VIII
Vernon Warlock scuttled furtively round to Mill Cottage for the little chat that the two men had arranged earlier that afternoon, when the news of Hermione’s murder had broken. After his hostly duties of sorting out refreshments, Charles settled himself on a leather Chesterfield and asked Vernon what it was he had the wind up about, as something was obviously bothering, and he hoped it wasn’t a guilty conscience.
‘It’s this poison pen letter business,’ he began. ‘When Dim told me that Hermione was responsible for them, I don’t know how I managed not to blurt out that I’d had one myself – and I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Charles. I don’t want this knowledge bandied about all over Steynham St Michael, you understand?’
‘Fair enough, old thing,’ Charles replied, adding, ‘Got one myself too, if truth be told. Didn’t mention it before, because it was no other bugger’s business but my own, but we’re both men of the world, Vernon, and we know how to keep a confidence, don’t we?’
‘We certainly do, Charles. What was yours about?’
‘No, you go first, old man. After all, it was you who raised the subject in the first place.’
‘Fair enough! Mine was some nonsense about selling books that were a bit dodgy – memory’s not what it was – can’t remember any more than that. Threw it on the fire, as a matter of a fact. What about yours?’
‘Some accusation that my books may not be all they seem. I didn’t really take it in. Saw what it was immediately, and decided to ignore it. Burnt mine too. Only thing to do in the circumstances.’
Both men were, of course, lying their heads off, each trying to out-macho the other. Both of them had been scared stiff that their little rackets had been rumbled, and that they might be either blackmailed in the future, or exposed to the authorities, neither option suiting either of them. And neither of them had destroyed their letters.
Both had the same devious instinct that, if they kept the original letters, there may be an opportunity in the future to turn the tables on whoever had sent them, maybe to their own personal profit. Birds of a feather really do flock together, for Charles had concealed his anonymous letter in a secret drawer in the desk in his study, and Vernon had hidden his between the pages of a King James Bible, which was deeply buried in his personal bookshelves at home.
And both were to be disappointed in their hopes for a future revenge, as Hermione had now been identified as the author of the cutting and accusatory missives, and both were finding the information hard to swallow.
‘I just can’t believe it was Hermione!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘She was in and out of here all the time, and although she may have noticed a little clue here and a little clue there and put two and two together there was something she didn’t say in the letter which could have blown my life apart. I don’t know. Maybe that is evidence that she sent them, not using the most devastating thing she knew.’
‘It may all have been an elaborate piece of research for a new book,’ Vernon suggested. ‘You know, actually send some of these letters, then watch first-hand to see what various people’s reactions are.’
‘What, and risk prosecution? I don’t think so. Hermione was generally risk-averse.’
‘Unless she was stealing plots from me,’ Vernon mumbled under his breath, and was then glad that Charles did not appear to have heard him. That was an old grudge – very old – and it would not be particularly clever to air it at the moment.
His innocence was quite touching, as he did not know the contents of the letter that had been found and taken away in Hermione’s typewriter. He might not be mentioned by name, but the police were capable of working things out for themselves, given a large enough circle of people to talk to, some of whom had known her for decades.
Both men felt secure, after their little consultation, that they were safe, having admitted to burning their respective letters but both actually having preserved and concealed them. The contents of both were obscure, and unlikely to be in the public domain. With this newly found feeling of security, they raised their glasses to each other, and Charles proposed a toast to the late Hermione Grayling, may God rest her soul.
‘Hey, I wonder who gets all the money?’ queried Vernon, after a quick sip of his whisky.
‘Don’t push it, old son,’ advised Charles. ‘Just be grateful for small mercies.’
IX
Back at The Spinney earlier that afternoon, before the mortal remains of the householder had been removed, Dr Pierce was not making himself popular. He was the new-kid-on-the-block in the house, Falconer, Carmichael, and Dr Christmas having worked together before, and established, as it were, friendly relations.
Dr Pierce, turning up out of duty, as Hermione was, or had been, his patient, made his first faux pas when he was introduced to Carmichael. Used to respect from his patients due to his position in the village, he thought himself a bit of a wag. No one, so far, had had either the inclination or the guts, to inform him that he was just downright rude, and not in the least amusing.
‘What have we got here, then?’ he asked, as the introductions were made, looking the sergeant up and down, as if he were a specimen in an exhibition. ‘How long have you been working with Ronald MacDonald, Inspector Falconer? Or should I call him Coco the Clown?’
There was a deathly silence. Dr Christmas looked at Falconer, Carmichael looked down at his cherry-red trainers, and Dr Pierce looked smug, as if he were expecting a pat on the back for his wit and observation.
There was a minute or two of absolute silence, which is a very long time in those kinds of circumstances. During this time Falconer’s face drained slightly of colour, and his jaw set as he clenched his teeth. Finally his brows drew together, and he said,
‘I believe Dr Christmas will concur with me when I say that, having known Detective Sergeant Carmichael for some time and knowing what an excellent officer he is, we believe that his abilities as a serving police officer far outweigh anyone’s opinions on his dress sense. Personally, I think that Detective Sergeant Carmichael’s appearance is a celebration of his personality, which is colourful, exuberant, generous, and kind. I think that covers it, don’t you Philip?’ he concluded, looking towards Dr Christmas.
‘It certainly does, Harry,’ and he ignored the comments made by Dr Pierce as if they had never been spoken. ‘Now, as to the body, we’ll never get it out lying on a stretcher, because of the way the handle of the billhook sticks out at the back of the head. We’re going to have to move it in a sideways position, and I’ll remove the murder weapon at the mortuary. Cause of death appears to be perfectly obvious, but the PM report will confirm, and if I do find anything iffy, I’ll ring it straight through to you, OK?’
‘Perfect!’
Throughout this short exchange Carmichael’s face had been a picture of wonder and confusion. He had just heard the inspector defend the way he dressed, after having a go at him in the office for his appearance. Whatever was going on?
Harry Falconer looked similarly confused. He, too, could not believe what he had just said in defence of his partner, and wondered whether he was just getting used to Carmichael and his ‘Technicolor-dream-coat’ outfits, or whether he was defending the man for whom he was gaining respect every time they worked together against the harsh judgement of an outsider, although Dr Pierce had said nothing that he, Falconer, would not say, and probably had said regularly, during the cases on which they had worked together the previous year.
Dr Pierce merely looked sulky at being thus snubbed, and only took a brief look into Hermione’s ‘bookery nook’ as the mortuary van arrived to collect its slowly stiffening cargo.
Many people in Steynham St Michael were destined to sleep uneasily in their beds that night, due to a guilty conscience over one thing and another, but only one had the stain of murder on their heart.
Chapter Ten
A Penny A Point
Saturday, 9th January
I
As Falconer headed for h
is car the following morning, his neighbour on the drive side of the house, called out to him over the dividing fence, ‘That cat of yours is very protective of your property, isn’t he?’
‘Which cat?’ Falconer asked, more out of politeness than interest. ‘I’ve got three now.’
‘That dark brown Siamese one: the one you’ve always had.’
‘What about him?’ If this was about Mycroft, Falconer wanted to know if he’d been involved in any more criminal activities.
‘I saw that big black one of yours high-tailing it out of the cat flap the other day, with a raw salmon steak in his mouth.’
‘The black one? Tar Baby?’ Falconer had believed that Mycroft had stolen the salmon he had defrosted for his own supper.
‘That’s the one. Then the other Siamese-y one came haring out of the cat flap after him, and bopped him round the head with a paw so that he dropped the salmon. Then the Siamese one picked it up and took it back through the cat flap again. I just thought you ought to know how honest and loyal he was, bringing your supper back like that, as that’s what I presume it was.’
‘Thanks. I caught him having a chew at it, and thought he was the one who’d taken it.’
‘Nah! It was that big black one. Your other one was probably just having a little bite as a well-earned reward,’ and at that, his neighbour moved away from the fence with a wave, and got into his own car.
Well, what about that, thought Falconer. So it hadn’t been Mycroft after all, and the poor thing had been blamed needlessly for something he hadn’t done. He’d set a trap: that’s what he’d do, he decided. He’d set up some prawns between two plates when he got home, for he had some in the fridge, and see which of the three of them went a-stealing. If it was Tar Baby again, at least he’d know he had a thief in the house, and exactly who it was, and would leave nothing to chance again. And he’d have to make it up to Mycroft somehow, as he had been rather ignoring him since the incident as a punishment.
He was first to arrive in the office, but Carmichael was only a few minutes behind him, dressed soberly in jeans, a white sweatshirt, and white trainers. At Falconer glanced up at him, the sergeant jumped the gun a bit and said, ‘There’s no need to look so surprised. Kerry might have suggested dress-down Fridays, but that doesn’t apply to the weekend. She expects me to turn up to work on a Saturday or Sunday respectably, if not formally, dressed.’
‘I wasn’t going to criticise, Carmichael. I was just surprised, that’s all. I had no idea until yesterday afternoon how used to your – um – bright garb I had become. When you came in yesterday morning, it was like seeing an old friend again, that’s all.’
‘Well, I really appreciated the way you defended me to that Dr Pierce. He made me feel about six inches tall, after what he said, and the way he looked at me. I felt like a half-wit.’
Falconer tried to imagine anyone cutting Carmichael’s height by six feet, failed, and replied anyway. ‘He had no right to criticise you in front of me, or Dr Christmas. You’re ten times the man he is, and don’t you forget it!’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Carmichael was well-nigh speechless.
‘That’s quite all right, although I think I may be coming down with something: maybe a severe case of niceitis, but I expect I’ll soon be cured, so don’t get used to it, OK?’
‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m in full agreement with you. It’ll soon wear off.’
‘I hope so,’ Falconer agreed. ‘I don’t like it.’ And in fact he had been surprised the previous afternoon, when he had rushed so quickly and vehemently to Carmichael’s aid, when Dr Pierce had been so scathing about Carmichael’s dress sense.
After a bit of a think, he decided that either he had become immune to the colour combinations that his partner was capable of, or he was gaining a real respect for the policeman who was gradually emerging from behind the multi-coloured, weirdly dressed exterior. Their partnership was still in its early stages as yet, but Falconer had hopes that in the long run it would prove a successful one. They were very different characters, but they had complementary skills, and were now working well together. Long may it continue, he thought.
Breaking out of his reverie, he looked up to address his partner, who was at that very moment exploring his right nostril with a forefinger, and decided that he might have been a bit heavy on the sentimentality. Carmichael would do, but no more than ‘do’. Finding out that Mycroft was not a thief must have so affected him, that he had overdosed on the goodwill a bit towards his colleague. Falconer decided to keep an eye on himself in future, for similar signs of going soft in the head.
‘Why do murders always seem to happen on a Friday?’ he asked, as an opening conversational gambit. ‘Doesn’t Kerry get sick of you having to come in over the weekend?’
‘Not really. She knows it’s my job.’
‘Mine, too. So, let’s work out our plan of action. We’ve got quite a few interviews to do, and probably quite a bit of house-to-house. I’d bet anything you like that there are more of those letters out there, and I want to know where they were sent. Who got one of those little stinkers and is keeping quiet about it? Who’s got something to hide that their local author knew about? Or, to put it another way, who guessed that it was Hermione Grayling who was writing those poison pen letters, and decided to silence her permanently, so that she couldn’t do any further damage?’
‘If we find that out, sir, I reckon we’ll have found our murderer,’ Carmichael opined.
‘I do believe you’re right, Sergeant. It’s not a large village, and the gossip must circulate like wildfire, along with its friends, Rumour and Conjecture. We need to plug into that, see if we can’t get some of the residents to play a game of Grass Thy Neighbour, eh, Carmichael? Do you remember that little game from our other cases?’
‘Definitely, sir, and most effective it proved on those occasions. Now, when will the PM report be through? Any idea, sir?’
‘Not just yet, but it’s more or less immaterial, isn’t it? I mean, there she was, with this bloody great billhook sticking out of her head. I doubt she was poisoned as well.’
At that moment the phone rang, and Falconer answered it, to find Dr Christmas on the line. ‘How funny,’ he commented to the mouthpiece. ‘I was just thinking about you. What have you got for me?’
‘I’m afraid the old duck was chock-full of Valium, Harry, so it’s a bit more complicated than we originally thought.’
‘I don’t believe it! Carmichael and I were just joking around about her being poisoned as well. Surely you’re having me on?’
‘No. I wish I were: but if it makes you feel any better, look on it as her being relaxed to death.’
‘How big was the dose?’
‘Enough to fell an elephant. There was actually no need for the billhook. She must have been at death’s door when that entered her skull, maybe even actually dead. I really am sorry about this. It leaves you in a bit of a cleft stick, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, rather,’ answered Falconer, his mind racing. If the sedative had been administered by a different person than the one that had cleaved her skull open, who exactly would be the murderer? ‘Any idea which of the attempts actually killed her?’
‘I’m waiting for some test results, but in the meantime, yer pays yer money and yer takes yer chance, Harry.’
‘Thanks a bleedin’ bunch, Philip. You’ve really made my day.’
‘Oh, by the way, before I go, can you tell Carmichael, ‘well done – a brilliant idea,’ and he hung up, leaving Falconer looking confused.
‘What’s up, sir?’ asked Carmichael, noticing the puzzled expression on the inspector’s face.
‘Nothing, Carmichael. Nothing at all. By the way, Dr Christmas said to congratulate you, and tell you it was a brilliant idea.’ This should be the opportunity for the sergeant to enlighten him. He certainly wasn’t going to ask.
‘Ta, sir,’ was Carmichael’s only reply, followed by a complete change of subject. ‘Where ar
e we going to start today?’
‘Mmmm?’ Falconer was still bemused, and had to make an effort to concentrate his mind. No doubt everything would be made clear later. ‘We’ve got the list of the members of that card club she ran from her desk. We could do worse than start with them, as they seem to be a fairly tight bunch, meeting every week like that.
‘The properties we need to visit are almost all in the north-west quarter of the village, but we’ll take Merv Green with us. He can call at the properties in the south west quarter – do a house-to-house, see if anyone was out shopping and saw something that they don’t realise is important. He can also go back to two and four Barleycorn Crescent and speak to Mr Pryor’s neighbours again. I know it’s a straightforward suicide, but you can never be too careful, and I don’t want to be hauled over the coals by old Jelly because I missed something obvious.’
‘Old Jelly’ referred to their aggressive and very tetchy superior officer, Superintendent Chivers. He was known for not suffering fools gladly – in fact, he didn’t often suffer geniuses gladly either. Everyone, to him, was either an ‘idiot’ or a ‘bleedin’ smart-arse’: he recognised no happy medium.
‘I’ll get Bob Bryant to rustle up Merv Green – he’s on secondment to us at the moment, and we’ll meet him in the foyer in, say, five minutes. You should have brought your rainbow hat, Carmichael, it’s brass monkeys out there.’
‘I did, sir,’ answered Carmichael, drawing the hat from the pocket of his coat, which hung up near the door. ‘The boys bought it for me special, ’cos I’m always complaining about cold ears.’
The look on Falconer’s face said it all.
As they descended the stairs, Bob Bryant, the desk sergeant, caught sight of them and shouted, ‘Nice one, son,’ to Carmichael, giving him a double thumbs-up sign, and once more Falconer kept schtum. He would not be tempted. He would not let Carmichael get one over on him. He’d work it out for himself eventually, and without looking like the only one who wasn’t in on the big secret, for they had found Merv Green as arranged, by the desk, and his first words had been, ‘Fantastic, DS Carmichael! You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’
Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3) Page 12
