Eleven Pipers Piping (38 page)

“Oh, did you? Sorry, if I went right by you without saying hello.”

“I saw you from The Nosh Pit’s window. I was having a coffee.” He decided not to say with whom. “You looked rather upset.”

The computer chimed softly. Caroline glanced unseeingly at the
screen. “I … yes … well, it’s all these final things, you know, the will, other papers … I went to Thompson’s …”

“Yes, their director called me late yesterday.”

“I made the presumption that you would take the funeral. I should have consulted you first—”

“Nonsense.” Tom waved his hand dismissively. “Tuesday? Will your mother have time to recover from the time change?”

Caroline nodded. “Adam would prefer a green funeral. I understand his concerns, but it’s not his father’s wish. I told him that. Here …” She pulled a sheet of paper from a file and handed it to him. “This has hymn suggestions. Of course Will would like the pipe band to …” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” Tom waited for Caroline to recover her composure, then passed his eyes over the text, which was handwritten, and unexpectedly careful, clear, and legible—somehow he imagined Will dashing off instructions in short, swift strokes—to the paper itself. Again, that colour, that pale shade of purple—it seemed to be everywhere.

“This looks fine,” he said. For hymns, Will chose “For All the Saints,” “Who Would True Valour See,” and “Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer.” His wishes were quite precise. “It was thoughtful of Will to have had this at the ready. Many don’t until they’re much older. If at all.”

“Yes,” Caroline responded slowly, as if taken from some private thought, “it does … help, doesn’t it?”

“This is quite recently written, too, is it not? Something about the paper …”

“It must be recent.” Caroline frowned, as Tom set the sheet on the desk. “It looks like part of the stationery samples I got from Farbarton’s in the High Street the other week. We were considering new letterhead, brochures, cards, and suchlike to go with the renovations. A new look.”

They both stared at the paper a moment, Tom pricked by the
peculiar notion that Will had some premonition his life was drawing to a close. And yet how could that be when his end was wrought—most cruelly, most unexpectedly—by some outside agency? Is it possible, he wondered, to truly sense nemesis in your midst and feel helplessly pulled under, arranging last things your only recourse? He looked to Caroline, trying to gauge her thoughts, but her expression remained shuttered; only her hollow, bruised eyes hinted of the suffering of the last days. Both their hands reached for the sheet of paper at the same time, Tom, the nearer, gripping it first, then tugging against Caroline’s pulling.

“Shall I take this with me?” he asked.

For a second they seemed to contend over possession, then Caroline dropped her hand. “Of course, you must,” she said. “But—”

“I will return it. It’s just so I won’t forget the details. I’ll need to let Colm know about the music.”

“Why don’t I make you a photocopy?”

A muffled shout from the lobby shifted their attention. A flash of pique crossed Caroline’s face as she rose, opened the door, and stepped from the office. A rustle of paper and a young male-voiced enquiry of Caroline if she was Mrs. Moir reached Tom’s ears, before she returned half hidden by an enormous paper cone.

“Goodness!” Tom exclaimed.

“I wish people wouldn’t send flowers.”

“Who are they from?”

Caroline shifted the cone to the crook of her arm and tugged a small sellotaped envelope. “Here,” she said, handing the package to Tom as she peeled back the envelope’s flap. Tom dropped the cone between his seated knees, catching a moist hint of hothouse blooms through the wrapping paper, and watched Caroline’s face tighten as she pulled out a small card and read it.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” The dismay in her voice was palpable.

“Dare I ask?”

“John Copeland.” She took the package from Tom and tore the paper along the top. “They’re roses—pink roses.”

Tom frowned. “I suppose it’s an understatement to say roses are an odd choice.” He watched her toss the package onto the desk, then reread the card.

“May I?” Tom asked.

Caroline hesitated, moved to pass the card over, then reconsidered. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry, Tom. It’s too …” Her mouth formed a grim line as she slipped the card into her trouser pocket, but a certain intelligence passed between them, and in the flicker of her eyes Tom saw a fresh anxiety.

“Caroline, John isn’t … bothering you in some fashion, is he?”

She looked away. “No … not really. No. Well, not until this. I’ve been a widow for less than a week, for heaven’s sake. I suppose I should be grateful they’re not red.” The anxiety in her eyes lingered, now glossed with a lie: She
was
bothered. “He’s told you, hasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure—”

“He has told you. He’s told you
something
.”

“Caroline, you put me in a difficult position. People do tend to tell me things that they mightn’t tell anyone else.” His hand stole towards his clerical collar. “It seems to come with the job.”

“I think it has more to do with your kindly face.”

“In either case, I feel duty-bound to keep my counsel.”

Caroline resumed her seat. She regarded her computer screen and tapped aggressively on the keyboard for a moment as if needing the time to think. “Then I will tell you, knowing that you’re duty-bound to keep your counsel—” Her face reddened. “—that what John has told you is true—”

“Caroline—”

“That I knew him before I returned to Thornford to live.”

“Caroline, you needn’t—”

“That I met John at a hotel in Torquay ten … more! years ago,
that we slept together, and that Ariel is his child—his
biological
child.”

Tom felt cuffed by the force of her fury. He struggled for a response. “Which you have not admitted to John—”

“Which I bloody won’t! Ariel is
my
child. Mine and Will’s. I can’t be having this sort of contention in my life. Not now! Now with so much else to bear!”

“I know, Caroline,” Tom said soothingly. “I think perhaps John has become animated by the possibility of a child—his child. He had an unhappy marriage, a childless one. He leads a sort of life of routine—”

“He has that woman, what’s her name? Helen somebody, who caters the shooting lunches—”

“But—”

“
And
he has my son living on the estate.”

“John isn’t the most subtle of men, I suppose, but I don’t think he intends to—”

“He can make no claim!”

“I was going to say, I don’t think he intends to intrude on your life.” Although saying it he wondered if it were true. In the vestry the night before, John had been, at best, ambiguous about his intentions.

Caroline shot him a hard glance. “I’m not convinced. I can feel his eyes on me in the procession on Sunday. I have done since we moved here. I can feel his attention on me at those bloody pipe band barbecues or any other time village events conspire to bring us to the same place.”

“You are an attractive woman, Caroline.”

“I’m not sure that’s something I want to hear at this time, Tom.”

“I merely meant that perhaps he feels there’s something lacking—”

“There
is
that Helen.”

“We don’t know the nature of their … Sorry, I can’t seem to say the right thing.”

“It’s called ‘holding a torch,’ Tom. And John’s held it far too long for it to be healthy.”

Tom glanced at the spray of roses, hothouse creations with heavy pink heads, forced to short life, doomed to quick death—a gift he recognised as a masculine gesture obvious and unimaginative and, in this instance, ill judged and exceedingly ill timed. What did pink symbolise? Admiration, perhaps? Gratitude? Sentiments less intense than love, he considered, as a silence descended on the room and a muffled clatter from the workmen above filled the void. He didn’t credit John with subtlety; some wise florist likely talked him out of red roses.

“Did Will know?” Tom asked after a moment.

Caroline appeared to soften as she considered his question. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, if you mean did he know that Ariel was not his. But, no, he knew nothing about John, and if he guessed, he never said. Not to me, and I can’t imagine he would have told anyone else.”

Tom felt a surge of tenderness and pity for Will, for the loss of this decent man. “You alluded at the marriage preparation class that your marriage did go through a sticky patch.”

“That was the time. It was worse than sticky. I learned that Will—” She stopped herself suddenly, a look of horror creeping in her eyes.

“You needn’t tell me more.” Tom swiftly lifted his palms in a gesture of interdiction. He didn’t really wish to know, but he could imagine: Perhaps Will had not been so decent, had had an indiscretion, too, and so Caroline, willfully, vengefully, had had hers, but with manifest consequence. It was not unknown. Such rancorous antics had slipped into his own mind, too, in the dark dispiriting days after he had plucked the photograph of Lisbeth clutched in the
arms of some “dark stranger” off his desk at St. Dunstan’s. Blind-sided by the picture’s innuendo, trust splintered, he felt himself staggering through the next fortnight, though he fought to present a reasonable facsimile of a dedicated vicar in his parish and attentive father of a six-year-old. He felt a fraud as a pastoral counselor, the clever dick who blithely advised troubled couples to air their hurts with candour and love, and a fake as a hitherto uxorious husband, turning away from shared intimacies until finally, with no evening meeting to excuse his absence, with Miranda at her grandparents in London and Ghislaine out on a date, Lisbeth corralled him to the kitchen to do the washing-up and demanded to know what in sodding hell had got up his nose lately. With disquiet, Tom put down the plate he was drying, pulled from his trouser pocket the picture, now much creased, and held it up for her inspection. Lisbeth glanced at it, glanced at him, and then again at the photograph. “Thank you,” she said coldly, returning her rubber-gloved hand to the water. “It might do as evidence, should I need it.”

“For what?” was all Tom, confounded by her aplomb, could say.

“Listen to me, Father Christmas.” An appellation she used only in two moods: ardour or anger. “What do you think is going on in that picture?”

“It looks like you’re making love to a man who is not your husband!”

“I’m being
assaulted
by a man who is not my husband! If your private detective—”

“I didn’t—”

“—had snapped a picture two seconds later, it would have been of me pushing him over the bonnet of his car!” She paused, her voice rimed with disgust. “He’s a pharmaceutical rep from OndaFöretag. They’re bloody nuisances most of the time. I’m against accepting any gifts, large or small, from these people,
as you know
, but I agreed to lunch with him … Julian … I’m not sure why, really. He was new, awfully persistent and—” She turned back to Tom with dismay.
“I’ll confess, not hard on the eyes, so I thought, all right, this once. I didn’t know he had a screw loose. I’ve made a formal complaint, and with any justice he’ll be peddling pots and pans in Cumbria.”

Appraising candour in those wonderful green-flecked eyes, Tom felt a full measure of relief flood over him. But of course wounds don’t magically seal over. Each worried that the other had masked distress. Each wondered what spawned this wary-chary episode. Embarrassment? Worry? Sheer workaday exhaustion? But as First Corinthians would have loved keeping no record of wrongs, they sprinted to the bedroom to wipe the slate clean. It was only afterwards in bed that their thoughts flowed towards the riddle of the photographer’s motive and identity. Tom could not bear to even paraphrase the ugly words of the accompanying poison-pen letter, and so—perhaps unwisely (he could never know)—he kept its existence from Lisbeth. Their marriage had only wobbled. Will and Caroline’s had foundered. Laudable was that it had not been irrevocably shattered. Will might have shunned his wife, disowned the child forming inside her, and started a new life with someone else, but he had made the generous choice, sacrificing pride for love.

“The important part was that you were able to forgive each other, yes?” Tom asked Caroline.

She nodded.

“And you were happy in your marriage? You always seemed happy. Many have remarked to me what a loving couple you always appeared.”

“Yes.” Caroline blinked, her eyes glistening. “Yes, we were happy.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

P
aying a pastoral visit, Vicar?”

“Not really. I’m returning this.” Tom pulled a small torch from his jacket pocket to show to DI Bliss. “Molly’s daughter must have left it at our place last weekend. My housekeeper found it rolled under the sofa this morning.”

“Pity. I think you’ll find that Mrs. Kaif is in want of a pastoral visit, or something along that line.”

“I’m confused.”

“Welcome to our world.”

“I’m not sure that enlightens.”

“Mrs. Kaif has confessed to poisoning Will Moir.”