Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) by C. C. Benison Page A

cousin,” she added unnecessarily, as the two men shook hands.
    “Interesting belt,” Roberto remarked.
    “Oh, do you think so?”
    “I don’t,” Hector said. “You look a fool, Dominic. What are you trying to—”
    “Never mind, Hector. It was only a bit of fun, Christ! Here.” Dominic whipped the tie out of his belt loops and dropped it in Max’s hands. “Another time, perhaps, Vicar.”
    “And here,” Marguerite pressed on, as another figure stepped forward, “is Lucinda fforde-Beckett, who is … well, another fforde-Beckett. We do seem to have rather a lot of fforde-Becketts here this weekend. I wonder if there’s one ofthose amusing collective nouns we might use? ‘A tyranny of fforde-Becketts’? What do you think?”
    “Really, Mummy, must you …?”
    “ ‘An intemperance,’ perhaps, Marve,” Roberto suggested, lowering his eyes to his glass.
    “Yes! Clever! ‘An intemperance of fforde-Becketts.’ ” Marguerite laughed throatily as the fforde-Beckett siblings looked on. “See, Oliver is amused.” Oliver had snorted with a wet burst of noise, but Georgina maintained a mask of sufferance, staring off into the middle distance. Dominic and Lucinda kept delighted eyes on the speaker, however, as if the characterisation of the family were mere wordplay. Tom sensed it was not.
    “And, of course, this is Oliver, whom—” Marguerite added with a detectable lightness of tone, “I believe you know.”
    Roberto raised his eyes but refused Oliver’s hand, though it was proffered. Rather, he glowered, a corner of his upper lip twitching almost imperceptibly—startling in its effect, Tom thought, until he observed Oliver’s startling—and strangely humanising—reaction: a faltering glance, a flash of vulnerability, superciliousness vanished, then as swiftly recovered.
    “But Oliver,” Dominic began snidely, “you’ve been at Eggescombe for absolute days and Marguerite hasn’t brought her friend to renew your … acquaintance?”
    “I’ve been preoccupied with my work.” Roberto gave Dominic a level gaze over the rim of his glass, then took a swift, sharp sip.
    “What is it you do?” Tom asked.
    “He’s a sculptor,” Marguerite replied in Roberto’s stead.
    “He has the most wizard studio at the stable block!” Maxenthused. “Mr. Christmas, you and Miranda must come and see.”
    “Yes, Tom, do.” Marguerite shifted her body slightly, as if to exclude the fforde-Becketts from her invitation. “I mentioned those photographs earlier I thought you might find interesting. And Miranda, too, of course. Come for elevenses. That would be a good time to get out the album. And put on that boot I mentioned. Then we can visit the studio.”
    Some hours earlier, in the late afternoon, as the charity event was winding down, Marguerite had brought out onto the lawn Eggescombe Hall’s visitors’ book, a compendious volume, wood-covered, embossed with the Fairhaven coronet, and bound with string so new pages could be added when needed. Marguerite licked her finger, flipped quickly back through a number of pages, then with a small grunt of satisfaction passed it to Tom. He was, at first, interested to see scrawled in various styles of penmanship a number of notables of an earlier generation.
    “You had Mick Jagger to stay?”
    “No. Well, yes, he popped in one afternoon. But that’s not why I’ve brought this book out. Look.” She put her finger against a pair of signatures farther down the spread.
    “Oh!” Tom felt strangely affected at the sight, as he often did when evidence of his first adoptive parents presented itself. IAIN CHRISTMAS in a neat, rounded, schoolboy script and, below, MARY CARROLL in a flowing, decorative hand. “They were here at Eggescombe?”
    “About forty years ago or so, in the summer, I think. What’s the date?” She leaned in. “August. Exactly forty years ago. It was the Alice party. My father-in-law adored
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. He