Eleven Pipers Piping (32 page)

“Ah, I take it you’ve talked with Mrs. Prowse.”

“We have indeed. Her pastries are legendary. And we’ve taken away the note she received for forensic examination. I’d ask you to come to the station to give us your dabs, sir, but”—Blessing shot him a mirthless smile—“they’re on the national database, of course.”

“Of course.” Tom had had his fingerprints taken shortly after Lisbeth’s death.

“For elimination purposes, of course.”

“I’m sure.”

“Not that a priest mightn’t poison a parishioner.”

“Name one outside of fiction,” Tom said mildly as a passing
shopper, overhearing, glanced from his exposed clerical collar to his face with creeping horror.

“I’m sure if I look, I’ll find one. Anyway, the inspector and I were looking to speak to you, too.”

“I’ll be back in Thornford later this afternoon.”

“What about a quick word now? I’d suggest The Nosh Pit just up the street a bit. I think DI Bliss will be agreeable … once he finds what he’s looking for.”

“And what is he looking for?”

“Oh … some balm or other.”

“Has he ever thought to try homeopathy for … what ails him?”

“I don’t think that would find favour at the moment, do you, Vicar?”

The Nosh Pit was a Totnes institution, a paean to the town’s countercultural reputation, with bead curtains, tables shaped like mushrooms, and artfully graffiti’d walls. Situated where the High Street curved past Castle Street, its front window afforded an advantageous view of the narrow, steep thoroughfare bordered by arcaded shops. By midafternoon, the winter skies were already darkening and the gold of the shop lights began to eclipse the pastels of the shop façades. Tom pressed his hands against the thick china of the cup and felt the heat seep through his skin as he watched Blessing scribble in a notebook.

“You must understand,” Tom continued, lifting the cup to his mouth, “that everyone had had rather a lot to drink that evening.”

“Even you, Mr. Christmas?” Bliss barked, shifting in his seat as if he would never find a comfortable position. The inspector had ordered a cup of hot water.

“I tried to be sensible, but I hadn’t much to eat most of the day,
so perhaps the scotch did affect me rather more than I thought. Still, I think I was reasonably clearheaded.”

“Reasonably?”

“Well, it’s difficult to assess. Yes, I know you think us all a pack of unreliable witnesses. Or you will, once you’re done with us.”

“Your words, Mr. Christmas, not mine.”

The detectives had asked Tom to take them through the events of the evening. He had dutifully relayed his arrival with Roger Pattimore at Thorn Court, through pre-dinner drinks in the reception room, to his first glimpse of the private dining room.

“The table was originally set for twenty-odd, but because of the snowstorm only about half showed. So at table there were eleven pipers—”

“Can you give us their names?” Blessing asked.

“You mean you don’t have them?”

“Weather’s played havoc with our routines, too, sir. So, if you don’t mind …”

“A few I’d not met before,” Tom added when he’d completed the task. The evening now seemed like a disjointed series of tableaux. “And others I can’t say I know well, but—”

“And who else was in the hotel?” Blessing looked up from his pad.

“Well, Molly Kaif, but you must know that as you were just at GoodGreens …”

Blessing lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

“… and Kerra Prowse, who was serving. Jago Prowse’s daughter.”

“And that’s everyone?”

“No, there was an unexpected … guest, I suppose you could say. Judith Ingley turned up in the storm from Stafford and thought mistakenly that Thorn Court would be open for business. She’s been staying at the vicarage since. But I gather she’s already given a statement to a DC.”

Bliss grunted ambiguously. “And when did Mrs. Ingley arrive?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I found her in the reception room when I nipped out after the curry, and—” He glanced from one to the other; neither seemed surprised. “You know our Burns Supper was curry, do you?”

Blessing responded, “So far, we’ve had time to talk to your housekeeper and we’ve had time to pay a quick visit to Thorn Court’s kitchen.”

“Which I expect was scrubbed down as restaurant kitchens often are.”

“You’re an expert on restaurant kitchens?”

“I once worked on a cruise ship.”

“As a priest?” Incredulity pushed Blessing’s acne-pocked forehead into accordion folds.

“No, as a magician.”

Blessing opened his mouth to respond, but Bliss cut him off with a sharp look. “There was curry left over and frozen, which we’re having taken away for examination.”

“The leftover haggis, neeps, and tatties being binned, I expect,” Tom said, reasoning that such unloved comestibles had little chance of being reheated and eaten. “There was cranachan, too. Cream, oatmeal, raspberries,” he explained.

“Binned as well.” Bliss jerked in his chair.

“Does it matter?” Tom glanced to the windowpane, spotting now with driblets of rain. “Surely that taxine was administered to one particular plate or glass or cup and somehow got put in front of Will.”

“Or a certain tart,” Blessing murmured as he scribbled in his pad.

“You can’t believe this is Mrs. Prowse’s doing? You heard the pathologist this morning … or you must have read the report by now. The
quantity
of taxine Will ingested staggers the imagination.”

Blessing shrugged.

“And besides,” Tom continued with growing irritation, “how
would a particular pastry, doctored with poison or not, be directed to Will
specifically
? Surely,” he insisted, “one of the other dishes must have contained the poison.”

“All the food was served individually, yes?” Blessing looked up.

“Yes … well, no, not quite everything. The extra tartlets were put on a platter and laid on the table, and then there was a cheese course, but …” He considered. “The cheese and biscuits arrived after Will vanished, so …”

“Did Will take one of the extra tartlets from the platter?”

“No, but …”

Bliss regarded him through narrow slits. “But?”

“Well,” Tom hesitated, remembering, “Will did have an extra one, but it was Nick’s. Nick took it off his own plate and handed it to his brother-in-law, claiming to be too full.”

He watched the two detectives exchange glances. Then Blessing resumed his scribbling as Bliss said, “At any rate,
most
of the food was served individually.”

“Yes. Typical restaurant style. At Thorn Court, you probably noted there’s a serving pantry between the kitchen and the private dining room. I presume Molly plated, say, four or six dishes, set them on a tray, then took them to the serving pantry. Kerra would then pick up the tray, go into the dining room, and serve the food while Molly plated the next batch in the kitchen.”

Blessing lifted his pencil and peered into the middle distance. But it was Bliss who spoke: “Did the waitress serve the food in a particular order?”

Tom let his mind’s eye rove over Saturday’s menu. “If I remember correctly, Kerra served from the top down. I mean,” he added, observing the detectives’ puzzlement, “she served the end of the room farthest from the pantry first, then worked her way down one side, which means …” He found himself reluctant to acknowledge it: “Which means Will was likely served first. He was at the head of the table.”

The two detectives glanced at each other. Bliss said, “Then when she arrived at Mr. Moir’s seat, she would have taken the plate closest to her. The tray was … what shape?”

“Rectangular.”

“Even better.”

“I see.” Blessing dropped his pad and pencil on his lap. “Miss Prowse is right-handed, yes?” Tom nodded, and the detective mimed lifting a tray, balancing it along his left arm, then serving from it. “The closest plate would be the one in the right corner of the tray nearest her body where she could most easily reach it with her right hand. If she were methodical, she would serve the same way every time.”

Tom shook his head. “But it’s such an awful risk. By some whim, Kerra might easily have taken the plate above or beside and someone other than Will would have died. Isn’t there the possibility that Will was not the intended victim?”

Bliss shrugged. “Who was served second?”

“Kerra served the side of the table opposite me each time, which means … Roger Pattimore was the second man served. Good Lord, Roger wouldn’t harm a fly and no one would want to harm him.”

“Suggesting,” Bliss remarked, “that someone might wish to harm William Moir?”

Tom felt himself treading in dangerous waters. As always, he felt constrained to balance the need for justice—in this case, getting to the truth of Will’s premature death—with a need to protect his flock. “I’ve been vicar of Thornford less than a year, you understand, so I can’t say I know the depths of the souls of everyone in the village, much less those of my congregation. Roger is one of my churchwardens, so I think I’ve come to know him reasonably well. Caroline Moir is a member of St. Nicholas’s choir, so I see her at least once a week. Will I know rather less well. He didn’t attend church with any regularity. Managing a hotel is time-consuming, for one thing.”

“I’m not sure you’ve answered my question, Vicar.”

“Well, I
don’t
know,” Tom insisted. “Will had, as one of my parishioners said to me recently, a rather large personality. He had many involvements in the community, some of which, I suppose, might have involved him in some sort of disagreement. He helped organise a fund-raising fun run for the church—that went well. But he was on the parish council and he acted with Thornford’s amateur dramatic society and he coached the Under-fifteens at the Cricket Club—”

“Until that episode with that lad, the Kaifs’ son.” Bliss cut him off.

“That was very unfortunate, and Will regretted his outburst deeply.”

“It would appear the boy took his life not long after.”

“You’re suggesting direct cause and effect?”

Bliss shrugged.

“Harry Kaif was a small, sensitive boy who was being bullied at school, and through the Internet.” Tom glanced at a familiar figure emerging from the bank across the street. Caroline. “There’s a shared responsibility for this tragedy,” he added, watching her stop and fumble with a large envelope.

“But Mr. Moir’s outburst might have tipped the balance.”

Tom half watched Caroline pull some papers from the envelope, then turn and move away down the High Street. Of course, how could one possibly know what fervid imaginings troubled the boy’s mind? There had been no suicide note. “I don’t believe Victor Kaif saw it that way—at least in the end. Because I’m chaplain to the Thistle But Mostly Rose and Harry’s death had caused a rift, I tried to bring about a reconciliation between Victor and Will. The meeting was difficult and painful, but I don’t think when we were done that Victor still held Will somehow directly responsible.”

“Still?”

Tom regretted the word choice. “It’s not unreasonable that in his
grief Victor would look for someone to scapegoat, and he did, at first, with Will. But I think he came to see that no single incident led to his son’s death.”

“And how did Mr. Moir account for his—‘outburst,’ as you call it?”

“Well … he couldn’t, really.”

“Was he prone to fits of anger?”

“Again, Sergeant, I’ve only been in the village a short time, so I can’t properly say. I think Will could be forceful—if you’ve been a professional cricketer and coach, how could you not be?—but I’m not aware of similar public … explosions. I think the business with Harry Kaif had a shattering effect on him, really. He’s been somewhat subdued, depressed perhaps, in the months since, dropped some of his activities. I gather the year before he did a star turn at the village hall in
Abigail’s Party—
”

“I saw that,” Bliss interrupted. “The wife dragged me. She likes theatre. Dress rehearsal for a heart attack, that play. Will’s character had one.”

“Not poisoned, though?” Blessing looked up.

Bliss shook his head.

“Anyway,” Tom continued, draining his cup, “Will wasn’t in the play this autumn and he resigned from the parish council …”

“You’ve … suggested Victor Kaif bore no ill will against Will Moir.” Blessing read from his notes. “What of Mrs. Kaif?”

“I’m afraid I’m not party to her mind.”

“She hasn’t sought your priestly counsel?”

“No, not in any formal sense. The Kaifs only occasionally attend St. Nicholas’s, although their daughter is in Sunday school and a friend of my daughter’s.”

“But being a mother, she was, I’m sure, knocked for six by her son’s death.”

“I don’t think there’s much doubt of that, Detective Inspector.”

“Found the energy, though, to cook a three-course meal for more than twenty guests, didn’t she.”

“But it was sheer circumstance that led to Molly’s presence. The band holds its Burns Supper at a different hotel or restaurant each January. This year it was Thorn Court’s turn, but because the hotel is under renovation and the staff on hiatus, someone else was needed to cook the meal. Molly’s a caterer and apparently has a reputation for her curries.”