Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

  Carmichael’s laugh boomed round the office. ‘Him? That’s my dad, that is!’

  Falconer’s careful check on his diplomacy vanished, like the demon king in a puff of smoke and, before he could stop himself, the question was asked. ‘Your father? But he’s so tiny and old,’ and then he winced, as if expecting a slap (which he was, really).

  ‘That’s what my mum says, sir. He used to be a bit taller when they met, but she says she saw the quality stock in him. That’s why she married him, even if he has got a glass back, and she’s had to look after him for years now. He’s hardly been able to work a day since the last of us kids was born, almost as if the effort were too much for him after that.’

  To Falconer’s eternal gratitude, this conversation was abruptly terminated before it could get even more intimate and embarrassing by the ringing of the telephone, and he lifted the receiver to his ear with an inward sigh of relief. This sudden good mood didn’t last for long, however, for, as he terminated the call, he had the look of a child who is being sent to his room for misbehaviour.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong, sir?’ Carmichael asked with concern in his voice.

  ‘There’s feuding again in banjo country. I’m going home to get my wellies,’ he replied sulkily.

  ‘What? What are you talking about, sir?’ Carmichael was now running after the inspector, none the wiser to what was going on, but knowing that something had upset him. ‘What are you talking about, sir?’

  ‘Death – looks like suicide – in one of those God-forsaken villages again. What do they put in the water there?’

  ‘Which village, sir?’

  ‘Steynham St Michael, where we went the other day about that poison pen letter and the Fisticuffs Twins. You can drive, Carmichael, because I simply can’t be arsed to do another rural run in this ghastly weather in my sophisticated lady, and we’re going via my place, so I can pick up my wellingtons and change into something a little less expensive!’

  II

  When Carmichael drew up outside number three Barleycorn Crescent there were already two other cars present, one parked on the drive and the other on the road outside. Recognising the one on the road as that of Dr Philip Christmas, newly appointed police surgeon, they approached the front door, assuming the car on the drive to be that of the deceased occupier.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong! They could not have been more wrong if they had thought about it with great intent. Dr Christmas opened the door, but his face bore a look of panic, masking fury, and from behind him wafted the babble of women’s voices, raised in excitement to the excited chatter of starlings. Looking Falconer firmly in the eye, Dr Christmas took a step over the threshold and hissed, ‘Get them out. For God’s sake use your authority as a representative of the law, and get them out. They won’t listen to a word I say, and they’re trampling all over the locus like a herd of elephants.’

  The inspector’s reaction was instant, drawing inspiration from the authority he had wielded in his army days, and he stepped into the hall, took in the situation at a glance, and announced, ‘Ladies, I am Detective Inspector Falconer, and I wish to inform you that this could be a crime scene, and interference with a crime scene is viewed in a very censorious light by the police authorities: in fact it is a criminal offence.

  ‘Please give your names and addresses to Detective Sergeant Carmichael here on your way out.’ At this point he dipped his head in the direction of the looming bulk of his partner. ‘I shall be calling on you all later to take your fingerprints, to eliminate them from any enquiry that ensues from this sad event, but I must insist that you leave immediately, and without laying a further finger on anything. Thank you for your co-operation in this matter, and good day to you all.’

  At the mention of fingerprints, Hermione, Dimity, and Hilda Pounce, who had all rushed to the scene of action – or rather inaction, seeing as the householder was not up to much at the moment – to see what pickings there were for the gossip vultures, prepared to take their leave, in anticipation of an exciting visit from the forces of law and order, later in the day.

  The women departed as they had left; in Hermione’s car, headed back, this time, to her house, so that they could have a good chew on the fat they had harvested, and enjoy a good old session of conjecture. Even the fact that Gabriel Pryor had been related to Dimity did not dim their anticipation, as the two of them had never been close, and maybe the other two were about to find out why.

  Within just over five minutes, only the three men remained in the hall of three Barleycorn Crescent, all eyes looking upwards at the dead weight that was suspended from the newel post at the top of the stairs. With a ghost of a sigh, Falconer made a decision and asked if Dr Christmas would be so good as to declare life extinct, and draw any conclusions that were waiting around. In a moment of quiet rebellion, he struck a discreet but dramatic pose, in hope that Christmas had a pencil. If there were any drawing to be done, he wanted it to be of him, Falconer, chief investigating officer.

  Abandoning that thought as rapidly as he had adopted it, he charged Carmichael with the job of summoning a SOCO team, in case this was not what it looked like, while he, as the senior officer in attendance, went to look for a note.

  His instinct did not go unrewarded, as there were two envelopes propped up on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, one addressed very properly to the coroner, the other simply addressed ‘To whom it may concern’. This, Falconer assumed, would be him, and he unstuck the flap, making as little contact with the paper as possible, in case any complications occurred which proved this to be other than a case of suicide.

  The contents of the note were pathetic in the extreme, merely asking whoever had taken charge of the letter, to let Mr Carstairs, the manager of the local bank in the High Street, that ‘it’ had been an aberration on the part of Pryor, and that all the funds had been returned to the relevant account within a matter of weeks, and that it had all been a long time ago, now.

  ‘Stupid man!’ Falconer muttered under his breath, ‘Stupid, stupid man!’ wondering what had prompted this overwhelming attack of conscience, if the matter – obviously a case of ‘borrowing’ – had taken place sometime in the past, and the funds had all been replaced. There had obviously been no suspicion of what had taken place at the time, so why kill himself now? For Falconer was absolutely convinced that this was a case of suicide.

  A casual examination of the contents of the room’s wastepaper bin had provided the answer to that one as, screwed into a tiny ball, was a note similar to the one that he had been shown by Buffy Sinden, and this connection immediately returned his mind to that woman’s pathetic face. Ms Sinden obviously thought of herself as a wild child, a free spirit. Well, he supposed that was as pretty a way as any of describing someone whom others may consider a whore or a slapper. Women like her were particularly pathetic in the mornings, when they had started to lose their looks and the wrinkles were setting in.

  Hauling his mind back to the matter in hand, he finished smoothing out the sheet of paper and read:

  ‘Flee! All is discovered. Be sure your sins will find you out.’

  A general letter hinting at nothing in particular, but it had proved effective in this case, as Gabriel Pryor obviously had a guilty secret, and his reaction had been extreme, but there was no accounting for people’s reactions in any given circumstances.

  He had worked on a case once where a man had been diagnosed as HIV positive, and rather than own up to his wife that he was bisexual, he had cut her throat and that of his two-year-old son as they slept, then slit his own wrists and sat in the bathtub to die so that he wouldn’t make a mess of the bathroom floor: a final act of irrationality that had been confirmed by the note he had left behind, apologising for any mess.

  A bit of undiscovered embezzlement that had been regularised wasn’t a strong motive for suicide. Perhaps, even in death, Gabriel Pryor had hidden another guilty secret. He’d have to do some digging, more for his own peace of mind than for any other reaso
n, for the requirements of the law were satisfied by the note he had held by his fingertips, and if the note to the coroner confirmed what the first note had said, then it was case closed, and on to the next merry dance of death. But there was more here than met the eye: of that he was sure.

  And at least he had another of those beastly notes to work on. If there were more than one, and this was evidence that there were, there would probably be more, and he would conduct some judicious questioning himself, to find out who the other recipients were, and if they were still being received. A poisoned mind, like the one that produced letters like that, could cause any amount of damage to the recipient – it could even wreck lives, as it had this one, or split asunder marriages that had seemed solid as a rock on the surface.

  A ring of the doorbell returned him to the here and now, and he exited the sitting room to greet the SOCO team, advising them of what he had found, and he and Carmichael left them to it, Dr Christmas only a few steps behind them.

  As they approached Carmichael’s car, Philip Christmas caught them up and reached out his hand to shake Carmichael’s. ‘I heard about the wedding,’ he said, smiling up at the detective sergeant. Congratulations, and what a fantastic thing to do. There ought to be more people around like you. The world would be a better place for it.’

  With a nod at Falconer, the doctor strode off to his own car and drove away. ‘What was all that about, Carmichael?’ Falconer asked, puzzled about the thought that the world would be a better place if there were more Carmichaels in it – more colourful, maybe, but better? Whatever was the man talking about? Must’ve been sniffing his own ether, or something!

  ‘It’s nothing, sir. He’s probably just happy that Kerry and me got wed. Just ignore it.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed the inspector, still left intrigued, but it probably didn’t matter in the great scheme of things, he thought, and they had three twittering old women to interview.

  If Hermione had been able to tune into this thought, she would have been furious at being lumped in with the others in such a category, as she was seven years younger than Hilda Pounce, and Dimity’s junior by nearly a year. At fifty-six, she considered herself still young, having fallen for the myth that fifty is the new forty, and with copious make-up and her youthful wig to fortify her opinion of herself, she would not be shaken in this belief.

  III

  He and Carmichael found said ‘twittering old women’ cosily ensconced in Hermione’s drawing room, sipping tea from delicate bone china cups, and nibbling delicious, crumbly, hand-made biscuits. The only concession to the fact that the three woman weren’t equal socially was made by Hilda Pounce, who didn’t feel it was right that she should sit at ease in one of Hermione’s comfy leather armchairs, and had perched herself on a wooden Windsor chair that usually lived in a corner by the bow window.

  The arrival of the two policemen silenced their avid chatter and supposition, and they listened with mounting disbelief, and a shared look of disgust, at the thought that the poor man they had found dead earlier had, in Hermione’s words later, when recounting it to countless friends and acquaintances, been hounded to his death. Her telephone was fated to be red hot for the whole of that evening, loving as she did, to be first with the news on anything, especially something as sensational as this.

  Announcing his intention to interview them, as they had been first on the scene, Hilda Pounce stuttered her excuses, and said that she had to get away and inform her other employers that she would not be at work for a day or two. Claiming that the discovery had ‘really taken it out of her’, she scurried from the room, muttering that they could call on her at home if they wanted to.

  She had explained to the nice tall gentleman that she had no telephone, and she would have to call on the others she was scheduled to work for over the next day or two, or drop them a note through the door. Someone in her position in life couldn’t afford luxuries such as a telephone, working her fingers to the bone as she did both before and after her Bert died, just to keep body and soul together, pay the rent, and put food in her belly. The last words they heard from her as she went out of the door were, ‘Well, he won’t be any loss to anybody. Used to interfere with little boys, and I don’t approve of that. And him coming from a Christian God-fearing family.’

  Falconer could believe her impoverished existence, for her appearance confirmed what she had just told them. Her shoes were scuffed and down at heel, there were ladders in her thick stockings, and her skirt and jumper were much-washed and misshapen. She wore no make-up, and what thin, grey hair she had left, was scrunched into a mean bun at the back of her neck, barely kept in place with an elastic band and two hair grips. Her final remark, however, looked as good a springboard as any from which to launch his dive into what he hoped would be a very short investigation.

  ‘What did Mrs Pounce mean about Mr Pryor interfering with little boys, and why make a point of how pious his family was?’ Falconer never let anything get past him if he could help it, and wanted to examine both strands of Hilda’s parting remark.

  To his surprise, it was Dimity that took the lead in answering him, but then that was only logical, when she explained that she and Gabriel Pryor were cousins, although no close social relationship existed. ‘He was always a loner – a strange secretive child who grew into a strange and secretive man,’ she said. ‘Oh, there were rumours about him, especially when he was a teenager. I’m only a few years older than him, so I heard what never got to the ears of the grown-ups.’

  ‘And what was said?’ prompted Falconer, as she stopped speaking and gazed into the distance, obviously remembering.

  ‘Oh, they said he tried to touch younger boys. Enticed them with sweeties to go into the churchyard with him, and then tried to touch them – on their private parts,’ she added, getting red in the face at the very thought.

  ‘And were the rumours true?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Dimity exclaimed, shaking her head a little to clear it of old, forgotten, far-off events, now grown indistinct with age. ‘It hardly matters now, does it? The man’s dead, and we shouldn’t pursue him beyond the grave, over silly things that children said about him forty years and more ago, should we?’

  IV

  Hilda Pounce had not cycled straight home when she had left The Spinney, but had gone a few yards in the opposite direction to her own home, to take a long-cut via Tuppenny Lane, stopping opposite where Farriers Lane pared off to the right, and leaning her bicycle against the wall of the building opposite this junction. Her day had started badly in the library, and this was her last port of call before going home, to see if she couldn’t reverse her fortunes at least a little bit.

  Once inside, she approached the returns desk where Patience Buttery stood, exactly as she had done six hours earlier, when Hilda had discovered that she had committed an offence for the first time in her life. ‘Hello again, Mrs Pounce. How may I help you?’ Patience greeted her return visitor, and was surprised to see that the old woman had tears in her eyes. ‘Why whatever’s the matter?’ she asked, unable to conceal her natural concern.

  ‘It’s them books, my dear. I’ve never done it before, and I still can’t believe I’ve done it now. It’ll be on record, and I’ll be marked down officially as dishonest and untrustworthy, and I just don’t know what to do about it. I’ve never done anything wrong before.’ Hilda’s pathetic voice straggled to a halt, and she just stared at Patience pathetically.

  ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Pounce, but I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s them library books. I got the date muddled, and they was late back, and now there’s a black mark against me somewhere, and there’s nothin’ I can do about it, I suppose?’

  Patience gave a sigh of disbelief, and tried to comfort the elderly cleaner, as the tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t worry yourself about it. It’s not marked down in a book or anything like that. The money just goes into the fund for general fines, and nobody’s name
is specifically mentioned. Please don’t distress yourself like this. It simply isn’t worth it. Nobody can find out that you returned your books late. It’s totally anonymous when it goes into the account, so don’t give it another thought.’

  Patience put her arm briefly around Hilda’s shoulder, and then patted her on the back. What a fuss to make over a piddling little library fine. She knew that Hilda’s family had been very religious, as had hers, and her husband Noah’s, but to get herself distressed and in such a state just for bringing a couple of books back a day late was ridiculous. With a final smile at what proved to be her penultimate customer for the day, Patience took herself over to the counter where someone was waiting to take out some volumes.

  Hilda Pounce, cleaner, general dogsbody, potty and, in some people’s eyes, less than human, was given furiously to think. The words and gestures of comfort from Patience had strangely moved her, and made her think in a way she never had before. What a nice young lady, and such a pity her cousin had committed suicide. But that wasn’t really the point, was it? She’d made herself clear, and there was a price.

  It was a wonder Hilda hadn’t thought to mention Mr Gabriel’s suicide to her – but then, that wasn’t her job, was it? She was a cleaner of houses and pubs, and a scrubber of floors. But those biscuits she’d had at Miss Grayling’s had been lovely, she thought as she remounted her bicycle at the bottom of the library steps and set off, finally, for home, at the end of what had seemed a very long day indeed.

  V

  Falconer had also found it a very long day, still not quite recovered as he was, from his unremembered and heavily assisted bender of the previous Thursday. He was looking forward to spending a quiet evening in front of the television and an early night, following his evening meal. That morning he had left out a meaty salmon steak between two plates, to defrost on the work surface, and he was looking forward to that, with some new potatoes boiled in their jackets and a green salad. Washed down with a glass of crisp, flinty, well-chilled white wine, he would be a happy man when he took his seat in front of the television set.