Eleven Pipers Piping (59 page)
Read Eleven Pipers Piping Online
Authors: C. C. Benison
“Helen,” Tom gasped, winded, his heart crashing against his chest as he squeezed John’s wrists in a lock with both his hands, “please, leave us for a few moments. Do nothing, not yet. Please, I beg you.”
She regarded them as if they had both lost their minds. “I’m leaving! I’m getting out of here!” She darted towards the door to the hall. The decisive slam of the outside door failed to move John, who slumped against the wall, the fight gone out of him. Tom let go of John’s wrists, and caught his breath. Outside, a car could be heard roaring to life, then receding over the cobbles. He waited, anger contending with pity for this foolish, troubled man.
“You knew Colm’s was wide open.”
John regarded him hollow-eyed. “Yes, Nick happened to say at the inquest the alarms were off at Thornridge House when I asked him what he was doing with himself. I knew from Adam about Colm’s collection. It was nothing to walk into Thornridge last evening unseen.”
“There was someone staying there.”
“A few lights were on. I saw no one. The key was in a drawer. Perhaps if the access hadn’t been so easy …” He trailed off. “I thought no one would ever think I had …”
“But why, John? Were you so in love with Caroline? It’s a perverse love that leads a man to do the terrible, terrible thing that you’ve done.”
“I couldn’t protect Regina from her demons, you see. I thought I could protect Caroline, then maybe one day …”
“John, you have to give yourself up to the police.”
“Do I?”
“Of course. Have you lost your mind? Do you think you can get away with this?”
Beads of sweat glistened along John’s hairline. “But no one knows but you.”
“I can’t treat this as private confession. If you don’t give yourself up willingly, then I must. John, you’ve trespassed against God’s law, and man’s. A woman has died. You shot into a crowd of people, with children,
my
child—and your child, didn’t you know? Didn’t you think Ariel would be among them …?”
“… and shot the woman who gave birth to me.”
“You shot and killed another human being.”
“But the world will know if I confess.”
“The world will know if you
don’t
. There can be no bargaining here. Helen has guessed. Before long Tamara Prowse will question Caroline’s alibi. If there’s a police investigation, don’t you see that everything will unravel? Your kinship to Judith Ingley will be unearthed and exposed. And, John, there’s something more, and this is why you must be quick and make a clean breast of it.”
And now came the moment he dreaded most. He picked up the certificate from the carpet where it had fallen from John’s hands. “Caroline must never know about the woman … and the man who gave you life.”
“Man?” John spoke listlessly. “But … that column was empty, wasn’t it?”
“Judith didn’t wish to record the name on the certificate, but of course she knows who the father of her child was—your father, your natural father.”
“Who was my father, then?”
Tom took a deep breath. “Clive Stanhope.”
“Clive Stanhope? You mean … Caroline’s father … and Nick’s?”
“Yes, John, and yours, too. Do you see why Caroline must never know, why there must be no protracted police investigation, why this must be kept from the world?”
John stared at him, his full unblinking gaze, his blood-drained face, horrible to behold, yet Tom could not look away.
“Do you see?” he intoned with greater urgency.
“Merciful God,” John’s voice fell to a low groan. “Ariel. Caroline’s daughter, my daughter … A child of …” He brought the back of his hand to his mouth, as if he could stifle the truth by stifling its utterance.
A silence enveloped the room broken only by the intermittent snap of the burning wood in the fireplace. A dog’s bark intruded, but heralded no trespasser; no chorus arose in the wake. John dropped his arm after a minute, the set of his mouth revealed as a grim line. Straightening his spine, as if gathering resolve, he said to Tom, “I must have some air. I need to think.”
He gave Tom no opportunity for rebuttal. He stepped towards the door to the hall. He did not stagger.
Tom sank back into the wing chair, labouring to calm his roiling mind, bend it away from the harrowing events of the last few minutes, the last few hours, the last few days, towards prayer and contemplation—and to a decision. He had no fear John would take flight. Following the usual hall sounds of gathered jacket and hurried exit, no noise announced retreat from the estate—no car door slammed, no ignition turned over, no gravel crunched along the drive. Only the dogs set to an excited yowl, but soon they abandoned their quest for attention, leaving Tom to the crackle of the fire and the thrum of his own blood. Even if John did try to vanish, tramping through the dark to some road, to some village or town,
eventually to some great conurbation, he would be found in time. Britain was a moated nation and the drawbridges were well manned.
His hand still clutched John’s certificate of entry of birth and he turned his attention to it, smoothing it on his lap along its resistant folds. Somewhere in some file in some office in England, presumably, a similar certificate existed for him that declared his natural parentage. An odd thought struck him: Might Dosh have a copy that she had kept from him all these years? His had been a private adoption, too; perhaps the paperwork had travelled to places it normally wouldn’t, or shouldn’t. Had he ever asked if she had such a document? He couldn’t remember. And then a brooding thought: Might there be some telling detail about his natural mother or father that Dosh was keeping concealed? She was always the more watchful of his two adoptive mothers, as if she were bracing herself for that certain trait bred in the bone to come out in the flesh.
He was being fanciful.
At last, he rose from the chair and bent to the fireplace. He smoothed the certificate once again and placed it on one of the dying embers. The paper glowed, flared yellow-red, then burst into full flame. Seconds later, it was a wisp of grey and black, but marked by ghost text that still declared its content. Tom took the poker from the nearby rack and stirred and stirred the remains of the certificate into the anonymity of the wood ash. Satisfied that nothing remained, he lifted himself off his haunches and reached into his pocket for his mobile to make the unavoidable call. As he switched it on, he heard several sounds in near quick succession: cars—more than one—beating along the cobbles then halting, doors opening, and the voices of men. John’s expected guest, the shoot captain? And colleagues? Barely a moment had passed when he heard, muffled but still detectable, farther off at some distance, a sound he hoped not to hear again soon—a shotgun blast.
He raced for the door.
Tenerife
21 JANUARY
Dear Mum
,
Here we are in Tenerife. I can hardly believe we managed it after the events of the last ten days. I felt quite horrid leaving Mr. Christmas and Miranda yesterday, even though I’d filled the fridge with ready meals and made sure everything was washed and ironed. Mr. C has
contacted
contracted a wretched cold, so I can’t imagine the state of his speaking voice at yesterday’s funeral for Will Moir. Like a death bell, Karla said. I should very much like to have gone to the funeral but Karla had us to the airport hours in advance of the flight as usual, as the airline says you’re to do. I always think it unnecessary, but Karla is a stickler for the rules. Jago, however, was VERY put out and was quite short with Karla in the car. He had said he would drive us to Exeter airport as he always does, but he hadn’t counted on there being a funeral and the Thistle But Mostly Rose part of it. Since there was no time to arrange other transportation, he was a bit stuck,
though as I say I think there was likely time enough. It wouldn’t have mattered if Jago had driven us wearing his kilt, knobby knees showing and all! Anyway, what’s done is done. I expect we’ll be finding another way to get to the airport next year! And I’m not sure who will be fetching us when we fly back next week. Oh well, worse things happen at Seaford, as Dad sometimes used to say, though had he ever been to Seaford? Before you were married perhaps? In the car going up, we couldn’t help talking about the last few days. Jago said John always seemed like such a regular fellow and couldn’t believe he had shot himself over some woman. SOME WOMAN was how your son put it, Mum. I said to him, didn’t you know John had a soft spot for Caroline? No, he said. It came as a complete surprise. I thought him (and his kind—men!) very thick, and said so, which only made him shirtier. But I have to say, Mum, I’ve thought to myself that John Copeland’s doing what he did—poisoning Will Moir, shooting Judith Ingley, and then taking his own life—
seemed very over the top too odd
quite extraordinary. Still waters run deep was my
hipothes
view. Or volcano—John was a volcano of passion set to explode! I think I said to you in my last letter, or maybe it was Monday’s, that I thought there had to be more to it, especially as Mr. C was VERY offhand when I broached the subject. As I wrote earlier, I was so very relieved that my lovely tartlets were innocent (what a shame I tossed all the berries I had put down last autumn!) but I couldn’t help wondering how John managed to get whatever that poison’s called into Will’s food. Well, Mum, imagine my surprise when I learned the truth! I was packing for the trip after breakfast and getting Miranda off to school yesterday morning when Mr. Christmas came up to my rooms and asked if he might have a word before I leave. I told you there was more than what met the eye, and there was! But it’s terribly sad. Will Moir took the poison himself. He had the early signs of Huntington’s
Korea cor chor
disease and didn’t
want to suffer or make his family suffer. Do you remember Moira Docherty who was the landlady at the Roundhead in Hamlyn Ferrers? Isn’t that what she had? I remember folk said she had completely lost her mind at the end. So cruel! Anyway, Will planned his death for the Burns Supper so that it would look like an accident or at least anything but suicide so that Caroline could collect the insurance money and not have to sell the hotel and give up the family home. The plan might have worked, Mum, but for the unwanted snow and an unexpected guest which threw a
Spaniard
spanner in the works. (More on that in tomorrow’s letter!) I don’t know what will happen to Caroline and the hotel now, as Mr. C says she has told the police everything and given them a private letter that Will wrote to her and had left in his safe box at Barclays and I do feel sorry for her, despite what Will put me through the last week, but the only thing I could think of was your granddaughter. What if Tamara marries that Adam Moir and has a baby? I remember from Mrs. Docherty’s instance, how Huntington’s
Kor
disease runs in families and how chances are 50/50 of
catching
getting it. Does Adam have it? I asked Mr. C. There are tests for it now. But Mr. C said Adam and Ariel know nothing. Caroline has yet to tell them, or at least Adam since Ariel is so young and perhaps can’t take it in, but will have to tell them very soon, as it will all come out when the inquest into Will’s death resumes later this week. What a trial that will be for Caroline! Anyway, I didn’t say anything in the car to Jago, as I thought he might go off, and anyway Mr. C asked me to keep it to myself as he didn’t want Adam hearing it from anyone’s lips but his mother’s, which is quite correct of course. I haven’t even told this to Karla, but I thought by the time this letter gets to you, the inquest will be over and it will be in the papers. You mustn’t worry, Mum. Tamara is too young to settle down and even if she should settle down with Adam, which she won’t of course as she is a smart girl
and will have a brilliant career, then you can be sure she will be completely sensible. Judith Ingley’s parents are buried in St. Nicholas’s churchyard, but of course she is to be buried at Stafford next to her husband. Mr. C said he thought he might attend, if the funeral is held after I return to England, though I suppose if it isn’t Miranda could stay for one night with the Swans while he is away. I feel very sorry for Judith’s son who has lost both his parents in less than 6 months and has to come again all the way from Shang
high
ai for another funeral. Of course, as I mentioned, Anthony Ingley has a natural father and I told you who I thought it might be! Yesterday, when Mr. Christmas was with me in my rooms, I asked him, was Clive Stanhope Anthony Ingley’s natural father? Well, I could see I had quite shocked him. I don’t think I’ve seen such a peculiar look on his face before. After a minute, he said no, it wasn’t. He had had a long conversation with Judith one afternoon and they talked about their lives. Judith happened to say to him that Anthony was not her husband’s natural son. She had brought him into her marriage. Mr. C said Judith had mentioned the lad’s name who was the natural father, but it wasn’t any of the old Thornford names and he couldn’t remember now. What a shame Judith never wrote it on the birth registry! Any guesses, Mum? I would have been too young to pay attention to what a couple of teenagers were up to. Someone likely at least Judith’s age now—late 60s—or maybe in his 70s or I suppose 80s. I just had the most peculiar thought! Could it be Old Bob? They had been seen having a long talk in the pub and he was VERY distraught when she died. But he would have been old enough to be her father! Is it possible? I’ve always had a feeling Bob had once set his cap at someone in the village and was disappointed. Funny he never married. Well, I best end this letter. I can hear Karla roaming about and we’ll be going down to breakfast soon. We haven’t stayed in this hotel before. It’s new and looks quite nice, though this is the third room
we’ve been in since we arrived yesterday. Karla didn’t think the other two were at all what was pictured in the brochure and of course made a point of saying so. I had a bit of trial finding stationary, too. I suppose folk send messages on their phones now, but I can’t say I’ve ever wanted a mobile. Anyway, I’ll send you a postcard of the hotel with our room—our NEW room—marked with an X. We have an ocean view now, as promised. The weather is wonderful. So sunny. I shall be brown as a berry when I get back to dear old Thornford R. All is well here. Love to Aunt Gwen. Glorious day!
Much love,
Madrun
P.S. I was thinking on the trip here that I’d be happy to help pay for a mobility scooter for you. I hate to think what the NHS has on offer. You and Aunt Gwen could get one each and be sort of a dynamic duo about town. What do you think?
P.P.S. I forgot to tell you I made Yorkshire pudding Monday. I’m not sure Mr. C was happy to be having roast beef again so soon, and on a Monday of all days, but I simply couldn’t leave unless I was sure I hadn’t lost my touch. And I hadn’t. Such a relief. I thought if it came out flat again, then I’d have to stay put in Thornford, as something awful would be sure to happen. Anyway, Mr. C and Miranda have lots of cold roast beef for sandwiches
.
P.P.P.S. VERY interesting this, Mum: I happened to look at Mr. C’s hand yesterday morning as he fetched my big case to Jago’s car. He’s moved his wedding ring to his RIGHT hand! I think you know what that means!
P.P.P.P.S. In the first post yesterday, I had a letter from Ellen Maddick. Do you remember her? We went to Leiths School together, but then she went back to Shropshire and we only stayed in touch through Christmas cards for a time. Anyway, it turns out she has a new position as cook-housekeeper for the earl of Fairhaven who owns Eggescombe Hall, which isn’t far, at the edge of south Dartmoor. She says Lord and Lady Fairhaven spend a fortnight at Eggescombe every August and that I must pay a visit, which I may do. I’m sure Mr. C said the earl of Fairhaven was one of the Leaping Lords and had volunteered Eggescombe for the summer parachuting fund-raiser. Great fun, I expect. As long as Mr. Christmas doesn’t expect ME to step out of a flying airplane!
