notion, marking the end of the Daintrey line, but left Venice the beneficiary of Walter’s estate, cottage and all. Florence had inherited a sum of money from her parents, but, on the eve of her retirement from her mysterious government ministry, she found most of it vanished in the Lloyd’s debacle. Her sister-in-law very kindly, and perhaps unwisely, invited her to share what had been her family home in Devon, and the two had lived in uneasy companionship ever since, each regarding the other, Tom suspected, as interloper.

“Money is no balm when a loved one dies,” he swiftly interjected, perhaps more vehemently than he intended.

Venice wheezily released a held breath and set her teeth to the rim of the cup, as if willing herself off a coughing jag or attempting to keep her temper. Florence, however, was either oblivious of the effect she had caused or studiously pretending she wasn’t.

“Perhaps Will Moir was
deliberately
poisoned,” she announced.

“For the money? Really, Florence, you are the limit.” Venice tugged a tissue from the sleeve of her sweatshirt and dabbed at her
nose. “The Moirs are
 … were
a very loving couple. Wouldn’t you say, Tom?”

“Yes, I would, actually. I know they’ve had their ups and downs like all married couples, but—”

“Marriages are much like icebergs,” Florence interrupted. “Ninety percent is below the water.”

“And you would know this, would you? You being a spinster of this parish.”

Florence, looking mildly miffed, said, “I wasn’t necessarily suggesting Caroline would—”

“I’m not sure there’s a lot of money to go around,” Tom interjected cautiously, recalling his earlier conversations with Caroline. “And anyway,” he added, though he wasn’t quite sure he believed this: “How could it be anything more than a terrible accident? It was only chance that Will ate the offending tart.”

“Was it?” Florence shot back.

“Flo.” Venice put down her teacup. “Don’t be silly. Why would anyone
want
to poison Will Moir?”

“Well, there’s the rub.” Florence motioned towards the biscuit plate imperiously.

“Perhaps we should talk about something else,” Tom said with a sigh, leaning over and passing the plate.

“Quiet! I’m thinking.” Florence snatched a biscuit. “Who was at the supper?” she said at last.

“Flo,” Venice wheezed, “it was the Thistle But Mostly Rose, which you know perfectly well.”

“Yes, I do know that! But who?
Who
specifically?”

“At least half the band had to cancel,” Tom said after listing the guests. “Because of the weather. Almost everyone was from the village or within short distance. The only guests from farther afield were Nick, who has a flat in Torquay, and John Copeland who, of course, lives at Noze Lydiard.”

“Well, no love lost between Nick and Will.” Florence popped the remainder of the biscuit into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “John Copeland, though …”

“Florence …,” Venice murmured warningly.

“John’s been making sheep’s eyes at Caroline for years. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No, I haven’t,” Venice snapped.

“Ven, you have too noticed. We’ve discussed this. There’s a perfectly fine little church at Noze that John could be attending, and they would be happy to have him, but instead he comes here every Sunday.”

“Because of the quality of worship at St. Nicholas’s.”

“Oh, Ven, really! Giles James-Douglas was practically gaga the last few years before he died, and the only folk who found that smarmy Peter Kinsey compelling were women too young to know better.”

“Tom’s doing a splendid job.”

“Mmm,” Florence murmured, as if doubting it. “But he’s had the living for less than a year. John’s been coming to St. Nicholas’s for five and he started coming when the Moirs took over Thorn Court. And …” She quelled her sister-in-law with a lifted eyebrow. “And! John’s wife died some years before that. He’s been a widower for a very long time—with no new woman in the picture—”

“There’s that Helen whatsername—from Noze.”

Florence waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, she just lays on the lunches for the shooting parties for him.”

“I’m not sure—”

“—and you know what men are like.” Florence aimed the question squarely at Tom.