Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts! I’m compiling a catalogue for the viewers, and all the screens are numbered, as you can see. If you move Mrs Carstairs’ paintings, not only will the viewers not know where hers are, but they won’t know who yours are by, when they do find them.’ This was not strictly true, as the exhibits wouldn’t be listed in order until after all of them had been hung, but it was a pretty clever way to stop the in-fighting.

  ‘I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you?’ sneered Lionel Fitch, eyeing up the disputed space, his pastel works in a tidy pile at his feet.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do,’ Sadie replied, then muttered under her breath, ‘And there’s no point whatsoever in making that sign at me, or that face, Mr Fitch. You’d better take care the wind doesn’t change, otherwise it’ll be awfully difficult for you to shave yourself in the morning,’ she threatened, voice raised once more.

  II

  Minty Wingfield-Heyes had awoken with one of those hangovers that go through two stages. At first, you just wish you could die, you feel so awful. Then, as you get up and about, the second stage sets in; the one where you wish you had died, because nothing could be worse than this.

  At first she had felt as sick as a dog; then she was. Two cups of black coffee and a piece of dry toast also made an encore appearance, and it wasn’t until after a really long, hot shower, and two painkillers, that she felt human enough to get dressed and give breakfast another try, this time with a little more success. Never again, she vowed, would she get that drunk. Never again! If she hadn’t woken up at all that morning, it would probably have been a relief, the way she had felt.

  Feeling slightly more human, she decided to take a stroll – slowly – down to the village hall and see how everything was going. She had left her house ready for inspection the previous evening, when she had gone over to Sadie’s, and if she kept herself out of it, it would stay that way until tomorrow, when those on the Artists Trail would (she hoped) start to arrive.

  It wasn’t just she and Sadie who had decided to display at home, a few others – mainly the more untrusting artists who were the most covetous of their handiwork – had taken the opportunity to display from home as well, and there would be a little map prepared, showing the houses participating, the artist, and the type of work on display.

  As she approached The Old Barn she became aware that there was a large removals lorry parked outside, partially blocking the roadway, and an unknown car in the drive. It was a Tuscan TVR with a personalised number-plate – R7 MEW, and she wondered whose it was. The Old Barn had stood empty for some months, and it now appeared that, during this time, it had found a new owner.

  Her curiosity was soon to be satisfied for, at the rear of the removals truck, peering helplessly through its open doors, was the figure of a compact and rather elderly gentleman. Bidding him good morning, and asking if she had the pleasure of addressing the village’s newest resident, Minty offered her hand. At the sound of her voice, the figure turned and fixed her with his blue eyes, smiling out from behind a pair of rimless glasses.

  Taking her hand and, instead of shaking it, raising it to his rather thin lips, he kissed it. ‘Marcus Willoughby at your service, delightful young lady.’ His face seemed to radiate bonhomie as he said this, and Minty did a split-second job of sizing him up. ‘About five-eight,’ she thought, ‘white hair, number five cut; silly little triangle of bristle beneath his bottom lip; just beginning to paunch up and go to seed a bit; oh, and a gold stud in his left ear. And I believe he’s probably a bit of an old flirt; thinks he’s charming.’

  She took in these details so quickly that there was hardly a hesitation before she returned his smile and withdrew her hand slightly uncomfortably, resisting the urge to wipe the back of it on her cardigan sleeve. ‘Aren’t you that radio chappie?’ she asked, his name finally ringing a loud and urgent bell in her mind.

  ‘The very same: Marcus Willoughby, otherwise known as the “Village Culture Vulture” – stalwart of Radio Carsfold,’ he informed her, slightly exaggerating his importance, but not giving a fig.

  ‘Then you must be the one who’s going to cover our little village Festival.’

  ‘Absolutely right, dear lady, and I believe it opens tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right, but they’re setting up at the moment. Would you like to come and have a look and, maybe, a cup of tea? I should think you’re parched, with all this moving lark, what? Or am I disturbing you – I’m so sorry. I’ll leave you in peace to get on with whatever you were going to do.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. I was just looking for the box with my kettle and tea and coffee things in it, but, as I can detect neither hide nor hair of it, lead on – lead on, and make an old man very happy,’ he replied, and, tucking her right arm snugly under his left so that he would be on the road side of the little pavement, he led her down towards the High Street towards the village hall.

  ‘What a dreadful old smarm-pot,’ she thought, as she bobbed along at his side, all thoughts of her hangover completely forgotten. ‘I can’t wait to show him off to Yodelling Fiona – she’ll have a cow. Tall, dark and handsome, my arse!’

  III

  They entered the village hall to the strains of a loud and emotional argument being carried out at the front of the hall in the performance area, several voices raised in acute and angry distress.

  ‘You’ve hogged most of the practice time this week, you selfish bitch, and I need to get my instrument set up to try the acoustics.’ This was Camilla Markland, and she yelled this in defence of her harp, which was now in place, next to where she stood in combat.

  ‘No I haven’t, you stupid old witch,’ Lydia Culverwell screamed back at her. ‘I’ve hardly been able to set foot in here due to Fiona bloody Pargeter, who can’t seem to sing at home because of her interrupting, needy little brats.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ shrilled Fiona Pargeter. ‘Firstly, how dare you say that my kids are brats. They are exceptionally well-behaved, and they are not needy. And secondly, don’t you dare blame me for taking up all the time in the hall. Delia’s been here too, with her flute; Felicity, Christobel, and Hugh have all been here practising their readings, and Serena’s been here too, running through her dance routine. Haven’t you dear?’ she finished, making an appeal for support to Serena Lyddiard, who had been patiently waiting her turn for control of the performance area, but was now nowhere in sight.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit if the Archbishop of bloody Canterbury has been in here pole-dancing. I need to practise, and I need to practise now.’ Camilla had undoubtedly won the fight she had been spoiling for, having being prepared, if necessary, for hair-pulling, face-scratching bloody war.

  ‘Oh, get stuffed, you foul-mouthed cow!’ Fiona threw her final squib, and marched away from the battlefield, only to run, full-tilt, into Minty Wingfield-Heyes, who had a slimy-looking old git in tow.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fiona, and how are we today?’ Minty positively trilled, as she disengaged her arm from her companion’s and prepared to make introductions.

  ‘Bloody awful, if you must know. And who’s this? If it’s some other artist looking for space, there is none; and, what’s more, he should have called weeks ago, and not left it to the very last minute,’ she trumpeted indignantly; she had no time for people who didn’t plan ahead.

  ‘No, no, Fiona, you’re very much in the wrong. May I introduce you to Marcus Willoughby? Mr Willoughby, this is Mrs Fiona Pargeter, to whom, if I am not mistaken, you have already had the pleasure of speaking, on the telephone.’

  Fiona’s face drained of colour, her mouth gaped, and her eyes popped, as if in an effort to follow her lower jaw. Her embarrassment was fortunately, however, short-lived, as someone at the rear of the hall had turned up the volume to maximum on a radio that had been murmuring away to itself for some time. Marcus’s voice could be heard, booming around the enclosed space, announcing the forthcoming Arts Festival in Stoney Cross, which wou
ld commence on the morrow.

  As the broadcast droned on, lamenting the demise of village businesses and rural bus services, all, in the broadcaster’s opinion, due to commuters, incomers, weekenders and supermarket giants, and was superseded by Verdi’s ‘Dies Irae’, chosen by the presenter as piece number one in today’s edition of his show, many who had been listening returned to their previous activities, and the low buzz of conversation began to swell in volume.

  Above all the noise, however, was a thought – a thought in so many minds, that it should have boomed above all the chatter. ‘No! It can’t be! Not after all this time!’

  IV

  A number of people had left the hall before Minty could continue with her introductions. Delia Jephcott had put her flute away in its case and left by the back exit door, excusing herself by saying she would get much more practice done if she went home, but she looked slightly shifty as she gave her reason for departing.

  Camilla Markland, after a hasty glance in Minty’s direction, turned beetroot-red and abandoned the battle, slinking away from her beloved harp and heading in the same direction that Delia had. She felt nauseous and shocked, and wanted nothing more than to retreat home to get her thoughts in order.

  Serena Lyddiard had also made her exit before Marcus could be properly introduced, making her exit shortly after the radio programme had started to boom round the hall. She was at home now, swathing her right ankle and heel in bandages. She couldn’t dance now, not after what had just happened. She’d better leave a message on Fiona’s answerphone telling her that, as she had sprained her ankle quite severely, she could not perform. That was the best plan – after all, she didn’t want them running round here when they had so much to do before tomorrow.

  Even the vicar’s wife had joined the general exodus after she had been introduced to Marcus, finding her husband and informing him that she had a sick headache, and wanted to lie down in a darkened room before it developed into a full-blown migraine. She looked so pale and wretched that her husband agreed with her, and shooed her off anxiously, promising to bring her a cup of mint tea when he got home.

  Adella Ravenscastle moved with surprising speed for one in her condition, but her pace was just trying to keep up with her thoughts. She knew that face. She could never forget that face. What on earth was she going to say to her sister, Meredith? How was she going to explain to her sister that the man who had mown down her only daughter (Adella’s ten-year-old niece, Maria), was actually in Stoney Cross? That he was now resident in Benedict’s parish? And what would Benedict say when he saw the man again, and realised why she had left so precipitously?

  How would she ever be able to look that man in the face, without him seeing the hatred in her eyes? She knew that Benedict would ask her to search her heart for forgiveness, but she couldn’t; she just couldn’t. It was nearly eight years ago now, but it still disturbed her sleep and haunted her dreams. She might be wicked for not forgiving him, but how much more wicked was he, in that he had taken an innocent life, and just carried on living his own? She really did have a headache now, and headed straight for the bedroom when she reached The Vicarage.

  During this busy early period, Marcus had suddenly wheeled round, as his eye had caught the toss of a familiar head, a walk he had thought he recognised. ‘Hey!’ he had shouted. ‘Hoy!’ but there had been no response. Shaking his head sorrowfully, he realised that he must have been mistaken.

  But, just for a moment there, he had been so sure.

  V

  Back in the village hall, Fiona Pargeter had recovered her dignity, had meekly accepted another, more civilised introduction to Maurice Willoughby, and was blustering about improvised drama (to explain the shouting match), and how some of them often had a go at it in public, just to see what reaction they would get. But she was unconvincing, and Minty had to turn away for a moment to wipe away her grin, using her handkerchief as a handy prop. If Fiona could drivel on about non-existent am-dram, then she could use her hanky for a bit of ‘business’.

  ‘You really must excuse our little japes, Mr Willoughby. I suppose some of us can never quite suppress the “inner child”,’ Fiona explained, actually using an improvisation of her own, with which to extricate herself from this embarrassing situation. She followed it with an attempt at her tinkling, musical-box laugh [more like an ice-cream van, in my opinion!], but it didn’t come off, and had a jarring note in it, as if some of the little metal teeth had become distorted and out of tune.

  ‘Don’t give it a second thought, my dear Ms Pargeter. I quite understand,’ he soothed, while Minty reached, once again, for her handkerchief, as her thoughts ran more along the line of petty playground squabbles, hair-pulling, pinching and biting.

  ‘By the way, Mr Willoughby …’

  ‘Do call me Marcus.’

  ‘Thank you so much, and you must call me Fiona.’ (She can’t think she’s got away with it, can she? thought Minty. For sheer, brazen cheek, she certainly took the biscuit.)

  ‘Thank you so much … Marcus. I was just wondering, how did you manage to be on the radio just now, when we could see you standing in here? I know things like music are just flicked on, and that can be done by anyone, but it sounded as if you were broadcasting live – no script or anything.’

  ‘Simple, my dear,’ Marcus began, as several pairs of ears pricked up to learn this handy little trick, and it would, no doubt, be common knowledge in every household before the end of the day.

  ‘I use a small recorder to make notes on, if I’m reporting something like this. Then, later, when I can get on to my lap-top, I use the scribbled notes I’ve made, from what I recorded earlier, select a suitable sound programme, and just talk away. I can then convert it to the form necessary for the radio station, send it to them – and just leave them to get on with it.’

  ‘But that’s ingenious. Not having to show up at a set time or day, no script-writing, and not even a telephone call?’

  ‘And you get paid for this?’

  ‘Correct! Good, isn’t it?’

  More like money for old rope, thought Minty, and started to steer him round the hall to meet more of his new neighbours in Stoney Cross.

  After a few more introductions, Minty realised that the crowd had thinned somewhat, and led the broadcaster to the trestle tables for the cup of tea she had promised him quite some while ago. Adella had already deserted her post, and Rev Ravenscastle had tottered off with a jug to the cloakroom for more water for the urns. It was, therefore, Squirrel who looked up brightly to see who wanted to be served.

  As she looked at her customers, her gaze homed in on Marcus’s face, and the smile was wiped from hers, to be replaced with a mask of rage and hatred. ‘It’s you, you bloody old devil! It’s you! You killed my Bubble, and I’ll have your hide for it, you snivelling cowardly toad.’ As she finished her tirade, Squirrel had grasped a knife, on the table for the purpose of cutting cakes, and was inching her arthritic form from behind her work station.

  Grabbing his arm, Minty fairly galloped out into the open air, pulling him in her wake, and headed in the general direction of The Old Barn. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked, breathless, as she dragged him along.

  ‘Did you ever have an accident in Carsfold where you killed a dog?’

  ‘For a moment, his face was sweatily pallid, but began to regain its colour on the word ‘dog’.

  ‘I’m afraid I did. Quite a few months back, now – I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Well, you’ve just met its owner,’ puffed Minty. ‘That little dog was her Bubble, and she’s still got his brother, Squeak. I should keep away from dark alleyways, if I were you. Did you see how quick she was picking up that knife?’

  ‘I did; and I will! I really don’t fancy getting sliced up for this lot, to be discussed with a refreshing brew while they bitch their way around the exhibits.’

  ‘You’d better believe it, brother. It’s the truth!’

  ‘I must confess, I didn’
t think that meeting the neighbours would be such a stressful experience,’ he admitted, then drooped the lid of his right eye in Minty’s direction, in a lazy wink. ‘But never mind, I expect I’ll get over it.’

  VI

  Squirrel Horsfall-Ertz had also fled the hall, shortly after the man she now thought of as ‘the murderer’. Almost dragging Squeak in her wake, she rushed home to Church Cottage, making straight for the back garden, where she knelt, slowly and painfully, beside a little grave with the name ‘Bubble’ lightly scratched on a stone at its head. Drooping her shoulders and letting her head fall forward, she wept, sobbing incoherent threats of revenge and grief.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, 4th September – evening

  I

  After making one room sane and comfortable, and preparing his bed for the night, Marcus Willoughby strolled down to The Inn on the Green for some strengthening refreshment, and a bit more local colour. He had a feeling he was going to like it here. It hadn’t been very nice when that old hag had had a go at him, but she looked, to him, like the local nut-case. They should keep a better eye on her, and not let her near any sharp implements in the future, in his opinion. And he would do his very best to avoid her if he ever saw her in the street, he decided with a discernable nod of his head. Apart from her, he thought he might just have some fun here.

  Settling down with his drink, trying to soak up the atmosphere, he found himself unintentionally listening in on the conversation of two young women at a nearby table then, as the conversation progressed, eavesdropping intentionally. Wasn’t this sort of thing meat and drink to him? Didn’t it just breathe life and authenticity into his programmes? He really fancied himself as an anecdotist, and was determined to further his public standing in that respect.

  ‘Come on, Trace, yer know why we come on this little holiday – to try and find some rural totty wiv a bit of dosh. How’re yer gonna do that if yer don’t wear shorts? That was the whole point of the treatments, long, brahn, luscious legs.’