Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7)

by Andrea Frazer

  Then it struck him that his bag of mixed salad had probably been prepared with ingredients from places as far away as South America, and sighed deeply with resignation. It seemed that there was no escape from decreasing one’s use of imported products in the hope of decreasing one’s own contribution to the global carbon footprint.

  After he had eaten he opened his post, put the paperwork to one side, and tore the envelopes into halves, screwing them up into paper balls. Finding a section of carpet unencumbered with furniture, he got down on all fours with his paper balls, and made kissing noises with his mouth.

  No, he hadn’t gone mad! This was how he called his cats, and the sound soon had all four of them arrive at a run. They spotted him immediately, and what he had for them, and scampered over eagerly. ‘Paper ball’ was their favourite game, and he hadn’t played it with them for days now.

  As Falconer gathered discarded balls back from them and sent them skimming across the carpet again, he thought, ‘What the heck! A man’s got to have some playtime, hasn’t he?’ and rolled on to his back, for the cats to use him as their own, personal, feline bouncy castle, a particularly favoured activity of Tar Baby’s. He seemed to know how heavy he was, and really seemed to relish pouncing, full weight, on his owner’s stomach.

  In The Ox and Plough in Steynham St Michael, the village worthies had assembled, as if by telepathy, to discuss what was apparently going on in their midst. Of course, it had probably been the visits of PC Green and PC Starr that had prompted them all to visit this watering hole, but it seemed strange, nonetheless to all involved that they should all have decided to visit the pub on the same night, and at approximately the same hour.

  Not one of them had considered giving their custom to The Fox, although this licensed house was more or less the same distance from some of their homes. They had met in The Ox and Plough for a long time, until the beginning of the year but, after the unfortunate events that occurred then, many of them had stopped going out for a drink, for it brought back too many memories. [3]

  This evening, however, they had gathered, somewhat embarrassed, round the welcoming log fire, nobody mentioning how they used to meet there, another friend (now absented from them forever) with them, for friendly (usually) games of cards.

  It was quiet in the pub, Tuesday night not being a favourite night for visits from its usual habitués, and it was Vernon Warlock who broke their awkward silence. ‘Well, we all know why we’ve come here tonight. We’ve got another murder in our midst, but at least it wasn’t one of ours, this time.’

  ‘This used to be such a sleepy, quiet village before …’ but Dimity couldn’t speak the name. She tried to continue, by adding, ‘Except for the Littlemores, of course.’

  There were noises of agreement, and heads nodded. Sitting together round the fire were Vernon Warlock, Charles Rainbird, Dimity Pryor, Bryony Buckleigh, and Monica and Quentin Raynor. Elizabeth Sinden and Craig Crawford had not made the sojourn out into the cold and darkness and were at this moment curled up in front of the fire in Elizabeth’s home, Clematis Cottage.

  ‘I thought I’d lost Quentin this afternoon,’ said Monica, eager to break the further silence that had fallen, after Dimity’s sudden silence, albeit followed by a coda. ‘I got back to the office, and there was no sign of him whatsoever. The office wasn’t locked, the closed sign wasn’t turned round: no message or note, either. He seemed to have disappeared into thin air, and then when the police came to the door, I thought they’d come to tell me he was dead.’

  ‘Silly old thing,’ commented Quentin, stirring himself to life. ‘I got a call to go out to look at a property that the owner said he wanted to put on the market, but when I got there, there was no one who knew what I was talking about. It must have been some silly sort of hoax,’ he declared, his face red from the fire. ‘Bloody kids messing about, I suppose, blast their socks!’

  ‘Well, at least it probably stopped us from having another argument,’ Monica said, now displaying a much more off-hand manner.

  ‘’S right!’ agreed Quentin, and turned his attention back to his drink.

  ‘Isn’t it nice that Buffy – oops! Elizabeth – and Craig have got together?’ asked Bryony Buckleigh. They make such a handsome couple, and such a better life for Elizabeth, after all the racketing around she used to do with a different man each week, it seemed to me.’

  ‘He’s just what she needed,’ said Dimity, now over her moment of sorrow. ‘A nice, steady young man, with a good solid profession behind him.’

  ‘He’s not that young,’ sniped Monica, who was considerably older than Crawford’s thirty-nine years, and a few years longer in the tooth than Quentin, but did her best to disguise her age and would have died rather than reveal her date of birth.

  ‘Meow!’ Vernon chided her. ‘Put your claws away, dear.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ This last exclamation was from Charles Rainbird, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, so far. ‘Look who’s just come in,’ and he nodded his head in the direction of the pub door.

  Walking unsteadily through it were Malcolm and Amy Littlemore, the latter the un-steadier of the two. ‘Evenin’ all,’ she shouted across the bar. ‘Can we join yer? Got room for a little ’un, and ’er great big keeper?’

  Vernon and Charles began to discuss the state of business in the worlds of books and antiques in an English village in November. In fact, it was only Dimity who looked in their direction, and she made up her mind instantly. ‘I’m just off home. Just dropped in for a quick one, before having an early night. Help me sleep, you know?’ she said, raising her voice slightly, so that her companions would understand her intentions.

  There was a general stir of movement within the group and, suddenly, everyone had a perfectly reasonable excuse for why they had to go home early.

  Just squiffy enough to be able to ignore a snub the size of an elephant, Amy and Malcolm made for the bar, settled themselves on high stools with only a little difficulty, and ordered their drinks from the barman, Malcolm commenting thoughtlessly, ‘I could murder a pint.’

  [2] See Music to Die For

  [3] See Inkier than the Sword again

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday 3rd November

  Carmichael entered the office in a dreadful state the next morning, his clothes resembling those he had worn in his early days in plainclothes, unshaven, his hair sticking up in all directions. Without even a good morning, he slumped into his chair and dropped his head into his hands.

  Falconer looked up from his desk, concerned, and asked, ‘Whatever’s up with you? It’s not the baby, is it?’

  Carmichael shook his head, but left it buried, still, in his enormous hands.

  ‘Kerry?’ Falconer tried again.

  Carmichael’s head moved from side to side again.

  ‘The boys?’ Falconer was running out of things to suggest.

  ‘The dogs?’ At this, Carmichael gave a howl of despair, and nodded.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked Falconer, who had become, through no fault of his own, Uncle Tasty-Trousers in the eyes of Carmichael’s two minute dogs.

  Carmichael raised his head slowly, and turned to face the inspector. ‘Do you want to know the bad news, or the really bad news, first?’ he asked, his face screwed up in incomprehension.

  ‘I think I’ll take the bad news first, then we can work our way round to the really bad news afterwards,’ replied the inspector, now very concerned for his sergeant.

  ‘Fang’s in pup!’ Carmichael announced abruptly, looking away from Falconer again.

  ‘He can’t be! He’s a boy, and you promised me months ago that you’d booked both of them into the vet’s to have them done,’ exclaimed the inspector.

  ‘I had to cancel the appointment. Something came up,’ explained the enormous sergeant, reduced to the age of a schoolboy by the perceived calamity.

  ‘And you didn’t remake it?’

  ‘It didn’t seem to matter, because th
ey were both boys. They were sold to us as boys, and now it turns out that Fang’s a girl.’

  ‘Carmichael!’ Falconer exclaimed, with disgust. Did you never look?’

  ‘I didn’t like to, sir. It seemed somehow rude to just turn them upside down and look at their privates.

  ‘And Mr Knuckles is the father?’

  ‘We’re almost certain he is.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem? It’ll be great for the boys to have some puppies in the house to play with. If they’re big enough for them to find, that is. And you can always find them good homes when they’re weaned.’

  ‘I know,’ Carmichael replied, looking even more despairing, ‘but they won’t have gone by the time the baby’s born. They’ll still be with their mum, and I don’t know if it’s hygienic to have a load of tiny puppies around with a new-born baby in the house.’

  ‘You’ll love them when they’re born, and you’ll cope. The boys will be delighted to be on puppy guard, and your Kerry can cope with anything.’

  Carmichael’s face brightened a little at Falconer’s confidence in the ability of his family to cope with any situation that life could throw at them.

  ‘And in the future, remember, it’s quite simple to sex an animal, Carmichael. You just look at its back end, and if it’s a continental plug, it’s a female, and if it’s a pencil sharpener, it’s a male.’

  ‘That rude, sir?’ replied Carmichael, looking embarrassed.

  ‘No it’s not, Sergeant. It’s simple common sense. There is one thing you’ll have to do, though,’ said Falconer thoughtfully.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Change that dog’s name to Mistress Fang. We can’t have a dog in her condition having a masculine-sounding name. Now, what’s the really bad news?’

  Carmichael’s face crumpled again, and he dropped his face back into his hands, mumbling through his fingers, ‘It’s my ma!’

  ‘She’s not ill, is she?’ asked Falconer, concerned, because he realised how fond of his mother Carmichael was.

  ‘Sort of,’ Carmichael replied, still muttering through his fingers.

  ‘Take your head out of your hands so I can hear you properly,’ he barked, in a very headmaster-ish manner. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s in pup, too, sir. Or, well … you know what I mean. I know she’s not over the hill, but I thought all that sort of thing was over, and now I find out I’m going to have a brother younger than my own little one. What am I going to do about it?’

  Falconer almost burst out laughing, but suppressed it for the sake of Carmichael’s feelings. ‘Congratulate her, Sergeant. There’s no point in getting all bent out of shape about it. So, your sibling will be younger than your son or daughter. So what! So, your parents are still having sexual relations. So what! It does happen between older people, you know, and I bet this wasn’t planned.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t sir, but I remember what my ma told me about her pelvic floor – remember I told you as how she reckoned it were riddled with woodworm?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the inspector, with a little moue of distaste, at the mention of such a portion of Mrs Carmichael Senior’s sturdy body.

  ‘Well, what if he falls out in the Co-op?’

  ‘Oh, Carmichael, grow up! What if it does? As long as it’s healthy, it doesn’t matter a jot where she ‘drops’ it. Actually, you said ‘he’. Has she had a scan?’

  ‘She had to. The doctor thought she might have a growth.’

  ‘Well, surely, this is much better news than that she may have cancer. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’re quite right, sir.’

  ‘Now, go and wash your face, and comb your hair while you’re at it. Get yourself a cup of tea in the canteen. I’ll see you back here in half an hour, and we won’t mention this conversation again,’ Falconer ordered him.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Dear God! thought the inspector. He seemed to spend more of his working hours doing social work these days, what with that overgrown child masquerading as a DC, Chris Roberts, and Carmichael coming over all emotional on him. It would be nice to get the chance to do a little detecting, instead of sorting out other people’s problems for them.

  This was Chris Roberts’ third day at the college, and already he was getting used to the rhythms of student life. He got up just that little bit later and went to bed much later than he would usually. He was also surprised to realise that he was supposed to do the coursework, his tutor not knowing anything about his undercover placement, and that really was a pain.

  There was to be no skiving off written work in Jocasta Gray’s tutor group, and he had to spend quite a lot of what he had envisaged would be free time writing essays and making coherent notes from what he had jotted down in lectures.

  He continued to be a bit of a hit with Elspeth, however, and was slowly being drawn into her little clique, which consisted of her best friend, Antonia Knightly; Jamie Huntley, also on the same course; Amelia Harrison, the history student; Aaron Trussler, the physical education student, and Daniel Burrows, the philosophy student.

  Apart from that one little spat with Daniel Burrows a couple of days ago, everything seemed to be going well for him being accepted as a regular member of their little gang, and he felt he had managed to place himself very nicely for finding out about the ‘special’ group that he was here to uncover. After all, hadn’t he already found a monk’s habit with cowl in Elspeth’s car?

  He centred his attentions on her and managed to get her to agree to go for a coffee in town with him after the morning lecture ended, suggesting that they go to one of Market Darley’s branches of the multitudinous coffee houses that had sprung up in recent years, because he wanted to get her away from her peers and see what he could winkle out of her when he’d got her on her own.

  She was cautious when he first suggested it to her at registration, but as he worked on her over the morning she finally gave in and, at half-past eleven, they were sat in armchairs in front of a low table in Enrico’s with lattes in front of them, she in a much more relaxed mood.

  ‘You’re a very mysterious girl.’ he complimented her. ‘You’re really deep and unfathomable.’ He was good at this sort of thing when he wanted to be, and didn’t even feel the need to cross his fingers behind his back. ‘There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye,’ he went on, noticing how her eyes were shining at this praise.

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ she admonished him, but a blush was spreading steadily across her acne.

  ‘No, I mean it. Not just the ordinary things like where do you come from, and how many brothers and sisters you have. You’re deep, spiritually, and I want to know more about that side of you.’

  ‘Come off it,’ she said, turning her face away in embarrassment, at the onslaught of such welcome compliments.

  ‘Look!’ he said, deciding to get a bit artistic about the whole thing, ‘If people were made of water, most of the people I know would just be puddles, if we looked at them spiritually. But, you – you’d be an ocean. You feel things I’ve never even dreamt of, and I want to know about them. I don’t want to spend my life as a puddle. I want, at least, to aspire to a small lake.’

  ‘Oh, Chris, you do have a nice turn of phrase, sometimes,’ she spluttered.

  ‘I want to share the things you believe in. I want to feel the things you feel. I want to penetrate the secret Elspeth, and feel her triumph,’ he declared, now getting quite heated in his invention.

  The word ‘penetrate’ had obviously got to her, because she slid her hand across the table, and put it over his, pulling it away swiftly, as she realised what she had done without thinking.

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ she said, looking horror-stricken.

  ‘Whatever are you sorry about?’ asked Chris, struck by this sudden change in atmosphere.

  ‘I touched your hand. Touching’s not allowed, as it encourages sins of the flesh and fornication,’ she explained.

&nbs
p; ‘Then we’ll just forget it happened,’ he countered.

  ‘Can we?’ she asked, with unexpected hope in her voice.

  ‘It’ll be our little secret,’ replied Chris, hoping that this was what she wanted to hear.

  ‘Oh, Chris, you are wonderful,’ she whispered, then looked away again, in embarrassment.

  ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I know we can’t touch, or kiss, or cuddle, or do any of those other things that we might want to do.’ He was really excelling himself here. ‘But we could be close in other ways, that no one could object to,’ he cajoled her.

  She thought about this for a moment, her gaze far away and dreamy, and it was all Chris could do not to laugh. ‘Like what?’ she eventually asked, gazing at him adoringly, then added, inconsequentially, ‘I do love beards!’

  ‘Now, this is probably going to sound a little racy to you,’ he began, ‘but if I can’t physically get inside you, you could let me into your head; let me penetrate your thoughts. It would be our little secret.’ He had purposely stressed the word ‘penetrate’ again and, although she leaned away from him looking shocked, he realised that he had phrased it correctly, and that she understood the offer to mean that mental fornication held a promise of physical things to come.

  ‘Only if you promise to keep it deathly secret.’ She was whispering again.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he whispered back. ‘It will be our own special sort of intimacy.’ Now he really was laying it on thick, but she was very naïve, and might just fall for it.

  Clunk!

  She had.

  Very quietly and discreetly, she shuffled her armchair closer to his, and leant over, beginning to whisper in his ear, her eyes bright with excitement and daring. ‘I’ve never done this kind of thing before,’ she began, and he believed her; by his reckoning, it wasn’t the only thing she’d never done before, either.