Twelve Drummers Drumming (43 page)

“I could help Mrs. Prowse,” Julia ventured, uncertainty in her voice.

“No, stay,” Tom said, knowing he couldn’t hide the truth from everyone for long, assistant organist and choir director Julia Hennis included. “We’ll have a drink. Please, do sit down—all of you,” he added, gently closing the connecting door to the dining room and moving to the drinks table. “What will everyone have?”

“Whisky, please,” Jamie Allan said, while the women begged off liquid refreshment. “We made rather a mad dash down here this morning. Jane almost wanted to come last night, after Macgreevy phoned, but with two children—”

“He took his time,” Tom remarked, handing a glass of amber liquid to his guest. “He was here in the village on Friday.”

“My guess is he was wrestling with his conscience,” Jane replied, resuming her seat by the games table while her husband pushed his back against a nest of pillows at the end of the sofa. “His speech was a little slurred. I could hear pub noises in the background.”

“At any rate, here we are,” her husband added, looking almost with dismay at his whisky, which glinted in the light through the windows. “We’re most anxious to find John. Does he go somewhere particular after Sunday service …?”

Tom flicked a glance at Jane, who winced slightly and said to her husband, “I have a feeling, Jamie, that the vicar has some bad news for us.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tom began. “You have come all this way, I know, but I think you’ve missed him almost by a hair. Sebastian … your brother, that is, John, seems”—he could hardly believe it himself—“to have vanished.”

Presiding over the dining room table, Tom thought his guests ably hid their disappointment and worry for the sake of the child in their midst. In the sitting room earlier, he had given the pair an abridged version of the eventful week in the village, careful to represent Sebastian as little more than a peripheral figure in the unfolding drama, compelled to abandon Thornford from fear of press attention. “He believes exposure is a threat to his life and to that of someone else,” he told them. They received this news with a kind of grave acquiescence.

“He’s been absolutely maddening,” Jamie said at one point, pushing a lick of hair, a shade lighter than Sebastian’s, back from his brow. “He refused to defend himself at his trial, or even speak. It was a feat of utter stoicism and folly, of course. In jail, he refused all visits, and when released, he disappeared. And now he’s done it again.”

“All along we’ve believed him to be protecting someone,” Jane explained, glancing at her husband. She had big eyes in an oval face and looked the soul of innocence. “We’re not entirely sure who. I think it’s a woman—or one of the women that seemed to hang around William in those days.”

“I’m afraid my elder brother was involved in a number of dodgy enterprises, Vicar. I’m sure any of a handful of people might have been his killer, but John was caught virtually red-handed, he put up no fight, and the authorities were quite happy to bring events swiftly
to conclusion—despite my father’s heroic efforts at throwing his weight about.”

“And your father, I understand, is not well,” Tom interjected.

“A stroke. I expect Mr. Macgreevy told you. It happened a few weeks ago. We don’t know what the outcome will be, but Father is certainly weakened. That’s why I was so pleased to get this news of John. Part of it is for selfish reasons. With William gone, I’ve been drawn more and more into managing the family business, but my passion is organic farming. With Father ill, I’m becoming even more involved. I was hoping John would help me—possibly take over, if he felt up to it.”

“Of course, the real hardheaded business person in the Allan family is Caroline,” Jane said.

“My sister,” Jamie explained, “but Father’s views on women in business are …”

“Out of the Ark?” Julia supplied.

“Very.” Jamie smiled briefly, then grew serious again. “But what I really want is to effect some sort of reconciliation. We have worked on Father—Jane and I—for years to create, at the very least, doubt in his mind. He was black with grief and rage when William died, his heir, the apple of, and so forth—and then the shame of fratricide in the family. My mother was completely torn apart—her firstborn killed, and John, her favourite—”

“Oh, Jamie, I don’t think your mother plays favourites.” Jane reached behind her head to adjust her hair.

“But he was an angelic little boy—very sweet-natured. You couldn’t help loving him, and my mother was besotted by him. You weren’t there, Jane. Of course, his good nature just seemed to goad William, for some reason. They never got on.” He turned to Tom and Julia. “I expect John’s become hardened from his experiences. How is he? Is he well?”

Tom glanced at Julia and replied for the two of them. “I would describe him as very very self-contained. But not hard, I don’t think.
And very well. He seems to live outdoors. He’s a gardener. And as a verger, he’s been most helpful.”

“He was the only one of us who had a real interest in the church. Sorry, Vicar.”

“No need to apologise.”

“It’s amazing no one rumbled him before Andrew did,” Jane said.

“I think most people accepted him for what he was,” Tom responded, though Sybella’s dangerous machinations flitted through his thoughts.

He turned to Julia, who nodded confirmation and said, “People were naturally curious when Giles—a previous incumbent as vicar—brought Sebastian—John—on, but I think he satisfied them with a few cursory details. Giles ran through rather a few vergers in his time, so people became less invested in knowing about them.”

“And why this village, I wonder?” Jamie sipped his drink thoughtfully.

“Do you know Phillip Northmore—Colonel Northmore?”

Both visitors’ brows puckered. “I think he was at our wedding, Jamie. I seem to recall your mother putting him on the guest list.”

“Yes, of course. Elderly gentleman. A friend of my grandfather’s, I think, but my grandfather died when I was very young so—”

“He took an interest in your brother and more or less arranged a life for him here.”

“How unusual.” Jamie frowned. “And kind, I suppose.”

“I think Colonel Northmore feels he owes a debt to your grandfather, but I’m not sure what exactly—something from the war. I understand your grandfather was greatly admired by his troops.”

“We’d love to speak with him, wouldn’t we, Jamie?”

“Unfortunately,” Tom said, “the colonel took a nasty fall last week and is in hospital. He’s not very well, I don’t think.”

Disappointment settled over the couple’s faces. “So close,” Jane murmured.

“This is the one … case, I suppose you could say, that has eluded
my wife’s deductive powers.” Jamie smiled at her and reached for her hand.

“William was killed the day after our wedding,” Jane explained, reaching to take his. “But we were already en route to South America for our honeymoon and didn’t know what had happened for several days. We turned around and came right home—”

“But the trail was cold—is that how you say it, darling?”

“I think you can tell my husband doesn’t watch a lot of television or read a lot of detective fiction.”

Over a lunch of roast beef with wild mushroom sauce and gooseberries with mascarpone cream for pudding, Jane turned her attention to Miranda, amusing her with her tale of ending up in England, broke after a backpacking tour of Europe, and taking a job as a housemaid at Buckingham Palace. She met her husband at Windsor when, before her astonished gaze, he fell over a sandwich board outside a pub—a story Tom could match with his of Lisbeth’s saving him from drowning in the Cam. Madrun’s ears, Tom noted as she buzzed between kitchen and dining room, were on stalks.

Tom had proposed coffee in the sitting room and after some little persuading—
Oh, we mustn’t keep you; we do have to get back to London; we’ve left the kids with Jamie’s mother; they don’t know the reason for the sudden trip
—they agreed.

“Half-term’s nearly over,” Jane remarked to Miranda, as they rose from the table.
“Seras-tu contente de retourner à l’école?
”

“Oui.”

“I think Miranda’s enjoying school, aren’t you?” Tom trailed after his guests. “She had to switch schools from Bristol just before the end of spring term. That’s always difficult, but I think she’s adjusted. You’ve made some good mates, haven’t you? She has a good friend in Emily Swan, whose father runs the local pub,” he answered for her.

“You speak very good French.” Jane addressed Miranda as they reentered the sitting room. “I’ve enrolled my Olivia in extra French lessons, but she is being stubborn about learning. Of course, her father
speaks no French, and the English aren’t much for learning foreign languages.”

“I took German at Shrewsbury,” Jamie said. “I have no idea why. Best I can do is order sausages in German.
‘Ich möchte einige Würste, bitte.’
”

“We had a wonderful French au pair in Bristol,” Tom explained. “She stayed on after my wife died, which was very kind. She and Miranda chattered away
en français
the whole time.”

“I miss Ghislaine,” Miranda said, and turned her mouth down.

“Oh, look, Miranda, we didn’t finish our Snakes and Ladders game. Shall we?” Miranda nodded vigorously and Jane settled into the chair. “I think it was your turn.”

Miranda rolled a die as the adults gathered around. “Six!”

“Up the ladder with you then.”

“
And
I get another turn.”

“Miranda’s well ahead,” Jane remarked as Miranda rolled the die again. “As you can see.” Miranda’s token was near the top of the board. A lucky roll of the die and she would be on the ladder to the winning square. “There must be some sort of morality lesson behind this game.”

“Ladders virtue, snakes vice, you mean,” Tom said, watching Miranda shift her token a couple of squares over, one shy of the vital ladder.

“There’s more snakes than ladders, though,” Julia noted, counting under her breath.

“That’s a cheerless summary of life,” Jamie said.

“It’s a wonderful old board.” Jane took the die and rolled it. “I think my grandmother had the exact same one when we were kids.
Tch!
One! I’m not doing very well. I don’t remember these tokens, though,” she added, moving hers over one square.

“They’ve gone missing,” Madrun said, entering the room laden with a tray of coffee things. “Miranda and I improvised when we played. Mine was the thimble.”

“Yours looks like a sort of wizard’s cap, Miranda,” Jane remarked. “Like Harry Potter.”

“Gnome’s hat, I said.” Madrun placed the tray on a large slipcovered ottoman near the couch. “Miranda says it’s a ‘clue’ for something.”

“For heaven’s sake, you people.” Julia reached over and lifted the yellow token. “Don’t worry, Miranda, I’ll put it back on the exact square.” She turned the token over and held it up for everyone’s inspection.

“Oh,” Jamie exclaimed, “of course. It’s a golf tee. A rather old-fashioned one at that.”

“It’s vintage, a wooden thing from the thirties, I think,” Julia said, handing the token back. “My husband usually carries one around for luck. He’s golf mad. Collects all sorts of golf memorabilia. You’re a favoured girl. He’s never given me anything like this.” Then she started, stared at her niece. “Whatever’s the matter?”

They all turned to look at Miranda, who had transformed from a cheerful intent little girl to a whey-faced waif. An unreadable emotion, something like fright or guilt, registered in wary eyes.

“Uncle Alastair didn’t give it to me,” she said in a small voice, clutching the token.

“Oh, darling.” Julia flicked Tom a puzzled glance, bending down to the chair to cuddle Miranda. “I’m sure Uncle Alastair doesn’t mind if you have it, however you came to have it. He has others.”

And now Miranda, pallor turned crimson, released a heart rending sob that sent Powell and Gloria bolting. She struggled from Julia’s arms and sprang up from the chair, set to run, but the forest of adult legs around the games table confounded her. Tom snatched her up in his arms, startled at the weight of his growing girl, and held her tight as she sobbed into his neck. “Miranda, it’s all right,” he crooned, bouncing her a little as though she were still a baby, looking at the other concerned faces with consternation. “Come, let’s go to my study for a minute and leave these good people to their coffee.”

He shouldered his office door open and placed Miranda gently on the old settee. Sunlight poured through the French windows and
spread gold over the carpet, the oak desk, and the bookshelves, and glistened on Miranda’s dark hair, which Tom smoothed back from her face, as he had so many times after Lisbeth died.

“Daddy,” she sobbed, as he settled next to her, “I didn’t steal Uncle Alastair’s … thing.”

“Tee. Sweetheart, no one is accusing you—”

“I found it.”

“That’s all right. You can give it back to Uncle Alastair the next time we see him—”

“You don’t
understand
!”

“Darling, what don’t I understand?” Tom reached over to his desk and pulled several tissues from a box.

“I found it at the fayre.”

“Yes …?” He dabbed at her cheeks.