Twelve Drummers Drumming (6 page)

“We’ll need more than the village bobby, Julia. Stay with me. Let’s not alarm everyone.”

“Of course, you’re right. Oh, my God. Poor Colm,” Julia murmured. “And Celia … this is going to be dreadful, dreadful for them.”

“Listen, best I go find them.” They would be among the May Fayre revellers. “You stay here, Julia. Colonel,” Tom addressed the figure on the floor as he listened to the phone ring, “I’m sure Dr. Hennis will fix you up so you’ll be right as rain.”

“Pleased to be of service,” the colonel said, closing his eyes.

“I don’t understand—”

“Diversion, my boy. I shall be a diversion.”

After alerting the local constabulary, Tom exited the village hall in search of Colm Parry, whom he half expected to be loitering about the stage in preparation for his contribution to the day’s festivities, a reprise of his eighties hit “Bank Holiday,” only without the bubblegum synth-pop backup. Tom had been quite looking forward to the moment when the entire village—minus one or two old poops—gleefully joined in at the chorus. But a brisk walk through the multitudes while trying not to appear anxious gleaned him nothing, so Tom circled back to the hall and reached again for his mobile.

“Right behind you, mate,” Colm said into his phone, giving Tom a gorgonzola grin when he spun around. “Declan said our Sybella’s been giving you bother.”

As always since he’d arrived in Thornford, Tom couldn’t help staring for just a split second at Colm Parry and thinking how strange it was to have as his organist and choirmaster a man he’d seen on
Top of the Pops
when he’d been a teenager, who’d stood just behind Sting in the recording of “Do They Know It’s Christmas
Time.” In those days, Colm had been as girlishly pretty as Simon Lebon or George Michael, and you could still see a hint of the cheekbone between the jowls and puffy eyes. A quarter century had brought three stone and a paunch, but Colm still had all his hair, if it was his hair, still spikey, with blond highlights, in a way that denoted a kind of engaging immaturity.

“Father?” Colm was among those amused by Tom’s surname, or at least pretended to be. “Father?”

Something in Tom’s face must have sent notice, because Colm’s grin slipped its moorings. “Sybella? She’s all right, isn’t she? My son was on about her kipping in the big drum. Which explains why she didn’t come home last—”

“Colm,” Tom cut him off, thinking that nothing prepares you for this, not the training in pastoral theology, not counselling or psychology nor the practice of a decade. “Colm,” he repeated, “Sybella isn’t asleep. I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but … we’ve found her dead.”

Colm’s smile collapsed. A drowned look seeped into his blue eyes as he stared at Tom. “We?” he intoned.

“Julia Hennis and I.”

“Oh, God. How? Where? You mean, in the
drum
?” His stare grew incredulous as Tom nodded, then his face crumpled. He turned his back to the crowd and brought a hand to his eyes. Over his shoulder Tom glimpsed Miranda skipping towards him, Madrun in tow. He gave his housekeeper a quick warning shake of the head.

“Oh, God, how am I going tell Oona?” Colm whispered, following Tom blindly through the doors to the small hall. “I thought she’d be safe down here. I was the one who said she’d be safe …”

The atmosphere in the hall seemed claustrophobic now, the air simmered by the afternoon sun beating on the roof. “Colm, I’m so sorry.” Julia blinked back tears as Colm stumbled towards the drum.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, bewildered eyes fixed on the instrument.

Tom glanced at Julia. “I’m sure,” he replied. “Would you like to—?”

Colm stretched a hand towards the instrument, then quickly withdrew it. “No … no. I don’t want to see her this way.” He stared vacantly around the hall, at the walls with their old pictures hung awry, at the stack of folded wooden chairs, at the table with its few unclaimed
bachi
. “What was she playing at? How could this …?”

Happen?
Tom’s mind filled in the word.

Colm’s expression sharpened. “She’s not been … interfered with? She’s not been … beaten?”

“Colm, she looks like she’s resting.”

He seemed relieved. “Then what was she playing at?” he said again. “Why would she be
here
?”

“She didn’t say to you she’d be at the village hall?”

“No. She was working at the café yesterday. I don’t know until when. She didn’t come home last night, but I wasn’t overly worried. I can’t police her, and she’s been good as gold. It was Bank Holiday, so I thought she’d probably gone to Torquay after her shift to stay with some mates. I just bought her that Vespa, now she’s got her licence back.… She texts or phones if she’s going to be away overnight. That’s the arrangement. I’d thought she’d forgotten—that’s all. Oh, Jesus.”

“Liam told me earlier he’d expected her to help him at his stall today.” Tom moved to switch on the rank of ceiling fans.

“Oh.” Colm’s voice broke. “Oh, God, then how long has my daughter been lying here?”

“We don’t know.” Julia looked to Tom, as if for confirmation. “I came down here quite early this morning, but the hall was already open.”

“But she’s a young woman,” Colm pleaded. “Young women just don’t … 
die
.”

“People say the girl has a drugs problem.” Northmore observed.

“What? No! Who’d say such a thing?”

“Colonel, you really should conserve your energy.” Julia’s tone turned sharp.

Colm looked wildly about him. “What is going on here?”

“Colonel Northmore’s had a fall,” Tom explained, guessing that Colm’s mind was about to make a wrongheaded connection. “It’s nothing to do with … with what’s happened to Sybella.”

Colm’s face was sudden thunder. “Colonel, Sybella had a drugs problem.
Had
. She’s been good as gold, I said. I should know. I’m her father.”

The glance Julia flicked Tom was full of sorrow, but an intelligence passed between teacher and pastor:
Parents can be oblivious to their children’s failings. They can be the last to find out
.

Catching the glance, Colm responded heatedly, “I’ve been down this road myself, you know.”

They did know. Colm’s career in pop music had been brief and when it went pear-shaped he crashed, with the predictable spectacle of drink, drugs, and infidelity recorded faithfully in the tabloids. He credited his second wife, a self-styled “rock psychologist,” with saving his sanity.

“I can read the signs. Just because she wears all that black gear—”

“You’re right, Colm,” Julia interrupted, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t think anyone here means to suggest …”

Her voice trailed off. Tom realised he remained unconvinced. It was the drum. A vicious person might deface the instrument. But surely only a chemically paralytic one would delight in the novelty of crawling inside, oblivious to the possibility of passing out and being discovered later. Then a new thought entered his mind unbidden: suicide. Had Sybella taken her own life? And if so, why in such a bizarre and showy fashion?

But this new thought was interrupted by a new presence in the room. He’d expected it to be Alastair, in golf togs, but it wasn’t. It was his verger, Sebastian John, and he was as pale as the whitewashed wall of any cottage in the village.

Thornford Regis TC9 6QX

27 M
AY

Dear Mum
,

The most terrible thing happened at the fete yesterday! It was just like that day 30 years ago, only without the lighten lightning. Colm Parry’s daughter was found dead in the v. hall! I’ve told you before she was an odd sort of girl, or maybe different is the word. That probably comes from having lived most of her life in London with her mother and her mother’s many boyfriends. I expect you’ve read about Oona Blanc before in the papers. I would have said it was a good thing Colm finally got to have Sybella live here in Thornford, but considering what’s happened, I’m not sure now. Awful to think the poor girl might have been safer in London! As it happens, I was in the v. hall when her body was found—inside one of those big Japanese drums that I told you about yesterday! I was with Colonel Northmore who wanted to have a quiet cup of tea in the v. hall. I think he was secretly pleased that the drum was
damaged, awful to say. Of course, he hates anything Japanese, as well you know. When I took him to the Waterside for lunch the other week, he wouldn’t go in because Liam Drewe had advertised sushi on his signboard! He won’t stomach rice. Never has. Not since being in that prison camp where all they got to eat was a bit of maggotty rice. And, of course, he’s never said a civil word to Mrs. Drewe. I’ve pointed out to him that she was born in England, but he just gets that stubborn look of his. Poor Colm. I feel wretched for him. He dotesd on Sybella and she was coming along, I think, although she would look at you in the road sometimes like she knew your darkest secret. I would think to myself—but I don’t have a darkest secret! Do I? Maybe you know of one, Mum. Colm would do good to dote on his son. Declan’s such a great lump of a boy. He must be 10 stone and he’s only 13. Sybella is was beautiful like her mother, although you have had to look past all the black dyed hair and the piercings to see it. I wonder if we shall see Oona at the funeral? I expect we will. She could hardly not attend her daughter’s funeral, though I wonder what condition she’ll be in. You still see her in the papers, of course, but it’s all drugs, not fashion modelling anymore. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. (Not like you and me, of course!) And with Oona here, there’ll probably be press nosing about. Little Miranda was in the hall, too, when all this took place and Mr. Christmas had me take her out quickly. Poor child, she’s only just lost her mother, after all. I know you’ve wondered how I would take to having a child here at the vicarage. Mr. James-Douglas had his nephews visit from time to time, of course, but you could hardly call those young men children, though, frankly, Miranda could have given them a lesson in manners and deportment. I said to Mr. Christmas just the other day, after Miranda had a little outburst after being reminded about her bedtime, I don’t know if I can be a mother to her, and he said, don’t, be a grandmother, which made me
wonder how old he thinks I am, but it was a bit of a relief, I suppose. Anyway, Miranda’s good as cream most of the time. She’s very independent, though I wish at times she wouldn’t speak French. The rest of the May Fayre went off without ah any other hitch tragedy. I didn’t mind the Japanese drumming in the end. Very loud but quite something! Of course they were one drum short, but they decided to “go on with the show” anyway. Apparently Colm insisted. It was very good of him in the circumstances. I’ve had my doubts about Mr. Christmas, but he comported himself well, I thought. An ambulance came for Phillip, and that caused a bit of fuss. I forgot to tell you Phillip broke his hip in the hall. What a day! Anyway he Mr. Christmas got the police to go into the hall through the fire exit, so most people couldn’t see them and get upset. And he was very good with Colm, I thought. Poor man. He looked quite stunned. I did notice Mr. Christmas looking at Julia Hennis in an odd way when we were in the v. hall. She’s his sister-in-law. I may have mentioned that before. Henry VIII married his brother’s wife. Would marrying your wife’s sister be the same thing? Of course, there wouldn’t be a Church of England, if Henry hadn’t gone off his first wife! But then that was about children and heirs and so forth, wasn’t it. Shame the Hennises haven’t tried again to have a kiddie. King Henry reminds me that I’ve got to a part in Dad’s history of Thornford about the Romans, though I might leave a blank page as some archaeologists have started a dig outside the village and I might be able to add to Dad’s writings. Mr. Christmas thinks I should get a computer, but I don’t really want to type out Dad’s handwriting all over again. Mr. Christmas suggested a scanner. I know Mrs. Drewe has one and maybe I will borrow it. But I’ll worry about that later. You probably don’t know what a scanner is, do you, Mum? Anyway, must dash. Mr. C. will be back from Morning Prayer and wanting his breakfast. The cats are both well. Mr. C. muttered something about getting a dog the other day, but I don’t think
Powell and Gloria would take to a dog. Love to Aunt Gwen. Glorious day! Hope you have a good day
.

Much love
,

Madrun

P.S. I remembered to ask Dr. Hennis about your new arthritis pills, but he said that as you weren’t his patient it was none of his business. He was quite rude about it!