‘He didn’t like it, I assume?’ This was going to run and run, this theme, Falconer thought. Having listened to the podcast of the programme, he wondered in how many other households he would be told exactly the same thing. Although he and Carmichael had compared lists in the car, it had never crossed his mind to actually count the number of people who’d been cut to ribbons by Willoughby’s tongue, but he guessed he’d know the answer to that one before the day was out.
‘He hated it! Of course, I knew it wasn’t really any good, but she’s so insecure, I thought that her poetry would give her some self-confidence; some self-worth. How stupid could I be? I could have cut out my own tongue when she said she was going to read a selection of her poems for this bloody Festival and, short of pushing her down the stairs and putting her in hospital, I couldn’t see any way to stop her.
‘I could hardly have told her the truth. She would have seen that as a betrayal by the person she trusted most in the world. I feel like an absolute heel. I should have done something – anything – to prevent her making a fool of herself in public. I can see another course of anti-depressants looming on the horizon, if Dr Christmas is obliging enough to prescribe them.
‘I thought she’d coped with it when she said she was going to write a book and kill the bugger off in it, but she lost all confidence in her abilities again, when she realised the complexities of plotting such a long work, after just producing a little light verse, and we’re back to square one now.’
‘I see your predicament,’ Falconer sympathised, trying not to interrupt the flow of the words too much.
‘If it had just been a village affair – no bloody broadcasting outsider with improbably high expectations …’
‘I don’t think it was high expectations that made Mr Willoughby say what he did, Falconer interrupted, in an effort to offer support and comfort. ‘From what I’ve learnt of his character, I think it was just sheer spite, denigrating other people’s efforts in areas where he couldn’t hope to compete. It seemed that insult and contumely were his only two talents.’ This was a longer speech than Falconer had intended, but Christobel had looked so frail, and her sobs could still be heard, a muted background to their conversation.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jeremy apologised again, ‘but she’s a complete wreck, yesterday’s programme almost sending her over the edge. Her nerve just broke. She actually threw the radio across the room and stamped on it, so distressed was she, and I had to put her to bed with a sleeping pill before she’d even heard what he had to say about her. She was so scared of hearing him criticise her, that she just descended into hysterics.’
There seemed to be nothing here for them, in Falconer’s opinion, and they said their goodbyes, the sobbing still emanating from upstairs as they left the property.
It was now well past noon, and they returned to The Inn on the Green for a bite to eat, and to check whether Summer Leighton had turned up yet. Food, they found; the discoverer of the body, they did not.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, 12th September – afternoon#
I
After their pie and chips (no Chicken Kiev, Falconer had decided, as he was determined to call on Serena later, and did not want to fell her with his garlic breath), they parked outside Blacksmith’s Cottage in Church Lane, to have a word with the Marklands. Camilla had given a less than enthusiastically received harp recital at the Festival, and he wanted to gauge her reaction to Marcus’s critique of it. Would she be wounded, as Christobel had been, offended, as some others were, or would she not give a tuppenny damn? Surely there was someone in this community who wasn’t as thin-skinned as most of the others he had spoken to?
But, it was not to be. When they settled into yet another living room, Camilla’s eyes were red and swollen, and Gregory’s face displayed a thunderous expression, promising stormy times, either just ahead, or in the recent past.
Camilla, like Christobel before her, could not rouse herself to speech, and left all the talking to Gregory, watching him with an anxious expression as he did so. ‘Camilla just had a bit of a problem with her instrument – nothing wrong with that. She’s a very accomplished musician, and has given many recitals in the past – haven’t you, my dearest?’ There was scorn and resentment in this quest for confirmation, and Camilla merely nodded, before dropping her gaze towards her hands, which twisted and twined in her lap, as if giving expression to her barely suppressed desire to escape from the situation.
Waiting for no answer from his wife, Gregory continued, ‘Camilla’s very obliging when her talents are being sought, aren’t you, my love?’
The sub-text was unreadable, but Falconer had to give it a go. ‘Had either of you met Mr Willoughby before last week?’
‘No.’ A barely audible negative issued from behind Camilla’s concealing curtain of brittle, bleached hair.
‘No!’ Gregory’s answer was almost a shout, and he clapped a hand to his mouth in an effort to stop himself saying more.
‘Are you both absolutely sure of that?’ Falconer was aware that he was being lied to, and in a very obvious and inexpert manner, but he wasn’t going to push it today. He’d rather wait – let them stew in their own juice for a while, knowing that he knew they were hiding something.
‘Yes.’ Their answers were simultaneous, and in as normal a tone as they could summon up. Falconer nodded at Carmichael, who put his notebook back into his inner jacket pocket and stood up.
‘We won’t take up any more of your valuable time today, but I may need to come back to ask you some more questions.’ And that was that. They marched out of the house and back to the car without another word, or a backward glance.
Back in the car, Falconer spoke. ‘What do you think, Carmichael?’ It would be good to have another opinion on what he thought of the situation.
‘I still think I’d like a parrot, sir. A cat or dog’s all right, but not so exotic …’ He trailed off as he turned and saw Falconer’s expression. ‘Sorry, sir! What do I think about what?’
‘Oh, never mind! Where are we going next?’
II
Hugo and Felicity Westinghall ushered them into The Old Rectory, the former with a smile, the latter with a wince of pain, instantly suppressed. Their two children were sent out into the garden to play while Falconer conducted his questioning, lest little ears … etc.
Falconer knew damned well that in the secret world of children, there was more information than their parents would believe, and half of which they didn’t know themselves, but if this couple hadn’t learnt that yet he was not going to educate them. The little devils would be innocently hanging about, within listening distance, but looking totally uninterested, while they filed away any useful information to share with their friends and gloat over.
There was, however, little to learn here, except the inevitable distress caused by Willoughby with regard to Felicity’s reading. The only surprise, which wasn’t really a surprise at all, as they had listened to the recorded programme, was Hugo’s unexpected singling-out for praise. But this was batted away from the conversation, Hugo keeping his eye constantly on his wife, should she show any adverse reaction or jealousy.
She rallied, however, towards the end of the visit. The fact that Marcus was dead probably helped to reboot her self-delusion for, just before they were thinking of leaving, she chipped in with, ‘I’m sure the man was an intellectual moron, no appreciation of the arts and the finer things in life, I fear,’ and smiled a watery smile at the three of them.
Having spoken, she now seemed to find it hard to stop, and told them of the vicar’s visit to Squirrel during the week, and of the parlous state in which he had found both her and her little dog. This, she followed up with a graphic description of Marcus’s unexpected drenching at the refreshment tables on Sunday, (with Hugo butting in self-importantly to inform them of the incident with the knife), the reason for Squirrel’s fury, and the poor woman’s profound grief.
It had, initially seemed a p
ointless visit, but had produced, at the end, this cascade of information, mentioned by nobody else so far, and was grist to their mill.
III
Lydia Culverwell, at Journey’s End, confirmed what Felicity had told them, but apart from a vicious diatribe on the state of the piano in the village hall, and the difficulties she had encountered trying to practise on ‘that ill-tuned device from hell’, she had nothing more to offer, and they left her in peace, no new ideas to chew over.
‘I wonder if that old lady was batty enough to have another go at Willoughby,’ Falconer wondered out loud, referring to the information they had gleaned from Felicity Westinghall.
‘I understand people can get as fond of pets as they can of kids,’ Carmichael contributed, thinking of Kerry’s two boys.
‘They certainly can.’ Falconer was picturing his darling Mycroft, lying dead on the road, and tears came unexpectedly to his eyes. Damn it! he thought. This ridiculous over-sentimentality is all due to Serena and the way she makes me feel. I really need to get a grip. But at the thought of the object of his desire, he was transported back to the pink and fluffy world that surrounded her memory for him, and in which there were perambulators and pink-cheeked amber-eyed cherubs, with the same honey-coloured hair as their mother.
‘… to next, sir?’
‘Pardon, Carmichael?’ God, he’d got it bad, he decided, as he hauled his thoughts back to the here and now and the job in hand.
‘I just asked where you wanted to go next, sir,’ Carmichael said, giving his superior what passed from him as a worried look, but would have looked more like a grimace to anybody else. ‘Do you want to go straight to this Miss Horseyfill-Airs woman?’
‘That’s Horsfall-Ertz, Carmichael, and no, I don’t. We’ll call at The Haven and Starlings’ Nest while we’re up this way.’
‘And at Ms Lyddiard’s?’ Carmichael wanted to get the route straight in what he thought of as his mind.
‘Definitely not!’ Falconer declared, in a rather too vehement way. ‘We’ll leave her till last,’ and was unaware that he was straightening his tie and running his hand over his hair as he spoke.
IV
Fiona Pargeter, as the original summoner of Marcus Willoughby, did have the conscience to display a little guilt at her part in setting up the tragedy, and she greeted them at the door with a crestfallen countenance, beckoning for them to follow her through to the conservatory, where Rollo was reading a newspaper.
‘I had no idea what the consequences would be,’ she began in explanation, after the necessary introductions had been made. ‘I thought it would be so good to get a bit of publicity, and if we got a good review, it would be a good foundation on which to build – to, perhaps, make this an annual affair.’ Here she shuddered, and looked to Rollo for support. He acknowledged her mute appeal, and nodded for her to go on.
‘I had no idea the man already had so many enemies in Stoney Cross, nor did I realise that he would make so many new ones when he arrived. I do feel, in part, responsible, but then, he was moving into The Old Barn anyway.’
‘Precisely!’ exclaimed her husband. ‘If he’d had nothing to do with the Festival, it wouldn’t have been long before somebody got to him. I keep telling Fi that this has less to do with her actions, and everything to do with the sort of man he was. He hardly had a fan club, did he?’
‘Quite right, Mr Pargeter,’ Falconer agreed. ‘But then, I doubt if he planned on being murdered. Rather than apportioning blame, it would be more beneficial if we concentrated on who killed him. This may sound a little pompous, but I strongly disapprove of murder. No one has the right to take another person’s life, and it’s my job to track down those who cross the line to commit the gravest crime that exists in our society.’
There he went again, running off at the mouth like a Sunday-school teacher. He definitely wasn’t feeling himself. Maybe he really was coming down with something. All that he could think about, though, was that, after this, there were only two more visits to make, and he would see Serena again. First love is very painful – and he was suffering middle-aged agonies at its pangs.
Neither of the Marklands had been out much that week, except for work commitments. Socialising had definitely not been on their agenda, and they had little to add to what Carmichael already had in his notebook, (this being recorded in a weird shorthand of his own devising, and consisting of squiggles, weird hieroglyphs, and strange shapes – not too far away from what Mr Pitman had devised, then!)
There were, however, revelations to be gleaned at Starlings’ Nest.
V
Delia Jephcott was so relieved that Ashley had taken her news so well, that she was in high spirits, and actually poked fun at her own incompetent performance the previous Sunday. ‘There I was, screeching and squawking away, feeling absolutely humiliated, but so puffed up with self-importance that I just couldn’t stop, and had to carry on to the bitter end. How deluded I was. Time for a few singing lessons, I think, or a totally new hobby.’ She almost glowed as she made this declaration, smiling and bobbing her head coquettishly to one side in disbelief at her own self-delusion.
‘Bloody good idea!’ Ashley concurred, smiling, but growing more serious as he added, ‘Delia, darling, I think you should share your little secret with the inspector, now that you’ve let me in on it.’
‘If you say so,’ she agreed, and rearranged her features into a more serious expression. ‘I used to be married to Marcus Willoughby – there, I’ve said it!’
‘What!!’ Falconer was totally stunned by this unexpected revelation, and Carmichael stood staring at her, his eyes like saucers and his mouth slightly open (he was a bit adenoidal, however, so this was a fairly frequent occurrence).
‘When? How? Why?’ This last interrogative had been a slip of the tongue on Falconer’s part, for she was quite an attractive woman, and years younger than Willoughby. And Willoughby was by all accounts a revolting character to boot.
Answering the questions in the order that they had been asked, Delia offered up the information willingly, as if glad to get it off her chest at last. ‘About twenty or more years ago, I can’t remember the exact date, but when I was a mere “gel”. In a register office. And because I thought I loved him. We’d only known each other a month, and three months later I was gone, and had reverted back to my maiden name. I’d made a huge mistake, and have regretted it ever since. And he recognised me immediately, you know; he didn’t even need to hear my name. I knew he’d put pressure on me if I wanted it kept quiet, and I had no intentions of being blackmailed by that slimy old pervert.’
Her confession was greeted with absolute silence, and Ashley broke it, asking if they would like a cup of coffee. ‘Yes please, Mr Rushton,’ was all that Falconer could manage. A nod of the head was all that Carmichael offered, scribbling like the very devil in his notebook, lest he forget any of the details before he could commit them to paper.
But that was not all they were going to learn at this house-call. When they were sipping their Blue Mountain, Delia asked them if anyone had told them why Marcus was thrown out of The Inn on Sunday night. Hearing that no one had beaten her to it, she filled in the details for them with great pleasure.
‘He was all “hail fellow, well met, got to keep a stiff upper lip, don’t let the buggers grind you down” when he got there, but he’d already had a few by then. When it got to the point where he’d obviously had enough, Peregrine refused to serve him, which he had every right to do as a responsible landlord. And then he just went off on one, used some filthy homophobic language, and generally created such a hateful scene that it took five of them to get him through the door and on his way.
‘I don’t know whether Perry and Tarquin were offended, but I bloody well would have been. What business was it of his, how they lived their lives? They’re both consenting adults and were free to choose whatever lifestyle they wanted. They’ve bothered no one here, and no one’s bothered them.’
Phew ! Falconer
thought. It was raining motives, and he was going to have to make a little list when he got back to the office. Name, motive, means, and opportunity. Four columns should do it.
‘He could be bloody unpleasant when he was “in his cups”,’ Delia added. ‘It’s one of the very many reasons I left him.’
VI
‘I’m afraid I’ve done something very stupid!’ Squirrel Horsfall-Ertz greeted them, her elderly features bunched into a grimace of remorse.
‘Then you’d better tell us about it, hadn’t you,’ Falconer asked, giving a mighty sigh. This admission had scored a hat-trick today, but it was becoming tedious in its inability to produce an honest-to-God confession about the murder. The first time, he’d been really excited. The second time, a little less so. Now, it was becoming run of the mill – the recurring theme that would stamp Stoney Cross in his memory for a long time to come. ‘And about your little fallings out with Marcus Willoughby, with a knife, and then with a cup of tea. I’m afraid we already know about these incidents. I just need confirmation from you, if you’d be so kind.’
‘If he hadn’t gorn and driven so fast, and murdered my poor little Bubble, that wouldn’t ʼave happened.’ At Falconer’s puzzled frown, she added by way of explanation, ‘Bubble was a little Yorkie. Him and Squeak were from the same litter, and they were inseparable.’
At the sound of his name, the little dog scuttled into the room and, eyeing Falconer in his ‘Amazing Dreamcoat’ outfit, headed straight for him, and started to worry at a trouser leg. ‘He’s only being friendly,’ Squirrel explained, in the way that dog and cat owners always excuse the destructive behaviour of their beloved pets. ‘He just wants to play.’
‘Well I’m on duty, Miss Horsfall-Ertz, so if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps, putting him out in the garden, I’d be very grateful.’ God only knew what state his trousers would be like when he got home. This was the second dog that had fancied them for a little game today.
Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 14
