Twelve Drummers Drumming (18 page)

“My granddaughter took me to a restaurant once in London where all the waiters were very rude.”

“But London waiters are almost always rude,” Tom said to Tilly, setting the coffee on the table. His mind was still tingling from his encounter with Liam.

“No, these were
very
rude, deliberately so,” Tilly responded, turning her cup round to reach the handle. “They were all student actors, I think. The Guildhall drama school was just down the road.”

She gave him a quizzical frown as he moved to take the chair opposite. Then he understood: He’d forgotten something important.

“I’ll just nip back for that pastry.”

“ ‘Abuze,’ ” he said on his return, setting down two plates each conveying a croissant. “With a zed. I remember reading about it.”

“That’s right. I don’t think it lasted very long.”

“It’s an off-putting name for a restaurant.”

“It was comic, in its way. I suppose my granddaughter thought it would be a treat. But I found myself rather flustered having to defend my choice of starter. The staff mocked you at every turn.” She took a dainty nibble on the edge of her pastry. “But for all that, the meal was disappointing.”

“Not like this,” Tom added after biting into his own.

“I expect that’s why everyone puts up with Liam’s temper. The food here is so very good. And the prices are decent. I don’t know how he manages to stay in business, with the economy being so poor.”

Tom glanced at her. Beatrice—Tilly to all—was the widow of a local farmer. She had moved into the village on her husband’s death some ten years earlier. He suspected she was living on investments that had gone pear-shaped and that a meal out was a rare treat.

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” he asked gently, unsure whether she was deliberating on something or simply enjoying the nosh. “Other than the flower rota or the linen rota …?”

She smiled weakly. “Father—”

“ ‘Tom,’ if you can manage it. Or ‘Vicar.’ ”

“I’m sorry. I got so used to Father James-Douglas … and then Mr. Kinsey preferred to be called … but he wasn’t with us very long …” She trailed off. “At any rate … Vicar,” she lowered her voice, “I’m a bit betwixt and between.”

“Yes …”

“I’m sorry I brought up Liam’s name when we were walking by the millpond.”

“I thought you might be. The look on your face—”

“Well, you see, I’ve been worrying about what to do. What would be the Christian thing to do?” Tilly regarded him earnestly.
She had a sweet, plump face. “Liam’s been much on my mind this last day or so.”

“Mmm.”

“Vicar, have you read Agatha Christie’s novels? Greenway, her home, is in these parts, did you know? Just over the river.”

“I visited it with Julia Hennis last year and read some of her books when I was a teenager. Why?”

“In them, there’s sometimes a character who has seen something extremely important, but doesn’t know it’s important, but somehow the murderer knows that she knows and before she can tell anyone, he … kills her.”

“Er … yes,” Tom responded, after a quick parsing. “So you’ve seen something important.”

“I don’t know if it’s important.”

“But it’s important enough to talk to me about it possibly being important.”

Tilly chewed her croissant thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“Well, then, you’re farther ahead than those unfortunate characters in Agatha Christie’s novels. You recognise the dilemma and are reporting it to someone, which is a kind of insurance against anything happening to you … I suppose … unless …” Tom smiled slyly. “I take it as a compliment that you don’t think that
I’m
, you know …”

Tilly gasped. Put her hand up to her cheek. “The murderer? Vicar! I would never think that!” But she regarded him askance.

“I’m sorry. I think I may have added to your worry.” He put down his coffee cup. “Perhaps I should preempt you and suggest that if you think you’ve seen something that might help the police with their enquiries about Sybella’s death—which I presume is what this is about—that you do get in touch. I’m sure PCSO White could offer some advice if you’re feeling tentative. Or I’ll go with you to the Old School Room …”

“It might be nothing. And I don’t want to cause bother.”

“This is about Liam, yes?”

“I know he’s a trial. And I know he must have some redeeming qualities—this food for instance. But I know he had a bad history. But he’s also paid his debt to society, so it seems so unfair … and Mitsuko’s such a sweet young woman, such an asset to the village. I don’t believe for a minute that she and Mr. Kinsey …” Tilly glanced worriedly over at the women at the other tables. “And—”

“You’re rambling a bit, Mrs. Springett.”

“So I am. Avoidance, I daresay.”

“Well, as Jesus said, ‘Spit it out.’ ”

“Vicar! Jesus did not say that!”

“He might have. Much went unrecorded.”

“Oh, Vicar,” Tilly simpered.

“Then, as the psalmist said, ‘Take heart.’ That would be more in keeping.” He waited for Mrs. Springett to come forth, but her attention had been diverted to the Waterside’s door. Tom followed her glance.

“Oh, look!” she exclaimed. “Here’s Mitsuko back. My, how very
unhappy
she looks.”

“T
he laptop was there, and the external hard drive just behind it.” Mitsuko pointed to a Jacobean trestle table against one wall, which was covered with the detritus of an artist’s life—notebooks, coloured pencils, stacks of papers—all of it untidily framing a bare rectangle of dark oak in the middle. Only a couple of thin white cables, snaking over the table’s back edge and falling behind stacks of clear plastic boxes filled with threads, fibres, and paints, hinted of the missing items.

“Oh … oh!” she gasped, surveying the table, then spinning around to look at the rest of the room. “Oh, no! The camera, too! My little digital! Ohhh.”

“Are you sure?” Tom asked. He hadn’t been in Mitsuko’s studio before, but he marvelled at the amount of material she packed into the small back room of the Blackbird Gallery, which, in its previous life, had been a pet salon. God knows the village had enough dogs, but the owner had overestimated the need for canine shampoo-and-sets and had absconded before the bill collector arrived. Still, Tom
thought, sniffing the air discreetly, the place did smell a bit doggy, even after all these years.

“Yes,” Mitsuko moaned. “The camera gear—and the case of memory cards, too—were on that shelf next to the sewing machine.” She slumped onto a stool, her long black hair moving like a curtain across her shoulders to frame her delicate features. “I remember thinking when I was leaving for Bridgend, perhaps I should take the camera with me, but my father’s operation wasn’t really a family occasion, so I changed my mind.”

“And how is your father? I neglected to ask.”

Indeed, at such a smart pace had they trotted from the quay up Fishers Hill to The Square, and so imperative had their mission seemed—or at least had Mitsuko’s—that small talk seemed unworthy and beside the point. Earlier, after she had stepped into the café, Mitsuko had quickly surveyed the patrons, then shot into the kitchen. Conversation had dipped when she’d first materialised in the restaurant, but it ceased altogether when the voices from the kitchen began to swell. For a few moments, everyone strained to distinguish the words, but then, as if conscience commanded, they snapped back into their midmorning chatter, only burnishing it to a fine clatter—anything to obscure the discomforting blasts coming from behind the swing doors at the kitchen end of the restaurant. When Mitsuko reappeared, her expression showing only a hint of strain, they had feigned disinterest superbly, at least until she had made her way to Tom’s table and had asked if he would come back with her to the Blackbird Gallery. Then curiosity gave new life to profound silence. Tom could feel everyone’s eyes on them as they left the restaurant.

“Oh, Dad’s fine,” she replied distractedly to his question. “His colon resection went well. That’s why I was able to beg off and come home today. My mother’s very dependent on my father, and she doesn’t drive, so it was me taking her from Bridgend to the hospital in Cardiff, you see. But then I had the radio on early this morning
and heard about …” She stopped, as if the words were too awful to voice. “Anyway, I had to get back. Liam would be without help, for one thing … and then I come in here and find my equipment missing … gone …”

“And no evidence of a break-in,” Tom mused, having already examined the doorwell and, as best he could, the two high windows on either side. Nothing appeared smashed or cracked. “Odd the alarm didn’t go off.”

They both glanced at the little white box near the door, one of its several lights silently pulsing. Then Mitsuko’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, to the floor above, which contained her and Liam’s flat. She looked pensive. “The alarm was switched off when Fred was in and out to fix …” She blinked and flicked her hair back fretfully. “Fred …”

Tom frowned. “Oh, surely not.”

“You know about Fred’s … tendency?”

“I’ve been told.” He reflected on his curate’s egg, now nesting safely on his bedroom side table. “But from what I understand, Fred only takes little things—things he thinks are innocuous. That’s if he’s thinking at all when he goes about doing this sort of thing. So nicking your computer equipment doesn’t seem to fit his … modus operandi. I could imagine him taking your mouse, for instance, but there it is on your table.”

Mitsuko glanced past Tom’s pointing finger at the white plastic casing and its unmoored tail. “I suppose you’re right,” she responded doubtfully.

“Why was Fred in and out?”

“Oh, the toilet in our flat suddenly cracked on Sunday afternoon. Apparently old ones can do this without notice. Sybella … Oh, God, Sybella!” Mitsuko faltered. “I can’t wrap my head around it.” She shivered, then took a shaky breath. “She was so
good
on Sunday. So levelheaded.

“She was minding the gallery while I was at the village hall installing
the quilts,” Mitsuko explained to Tom’s quizzical glance, “when she suddenly heard this odd sort of snap above. She came in here to investigate, then noticed some water seeping down the wall.”

Mitsuko gestured to the ceiling near the stairs leading to the flat, where Tom noted a grey blotch bleeding into a stain that ran down the white-painted insulation board covering the walls of the room.

“She got into the flat and had the presence of mind to put a stick under the stopcock and turn the shutoff valves, but there was a bit of a mess. At any rate, she phoned Fred, reasoning that getting a plumber on the Sunday before Bank Holiday would be impossible, then she phoned me to say what she had done, which was perfect. Fred fiddled about with the plumbing and cleaned things up and said he would fetch a new toilet for us from Paignton and install it Tuesday. Which I gather from Liam he was able to do. I haven’t even had time to go up to the flat. The first thing my eyes went to when I came in was the space where my laptop used to be—”

“And the alarm?”

“On. I punched in the code, as usual, to stop it going off when I came in.”

Tom thought for a moment. “So Liam had switched it back on.”

“Yes, he said he did, although exactly when after Fred was finished, I’m not sure. It was likely off Monday and yesterday. Sybella had nobbled it on Sunday so Fred could go about his business.”

“What about keys?”

“I told Sybella on Sunday to give Fred the extra set to the back door, which normally …” Mitsuko reached over from her stool and rolled a white plastic artist’s taboret towards her on its casters. She pulled out one of the drawers, then another, then a third. “… which normally resides here,” she continued, “but doesn’t. Fred must still have the set.”

“So Fred has had keys since Sunday.”

“Now
you’re
suspecting him.”

“No, I’m not. Not at all. But he might have left the door ajar yesterday
when he was bringing in the new toilet, and someone saw an opportunity.”

Mitsuko sighed. “Perhaps. That seems about the only explanation.”

“Otherwise someone would need both keys
and
code to get in without causing a disturbance, right?”