Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

  Monica was as good as her word, and within ten minutes, they were walking down Tuppenny Lane, to discover that the library was still closed. They had been told that the couple who worked there, Noah and Patience Buttery, had gone away after Gabriel Pryor’s suicide, but the County Council would have to sort out temporary staff in the very near future.

  A village library was a popular and much-used amenity, and the recent talk of closing small branches of the library service had caused uproar in the countryside. Even the promise of being included on the mobile library van’s rounds hadn’t sufficed to calm angry residents. They were used to going to their library, when they wanted to, and not waiting for it to visit them when it saw fit.

  Turning their backs on the dark, locked building, a 1960s monstrosity completely out of keeping with the rest of the village, they looked across the road to the Littlemores’ house, and became aware of the sound of loud music, escaping from any nook or cranny it could find. ‘Led Zeppelin IV , I believe,’ Carmichael identified, giving an insight into another part of his character that had hitherto been undetected.

  ‘You like this old stuff?’ Falconer asked, wrinkling his nose at the noise.

  ‘This one’s a classic, sir – ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Fantastic few years round about then. ‘Soft Machine, The Strawbs, Genesis, Jethro Tull …’ he recited, a broad smile on his face as he remembered the music.

  ‘How come you know about all this stuff? You’re much younger than me!’

  ‘Me mum and dad, sir. They were always playing stuff from this era when I was growing up,’ he explained. ‘Recapturing their youth, they used to say.’

  Falconer merely looked bemused. His mother was more likely to have played renaissance dance music or opera when he was a child. If there existed two things that were even more opposite than chalk and cheese, then they would surely be his and Carmichael’s backgrounds. It would seem that the only thing they had in common from their respective childhoods was that they had both been children at the time!

  They could not make themselves heard with either the door knocker or the bell, and eventually went round to the back of Forge Cottage, where they found the kitchen door unlocked. Stepping inside, the music grew even louder, declaring itself to come from the sitting room of the property.

  Opening the sitting room door allowed a wave of sound to buffet them in a way that felt almost physical, and they both reeled from it, Falconer detecting the source of the racket, and moving over to stop it before his ear-drums burst.

  Amy and Malcolm Littlemore were both sprawled in armchairs, oblivious to their visitors, as loud snores replaced the hideous cacophony that had prevailed just a few moments ago. ‘Come along, sir, madam. Wake up, do! I’m Detective Inspector Falconer and this is Detective Sergeant Carmichael. You must remember us. We met just the other day.’

  Malcolm Littlemore was returning to consciousness, and squinted at the two intruders with one eye closed, the other like a blood-shot blue marble. ‘And that gave yer the right just to stroll on in here, without a by-you-leave nor nuffink?’ he challenged them, pulling himself up to a sitting position and nudging his wife rather roughly in the ribs, to stop her snoring and wake her up. ‘Come on, old girl. Sit up and take notice.’

  ‘You’re lucky it was us that called round, sir. Your back door was unlocked, and both of you were ‘deeply asleep’.’ The inspector was being diplomatic.

  ‘Yer could’ve rung the doorbell like any other Christian gentleman, instead of just bursting in on us like that.’ Malcolm wasn’t going down that easily.

  ‘We did knock, sir,’ Falconer informed him, ‘and we did ring. In fact we did both several times, but it would have been impossible for you to hear us, because of the volume of the ‘music’ that was playing. I have turned that off, although you didn’t seem to notice my action at the time. And may I point out that you were lucky it was us that let ourselves in. It could’ve been anybody. You could’ve had your throats slit as you slept, and not known a thing about it! This may be a rural area with little crime, but don’t forget too quickly what happened to Hermione Grayling just yesterday morning. Take precautions! You can never be too safe!’

  ‘Point taken, old boy. You’re perfectly right, o’ course. We just didn’t think. ’aven’t really taken in just what did ’appen yesterday.’ As he spoke, Malcolm Littlemore ran his hands over his face and the fuzz of short hair covering his head, in an effort to re-establish contact with sobriety, no matter how tenuous the connection.

  Amy Littlemore began to babble incoherently, and then to giggle like a schoolgirl, still in a state of near-unconsciousness, but Malcolm soon brought her back to the here and now by grabbing her by the shoulders, and shaking her until her eyes opened, and she began to protest, at which point he indicated that they had company, and propped her upright in the chair as if she were a doll.

  It was all a waste of time anyway. Neither of them had ever been prescribed Valium, which wasn’t surprising given the circumstances. The only way they could have been more relaxed was if they had been in a coma. Neither of them had received a letter, and for some reason Falconer believed them. Maybe it was because their shortcomings were so obvious that it would be impossible for anyone to drag anything up that would actually embarrass them.

  As for as whereabouts on the previous morning, they claimed that they had been stock-taking at the shop, an activity to which there were, inevitably, no witnesses, so they would have to alibi each other for the time being.

  Carmichael, being his usual thoughtful self, went into the kitchen when the inspector was questioning them, still able to hear enough because of the open-plan nature of the layout to make notes, and made a pot of coffee, which he brought in and put down in front of the Littlemores, before they departed. ‘Drink that!’ was all he said as he straightened up, and followed Falconer out through the door.

  Walking to their next destination, Falconer pondered how the Littlemores had managed to penetrate the inner social circle of Steynham St Michael. Their roots were a long way away from the roots of the other members of the cards club, and others that those members socialised with.

  Had he but known it, the explanation was simple. Before moving to the countryside, they had run an exceptionally successful business, allowing them access to circles closed to normal, everyday folk. Malcolm had been a member of the Round Table and an enthusiastic Mason, belying his lowly East End birth. The moving force behind welcoming them into the gang, rather than ostracising them, had of course been Hermione, who found it amusing to have such cuckoos in the nest. In fact, in one moment of enthusiasm she had declared them better than television, to the amusement of all who heard her. They were, however, very much square pegs in round holes, and it is to be considered whether they would continue to be tolerated now that Hermione was no longer there to make pets of them and be their champion.

  IV

  Turning right into Dairy Lane, they saw a sign that read ‘Honeysuckle’, and knew that they had reached Bryony Buckleigh’s cottage. The exterior was chocolate-box pretty, without a thing out of place, and it proved to be matched by its owner in its perfect appearance.

  She answered the door to them, warmly but elegantly dressed, not a grey hair out of place, her make-up subtle and discreet, with no effort made to disguise her age, which was in the lower sixties. Her eyes were bright, and her voice, when she invited them in, was warm, with an accent that hinted at a good education. Pleasantness, however, didn’t solve cases, and they found that she had nothing material to add to what they already knew.

  When they left the cottage, a mere ten minutes after they had entered it, a difference in desires split the pair up. They were far too early to visit Tilly Gifford at home and Falconer, chilled to the bone in his elegant and fashionable attire, wanted nothing more than to settle down in ‘Goldfinches’ and drink a cup or two of hot coffee.

  Carmichael, on the other hand, had a yen to explore the churchyard and chapel of the Strict and Particular
s, so they went their separate ways, the sergeant pulling his colourful but warm hat further down round his ears, and heading back up Farriers Lane the way they had come.

  The churchyard’s gravestones were, in the main, fairly old, or very old, many of them weather-worn into illegibility, others lichen-covered and leaning at odd angles, like mouthfuls of neglected teeth. One thing that was obvious, though, was the proliferation of the surnames Pryor and Buttery. Along with three or four other surnames, these formed the bulk of those now at rest beneath the untended and weed-bedraggled ground.

  Hearing the crack of a breaking twig, Carmichael turned round to find Dimity Pryor leaning on the wall that surrounded the churchyard. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, Sergeant,’ she apologised prettily, and he walked over to her, to see if, sharing one of the names of many of the graveyard’s occupants, she could provide him with a little information about the chapel and its past.

  She certainly could!

  One of the strangest stories she told him was of the Steynham St Michael cross. It was kept in the locked chapel, from whence it had not exited in many a year, was about ten feet in height and made of wood. In days gone by, it had been traditional that male members of the congregation, on Good Friday, would take it in turns to drag this object round the village, balanced over a shoulder the way the real Christ may have dragged his own cross nearly two thousand years ago.

  No one knew when the practice had begun and no one remembered now when exactly it had been discontinued, but it was within living memory, for Dimity could remember witnessing it when a tiny child, the memory almost a short snap-shot of a memory, but vivid nevertheless.

  After a few minutes more of his local history lesson, Dimity and Carmichael parted, she to return to the Market Darley Road to check up on Vernon, who had been so upset that morning, he back down Farriers Lane to the High Street, to meet his superior officer.

  V

  By coincidence, Falconer had also come in search of Carmichael, having satisfied his caffeine craving and staved off a low blood sugar attack (any excuse!) with a Danish pastry. They met at the junction of the Market Darley Road and the High Street and, noting that it was now half-past four – and dark – they set off for Foxes’ Run, in the sure and certain knowledge that they would catch Tilly Gifford at home, and available for a word in private.

  ‘If she hasn’t gone into Market Darley to do her shopping,’ Carmichael offered, pessimistically.

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll just have to take, Sergeant,’ Falconer replied, pulling his collar up and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, for with the darkness had come a biting cold, and a wicked little wind that was too lazy to blow round you, so blew right through you instead. Carmichael adjusted his rainbow hat for maximum cosiness and produced, one from each pocket of his coat, a pair of matching mittens.

  Falconer was aghast. ‘Dear God, Carmichael!’ he exclaimed. They’re not on strings in case you drop them, are they?’

  ‘No, sir, but they’re very warm. Just the thing for a day like this. You ought to get some,’ and he smiled as he said it.

  Falconer smiled back, sensing another small step forward in their partnership. ‘If I do, you’d better be wearing black, Sergeant.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’

  ‘Because it’ll be over my dead body. OMDB, Carmichael. OMDB!’

  ‘Understood, sir, but they really are very cosy.’

  ‘Enough, already!’

  By now they had reached Foxes’ Run, and Falconer rang the bell and followed this with a swift tattoo on the fox-shaped door knocker. He was freezing and wanted to get inside with as little delay as possible.

  Tilly answered the door, still unwinding her scarf, her coat not yet removed, so she had obviously just got in. In daylight, they would have seen her car pass them on the way, but in the dark that was more or less an impossibility, unless one knew the vehicle very well.

  It took a few minutes for introductions, invitations to sit, and the production of the inevitable tray of, in this case, tea, the warmth of which Falconer found very welcoming after their cold trek here on foot, even after his recent caffeine-fest in the restaurant. As Tilly was fetching in the teapot, the inspector shivered and looked at Carmichael, who seemed unmoved by the outside temperature. The sergeant mouthed one word, as Tilly returned to the room, but in that one word, all was revealed.

  ‘Thermals.’

  She was another resident of Steynham St Michael who had never been prescribed Valium. What a very naturally relaxed village this was proving to be, thought Falconer, hardly daring to think the word ‘chilled’ lest he start shivering again.

  Her reaction, however, to their certain knowledge that she had received an anonymous letter, was a little less than relaxed. ‘Who told you that? It’s all lies, wicked lies – what was in the letter that is. I don’t deny that I’ve had one – but it’s all lies, not a word of truth in it at all: I’d never be so irresponsible. I’ve no idea who could have insinuated such a wicked thing. I’ve never been so insulted in my life …’ Tilly finally ground to a halt, mainly because she needed to draw breath.

  ‘I’m not concerned with what was in the letter,’ Falconer inserted, while he had the chance. ‘I just want you to confirm that you received one, and whether you still have it.’

  ‘No, I certainly do not,’ Tilly almost shouted in her own defence and, as it happened, quite untruthfully.

  ‘Do you still have the envelope?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Do you think you could take a look for us?’

  ‘I might do.’

  ‘Now …?’

  ‘Oh, all right. Just give me a minute,’ she requested, and disappeared into what the two detectives assumed was the dining room.

  She was back in less than two minutes, holding out an envelope at arm’s length. ‘Here you are. Take the filthy thing. I certainly don’t want it: in fact, I can’t understand why I haven’t burnt it already.’

  ‘I’m glad you haven’t, Mrs Gifford. Every little bit helps.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Tilly mused, looking immediately happier, now that it appeared she had done the right thing, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘And finally,’ Falconer said, placing his now empty cup back in its saucer, ‘may I ask you where you were on Friday morning? And your husband, of course,’ he added, to ascertain that she would confirm Roma Kerr’s story.

  ‘Tommy took the eight o’clock train to town. He works there, you know, and I know he caught it, because he phoned me at half-past, just as I was getting ready to leave for work, to ask me to pick up his suits from the dry cleaner’s.’

  ‘And did Mr Gifford happen to be with him at the time?’ Falconer asked – cunningly, in Carmichael’s opinion.

  ‘Now how on earth did you know that? You’ve been checking up on us, haven’t you, Inspector?’ she asked, with a twinkle in her eye, before deciding that flirting with an investigating officer was definitely not the done thing, so she had better can that idea tout de suite.

  Picking up the dry cleaning? thought Falconer. So that was why she had been a bit late getting home from work. ‘And I was at the surgery,’ she continued, the twinkle definitely quashed. ‘I start at nine, so I’m always there at a quarter-to, and I don’t finish until four. I usually take a packed lunch with me, and catch up on the filing over the lunch break. It’s not a very long break, and it doesn’t seem worth going home just to eat a sandwich.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ concurred Falconer, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Carmichael nodding his agreement.

  ‘And you really don’t want to know what was in the letter?’ Tilly asked, incredulous that she should be let off the hook so lightly.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest interest in its contents, Mrs Gifford. We know who wrote it, and we’re more concerned with finding her murderer than plumbing the depths of what must have been a very dark mind.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it! Ever
yone loved, or at least liked Hermione, and we all thought she was our friend, while all the time she had all this spiteful stuff in her head about us. I still can’t believe it. It’s just too bizarre.’

  ‘Bizarre or not, I’m afraid it’s true. And now, Mrs Gifford, we will leave you in peace. Thank you so much for your co-operation and help.’

  The two of them walked very briskly indeed back to the car park outside the Co-op where they had left Falconer’s car. What with walking instead of driving, and the temperature dropping even lower, it had seemed like a very long afternoon, though it was not over yet. They still had to return to the station and rendezvous with PC Green, to see if he had come up with anything at the other end of the village.

  PC Merv Green was on secondment from Carsfold, and the three of them had met on a case in the village of Stoney Cross a few months ago. Out of uniform, Merv looked a very scary character, being of a muscular build, darkly tanned due to being out on the beat so much, and with a totally bald head, but he was actually a very civilised young man, who could discuss the merits of fine wine with Falconer and the music of the seventies with Carmichael with equal ease.

  V

  He was waiting for them in Falconer’s office, his helmet resting on the inspector’s desk, his feet up beside it, totally at ease, until he caught sight of them, at which point he was up on to his feet in a flash, to greet those in the position he hoped, one day, to find himself in.

  ‘Anything to report, Green?’ Falconer asked, hoping that Carsfold wouldn’t snatch him back too soon. He saved them so much legwork, and was keen and intelligent to boot.

  ‘Not a lot going on down there, sir. I spoke to that Pounce woman you mentioned – the cleaning lady. Cor, don’t she rattle on? It seems she works just about everywhere. If anything happened to her, she gives the impression that the whole of the village would disappear under a thick layer of dirt.