Eleven Pipers Piping (13 page)

John answered his question. Tom searched out the man’s grave eyes as he intoned the final words of the Creed and received a deep nod, which he took as confirmation that Caroline had been found, and had been told. With a heavy heart he said, when the moment came:

Somewhere near the south window, someone released a short, sharp cry of pain.

“Thank you for taking on that task,” Tom said to John, at last able to have a private conversation. After the Dismissal, a few were always wont to linger and chat, none more so than on such a day of peculiar
weather and sad news, even though St. Nicholas’s, like the rest of the village still without electricity, was drained of welcome heat. “It can’t have been easy telling Caroline.”

“No,” John replied without elaboration, methodically fitting copies of
Common Praise
back into the low shelf along the transept aisle.

“Where did she get to in the end? Noze?”

John nodded, nothing more. Tom could understand the man’s preoccupation. There was nothing more cheerless than the task of relaying news of the death of a loved one.

“I expect the roads were poor.”

“You might imagine.”

“I hope they’ve been able to get at least a mortuary van in.”

“Yes, finally one arrived.”

“Good. It’s been troubling thinking of Will’s body simply lying there, in wait.”

“Caroline is taking a little time to compose herself, then she’ll come and fetch Ariel.” John bent to rehang a hassock. “She asked me to tell you that.”

“How is she?”

“As you might imagine.”

Tom sighed. He turned in the direction of the vestry to remove his vestments, then turned back. “What of Nick Stanhope, by the way?”

“Sleeping it off somewhere, is my guess. We saw hide nor hair, not even when the mortuary people arrived. And …” A shadow crossed John’s broad features. “I’ve still got his car keys. I must get them back to him.”

“If you like, I could give them to Caroline.”

“It’s fine, Tom. I’ll drop them off at Thorn Court on my way back to Noze. But …” He bent for another hassock. “I think I’ll stop at the pub for a bit.”

“Good idea,” Tom responded sympathetically. “I’d join you, but I should wait for Caroline at the vicarage.”

As it happened, as they stepped along the path beaten through the snow on Church Walk, they glimpsed through the scrim of gently falling flakes, the figure of Caroline, in yesterday’s camel coat, making her way cautiously down Pennycross Road, avoiding the centre, where it was iciest, instead trudging through the drifts accumulated by the high stone walls at the side. Her movements, the high steps and the uncertain grasping of sprigs poking through the stone, made her appear delicate and vulnerable, like a deer in disaster. John, who was slightly in the lead of Tom, quickened his pace, as if moving to reach her and guide her, but by the steps of the Church House Inn he abruptly stopped.

“Perhaps you best go,” he called back to Tom. He raised his hand towards Caroline, in a kind of tentative wave of acknowledgement, and heaved his body up the steps and through the door. Mildly startled at the man’s behaviour, Tom moved across Poynton Shute and met Caroline across from the Tidy Dolly.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, taking his proffered arm. “It’s quite treacherous, isn’t it?”

“Caroline, I’m so sorry.” As he glanced at her, she raised her face to his. She was snow-pale, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, her expression grave.

“I’ve tried so not to cry, for Ariel,” she said, touching the skin below her eyes with a gloved hand. “I mustn’t let on, until I can get her safely home.”

An older couple, unknown to Tom, crossed Poynton Shute in front of them, heads bent into the cold.

“Oh, Mrs. Moir, we’re very sorry for your loss.” The woman turned a sympathetic expression to them.

“You’re very kind, thank you.”

“If we can help in any way, please let us know.” The man added a solicitous smile. “Vicar.” He nodded acknowledgement, glancing at Tom’s exposed collar. They passed on, crossing the street towards the pub.

“Francis and Beth Hamilin,” Caroline told Tom. “They supply honey to us. I guess the whole village knows. However shall I get Ariel through this?”

“Children are surprisingly resilient.” Tom reflected on Miranda’s response to her mother’s death, more than two years ago.

“I meant, how will I get Ariel back to Thorn Court through a gauntlet of well-intentioned people. I have a feeling that with the electricity down, many will be headed out for a pub lunch or some warmth.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll be very happy to accompany you and Ariel back. I can fend folk off with a fierce look or a growl or something.”

Caroline made a feeble laugh. “Would you? That would be a great help. How …” She stopped herself, as if needing a moment to stanch fresh tears. “How did you tell Miranda?”

“Well.” Tom sighed deeply at the memory. They had reached the vicarage’s front gate. “I don’t think I had a plan. It’s not something you ever expect to have to do, is it? So you can’t really have anything rehearsed. And even if you did expect something like … well, this, I’m sure anything you might plan to say would fall by the wayside anyway, if that makes sense. I’m sorry, I’m not being at all helpful.”

“No, that’s all right. Of course, Miranda was about—what?—seven?”

“Almost. Her seventh birthday was a few days hence. Lisbeth, you see, had brought her birthday present to the church I was serving in at the time to hide it there. She was then to pick up Miranda after school, but when she never arrived, Miranda …” He hesitated. The memory still felt raw. “Miranda took herself off to the library, took out a book, went home, and made herself a sandwich.
She was in front of the TV watching some kids’ show when I arrived. She was so resourceful. I was so proud. And then—”

His eyes teared unexpectedly. Caroline sensed his distress and moved her arm around his back.

“I think I’m supposed to be comforting you,” he said, his voice thick.

“Never mind. Have a moment, then tell me.”

They stopped at the vicarage gate. “Well, I told her that something had happened, that her mother had died. She really didn’t understand, I don’t think. Not at seven. For days afterwards, she would ask when her mummy was coming home. Of course, Lisbeth’s death was … unusual, and eventually that had to be explained, too.”

Caroline, silent, looked past Tom down Poynton Shute towards the entranceway to the Old Orchard, which abutted the vicarage property to the east. She seemed lost in thought.

“Please tell me if I’m being intrusive, Caroline, but … was Will having heart problems?”

Her eyes turned to meet his. “Not that I know of.”

“Or was there heart disease in his family? Again, stop me, if I’m being rude.”

“That’s all right, Tom.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t say. Will was adopted. Did you know?”

“Roger mentioned it to me yesterday.”

“Will’s adoptive father wasn’t even around long enough to give Will his name.”

“And Will’s mother? Did she know anything of his natural parents’ health?”

Caroline turned her attention to her shoes, which she shook to remove snow. “She’d died before I met Will. If she knew anything, I don’t think she told Will. I … I can’t say I even know what took her, really. Or I can’t remember, not that it matters.”

Tom frowned as he pushed through the squeaky gate then
ducked to avoid a tumble of new snow from the arch. It wasn’t that he thought it odd not to know the circumstances of one’s mother-in-law’s death—it was possible, if you had never met the woman, and you might forget after twenty-odd years of marriage—it was that he heard the lie in Caroline’s voice.

“I hope the girls behaved themselves,” she said as they reached the vicarage door.

“I’ve had no reports of problems,” Tom replied, pushing through the door into the vestibule. He stamped the snow off his shoes, aware of the absence of a now familiar sound, that of Bumble skittering down the hall and scrabbling into the door that opened onto the central hall.

“Hello!” he called, opening the door. “Anyone home?”

“What a gorgeous smell of beef.” Caroline came up behind him. “Every Sunday?”

“No, not usually. But you were witness to the Yorkshire debacle last week. Mrs. Prowse has been worrying the problem all week. I thought it best she try again, soon, and for some reason she won’t make Yorkshire unless there’s a roasting beef. You know,” he added, noting the absence of footwear in the vestibule, “I expect they’re all in the back garden. Snowman-making was the order of the day.” He looked at his damp shoes and Caroline’s wellies. “Perhaps we should go round the house, rather than through it.”

Bumble greeted Tom and Caroline first, racing towards them with his usual desperate energy, kicking up the snow, yelping with every bound and whirl.

“Bumble!” Tom commanded the dog to silence, but he paid little attention. Clearly, Tom thought, not for the first time, Bumble’s previous owner, the late Phillip Northmore, had exercised an authority over the animal that he, Tom, didn’t seem to possess.

But Bumble acted as early warning, so when Tom and Caroline rounded the corner of the vicarage, they came upon three figures under the old pear tree’s snow-smothered winter branches who were turned towards them in expectation—four figures, if one counted the deathly white, strangely rounded, inanimate form in the middle.

“Mummy,” Ariel called excitedly, “come and see our snowman!”

“It’s brilliant, darling,” Caroline responded. The forced enthusiasm in her voice was detectable. Tom could see Judith Ingley studying her with some intensity and then remembered his manners and introduced them.

“Judith grew up in Thornford,” he added.

“But left many years ago,” the older woman explained. “Before you were born. My maiden name was Frost.”

“Oh?” Caroline’s brow crinkled, as if she were winkling out some memory. “Well”—she cast Judith a wan edition of a hotelier’s smile—“I do hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Where’s Emily?” Tom asked Miranda, suddenly conscious of a missing child.

“She went home.” Miranda looked at Ariel and they exchanged wicked grins.

“Has something happened?”

Miranda wiped her wet mitten across her nose. “Emily thought we should make a snow princess.”

“Ah,” said Tom, halfway to understanding. The princess force was still strong with young Emily Swan, who had been lobbying for months to be crowned queen at next Saturday’s Wassail in the Old Orchard.

“We did try, Daddy,” Miranda continued, “we really did …”

“We really did,” Ariel echoed.

“… but …”

And they both burst into giggles.

“But …?” Tom prompted.

“They couldn’t—” Judith began.

“We couldn’t,” Miranda interrupted with another sudden frown, “stop the …” She looked down the front of her jacket. “
 … chests
from falling off.” The frown quickly shot back to a shining grin.