middens of paper he’d inherited from his previous incumbents—but Sebastian was such a thoroughly conscientious verger, meticulous in his care of St. Nicholas’s and its furnishings and relics, diligent in his liturgical duties, that there seemed to be no reason to do so, other than idle curiosity. Noting Sebastian absent his gardening kit—he was wearing jeans, true, but the white shirt was dress, not T—Tom asked:
“You haven’t been up to see the colonel, by any chance, have you?”
“I’ve just returned.”
“And how is he?”
Sebastian had heavy lips, a contrast to the subtle shadows and planes of the rest of his face, but they thinned to a line before he replied, “Not well.”
“I’m paying a visit this afternoon.”
Eric set down Sebastian’s drink. “And I’m sending Daniel up with some grapes and a decent apology.”
“He didn’t deliberately push the colonel over—” Tom began.
“Nevertheless …!”
“I think Phillip might appreciate a visit when he gets home,” Sebastian said gravely, taking a sip of his ale while Eric, grunting noncommittally, moved down the bar to serve another customer.
Sebastian turned to study the room for an empty table.
“One thing,” Tom said. “We have a funeral on Friday.”
“Sybella?”
Tom nodded, studied Sebastian’s eyes a moment, searching for some hint of foreknowledge. “There seems to be every indication that Sybella’s death was neither accident nor suicide.”
Sebastian held his gaze for the time it took to absorb the implications of Tom’s phrasing, then dropped his eyes. “I see,” he said, then gave an odd little nod, as if bowing to the inevitability of fate, and headed to a table near the fireplace that a couple appeared to be vacating.
Was he wrong, Tom wondered, or had he seen a flicker of fear in Sebastian’s eyes?
Eric broke into his thoughts. “Are you any wiser to the ways of the world than you were a few minutes ago?”
“Meaning?”
“Him. Sebastian.” Eric motioned with his head.
Tom laughed and drained the last of his glass. He moved to leave, but he was arrested by the ruminative expression on Eric’s face. He followed the publican’s gaze into the saloon, past the departing couple, to the table where Sebastian was sitting, folding his magazine open. Then Eric snapped his fingers in the universal gesture of enlightenment. He smiled at Tom, satisfaction wreathing his plump cheeks. He said:
“I’ve just remembered what I’d forgot I’d remembered!”
CHAPTER NINE
“Y ou don’t happen to know how the colonel is?” Tom hailed Alastair, crossing paths with him as he exited the pay-and-display at Torbay Hospital.
“I’m told his pain’s being managed.” His brother-in-law replied with the air of a man who’d done a day’s work and was off to the links. “He was X-rayed in emergency yesterday. The head of his right femur is broken, which should put him in line for a hip replacement, but—”
“Risky at his age—an operation like that.”
“I was just about to say, Tom.” Alastair raised an eyebrow. “There’s going to be some wait-and-see. He does have some underlying health problems—high blood pressure, for instance. The orthopaedic consultant will monitor him for the next few days.”
“And if it’s thought he can’t withstand surgery?”
“His bones won’t knit on their own. The only other option would be for Phillip to go into some sort of care. He’d have to spend the rest of his life on a morphine drip.” He paused. “For a man his age, though, Phillip is in reasonably decent shape.”
“Well, you’d know. You are his GP,” Tom responded, realising he had unconsciously echoed Julia’s very words, which he’d overheard the day before, at the May Fayre, shortly after the Twelve Drummers Drumming had completed its performance and before word seeped out into the holiday crowd that a tragedy greater than an elderly gentleman’s mishap had been visited on the
“You haven’t been up to see the colonel, by any chance, have you?”
“I’ve just returned.”
“And how is he?”
Sebastian had heavy lips, a contrast to the subtle shadows and planes of the rest of his face, but they thinned to a line before he replied, “Not well.”
“I’m paying a visit this afternoon.”
Eric set down Sebastian’s drink. “And I’m sending Daniel up with some grapes and a decent apology.”
“He didn’t deliberately push the colonel over—” Tom began.
“Nevertheless …!”
“I think Phillip might appreciate a visit when he gets home,” Sebastian said gravely, taking a sip of his ale while Eric, grunting noncommittally, moved down the bar to serve another customer.
Sebastian turned to study the room for an empty table.
“One thing,” Tom said. “We have a funeral on Friday.”
“Sybella?”
Tom nodded, studied Sebastian’s eyes a moment, searching for some hint of foreknowledge. “There seems to be every indication that Sybella’s death was neither accident nor suicide.”
Sebastian held his gaze for the time it took to absorb the implications of Tom’s phrasing, then dropped his eyes. “I see,” he said, then gave an odd little nod, as if bowing to the inevitability of fate, and headed to a table near the fireplace that a couple appeared to be vacating.
Was he wrong, Tom wondered, or had he seen a flicker of fear in Sebastian’s eyes?
Eric broke into his thoughts. “Are you any wiser to the ways of the world than you were a few minutes ago?”
“Meaning?”
“Him. Sebastian.” Eric motioned with his head.
Tom laughed and drained the last of his glass. He moved to leave, but he was arrested by the ruminative expression on Eric’s face. He followed the publican’s gaze into the saloon, past the departing couple, to the table where Sebastian was sitting, folding his magazine open. Then Eric snapped his fingers in the universal gesture of enlightenment. He smiled at Tom, satisfaction wreathing his plump cheeks. He said:
“I’ve just remembered what I’d forgot I’d remembered!”
CHAPTER NINE
“Y ou don’t happen to know how the colonel is?” Tom hailed Alastair, crossing paths with him as he exited the pay-and-display at Torbay Hospital.
“I’m told his pain’s being managed.” His brother-in-law replied with the air of a man who’d done a day’s work and was off to the links. “He was X-rayed in emergency yesterday. The head of his right femur is broken, which should put him in line for a hip replacement, but—”
“Risky at his age—an operation like that.”
“I was just about to say, Tom.” Alastair raised an eyebrow. “There’s going to be some wait-and-see. He does have some underlying health problems—high blood pressure, for instance. The orthopaedic consultant will monitor him for the next few days.”
“And if it’s thought he can’t withstand surgery?”
“His bones won’t knit on their own. The only other option would be for Phillip to go into some sort of care. He’d have to spend the rest of his life on a morphine drip.” He paused. “For a man his age, though, Phillip is in reasonably decent shape.”
“Well, you’d know. You are his GP,” Tom responded, realising he had unconsciously echoed Julia’s very words, which he’d overheard the day before, at the May Fayre, shortly after the Twelve Drummers Drumming had completed its performance and before word seeped out into the holiday crowd that a tragedy greater than an elderly gentleman’s mishap had been visited on the
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