Free Eleven Pipers Piping by C. C. Benison Page B

surveyed his face. “In the converted stables.”
    “Then you’ve stayed at Thorn Court before?” Will asked.
    “I grew up in Thornford.”
    “Bless, did you now?” Roger rested his spoon on his plate. “But Ingley is your married name …”
    “I’m Judith Frost that was.”
    “Oh.”
    Roger’s slightly surprised tone made Tom glance up. Both Roger’s and Jago’s heads tilted as if they were searching for some memory.
    “I’m older than you both.” She laughed lightly. “You wouldn’t remember me. And I left to take up training for nursing at St. James’s Infirmary in Leeds when I was eighteen—many years ago—and I’ve never been back. Until now.”
    “Mmm, these are splendid,” Roger interrupted, biting into the tartlet. The berries left a red stain on his lips. “These must be the baking Madrun sent along with you, Tom. You’re not eating yours, Will.”
    “You have no family in the area?” Will’s fingers hesitated over the pastry.
    “I was an only child. Both my parents died when I was young.”
    “Bless! Not at the same time, I hope.”
    “No, not at the same time.” Judith turned to Will. “You’re Australian, of course. Yes, the accent did give you away. How did you come to own a hotel deep in Devon?”
    “I married into it.” Will contemplated the tartlet. “My wife’s father and grandfather had this place,” he added, taking a large bite. “This is very good. Are there nuts in these?”
    “Your wife is …?”
    “Caroline. Stanhope before she married me.”
    “Oh, then she must be Arthur Stanhope’s … granddaughter. He was one of the bigger landowners in the village, wasn’t he?” She frowned in thought. “Then your wife’s father has to be Clive Stanhope. Where has—”
    “He snuffed it.” Nick interjected loudly, pouring himself another whisky. “About five years ago, six.”
    Tom studied Judith as she jerked her head in the speaker’s direction. She looked startled, yes—at Nick’s crudity—but he was intrigued to see another, cooler, emotion—a scrutinising intelligence—glittering behind her lenses.
    “He was my father, too,” Nick added.
    “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. So many names when I was introduced. I guess I didn’t catch yours.”
    “Different mothers, though,” Nick muttered thickly. “Excuse my fingers.” He leaned past Roger and handed his tartlet to Will. Flakes scattered to the tablecloth. “You eat this, Will. I’m bloody stuffed.”
    “I expect you knew Clive Stanhope,” Tom said to Judith. Will was frowning at Nick’s offering. He looked to the tartlet on his own plate and wondered if he had a cranny left for anything more.
    “Everyone knew everyone then,” Judith replied. “But—”
    Will pushed his chair back, stopping her. He rose unsteadily and gripped the edge of the table. The flickering candlelight cast his features into sharp relief and shadow. “Gentlemen …” His voice slurred. “… lady …” He nodded to Judith. “I think a short break is in order here before we get on to tonight’s entertainments. I thinkyou all know what you probably need to do, so,” he continued over the laughter, “shall we reconvene in about fifteen minutes?”
    Will popped the tartlet into his mouth. Tom popped his into his. He had done what needed to be done a little earlier.

    “Have you been in Thornford long?”
    Tom let the front window drapery fall back into place. He had pulled the heavy fabric aside to look at the deepening cradle of snow visible in the porch light and worried if, in the morning, his route to the second church in his benefice, St. Paul’s, in Pennycross St. Paul, a little over two miles north of Thornford, would be cut off. In fair weather, the drive took about seven minutes. But what about foul? He could walk, he supposed. That would take about forty-five minutes. But how long would the journey be in deep snow?
    “Less than a year.” He turned to Judith. “I was in Bristol for several years