MUSIC TO DIE FOR
ANDREA FRAZER
This book is dedicated to my number one American fan, Teresa Kahl, with thanks for your loyalty
The last three Musical Directors of 'The Dalziels' had left them high and dry by moving to France. Their next one was to make the 'ultimate move' by getting himself murdered! The village band in Swinbury Abbot has jogged along quite happily for nigh on a decade. Band practices are free and easy affairs, the music never commencing until after a rather lavish meal with wine, followed by more wine, and then maybe running through a piece or two, just for form's sake. Until the vicar turns up with a new musical director, who plays quite a different tune…
For the newcomer's ideas of what a band’s routine should consist of are completely at odds with the musicians’ current practices. His clashes with the various band members cause enormous resentment, and, in one of them, a hatred strong enough to provoke murder!Into this welter of negative emotions, Detective Inspector Falconer and Detective Sergeant Carmichael of the Market Darley CID arrive, determined to get to the bottom of things and bring the killer to justice, while simultaneously dealing with their own domestic problems.But the musical mayhem – and the murderousness – doesn't stop there…
Other books by Andrea Frazer
The Falconer Files
Death of an Old Git
Choked Off
Inkier than the Sword
Pascal Passion
Murder at the Manse
Strict and Peculiar
Christmas Mourning
Grave Stones
Death in High Circles
Falconer Files – Brief Cases
Love Me to Death
A Sidecar Named Expire
Battered to Death
Toxic Gossip
Driven to It
Others
Choral Mayhem
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
The members of the band – ‘The Dalziels’
Edmund Alexander – keyboard accompanist
Grace Alexander – associate member and librarian. Edmund’s mother
Fern Bailey – viola
Wendy Burnett – oboe
Campbell Dashwood – musical director and conductor
Harold Grimes – trumpet
Cameron McKnight – first violin
Myles Midwynter – clarinet
Myrtle Midwynter – cello
Vanessa Palfreyman – double bass
Gayle Potten – flute
Gwendolyn Radcliffe – second violin
Geraldine Warwick – piccolo and miscellaneous percussion
Lester Westlake – saxophone
Others
Rev. Christian Church – vicar of the parish
Olivia Church – his wife
Oscar Littlechild – a professional opera singer
A host of cats and dogs
Market Darley Police Personnel
Detective Inspector Harry Falconer – Market Darley CID
Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael – Market Darley CID
Desk Sergeant Bob Bryant – Market Darley CID
PC Merv Green – uniformed branch, Market Darley Police
PC ‘Twinkle’ Starr – uniformed branch, Market Darley Police
PC John Proudfoot – uniformed branch, Market Darley CID
Dr Philip Christmas – police surgeon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2012 by Andrea Frazer
Originally published by Accent Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781477878866
This title was previously published by Accent Press; this version has been reproduced from Accent Press archive files.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Prologue
Swinbury Abbot is a village divided by its small commercial centre, the High Street. This throughway lies at a diagonal, from south-west to north-east, and comprises a hairdresser’s, a stationer’s (with sundry toys, novelties, and souvenirs), a mini-market, a post office, a junk shop, a take-away food establishment, and a pharmacy which also sells beauty products.
There are two public houses, which are situated like bookends one at each end of the small parade of shops. At the north-east end is The Clocky Hen, and at the south-west, The Leathern Bottle, and both have their own, very distinct clientele. The Clocky Hen, due to its proximity to the Wild Flowers Estate (more of which, later), draws its clientele from these crowded dwellings and maze-like roads. The Leathern Bottle, being at the other end of the High Street, and more convenient to the residents of the older houses, draws its custom from this source.
In The Clocky Hen there is a snooker table, a dartboard, and a jukebox; occasionally a live band on a Saturday night. In The Leathern Bottle, Vivaldi and his little friends play a genteel background music that deafens no one, and allows for civilised conversation without the need to bellow across the table at one another; and occasionally there is a jazz night, for aficionados of that style of music, which has proved unexpectedly popular.
To the north-west of the High Street, the village green and pond are to be found, but now find themselves facing, across Chopping Knife Lane, an estate built in the eighties and named the Wild Flowers Estate. By those who do not live there, it is referred to as The Starfish, having five roads that radiate out in the shape of the aforementioned creature.
There had been terrific opposition to the building of this maze of modern, cramped housing. The Parish Council was up in arms, letters were written, signatures sought on petitions as far away as Market Darley, and even the storming of a meeting of the Planning Committee, by some people who felt strongly enough about what they considered would become an eyesore so close to their village centre, and were willing to risk being arrested and, maybe, charged with causing a breach of the peace. But all their efforts had been in vain. The pressure for new housing was so great that, eventually, building went ahead, but it brought with it benefits that had not been expected.
Down in the south-west corner of the village, where only The Grange, the old meeting hall, and the row of terraced houses known as Columbine Cottages previously existed, now sat new buildings that housed a playgroup, an infants’ school, a doctor’s surgery, and a dental practice.
Due to the density of the new housing, at about the same time, the Church sold off over half the garden previously enjoyed by the incumbent resident at The Parsonage, and the New Village Meeting Rooms had been created, much to the disgust and fury of the incumbent reverend gentlema
n, who requested to be moved to another parish shortly after its erection.
Once the new estate had ’settled in’, however, it began to prove its usefulness to the old village, for it was an excellent source of cleaning ladies, ladies who could sew, gardeners, and general handymen, even if the hourly rate they asked did seem a little high at first. After a few years, it became a relationship of convenience, the old village families never looking anywhere else when they needed a little help with something, the residents of the estate, glad to get the income, paid in cash and with no records kept. The two diverse communities may not have thought well of each other, but they had found a way to co-exist in fairly close quarters, without a war breaking out.
To the south-east of the High Street, there are a few fine old residences, and more are to be found to the south, below where the High Street makes a T-junction with the Stoney Cross Road, and these are variously addressed as being in Beggar Bush Lane, Back House Alley, and Groat Lane.
The only building of architectural interest in the whole place is its church, St Luke’s. By some error, now lost in the mists of time, it was built with its spire facing east instead of west and, through a great many years, petitions to the Church had failed to rectify this catastrophic error. The result had been, that it was impossible for a peal of bells to be installed in the steeple, due to the fact that the east window had to be situated below it, and there were fears that it could not withstand the weight.
The problem had been solved, again, back in the mists of time, and, it was then hoped, only temporarily, by the construction of a small stone structure atop the roof at the west end of the church, to contain a single bell. And from that time on, that single ball had been the only voice to ever call the faithful to service. Officially called St Luke’s, everyone from thereabouts referred to it as ‘St Back-to-Front’s’, and if it were decided now to rectify its architecture, there would be an enormous outcry. The locals were used to their church, and would not have it any other way.
There are quite a few hobby groups that meet regularly in Swinbury Abbot at regular intervals, but the most controversial is the local band. It is an enthusiastic little ensemble of diverse instruments, and it has performed for many local functions, doing a sterling job every Christmas, when its wandering performances collect a great deal of money for the local air ambulance, but whether donations are so generous because their playing is enjoyed, or because those listening would prefer it if they just packed up and left the audience in peace, will never be known.
They are now referred to, and actually bill themselves, as ‘The Dalziels’, because when anyone new to their playing hears them, the usual reaction is ‘****dy ’ell’, and the name has been adopted without any resentment or rancour. The members only play for fun, never pretending to be professionals, or even any good, and if their playing amuses people and raises money for charity, then each and every inept musician is happy and fulfilled. As with the estate and the village, the band and its residents have found a way to co-exist, if not in completely accurate harmony, at least with an acceptance of the disharmony their playing provides.
Chapter One
I
Let us open this story at the beginning of the events that led to the violent upheaval in the normally smooth timetable of the band’s rehearsals, and the way in which these upheavals occurred.
At the moment, the band was without a musical director, and therefore without someone of sufficient training and experience to arrange and write parts out for new pieces they wanted to play. Its members, however, didn’t want to spend any money on purchasing them, as they were a diverse mix of instruments, no two the same. Two out of the three previous musical directors were able to write for all tunings of instrument, whether in C, B flat, or E flat, could read and write for treble, bass, and alto clefs, and were, in consequence, sad losses.
A further complication meant that this also meant that they had no conductor, and to allow them to play without someone waving a baton, or their arms around, was akin to letting a lion perform un-caged and without its keeper.
The first of these previous MDs had suddenly had a whim to move to the Lot in France, and was gone within a few weeks. The next MD did exactly the same thing when her husband accepted early retirement, and they moved to the Dordogne. The third MD was also a woman, but she could not read either bass or alto clef, and could not cope with writing parts for transposing instruments, so for the best part of a year they had to make do with what music they already had and had had nothing new to tackle.
Two months short of the anniversary of this particular lady taking over the position, she announced that she and her husband had purchased a property in Normandy, and that they would be moving there in the very near future. ‘What the hell did France have that England didn’t?’ many members were heard to mutter between themselves, but no open resentment was shown, and she went off on her adventure with the goodwill of all.
This left them all in the aforementioned dilemma, and when the vicar turned up at The Grange at their next rehearsal, and announced that he knew someone who had just moved to the village who had spent his whole life working with bands, it seemed like a miracle – although they’d have to ask him how he felt about France, before getting used to him and settling down again. To lose three musical directors to that country was catastrophic enough: to lose four would simply be calamitous and beyond belief.
Everyone knew, of course, that Wheel Cottage had recently been bought, but no one seemed to have any information about who now lived there. Granted, there had been a large removals van that had turned up one morning about a week ago, and unloaded a lot of rather fine furniture, but the new owner himself (or even herself) didn’t seem to be present.
A few days later, there were suddenly curtains at the windows, and lights on in the evening, but still no visits to the village shops from whoever had moved in. Curiosity had nearly reached fever pitch, when the vicar announced that he might have someone to fill the void, and he would bring him – him – along to their next rehearsal, so that he could hear them play, and they could get to know one another a little bit.
II
Friday 25th June
It was the fourth Friday of the month and, therefore, it was rehearsal night for the village band in Swinbury Abbot. The members had gathered, as usual, in the home of Myles and Myrtle Midwynter. The Grange was a large residence situated on Beggar Bush Lane, to the south of the village centre, and backing on to the terrace of dwellings known as Columbine Cottages. It had no near neighbours, and there was, therefore, no need to worry about complaints about the noise – either its volume, or its quality.
The players had assembled, as was normal, at seven o’clock, to commence with a glass (or two, or more) of wine and a bit of a chat. They knew that Rev. Church would be bringing round his mysterious stranger, as a candidate for the role of musical director, but did not expect the visitation until rather later in the evening.
When Myrtle Midwynter called them to the dining room at a quarter to eight, they settled themselves round the large table to an excellent meal of poached salmon, salad, and new potatoes, followed by a delicious strawberry trifle, still chatting with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t until nearly a quarter-past-nine that Myles announced that he rather thought they ought to play a little something.
There had been a whole month of news and gossip to catch up on, and as only a few of the musicians had been nominated as the designated drivers, the other players had continued to imbibe, with scant attention to exactly how much they had drunk, Myles topping up their glasses whenever they showed any signs of having room for more.
The Midwynters made a good team, despite the disparity in their ages, with Myrtle being only thirty-six years old to Myles’s fifty-eight, and anything they hosted, usually ran on oiled wheels. Every guest’s needs were immediately noticed and catered for, and nothing was too much trouble; this was one of the main reasons why the band met there. Myrtle didn’t mind either the time or
the expense of feeding them all, and they all felt at home and welcome.
As Myrtle cleared away the dirty dishes, everyone assembled in the large drawing room, and began to get their instruments out of their cases, search for sheet music, and take on the monthly battle with the music stands – one which the music stands usually won, leaving at least two or three pinched fingers and, on one memorable occasion, a badly squashed nose, but that was more due to alcohol, than ineptitude on the part of the victim, and fortunately, didn’t require any medical attention.
There was a sharp knock at the front door, as Myrtle was coming through the hall, still drying her hands on a tea towel, and she answered it before going into the drawing room to unpack her cello. Standing on the step, she found Rev. Church, and the person she presumed was the candidate for the position of Musical Director.
As Rev. Church introduced her, she took note of the small man with whom she was shaking hands. He was only about five foot seven, with white hair cut fairly short, probably in his late sixties – but it was his eyes that captured her attention, for he seemed to be looking in two directions at once. One of them stared her squarely in the face as they greeted each other, the other had an alarming habit of wandering around, as if in search of something just out of view, and she longed to turn round to see what it could be looking for.
Remembering her manners, she invited them in, and preceded them to the drawing room, opening the door and calling over the loud buzz of chatter and the sound of instruments being both tuned and warmed-up.
‘Quiet everybody! Your attention, please!’ She clapped her hands loudly, in the hope that this would penetrate the hubbub, then called again, a little louder this time, ‘Silence! Be quiet! We have visitors. If I could have your full attention, please, I would like to introduce you to … Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but I never asked your name. Rev. Church, perhaps you would do the honours?’
Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 1
