Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

  II

  Having briefed PC Green using a section of a large scale map, pointing out the roads and properties they wanted him to call on, he left them to get a patrol car and another constable, for it was better, especially in a murder enquiry, that they hunted in pairs. Even without a murderer on the loose, one never knew what was behind closed doors, and working in pairs was station policy.

  Falconer and Carmichael travelled in Falconer’s car, as Carmichael still had the Skoda dustbin he had owned when they first worked together, and the addition of two step-children had done nothing to deplete the vast collection of crisp packets, chocolate bar wrappers, and fizzy drink containers scattered around its inside, like an entry for the Turner Prize. Falconer would actually have entered it for the prize, if he didn’t think Carmichael would notice its loss: one heap of rubbish is much like any other heap of rubbish, and in this respect, he felt it stood a fair chance of winning. He’d made his decision to use his own Boxster whenever possible after his trip in Carmichael’s car on Wednesday. It was like being jolted around in a refuse truck.

  On their drive to Steynham St Michael, Falconer drove home his theory that there must be more poison pen letters than they knew about. Someone with that much poison to share would not stop at just two, and he wanted their questioning that morning to be as probing as possible, to see if they could get anyone else to admit to having received one.

  Policemen travel in pairs for safety, because of what could lie behind closed doors for the unwary. This also applied to the victims of anonymous letters. All these nice, respectable people they were going to interview today could have God knows what buried in their pasts. After all, some murderers, once deemed to be extremely dangerous, were let out on licence with a new identity, and managed to start and maintain a totally new life without any one of their new friends or neighbours suspecting a thing.

  On a less dramatic note, most people had something in their past that it would be shameful for them to admit to, even if it would be no big deal to anyone else. Everyone had an Achilles heel of some sort, even if it was just stealing a chocolate bar or taking a pound from their mother’s purse when they were kids. It was amazing how touchy some people could be about even the most innocuous of offences.

  As it was a Saturday, some of the residents would, no doubt, be at work, but they could track them down easily enough through information gained from friends and neighbours; if necessary, they could make an appointment to speak to them during their lunch break, if they were reluctant to speak in a public place.

  Hermione’s address book, diary, and calendar had been very informative, and had given them quite a list of local people to speak to. What they needed to find out was who was really a friend and who might have been an enemy in false colours. She had at least one enemy, otherwise she wouldn’t have been murdered. And, as they had found an unfinished poison pen letter in her typewriter, she may have had many who were, literally, out for her blood.

  Falconer became more and more convinced as he drove that finding out who the recipients of the – at present only imagined – letters were, would be the key to this case. Parking the car in the car park of the Ox and Plough with this thought still in his mind, he decided out loud that they should start with Dimity Pryor. Pryor! Again! The people in these villages were all connected in so many ways, and it made him a bit uncomfortable.

  Dimity answered the door of Spinning Wheel Cottage (which did, indeed, have a small spinning wheel in its front window), with bloodshot eyes, her face red and puffy from crying. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised after the necessary introductions had taken place, and warrant cards displayed. ‘I really am terribly upset,’ she explained, ushering them into her sitting room.

  ‘I’ve known Hermione for such a long time: in fact, we were at school together, and have remained close friends ever since, and she’s going to leave such a hole in my life. She was my little bit of glamour, as well as being such a good friend. With her writing, she met so many famous people, and she always told me about those whom she’d met, and the functions she’d been to. It made me feel special, that she told me about that side of her life, and it made me feel a little as if I were sharing in it too, if that doesn’t sound too silly.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Falconer said in a soothing voice, while thinking just the opposite – it was pathetic in his opinion.

  ‘And once,’ Dimity continued, ‘she took me with her to Barbados. That was just after she’d bought her house there, and she said she’d like some familiar company, as she didn’t know how she’d feel with all those darkies – oh, I’m so sorry! – I mean those dark-skinned people, around her.’

  ‘Was that the only time you went away together?’ Falconer was merely being polite, before going in for the kill.

  ‘Oh, yes, but it was very colourful and exciting, although I don’t really feel comfortable in a hot climate.’

  Right, so Hermione had dipped her toe in the Caribbean Sea, found the water to be to her liking, and not needed her little lap dog around any more. She’d obviously acclimatised herself to the local residents very quickly, thus making her future trips rather cheaper, with only one fare to find. That might be worth making a note of, in case jealousy was the motive, Falconer thought, noticing, with approval, that Carmichael had got out his notebook and was busy scribbling in it at a ferocious pace.

  ‘Have you any idea if Miss Grayling has any family hereabouts? We haven’t located an address for any next-of-kin yet.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. She never married, although she had plenty of boyfriends when we were younger. She never went short of admirers. In fact, at one time – oh, so very long ago – she and Charles Rainbird dated. He’s got the little antique shop in the High Street: lives in Mill Cottage, round the back of here, in Farriers Lane.’

  ‘And was it serious?’ the inspector enquired, wondering if he could close this case in a day, having already found what he considered to be two motives.

  ‘Oh, no; nothing like that. I think they only went out a few times, then it just fizzled out, but they’ve always remained good friends.’

  ‘Did you and Miss Grayling ever fall out?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject, in the hope that he might surprise some information out of her.

  ‘Inspector, I can tell you honestly that Hermione and I have not ‘fallen out,’ as you so delicately put it, since we were sixteen or so, and a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what it was about, Miss Pryor, even though it was so long ago?’ he asked, with little hope from a disagreement or argument that happened forty years ago.

  ‘It was all over a boy, if you can believe it,’ Dimity explained, allowing a coy smile to cross her countenance. ‘I can’t even remember his name now, but he was my first – and, I must admit, only – boyfriend. Oh, of course, it was Barry Barker – however could I have forgotten that? It’s not as if I were Mata Hari, is it? We’d been dating for about a month, when Hermione seemed to get it into her head that he was the best thing since sliced bread, and proceeded to lure him away from me with her superior charms.’

  ‘That must have been very hurtful, Miss Pryor.’

  ‘Not really, Inspector. She explained to me later that she knew he was two-timing me, and I was so smitten that she didn’t think I’d believe her, I’d just think it was sour grapes. So she stole him, treated him like dirt for a couple of weeks, and then dumped him. It was only then, that another friend told me about him going out with another girl while he was going out with me. Of course, Hermione only did it to protect me, and she’s been like that ever since. If I’ve ever needed help or guidance, I’ve always gone to her. In fact, I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. How can she possibly be dead? Everybody loved Hermione!’

  At this point, Dimity dissolved into tears, and reached into her cardigan pocket for her handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry to have upset you again. I’ve only got a couple more questi
ons, then we’ll leave you in peace. Did Miss Grayling, to your knowledge, have any enemies?’

  ‘Certainly not, Inspector. The very idea! I’ve just told you that everybody loved her, and they did. She was just so kind and generous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Pryor, but I had to ask. And my last question is about the card club that you belong to. I believe you had a meeting a few days ago.’

  ‘That’s right. We met on Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Where did you hold your meetings? At the Ox and Plough?’ Falconer suggested, as it was so conveniently placed.

  ‘Sort of, only it was more complicated than that. Neither pub had a room large enough for us to use all together. They wouldn’t let us use their function rooms, as we didn’t want to have to pay and they didn’t want us losing them any bookings. Anyway, enough of this rambling. I do apologise. I don’t think I’m over the shock of it all, yet.

  ‘Both pubs: we used both pubs. Do you know the Fox and Hounds on the High Street? Much trendier and more up-to-date than the good old Ox and Plough. Both pubs said they could let us have a small room, so we split into two groups for playing. Hermione and I were in the Ox and Plough group, along with Vernon Warlock, Charles Rainbird that I mentioned before – I’m sorry Sergeant … Carmichael, is it? – am I going too fast for you?’

  So she had been aware of Carmichael writing everything in his notebook. Either she was a very observant lady, or she was not as upset as she seemed to be by her friend’s death.

  ‘Now let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, there were Monica and Quentin Raynor the estate agents, Craig Crawford, he works from home at Cedars, and poor, poor Gabriel.’

  ‘And who was in the other group?’ It would be easy enough to check from Hermione’s stuff, but he wanted it from the horse’s mouth, as it were, to see how she reacted to each name.

  ‘Tilly and Tommy Gifford – she’s the receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. Roma and Rodney Kerr – they have a little ladies’ fashion shop in the High Street. Bryony Buckleigh, she lives at Honeysuckle, on Dairy Lane – turn right when you leave here, and take the first right, and it’s on your right. Buffy Sinden –’

  ‘We know where Ms Sinden lives, thank you, Miss Pryor.’

  ‘And that just leaves Amy and Malcolm Littlemore who …’

  ‘It’s all right. We’ve got an address for them, too. Now, absolutely last question. Can you think of anyone you saw on Tuesday night, who may have been acting a bit strangely, a bit out of character because, maybe, they’d received an anonymous letter? By the way, have you had one?’

  ‘Ooh!’ This had certainly rattled her. ‘Of course I haven’t. Hermione was my friend. But let me see … Vernon was a bit odd – Vernon Warlock, that is. He, Hermione, and Charles Rainbird had volunteered to sit-out, because Gabriel Pryor hadn’t turned up – for obvious reasons, as it happens. With him missing, it was a choice of playing with two packs and only three people, with some of the cards removed, or sitting-out and having a drink, which was what they opted for.

  ‘I had to take a quick break to go to the ladies, and when I went through I … well, I heard something and I stayed to listen for a little bit. Charles was at the bar getting drinks, and I scooted off when I saw him approaching, but when he got back to the table, I heard Vernon say something like ‘sod off’ or ‘bugger off’, and he stormed out of the bar, and didn’t even come back later to play.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what had annoyed him so much?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do, because the self-same thing came up on Thursday night, and it was Vernon who raised it, but he was in a high good humour, then. I couldn’t believe the way his attitude had done a complete volte face.’

  ‘I think you’d better explain, Miss Pryor. It might be important,’ Falconer prompted her, although she’d not really needed any prompting thus far, and seemed willing just to babble on about any subject he suggested to her.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s another thing that goes back into ancient history. Hermione, Vernon, Charles, and I go back a very long way – to long before Hermione was a writer. It was Vernon who wanted to write, and he started really young. Unfortunately he didn’t seem to have any talent and, unknown to him, Hermione had ‘borrowed’ one of his plots, and then went on to write an absolute blockbuster of a book. It set her on the road to fame and fortune, really.

  ‘Vernon, of course, was furious when he found out what she’d done, but he did have to admit that she had a natural flair for the written word, while his efforts, frankly, stank. They made up, of course, but Vernon always said she should have dedicated at least one of her books to him, as, technically, he was the one who really got her started, by providing her first plot. It turned into a sort of joke between the four of us, and has been ever since.

  ‘That was why I was so surprised, when he got all bent out of shape about it on Tuesday night, then just went along with it on Friday, as if his outburst had never happened. Still, Hermione had just splashed out – do pardon my little pun – on six bottles of champagne for us, and asked the landlord to put some more on ice, so I suppose he couldn’t be too churlish, could he?’

  ‘And what exactly did happen on Friday night? You haven’t made that clear.’

  ‘It was all about Hermione finishing her book. She’d phoned everyone, and invited us for a drink at the Ox and Plough, and in the meantime, booked her trip to Barbados. She was last to arrive in the pub, but when she did, it was champagne all round, so that we could share in her celebration at finishing her book. She really was so generous I can’t believe anyone would do her any harm!’

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Pryor. I’ll have to get you to sign a statement, and you’ll have to have your fingerprints taken – just for elimination purposes, you understand – and I’ll probably need to speak to you again, but that’s all for today. Thank you for your help,’ Falconer concluded, but was halted on his way to the front door.

  ‘Hold on just a second. I just wanted to say something to your sergeant,’ Dimity explained, and craned her gaze upwards to the face of Mount Carmichael. ‘Excellent work, Sergeant! The world would be a better place, if there were more people like you in it. Good-bye.’

  As they made their way to the next house in silence, Falconer ground his teeth and cudgelled his brain, trying to work out what Carmichael had done, that everybody but him seemed to know about and applaud. He’d just have to brazen it out: there was no way he was going to ask about it at this late stage of the game.

  III

  There was no one else at home in the terrace, but Dimity Pryor had provided them with enough information to find most of the residents, so they crossed the road to Cedars. As she had mentioned that Craig Crawford worked from home, there was a fair bet he’d be available to talk to them.

  And he was. Craig Crawford proved to be a tallish man, his hair worn en brosse, his age about the same as Falconer’s, although he looked younger, as if life had never dealt him a rough blow and left its mark. He recognised immediately who they were, or rather what they represented, and invited them straight in, offering a choice of either tea or coffee as he showed them into his sitting room.

  Cedars was a large house, possibly the largest in the village, and was furnished with impeccable taste in the Art Deco style, all the pieces original and in superb condition. Money might not buy anyone happiness, but it sure gave them a swanky pad to be miserable in.

  Art Deco figurines, both in bronze and porcelain, adorned a circular display unit, cut across by shelves at various heights, and looking too nineteen thirties-glamorous for words. A glass-fronted display cabinet, also reeking of its decade of origin, held pieces of Lalique glass alongside the brash and bold colours of Clarice Cliff, and an exquisitely hand-painted tea service by a name that Falconer knew but could not bring to mind at that moment, so bowled over was he by the perfection of the illusion of living in another age.

  Their host returned with a tea tray with somewhat more everyday crockery on it, apologisin
g for its nondescript origins, but admitting that he did not use his ‘finds’ on an everyday basis. They were soul food and eye-candy only – not for general use.

  Accepting a cup of tea and a bourbon cream, Falconer started his investigation with a trawl for information that was of personal interest to him. ‘This is a big house,’ he stated baldly. ‘Do you find you rattle around in it, or have you uses for all the rooms?’

  Crawford was not at all offended at this bald question, and rose from his chair to beckon the two of them out of the room, across the hall, and up the stairs. Apart from the master suite on the first floor, the other bedrooms had been knocked into one room, and re-enforced with beams where necessary. The huge open-plan space was a model-railway enthusiast’s dream.

  A whole countryside opened out in front of them, with stations, signal-boxes, trees, roads, model villages, and model villagers too, little rises for hills, and even the impression of a large pond or small lake was achieved, with the use of a cunningly shaped piece of looking glass. There were even model animals in the fields. The whole county seemed to be there, all in pocket-sized order, and beautifully tidy.

  ‘Wow!’ Carmichael gasped in wonder. ‘This is absolutely fantastic! How long did it take you to put this together?’ There was a yearning, hungry look in the sergeant’s eyes, of which Falconer did not like the look.

  ‘Just about all my life,’ Crawford answered. ‘I started when I was about seven or eight years old, and I just got hooked, and went on and on collecting. I took it all with me when I left home, but it’s outgrown everywhere I’ve lived. It’s even getting too big for here, so I’ll probably move it up to the attic floor, where my bedroom and bathroom won’t take up any space, and give it a bit more room to grow.’