Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Then Dashwood tells him his sight-reading’s not good enough to play for the band in practices – he’d given us a new piece of music, and we were all sight-reading – so he took over that. Then, the next thing Edmund knows, the vicar tells him he won’t be required to play the organ any more. He’s devastated, you know. Lives with his old mum and dad, and, apart from his garden, he lives for his playing.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s going to do with all the spare time he’s got now. It got him out of the house and meeting other people. There are only so many people you can meet in your own garden, aren’t there? At least he’s still got that, and I must say, if you’d said Dashwood had been poisoned, I’d have sent you straight round to Edmund’s house. He’s got loads of foxgloves, and his bit of wild garden is full of deadly and woody nightshade, and goodness knows what else. I always refer to that bit of the garden as the Killing Fields. He doesn’t like it, but I enjoy teasing him, and bringing him out of himself a little.’

  ‘So, you never visited Mr Dashwood in his home and, in your opinion, everyone in the band had a good motive for murdering him.’

  ‘I said no such thing!’ she said, scandalised. ‘I said that no one liked him. That’s rather different from wanting him dead, I’d say.’

  ‘Point taken, Ms Potten. Do you know if Mr Dashwood socialised with anyone else in the village, apart from those he met through music?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I got the impression that, apart from the band and the church, he was pretty much a recluse.’

  ‘One last question, if I may? You live very near, and almost opposite him. Did you see him out and about, anytime between Sunday lunchtime and yesterday evening?’

  ‘No. I spend a lot of time at Harold’s – that’s Harold Grimes; plays trumpet – and when I’m here at this time of year, I tend to spend as much time as I can in the back garden, working on my tan.’ Here, she pulled down the material of her robe, to reveal a meaty shoulder with no strap marks of any kind. ‘It gets more of the sun out there. Who needs an expensive electric beach when you’ve got a south-facing garden?’

  ‘That’ll be all for now. I’m asking everybody if they could find the time to call into the police station in Market Darley to sign printed statements sometime in the next few days, if you’d be so kind.’

  ‘No problem. And don’t look so worried, sergeant. I shan’t turn up in just my bikini.’

  Carmichael blushed when she said this, and when they were safely outside again, commented to Falconer, ‘That was no bikini. There’s more material in three sticking plasters than there was in that. How can she? And answering the door like that – brazen as you like!’

  ‘Carmichael, you have a very prudish streak in you,’ opined Falconer.

  ‘Yes, sir. And I’m proud of it. I don’t hold with loose living, or flaunting your body like that, especially at her age, and with that body.’

  ‘Good for you, Sergeant.’

  II

  They called next on Harold Grimes, who lived at 2 Honeysuckle Terrace, up Groat lane, and finally roused him from his back garden, where he was mowing the lawn. He escorted them straight through the house and onto a patio, where his collie, whom he’d introduced as Dolly, lay flat out on the flagstones, panting, a large bowl of water just beside the back door, and bade them sit down on cast iron chairs that surrounded a matching table.

  Falconer eyed the dog with mistrust, but she was too old and too heat-drugged to take any notice of him, sleeping on with the dedication to this activity which only dogs and cats can achieve. He was safe for now.

  ‘Let me get you a frappe,’ Harold offered. ‘I do iced coffee, Greek style, and it perks you up a treat.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Mr Grimes,’ Falconer thanked him. Both he and Carmichael were a little dry, having accepted nothing at their previous visit, and Falconer felt they could do with the fluid on such a hot day.

  As he left them to make the drinks, Falconer gave his sergeant an appraising look, and said, ‘Your hair’s growing through nicely now. You don’t look like a thug anymore, and you’re starting to look as if your hair is like that on purpose.’

  ‘Well, it is now, isn’t it? I wish I’d never shaved my head. All those people thinking I’d got cancer, and feeling sorry for me. I could strangle that John Proudfoot. I’m glad you sent him out to guard that cottage all night. Serves him right, the filthy, rotten rumour-monger! I should have wrung his neck when I first found out what he’d done.’

  ‘There you go. You’ve used that sort of expression now, but you wouldn’t actually go through with it, would you?’

  ‘Probably not,’ answered Carmichael, ‘but with Proudfoot, I’m not absolutely sure. I’ll get back to you on that one, sir.’

  At this point, Harold trotted out of the back door carrying a tray with three tall glasses on it, all of them with straws. At their looks of surprise, he commented, ‘Best way to drink them. Gets the cold liquid down the throat a little bit quicker, and cools you down miraculously fast.’

  As they sucked away at the deliciously cold coffee, Falconer appraised what he knew about this man. That he was retired was obvious, for he certainly looked old enough. He knew he played the trumpet, and was Gayle Potten’s beau, although he couldn’t see the attraction in either direction, if he was honest. He had a dog called Dolly, and that was about all. He’d have to get digging.

  As Carmichael made loud slurping noises with the straw in the very last dregs of his drink, Falconer got out his metaphorical spade. ‘I understand that you stayed behind at the church on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’d got a problem with one of my trumpet valves, and I wanted to give all three of them a good oiling. And I’m a sides-man, and I needed to tidy away the hymn and service books properly. And then I locked the church doors and went over to the pub to join the others. They all wanted a Sunday lunchtime drink, and they couldn’t take their instruments with them at a busy time like that, so I said to leave them in the church. I’d get the key from the vicar, and lock up, then join them in the pub. Then, when we’d had our drink, we could go back to the church to get them, and I’d drop the key through the vicar’s letterbox.

  ‘I do have a little confession to make, though. I did actually forget to lock the doors, and it was only when we were on our way back over there that I remembered. Rather than own up, and look a fool, leaving all those valuable instruments available for anybody to half-inch, I fiddled around at the lock with the key, pretending to open up, and just kept my mouth shut. Nothing seemed to be missing, so I thought, least said, soonest mended.’

  ‘But something had been taken, hadn’t it, Mr Grimes? Someone had gone in there, opened Mrs Midwynter’s cello case, and stolen the spike from her cello, and then used it to stab Mr Dashwood,’ said Falconer.

  ‘I know! I realise, now, that I didn’t quite get away with it, did I? You could have knocked me down with a feather when you produced that thing last night. I thought I’d seen something sticking out of his body, but it was difficult to see, what with all the flies, and I didn’t want to get too close because of the smell, and, of course, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene – I believe that’s what you call it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perfectly correct, Mr Grimes, and very sensible.’ As if this acted as some sort of forgiveness for his carelessness, the grey-haired man stood up, and stretched his stocky five-foot-seven frame, before asking if they’d like another drink.

  Carmichael looked wistful, but Falconer declined on both their behalves, and merely carried on with his questions. ‘Did you call on, or even possibly see Mr Dashwood out and about on any occasion after that Sunday lunchtime?’

  ‘Not at all, and if I had, I’d probably have thumped him one.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I was thoroughly fed up with his sneering derogatory comments about my playing. I haven’t been playing the trumpet for very long, and I have a lot of trouble with reading the music, so I mark in the note
s. He was scandalised when he found out, but, as I thought, it’s either that, mate, or I don’t play at all. It wasn’t only me, though. He ripped everyone in that band to ribbons, and treated all of us like naughty school children.

  ‘Then, when he’d finally nagged and needled us into practising between rehearsals, and we sounded a hell of a lot better, the bugger’s lying dead in his kitchen, and can’t even congratulate us on all the time and hard work we put in. Not that he would’ve, of course. He’d just have said that that was what we should have been doing all along. I couldn’t stand the man, and nor could anyone else, if you want my honest opinion.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea who could have committed this murder?’ This was Falconer’s final question.

  ‘It could’ve been any of us, or someone completely unconnected with the band, who had known him before, perhaps, and had an axe to grind. No point in asking me. I don’t know nuffink!’

  Deploring the use of the double negative, Falconer concluded the interview with, ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Grimes, and for the delicious drink. If you could call into the station sometime, we’ll get a printed statement for you to sign. Anything you remember in the meantime, feel free to give me a ring. Here’s my card.’

  ‘Good luck!’ Harold called after them, as they saw themselves out through the house, and he returned to mowing his grass, eager to get it finished before lunchtime so that he could loll about and watch sport on the television in the afternoon.

  III

  Executing a turn in the road, Falconer drove the few yards to the turning into Back House Alley, then took a left turn into Dark Lane, where The Old Orchard was their next target. This was the home of Fern Bailey, the viola player, and she was to be found playing with her Jack Russell in the side garden by the drive.

  ‘Oh, not another bloody dog!’ Falconer declared, as they pulled off the road.

  ‘Language, sir!’

  ‘Sorry, Carmichael, but you know how attractive I seem to be to anything canine. So many people living in these country villages have dogs that I’m getting quite paranoid about it.’

  ‘Have you got your old trousers with you?’

  ‘My ‘old Harrys’? Yes, they’re in the boot.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you change them in the pub loos at lunchtime, and then if we meet any dogs this afternoon, you won’t have another pair of trousers ruined,’ suggested Carmichael.

  ‘Good idea! But it’s the embarrassment of being sniffed that really gets to me. Come on, let’s get on with it.’

  As Falconer parked the car, the slightly plump figure of Fern Bailey ceased her game with her Jack Russell, and approached the car, the dog trotting excitedly at her heels at the thought of more people to play with. Their first impression of her the previous evening, as just like of an overgrown schoolgirl, was confirmed. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but still wore a hairband, her face was devoid of any make-up, and her nails were unpainted.

  ‘What-ho!’ she greeted them and, as they got out of the car, called her little dog to heel, as it had made straight for Falconer, like an iron filing to a magnet. ‘Down, Mickey,’ she called, then went over to him and grabbed him by his collar. He had affixed himself firmly to one of Falconer’s legs and was having a jolly old time, biting the material and growling away to himself.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Fern apologised, dragging him away. ‘He’s just awfully playful, you see. Just like a child really. I’ll pay for any damage he’s done, of course.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ answered Falconer, through clenched teeth and a forced smile. ‘No harm done, I’m sure. Can we have a word about Mr Dashwood’s demise? I’m sure it won’t take up too much of your time.’

  ‘No probs! I’ll just put this little fellow out of the way, and we can talk in peace.’

  ‘What was that, sir?’ asked Carmichael, having heard the inspector mutter something under his breath.

  ‘I just said, ‘thank God’,’ he replied, trying to keep his smile fixed in place, until they had got away from the demon trouser-muncher.

  ‘There, that’s him shut up out of the way. Do come in and sit in the cool. Can I get you anything? It’s such a hot day.’

  ‘Only if we can use your facilities,’ was Falconer’s reply, as he was very conscious of the diuretic properties of coffee – and he had just drunk a very large glassful back at Honeysuckle Terrace.

  ‘Into the hall and first on your left,’ she directed him, and disappeared into what, presumably, was the kitchen.

  Her cry of warning coincided with Falconer’s cry of dismay as, on entering what turned out to be a downstairs bathroom, he was immediately assaulted by Mickey again, who thought he had come for the express purpose of his amusement.

  ‘I’m so sorry! Must be losing my mind. I forgot I’d just corralled him in there. Come on out, Mickey, there’s a good dog, and come into the kitchen with Mummy.’ She grabbed the dog by its collar, and headed back towards the kitchen, dragging the reluctant animal behind her. ‘Oh, and I forgot to ask you what you’d like to drink. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea,’ stated Falconer firmly, feeling just a little bit wary of more coffee, and examining his trouser leg anxiously.

  ‘Tea for me, too,’ called Carmichael, and Fern was able, at last, to imprison the dog in the kitchen with her, safely out of trouble, for the time being.

  When they were all seated in the drawing room, and Carmichael had loaded his cup with his usual six sugars – something that produced an expression of amazement on their hostess’s face – Falconer got down to business.

  ‘I believe you play the viola, Ms Bailey. I thought I heard someone mention that yesterday evening.’

  ‘That’s right, and it’s Miss Bailey. Haven’t managed to snare my man yet, but one mustn’t give up hope, what?’

  ‘Precisely, Miss Bailey. I wondered if you’d called round to Mr Dashwood’s house between Sunday and yesterday, or if you’d seen him out and about – anywhere really – between those days?’

  ‘Would’ve run a mile if I had seen him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him, and you wouldn’t catch me visiting him for all the tea in China,’ she stated vehemently.

  ‘So, the last time you saw him was when you were all in the church after morning service?’

  ‘That’s right! I must say, he really ruined band for me. It was a lovely social evening once a month, and when he took over, he turned it into a weekly military camp. Very bad form, the way he treated everyone. No tact; and absolutely no manners whatsoever. Noisome little oik, in my opinion.’

  She had a curious clipped way of speaking, omitting many of the pronouns deemed by others to be necessary in their speech, and she continued now, ‘Met people like that before. The man acted like a power-crazed jellyfish. If he hadn’t been done in, I was going to leave. No fun anymore! Couldn’t put up with that on a weekly basis. Surprised it wasn’t one of the band that did for him.’

  ‘Well, that’s something I’d like you to help me with. I’ve already spoken to Harold Grimes, and he’s admitted that he actually forgot to lock up the church on Sunday, and only made a pretence of unlocking it when you went back to get your instruments. That means that anyone could have got in there and removed the spike from Mrs Midwynter’s cello.’

  ‘Crumbs! That puts things in a different light, doesn’t it?’ she replied, surprised at such duplicity on the part of one of her musical colleagues.

  ‘It certainly does. Can you remember if anyone left the pub, or disappeared for a while on Sunday, perhaps claiming that they were going to use the facilities?’

  ‘Not off-hand, no, but I could have a jolly good think about it. Know it’s not cricket to rat on one’s chums, and all that, but it’s hardly cricket to do someone in, either, is it?’

  They learnt nothing more from Fern that they didn’t already know, and managed to leave the house without any further run-ins with Mickey.

  ‘Where next, Carmichael?’ Falconer asked. ‘And why is
n’t it lunchtime yet?’

  ‘Too early,’ he replied, ‘and we’re just going to the next house along – The Old Manor – to speak to Vanessa Palfreyman, who plays double bass.’

  ‘I remember her. She looks like she chose the instrument to match her figure, we decided, didn’t we? Right, here we go again.’

  IV

  The elderly woman who opened the door to them at The Old Manor proved to be Vanessa’s mother, on introduction. ‘Sorry I took so long to answer the doorbell, but I was sitting in the garden with my husband, discussing what bulbs we’d have to lift in the autumn. You know what a pain dahlias can be, I expect?’

  Falconer, who wouldn’t know a dahlia if it bit him on the bum, nodded his head sagely, then said, ‘I wonder if we could have a word with your daughter, Vanessa. It’s about that dreadful business with Mr Dashwood.’

  ‘So horrible!’ the old lady declared, and tottered into the house and called up the stairs with lungs of brass, ‘Vanessa! Police here to see you! Come on down!’ then explained to them, ‘I have to shout. She’s up there practising her double bass, and if I don’t shout, she simply doesn’t hear me. She’ll be down in a minute, never you fear.

  ‘Step inside, and I’ll leave you to it. Archie gets upset if I leave him alone for too long. Thinks I’m going to run off with a door-to-door salesman. Silly old fool! There aren’t any of those left. He’d be much better off worrying about the pharmacist, who’s a bit of a hunk, and I have to see a lot of him because of all our pills and potions. Getting old is miserable, gentlemen. Don’t do it – that’s my advice.’ And with this, she tottered off back into the depths of the house, leaving them to their own devices, while Vanessa took her time in coming downstairs.

  The hall was a large one, in keeping with the dimensions of the house and, looking around them, they could see what looked more like a Victorian entrance hall, with its framed etchings on the walls, a long-case clock, and one or two little tables covered in silver frames, most of them with photographs of long ago people, represented in black and white.