STRICT AND PECULIAR
ANDREA FRAZER
In the village of Steynham St Michael, the old Strict and Particular Chapel is, at last, undergoing renovation, to the delight of the locals, who believe it will prove useful as a tourist attraction. The renovations have however been dogged by the sightings of mysterious hooded figures …
The newly-decorated interior is then found defaced by a mysterious message in red paint, which prompts a call to the police. DI Falconer and DS Carmichael of the Market Darley CID make an initial visit, and believe that the unexplained events at the Chapel may be the work of a cult.
When a new DC arrives on secondment, Falconer immediately sends him on an undercover fact-finding mission, while spending his own time trying to lay his hands on a local drug dealer.
Then a body is found in the chapel, and events begin to spiral out of control …
Strict and Peculiar is the seventh instalment in Andrea Frazer’s Falconer Files, a detective series chock-full of picture-postcard villages, dastardly deeds, and a delightful slice of humour.
The Falconer Files by Andrea Frazer
The Falconer Files
Death of an Old Git
Choked Off
Inkier than the Sword
Pascal Passion
Music To Die For
Strict and Peculiar
Christmas Mourning
Grave Stones
Death in High Circles
Choral Mayhem
Falconer Files – Brief Cases
Love Me to Death
A Sidecar Named Expire
Battered to Death
Toxic Gossip
Driven to It
All Hallows
Death of a Pantomime Cow
Author’s Note
I know that there are still Strict and Particular Baptist chapels in existence, and I would like to state categorically that the chapel in this book, and those who followed its teachings either in the present or in the past, bear no similarity whatsoever with those who attend services in these buildings today. The beliefs and traditions of the chapel in this book are entirely fictitious, and a figment of my own (twisted!) imagination.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Residents of Steynham St Michael
Buckleigh, Bryony – a widow
Buttery, Noah and Patience – run the mobile library
Crawford, Craig – self-employed accountant and model train enthusiast
Kerr, Roma – runs ladies’ fashion shop
Littlemore, Amy and Malcolm – run the village craft shop
Pryor, Dimity – spinster who helps out at the charity shop
Rainbird, Charles – antiques dealer
Raynor, Monica and Quentin – estate agents
Sinden, Elizabeth – reformed good-time girl
Warlock, Vernon – runs the local bookshop
Welland, Mike – landlord of the Ox and Plough
Workmen at the chapel site
Hillman, Dave
Stillman, Bob ‘Sparks’
Warwick, Steve
From the College
Burrows, Daniel – student
Gray, Jocasta – tutor
Harrison, Amelia – student
Huntley, Jamie – student
Knightly, Antonia – student
Martin, Elspeth – student
Trussler, Aaron – student
Officials
Detective Inspector Harry Falconer
Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael
Detective Constable Chris Roberts
Sergeant Bob Bryant
Superintendent ‘Jelly’ Chivers
Dr Philip Christmas
Previously in the Falconer Files …
This is the seventh big case that Detective Inspector Harry Falconer and Detective Sergeant ‘Davey’ Carmichael have worked on together. When they were first made partners, in July 2009, they were a decidedly odd couple, but each had something to teach the other, and during these months, Falconer has become a little less obsessive about his appearance, and Carmichael has found a voice of wisdom that he never knew he possessed.
Harry Falconer is about five feet ten inches tall, with a slightly olive cast to his skin, and brown eyes. His hair is short and straight, very dark brown, and worn en brosse. He is of medium build, and tries to eat healthily to preserve his still-trim waistline.
He previously lived alone with his seal-point Siamese cat, Mycroft, after leaving the army at the rank of major. Since working with Carmichael, he has acquired three more cats directly from the cases they have worked on together: Ruby, a red-point Siamese, Tar Baby, a long-haired black cat, and Perfect Cadence, a silver-spotted Bengal. His parents are both barristers.
‘Davey’ Carmichael is six feet five-and-a-half inches tall in his enormous cotton socks, and takes size fifteen shoes. He is not just tall, but broad as well. He has a shock of fairish hair which grows in any direction it feels like, and his eyes are blue. Carmichael can eat an awful lot of anything he fancies without gaining an ounce.
Carmichael’s real forenames are Ralph Orsino, and he has, very sensibly, in Falconer’s opinion, chosen to be known as Davey. He has numerous brothers and sisters and, when they were first put together as partners, he lived with his parents and other family members in a council house in Market Darley in a ramshackle extension at the back of the house, which Falconer mentally dubbed ‘Carmichael Towers’, but never dared verbalise this nickname.
When first partnered with DI Falconer, he was a humble uniformed PC but, during their time together, he has managed to pass his sergeant’s exams, and been moved to the plainclothes side of policing.
On their first case together, he met the woman who would become his wife, Kerry Long, who had two sons, Dean and Kyle, from a previous marriage. They married on New Year’s Eve, 2009, in a pantomime-themed ceremony, at the Register Office in Market Darley, and now live in Castle Farthing, with two dogs, a Chihuahua and a Yorkshire terrier, known, unbelievably, as Fang and Mr Knuckles, which they acquired on January 9th, 2010.
At the end of their sixth big case, Music to Die For, Carmichael found out that his wife, Kerry, was expecting his first child …
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2012 by Andrea Frazer
Originally published by Accent Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781477878873
This title was previously published by Accent Press; this version has been reproduced from Accent Press archive files.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Steyn
ham St Michael was much as it had been when it had been touched by murder in the recent past. Its High Street still boasted a double row of individually-owned and styled shops, and had retained the services of a dentist, doctor, bank, and estate agency.
The agricultural land surrounding it had remained undisturbed by the incursion of modern housing, or retail and industrial sites, due mainly to the fact that England, both urban and rural, was in a state of financial depression. New building was a thing of the past, no longer to be feared by village dwellers, who live where they did, simply because their community is not hemmed-in with executive four- and five-bedroomed houses, factories and vast out-of-town shopping ‘opportunities’.
The only disturbances to the surrounding fields were the occasional crop circles, just before harvest, but the locals knew who was responsible for those, and were neither nonplussed nor worried by these apparitions.
That death had visited the village of Steynham St Michael in its most brutal form, was also absorbed and taken in their stride by those who lived there. The village had been in existence for hundreds of years, and a little thing like a death or two would not change its ways, nor mar its evolution.
That it was due for another disturbance of a similar sort was known by none of its inhabitants as our story opens …
Chapter One
Friday 29th October
Detective Inspector Harry Falconer stood staring at the graffito on the internal wall of the Strict and Particular Chapel in Steynham St Michael, his lips moving silently as he read what had been daubed on the wall in red paint.
‘Are we going to need a classicist, sir?’ asked Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael, utterly defeated by the strangeness of the letters used for the message, whatever that message may prove to be. It might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphs, as far as he was concerned, for it didn’t mean a thing to him.
‘No need, Carmichael. This is Modern Greek and, if I’m not mistaken, it’s an adaptation of the words of a popular song.’ Here, he paused, and sang in a surprisingly tuneful light tenor voice, ‘Ee ekklisia echei tee thikee tees istoria, Kapya teen egrapse ston teecho me aimata.’
‘But what does it mean, sir?’ Carmichael asked, not one jot wiser.
‘The original goes roughly, “The road has its own story. Someone has written it in paint on the wall.”’
‘And?’ Carmichael still knew no more.
‘This has been adapted to give the message, “The church has its own story. Someone (female this time) has painted it in blood (plural) on the wall.”’
‘OK, I give up. What’s it supposed to tell us?’
‘That there’s going to be trouble, Carmichael: trouble with a capital ‘T’. We knew there had been some shenanigans up here, at least since the builders moved in to renovate the chapel, because the site manager has been in touch to complain of trespassers on the site and, can you believe it, small bunches of flowers left in various parts of the building.’
The chapel had long fallen into disuse, and Carmichael had visited it when they were in the village on another case. [1] The Strict and Particular Chapel had once housed the members of a splinter group who believed in punishment for the wicked, had the strictest of moral beliefs, and led exemplary lives, with the exception of the punishment they meted out on their own when they strayed from the path of righteousness.
Until recently, there had been a large wooden cross housed in the chapel, which its adherents had dragged out every Good Friday, taking it in turns to haul through the streets of the village, to emphasise that this was the day that Christ was crucified.
This cross, now an interesting artefact in itself, had been removed with the permission of those whose families had been members of the congregation to a more secure housing in St Cuthbert’s (Church of England) Parish Church, in Castle Farthing, there being no Strict and Particular chapels still open and holding services.
The chapel was being renovated by funds collected by descendants of its original attendees, with a view to either re-opening, or using it as an historical exhibit of times gone by, and it was thought that the cross may be damaged, or even stolen, during said renovations. It would be restored to its rightful home when the work was finished and its future had been decided upon.
This latest act of intrusion, including vandalism this time, had been reported by the site manager first thing this morning, and Falconer and Carmichael had attended the scene, out of genuine interest rather than on their instincts as policemen. Neither of them had been inside the chapel before, and both of them were ‘gagging’ to have a look and imagine what it must have felt like to be a member of such a tiny sect (or denomination, however you liked to refer to its members).
Falconer took a few photographs with his phone, and summoned a small SOCO team to the site, in the hope that whoever had done this would have left some trace of themselves, or themself, behind. As was drummed into all police officers now, a miscreant not only takes something away from the locus of a crime, be it fibres on their clothing, or something accidentally acquired on the soles of the shoes, but also leaves something behind. It may be a careless fingerprint, a drop or smear of blood, or it may just be fibres from clothing, but modern forensic methods had become so much more sophisticated than they were even twenty years ago, that a thorough search of any locus was a must these days.
Even in its nearly-restored state, they could imagine how bleak the chapel must have been in its heyday. The walls were of whitewashed stone, the pews as unforgiving as the God of those who had sat in them, and the floor flag-stoned. The altar was a simple stone table with a wooden cross placed in its centre. It was so nearly finished that the desecration of it seemed much worse than it would have done if it had been committed earlier in the restoration.
After a couple of minutes of absorbing the atmosphere, both detectives shivered, almost simultaneously, and headed outside for some fresh air.
The weeds and long grass had been removed from the small graveyard, and some small effort had been made by locals to restore and make readable again the headstones, now all upright, rather than at the sagging angles that they had previously presented to the eye, like a set of teeth badly in need of orthodontic attention.
Once outside, they realised how cold it was for this time of year and did up their coats, pulling up collars over their ears to shield them from the biting wind. As they did so, they noticed Dimity Pryor, an elderly spinster who worked part-time in the village’s charity shop, and Patience and Noah Buttery, all descended from fervent members of the chapel’s now-deceased congregation.
Carmichael called out, ‘Hi!’ and loped over to meet them, while Falconer remained just outside the doors to pull on his gloves and get his scarf out of his pocket. He had not known it this cold at this time of the year since he was a child. There must be a severe winter on the way, if this was any indication of what was to come.
He joined the little group just after they had exchanged greetings and pleasantries. ‘We noticed that the library was closed when we arrived,’ said Falconer, addressing his remark to Patience and Noah, who had been librarians there when he had last visited the village.
‘It went a few months ago,’ explained Patience, letting her gaze fall to the ground as she remembered the event with sadness.
‘We’d worked there together for a long time, and it was difficult to take in that it really wouldn’t be opening its doors again,’ added Noah.
‘So what do you two do now?’ Falconer asked, and immediately could have bitten his tongue off. What if they were existing on unemployment benefits, and living hand-to-mouth?
‘We’re on the wagon,’ declared Patience, and gave him a little smile.
‘Shouldn’t that be the neighbours across the road?’ asked Carmichael, remembering the trouble they had had before with the heavy-drinking Littlemores, Amy and Malcolm, who rather lackadaisically ran the craft shop in the High Street when sober enough so to do.
‘Don’t be silly! A
nd ‘that’ll be the day’ with those two. No, we’re both working on the mobile library. A couple of people on the rota took early retirement during the cut-backs, and we were slotted in to take their places,’ explained Noah.
‘It’s proved to be a great move for us.’ Patience took over the story. ‘Not only do we work less hours, but we meet so many people, going round all the villages and hamlets, it’s like having a vast circle of new friends.’
‘Usually, only people from Steynham St Michael came into the library here, with a few from other villages sometimes making the effort, but with the mobile, everyone’s really pleased to see us, and it’s like one long house party for us,’ concluded Noah.
‘And what about you, Dimity?’ asked Falconer. ‘Still working part-time at the charity shop?’
Dimity smiled at both detectives, and explained, ‘Oh, no. I’m manager these days. The woman who used to run it decided she’d had enough, so they asked me to take over, and it was a good thing, because it filled in some of the time I would have expected to spend with Hermione. She left such a hole in my life.
‘And are Mr Rainbird and Mr Warlock still in their old establishments?’
‘Of course! How else would they occupy their time, except to bicker with each other?’ she replied with a grin.
Charles Rainbird ran the antiques shop in the High Street, and Vernon Warlock the book and gift shop at the eastern extremity of the same street. Falconer and Carmichael had come to know them quite well, on a previous case they had investigated there.
‘Would you like to come back to Spinning Wheel Cottage for a hot drink?’ asked Dimity, always anxious about the welfare of others.
‘That would be delightful,’ agreed Falconer, ‘but we’ll join you in a few minutes, if that’s all right. I just want a quick word with the site manager here, then we’ll collect the car and be with you as soon as we can.’
Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Page 1
