Twelve Drummers Drumming (17 page)

“Liam!” Tilly Springett blurted, speaking for the first time. Her hands flew to her mouth. She looked at Tom guiltily.

The thought clouds vanished one by one. Breath passed sharply up five female noses.

“Do you think?” Ven squeaked.

“He was in prison at Bristol.” Tilly was studying Tom nervously. “Did you know he’d been to prison, Vicar?”

“It crossed my mind he might have been,” Tom allowed, the provenance of the tattoos on Liam’s fingers on his mind. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“I remember!” Florence interrupted, oblivious. “It was for GBH. He was one of those door-supervisor people at a club in Cheltenham. He wouldn’t let some lad in …”

“That’s right,” Venice picked up the thread. “Hit him over the head.”

“Really?” Tom interjected.

“Can’t remember with what,” Marg added with new excitement, as if Tom’s interest had given them leave to gossip unrestrainedly. “But it caused permanent brain damage. He was sent down for four years or something.”

“Oh, dear, I’d forgotten that bit,” Venice said.

“I’ve always wondered why Mitsuko married him?” Enid murmured.

“I know why.” Violet started to giggle. “He’s ever so muscle-y. You know what I mean? Sort of … 
forceful
.” She hugged her purple cardigan around her middle.

“Violet!” several exclaimed.

“Makes my Mark seem a milquetoast,” Violet added, a bright silly expression enlivening her chubby cheeks.

Marg cleared her throat loudly and jerked her head warningly in Tom’s direction.

“Sorry, Vicar.” Violet blushed. “My Mark’s lovely.”

“Really!” Florence added before Tom could remind them that wearing a dog collar didn’t make him a prude. “Anyway, it’s not funny. He has the most wretched temper—Liam I mean. He looks
very
capable—”

“And he’s awfully jealous of Mitsuko, that’s for certain,” Venice added.

“I remember him once glaring at Mr. Kinsey,” Marg said. “If looks could kill!”

“That’s right,” Enid added. “Mitsuko never much came to church when Mr. James-Douglas was vicar.”

“Enid!”

“Well, it’s true, Flo.” Enid glanced at Tom speculatively.

“And what would this have to do with Sybella Parry anyway?” Florence harrumphed.

That silenced them for the moment. Tom looked over at Tilly, who had absented herself from the chatter and was wearing a worried frown.

Violet broke the silence. “Mark and I were able to get someone
to sit with Ruby so we could have a meal at the Waterside Sunday evening,” she began, lowering her voice as they approached the quay. “There was an
awful
row in the kitchen.”

“What about?”

“Oh, Liam’s often banging on about something,” Florence butted in dismissively. “You can hear him through the doors to the kitchen cursing the chip pan.”

“Liam doesn’t do chips, Flo,” Venice corrected her sister-in-law. “Remember, Marg, your Laura, when she was visiting that time, asking for chips with her sea bass rather than herbed potatoes?”

“Yes, he did get a bit shirty, now you mention it.” Marg frowned, as if at the memory. “Anyway, I really think in the end, it’s more of a bark-bite thing with Liam. The bark being worse and all. Hasn’t he taken one of those anger-management thingies?”

“No, Marg, this was different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. It was …” Violet paused, then added darkly, “the tone.”

The bunch of them had stopped, as if not daring to step farther if they were going to continue this conversation. They were crushed together like commuters at Euston Station platform Friday after work. Tom could see various people on the quay regarding them with mild curiosity, then abruptly turn their attention towards some disturbance, possibly, on the other side of the Waterside.

“How do you mean—
tone
?” Marg asked.

Violet appeared to think about it. “Well, it wasn’t the usual back-and-forth, no-we’re-
not
-having-Sunday-lunch-with-your-mum, oh-yes-we-
are
-having-Sunday-lunch-with-my-mum sort of thing. It was mostly Liam carrying on. Quite sort of … distressed he sounded.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No, not really. I thought perhaps I heard something about money, but maybe I think that because Mark and I always argue about money. Anyway, that’s what I mean by ‘tone.’ It was embarrassing.
rassing. We tried to ignore it. We’d only sat down. There was no one else in the place but for some couple I didn’t recognise. We just gave each other these gruesome looks and tried to make light of it.” Violet grimaced to indicate the expression they wore. “And then Sybella popped out of the kitchen.”

“Oh!” Venice exclaimed. “Liam was shouting at
Sybella
. I thought it would be—”

“No, Mitsuko had been in the kitchen, too. At about the same time Sybella appeared in the dining room, I happened to glance out the window—we were seated sort of facing west—and I could see Mitsuko walking back up Fishers Hill with that determined little walk of hers.”

“Then I wonder which one he was shouting at?” Enid asked.

Violet shrugged. “Both of them?”

“How did Sybella appear?” Tom asked despite himself. Over the women’s heads he could see Bliss and Blessing walking from the restaurant towards a red car parked under the trees near the quay.

“Like the cat that got the cream. She sort of rolled her eyes at us, but she looked awfully pleased with herself.”

“She does—did—like to provoke,” Florence commented to a murmur of assent. “I mean, her ears! They looked like pincushions! Oh, look! There’s those two detectives! Did you know they’re commandeered the Old School Room? I wonder if they’ve been interrogating—”

“Really, Flo!” her sister-in-law interrupted. “ ‘Interrogate’ is a little strong, don’t you think?”

“Shall we go in?” Tom sighed, eyeing the sandwich board glinting in the sun. “We look like we’re waiting for a bus. If we stand here much longer, it’ll be time for lunch.”

“I’m afraid it’s self-serve this morning, ladies … Vicar,” Liam said gruffly, gesturing to coffee urns on a side table that he was busy wiping
with a cloth. “I’m a little understaffed at the minute and I’ve had other … interruptions this morning.”

He turned to glance at them. No one had moved. It seemed as if the women had stepped into the restaurant as one and chosen to remain in a huddle. They stared at Liam. Liam stared at them. Then he scowled. His brow furrowed under a kerchief wrapped around his skull.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” Tom lied. Bringing up the rear he had bumped into Venice’s substantial backside, then ricocheted off her slimmer sister-in-law, setting the women jostling and swaying like bowling pins trying to right themselves.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with self-service.” Liam continued, his voice edged with sarcasm, mistaking the source of his patrons’ reaction, “It’s what you’d bloody get most places.”

A gasp arose.

Liam looked taken aback. “Well, pardon me for—”

“Really, Mr. Drewe!” Florence huffed. “A young woman has died!”

Where have I heard that admonishment before?
Tom wondered as Liam, first quizzical then comprehending, retorted:

“You don’t think I know that?” His expression struggled for contrition as he lifted used coffee cups from a nearby table. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve given offence. I’ve been run off my feet these last days.” He gave his customers an assessing gaze as they unknotted themselves and plunked proprietary handbags on various of the small tables. “If any of you ladies fancy a job …?”

“Oh …!” Venice began.

“Don’t you dare,” Florence hissed. “You have a perfectly good pension.”

“Never mind.”

“Well, if you do, Miss Daintrey …” Liam’s face fell as he studied Venice edging her girth between the tables. “Anyway, as I say, coffee’s here. There’s a French roast and decaffeinated. And there’re
pastries baked fresh this morning. I have pear croissants; most of the chocolate croissants have gone, I’m afraid. There’re some rosemary muffins and … a few other things—they’re in back.”

“Oh, goodie,” Venice clapped her hands.

“
Really
, Ven!” Florence snapped as Liam cast his cloth over his shoulder and retreated through the push doors into the kitchen.

Tilly held back as the others stirred towards the serving table, cooing over the artful baking.

“Mrs. Springett?” Tom said to the old lady who appeared glued to the flooring. “Nothing for you?”

Tilly looked up at him. She seemed to have made a decision. “Will you sit with me, Father?”

“Of course.”

“Alone?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. Tilly blushed and slapped at his hand. “Now don’t be silly, Father. I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

Tom smiled. “Shall I get us two coffees? You sit and I’ll bring them.”

“And a chocolate croissant, please, if there’s one left. Mr. Drewe’s baking is awfully good.”

Tom was the last in the queue. As he was pouring the coffee, Liam reemerged from the kitchen, a tray of pastries in hand. As he placed it on the table, Tom noted again the tattooed letters, one on each knuckle.

A C A B.

Always Carry A Bible.

All Coppers Are Bastards.

All
something
Are Bastards.

His eyes travelled from fingers to face. Liam witnessed the inspection and glowered at him.

“They came to see me yesterday,” Tom remarked.

“Who?”

“The detectives who left here earlier. Bliss and Blessing.”

“Wankers,” Liam muttered.

“Do they have any idea who—?”

“Yeah, me, of course.”

“You mean,” Tom began, taken aback, “they’re about to—?”

But Liam cut him off again. “They will. Just because in the past I … never mind! Look, you’re spilling.”

“Oops.” Tom looked down to see a pool of steaming liquid spread across the table surface. “Sorry.”

Liam furiously snatched paper napkins from a nearby pile and pushed Tom aside.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said again, snatching the cup to his lips to catch the overflow. How little it took to set the man off. Seeking a different conversational gambit, he asked, “How is Mitsuko taking it?”

“Taking what?”

“The news about Sybella.”

“How would I know? She’s in Wales. Her father’s having an operation. I thought it better not to bother her.”

“I see. And she hasn’t contacted you about it?”

“About what?” Liam mopped the dark liquid with impatient strokes.

“Sybella, for heaven’s sake!” Tom replied with rising asperity. “I’m sure it’s been on the news!”

“Is any of this your business?” Liam snarled.

“Well,” Tom began, striving for an even tone, “let’s see, your wife was a very good friend to Sybella and since your wife is one of my parishioners, I’m concerned for her well-being. I’m concerned about the well-being of this whole village in this sad time. I’m concerned for yours, too, come to that.”

“Yeah, right.” Liam slapped the wet napkins into a nearby bin. “That’s the sort of bollocks Kinsey talked.”

There being no suitable response to this oblique retort, Tom ignored him and reached for some dry napkins to wipe the side of his cup. He half expected Liam to stomp back to the kitchen—the bit about his predecessor seemed like an exit line—but he remained, fussily and unnecessarily tidying the array of cutlery and china on the table. Tom flicked him a glance, which Liam met, only this time hostility seemed to do battle with uncertainty in his razor-blue eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he muttered as Tom crumpled the damp napkin in his hand and took a second cup to fill. “I do try, you know.”

“Try …?”

“To … you know, keep it together. But …”

Tom waited. For a moment, the undifferentiated clucking voices in the background seemed to switch off and he found himself silently pulled by the strange spectacle of Liam beseeching him with his eyes, as if he were desperate to convey some message. Then, just as quickly, the sensation was gone. Sound rushed back like a wave. Liam’s face shuttered. He turned abruptly and stepped towards the back of the room, towards the doors that led to the kitchen. Startled and a little disturbed, Tom could only wonder what—if anything—he had been vouchsafed.