Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5)

by Andrea Frazer

  The camel’s back snapped with this final straw – first ‘Kojak’ Carmichael, then the endless reports and figures that had delayed him so unexpectedly. He’d never get out now, if he had to clear all this mess up, and what was it the little sods had shredded? He was distracted enough by this unexpected turn of events, to have forgotten exactly what he had left out on his desk the night before, and approached it now cautiously, bending down to retrieve a few scraps of whatever it was, and hoping it was not something irreplaceable.

  It was, more or less. ‘You little feline buggers!’ he yelled at the top of his voice, as he identified a translation into English that he had struggled with for hours the night before, in his eagerness to discover some sense the mysteries of the plot of a book called ‘I Fonnissa’, available only in its original language of Greek. He’d sweated buckets as he had ploughed through its turgid prose, wrestling with the untrustworthy and unreliable timeline that had allowed young characters to go out for something, only to return shortly thereafter, many years older, and others to be asked to fetch a loaf of bread from the bakery, never to be seen again, their presence un-noted in the text.

  He had devoted hours with his dictionaries and verb books, to unlock a particularly knotty few pages of almost incomprehensible plot, and now his work lay in ruins, and he had not had time to commit it to his computer translation, so involved had he become, and now it had all been for nothing. Little of the actual events in the story were in his memory, because the use of language had been so difficult, the errors in chronology so mystifying, and now he’d have to go back and do it all over again. He was absolutely incandescent with rage.

  It was nearly an hour before the detritus of his blood and sweat, if not actual tears, had been cleared away to his own fastidious satisfaction, and he knew that his fridge, like Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, was bare. It was definitely too late to dine out not, and he’d have to scrabble around in his small freezer to see if there was anything he could throw together, for his evening sustenance.

  He didn’t even, at the moment, possess a can of his guilty secret, baked beans, and he knew that his bottle of brown sauce had been jettisoned the previous week, to land in tinkling obscurity in his recycling bin. So hungry was he now, that he would even have considered retrieving this receptacle and swilling its inside with a little water to extract the last scrapings of sauce from it, had he at least had haricots in tomato sauce. How shameful!

  His freezer was almost as empty as his fridge, its contents consisting mostly of tiny spicules of ice where he had not defrosted it for so long. At the bottom, however, nestling under a pile of snow-like particles, a small bag of oven chips and a lone packet of fish fingers stared balefully up at him, and he remembered now when and why he had purchased them.

  In the not-too-distant past, he had been horrified to espy Carmichael, en famille, arrive outside his property, on what looked to be a jolly little jaunt to ‘cheer up’ the boss, who had no one around him to call his own. Falconer, not in the least unhappy in his own company, and being thrown into a blind panic, at the thought of all the uninhibited company intent on descending upon his peaceful tidy home, had taken refuge under the baby grand piano, then felt a little shamefaced at his inhospitality, when the coast was clear. On his next shopping expedition, he had picked up these items of supposed food, should the event recur, and had vowed to welcome them in, and offer the boys something to eat that they wouldn’t find too far removed from what was considered child-friendly food.

  And here he was, hoist by his own petard, and with no option but to eat the damned things himself. Hastily mixing a little tomato paste with some red wine vinegar to serve as a sauce to disguise the lack of taste, he put his oven on to heat, and chewed moodily on an out-of-date cereal bar he had discovered in a wall cupboard, while in search of his beloved, but previously consumed, baked beans.

  IV

  At The Manse, the meal was just getting into full swing, as Alison Meercroft finished the tidying and gathering of discarded items that had resulted from the scrum for costumes, before cocktails. There had been wigs to re-comb, dresses to pick up from the floor and pack away, and various other accoutrements of fancy dress to return to their packing boxes.

  Although she would not collect anything from tonight until the next day, she needed to return to her shop and make a formal inventory of all that had been borrowed, to ascertain that everything was accounted for in the morning, when she would return to collect what was currently in use. This was a first for her, as well as for the hotel, and she wanted nothing left to chance, that may lead to disagreement between her and the management.

  Snapping the last box closed, she looked up to see her assistant Céline re-enter the room, and rounded upon her in displeasure. ‘Where the hell have you been for the last half an hour? You know damned well that I took you on to help with this extra business, and on the very first full night, you swan off somewhere without a word to me, and then don’t come back until I’ve done all the work myself. If you want to keep this job, my lady, you’d better be a bit more use than you’ve been, this evening. There are plenty of other people out there who would give their eye teeth to have regular employment, and it’s not exactly a dirty or arduous job, either.’

  ‘Ah ’ave not been gone that long,’ stated Céline with an arrogant curl of her lip. ‘Ah just neeped out for a leetle ceegarette and – ’ow you say? – to make pipi.’

  ‘You have been gone that long, my lady, and there’s no use denying it, because I looked at my watch just after you left. I don’t mind you slipping off to the ladies’ for a couple of minutes, but you must smoke your cigarettes in your own time in future, and not mine. You took enough time to smoke a whole packet of cigarettes, and never mind the pee-pee, you could have fitted in a caca as well. There’s no point in me keeping a dog and barking myself, now is there?’

  ‘What eez zees dog you talk of? Ah ’ave no dog. Where eez dog?’

  What an impenetrable, buggeringly infuriating barrier language was, and how exasperating it was, not to be able to express one’s anger and disapproval in an effective way. With a sigh, Alison shook her head in despair, and briefly envisaged advertising and interviewing for another assistant. No, definitely not something she wanted to contemplate right at this moment. She’d have to let it go this time, and consider that, if anything like this happened in future, then the girl would be on a final warning, and then it would be a case of ‘three strikes and you’re out’. She had seemed so sensible and practical when she had started working in the shop, but her performance here, had been very lack lustre and slapdash, and she simply wouldn’t tolerate it. The girl’s brain seemed to be on another planet, and that was no use to man nor beast,

  ‘Ah am desolated, Madame Aleeson. Ah theenk Ah am much surprised by ze elegance of zis place. Eet is lahk a leetle Versailles, and mah eyes were dazzled.’ Céline had always been good at flannel, and she employed it shamelessly now to get her out of her boss’ bad books.

  ‘Never mind, Céline,’ Alison replied, comprehending that there really was no point in being cross after the event. She should have gone to look for her after five minutes, but what was done was done. And then suddenly realising that, fingers crossed, she could be on to a nice little earner here, if her costumes went down well. ‘Come on, let’s get this stuff packed up and back to the shop, before it gets too late. Mind, I want you here at ten o’clock on the dot tomorrow, and no shirking off for a crafty puff. Understood?’

  ‘Oui, Madame Aleeson.’

  V

  The first course was nearly finished, and, apart from a rather dodgy moment when Enoch Arkwright, aka Albert de Pub Boer, had asked dear old Jean-Luc Plume de Ma-Tante if he would pass the ‘syrup’, conversation was becoming lively. While keeping an eye on his guests gastronomic and vinous needs, Jefferson caught brief phrases of conversation.

  ‘… haven’t a clue what a South African accent sounds like. I don’t want anything to do with being a foreigne
r, and that’s that.’

  ‘’Ow are you, mah leetle cabbage? Wah don’ you ’ave anozzer leetle dreenk?’

  ‘… I’m going to settle this matter once and for all.’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to be a mucky filmmaker. How does that work? Old Wiggy would have been more suited to the part.’

  ‘… and now I’m marking your c …’

  ‘… and at least someone has cast me as a dark-eyed beauty, whereas you …’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’ve got a down on foreigners. What have they ever done to you?’

  ‘… so what exactly do you do, Mr van der Skidding?’

  ‘You know why. It was the new site. Bloody little upstart and his sodding ecology.’

  ‘I don’t want to see any more of these silly games. I will not be taunted.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Plume de Ma-Tante, how naughty you are!’

  ‘I used to sing in a night club, where I met my aristocratic husband. Sorry I can’t do an accent. It always lapses into Welsh, and I feel a right lemon.’

  Attempts at foreign accents, with various levels of success, glided serenely in and out of the general conversation, like swans passing back and forth under a bridge, and Jefferson was incapable of sorting out the real life conversation, from that of the assumed characters, but for now, he wasn’t really interested. The flow of wine and the atmosphere were his priorities.

  Apart from the enthusiastic chatter, the guests bobbed in and out of the dining room, their bladders obviously excited by a combination of the alcohol, and anticipation of the fun of the charade. A surprising number of them also smoked, and had not been provided for inside the hotel, and throughout the course, there were usually one or two of the assembled absent on various missions. Jefferson was now viewing his guests with the fondness of an old uncle, and he noticed an air of excitement about Lloyd, Percy’s husband. Now, why was that?

  Of course: he and Percy were playing dud characters, and it had not been revealed that Peter van der Skiddink was, in fact, a drugs dealer, a fact that would remain concealed unless the hunt was in danger of catching its quarry with undue swiftness. He was looking forward to his minute in the limelight; that was all. They had decided to suppress this information for emergency use, for no red herring should smell suspiciously strong, and this information was only to be announced in the imminence of the failure of the enterprise to take its time, in wending its way to a satisfactory conclusion, over coffee and liqueurs.

  Jefferson also became aware that Fruity and Teddy Newberry were not entirely at ease, as demonstrated by the beads of sweat that were rolling down Fruity’s forehead, and a slight squirming by his wife. For a wild moment, he considered the thought that Perfect Cadence may have deposited a few ‘little friends’ on her trespassing trips through the rooms of the hotel, but enlightenment dawned when Fruity removed a handkerchief from his sleeve – good old-fashioned lad that he was – and mopped his brow.

  Of course! The silly, vain old sod was still wearing his toupee – probably just in case he got lucky – and Teddy had that inward-looking expression on her face that declared that she would have to seek out the ladies’ room to ‘powder her nose’. She’d already excused herself once, but now looked like she had rather more serious business to conduct.

  Jefferson’s body stiffened with anxiety. Were there sufficient air fresheners in the powder room? A delicate subject, he realised, but a very necessary one, given the workings of some people’s insides. Of course there were! He remembered putting them in himself just yesterday morning, and trying them to see that they all worked. What a worry-guts he was this evening, but it was only to be expected, so much hung on its success or failure.

  Returning his attention to the table, he noticed that Fruity was first to his feet, claiming that he needed to fetch something from his room, but in reality to shed something that was causing him the greatest of discomfort, and threatening to destroy his enjoyment of this expensive little adventure.

  Jerome Freeman had preceded him from the room, in plenty of time to arrange himself in comfort in the billiards room, in his role of victim, and the slight hiatus in the proceedings could easily be coped with by his twin. After the murder, he was to reappear in his usual livery, to represent a spare member of staff, summoned at the last minute to help out. At this leave taking, Beatrix Ironmonger also sought permission to leave the dining room for a short rest, before she was needed to be on her feet again, during the service of coffee.

  As she was the senior member of staff, and had worked like a slave to prepare everything, Jefferson did not feel he could deprive her of this slender opportunity to put her feet up and refresh herself before fresh labours. And after all, he still had the comforting presence of Jocelyn – no, it was Jerome who had stayed. They really were so alike that, even after all these years of friendship, he rarely identified each from the other correctly. Well, one of them was here, and that was all that mattered. He could hardly ask him to show him his birthmark, here in the dining room, in front of all these people, could he?

  He had a pair of hands at his disposal, and the other twin, whichever that was, would know exactly where and how the body should be presented, and if his watch did not deceived him, he would have to get a move on, with either the discovery of the body, or the service of the main course. Time was slipping by, and it may prove necessary to alter the ordering of the planned events. Really, smokers did so much to delay and distract, with their constant absences.

  Teddy Newberry considered her husband’s desertion of the table with satisfaction, and rose to her feet to acquaint everyone with the information that she needed to go fix her make-up, as good a euphemism as any to use, when she was really just busting for a wee, and didn’t give diddly-squat at the moment what condition her face was in, as long as she could relieve the pressure in her bladder.

  As Jefferson surfaced from his fresh reverie and wondered what was holding up the main course – he’d have to nip through to the kitchen to see what the hold-up was – Sue Veede, in the guise of the secret-drinking and enigmatic Fraulein Inge Gefinger-Flex, saw this as an opportunity and rose too, announcing her intention of checking her appearance, leading Jefferson to wonder why women always retired to mark their territory in pairs, but he didn’t realise how on the button he was when he phrased this in his head.

  The two women were, indeed, off to mark their territory – or not, as the case may be. At this unexpected company, Teddy was determined to prove that Fruity was hers to do with what she would, and was not laid out on a market counter for anyone else to poke and pry over. He was not only not for sale, he wasn’t even for hire. Fruity was hers, and she was determined that he would stay that way. She’d noticed a few furtive little glances, and she knew her bird – silly, vain old goose that he was.

  Sue Veede had exactly the same thing to impress upon the wife of someone who had unashamedly flirted with her, and whatever her intentions, she had to impress her lack of guile and complicity on her rival for Fruity’s attractive old bones. In her eyes, he definitely had SA, and she would have been devastated to learn that Jefferson thought the man an unbearably pushy tit. She’d have to ‘big up’ Lew a bit, and play the disingenuous little innocent, if she wanted this particular blood-hound off her trail.

  While all this feminine skulduggery was being formulated, completely unheard due to the sound of flushing cisterns and the thickness of the walls, a short but silent drama was being played out in the room next door.

  The colourfully-dressed figure whirled round at a sound that was barely a whisper, its face gradually taking on the look of a mask of disgust. What happened next was too foul for words, and the figure turned away to remove any traces of it. And that was the last conscious action of this player in the drama.

  ‘N …’ The word died, unuttered, as the unnoticed implement glinted in the overhead light, then extinguished itself in a rich sunset red. There was a soft gurgle, a hiss of escaping breath, and the figure slowly drif
ted towards the ground, the terror on its face now replaced by disbelief, as sound and vision faded rapidly and darkness overwhelmed it. It lay prone and lifeless now, its blood puddling on the fine old Turkey carpet on which it had come to its final rest.

  And we shall withdraw, lest we trespass on the territory of life’s final visitor – Death. Coded message after coded message passed between the two women, as they washed their hands at the handsome Edwardian reproduction wash-hand basins, and warnings and assurances of complete lack of interest were conveyed and received, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties.

  On leaving the ladies’ cloakroom, which had been placed discreetly behind the staircase to the right, Teddy announced her intention to have just a peek at the facilities in the billiards room, in case they should finish early tonight, and there prove to be time for a game, while Sue was on form enough to state that she could see someone on reception, and would make enquiries about forthcoming events, as they were both having such a good time. Thus, each warned the other, once more, about territorial rights and future intentions, and they parted with claws partially unsheathed, but each feeling the undeclared winner.

  Sue, in reality having no interest whatsoever in future events, disappeared back into the dining room, leaving her ‘rival in lust’ to go and look at a load of old balls, and was, therefore, quite unaware of the hubbub that was about to break out in the reception hall. Two internal telephones began to ring almost simultaneously, giving Chastity Chamberlain quite a start, as she was engrossed in a rollicking bodice-ripper of a novel, and then her world went completely mad, as a muted thudding was superseded by the appearance of a richly clad body at the foot of the stairs, and she was assaulted on both sides by two hysterical voices declaring that murder had been done in the hotel, and Chef had been poisoned.