Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5)

by Andrea Frazer

  Suddenly her newly-minted little world and anticipated future crumbled to dust, her face paled, and her eyes fixed on the thing that lay at the foot of the stairs, unmoving. She opened her mouth and screamed, her eyes screwed shut to banish out the sight of what lay before her and, unconsciously, she let go a stream of liquid that pattered and splashed between her legs to the floor, and gathering into a puddle of which she was completely unaware.

  Troubles often came in three, like witches, and Jefferson had been caught with his pants down tonight, for Death had entered the hotel unannounced and uninvited, and stalked the building in search of his unfortunate prey, without knowledge or suspicion on the part of the ringmaster of this circus of an evening, his terrible presence escaping recognition thanks to the innocent entertainment that should have resulted in a highly successful venture.

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday 19th June – later that evening

  I

  The cats had crept cautiously into the house again, after their earlier fright, and it was with a sardonic smile that Harry Falconer viewed their slinking bodies. His food had tasted unusually good, so great had been his appetite, and the sudden realisation hit him that such victuals were not poison, but quite comforting, when one had had a bad day. And if it had not been for Carmichael’s abortive visit in the recent past, he would never have found out what he had been missing. In fact, he thought he’d replace the items in his freezer for emergencies, get some of his baked beans for the stock cupboard, and add a bottle of tomato ketchup to his shopping list, too. After all, if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing properly.

  He was just mopping the last of his improvised tomato sauce from his plate when his phone rang. The cats gave a guilty start and fled to the kitchen, fearing that their master’s attention might again be of the ‘shouty’ kind, and not wishing to experience the lack of dignity, for a second time that day, of being, metaphorically, in the dog house. For shame!

  It was with a feeling of gratitude that he had already eaten, that Harry Falconer held the telephone to his ear, hearing unbelievable details of a double murder, and a third attempt on a life. Yes, they did get murders in banjo country, but not in such proliferation. It seemed that there were two people dead, and one awaiting the attentions of paramedics, apparently in a critical condition. And it had all gone off at that house that had been turned into a bijou snob hotel. What were they doing there? Entertaining or employing murderers?

  Having made a quick call to his sergeant, merely informing him that they ‘were on’, he grabbed his car keys and headed for Castle Farthing. It would only take him a short distance out of his way, and he could bring Carmichael up to date with at least the bare bones as they drove.

  Although it was well into the evening, the sun was only just slipping towards the horizon, and as he pulled up opposite the village green he was aware of the golden light bouncing from the lower levels of the now positively polished pate of his partner who, knowing him, had been engrossed in another abysmal episode of the elderly American cop show, and had decided to keep the look, at least for the time being. Suddenly he wished that they would screen re-runs of the Lord Peter Wimsey stories. Then, maybe, he’d get a super-sharply dressed sergeant that he would feel proud to be seen with, instead of keeping a furtive look-out for furtive mocks and sniggers.

  ‘Get in and put your hat on, Carmichael. And I’d be grateful if you’d put that lollipop back in your pocket. We’re not in the office now, and you need to make a good impression, and not give the idea that I’m part of Care in the Community, and you’re my charge for the evening. You’re an officer of the law – a detective – and I should be grateful if you reported for duty in that guise. Look on it as fancy dress if you will – ah, but not like your wedding, I must stress. Rather more in the role of being an undercover businessman or something similar.’

  ‘What about that Belgian sleuth? He was always well-turned out.’

  ‘I’ll agree to that, if you promise only to do it from the neck down. I know how your mind works, and I told you earlier on about how I feel about false moustaches. That still stands!’

  Carmichael sighed, as the highlight of his outfit had just been vetoed, and he sank, defeated, as far down in the seat as he could given his sheer length. ‘Sherlock Holmes?’ he suggested, with a note of hope in his voice.

  ‘Without the hat,’ came the answer. ‘And absolutely no violin!’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Folding his arms like a teenager entering the realms of a grand sulk, the sergeant decided that he’d just have to give it some more thought.

  II

  During their journey the sun had disappeared with the suddenness that it did at this time of year, and the lights of the Boxster’s headlights raked the bodies of two ambulances, parked in front of the hotel at angles that could only suggest they had been left in a hurry. Their front doors stood open to the wide, light streaming out onto the drive like golden pathways.

  In silhouette, against this flood of light, stood a portly figure, wringing its hands and shaking its head in negation. This would presumably prove to be mine host, denying the explosion of circumstances that had been detonated in his establishment, and the resultant fallout that would inevitably occur in his personal bank balance.

  As they exited the vehicle, Falconer was relieved to note that the crews had had the decency to switch off the red and blue flashing lights. A visual scream, he always found that they had the same effect on his eyes as did a wailing klaxon or siren on his ears. Although he had witnessed a lot in his life that was unpleasant, this particular sight always played a chilly minor key arpeggio down his spine.

  In the event, it mattered little what he had witnessed in the past, in the realisation that he had some new disaster to deal with, that had great impact on those involved, either as witnesses or relatives. Carmichael also seemed similarly affected, as he ran a hand repeatedly across his uncovered head, and the glee with which he had treated their first case together had apparently mellowed as they had tackled other investigations.

  Tragic events such as this must now be viewed as less of a romp by the younger man now, and more of a catastrophe, the clearing up of which was their job, in which they were exposed to both physical and mental horrors. Blood and broken limbs may not be pretty, but neither were the thoughts of a diseased or deranged mind, and both had the quality to chill and haunt one’s thoughts.

  In approaching the entrance, they became aware that the figure silhouetted in the light was talking to itself, apparently unembarrassed by the fact that his voice was not moderated from that of a normal conversational volume.

  ‘Good grief! What am I going to do? How did this happen? How could this happen? I had everything under control. Everything was planned down to the minute. If he dies in that kitchen, that’ll be three of them – stone dead in my hotel. How, in the name of heaven, can there be three murderers on the loose in my first – my very first – weekend of business. What’s going to happen now? I’ll be ruined. I’ll end up in some dreary little flat somewhere. How am I ever going to recover from this financially? Oh, help me, God. If I’ve never prayed to you before, I do it now. Please let this all be a nightmare. Let me wake up and find it hasn’t really happened. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?’

  At the approach of the two policemen, he gave a physical jerk, in the act of pulling himself together, but nothing could expunge the expression of loss that he wore. He was a man, overtaken by events, and left trembling in their wake.

  ‘Detective Inspector Falconer of Market Darley CID, and my partner Detective Sergeant Carmichael, sir. And you are?’ Falconer effected the introductions and shook Jefferson Grammaticus by the hand, noting the sweaty palm and the dampness that had clotted the curls of his handsome head, the bizarre but dishevelled costume he wore, and a blood stain just above the place where the breast pocket would have been, had he been in everyday attire.. The man was clearly a mess. Whate
ver can have gone on here, to produce such a pathetic figure of a broken man?

  Once inside the building, all three became aware of a violent retching sound, and screams of pain issuing from the kitchen door, which had been practically propped open with a fire extinguisher that had been grabbed from its wall bracket just outside the cooking area (situated there, in accordance with the recommendations of the local fire prevention officer). But disaster had struck from another quarter, in a way that could have been neither anticipated, nor provided for.

  Shaking his head, as if surfacing from underwater, Jefferson pulled himself together, and took charge of the situation. ‘Two dead, Inspector Falconer. One of my footmen was discovered in the billiards room, stabbed in the neck. Hell of a mess! Don’t know how I’m ever going to get the stains out of that rug. Sorry! Inappropriate!

  ‘One of my guests has, unfortunately, pitched down the stairs, and appears to have broken his neck, and it seems that Chef has been poisoned. As you can hear,’ – here Jefferson winced, as he drew attention again to the unfortunate sounds emanating from the kitchen – ‘he is currently holding his own, and we can only hope that he reaches the hospital in time for his stomach to be pumped, or whatever they do in cases like this. We don’t even know what caused it, so I don’t see how they’re going to know how to treat him. But then, what do I know? I’m no medical man. And at the moment, I don’t feel much like a hotelier, either.’

  After a pause, he continued, mopping his forehead with a bright square of silk, which he had extracted from the sleeve of his costume with a somewhat abstracted air. ‘Please forgive me. I think I must be suffering from shock. I’ve no idea whatsoever what I’m talking about. I’ll just let you get on with your job. You’ll find the bodies where I told you. I’ve collected the guests together in the drawing room, the staff in the library. The only people currently at large in the building are the paramedics. I hope that’s all right.’

  ‘Very responsible and forward-thinking, Mr Grammaticus. Thank you for making our task a little bit easier.’ To Carmichael, he said, ‘I think we’ll start with the kitchen, before moving on to the two beyond our help. Sometimes in this job, the victims take priority, simply because the living are still capable of waiting.’

  In the kitchen, as they approached the tight little group of medics working furiously on the still-writhing body of Chef, inserting an intravenous line for fluids and pain relief, and administering gas and air to ease his agony while the drip-fed solution had time to take its effect, the smell hit them like a wall. Chef had evacuated from both ends of his body as the poison had taken its effect, and the fumes caused Carmichael to make a gagging noise in the back of his throat and step back a few paces.

  Eventually, the now-inert form of Antoine de la Robe was loaded on to a trolley and wheeled from the room, leaving the two detectives free rein to work in the area without interruption. ‘Use some evidence bags to scoop up some of that vomit from the draining board, will you, Carmichael? Oh, and mind out for that pool of liquid S-H-I-T in front of the sink. That must have happened after his first chuck-up, when he’d actually made it to the waste-disposal unit. Carmichael? Carmichael! What the hell are you doing?’

  Carmichael had positioned himself at a remove from the aftermath of Chef’s unfortunate experiences, and was standing with the back door open, his head completely hidden by a large plastic mixing bowl, his shoulders heaving, as if he were under the influence of an overpowering emotion. Which he was!

  ‘Dicky stom … urg! … stomach, sir. Can’t do vom … yak! … sick! … huryagh! … or poo. Remember our fir … fir … bleh! … first case, sir?’

  And Falconer did have a memory of Carmichael’s reaction when they had closed in on their first murderer, hunting down that person as partners for the first time – something to do with what he had eaten. He didn’t wish to recall the exact details, but he did remember Carmichael demonstrating his stomach’s lack of tolerance at the conclusion of the case.

  ‘I seem to be allergic, sir. Graah! Sorry!’

  ‘Get yourself out of here and cleaned up, and take yourself off to either the billiards room or the hall. I’ll deal with things in here, and you can get a head start elsewhere. Oh, and chase up the SOCO team if you get the chance. The fresher the evidence, the better chance we have of getting the timing right. And give Dr Christmas a ring on his mobile, and make sure he’s on his way with his handy little rectal thermometer. A lot’s been going on here, and everything will be down to timing.’

  With a final gulp and a puppy-like shake of his head, Carmichael made his exit with alacrity, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he left. Falconer, more experienced in the horrors that mankind could inflict on itself, prowled round the kitchen in solitary state, little moved by the fouls smells that pervaded it. Things would get a lot more crowded later, when the doctor and the SOCO team arrived, and he needed to make the most of what time he had before their intrusion on the scene.

  III

  In the library, the staff conferred in urgent whispers, not even noticing the restful effect that the green of the walls was supposed to induce, or the tooled green leather of many of the books, the colour-scheme enlivened, here and there, with red, green, and brown tooled spines, and all of them displayed in exquisite mahogany bookcases with leaded glass doors that softly reflected the light from the central chandelier.

  All they could think of was their own skins, and they wouldn’t have noticed if they had been gathered in the cellar, instead of this elegant room with its dark oak partners’ desk acting as a library table, and its grand, studded leather porter’s chair.

  ‘Of course they’re going to think it’s one of us, even if one of us got clobbered. I can’t see that pompous ass keeping his mouth shut with all this going on.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare spill his guts.’

  ‘Think how that would look in the tabloids.’

  ‘He’ll be desperate to keep everything he can under wraps.’

  ‘If he talks, they’ll crucify him.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t, he’ll be charged with withholding information.’

  ‘Well, if anyone can get away with that, he can.’

  ‘Even he can’t work miracles.’

  ‘What do you mean? We’re here, aren’t we? That’s nothing short of a miracle.’

  ‘And now it’s all over.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I bet the smarmy old bugger could turn even this into something positive.’

  ‘He’s hardly a bleedin’ magician.’

  ‘Not a magician? He’s a bleedin’ wizard to have got this far.’

  ‘But he’s definitely got us by the short and curlies, hasn’t he? We’ve just got to hope he goes for damage limitation, that’s all.’

  ‘Ooh, look who swallowed a dictionary and woke up as a professor!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘None of us ever has, dearie. None of us ever has.’

  ‘We’ve just got to stick together and cover for each other, and no one can prove any different.’

  ‘You’re right! Now, let’s get our heads together and see if we can’t weather this storm.’

  ‘You mean lie?’

  ‘If it so happens that any of us was alone at the time of the actual events, then yes, we lie.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where’s that other Freeman brother? I thought they’d sent us all in here. Cunning bastard’s probably, at this very moment, squirming to get himself off the hook, leaving us to take the fall.’

  ‘Well, he was never one of us, was he? He only went on the staff for a laugh. Catch him having to earn an honest living, like what we’re all doing.’

  ‘Best get on with things, then. Who’s going to vouch for who?’

  ‘That should be ‘whom’.’

  ‘Yeah? And I should be the Prince of bleedin’ Wales. Now, let’s get plotting.’

  A general murmur of agreement disturbed the dusty
sleep of the books, as they began the concoction of false alibis.

  IV

  As Carmichael picked his way round the body of Fruity Newberry at the foot of the stairs, Jefferson Grammaticus seized the moment to try to explain what had supposed to have happened this evening.

  ‘It was just a game, Sergeant – a charade. My partner in business, Jerome Freeman – the body in the billiards room – good grief! That sounds like a Golden Age crime novel – was to have been the victim for our murder mystery dinner. He was supposed to go and drape himself over one of those spindly French sofas, and make out he had been knifed by one of the people at the ball. No, this is getting too complicated. I can’t possibly go into Venice at a time like this!’

  Carmichael was fascinated by the workings of the self-important man’s mind, but was left completely in the dark about where a ball came into it. As for going to Venice at the commencement of a murder investigation, he could whistle for that. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave the hotel, let alone the country, until he’d been cleared of any complicity in the matters under investigation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I can’t seem to take in the enormity of what has happened. It’s probably simplest to say that we were playing a game of detectives, and would have to find the pretend murderer during the course of the evening.

  ‘When I heard that the wife of the unfortunate gentleman at the foot of the stairs had taken a peek into the billiards room, and telephoned reception in a state of hysteria, I hoped at first that she was just playing her part – even though discovery of the body was to have been my task. I thought she was just stealing my thunder, in her eagerness to get on with the fictitious investigation.

  ‘It was only the voice on the other telephone, and Mr Newberry lying at the bottom of the staircase, that made me realise that events had progressed far beyond my control. Even old Fruity having fallen could have been explained, considering his age, and the amount of alcohol he could put away. But that other telephone call from the kitchen, and the noise that accompanied that, finally banished all hope. At the very best, we had a well-posed fake murder victim, but on the down side, we had a yodelling Chef – I beg your pardon: that sounds very unfeeling – and a dead guest. And things didn’t get any better: they just went from bad to worse.’