‘I’m glad we had lunch here, sir,’ was Carmichael’s last comment before Falconer went to get his old trousers.
‘So am I. To be bluntly honest with you, the sight of that crowd in The Clocky Hen frightened the bejesus out of me,’ admitted the inspector, looking a little shame-faced.
‘Me too, sir. It wasn’t just you.’
Thank God for that, thought Falconer, glad that he had owned up now. Given the professional life he’d lived in the army and the police force, he’d thought he was losing it, when that wave of apprehension had hit him as they entered the other pub, but if Carmichael felt the same, it didn’t seem so bad.
[5] See Inkier Than the Sword
[6] See Death of an Old Git
[7] See: Murder at The Manse
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday 17th July – early afternoon
I
Their next quarry was Edmund Alexander, the one-time pianist for the band, and they headed back up the High Street to its very end, where ‘Dunspendin’ sat opposite the car park of The Clocky Hen.
‘I bet it’s noisy on Friday and Saturday evenings. I saw a poster for live music at the weekends, and you know how loud the jukebox was when we looked in there,’ commented Carmichael as they pulled into the drive.
‘I see they’ve got double glazing, and that’s probably why. It’d be unsalable, otherwise,’ Falconer replied, pulling on the handbrake in a most un-masculine way. ( Most men just haul up the brake, and make that ghastly pulling against the cogs sort of noise. Falconer, however, always pressed in the button at the end of the thing, so that engaging it was a silent affair. It was only a tiny thing, but it did help to mark him out as a more refined specimen of his sex.)
For the second time that day they were greeted by a very elderly person, this time a man, who had the slightly cross look of one whose post-luncheon nap has been disturbed.
‘What d’yer want?’ he asked brusquely, looking them up and down and appearing to be unimpressed by what he saw.
‘Detective Inspector Falconer and Detective Sergeant Carmichael, from Market Darley CID,’ announced Falconer, holding out his warrant card in one hand, the other outstretched in greeting. After shaking both their hands, and examining the two warrant cards minutely – he had left his spectacles indoors – he turned, made a ‘follow me’ gesture with his head, and retreated back into the house, and into the back garden by the way of a pair of French windows.
‘They’re both in the garden; Edmund and his mother. I presume it’s Edmund you want to talk to? You’ll find them beyond the roses, near the wild section, working in the herb beds,’ the old man, who was presumably Mr Alexander Senior, directed them, holding out an arm in the appropriate direction. He never spoke another word to them, but stumped off back into the gloom of the house, no doubt to resume his interrupted forty winks.
Falconer and Carmichael looked about them, at a garden that was the perfect cottage garden, full of already-gone-to-seed foxgloves, carnations, sweet peas, roses, hollyhocks, and delphiniums. Beds edged with local stones had their edges softened by lobelias and aubrietas, and any number of sound ground-cover plants that filled in the gaps and kept weeds at bay. The buzz of voices, one high-pitched, the other deeper, floated across the garden, born on the slight breeze from the very rear of the plot.
Both men headed in that direction without a word, both captivated by the atmosphere created by a garden that looked so natural and higgledy-piggledy with plants, but which must have taken an awful lot of time and attention to achieve that relaxed, random look.
Before they were noticed they could see two figures, both with their backs to them, bent down, examining something in a herb bed, and with each silent step on the well-kept lawn, their voices became more audible.
‘I really think we could do with another apple mint. I mean, look at this one, Mums. It’s really curling up its toes, and I don’t think it’ll recover. What do you think?’
‘I sort of agree with you, but I’d like to give it one more chance. If I can’t do anything within a week, we can go to the garden centre and get one, but only if we can get a Russian tarragon plant as well. We’ll be able to squeeze it in somewhere, and if not, I’ll put it in a pot for now.’
‘When do you think we should collect the foxglove seeds for next year? I was thinking of sprinkling some of them at the back of the wild garden. What do you say, Mums? Is that a good idea, or not?’
Falconer cleared his throat as they drew near, not wanting to eavesdrop any more than was necessary on what was a wholly gardening conversation between mother and son.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Alexander, Mr Alexander. I hope you don’t mind us turning up like this, but your husband ushered us through the house, and told us where you were working.’
‘Do call me Grace,’ requested Edmund’s mother, graciously.
‘Thank you very much, Grace,’ replied Falconer, returning courtesy for courtesy. As he explained their presence, both held out their warrant cards for inspection, to have them waved away by Edmund, who had met them the previous evening at The Grange. ‘It’s OK, Mums,’ he assured his elderly mother. These are the two gentlemen that I told you about, who are looking into Mr Dashwood’s … sudden passing,’ he finally finished the sentence, obviously not wanting to mention the word ‘murder’ in front of his mother.
‘Why don’t you stay out here for a while, and let Edmund show you the garden, and I’ll go inside and make a pot of tea. We could certainly do with a drink. Gardening is very thirsty work, in this heat. I’ll give you a call when it’s ready, and put it in the living room, and if I find your father in there, sleeping a lovely day like this away, I’ll give him what for,’ and with that, she turned quite smartly on her heel, and stumped off back to the house, looking a jolly sight more spritely than her husband had when he had answered the door.
‘Mums is actually the official band librarian,’ explained Edmund, ‘but she doesn’t have to go to practices; just keep the instrumental parts in some sort of order, and issue them when needed. She has a little book where she records each instrumental part that is lent out, so that there’s no quibble if anything goes missing.
‘The vicar used to call her the Grace of God, as a joke, when he first moved here, but he once borrowed a piece of music and forgot to return it, so now he calls her the Wrath of God, for she gave him hell until he hunted it out and returned it to her. Now, I suppose you want to ask me some questions,’ said Edmund, suddenly becoming more serious-faced. ‘I can see Mums waving from the French windows, so why don’t we go in and do this over a nice, refreshing cup of tea?’
As they walked back to the house, Falconer took a good look at Edmund Alexander. He was no longer young, nor was he old, but he looked older because of his typical male pattern baldness, and had only a short fringe of hair left round the sides and back of his head. He was tall, but not as tall as Carmichael – probably about six-one. He wasn’t an ugly man, and he seemed well-brought up and nicely mannered, and yet he still lived at home with Mums – and, no doubt, Pops would be how he referred to his father.
Nearly everyone in Swinbury Abbot seemed to be either single or divorced. They hadn’t come across more than one married couple, except for the two pairs of elderly parents they had met. Was it just a coincidence? Falconer wondered, or was it because of a general shortage of choice in a place where most people moved away when they were young, to seek more exciting surroundings? And some just got left behind. But lacking an answer to this question, he abandoned it, as they went into the house for tea.
Settled in the shady living room, Falconer explained that he only wanted to know two things at the moment, and these were: what Edmund’s relationship was like with the deceased, and whether he had visited Dashwood at his home, or seen him, between Sunday lunchtime and Friday evening. ‘Once we can get those two questions answered, we can chat more generally, Mr Alexander.’
Edmund set down his dainty china cup in its saucer, and gav
e himself to think, preparing to choose his words carefully. ‘We didn’t get along at all, I’m afraid,’ he started. ‘He was brutally honest about my sight-reading, but I’ve never been any different. It was all right with the old band. We were all just playing at it, really, and by the time we were due to perform anything, we all more or less knew our parts, and we got by.
‘Dashwood took a totally different attitude. He didn’t seem to be able to comprehend that the band was a part of our lives, not the be-all and end-all of it, as it obviously was to him. At the last rehearsal he attended, he actually suspended me as accompanist until I could prove myself worthy. Can you believe that?
‘And he had me ousted as church organist. He’d evidently done a good job of soft-soaping the vicar, and ‘bigging’ himself up, and just smarmed his way into the position.’
‘And how did you feel about that, Mr Alexander?’ Falconer butted in.
‘Oh, I was furious at first: I’d been in both positions for so long. In fact, it was because I played the organ that I was asked to be the accompanist for the band, and that was ten years ago now. But then I got to thinking, and realised that I still had the most important things in my life – my parents and the garden – so it was a case of ‘just get on with it’, as far as I was concerned, and I decided not to lose any sleep over it.’
‘Brave words!’ thought Falconer, taking the man’s story with a pinch of salt. Of course he cared. How could he not?
‘Then Dashwood was done away with. I won’t say it was the answer to a prayer, because that would be blasphemous, but it means that things will probably just go back to the way they used to be, which suits me fine.’
‘And did you see him or visit him?’
‘I don’t think he ever went out, except for shopping in Market Darley, or musical things. He certainly didn’t seem to have made any friends here. Quite the opposite, really! But, to answer your question, no, I didn’t see him again after Sunday lunchtime, and I never visited him, nor wanted to. Does that about cover it?’ he finished.
‘Is there anything you can tell us about how he got on with the other band members?’ Falconer enquired, looking hopeful.
‘I don’t think so. He got everybody’s dander up; that I can tell you. He tore our playing to shreds at the last proper rehearsal, and I think he was close to finishing us off, if truth be told. But I expect we’ll just drift back together in the old way, now, or something very close to it.’
‘Thank you for being so frank with us,’ the inspector thanked him, then said, ‘There is one question I’d like to ask, but it’s got nothing to do with Dashwood’s death.’
‘Fire away,’ replied Edmund, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and looking attentive.
‘It’s about the name of this road. I noticed it as we pulled into the driveway. It’s called Mill Race, but I don’t see any signs of running water hereabouts, so how did it get its name?’
‘Now, that’s an old story, but a good one, and if you’ve got the time, I’ll tell it. There are the ruins of a mill in the grounds of The Hurst.’
‘That’s where we’re going next, sir,’ chipped in Carmichael.
‘And once a year,’ continued Edmund, un-flurried, ‘there is a wheel-barrow race – in fact, round here, it’s called a beer-barrow race – where people enter, one in the barrow, and one pushing, and in some sort of rustic fancy dress. They start at The Clocky Hen, drinking a pint of beer each before they set off, then, before that new estate was built, they used to race off past The Hurst, cut through a back road, across what used to be fields, finally joining the Stoney Cross Road, where they had to stop at The Leathern Bottle, where they had to drink another pint.’ Edmund was back in the past now, having changed the tense of his narrative, and his eyes shone with nostalgia.
‘They had to go round six times, changing places after each round, and finish off back at The Clocky Hen. First pair back in the pub had to drink another pint each before they were declared the winners.
‘Of course, the route’s changed now, and they still do it, but there’s no back road across the fields anymore, so they just come straight through the new estate, turn left into Chopping Knife Lane, and get to the Stoney Cross Road that way. It’s always held on a Saturday night in September, and it needs to be evening, because those lads are fit for nothing after all that beer. There’s always a few who throw up on the way, and the parish council has had complaints from people on the new estate, but they’ve stolen part of our countryside for their tacky development; we won’t let them steal our old traditions as well.’
‘Do you go along to watch?’
‘You bet your boots I do! I even entered it myself once, when I was a teenager, along with one of my cousins. My parents used to let me stay up especially for it when I was a kid, and I still find a lot of amusement in the second half of the race, where co-ordination really starts to deteriorate. Yes, that race is part of Swinbury Abbot, and always will be, if I have my way.’
‘Well, you certainly sound passionate about it. Thank you for that information, and now, we really must go. As DS Carmichael pointed out, we have other people to interview this afternoon, but thanks for the tea – and the story. It’s been a pleasure. Do you mind if we have one last wander around your lovely garden before we go?’
‘Not at all! Help yourselves. I’ll just clear these tea things away, and see what Mums and Pops (!) are up to.’
Once more in the garden, Carmichael asked Falconer why he had asked that last question about the name of the road.
‘One, because I really wanted to know,’ replied Falconer, ‘and two, because it gives us an insight into how passionate he is about his village, and how much he dislikes change. Motive for murder? Quite possibly! Now, look at all those deadly plants he has, in both the cultivated garden, and in the wild garden. Means? You bet your life! Opportunity? Definitely! He seems very much a loner, apart from his musical activities, which have just come to an abrupt end. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Carmichael?’
‘Crikey! I’d never have thought of all that. You’re a marvel, sir; a real marvel.’
II
The entrance to The Hurst was down Chopping Knife Lane, and the easiest way to get to that was by going back down the High Street and turning off where the lane bisected the parade of shops. between the post office and the junk shop. Their destination had the benefit of the local village green and pond opposite it, but the downside was that the rather less up-market Wildflowers Estate had been built right up to its western boundary wall, presumably devaluing the property considerably.
For once, the occupant did not have to be disturbed in the garden, and after the first ring on the doorbell the door swung open to reveal Cameron McKnight. He was of medium height, his only distinguishing features a rather long nose and a thick mane of white hair. His eyes were hidden behind light-sensitive glasses, the lenses of which began to darken while introductions and reminders of their meeting the night before were made. The only comment unrelated to this that the man made was to Carmichael, to whom he said, ‘See you’re dressed for summer, Sergeant. Are you, perhaps, off on your holidays later today? I wonder that the powers that be allow it.’
Leading them into the gloom of the hall, he carried on through the property until he reached a bright room with enormous picture windows, where the light flooded through. With the lenses of his glasses still trying to cope with two changes of light, they were for the moment still dark, and they gave him a slightly sinister air, as if he were blind, and had something to hide, although this furtive look didn’t leave his eyes, when he removed his glasses, to clean them.
They were settled in rather modern, minimalistic armchairs, which were quite uncomfortable, Falconer noted, inwardly chuckling as he watched Carmichael squirming to try to find a position that suited.
‘Dreadful business!’ McKnight opened the conversation. ‘I still can’t believe it actually happened. I mean, what a barbaric thing to do to ano
ther person. There must have been a great deal of hatred in that act, and it must have taken courage to carry it out. I can’t take it in; even now, it’s difficult to believe that it’s true.’
‘It’s real enough, Mr McKnight; otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here. Now, I’d like to begin by asking you if you ever visited Mr Dashwood at his home, or if you saw him, perhaps somewhere in the village, between Sunday lunchtime and Friday evening?’
‘I would never have visited that old curmudgeon, not even if my life depended on it. He was an extremely tactless and ill-mannered man whom one would cross the street to avoid.’
‘So, that’s a ‘no’ then, is it?’ Falconer asked, just wanting to make sure he’d been given a straight answer, and not been fobbed off with a personal opinion that confirmed or denied nothing.
‘No, I never visited him; and no, I didn’t see him anywhere in the village – or anywhere else, come to that. I thought he was a bit like a musical vampire, never leaving his coffin in bright sunlight if he could help it.’
‘Well, of course, he is in his coffin now, isn’t he, Mr McKnight?’
‘Sorry! That was in rather bad taste. But I don’t think he could’ve been anybody’s bosom buddy; no one’s best friend.’
‘I get the picture, and you’re not the first one who’s painted it today. I think I can guess the answer to this question, but could you tell me how you got on with Mr Dashwood, and perhaps about any altercations the two of you may have had: any differences of opinion or disagreements?’
Falconer took a glance over at Carmichael, to ensure he was engaged in taking notes, and had to put his hand over his mouth at the sight which greeted him. Lanky Carmichael looked like nothing more than a giant grasshopper, the small chair defeating his long legs, the knees of which hovered at about the height of his head, and somewhere in between these hairy lengths he somehow contrived to fit in his head and arms, to achieve his goal.
Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 15
