Honey put her head on his shoulder and smiled to herself. ‘You seem to have brought the storms with you, Pops,’ she said as a way of changing the subject, and catching sight of the threatening sky which was now darkening with the hour.’
‘You sure right about dat. We get us some really good storms back home.’
‘I could have done without one on my wedding day.’ As he swirled her round, there were some flickers of lightning on the horizon.
Back in the small library, Jefferson Grammaticus’ arrival with a ratsy little woman in waitress’s uniform was sudden, due to the opulence and thickness of the stair carpet. Giving her a good looking up and down, Falconer presumed that, if the owner was playing the game as before, this was another of his old lags. He only employed them because they could live in and he could pay them peanuts – maximum control.
The owner’s face grew red with suppressed laughter as he surveyed his transformed specimens of law and order, and he managed to bluster out an introduction, wherein they learnt that the scrawny woman was Mrs Alice Reynolds, and Falconer had to stop himself asking what she had done time for.
‘Do you understand what we want to question you about, Mrs Reynolds?’ he asked, as the ever-attentive Grammaticus put down two notepads on the table around which the detectives were seated, along with a handful of pencils.
‘I didn’t think you’d have come prepared,’ he oozed, with an oily smile.
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ Falconer thanked him as the little woman piped up,
‘Mr G here, he told us as the old vicar of St Jude’s had been done away with.’
‘That is correct. Did you know Reverend Aurelius Snipe?’
‘Never set eyes on the gentleman, to my knowledge. I’m not a great church goer, though, and I do have to work most Sundays.’
I bet you do, Falconer thought, then asked, ‘Did you have any reason to go into the little room off the banqueting hall where the wedding cake was placed for safe-keeping?’ The last few words almost stuck in his throat. Some safe-keeping!
‘No. We’re not susposeder go in there lest Mr Grammaticus asks us special.’
‘So, you’re saying that you neither knew the gentleman of the cloth involved nor entered this room?’
‘Thass right.’
‘And you work here as a waitress?’
‘Thass right.’
‘Would you please give your full name and address to this gentleman here before you leave,’ he concluded rather lamely, indicating Carmichael, who instantly picked up a pencil and pad and went over to the door to receive the details of this rather sparse interview.
‘I’ll send the next one up,’ Grammaticus hissed, ‘to save my poor legs.’
Shortly after Alice Reynolds had left, an enormously fat man entered, wearing the uniform of a waiter. ‘And you are?’ asked the inspector.
‘Peter, uh, huh, Brown,’ he puffed, having been partially defeated by his climb up to the first floor.
It was the same negative interview as before, followed by another five similar, when there was an almighty boom of thunder and Jefferson Grammaticus burst into the room completely out of breath.
For a moment they couldn’t hear what he said for the lashing of the rain against the window panes, but he eventually gathered himself together and raised his voice. ‘I think I know who’s responsible,’ he declared dramatically. ‘Don’t ask any questions at the moment or we may lose him.’
‘Who?’ asked Falconer, thoroughly surprised that Grammaticus claimed to have discovered the culprit.
Still huffing and puffing a bit, the man continued, ‘Chris Longford. He’s in charge of our brick-built vegetable store – keeps them remarkably fresh for longer, you know - and I think he may have gone to ground there. We have to go now before he decides he needs to take off further afield. Chef says he’s heard some noises coming from in there, but we have to act fast.
‘Oh, and I think we ought to bring things to closure soon, as your soldier laddies are getting a bit lively.’ Falconer had completely forgotten about his old comrades-in-arms and resolved to have a word or two with them if he had time, before they left.
The detectives rose with alacrity and followed the tubby figure back to the ground floor. They then entered the kitchen and Grammaticus pointed to a rough wooden door in the back wall. ‘That’s the entrance from here,’ he whispered, and the rest of the staff fell silent. ‘Just carry on as usual or he might notice the silence and be alerted,’ the man hissed at his kitchen staff.
In the banqueting hall, Honey had been standing at a pair of French windows at the rear of the hall, looking out at the lashing rain and the trees swaying violently in the wind. She’d really been lucky today. There had been someone to meet her at the church with a huge golfing umbrella, and the weather had cleared by the time they had come out of the church and made their way to The Manse. Except for the unfortunate incident with the blood which her new husband had taken care of, she was, so far, in fine fettle, appearance-wise.
Back in the kitchen the hum of conversation had started up again, and Falconer held a finger up to his lips, then whispered, ‘After three. One, two, three,’ at which point the three policeman and the portly owner charged through the door, or at least tried to. It didn’t open inwards, but outwards, and there was a very slight delay as this was sorted out. When it stood open, ‘Falconer shouted, ‘Police! Stay where you are.’
But there was already an opening on to the now dark grounds letting in the sound of the tempest, and they caught sight of a figure fleeing from the building. ‘Hell and damnation!’ growled Grammaticus. ‘I should have warned you that there was access directly from outside so that the vegetables could be put in there.’
Falconer smacked a hand to his forehead in frustration, thinking that if the man had only thought a little bit more about it, they could have had this exit covered as well, with the intimidating sight of the enormous Carmichael in striped pyjamas. ‘Charge!’ he roared, and the four of them set off in pursuit.
The lightning was so relentless that it gave a strobe effect as Honey saw the fleeing procession across the grass, and suddenly she saw red. She recognised her husband and the other two policemen, now apparently in fancy dress, and realised that he and others were probably chasing a man who had callously committed a murder resulting in the ruination of her beautiful wedding cake – female logic, accurate, if flawed.
Through the red mist, she also felt a great wave of protectiveness roll over her, opened the door and went plunging out after them. The man could easily be armed, and she sure as hell wasn’t becoming a widow on her wedding day.
At the sound of the French windows being wrenched open, a lot of eyes turned in that direction and, almost immediately, a crowd began to form to see what was going on. Just as Tomlinson was thinking that this was very like a Benny Hill Show chase sequence, he caught his foot on what turned out to be the edge of a recently denuded flower bed waiting for fresh summer planting, and went sprawling on the sodden mud with a yelp of disgust. And in his best trackie.
At a particularly loud crash of thunder, it was Carmichael to the rescue, as he launched himself into a rugby tackle which, given his failure in the sport, was remarkably successful, and he brought the man down. And boy, did he have length and reach. The fleeing fugitive hadn’t stood a chance.
All four clustered round his prone body as Honey screeched to a halt. ‘What the hell are you doing out in this?’ asked Falconer, before he could stop himself, such was the result of the adrenaline surging round his body
‘I could ask the same of you,’ she replied defiantly, her chin in the air in indignation.
‘I’ve been apprehending a murderer,’ he explained in a considerably calmer voice.
Honey burst into tears as Jefferson Grammaticus said he’d secure the man in one of the hotel’s many rooms, making sure that there was no way out for him. Carmichael and Tomlinson, along with the now long-suffering manager, led the culprit
away, while Falconer led his bride back to the banqueting hall, where there was a line of faces pressed against the glass to get a better view of the unexpected excitement.
The party broke up shortly after that and, an hour later, those involved were sitting in a little snug in front of a log gas fire, steaming gently, with mugs of hot chocolate in their hands. The prisoner had been taken into official custody, and there was a SOCO team crawling all over the place, Imogen and Kerry and the kids had driven home, and even Mr and Mrs Dubois had finally left. Honey had been brought up to date with events shortly after the man had been apprehended and had had the appropriate fit of hysterics, but was now thoroughly recovered.
‘A fine job I made of preserving my wedding dress, going out in that storm,’ she said ruefully, ‘and after all my efforts earlier on in the day.’ Falconer raised a sympathetic eyebrow in her direction before turning to the owner of the joint and asking conversationally.
‘Another of your old lags, Grammaticus?’
‘A rather sad case, actually,’ replied the man. ‘I stayed with him before he was officially arrested, to keep guard over him, and he told me all about it. Apparently, after he’d married what he thought was the girl of his dreams, she started to play around, and when he taxed her about it, she beat him up. He was a very slight man, and she was a fit woman.
‘This went on for a couple of years, her unfaithfulness and the beatings. Eventually he snapped and killed her, but after the social and psychiatric reports had been submitted to the judge, he went easy on him as he said he’d been clearly provoked and had suffered greatly while the marriage lasted. He only got a light sentence, and then he came here.’
‘Don’t tell me!’ exclaimed Falconer. ‘It was Reverend Snipe who carried out the wedding service?’
‘Spot on, Inspector. As he’d brooded over the years in his cell, he felt that the clerical gentleman was to blame for the whole sorry history. If the vicar had never turned up for the wedding, none of it would ever have happened and he’d probably be with someone kind now, with a couple of kids. He felt his life had been stolen or hijacked in some way and this man had to pay for it. When he saw the vicar entering the hotel today, he was on temporary waiting duty, and he resolved there and then to get his revenge for the perceived wrong.’
‘Blancmange is a dish best served cold,’ intoned Carmichael in a serious voice.
‘That’s revenge, you twit,’ Falconer corrected him.
‘Same number of syllabubs,’ quipped Tomlinson, suddenly revealing himself as a closet wit and making Honey chuckle, but Grammaticus wasn’t paying any attention. His mind was still on the departed member of staff.
‘Actually, bloody cheek: as they took him off he said he’d be glad to get back to prison, as life in there was easier than working here. The hours were shorter, the work wasn’t so taxing, and there was more freedom. I have no idea what he was talking about.’
Falconer covered his mouth with his hand to suppress a chuckle, knowing what he did about Grammaticus as an employer. Chris Longford was probably telling nothing more than the plain, unvarnished truth.
‘Poor, deluded individual,’ sighed Honey.
‘You try telling that to Reverend Aurelius Snipe,’ Falconer replied with a rueful expression. ‘And your poor dress.’
‘As long as it wasn’t you, Harry. Actually, this sounds like a job for me.’
‘You’re officially on wedding leave, Mrs F. Now, what about this bridal suite were supposed to be occupying?’ he asked with a wink. It was their wedding night, after all, and bridal suites didn’t come cheap at this hotel.
THE END
This was the last thing that Andrea wrote before being taken ill and I know that she was happy to get Falconer married off. I would like to thank all her loyal fans for making the Falconer Files such a success and I take much comfort from knowing that she gave so many people pleasure and indeed continues to give new readers pleasure.
Tony Frazer
6th June 2017.
All Hallows
Andrea Frazer
Harry Falconer is summoned to an address in Carsfold on the evening of 31st October when a man is found dead in his garden, a hollowed-out pumpkin jammed over his head, and his garden shed blown-up and fire-damaged. Carmichael is immediately summoned to join him and, together, they interrogate the victim’s neighbours, uncovering a plethora of damaged and broken relationships, in their search for his killer.
For more information about Andrea Frazer
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017
ISBN 9781786152183
Copyright © Andrea Frazer 2017
The right of Andrea Frazer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
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