Eleven Pipers Piping (44 page)

And, of course, why would she be looking up mercy killing on a computer
after
the fact?

It was all too loopy. He had set his mind to a few hours of pleasure, with his daughter, away from the confines of the winter village, and damned if he was going to ruin it with further rumination.

He had reached Briggs-Ellery, the Christian bookshop, set into a pair of timbre-frame, gabled houses of fifteenth-century origin, steps away from the Close. As he glanced unseeingly at his reflection in the window glass, another unpleasant thought intruded: Madrun was alone with Judith in the vicarage and forever inquisitive, of course. Might she ask some needlessly provocative question of Judith? He focused on the books in the window display. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Judith was a woman in her late sixties, little threat to anyone, at least physically. Suddenly he felt unaccountably anxious. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his mobile, but before he could ring the vicarage, he heard someone speak his name. He turned to see a young man and woman, arms interlinked, smiling shyly at him, while his mind fumbled for name, date, and place.

“I thought you’d be on your honeymoon,” he remarked in as much cheer as relief that his memory hadn’t put him to embarrassment. They were Todd and Gemma, the very pair he had married the week earlier at St. Paul’s.

“So did we,” Gemma replied, absently sending a hand across the bulging front of her coat.

“Of course! The snow.”

“If the reception hadn’t carried on so, we might have got to Exeter—”

“If your dad—” Todd remonstrated.

“Never mind about that.”

“What a great shame,” Tom interjected, hoping to quench the rising bickering. “Barbados was your destination, yes?”

“We’re still going, Vicar,” Gemma said smiling, “only it’s all been pushed up a week. The tour company was very accommodating. So we’re having our night at the Royal Cumberland”—she gestured to the hotel across the narrow lane from the bookshop—“and flying out of Exeter airport tomorrow noontime.”

“Lovely.”

“We were about to nip into Drake’s for a coffee. Would you care to join us? I don’t think we thanked you properly for everything you did for us.”

“All part of the service,” Tom responded lightly, groping for a suitable excuse, but failing to find one as he himself was headed to the very place. Purchasing ten copies of
The Marriage Book
, handouts for his marriage preparation course, from Briggs-Ellery, would take all of five minutes, and refusing their invitation seemed churlish. Gemma and Todd seemed like they were practising the niceties of wedded coupledom. “I’d be happy to. Go on ahead, and I’ll join you shortly.” He gestured to the shop. “I have something I must get here first.”

“We’ll order. What would you like?”

“That’s very kind. A dark-roast coffee and, oh, something thoroughly bad for me. You choose.”

As it happened, fetching the books consumed a little more time than estimated. Six copies were on the shelf, on the first floor, up a set of rickety steps, but Mr. Ellery, the proprietor, was certain more were in storage. While he waited, Tom set Tamara’s shoes on the floor and glanced through
The Marriage Book
. Turning the pages in the section on the restoration of intimacy in marriage, his eyes fell
on a snippet of text that gave him pause:
Very often people are waiting for justice to be done before they forgive
. Oh, further unwanted rumination! His mind flew to the Kaifs, each of whom seemed to be imprisoned in that worst sin of marriage, unforgiveness. Was Will’s quietus the “justice,” however perverted, one or the other of the couple sought to restore a loving relationship? If so, it wasn’t working, and rightly so.

Still, Tom mused, shivering a little as the question formulated in his head and Mr. Ellery returned with the extra copies, what were the limits to marital love and protectiveness?

Moments later he was inside the warmth of the Drake, grateful for its atmosphere redolent of castor sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and chocolate, plunging him into a torrent of childhood memories of visits to his Grannie Ex’s cottage in Sevenoaks where his grandmother was always, it seemed, up to her elbows in flour. There, at one of the tables near the window, were Gemma and Todd, talking with a young woman, seated at the next table, with a music case propped on a chair beside her like a misshapen lover.

“Oh, hello. Do you all know each other?” Tom asked, recognizing Tamara Prowse as the lone figure and wondering why she wasn’t bustling about serving.

“Tamara was—what?—three years behind me at school, I think.” Gemma motioned him to an empty seat before which sat a steaming mug of coffee and a plate with two Chudleigh buns, strawberry jam, and clotted cream. “I remembered Tamara because she was brilliant as … who were you again?”

“Olivia Twist.”

“Of course. In
Olivia Twist
, the musical. You were only fourteen.” Gemma sipped her coffee daintily.

“Your father asked me to bring you these.” Tom handed Tamara the carrier bag with the shoes. Tamara peeked in, frowned, then rolled her eyes.

“Dad’s forgotten I’m coming home for the weekend.”

“Of course! Your aunt told me that. That’s why you have that with you.” Tom nodded towards the case.

“Well, partly …” Guilt flashed in her eyes.

“Are you busking, then?”

She nodded. “I managed to get a pitch here on the Close when I moved here in September. Didn’t you once busk, Mr. Christmas? Aunt Madrun told me you did.”

“You were a busker?” Gemma seemed to regard Tom for the first time as if he were something akin to a normal human being.

“Magic, not music.” Tom sat, set his bag of books on the floor and lifted the mug of coffee, savouring the aroma. “I busked through England and parts of Europe for a time when I was around Tamara’s age, between terms and the like. Sleight of hand, card magic, a bit of mentalism. I had a little fold-up table.” He grinned. “Great fun.”

“Ooo, gives me shivers thinking about singing—or doing anything!—in front of a bunch of strange folk in the middle of the street. My stomach was in knots just saying my wedding vows, and I knew most in the church, didn’t I?” Gemma smiled at her husband and reached for his meaty hand with her pink pointy fingers.

“You did well.” Tom tore a piece off one of the buns and slathered it with clotted cream.

“Don’t tell Dad I’m busking, Mr. Christmas. Please. He thinks I’m working here at the Drake.” Tamara pulled her mobile from a pocket and frowned at it. “He doesn’t know, and he’ll have a fit if he does. He’ll think someone’s going to rob me … or worse. And please don’t tell my aunt. You know what she’s like.”

She glanced up from her mobile and caught Tom’s eye. Her mouth widened to a generous grin. He could see why she might have gained a prime busking location in the city, jumping some regulatory queue or other. Tamara had thick honey-coloured hair pushed up into a glorious Medusa swirl framing the broad, pale expanse of her forehead. Her jawline was delicate, but determined; her green eyes warm, radiating a kind of nervy intelligence. Really,
he thought, she was remarkably beautiful, yet seemed somehow unaware of her effect (Todd stole shy glances at her), which only added to her charm.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Tom replied.

“It helps pay for the extras, and I love playing, but …”

“It’s not music you’re studying, is it?”

“They closed the music department some years ago. I’m studying conservation biology.”

“A practical course is much more sensible,” nurse Gemma piped up, offering the wisdom of her advanced years.

But Tamara had returned her attention to her mobile.

“Still nothing?” Gemma enquired.

Tamara shook her head. “Adam,” she explained to Tom. “He’s supposed to be coming to drive me to Thornford. I thought he’d be here by now.” Her thumbs danced over the mobile’s tiny keyboard. “There. I hope he hasn’t switched his off.” She looked pensive a moment. “Poor Adam.”

“I’m sure he has a lot on his mind.” Tom glanced through the Drake’s window towards the cathedral, veiled in a thin mist.

“My boyfriend’s father died last weekend,” Tamara explained to the newlyweds. She dropped her mobile next to her empty mug.

“How awful!” Gemma gushed, then frowned. “He can’t have been very old.”

“Not very,” Tamara replied. “That’s what makes it even more sad.” She looked over at Tom as if seeking permission to elaborate. “It seems someone may have poisoned him.”

Gemma gasped. “I read that in the paper! Do they know who yet?”

“I’m afraid it’s all very much a mystery,” Tom answered for Tamara, hoping to stem further speculation.

Birdsong suddenly punctuated the Drake’s ambient clatter of clinking china, silverware, and low conversation, stopping only when Tamara snatched up her mobile.

“Here he is,” she said brightly, her eyes darting over the message on her screen. Her face fell. “Oh, he hasn’t left Noze yet!” She looked at her watch.

“Then why not come back with us,” Tom offered. “Miranda’s at synagogue with Julia Hennis. I’m fetching them in about twenty minutes or so. You could come with us to lunch at Julia’s. She’d be delighted to see you. And we wouldn’t be long. We’d have plenty of time to get back to Thornford in time for the Wassail.”

“Well … it’s very kind of you, Mr. Christmas. I would like to get home sooner than later. I haven’t seen my bandmates since before … it must have been early December for a concert at Ashburton. We need to go over a few numbers.”

“That’s right. You were scheduled to perform at the Civic Hall at Totnes last Saturday?”

“The show did go on, but much reduced in performers and audience, I think—mostly to those who could walk to the hall. But Adam and I were trapped here in Exeter, what with the snow and all. We couldn’t get out.” Tamara’s thumbs flew again over her mobile. “Hard to believe the difference a week can make.”

“Isn’t that true!” Gemma murmured silkily, glancing at her new husband.

“You were to join Adam’s mother …,” Tom began.

“They’re readjusting the gun pegs at Noze,” Tamara interrupted as birdsong alerted her to her screen. “Some American shooting syndicate is coming on Monday. Those poor pheasants,” she muttered. “So wasteful.”

“But—” Todd shifted in his seat as if roused to counterargument.

“Adam says he won’t be able to leave for half an hour.” She looked towards Tom. “Yes, Mrs. Moir was to join us. I don’t know how she made out. By the time we knew we wouldn’t be able to leave Exeter, the mobile service stopped working. Anyway, Mr. Christmas, I’d be very grateful for the ride. I’ll text Adam and tell him I’m coming with you.”

As Tamara concentrated on her task, Tom puzzled over her words. Adam said he had brought his mother to Thornford from Noze on Sunday morning, but clearly that couldn’t be true. Trapped in Exeter on Saturday, but able to navigate the roads Sunday? Unlikely. How, then, had Caroline returned to the village that morning? If she had reached Totnes and attended the concert alone, how had she managed to travel to Noze? And did she have keys to her son’s quarters on the shooting estate? Much as he loved his mothers, Tom wouldn’t have given a key to Dosh or Kate when he moved to London. What young man wants to live independently knowing his mother might barge in on him unexpectedly? Where
had
Caroline spent last Saturday night?

“There!” Tamara said with satisfaction. “I’ll just nip into the loo first.” The birdsong sounded yet again. “That was fast.” Standing, she adjusted the screen away from the window light. Tom noted her eyebrows climb.

“He has another idea?”

Tamara appeared discomfited. “I don’t know if I should say this. It’s very strange.”

“What is it?” Gemma asked.

The pink of embarrassment touched Tamara’s cheeks. “He says I’m not to talk to you.”

“To me?” Gemma frowned. “He doesn’t know me from—”

“Adam?” Her husband laughed.

“No,” Tamara replied, her expression grave. “You, Mr. Christmas. Adam doesn’t want me talking to you.”

T
om followed Miranda through the vicarage gate onto Poynton Shute and around to the entrance to the Old Orchard, two and a half acres of glebe land sloping gently down to the millpond, which had been ceded to the parish decades earlier. The last rays of the weak winter sun silvered the gnarled branches of the apple trees either side of the beaten, muddy path and cast pale grey shadows over the grass wet with a welter of dead leaves and mashed husks of decomposed apples. Tom inhaled the fermented air and shivered in the damp as they took the fork in the path that dipped under a bower of dark trees and squeezed through a crude opening in the boundary hedgerow to the adjacent property where the Scout Hut blazed like a cottage on a lonely moor. Ahead of them, other villagers trailing the same path blended into the jostling revellers. Some joined the queue at a tented food stall to one side of the hut offering barbecued fare and plastic cups of hard cider. Others gathered under a tented
stall opposite the hut where various baked goods were on offer, which is where Tom glimpsed Madrun and Judith as he reached for Miranda’s lantern, raising it high so it wouldn’t be crushed as they threaded past a merry chorus singing,