Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1)

by Frazer, Andrea

  ‘This dark enough for you, sir?’ the younger man asked as he folded himself, like a human ironing board, into the passenger seat.

  ‘You look like you’re about to make me an offer on something in oak with brass handles.’

  ‘Come again, sir?’

  ‘Nah!’ Falconer drove off, aware that his companion for today appeared to be an escapee from a Mafia picnic at the very least. Was there no happy medium for the lad?

  II

  Following the directions they had received the previous day, Falconer headed straight for Sheepwash Lane, to the left off the top end of the High Street, and found The Old School House with no difficulty. From its appearance, in the past this had obviously been the old Church of England village school, recognisable from the narrow, high-set, ecclesiastical windows visible to front and sides. The land to the front, and running part of the way down both sides, was tarmacked, and must have been the playground in its previous usage. They were unable to see round to the back of the property, as their view was obstructed by fencing smothered in a variety of climbing plants, the air thick with their scent.

  The ringing of the front door bell produced a frenzied tirade of barks, and the door half-opened to reveal a white-haired, elderly woman holding on to the collar of a small dog, which she expertly fielded into a side room before opening the door full, and greeting her visitors with a broad smile.

  ‘Mrs Cadogan?’ began the inspector.

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘My apologies. Miss Cadogan. Detective Inspector Falconer and Acting DS Carmichael. May we have a few words with you, please?’

  ‘If you show me your warrant cards.’

  These produced, she took them, put the security chain on the door, and went in search of her reading glasses, leaving the two men on the step feeling a little foolish, and not much more than five years old. Returning a minute or two later, she unchained the door, handed back their IDs and bade them come in. Martha Cadogan was nobody’s fool, and she took nothing at face value. As they entered, she eyed Carmichael up and down and asked, ‘Have you recently suffered a loss, young man?’

  She led them right through the house and into the back garden, where she shepherded them over to a wrought-iron garden table surrounded by four chairs. Returning briefly indoors, she re-emerged carrying two tumblers. On the table stood a half-empty (or half-full, depending on whether one is a pessimist or an optimist) tumbler and a jug full of ice-cubes and an opaque liquid. Small beads of moisture on the outside of the jug attested to the liquid’s cooling properties.

  ‘Home-made lemonade, gentlemen?’ she offered, and had poured for them before they had time to answer. Lowering herself carefully into a cushioned chair, the little dog at her feet, she asked, ‘How may I be of assistance? I presume you’ve called about yesterday’s unpleasant discovery?’

  It was obvious that she had been a schoolteacher. Carmichael had removed his baseball cap and was sitting to attention. Even Falconer looked like a man on his best behaviour. ‘Is that Mr Morley’s dog? I understood from your niece that you had rescued it,’ Falconer enquired.

  ‘I did indeed rescue it. And it’s a he.’ A glint of something as cold and hard as steel had appeared in her eyes. ‘That wretched John Proudfoot was only going to pack him off to the RSPCA sanctuary. He even refused, at first, to let me in to feed him. Well, that’s when a few home truths came in handy. Three years I taught him, on this very property, before his family moved to Carsfold. He needed reminding of the snotty-nosed little wretch who used to wet himself during story-time, rather than put up his hand to be excused.’

  ‘And that worked, did it?’ Falconer knew it had worked: knew it would have worked on him, too, and more effectively than any order from his senior officers in his army days. Carmichael merely looked intimidated and fingered the peak of his cap nervously.

  ‘I’ll say it did, young man. I had that poor dog and all his bits and pieces out of there in a trice. Unless, or until, someone claims him he’ll be company for me, and walking him will give my old bones a good stretch. But was it just the dog you came to enquire about, Inspector?’

  Pulling himself together, Falconer launched into coaxing-out whatever background information about the deceased, and his chequered relationships with the other villagers, that he could.

  ‘A long time? I’ve known him all his life, young man. He was a nasty, spiteful little boy who grew into a nasty, spiteful old man. All his life he’d never do anyone a good turn if he could do them a bad one.’ (Goodness, they called a spade a spade in Castle Farthing.)

  ‘When we were at school, you had to keep your eye on anything you had – marbles, sweeties, comics – or he’d be away with them. And if we girls went out to the old earth closet, we went in twos, one to use it, the other to check round the back to see that little Reggie Morley wasn’t on ‘knickers-watch’. And I lost count of the little girls who went home in tears because he’d dipped their pigtails in the inkwell. He did it to me once, but only the once, mind. And he never changed.’ She sighed, floating on a cloud of memory and lost youth.

  ‘Can you recall anyone whose back he may have put up, recently, Miss Cadogan?’ Falconer broke through her reverie.

  ‘Oh, I can give you a list, but it’s a long one,’ and she enumerated the grievances with the Brigadier, with Mrs Wilson, Kerry Long, and Mike Lowry. Her final pieces of information were, however, news to them

  ‘I’m sure my niece mentioned all the bother he’s caused at the church. Really, Bertie is a saint to have put up with a man who was hardly what one would call a regular worshipper.’

  This was news indeed, and Falconer did not want to alert the lady to his total ignorance. ‘Yes, if you’ll just go through the main grievances for the sake of accuracy and verification,’ he encouraged, hoping she would not see through his bluff. This was “Grass Thy Neighbour” at its best.

  ‘Lillian seemed to think he was light-fingered with the collection, but she had no definite proof. No, it was more the trouble he’d make whenever there was a special service, as if he wanted to blight it for everyone else.’

  ‘What sort of trouble did he cause?’

  ‘Usually just bad feeling, like when Bertie wanted to change the time of the carol service, but last harvest was rather more horrible.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, there was some sort of to-do about what would go in the old folks’ hampers – they’re made up from the harvest offerings and go to old folk (like me, I suppose) in the village. Some of us, though, don’t really need them, and thought it would be nice if some of the produce could go to the cottage hospital.’

  ‘And Mr Morley didn’t agree?’ Falconer’s voice was very quiet and controlled.

  ‘He wasn’t the only one, but he was the most abusive.’

  ‘So what happened? What did he do?’

  ‘No one knows for sure it was him, but when Bertie arrived for service on the morning of the harvest festival, all the fruit and vegetables had been cut up and mutilated, and weren’t fit for anything but the pig bin.’

  ‘Did Mr Morley, or anyone else, have access to a key?’

  ‘Didn’t need to. Bertie opens the church at seven-thirty for early communion, and he doesn’t lock it between services, in case someone needs to look in for a prayer or solace.’

  ‘Not very nice,’ judged Falconer. ‘Did he have any other unpleasant traits?’

  ‘Has anyone mentioned that he was a bit of a peeping tom?’ A vision of the village shopkeeper arose in the inspector’s mind as he confirmed that, yes, they had been told of the old man’s proclivities. ‘Well, beyond the garden wall here,’ Miss Cadogan pointed, ‘is an access road, little more than an alleyway that runs down from the end of the terrace of cottages in Drovers Lane, turns right, past the end of my garden, past next door, and ends with access to The Rookery and the teashop.’

  ‘And?’ Falconer resisted the temptation to ask where all this geography was leading.

  ‘I know for
sure that he’s been spying on that young Rebecca Rollason – runs the teashop and lives next door at The Rookery.’

  ‘You know for sure, or you’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh, I know, young man. I was out putting my dustbin in the alley late one evening a week or so ago, and I heard a noise. When I went down to see what it was, Reg Morley pushed past me and nearly knocked me flat, in his haste to get away.’

  ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  ‘My nose, alone, confirmed it,’ she said rather tartly and with a sniff. ‘And Buster was with him, so that was a bit of a give-away.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I went down to see if I could see what he’d been up to. When I got to the end of the alley, the only light was coming from upstairs at The Rookery. The curtains weren’t drawn and young Rebecca was just putting on her night-dress.’

  This was shaping up nicely, as Nick Rollason had (unconfirmed, but probable) called on Reg Morley on the night of his death. Falconer plunged in with a question. ‘Did you tackle the old man about his behaviour?’

  ‘There was no point. He’d been like that since childhood, as I told you. No, I went and had a quiet word with her husband when next I saw him, and suggested that drawing the curtains was probably a good idea.’

  ‘Is that all then, Miss Cadogan?’ Falconer was preparing to rise, nodding at Carmichael that the interview was at an end.

  ‘Except for those other two, and I really don’t know whether he knew anything about it, or even if I ought to mention it, as it doesn’t yet seem to be common gossip.’

  ‘What other two?’ Falconer was right back down in his chair again, all ears.

  ‘It’s Mrs Romaine from next door and Mr Manningford from the corner house.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I had better set the scene first. The Romaines have three children away at school. He works in Carsfold – he’s a financial adviser, I think; he commutes – and she’s a freelance artist – has a studio at the end of their garden. The Manningfords live next door. She’s a bit older than him, one of those interior designers, works away a lot, no children. He works from home. Can you see what I’m leading up to, Inspector?’

  ‘You’d better lead me there, Miss Cadogan.’

  ‘She works from home: he works from home. The studio’s well away from the house – an ideal place for a tryst. They seem to forget that I’m here during the day, even if everyone else within earshot is out at work. Sometimes I’ve had to go in from the garden. But it’s not my place to say anything. Anyone who causes a rift between husband and wife ends up the villain – or villainess – of the piece.’ Spiteful old biddy, probably consumed with jealousy, thought Falconer as the old lady finally ran out of steam.

  ‘And you think you may not have been the only one aware of this liaison?’

  ‘It’s certainly a possibility, with one as nosy as he was.’ (She could talk. Cheek!) ‘But how will you find out if he was on to them?’

  ‘I shall ask them, Miss Cadogan. I shall ask them.’ With this, Falconer rose and beckoned to Carmichael to join him. There was work to be done and no time to waste.

  As they showed themselves off the property, Martha Cadogan smiled to herself, well pleased with her morning’s work.

  ‘Next door, sir?’ asked Carmichael, as they closed the garden gate behind them.

  ‘That’s the ticket, Sergeant. I think we’ll leave the Brigadier, and tackle Lady Godiva after the village ‘swingers’.’ He knew he had used that last description incorrectly, but he was feeling frivolous and didn’t give a damn.

  III

  Repeated knocking and ringing brought no response from The Beehive, but remembering what Miss Cadogan had said, Falconer indicated to Carmichael to follow him round to the back of the property. There, they found a wide lawn, shaded towards the rear by a vast cedar tree, beyond which the garden narrowed into an ‘L’ shape. Beyond this could be glimpsed a smallish whitewashed building that adjoined the rear wall. Between them and what could only be Cassandra Romaine’s studio stood a cluster of some half-a-dozen beehives, from which emanated a hum that sounded almost electrical and, to the two policemen, decidedly threatening.

  ‘What do we do now, sir,’ enquired Carmichael, only to receive a stentorian ‘Shhh’ in reply. Falconer was rattled.

  ‘Why are you shushing me, sir?’

  ‘Do bees react to sound, Sergeant?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Do you want to find out?’

  ‘Don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Then shut up.’

  This futile exchange was saved from further protraction by the appearance of a female figure, in the doorway at the side of the little building. ‘Can I help? I saw you through the end window. Not quite a true north light, but it’s the best we can manage. I hope you haven’t let the bees worry you. They’re sweeties really.’

  Cassandra Romaine was forty or so, but still retained most of the bloom and vitality of a much younger woman. Today she was swathed in vibrant pinks and purples in the boho style, and her wrists and neck clinked with chains, beads and braided threads. Her auburn hair housed more braided threads of colour, and on her tiny feet she wore dainty gold- and copper-coloured leather sandals. As she approached them through the hives they were able to appreciate how tiny she was – barely five feet in height – and, with his first close-up glimpse of her features, Falconer could appreciate why any man would find her attractive.

  Her skin was tanned, her nose covered in an attractive band of freckles, her eyes a vivid green flecked with gold. When he introduced himself to her, she offered him a dainty hand with coral-painted nails. Each finger, and even the thumb, bore a silver ring, he noted. In close proximity, Carmichael appeared a mountain of humanity, she, a pixie.

  When they explained the reason for their visit she grew a little wary, but still seemed fairly relaxed, as she led them back through the garden and into a low-ceilinged sitting room, complete with many an exposed beam. One wall housed a fair-sized inglenook fireplace and the décor was unexpected in its paleness. Cream carpet covered the floor, the walls and ceiling were white, the woodwork and curtains cream. The seating was in cream leather, the cushions a pinky-cream velvet.

  The Romaine children obviously spent the bulk of their time at boarding school, or the upkeep of such a light colour scheme would have been an impossible task. The only colour was from the walls, which were covered in artwork. Oil paintings jostled for space with watercolours, which made way for collages and screen prints. The room was a gallery, a rainbow that spoke of a love of colour, of varied media, of vibrancy.

  Falconer could not help but be impressed. Carmichael looked around in puzzlement. Where was the television?

  The artist left them for a few moments looking round in appreciation, and returned with a laden tray. ‘Earl Grey?’ she asked, directing them to be seated.

  After establishing that she knew Reg Morley well enough to say good-day to, and knew much of the unpleasant side of his character, the part of the interview that Falconer thought would prove uncomfortable and embarrassing proved to be no problem at all. Faced with the question of her relationship with her neighbour, Piers Manningford, she gave a little tinkling laugh and looked at Falconer with a conspiratorial air.

  ‘Oh, you must keep this to yourself if you can, Inspector. I know Martha’s generally a discreet old bird, and Piers’ wife wouldn’t notice for a week if he disappeared off the face of the earth, but my Clive would create like merry hell if he thought I was being a naughty girl. But, there, you won’t tell him, will you? It can’t have anything to do with that nasty murder, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. After all, it’s just a bit of fun, not real life.’

  Falconer tried not to look scandalised at this lax attitude to morals within marriage, and asked her if she had seen Morley at all on Sunday.

  ‘Well, not exactly seen. More heard.’

  ‘What, you mean having a row with someone?�
��

  ‘No. In the woods. He saw us. I think he was watching when we were – you know.’

  Carmichael blushed as he made notes. At his age he considered Cassandra Romaine to be practically elderly, and what she was inferring sounded downright disgusting to one of his tender years. Falconer, his face a rigid mask to hide his disapproval, requested that she make herself a little more clear.

  ‘With it being Sunday, you see?’

  Falconer did not see, and Carmichael simply did not want to.

  ‘Well, Clive doesn’t go into the office on a Sunday, and Dorothy – Piers’ wife – was at home working on some stuffy old design. What with the heat and everything – well you know what that does to one’s libido. And I called Piers because I just couldn’t wait until Monday, and we obviously couldn’t use the studio, so I said I was going for a walk, and he said he was going to watch the hang gliders.’ (Here she giggled at their subterfuge). ‘And I went off down Church Street and cut off through the woods, and he went off down the Carsfold Road and cut through by the bungalows.’

  ‘I think we get the picture, Mrs Romaine.’ Falconer halted the narrative before he had to loosen his tie. ‘And Mr Morley saw you, did he?’

  ‘There’s this little spot,’ she continued, completely without embarrassment, ‘just under this gorgeous oak tree …’

  ‘Did Mr Morley see you, Mrs Romaine?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I think he did. At least, someone did. We heard them. And there was a snuffling, and I just knew it was a dog. Oh, I’m sure it was him. He’s always lurking in the woods on the prowl. Everyone knows what he’s – what he was – like. That’s why Piers originally said we had to use the studio – I’ve got a day bed in there, you know – but it was so hot on Sunday and Clive was home, and we just couldn’t wait any …’