Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  McKnight must have had the same idea, as following the inspector’s glance, he made a reference to a very old television series, by saying. ‘Ah, Glasshopper!’

  To which Carmichael came right back with the information: ‘American, Kung Fu, early seventies, David Carradine,’ without ceasing his scribbling, or lifting his head. His reply was the only acknowledgement that McKnight had said something that he thought would embarrass the young man, and the sergeant had paid him back by not turning a hair (very short though that hair may be, after his shaven-headed phase the previous month).

  In fact, it was Cameron McKnight who blushed, because Carmichael’s refusal to be embarrassed had made him realise how crass and superior he must have sounded, and he took a few moments to apologise.

  ‘If we can get back to the matter in hand, please, Mr McKnight – differences of opinion and disagreements, to refresh your memory,’ Falconer reminded the man, in a somewhat icy voice. No one made fun of Carmichael! That was his job, and he was jealous of his position of privilege.

  ‘To be perfectly frank with you, the man was appallingly rude to me about my playing. I’ve been playing the violin since I was a child, and with considerable style, I might add. Then along comes this bounder, and says I play out of tune. The bloody cheek of it! He even had the gall to remove me as ‘first violin’, and replace me with that old biddy, Gwendolyn Radcliffe, who has the style of a beginner, and absolutely no vibrato at all, or panache with her bow. I don’t know how he had the bare-faced cheek to suggest such a thing!’

  They were interrupted at that moment by the sound of someone entering the house, and a loud cry of, ‘Coo-ee, my poppet!’ A short, very fat man, in his mid-thirties, entered the room and, on seeing that Cameron was not alone, immediately exclaimed, ‘Oops-a-daisy!’ and covered his mouth with both hands. ‘I didn’t know we had company, ducky, sorry. I’m Oscar Littlechild, by the way.’

  ‘And do you live here too?’ Falconer leapt in with this question, thinking that the element of surprise might produce a more honest answer.

  ‘Yes! No!’

  ‘No! Yes!’

  They both answered simultaneously, then swapped answers, and then Cameron took another shot at it, and said, ‘Sometimes.’

  Falconer introduced himself and Carmichael, who had to fight his way out of his pseudo-yoga position to shake hands. At the sight of this, Falconer nearly lost control of his dignity, for the ‘glasshopper’-inspired words, ‘Herro, ritter Rotus Frower,’ had just appeared in his head, and he had to cough to cover his amusement.

  Littlechild hurled himself into one of the chairs, making it creak ominously, and McKnight scowled at this action in disapproval. Ignoring the silent admonishment completely, Oscar began to explain their situation, ignoring all the non-verbal signals from Cameron to the opposite.

  ‘I actually do live here with Cam – that’s pretty evident by the fact that my cats live here, too. By the way, where are my babies? Ooh, there you are, my pretty little darlings. Come to Mummy!’ All this was said with a complete lack of embarrassment, and he briefly turned his attention to a blue Burmese cat and its companion, a red-point Siamese, that were just sauntering into the room with a very arrogant and superior manner.

  ‘May I introduce you to Kelly Finn, and Petite Fleur: Kelly Finn’s the blue,’ he stated, smiling at the two detectives, adoration shining out of his eyes. ‘They live here with Uncle Cam while I’m on tour. I’m away a lot of the time, you see, because I’m in a travelling opera company, and we perform all over the world. I sing tenor – so, obviously, I get all the best arias. Ha ha! And ‘yar boo and sucks’ to all the silly old growly basses!

  ‘Come here and let Mummy cuddle you. Of course, the Burmese, more often than not, gets referred to as Figaro, as befits an opera singer’s pet, and my little flower is sometimes summoned by the name Madama Butterfly, aren’t you, my precious? We don’t often use your registered names, do we, because you’re my little opera darlings, and I wouldn’t have you any other way, would I?’ he concluded, lifting both cats on to the enormous paunch that did duty as his lap, and stroking them both devotedly.

  ‘So, what’s been going on, to bring the police to the house? Have you been out streaking again, Cam?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Oscar, or so flippant. These gentlemen might just believe one of your stupid comments, and it could cause all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘Oo, get you! What a bitch we are today!’

  At that point, Falconer rose from his chair, asked McKnight if he’d be good enough to call into the police station in Market Darley to sign a statement, requesting that Mr Littlechild come along too, just to confirm where he had been for the last few days.

  ‘Oh, that’s an easy one, dear heart. I got back a week ago, but I had some stuff to sort out with my agent up in town, so I put up there until we had everything signed and sealed, and pootled on down here today.’

  Falconer said that they’d let themselves out and, as they walked through the house to the front door, they could hear the sound of a hissed argument going on, Cameron making deep growling comments, Oscar’s squeaky tenor, throwing back teasing and facetious replies, refusing to take anything seriously.

  When they were out in the open once more, Falconer commented, ‘Talk about the odd couple!’

  ‘Laurel and Hardy, if you ask me,’ was Carmichael’s reply. ‘I bet they keep that one quiet.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed the inspector. I expect, to everyone else in the village, Oscar is just a musical chum, who pops in now and again for a bit of a holiday, and McKnight probably passes those cats off as his own.’

  ‘Durn right, sir!’

  III

  Next, it was back down Chopping Knife Lane and into the High Street where The Parsonage could be found. The vicar may not have been a member of the band, but he’d had quite a lot to do with Dashwood, and ought to be included in the questioning. As far as the other residents of Swinbury Abbot were concerned, Dashwood may never have existed, so reclusive was he, except for his musical obligations.

  PCs Green and Starr had been sent to make house-to-house enquiries along Honeysuckle Terrace and Columbine Cottages, as these had been his nearest neighbours, but Falconer doubted they would turn up anything of interest.

  The door of The Parsonage was opened by the vicar himself who, fortunately for him, had no wedding services to officiate at today, and they found him dressed in a similar vein to Carmichael. ‘Hello!’ he greeted them, took one look at the sergeant, and cried, ‘Snap!’ in a joyous voice. ‘We could be the Caribbean twins,’ he chuckled, inviting them into the substantial old building.

  ‘I’m afraid I was a bit wary about giving my full name last night, simply because it sounds so silly. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that the full monty is Reverend Christian Church – it wasn’t sense of humour on the part of my parents; more that my father, who was also in clerical orders, was determined that his son should follow in his footsteps, and I must admit, his plan worked. What else could I have done with a daft moniker like Christian Church? It makes me sound like a church in a non-Christian country as in, ‘Where’s the Christian church? ‘Down there on the left; you can’t miss it.’’

  ‘I see what you mean, Vicar,’ Falconer agreed, but I’m sure you serve your calling very dutifully. You realise why we’ve called here, don’t you?’

  ‘About that unfortunate business with Campbell Dashwood?’

  ‘Correct. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?’

  ‘I’m sorry; my manners seem to have gone astray. Come into my study where we’ll be both cool and private.’

  The vicar automatically placed himself behind his desk, and left the two detectives to settle themselves in the chairs that were placed on the other side of the desk, for the convenience of visitors there on parish matters.

  His wife, Olivia, popped her head round the door, and asked, ‘Can I get you a cold drink? I heard someone arrive, so I just thought I’d check. Am I righ
t in assuming that you’re the two policemen that Chris met last night?’

  ‘You are, my love,’ answered her husband, looking at her with adoring eyes.

  ‘Three shandies, then, is it?’ she said, checking that this was OK.

  ‘Only if they’re not too strong, Mrs Church. We do have to be very careful in our profession,’ Falconer advised her.

  ‘Oh, they’re mostly lemonade. There’s just a wee bit of beer in them, to give them a bit of taste,’ the vicar explained. ‘In my position, I have to be very careful as well. I can hardly turn up for a service reeking of booze and swaying around, now can I?’

  ‘Point taken! Now, we know that you weren’t a member of the village band, but we realise that you were probably the only other person in this village who had any conversation with Dashwood. I wonder if you can recall your meetings, and what they were about?’ the inspector asked him.

  ‘That’s a tough one. I speak to so many people in my job. Hmm; let me see. He came to see me shortly after he moved in, which wasn’t really very long ago, now I come to think about it. It just seems longer because of the amount of acrimony he caused.

  ‘Of course, he was all sweetness and light, when I met him. I had intended to call on him later that day, to welcome him to the parish, but he beat me to it. Anyway, we ended up talking about the band, and how it had no Musical Director, and that’s when he became really animated.

  ‘He gave me his life history in music, said he could back it all up with references and testimonials, and almost begged to be able to have a shot at the position. At that time, he seemed the answer to a prayer – but enough of that! I had no idea what sort of man he really was, and I, in all my innocence, arranged for him to go to the next band practice.

  ‘Myles made no demur, and I think the members were really looking forward to having someone in charge again – someone who could arrange music for them, who could write parts for instruments that lacked them, and to having a proper conductor for the first time in ages. And didn’t I prove to be the naive innocent? He went in like a lamb that evening, the only ‘bum note’ being that he was tee-total, and the members of the band are certainly not.

  ‘The next time he came to me … oh, excuse me a minute.’ Olivia had managed to open the door, and was now entering with three pint mugs on an old wooden tray, their outsides glistening with pearls of icy condensation which ran down their sides and made little puddles on the wood, and the vicar rose to relieve her of this heavy burden.

  As he did so, a large red setter trotted in on her heels, and made straight for Falconer, jumping up with his front legs, to plant them on the inspector’s shoulders.

  ‘Hey, don’t try to get on the inspector’s lap, you silly dog. Here, I’ll take the tray, and you get him out of the room, Liv. Sorry about that! That was, or is, our very spoilt and over-indulged dog, Chalice. He’s just so friendly, and he doesn’t seem to realise that not everyone is a dog-lover.’

  ‘I think it must be the other way round with me,’ Falconer remarked, brushing his front down. ‘They seem to love me, and aren’t backward in coming forward to demonstrate it.’

  ‘Liv will toss him out into the back garden now, so we shouldn’t be troubled again. Now, where was I? Cameron’s second visit: he came to see me again, concerned about Edmund holding the position of church organist. He seemed very distressed that the playing was inaccurate, and appeared to be anxious that the music should not be detrimental to the services.

  ‘That was when he offered himself as organist. I explained that it wasn’t a paid position, and that there would be weddings and funerals, which would be paid, but that the fee was derisory, but he was undeterred in his attempts to usurp Edward. I, again very naively, fell for his concern and pious attitude. In the light of what I heard later of his character, I have bitterly regretted both decisions, and intend to put things right as soon as possible, with, of course, the most abject of apologies to all concerned.

  ‘That’s about it, really. I’ve had various phone calls since then, from some very distressed and angry members of the band, but it took me a long time to see through the man. He must have taken me for an innocent abroad – I realise that doesn’t sound right, but you get my meaning.’

  ‘You mentioned going to visit Mr Dashwood, to welcome him to the parish,’ Falconer reminded him. ‘I know you didn’t go that time, but did you, at any other time, have occasion to visit his house?’

  ‘I’ve never seen the inside of it. The previous owners were Roman Catholic, so I wasn’t exactly on calling terms with them, and the owners before that left the parish before I came here. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you.’

  ‘Well then, that’s about it for today. I’d be grateful if you’d allow us to use your bathroom before we go. A pint of shandy can make matters a bit pressing, if you know what I mean,’ requested Falconer, aware of the pressure in his bladder, and sure that Carmichael must be beginning to feel a similar discomfort.

  ‘Be my guest. It’s right across the hall, by the kitchen door, and don’t worry about Chalice. He’s still banished to the garden.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday 17th July – late afternoon

  I

  A right turn, out of the other end of the High Street and into the Stoney Stile Road brought them straight to The Limes, which was situated just behind The Leathern Bottle. This afternoon, Gwendolyn Radcliffe was dealing with the weeds in her front borders, and eased herself slowly to her feet at the car’s approach.

  ‘Hello, there,’ she called, waving a mud-encrusted hand fork at them as they got out of the car. ‘We meet again! I was just thinking of taking a little break, so why don’t we go into the house, and I’ll put the kettle on,’ then, noticing Carmichael for the first time, asked, ‘And what have you come as today, young man?’

  Without waiting to see his reaction to this rather cheeky question, she preceded them into the house, pointed them in the direction of the living room, and disappeared into the kitchen to fulfil the task of preparing refreshments for them all.

  The room proved to be furnished with solid, good quality, old-fashioned pieces, and had the spick and span appearance of a room in a house that boasted only a single occupant. There was a large over-mantel mirror above the fireplace, and the walls were hung with pretty watercolours. It may have been very clean and tidy, but it was a homely room, and they felt welcomed by it.

  When they heard the sound of crockery tinkling, Carmichael got up, without a word, and left the room, appearing an instant later bearing a laden tray, saying over his shoulder, ‘Of course I couldn’t leave you to carry in such a heavy tray. My ma brought me up to have good manners, and I’ve never forgotten them.’

  ‘What a very nice young man,’ were Gwendolyn’s first words, when she let herself fall gratefully into a well upholstered, sturdy armchair. ‘So many young men these days have the most appalling manners – and foul mouths, too. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t. So nice to meet someone that reminds one of the old school!’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ chirped Carmichael, now her best friend, and Falconer was surprised not to see him attempt to tug a forelock, but he wouldn’t have had much luck there, as his hair had only been re-growing for a few weeks, and was only about half an inch long all over.

  There was a plate with slices of home-made cake on the tray, along with another of jam tarts; both very welcome, as it seemed a long time since they had sat in The Leathern Bottle.

  ‘I’ll be mother,’ Gwendolyn announced, ‘and you two help yourselves. I know how hungry young people get when they’re working.’ She certainly knew all the right things to say, after that original faux pas about Carmichael’s appearance. Now, she was a sweet old lady, pleased of the company, and to have someone with whom to share her afternoon tea.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come about what happened to that Dashwood chap?’ she enquired, putting down the teapot and helping herself to a jam tart. ‘I alwa
ys think the strawberry ones are the best,’ she commented, lifting the confection towards her mouth, ‘but I always make other flavours, just the same. Not everyone likes strawberries, and if they don’t, that makes all the more for greedy old me,’ and she smiled as she made these remarks. ‘Do tuck in, or it’ll only go to waste.’

  Falconer had already tucked in, having no one to cook for him, and relishing the opportunity to consume home-baked goodies. Carmichael now made haste to catch up with the inspector for, although he did have someone to bake for him, in the shape of his wife, Kerry, he was starving again, despite his enormous lunch. Feeding a Carmichael was an onerous task, which needed to be carried out several times a day.

  No mention of why they were here was made as they consumed their tea, as dictated by manners, and would have been terribly bad form. Falconer knew this from his upbringing, Carmichael from an innate instinct as to what was right, and what was unacceptable.

  When cups had been tidily put back on their saucers, having been drained for the second time, and tea plates were stacked next to them, Carmichael carried the tray back out to the kitchen before they began their questioning, but it was Gwendolyn who started it.

  ‘Isn’t it all too ghastly for words?’ she began. ‘I know he was an absolute pill, but nobody deserves to die like that; and in his own home, too. Have you nicked anybody for it yet?’ she concluded, suddenly slipping into modern-day slang, and looking embarrassed about doing it. ‘I believe that is the modern term for it, isn’t it – ‘nicked’?’

  ‘Yes, it is, and, no, we haven’t, to answer both of your questions succinctly,’ replied Falconer, keeping an eye on Carmichael, to check he wasn’t falling asleep after food, the way snakes and babies do. ‘The reason we called on you today was to ask you if you had ever visited Mr Dashwood’s property, or seen anything of him, between Sunday lunchtime and Friday evening.’

  This really was getting repetitive now, but as he always told Carmichael when the latter said he was bored, being a detective wasn’t about car chases and summoning armed response teams. It was about routine – asking the same questions over and over again, and writing up the reports, hoping that something jumped out at you. Sometimes you got a lucky break, but the greater part of the job was shoe leather (or tyre rubber) and paper and ink, and he shouldn’t let anyone persuade him any differently. He gave himself his own well-rehearsed little lecture now, and leaned forward politely to hear Mrs Radcliffe’s response.