Eleven Pipers Piping (17 page)

Much love,
Madrun

P.S. Yesterday, after lunch, Mr. Christmas had a talk with Miranda about Will Moir’s death, which must have been a hard thing to do, poor man, even if it isn’t the first time he’s had to do that awful task. I could tell from the way they were sitting on the swing in the back garden that’s what they were talking about. And afterwards, after Mr. Christmas went off to the pub, I watched Miranda take the banana off the snowman. I had
given it to her for its mouth and it made the snowman look very jolly, even though it had gone black from the cold. But Miranda chipped away at the snowman’s head for a bit then and replaced the banana. Only upside down! Which made the snowman’s mouth turn down and look very very downcast, which was sad. Worse, Mitsuko Drewe came around a little later, as she’s taking photographs for one of her “art projects” of all the snowmen in the village. I said to her, if only you’d come an hour ago! But she thought it was the most interesting one she’d seen all day!

T
om pretended an interest in
Country Life
. He flipped past the estate agents’ adverts for million-pound homes and fine art galleries’ adverts for exquisite
objets
to fill said homes, and noted that Miss Isabella Pimlott, nineteen, pashmina-wrapped and flawless-skinned, was reading history of art at St. Catherine’s College, Oxford—but little else registered. He slowed his page-flipping a bit, though, when he came upon a feature story on Thornridge House, a Nash-designed jewel on fifty acres outside the village overlooking the river, owned by Colm Parry, a flash in the pop-star firmament of another era. He did let his eyes fall here and there upon its contents, speculating that Colm’s ambitious wife, Celia, was the likely force behind this peacock display of acquisition. Yes, there was a picture of the façade and another of one of the reception rooms, and the dining room, and another of the gun room, which Tom had never visited, and there were two of the magnificent gardens that were
Colm’s real passion. And there was Colm, who was music director and organist for St. Nicholas’s Church in Thornford Regis. It said so, right on page forty-two. The issue was two years old, and so it had been printed in a happier time for Colm, before the death of his daughter, last spring. This bitter January day in England, Colm, Celia, and their son were sunning themselves in Barbados, while Tom was ensconced in the lobby of Thorn Court Country Hotel, trying not to let his attention be drawn by the raised voices on the other side of the wall, in the hotel’s office.

He had rung, once, but, like Judith Ingley on Saturday night, he had not been heard. He earlier tried the Annex; the front door was left open to the chilly air, as if someone had departed in a hurry, and when he called, a small figure, Ariel, emerged from the hall’s shadows, her eyes brightening for the time it took a candle flame to flare, then die. In his battered Barbour, his back to the blaze of snow-white light, he realised that in silhouette he might be any male, her father returned perhaps, and his heart went out to her. He quickly learned—without asking—that Mummy had gone next door, and before he could offer any words of kindness, Ariel had vanished back into the hall’s gloom. Tom gently closed the door and slogged through old footprints to the hotel entrance, noting that among the cars parked outside the old stable block only one—Judith’s, he presumed—remained an inert mound of snow.

That Caroline had most likely been summoned by her brother was evident in the first clear words to reach his ears. The tone was agonised but laced with fury: “I must get back to Ariel! There’s no need to talk about this now!”

Nick’s response was lost in a baritone rumble.

Then Caroline again: “You are
not
a partner in this enterprise. You loaned Will and me money—and we’re grateful
and
we’ll pay you back—but the decisions are
ours. Mine!
You’ve no business snooping into our accounts!”

“Look, Caro …” Nick’s voice, now audible, rose menacingly. “I need some bloody money and I need it soon, do you understand? It’s a matter of life and death!”

“Don’t be so melodramatic! How could it be?”

Again, Nick’s voice was lost.

Caroline’s fell, too, until Tom heard her snap: “Well, I believe, Nick, that where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“And now you have no Will.”

“Of course I have a will. We both have wills.”

“I meant your husband—Will—is gone.”

Tom could hear the sneer in Nick’s voice, and felt his own temper rise in the beat before Caroline cried, “Stop it, Nick! Where did you learn to be so absolutely heartless?”

“I’m merely pointing out the truth, aren’t I? How do you think you’re going to run this bloody money-pit of a hotel on your own? Without Will’s drive? Sell the bloody thing! Moorgate Properties is prepared to make you an offer.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I
know
, that’s all.”

“They’d never get planning permission.”

“Oh, wouldn’t they? I can think of one anti no longer on the parish council: your husband!”

“Nick, I’m not selling to anyone. This is my
home
!”

“Then I know of some private investors.”

“Would they be the same toads who have invested in your company, Nick? I know exactly their game. You won’t have yours for long if you deal with the likes of them.”

“Look, Caro, you’re going to have to do something! There’s the insurance money, yes? We both know Will’s worth more dead than—”

“How dare you! Are you suggesting—?”

“Wait a minute, I’m getting a call.”

Sound from the office fell to a muttering. Tom closed the magazine
with a thought to slipping out of the hotel, then reentering, as if his witness to this cringe-making conversation could be rubbed from his mind. But then the door opened abruptly. Nick was visible, half turned, sliding one arm into a businesslike black Burberry.

“I can’t think you’ll get wherever you’re going in all this snow.”

“I’m not going far. Besides, I have a decent motor—not like
yours
.” Nick turned and called over his shoulder, “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

“No, we will not.”

Nick’s eyes fell on Tom. “Ah, Vicar.” He leaned back in to the office. “Vicar’s here, Caro. Put the kettle on, why don’t you.

“Get an earful?” he snarled, moving quickly past Tom, not waiting for a reply. Tom noted the flash of disdain in his eyes and felt vaguely assaulted. He dropped the
Country Life
onto the seat beside him and rose to his feet as Caroline stepped from the office. She gave him a tentative smile.

“Tom,” she murmured. “Perhaps we should move to the Annex.”

Caroline was wearing black jeans, wellies, and what looked like a pajama top. Her hair, usually an immaculate cap, was pulled back into an unkempt chignon. When she approached, he could see the skin puffed around her eyes and a dullness along the sclera, the effect, perhaps, of a sleeping pill. She folded her arm into his and leaned into his shoulder, as if she needed his physical as well as his moral support.

“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’m afraid my brother isn’t really someone capable of offering much sympathy. He rather takes after our father in that way. Or did the army knock it out of him? I’m not sure I know.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, numb, I think.”

“Don’t you have a coat?”

“I’ll be fine.”

They stepped out the door into the cold air as Nick’s van,
HOMECASTLE
SECURITY
emblazoned on the side, zipped past them, sending a spray of wet snow landing at their feet.

“And how is Ariel?” Tom asked, frowning after the retreating car.

“Oh! Isn’t that Miranda?”

Tom glanced past Caroline to see his daughter, in her scarlet quilted jacket, trudging up the path from the road. He had left the vicarage with her earlier, but she’d parted company with him to fetch Emily Swan and go to Fishers Hill—which, it was rumoured, had been turned by the ice and snow into a glorious slide. Madrun had disassembled a cardboard box to act as toboggan.

“This is very thoughtful,” Caroline murmured.

“Would Ariel want a visitor?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. When I told her yesterday that … well, what had happened, she asked if she could go back out and play. I was so surprised, I said of course, but in any event she chose to stay in. We ended up watching
The Lion King
, her favourite film. She ended up comforting
me
. I’m afraid Mufasa’s death scene set me off terribly.” Her mouth sagged. “How odd, how unreal this all is. I can’t take it in that my husband is gone. And this snow on top of it—it’s all part of some horrible ghastly unnatural—”

“You’re shivering, Caroline. We need to get you inside.”

“I thought Ariel might like to come and slide on the hill.” Miranda regarded them both solemnly, her cheeks red with exertion and cold. Silver puffs of air emitted from her mouth as she spoke; then her lips curved into an impulsive smile. “It’s really fun! I thought—” She seemed to catch herself, as if sensing the remark lacked sensitivity. The smile fell.

“Let’s ask her, shall we?” Caroline led the way to the Annex, calling out to Ariel when she pushed open the door, but Ariel was in the shadow of the hall, waiting, her brother, Adam, barely visible behind her, his hands resting on her slender shoulders. Caroline caught her breath. “Oh, sweetheart! You startled me. Miranda wants to know if you would like to go out and play.”

The two girls regarded each other shyly.

“Should I?” Ariel asked her mother, her dark eyes telegraphing a tumult of emotion.

“Yes, of course. But only if you really want to. Your brother and Mr. Christmas will keep me company. You mustn’t worry.”

“How about this,” Tom offered. “You and Miranda go out for an hour or so—there’s a wonderful icy slide on Fishers Hill that Miranda will tell you about—and then we’ll come and fetch you both.”

“Or I could go with them,” Adam suggested, though his tone held little enthusiasm.

“Adam, darling, why don’t you take yourself off to the pub.” Caroline switched on an overhead light and reached for Ariel’s jacket. “You can drop the girls off first, if you like. I expect there’s lots of adult supervision on the hill.”

“Are you sure?” Adam’s mouth twitched, then fell back to form a thin, unhappy slit.

Tom studied him as Caroline fussed with her daughter. He was fair-haired like his father, and resembled him, too, in build—tall and lean, rawboned. Yet somehow he seemed a less vital edition of his sire, his face thinner, more attenuated than Will’s, his hair, though clipped ruthlessly short, unable to disguise a hairline in early retreat. Dull despair, marker of misery, flecked his watery grey eyes. It was that, more than the presence of a child who didn’t need reminding, that quashed the words of condolence forming on Tom’s lips. Instead he said: “You managed to get through all right, I see.”

“Yes,” Caroline answered for her son, “Adam drove in earlier this morning. It’s so good to have him here.”

“How are the roads?” Tom asked.

“The A435 is passable, Bursdon Road less so.” Adam shoved his stockinged feet into a pair of wellies and reached past his mother’s head for a waxed jacket.

“I think you and John are the only people I know who’ve breached
the parapets of snow … other than the—” Tom remembered the mortuary van and bit his tongue.

Adam cast him a troubled frown as he fumbled with his zipper, flicked an undecipherable glance at his mother, and stepped around the girls. He turned at the door, his narrow frame traced by the light, and said, “Perhaps a walk would be better.”

“Yes, a walk.” Caroline handed Ariel a pair of mittens. “The pub probably isn’t a good idea.”

“Hard to be around people being jolly in a pub,” Tom remarked, glimpsing the three moving down the path before Caroline closed the door. “How is Adam?”

“Oh, you know, bottling it up.” Caroline turned and smiled weakly. “As you might expect. I’m not sure I can … reach him. He’s not a little boy anymore. I’m more worried about Ariel, how this will affect her. She’s being very … watchful. She wanted desperately to come to the office with me earlier, but with Nick being …” She left the rest unsaid.

“Miranda became watchful for a time, too,” Tom told her. “My diary seemed to absorb her. She was concerned I be home by certain times, which is hard to do when you’re a priest with evening meetings and such. Fortunately, she has three doting grandmothers, and Ghislaine, our au pair at the time, was wonderful.”

“You were lucky to have her. I’m hoping I can get my mother to stay here for a good while. Come through, Tom,” Caroline said, gesturing down the Annex’s central hall towards the kitchen. “Will you have coffee or tea?”

“Either will do,” he replied, following her. Coffee in the morning was preferred, but more important was the comfort the ritual provided the bereaved. “Your mother lives in Australia, does she not?”

“Yes,” she replied, lifting the kettle. “She very much took to Australia. More so than my father, who was the one who took us off there in the first place.” She paused over the taps. “I telephoned her last night. So awkward, the time difference between England and
Australia. Anyway, I suggested she wait a bit before booking a flight. Has Heathrow reopened? I’m not sure. Are the trains running? What about the roads?” She placed the kettle on the hob with a metallic scrape.