Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Don’t you ever have visitors who need somewhere to sleep?’ Falconer asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘They use the attic bedrooms at the moment, but when I move my little world up there, I can re-instate some of the rooms down here, so that it looks like a regular first floor again.’

  After a few more minutes of silent admiration, not only for the layout, but for the dedication involved in collecting and creating it in the first place, they returned to the sitting room, and Falconer began to ask him about his friends and neighbours, with particular reference to Hermione and the card club, but he got little joy from that vein of questioning.

  The card club was, in fact, Craig Crawford’s only social contact with his fellow villagers. He was a loner by nature, and his needs were met by acquiring his collection for his home, and his creation of a world of miniature railways on its first floor. He had adequate work to keep him at his desk during the day, with only the occasional meeting to disrupt his normal pattern of life.

  He had only joined the card club because Hermione had made it her business to badger him into doing so, when he had first moved to Steynham St Michael, and without her tenacious stubbornness, he would not have bothered. But she had pushed and cajoled, persuaded, begged, and pleaded until he could resist no more, and finally gave in after about three months of trying to find somewhere to hide whenever he caught sight of her figure in the distance. The assault upon his doorbell and telephone had been equally as ruthless. He realised now, in retrospect, that he had never really stood a chance.

  But he had enjoyed his evenings with the others, partly because the present game was so challenging and unpredictable, never falling victim to the whims of tactics or other subtle plans. He was reasonably happy with his life in general, and he looked it.

  He admitted to attending the drinks gathering in the Ox and Plough on Thursday night to celebrate the completion of Hermione’s latest tome, and one of the reasons he had gone was because he knew there would be champagne – there always was – and he had a particular fondness for free champagne.

  He had not received an anonymous letter, and could think of no reason why he would, try as he might to remember anything in his past which would bring a blush to his cheek, if made public, and no, he didn’t take any medication, and had never been prescribed Valium, by any doctor anywhere or any-when: and that seemed to be it for Craig Crawford.

  He led a very quiet, private life; he bothered no one, and no one bothered him. He appeared to be absolutely what he was – a blameless citizen, and Falconer and Carmichael saw no reason to bother him any longer.

  As they reached the front door, however, he stopped Carmichael and shook him warmly by the hand. ‘A splendid idea!’ he said. ‘You should be really proud of yourself.’ Neither Craig Crawford nor Carmichael uttered another word, and the two policemen left in silence, Falconer feeling a right old stew coming on.

  It seemed that the whole world knew something about his sergeant that he didn’t, and it was really starting to get on his nerves. If he didn’t find out what it was soon, he would burst; but he mustn’t give in, and give Carmichael the satisfaction of being asked. It just wouldn’t do, for him to have to yield like that.

  IV

  Falconer decided that their next call would be at Clematis Cottage, to see Buffy Sinden. She, at least, had admitted to having received a letter, and he wondered if she, too, knew whatever it was about Carmichael, that he, his inspector, and therefore his superior, didn’t. He wouldn’t put it past her; she had seemed like a very persuasive young (or not quite so young. – Meow!) lady, and probably knew everything that was going on in Steynham St Michael.

  They hardly recognised the Buffy who opened the door to them, though. Since they had last seen her, she had worked a miracle on the first impression she made on people. Her hair, roots freshly attended to, was scraped back in a tidy bun and her make-up was discreet, but the biggest change of all was in her mode of dress.

  Unbeknownst to anyone but Roma Kerr, she had made a visit to the village’s ladies’ fashion shop, and kitted herself out with a few mix-and-match items which totally changed her appearance. Today she wore a respectable knee-length wool skirt, a white silk blouse and, as a concession to the season of the year, an emerald green cardigan with a ruffle round the front, which dipped on both sides to give a very flattering but discreet line. The sleeves were also ruffled, she wore black hose and a pair of flat-heeled black patent shoes. The overall effect was stunning.

  Gone was the ageing tart they had previously met, to be replaced with this eye-wateringly lovely figure of a woman, and Falconer wondered that she had never thought of dressing like this before. If one-night stands were no longer to be a part of her life, she would still attract men like bees round a honeypot, but in a more sophisticated and mature way. She could probably not have chosen a better transformation in order to net herself a decent lifetime partner – a husband even – and not some low-life, who was only after one thing.

  Here was a woman any man would feel proud to have on his arm at a cocktail party, or at dinner with colleagues. She had done well, and he silently wished her the best of luck in her future hunting. Mr Right was bound to spot her in her new colours. The low-lives she had previously ‘consorted’ with wouldn’t even see her in this incarnation.

  All these thoughts passed through Falconer’s head in a matter of seconds, as they were invited in and settled in her sitting room. Even that had undergone a transformation. It was as neat as a new pin, to coin yet another cliché, and every surface sparkled.

  Seeing their surprised expressions, she took pity on them, and explained that she had managed to persuade Hilda Pounce to come back and ‘do’ for her. ‘She used to come round before,’ she told them, ‘but I got embarrassed by the number of gentleman friends who hadn’t left from the night before – I don’t start work till ten – so I decided I’d be better off managing on my own. But I wasn’t. Of course, I wasn’t, and everything went to blazes. That awful letter I received made me look at my life in a totally new light, so what you see is the new Buffy Sinden – in fact I think I’ll go back to my full forename, and start asking to be known as Elizabeth again. I also got dear old Hilda to come in and give me a damned good blitz, and she’s promised to come back once a week, to keep it this way for me. Do you like the new image, by the way?’

  For a moment she looked coy and vulnerable, but soon cheered up when Falconer smiled and said, ‘Very much!’ and Carmichael wolf-whistled his whole-hearted approval, simultaneously giving her a double thumbs-up sign.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ she said, producing a tray of coffee in record time. It’s not just about my letter now, is it? It’s much more serious. Do you think the letters had anything to do with Hermione’s murder? Everyone knows they were the cause of Gabriel’s suicide.’

  ‘We do, Ms Sinden, and that’s why we’re trying to find out who else received one of these cruel, cowardly communications.’

  Carmichael, on the ball as usual, had his notepad out, had placed himself just out of Buffy’s field of vision and, with his tongue protruding slightly from the corner of his mouth, was scribbling away furiously.

  ‘Well, I can help you with that one, anyway. I had lunch the other day with Monica Raynor – she and her husband have the estate agency on the Market Darley Road – and she said she’d had one, when we had lunch together on Thursday. Oh, and so did Tilly Gifford. I bumped into her yesterday, and I don’t think she meant to mention it, but she really can’t keep anything to herself. She’s her own worst enemy.

  ‘She just runs off at the mouth. I always say, if you want anything spread abroad in this village, tell Tilly Gifford ‘in confidence’, and absolutely everyone will know about it by the next day. If she’s not talking to people face-to-face, and she does a lot of that in her job at the surgery, she’s on the phone to her cronies: in fact I think she spends most of her free time on the phone. She and Tommy don’t have a lot in common, apart from the card
s club, and he’s usually out in the garage, tinkering with something or other. And here I go, doing exactly the same thing as Tilly, with a bad case of verbal diarrhoea. I’m so sorry. I’ll shut up now and let you get on with your questions.’

  Falconer smiled at her last remarks, thinking what a very nice woman she was, when she wasn’t being mutton trying to dress as lamb. ‘There’re only a couple of questions. Where were you on Friday – yesterday – morning, and do you, or have you ever been prescribed Valium?’

  ‘Ooh, they’re easy ones,’ she answered coquettishly. ‘Yesterday morning, I spent in the back of Roma’s shop, trying on outfits in her stock room, so no one would see what I was doing. And it’s a big fat ‘no’ to the second question. Now, I don’t want to be rude, but if there’s nothing else, I’ve really got to go. I’ve arranged to meet a cousin of mine in Market Darley for a bit of retail therapy – see if I can’t re-enforce this new image of mine with a few more outfits.’

  ‘We were just on our way, Ms Sinden,’ Falconer replied, already rising from his seat.

  ‘Oh, please call me Elizabeth’ she asked plaintively. ‘You’ll be the first people to do that since I was at school.’

  ‘I’d be honoured … Elizabeth,’ Falconer replied, smiling, as she smiled at hearing her full name used again, after such a long time.

  ‘Thank you so much, Inspector. I think it’s time I acted more like an Elizabeth than like a Buffy, don’t you?’

  ‘I think you make an excellent Elizabeth,’ was his considered opinion, and nodding towards Carmichael to indicate that they were leaving, he made his way towards the door, as the newly minted Elizabeth Sinden grabbed her coat and car keys, to follow them through the door.

  V

  Falconer had decided that they would make their way along the High Street, to see those from the terrace in the Market Darley Road who had businesses there, but they’d go on foot, as it would mean a great deal of stopping and starting of his car, and he didn’t want to tax the battery too much in this cold weather. They therefore headed for the car park that was next to the Co-op, and held the village’s recycling bins, but as he entered it, he gave a groan.

  ‘What’s up, sir? You feeling ill?’ Carmichael asked him, with concern.

  ‘No, Carmichael, nothing like that. It’s more of a bursting feeling. Do you realise how many cups of tea and coffee we’ve drunk so far this morning?’

  ‘Too many!’ Carmichael replied, as he became aware of the same sensation, and a look of anguish crossed his face.

  ‘Well, we can’t just burst in at our next interview, and rush straight off to the dunny for a slash, can we? We’d look like a right pair of comedy policemen, and nobody would take us seriously once word got round. I wish Elizabeth hadn’t been in such a hurry to get out. It wouldn’t have seemed so bad, asking her if we could use her convenience. The pressure’s really getting to me now.’

  ‘Me too, sir. Trees! Just over there!’ Carmichael was pointing towards a small copse of trees that disappeared behind the village garage.

  ‘I can see they’re trees Carmichael. What about them?’

  ‘We could ‘go’ behind them, sir, and nobody would know but us.’

  ‘You’re a genius, Sergeant,’ replied the inspector with (mental) relief, and they both exited the vehicle and walked towards the copse, two minds with but a single thought.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Carmichael?’

  ‘Shall we use the same tree?’

  ‘Certainly not! The very idea,’ Falconer snorted indignantly, placing himself behind a magnificent but bare-branched oak, where he would not be visible from the road. ‘You find your own tree!’

  VI

  Back in the car, and once more at their ease, Falconer proposed that they visit Vernon Warlock’s bookshop first, then move on to Charles Rainbird’s antique shop. That would leave them just two doors from the Littlemores’ craft shop, and they could finish for lunch there, then just nip across the road to the Fox and Hounds for a bite of lunch. They could mop up any stragglers from their list of card players to be interviewed, after they’d eaten.

  They left the car in the car park, as there seemed no other convenient place to leave it for access to the village shops. There might not be any double yellow lines in Steynham St Michael, but there were parked cars as far as the eye could see along the High Street.

  Vernon Warlock’s new and second-hand bookshop was, conveniently, only a few steps away, but seemed to be empty and unattended when they entered it. The bell of the shop door having summoned no one, Carmichael gave a couple of hearty bangs to the hotel-style bell on the counter, and Falconer called loudly, ‘Shop! Anybody there?’

  After about a minute, there was a scuffling noise from the depths of the densely shelved interior, and a relatively elderly man in carpet slippers shuffled towards them, clutching a handful of what proved to be stock lists.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he asked, sounding as if that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. ‘What time is it? I should probably be closed for lunch!’

  ‘It’s only eleven-thirty, Mr Warlock, and we just wanted a quick word with you about the murder’ – he made this word sound particularly chilling – ‘of one of your oldest friends,’ and accompanied his words with the offering of his warrant card.

  ‘Oh yes, dreadful business, dreadful.’ Vernon had dismounted from his high-horse, and re-joined the rest of his species on planet earth. ‘Never heard of anything so shocking in my entire life. Anything I can do, don’t hesitate.’

  ‘There are a few questions we’d like you to answer, if you don’t mind, sir. Can you tell me where you were on Friday morning?’

  ‘Let me see. I opened up as usual, but there wasn’t a lot of business. I was feeling a bit cheesed off, actually, and I was just wandering home, thinking of having a bite and a bit of a read, when I bumped into poor old Dim toddling weakly back home, after her shock discovery.’

  ‘It was the time before that that I was actually interested in,’ Falconer directed him.

  ‘I was just in the shop, trying to tidy up the absolute chaos that the second-hand section has become since Christmas – books just shoved back anywhere – not even in their correct genre. It’s shocking when you consider how organised it was before. People really don’t care these days, do they? They just do what they want, put anything where they want, and … I … simply … don’t … know …’

  As his rambling speech slowed to a halt, like the mechanism of a musical box running down, he pulled a not very fresh, and very crumpled handkerchief, from his cardigan pocket, and pushed it under his glasses, to catch the tears that had formed in his eyes, and now threatened to fall. ‘I’m … so … sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Warlock. It’s quite natural in the circumstances. Look, there’s a chair over there – oh, thank you,’ he finished, as Carmichael swung the chair over towards him, ever ready to be of use.

  Vernon sat down, but instead of recovering his composure, he let his head hang down, and his shoulders began to shake, as the sobs wracked his body. ‘Known her … so … long,’ he stuttered. ‘Can’t … cope. No! Not … dead. No!’ This last word, raising his voice to a shout, took the last of his energy, and Falconer caught him, his body as light as a bird’s, as he tumbled towards the floor.

  Carmichael swooped down, and caught the little man up like a child, in his arms, and stood there waiting for Falconer to decide what to do. ‘We’ll put him in the car and take him home.’

  ‘We’ve got your car, though, sir. There’s only two seats.’

  ‘Look, you’re simply better at this sort of thing than I am. Hang on a minute, while I see if his house keys are in his coat pocket, then you can drive him home and get him settled. I’ll come with you to the car park and open up the car for you. Oh, and these look like the shop keys in his coat as well, so we’ll be able to leave everything secure when we go. I think we’ll take our lunch break early today. I’ll walk do
wn to the Fox and Hounds, and I’ll meet you there when you get back. And thank you, Carmichael.’

  ‘No probs, sir!’

  Chapter Eleven

  No Trumps

  Saturday 9th January–

  I

  As Falconer and Carmichael were eating their shepherd’s pies, a woman sat down at the table next to them with a large glass of white wine and a plate of ham salad. Opening her handbag, she extracted a small leather folder from it, put her handbag on the floor between her feet, and opened the A5-sized folder. This action led to peals of laughter from her, and a helpless look from her in their direction, which they interpreted as a ‘Sorry, I just can’t help it’.

  Her merriment brought smiles to their own lips, and when she finally had herself under control again, she leaned over towards them in a companionable manner to explain what had amused her so much.

  ‘I’ve just opened my crochet hook set to read with my lunch, and my Kindle is obviously, at this very moment, sitting in my work basket, and not the slightest use to me at present. I really should have gone for a brighter-coloured cover. Still, I made a detour on my way to work – I’m Roma Kerr, by the way, from the ladies’ fashion shop – and picked up the local rag, so at least I’ve got that to amuse me while I eat my lunch.’

  Falconer introduced himself and Carmichael, and was just explaining that they had been planning to come and see her that afternoon, when she unfolded the Market Darley Courier, took one look at its front page story, did a double-take, and whipped her head round to stare unashamedly at Carmichael. As if watching a tennis match, she whipped her head back and forth twice more, then said, ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ to the sergeant, her face now a mask of incredulity and disbelief.

  ‘You never!’ she said.

  ‘We did!’ Carmichael answered.

  ‘Bloody marvellous idea!’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘People should do something like that a bit more often.’

  Falconer could take it no longer. There had been a plethora of cryptic comments which had gone straight over his head, since first thing that morning, and his pride would have to go to hell in a handcart, because he would ask what was going on – find out what other people knew about Carmichael that he obviously didn’t – or he’d lose his reason. It would cost him a lot to swallow that pride, but he had to know, and know before any more people got one over on him, or at least, that’s how it felt to him.