Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 4

  Roger Carnaby nodded. “Most likely Sunday afternoon or evening—lots of people who don’t come in at other times during the week will drop by village pubs then.”

  “But,” Thomas said, “if the coins were in the jar from Mountjoy’s Store, the coins would most likely have been put in on Monday morning.”

  Those actively discussing the issue nodded, while at the end of the table, Dagenham and Melissa remained in a bubble of their own.

  “You said you were down from Oxford?” Melissa prompted.

  Dagenham turned his mug around and around between his long fingers. “Yes. I’ve finished my studies.” He paused, his gaze on the mug. “My parents are encouraging me to take a post with the Home Office, at least for a little while. Get some experience of government and governing under my belt and all that.”

  Melissa sipped, then volunteered, “My father’s in the Foreign Office, so I know quite a lot about that sort of life.”

  Dagenham glanced at her, then carefully said, “I expect to be in town during the upcoming Season.” He paused for a second, then asked, “You?”

  “We live in town, in Mount Street, so yes, I’ll be there, but I’ll still be in the schoolroom, of course.”

  Dagenham glanced down the table at Mandy. “Is your sister out yet?”

  Melissa shook her head. “She’s only a year older.” Melissa hesitated, then confided, “We’re thinking of asking Mama and Papa to allow Mandy and me to come out together—perhaps in another three years. Mandy will be nineteen, but she says she doesn’t want to rush and wouldn’t mind waiting the extra year until I’m eighteen.”

  Dagenham blinked and stared at nothing. “Three years.”

  Melissa dipped her head and raised her mug.

  “Strangers!” Roger Carnaby’s exclamation had all at the table looking his way. He saw and reiterated, “Strangers—what if a stranger put those coins in the jar?”

  Lottie looked puzzled. “Why would they? The pennies were for the village’s plum puddings, not just anyone’s.”

  Roger shrugged. “Perhaps he knew the coins were odd and wanted to be rid of them.”

  Henry snorted. “I suppose that’s possible. We can certainly ask the Mountjoys and the Whitesheafs. The villagers tend to notice strangers, even if they’re just passing through.”

  Ginger approached to collect their now-empty mugs and the jugs.

  Jamie turned to her. “Have there been any strangers in the village recently—say, since Saturday?”

  Ginger shook her head. “Not in here. Only person I haven’t recognized in weeks is your cousin.” She nodded at Mandy. “And she’s not a stranger in the way you mean.” Gathering the mugs and setting them on her tray, Ginger tipped her head toward the window. “It isn’t the season for strangers wandering the countryside.”

  They all glanced at the window to see the glass being peppered by sleet.

  “Ugh.” Lottie wrinkled her nose. “I think we’d better head back to the manor. Grandmama will be watching for us.”

  “Well,” George Wiley said, as they donned gloves and scarves, “I think we can rule out the coins being donated by a stranger. Strangers stop in at pubs—if none looked in here, it’s unlikely they went to Mountjoy’s.”

  “True.” Henry rose and wound his knitted scarf about his throat. He glanced at Jamie, who was also getting to his feet. “What else can we do to determine where these coins”—Henry nodded to where Mandy was retying the coins into her handkerchief—“came from?”

  At the other end of the table, Dagenham pushed to his feet. He tipped his head to Jamie. “As you said earlier, we’ll need to check with both Mountjoy’s and here for a full week at least to be sure the coins weren’t put in by one of the villagers or a worker from one of the nearby farms.”

  “It’s possible,” Melissa said, tugging on her gloves, “that just asking at Mountjoy’s and the Arms will identify who it was.”

  “Unless,” George said as he stepped back from the table, “the person didn’t know.” When, puzzled, the others frowned at him, he elaborated, “When the coins were all mixed together, only Lottie and I spotted the odd ones. They’re alike enough to silver pennies for anyone not paying close attention—or anyone with poor eyesight—not to notice the difference.”

  Jamie stared at George, then his shoulders slumped. “That means we might not get any answer at all from asking at Mountjoy’s and the Arms. If the person never knew…”

  George grimaced apologetically.

  “Yes, well,” Henry said in rousing fashion, “we’re not going to let such a possibility stop us, are we?” With the others, he turned toward the door. “So how else can we find out where the coins came from?”

  “Why did the coins turn up at all?” Thomas looked at the others. “How long do people—villagers especially—keep coins in their pockets? Not long, would be my guess.”

  George Wiley was nodding. “So they had to have got them recently—found them, perhaps?”

  “Exactly,” Thomas said. “We’re out in the country—perhaps someone was digging holes for a new fence and found the coins in the dirt?”

  “Or plowed a field,” Mandy suggested.

  “Not at this time of year,” Henry said with a smile. “The ground’s close to frozen, so no plowing, but”—he nodded at Thomas—“the point is a good one. Digging for any reason would do.”

  They’d reached the door and could hear the wind whipping past outside. They paused and looked at each other.

  “Right,” said Henry. “While we’re waiting to hear from the Mountjoys or the Whitesheafs over the next week, we’ll also investigate whether we can find any spot where the ground has been dug up.”

  “Or,” Jamie said, “where there’s been a landslide.”

  “Or a sinkhole!” George added.

  Henry grinned. “That’s the ticket! There are lots of possibilities.” He met Jamie’s eyes. “So—where should we search first?”

  Four days later, the searchers were all present at Sunday service at St. Ignatius on the Hill, when, after the last hymn, Reverend Colebatch paused on the altar steps and pulled a sheet of paper from beneath his cassock. “It falls to me to announce the dates for the events with which our village traditionally celebrates Christmas.”

  After beaming upon his eager congregation, the reverend consulted his list and declared, “Dick Mountjoy assures me that the ice on the lake is already thick enough to be certain that the village skating party can go ahead next Thursday at two o’clock.”

  Eyes twinkling, the reverend waited for the children’s excited whispers to fade, then went on, “Subsequently, on Wednesday, December sixteenth, the Christmas pageant will take place as usual on the village green.” He glanced around the church. “We’ll announce who is to be Mary and Joseph and those chosen for all the other roles next Sunday.”

  Speculative whispers swept around the church.

  “Finally,” Reverend Colebatch proclaimed, “the highlight of our festive celebrations, the carol service, will be held on the evening of Monday, December twenty-first. As you are all aware, this year, the village has welcomed to our hearts our new choirmaster, Mr. Moody, and his delightful wife and talented organist, Mrs. Moody”—the reverend inclined his head to the Moodys, who were standing beside the organ—“and on behalf of them both, I wish to extend an invitation to all our festive-season visitors”—Reverend Colebatch’s gaze sought out Lady Osbaldestone’s grandchildren as they sat flanking her in the front pew, then shifted to Henry and his friends, sitting two rows back on the other side of the aisle—“to join with the Moodys and our regular choristers to add depth and vigor to our choral offerings.”

  Reverend Colebatch looked down, consulting his notes.

  Jamie, George, and Lottie shot eager, expectant glances at Mandy and Melissa, both of whom hesitated, but then nodded. Melissa turned her head and looked across the aisle at Dagenham, seated at the end of the row, next to Henry.

  Dagenham had been waiting
to catch her eye. He arched a brow, and Melissa arched one back, then, it seemed almost reluctantly, Dagenham inclined his head.

  Beside him, Henry, Thomas, George Wiley, and Roger were grinning happily and nodding, too.

  Wondering at Dagenham’s resistance—wondering if she’d imagined it—Melissa faced forward as Reverend Colebatch said, “Ah, yes—here we are. The Moodys ask that all parties interested in joining the special choir for the carol service meet with them on the lawn before the church at the conclusion of this service to discuss times for practice.”

  Smiling, Reverend Colebatch raised his head. “And I can assure everyone that, this year, the Moodys already have the book of carols in their hands.”

  A chuckle circled the church, then the reverend signaled it was time for the final prayer. After he’d intoned it and the benediction, everyone made their way out of the church.

  On reaching the winter-brown lawn, Therese inspected her brood. “I take it you all wish to sing in the choir again.”

  They assured her she’d read their eagerness correctly, although she noted Melissa looked faintly uncertain.

  Mandy studied the others. “Is it really such fun?”

  “You like to sing, don’t you?” Lottie asked.

  Mandy paused, then admitted, “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, this is one time you get to sing for others.” Taking Mandy’s hand, Lottie tugged. “Come on. I can see Mr. and Mrs. Moody over there.”

  The children looked at Therese for permission, and she nodded regally. “I’ll return to the manor with the staff. I’ll expect you for luncheon as soon as the Moodys have finished with you. Don’t dally, or Mrs. Haggerty will be displeased.”

  “We won’t!” the younger three chorused, then Jamie and George rushed off, and Lottie, Mandy, and Melissa walked after them.

  Therese considered her granddaughters—Lottie and Mandy transparently eager, Melissa… Therese narrowed her eyes. “Not reluctant to sing,” she murmured. “She’s not sure about Dagenham.”

  The crowd gathering about the Moodys—a jolly-looking couple who were quick with their smiles—was sizeable. In addition to the five from the manor and the five gentlemen from Fulsom Hall, many of the villagers who sang in the regular choir were volunteering for the special choir as well. Johnny and Georgina Tooks were there, along with the Bilson twins, Annie and Billy. Also joining were Jessie Johnson, Willie Foley, plus Robert and William Milsom, ensuring the group had a good spread of children’s ages as well as voices. As for adults, just as Henry and his friends ambled up, Ginger Whitesheaf and Fiona Butts came huffing along, towing Ginger’s older brothers, Rory and Cam, with them.

  “There’s no reason you can’t sing as well as these toffs,” Ginger informed her brothers.

  Henry grinned at the Whitesheaf brothers; Cam was the same age, and Henry had known him since birth. “Bit of friendly rivalry never went astray. Let’s see what you’re made of, Whitesheafs—put your voice where your mouth is, so to speak.”

  Battling a grin, Cam made a scoffing sound. “The congregation won’t be able to hear you lads, not with Rory and me singing along.”

  Mr. Moody was quick to take advantage. “Right, then, gentlemen. How many basses do we have?”

  While her husband sorted out the male voices, Mrs. Moody gathered the girls and divided them into sopranos and altos. While Lottie, Georgina, and Annie were much of an age, and all had high, sweet voices, Mandy and Ginger proved to have similar ranges and were deemed sopranos as well. Melissa was joined in the alto section by Jessie and Fiona.

  “Well, now.” Mr. Moody turned from sorting the males. “Let’s put this all together, shall we?”

  He directed the boys—Jamie, George, William, Robert, Willie, and Johnny—to stand with the sopranos, then lined up the three altos, followed by two tenors in Dagenham and Cam, and the baritones—Henry, Roger, and Thomas. “And lastly,” Mr. Moody said, guiding his last two participants, George Wiley and Rory, into the line, “we have our two basses.”

  Mr. Moody stepped back. Clasping his hands before him, he surveyed his troops. “This is quite an impressive assembly. I believe we’ll be able to put on a carol service to rival anything that’s gone before. Even though I’ve heard the rapturous praise of last year’s event, that is our ambition”—his eyes twinkled—“and I hope you will all join us in attempting to make it so.”

  They all grinned.

  “So”—Mrs. Moody moved to stand beside her husband—“as to practice times, most of you will know the carols already, but blending your voices to ensure a truly great performance will require work. We’ve only two weeks in which to weld you into a brilliant and cohesive singing force, so if you please, we will meet here for practice on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday afternoons, promptly at three o’clock, and practice will last for approximately two hours. Can you all commit to that?”

  Most nodded eagerly, but the Whitesheafs exchanged glances, then Rory said, “We’ll need to get our parents to agree to cover our shifts behind the bar, but most likely, they will.”

  Mrs. Moody nodded. “Good.” Like her husband, she surveyed their ranks, then beamed. “In that case, it’s off to your luncheons, and we’ll see you all here on Tuesday at three.”

  Those who lived farther afield scampered off. The manor five joined Henry and his friends, and the group ambled down the church drive.

  Melissa and Dagenham fell back; together, they brought up the rear.

  Silence held them—not fraught, yet not quite comfortable.

  Eventually, his gaze on the path before his boots, Dagenham somewhat diffidently inquired, “Do you think the Moodys will ask us to sing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ again?”

  Melissa lightly shrugged. “Who’s to say?” After a second, she added, “They might.”

  A heartbeat passed, then Dagenham asked, “If they do, will you agree?”

  Melissa thought for several seconds, then tentatively ventured, “It was…special, singing that duet last year.” She glanced briefly at Dagenham’s face. “Wasn’t it?”

  He drew breath and nodded. “Yes. It was a…special moment.”

  Melissa straightened and raised her head. “I enjoyed it, so if they ask, I’ll agree to sing it again.”

  Dagenham nodded. “I will, too.”

  The others had reached the lychgate and had halted in its shelter. As Dagenham and Melissa joined them, Jamie grumbled, “It’s not encouraging that despite the Mountjoys and Whitesheafs asking everyone who has been into the store or the pub, no one has remembered handling any odd coins. I really thought we would have heard something by now.”

  “We have one more day,” Henry pointed out. “And as the coins were at the top of one of the jars, whoever put them in might only come into the village today or tomorrow. Perhaps the Whitesheafs will find someone who knows about the coins among their customers this evening—there’s always a decent crowd then.”

  Mandy nodded. “We can hope. But we haven’t found any sign of digging or holes or any other sort of turning of the soil, so…” She grimaced. “Perhaps we should pray.”

  “I wonder,” George Wiley murmured, “how far afield the coins might have come from.”

  The others stared at him, then Dagenham humphed. “That’s the definition of an unanswerable question.”

  The wind was whipping up, its cutting edge honed with ice. The group parted with promises to send word to the others if anyone learned anything of the coins, then Melissa and Mandy hurried after their cousins up the manor drive.

  Late on Monday afternoon, with the light fading, Therese stood at the window in her private parlor and, through flakes of whirling snow, peered at the steadily whitening drive.

  The children had insisted they had to meet Henry and his friends and check if the Mountjoys or Whitesheafs had found anyone who remembered handling the three odd coins, hoping against hope that someone had visited the inn the previous evening or the store that morning, someone who only came into the village on
ce a week.

  For her part, Therese hoped the group weren’t drowning their sorrows in mulled cider in the inn and forgetting to look out of the window. The swirling snow was thickening; given the heavy skies, they would have a decent covering by morning.

  She was about to draw the curtains when she noticed three figures emerging through the veil of snow. She recognized the lanky length of Reverend Colebatch, walking alongside a heavier man. “The professor must have arrived.”

  The third figure was a lady, which piqued Therese’s curiosity.

  She rang for Crimmins and met her butler in the hall. “Reverend Colebatch is coming up the drive with two others. I’ll await them in the drawing room.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  She’d barely taken up her stance before the fireplace when the doorbell jangled. A minute later, Crimmins announced, “Reverend Colebatch, Professor Hildebrand Webster of Brentmore College, Oxford, and Miss Webster, my lady.”

  Therese smiled and went forward. “Do come in and warm yourselves by the fire.” Crimmins had already collected their heavy coats. Therese nodded to Reverend Colebatch, who was in the lead. “Jeremy.” Then she inclined her head to the burly gentleman following. “And Professor Webster, I presume.” She held out her hand, and the professor clasped it and bowed. “I must thank you for coming all this way and in such weather.”

  “Not at all, my lady—it’s only just closed in. Our journey down was clear enough.” Professor Webster’s voice was growly and gruff. He was a heavyset man with a barrel chest and a paunch over which his waistcoat strained. Steel-gray curls wreathed his head, and his complexion was ruddy, but of the sort that signaled a life spent out of doors rather than an overfondness for drink. His most notable features were a pair of shaggy gray eyebrows that perched above a rather bulbous nose.

  The professor waved to the young lady by his side. “Allow me to present my niece, Miss Honor Webster. She acts as my amanuensis and keeps me in line.”