Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

by Andrea Frazer

She handed the letter to him without faltering, explaining that, as what it said was true, and that most of the older residents knew about it anyway, they didn’t mind him seeing it. It was just the sheer spite of it that had upset them, and they really couldn’t believe that Hermione had written it. It seemed so out of character, as she had always been perfectly friendly towards them, whenever they had met.

  Falconer took the letter and read:

  You have only one living child, but how many monstrosities have you buried over the years, you freaks? Close relatives should NOT marry.

  Know this: that you shall not go unpunished!

  The look of puzzlement on his face was quenched immediately, as she explained, ‘Noah and I are first cousins, and there is no ban on us marrying in the Church. I have had three miscarriages over the years, but we have accepted that these things can happen. It is God’s will. But there is nothing wrong with our relationship, and there’s nothing wrong with us either. We’re not freaks! And we were a perfectly happy little family until Gabriel killed himself because of one of these filthy letters, and then we opened this.’

  ‘If this was Hermione Grayling’s handiwork, then she was an instrument of the Devil, and deserves to burn in Hell.’ Noah’s opinion harked back to their Strict and Particular roots, but Falconer didn’t even notice it. He was standing staring at the letter, as if he had never seen anything like it before, his eyes protruding from their sockets, in his surprise.

  At the back of his mind, a penny dropped, and the palm of his free hand actually slapped his forehead, as the truth finally revealed itself to him. Yes, he’d have to confirm his revelation, but he already had an idea of how he was going to do that, and he was already looking forward to it, at this very moment.

  Everything was suddenly crystal clear. It was, literally, staring him in the face; it had been there in open view, since he had first arrived at the scene of the murder, like Poe’s ‘purloined letter’. And because it was so blatant, he hadn’t, like anyone else, consciously acknowledged it. He had merely retained that tiny niggling little warning bell at the back of his mind, which was at that very moment signalling ‘told you so’ to him and blowing silent raspberries inside his head.

  Pulling himself together, Falconer put both letter and envelope in an evidence bag, and asked, ‘Just one final thing before we leave. Do you mind if I have a look inside your cleaning cupboard?’

  Both Patience and Noah looked at him with startled expressions, as if he had gone mad. ‘I assure you, I’m perfectly serious, and it does have relevance to the case. It has become necessary that I check to see which cleaning products anyone who knew Hermione uses,’ he explained, his target of course being the Blanche-issimo bleach.

  ‘Please, be our guest, Inspector,’ replied Patience, actually summoning a weak smile. ‘Is there a new criminal offence, using the wrong type of bleach?’

  ‘There just might be in this case, Mrs Buttery.’ He smiled back at her, and followed her into the kitchen, to poke his nose into the cupboard under her sink.

  Having come to an abrupt decision, before they left he asked, ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me what time the library shuts tonight?’

  ‘Seven o’clock, Inspector; same as always. It allows people who work during the week to change their books in the early evening, instead of having to wait until the weekend.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I wonder if you would be good enough to remain there after work tonight. There are a number of people I need to talk to en masse, and the library would be a very convenient place to do it, having, as it does, sufficient floor space for me to address a number of people without having recourse to use a public house – most unsuitable – or a private sitting room.’

  ‘That’s no problem at all, Inspector. I’ll put up the ‘closed’ sign at the usual time, and you can admit whoever you’ve invited.’

  ‘What a practical and helpful woman you are, Mrs Buttery. Thank you again for your co-operation and help.’

  Outside once more, Carmichael asked him, politely of course, what the hell he was up to, only to receive the uninformative and maddening response, ‘You’ll see, Sergeant. You’ll just have to wait a little, like everyone else, although they don’t know that yet.’

  IV

  It proved to be a tedious morning, and cold, walking from house to house and inspecting the cleaning products of all their suspects, in search of the Blanche-issimo. Although they knew they would not be able to catch everyone at home, they were kept in Steynham St Michael even longer, due to the appointments they had to make to visit people in their lunch breaks, for the necessary nose into their cupboards, but it did give them sufficient time to return to The Spinney to have a final look at ‘The House of Death’, as the press would no doubt refer to it.

  The kitchen was really the only room they needed to check – and, indeed, they did find two bottles of the product in question, along with furniture polish, glass cleaner, floor polish, and all the other liquids, gels, and creams necessary to keep a house dirt-free – but they had time on their hands, and Falconer fancied a final wander around. At least it kept them indoors and out of that biting wind. His glances at Mr Hat were more intensely envious today, although Carmichael, fortunately, didn’t notice them.

  Falconer was at his most observant, having felt such a fool at their first visit of the day, and babbled away, as they made a slow circuit of the accommodation. ‘Well, anyone but a fool could see that this wasn’t a burglary gone horribly wrong, couldn’t they, Carmichael? There are a couple of nice Victorian oils in the hall, along with at least two signed Lowry prints.

  ‘And look over there,’ he pointed to a display cabinet on the opposite wall. ‘In the cabinet next to the Davenport. That’s as mouth-watering display of Austrian cold-painted bronzes as you could wish to find, and if I’m not mistaken, I caught sight of a pair of Sevres pieces in the dining room. No one intent on theft would leave things like that behind.

  ‘I’ll bet you anything you like that old Rainbird’s mouth is watering at the chance of getting back in here to make a ridiculously ‘conservative’ bid for some of the choicer items.’ The very thought made rub his hands together, and he looked at his sergeant for a response to his mini-inventory.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Carmichael replied on cue, but the inspector had lost him way back in the hall, and he had switched off at that point, to wonder what he was going to eat for his tea that evening. Old and fussy things didn’t interest him in the slightest, and he couldn’t wait to get back into the fresh air again and away from all this clutter.

  Their final call on what had proved to be a very long morning was to Hilda Pounce, the finder of Gabriel Pryor’s body, and considered a very unlucky woman by her fellow residents. Both she and Dimity Pryor received a dose of silent sympathy from all who knew them, for having to cope with the memories their experiences must have created for them.

  She braked to a squeaky halt on her bicycle as they approached her house, fumbling in a pocket for her door key, and screwing up her face into a mask of disapproval. ‘You again!’ she almost spat at them.

  ‘I’m afraid needs must where the devil drives, Mrs Pounce. And it’s only a quick question we want answered. It won’t take more than a minute or two.’

  ‘It’d better not had. I’ve got to get some lunch down me, and get back to work for two o’clock, and the likes of you comin’ along and wasting my time don’t ’elp.’ she stated baldly, standing aside so that they could enter.

  When Falconer asked his standard question for the day, specifically mentioning the elusive brand this time, she exploded like a tuppenny squib. ‘Blanche-issimo!’ she almost shouted. ‘Do you know how much that stuff costs? It’s like gold, and much too rich for the likes of my purse. I’m just a poor cleaner. Elbow grease is my product – of necessity.’

  This was probably a bit rich, but both detectives got the point, and left her in peace as they walked back to the car. They had to get back to Market Darley for the in
quest this afternoon, and they were now running behind. ‘Fresh air sandwich again,’ commented Carmichael on their lack of lunch, his mind returning once more to food. ‘Getting sick of them, I am. Tasteless, and not a lot of substance.’ And those were his final words on the matter.

  V

  The outcome of the inquest was a foregone conclusion: death by person or persons unknown, and of course an adjournment was announced, the Coroner expressing his dismay at the violence of the attack on a defenceless woman.

  The occasion did, however, give Falconer a chance to meet Hermione’s publisher and agent, both of whom looked like they’d lost a shilling and found sixpence, which they had, metaphorically. There would be no more Victorian sagas from Hermione Grayling with which to line their wallets and waft them abroad on luxury holidays.

  Falconer reckoned from the expressions on their faces that if the murderer were revealed to these two gentlemen now they would tear that person limb from limb and stamp on the results, so much financial damage had that person done.

  He had found their contact numbers in Hermione’s address book, phoning them himself with the news, and both had reacted in exactly the same way, going from being jolly, ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ types to down-in-the-mouth glumness in the space of a few sentences. It had irritated him at the time that neither had expressed any personal regret for the murdered woman, their prime concern being their own cut of the deal and their own loss of income, rather than the loss of a well-respected client or friend.

  He had had little time for them on the phone, and had even less now, in person, pausing only long enough to learn that Hermione had left a will, and that everything of which she died possessed was to be used to set up a writing prize for new, young authors. That would be one in the eye for everyone who knew her, and it made him smile, as he made his way back to his office, to prepare himself for what was to come that evening, and then to get something to eat before he passed out with hunger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Game Over

  Monday 11th January – evening

  I

  Both Falconer and Carmichael had gone home to eat, before setting out for that evening’s meeting in their separate cars, as Carmichael now lived in Castle Farthing. Falconer had made his arrangements for later, before he had left the office. PC Green, accompanied by PC Linda Starr from Carsfold, was to take a patrol car and arrive in Tuppenny Lane about seven forty-five, parking on the piece of waste ground to the east of the library so as not to cause alarm.

  He and Carmichael would also park there, leaving their cars sufficiently towards the front of this unused piece of land, to allow PC Green to use them as a screen, by parking behind them. ‘Softly softly, catchee monkey’, as Falconer was fond of saying, to Carmichael’s continued bewilderment.

  They arrived within a minute of each other at ten past seven and, on entering the library, began setting the scene. Two trolleys of returned books were relocated between the stacks, and as many chairs as they could find were set in a semi-circle in the large open space between the doors and the returns desk.

  Falconer had invited fifteen ‘guests’ for the evening, and he intended to give them value for money for the inconvenience he was causing them.

  Dimity Pryor and Vernon Warlock were the first to arrive, at a quarter-past as the chairs were still being arranged. They amused themselves, in the meantime, by scanning the books on the abandoned trolleys to see if there was anything worth reserving for their next visit, Vernon snorting audibly at what he described as ‘romantic women’s nonsense’.

  Charles Rainbird was next to arrive, with Bryony Buckleigh on one arm and Roma Kerr on the other, Rodney Kerr not being included in the invitation, and they were followed next by Elizabeth (Buffy) Sinden and Tilly Gifford, Tommy Gifford also being excluded from attending. At twenty-two minutes past, Craig Crawford strolled in, closely followed at twenty-five past by Monica and Quentin Raynor, the latter commenting on how crowded the parking was on the waste ground.

  ‘Oh, God,’ thought Falconer. ‘Surely they haven’t all come by car for that small distance. I know it’s cold, but this is ridiculous. At this rate, there won’t be any room for the patrol car,’ and he hoped that PC Green had the nous not to come into the library to ask where he should go for alternative parking. There was no point at all in him setting this up if he was going to have a ‘beater’ go berserk and alert the prey before he was ready to take his shot. Everything about this evening’s performance was about stealth, cunning, and timing, and he didn’t want his chance blown by a PC with no initiative.

  At twenty-nine minutes past seven, the Littlemores entered, slightly unsteadily, complaining about having to go out in the cold, and causing those they greeted by name to lean backwards as the fumes of alcohol hit them.

  That was everyone there, and he could call his meeting to order and get things going. He was really looking forward to his performance, but more of that later. Clearing his throat loudly and pointedly, he fixed his eyes about a foot above the heads of those in front of him, and began a process, the like of which he had longed to be involved in since the age of about thirteen.

  ‘I’m sorry to put you to the trouble of coming out on such a cold evening,’ he began, ‘but I felt it was necessary, in the circumstances, to clear up this whole business of poison pen letters and murder.

  ‘First of all, let me say that I have examined all your alibis, finding some of them dubious, and others reliant on the word of only one other person, so I have had to consider your various relationships with the deceased very carefully.’

  ‘I say, old man! That’s not really cricket. We all loved Hermione,’ interjected Charles Rainbird at this point.

  ‘It is necessary, sir, no matter how unpleasant it appears to you. Now, to continue, most of you, I believed, were telling the truth about your whereabouts, but I did take a very good look at three of you – namely you, Mr Rainbird, and also you two. Mr Warlock, and Miss Pryor.’

  At this point a babble of disapproval echoed round the high-ceilinged atrium, which Falconer quelled with a lift of his hand, in the instantly recognisable symbol for ‘stop’. ‘I know this is unpleasant, but please have the courtesy to hear me out.

  ‘It would have been simplicity itself for either Mr Warlock or Mr Rainbird to have closed their shops for a few minutes – a small sign on the door would have sufficed to inform customers that they would be back in ten minutes or so.’ In a corner, Carmichael scribbled furiously in his notebook in his ‘not-Pitman’s’ shorthand (or whatever the current fad for such things is, and if it even now exists).

  ‘Mr Warlock could have snuck up by the roundabout route of Farriers Lane, hardly passing a dwelling on the way, fully ready to abandon his plan should anyone see him, then nipped down Tuppenny Lane, with only the Market Darley Road to cross, before reaching The Spinney.’

  ‘And why exactly would he want to do that?’ interrupted Quentin Raynor, his hackles up, at the thought of people he regarded as his friends having to put up with this sort of treatment.

  Vernon Warlock made an inarticulate noise in his throat, but Falconer was too quick for him, and cut in with, ‘I don’t think we need to discuss that at the moment, Mr Raynor. I’m merely putting it forward as a possibility.

  ‘And a damned impertinent one, at that!’ was Charles Rainbird’s contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Ah, yes, Mr Rainbird. It must be perfectly obvious to everyone here present, that you could have used exactly the same ploy.’

  ‘And just marched up the Market Darley Road, informing anyone I met that I was off to murder my very dear, old friend Hermione Grayling, I suppose?’

  ‘Absolutely not, sir. I would have expected you to have made your way up the road, citing your intention to collect your copy of the local newspaper from the general store, and if you had been stopped, and had needed to give this explanation, you too, would have abandoned your plan for that day, and tried another time.’

  ‘Preposte
rous!’

  ‘Well, leaving that for the moment, I must now inform Miss Dimity Pryor that, as a very old friend too of Miss Grayling’s, it was obvious to us that you were closest to the scene of the murder, and had only to cross the road, ostensibly for a quick word or a cup of tea, to be at The Spinney, probably noticed by no one.’

  Dimity wasn’t taking this sitting down, and she physically rose to her feet, matching her actions to her state of mind and asked, ‘Do you really expect anyone to believe that I had the strength to wield that dreadful implement? Hermione was twice my size.’

  ‘She was, however, sedated, as I’m sure you all guessed from my questioning about Valium,’ Falconer countered. He was really enjoying himself now. It was proving to be worth the twenty-seven year wait, to realise his ambition.

  ‘Did you ever feel the weight of a billhook, Inspector? Do you imagine I would have the physical strength to bring that down on Hermione’s skull and cleave it open?’ Dimity asked again, shuddered, and closed her eyes, as her words brought a dreadful picture to her mind. ‘Hermione was my best friend since we were at school together, and although we may have had minor differences of opinion over the years …’

  ‘Including Barry Barker?’ asked Falconer, on a whim, well into his stride now, his mental state one huge grin.

  ‘Including Barry Barker, Inspector. She was quite right about him: he was a two-timer, and would have ended up breaking my heart – something that Hermione could foresee, but I couldn’t, being so smitten with him. Anyway, as I was saying, we were best friends since schooldays, and I don’t think there’s a thing in this world that could have made me feel towards her as did the person who struck that devastating blow. So there!’

  As Dimity made her defiant statement, those gathered there heard a faint electrical humming noise at the back of the library, which was gradually increasing in volume as it moved closer to them.

  ‘As I said before, yours were the three alibis I looked most closely at, but there was no reason at all why some of the others who alibied another person should be telling the truth. What if Amy Littlemore,’ here,’ he skewered that lady with his eye, defying her to protest, ‘had not been stocktaking with her husband all Friday morning, but had covered for him while he left the stock room at the back of the shop, and nipped up to The Spinney for a spot of murder?’