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

had a costume party every July, themonth
Alice
was published. Can’t remember the year. I have photos, I must show you.”
    “But how—”
    “Oh, my late husband had some connections in the music business in those days. And of course your parents were musicians. Anyway, I do remember talking with your mother, with Mary. You see, she had just learned that a baby would be coming their way. You. I expect the adoption had been prearranged in some fashion. The girl …” She faltered, glancing at Tom. “Do you know …?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “You know nothing about your natural mother?”
    “Not really, no.”
    “You weren’t curious?”
    “Oh, of course. Very much, at times. But the women who raised me—Iain’s sister—and her partner knew very little themselves. Or so I understand. Iain and Mary died, as perhaps you know—”
    “Yes, in that awful plane crash.”
    “—the spring after they adopted me.” Tom stared at the signatures. “If they knew any details about my natural parents, they decided, for some reason, to keep it to themselves. And, of course, as you get older, you don’t think about it overmuch. Is there something …?”
    “Not really. I only recall your mother saying she and your father would be travelling to Liverpool for the adoption. I remember distinctly because my husband had some business to attend to on behalf of the family in that part of the north.”
    “Liverpool,” Tom repeated thoughtfully. “I only know the adoption was a private arrangement of some nature.”
    “How mysterious!”
    “Yes, I’ve thought that at times.”
    Marguerite glanced from the date of the Christmases’ visit to Eggescombe to Tom. “Then your birthday is this month. Your fortieth, yes?”
    “On Monday, as it happens.”
    “Oh.” And then in an altered tone, “Oh! Now I understand your hesitation to stay.”
    “Well, I expect my family has something planned for me. There’s still a chance tomorrow …”
    Marguerite’s brows arched sceptically. “If it had been your
left
ankle, perhaps, you might be able to drive but …” She had left the rest unsaid.
    Now, recalling his mind to the present, Tom heard Marguerite remark, “Roberto is working on a splendid new commission for Delix Fennis’s sculpture garden in Cornwall. You know the one, of Gods and Goddesses. He popped by last month and commissioned one after seeing Roberto working on the sculpture that’s in the Labyrinth.”
    “Sculpture?” Tom recalled no mention of such in the literature about the noted Eggescombe Labyrinth.
    “Installed last month,” Marguerite explained. “A new feature.”
    “I believe Roberto works in marble, don’t you, Roberto?” Oliver blew a plume of smoke into the air.
    “I’m surprised you would know that.” Dominic eyed Oliver with disdain.
    “Bit quaint, isn’t it?” Oliver ignored his cousin. “I thought it was all pickled sheep in vats of formaldehyde these days?”
    “I’d very much like to visit your studio, too, while I’m here,” Dominic told Roberto.
    “If you feel you have the time,” Marguerite murmured without enthusiasm.
    Roberto added, “I most often work late at night.”
    “That’s when I like to get the job done, too.” Oliver smirked.
    Roberto’s nostrils flared as if he’d smelled something offensive. “Have you seen my work in the Labyrinth, Oliver?”
    “I haven’t been in that bloody thing in years. Seems like a lot of walking around in circles for no good reason.”
    “You really are a philistine.” Dominic’s mouth twisted.
    “I insist, Oliver.” Roberto spoke more forcefully.
    “Why? What’s the statue bloody
of
then?”
    “BVM.”
    “What?”
    “The Blessed Virgin.”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Oliver threw his cigar over the balustrade. Tom’s eyes followed the red glow in its arc, noting the apparently fastidious Gaunt move swiftly to remove the offending thing from the darkening lawn. “I haven’t got time for that sort of