Read Online Twelve Drummers Drumming by C. C. Benison - Free Book Online
Authors: C. C. Benison
Tags: Mystery
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surfers on the hood. After the car met a streetlamp, the surfers met the pavement, and Sybella met her airbag, the court—in a foul mood, keen to make an example of the spoiled children of spoiled parents—ordered a £3,000 fine, a year’s driving disqualification, and rehab at The Priory in lieu of jail. Thornford’s curtain twitchers still pegged Sybella for a druggie, but Tom, who had seen his share of wasters on the streets of Bristol—and Kennington and Southwark before that—was pressed to find any recognisable sign.
“Do you think I could give the rest of my breakfast to Powell and Gloria?” Miranda whispered, regarding him hopefully.
Tom glanced at Madrun, who had bent over the dishwasher, and whispered back, “Just eat a little more.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
T om was glad when Miranda suggested they reprise “Where in the World Is the Reverend Peter Kinsey?” At the breakfast table, he tried to keep Madrun from further speculating about Sybella’s death, going so far as to feign interest in the other announcements in the Court Circular, but to little avail. Answering any more questions about Sybella reminded him only too vividly of telling Miranda—the evening of the sombre, rain-filled autumn afternoon when he’d found Lisbeth lifeless on St. Dunstan’s cold stone floor—that her mother had died.
So stunned by horror in the hour after Lisbeth’s death, he had let his daughter slip from his mind until a police constable’s question jolted him to the very circumstances of his wife’s being in the church at all: It had been a Wednesday, Ghislaine’s day off. By custom, Lisbeth left her surgery early and walked Miranda back from school, but this Wednesday she had phoned him and said she would first nip into Toad Hall Toys, buy the Barbie doll Miranda was so craving for her birthday, then leave it with him at St. Dunstan’s for safekeeping.“She would guess what’s in the bag, darling” were among her last words to him.
Frantically, blinded by grief, he had phoned the school, but no Miranda was to be seen. He phoned home, then a neighbour’s, then Ghislaine’s mobile, all to recorded messages. Finally, he had peeled himself away from the tumult of police and ambulance and shocked church staff and raced through Miranda’s path from school. He found her at last, mercifully, at home, little perturbed, quite competently having made herself a snack of bread and jam and settling in to watch
The Sarah Jane Adventures
on TV.
When her mother didn’t appear, she explained, regarding him with a faintly guilty frown, she had made her own way home after a detour to the Cheltenham Road Library. He was so relieved, all he could do was crush her to him. And then, after a little time had passed, he steeled himself for the awful task. Then, he could speak—just barely—the language of death to his child; he had had to; there was no other way. But he could not make himself speak the language of murder; that is, until some pitiless older child’s school taunting of Miranda left him little choice but to address the greater horror.
Yes, Mummy died very suddenly when she was coming to meet Daddy at the church, but police think she saw a man doing something bad and he didn’t want her to tell anyone what he was doing, so he took away her life. No, he was a very sick man. No, police don’t know who he is, but they’re looking very hard for him. Yes, Myleene
—for that was the gormless schoolmate’s name—
is right, the police think it may have had something to do with drugs. No, not like Paracetamol. This sick man was using very hurtful drugs. Mummy would never have prescribed anyone such drugs
.
One unintended consequence was that Miranda remained chary of anything she thought was a drug, including the erythromycin she had been prescribed when impetigo had coursed through her classroom. “Will this hurt me?” she now always asked, examining intently any bottle of pills.
Which was why Tom wished Madrun
“Do you think I could give the rest of my breakfast to Powell and Gloria?” Miranda whispered, regarding him hopefully.
Tom glanced at Madrun, who had bent over the dishwasher, and whispered back, “Just eat a little more.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
T om was glad when Miranda suggested they reprise “Where in the World Is the Reverend Peter Kinsey?” At the breakfast table, he tried to keep Madrun from further speculating about Sybella’s death, going so far as to feign interest in the other announcements in the Court Circular, but to little avail. Answering any more questions about Sybella reminded him only too vividly of telling Miranda—the evening of the sombre, rain-filled autumn afternoon when he’d found Lisbeth lifeless on St. Dunstan’s cold stone floor—that her mother had died.
So stunned by horror in the hour after Lisbeth’s death, he had let his daughter slip from his mind until a police constable’s question jolted him to the very circumstances of his wife’s being in the church at all: It had been a Wednesday, Ghislaine’s day off. By custom, Lisbeth left her surgery early and walked Miranda back from school, but this Wednesday she had phoned him and said she would first nip into Toad Hall Toys, buy the Barbie doll Miranda was so craving for her birthday, then leave it with him at St. Dunstan’s for safekeeping.“She would guess what’s in the bag, darling” were among her last words to him.
Frantically, blinded by grief, he had phoned the school, but no Miranda was to be seen. He phoned home, then a neighbour’s, then Ghislaine’s mobile, all to recorded messages. Finally, he had peeled himself away from the tumult of police and ambulance and shocked church staff and raced through Miranda’s path from school. He found her at last, mercifully, at home, little perturbed, quite competently having made herself a snack of bread and jam and settling in to watch
The Sarah Jane Adventures
on TV.
When her mother didn’t appear, she explained, regarding him with a faintly guilty frown, she had made her own way home after a detour to the Cheltenham Road Library. He was so relieved, all he could do was crush her to him. And then, after a little time had passed, he steeled himself for the awful task. Then, he could speak—just barely—the language of death to his child; he had had to; there was no other way. But he could not make himself speak the language of murder; that is, until some pitiless older child’s school taunting of Miranda left him little choice but to address the greater horror.
Yes, Mummy died very suddenly when she was coming to meet Daddy at the church, but police think she saw a man doing something bad and he didn’t want her to tell anyone what he was doing, so he took away her life. No, he was a very sick man. No, police don’t know who he is, but they’re looking very hard for him. Yes, Myleene
—for that was the gormless schoolmate’s name—
is right, the police think it may have had something to do with drugs. No, not like Paracetamol. This sick man was using very hurtful drugs. Mummy would never have prescribed anyone such drugs
.
One unintended consequence was that Miranda remained chary of anything she thought was a drug, including the erythromycin she had been prescribed when impetigo had coursed through her classroom. “Will this hurt me?” she now always asked, examining intently any bottle of pills.
Which was why Tom wished Madrun
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