Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Me? Selfish? It was you who were signing us up to run that club. You never asked me if I wanted it to do, first. I do not care for gardening. It leaves me hurting after so much work. I do not like talking about it, because it is you who all the garden work here do. I know nothing about the silly little plants. I want to play golf, and that is what I am feeling to do on that day.’

  ‘But I thought you loved the flowers,’ said Heidi, sadly.

  ‘I love the flowers you grow and pick and put in the house in a glass vase. Growing them, I do not care for. I don’t even know their names. You grow, you tend, you pick. Me, I shall care to play golf on the Friday afternoons now. It is my decision. I have here and now made it. Jawohl!’ Neither of them had managed to get the hang of English syntax as yet.

  Heidi trailed dejectedly out into her beloved garden and flopped down on a bench, tears in her eyes, so that all the blooms that had arrived with the spring were blurred to her. Why did Ferdie have to be so inflexible? She had spent decades looking after him and now, in early retirement, he could not even spare a couple of hours to spend with her on what, she had sincerely believed, was a shared passion – but this was the first time they had ever had a garden together, as they had lived in an apartment in Germany.

  No, Ferdie just spent all his time moving his investments around on the Stock Market, with the Bloomberg channel booming out in the background, and if he wasn’t doing that, he was either having a nap, or planning to play golf. Life after work was not the golden experience that she had expected, and she rather wished she had stayed in Germany, where she had left so many girlfriends behind.

  Here, she knew hardly anyone, and had hoped that running the Gardening Circle would expose them to new friendships, together. ‘Scheisse! ’ she cursed, and continued to weep.

  Inside Rose Tree Cottage, Ferdie got his golf clubs out from the under-stairs cupboard, and changed into his golfing clothes. He would do as he wished, whenever he wished. Women were inferior, and must learn to respect their betters.

  In Lark Cottage in Fold Lane, however, there was nothing but joy and happiness in the air. Antoinette Chateau had spent twenty years working in England and, on taking early retirement, she had returned to France to settle again in her native country. She had found, though, that in her absence, her home country had changed so much, that she was now more English than French, and decided to make her home in a little village she had discovered during her time in her adopted country.

  She loved her little cottage and garden, and was an avid member of the Classical Music Circle, the Knitting and Needlecraft Circle, and the Flower Circle. All in all, she couldn’t have been more content. She had within the last winter taken in a stray kitten, something she had vowed never to do, and now loved it like the child she had never had. Life was good.

  As a non-English incomer, she could have experienced all sorts of resentment and negative behaviour from the other villagers, but she had a vivacious personality, was trim and elegant, and managed not to look at all her age, which was, in fact, seventy-eight. Her appearance, however, suggested she was a good ten to fifteen years younger, and she wafted expensive perfume, which she loved, wherever she walked.

  When she wasn’t adoring her kitten, Kiki, she listened to opera and sewed, being an expert needlewoman who loved her practical hobby, and had made all the curtains and chair covers for her cottage, and produced something wonderful and unique, rather than mass-produced. Today she sat outside in her back garden observing Kiki watching the birds, and trying her luck at stalking them.

  So inept was the little creature that Antoinette had to laugh out loud at Kiki’s face when she missed her target. She was such an entertaining little animal that she couldn’t imagine why she had not got herself a cat before. Her delighted tinkling laughter filled the garden, as she took a break from the kitten’s activities to survey the booming borders, and felt a small thrill of pride that she had created this little Eden all by herself, for she was not married.

  Still in Fallow Fold, other residents were getting on with their Friday evenings in a rather more enjoyable state of mind. Dale and Sharron Ramsbottom, who resided at The White House in Fold Lane, had strolled down the road to their closest pub, The Dark House, and were sitting outside in the balmy evening air, taking an evening drink and discussing their plans for the coming week.

  ‘It’s going to be a busy one, and no mistake, Dale,’ stated Sharron, pulling at her vodka and tonic with enthusiasm.

  ‘You’re not kidding, kidder,’ replied her husband in his husky Cockney accent, draining his pint glass. ‘You get a handle on how it’s going to run, and I’ll just get us a refill – fuel for the brain, you know,’ and he headed into the bar to carry out this important task. A quick glance over his shoulder produced the query, ‘Do you want any crisps or peanuts, while I’m in there?’

  ‘Make it pork scratchings, Dale. I’ve got a sudden yen for a nice fatty mouthful,’ she called after him, and thankfully he didn’t reply in his usual ribald way. The Tally Ho! public house served only posh snacks, for which she had no relish. At least here, at The Dark House, you could get good old-fashioned packets of nibbles, with no pretensions to ‘foodi-ness’.

  She really enjoyed their involvement with growing and gardening. Instead of just selling produce now, they were actually growing it themselves and, even if it did take up a lot of their time, they always had so much to talk about when they had free time together. Early retirement had been a good idea, in her opinion, and the only fly in her ointment was the succession of weekly meetings of the Vegetable Circle in the Tally Ho!

  She knew that it was really a lads’ social, and that not much talk of vegetable production went on, and yet she was still expected to produce a glorious roast dinner on her husband’s return, even though he normally just collapsed into a comfortable armchair and dozed off, after the number of pints he’d consumed. Still, he drank a lot less than when they’d lived and worked in London, and for this she was grateful, and knowing she wasn’t the only wife in the village who had this cross to bear.

  Also in the pub garden were Joanna and Wieto Jansen, the village’s Dutch residents, but they were only concerned with getting a good few glasses of wine down their necks before going home to sample the organic ‘weed’ they had brought back from Amsterdam on their recent trip back to the Netherlands. They found its use very relaxing, and missed being able to go into a Grasshopper café, or similar establishment, to indulge themselves in this regular treat that they had enjoyed, before moving to po-faced England.

  That evening, the telephone rang in Chestnuts in Ploughman’s Lays, and Madison Zuckerman trilled, ‘It’s OK, Duke, honey. I’ll get it.’ On the other end of the line was Antoinette Chateau, all fired up with an idea she had formulated a little earlier during her time of contemplation in the garden with Kiki, and afterwards waging war against the ever-persistent weeds in her flower beds.

  ‘I ’ad the most marvellous idea,’ she informed Madison, ‘to form an ’istorical society in the village. It ’as so much ’istory, but the English in’abitants don’t seem at all interested in it. I wondered if you and Duke, as fellow non-English residents, would be interested to join me in this little idea, to see if we can raise any enthusiasm for it.’ Antoinette was incapable of handling aspirates, even though her English had a better vocabulary than many native speakers.

  ‘Hey, that’s sounds like a great plan. Duke and I won’t be available during July and August, but we could do some preliminary investigations as to levels of interest, and, perhaps, give it a go in the autumn. You can count me in. I’ll speak to Duke after we’ve finished on the phone.’

  At the other end of the phone, Antoinette smiled in innocent happiness. If things went well, she could have her own little circle to run; something she had wanted to try since she had first got involved in other hobby groups. ‘We could search for ’istories of the buildings in local newspaper archives, and maybe find information on ’ow long some of the f
amilies ’ave lived here. You like the idea?’

  ‘I love it!’ replied Madison. ‘Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to you right after I’ve spoken to Duke.’ Both women ended the call with a twinkle in their eyes and smiles on their faces. It was just possible that this could turn into a battle of wills over who actually ran and organised this proposed new group.

  Back in Market Darley, Falconer had introduced his new charge to the litter tray, the food bowls, and water bowl, and now added another dish to the collection of feeding bowls on his kitchen floor. He at once decided that he would have to purchase two double bowls to take the place of the four individual ones he currently had. They took so much of his kitchen floor space that he was in danger of running out of places to walk, and he had no intention of moving out his kitchen table just to accommodate one more cat.

  Someone had said once that a house without a cat was a home without a heartbeat, and he now had five extras heartbeats to keep him company. Approaching middle-age as he was, their lively and comforting company was some consolation for the fact that he still had neither a partner nor a family. They filled the hole in his heart he had always reserved for the eventuality of a life partner (wife, preferably, for he was unashamedly old-fashioned) and children, but he was definitely of a mind to think that he had, at last, met the person with whom he wished to spent the rest of his days and sire children.

  If only he wasn’t so reticent about matters of the heart, and could just churn out romantic sentiments, rather than being the pragmatic and, in the presence of beautiful woman, tongue-tied man that he was.

  He decided that it was definitely time to sit down and get to know this Abyssinian furball a little. She didn’t seem a mite phased at suddenly moving home and coming into contact with four strange felines, so he flopped into his comfiest armchair and sat her on his chest.

  Immediately, she commenced her unusual double purr, and leaned up to lick his face. The regular gang of four slept on, with one eye open, to see what this interloper intended to do. Was she just visiting, or here for good? They’d have to see what they thought of her before making up their minds about whether she would be one of the gang – or, perhaps, the enemy.

  After about fifteen minutes of cleaning his five o’clock shadow, Monkey dismounted from his lap and wandered off into the kitchen. She was probably in need of one or more of the cat facilities out there, and he let her go without worry. After all, what trouble could she get into in a kitchen?

  He soon found out, as there was a thump followed by a very gentle but unidentifiable hissing sound, which were followed by the exit of the other four cats, in search of what was afoot. No sounds of confrontation or challenge met his ears, and it was another ten minutes before he went out there himself, to put on the kettle for a cup of coffee.

  What met his eyes was simply unbelievable. There seemed to have been a blizzard, but at ground level only. Everywhere he looked was white, with the tiniest of blue and pink dots sprinkled in with the dazzling ‘snow’. Then, he noticed that the giant-sized packet of washing powder that he always bought, to save having to make unnecessary trips to the shops, was lying on its side, its contents scattered everywhere, with all five of his pets enthusiastically joining in the game, and starting to sneeze from the effects of the soap powder.

  It seemed that Monkey had been accepted as a welcome trouble-maker, by the others. It didn’t look like he was going to have any say in the matter and, just for a moment, his sympathies went out to Kerry Carmichael, with her five dogs and three children. This extra trouble she just didn’t need. With a sigh, he fetched the Dyson, and shooed the cats back into the living room.

  After watching a documentary on the television, he switched off the set and noticed that he was completely alone in the room, but he could now hear a bit of cat hooraying upstairs. That needed investigation, although all the doors up there were kept closed. What mischief they could possibly have discovered to get involved with on the landing, he could not imagine.

  When he got to the top of the stairs, he stood there, still as stone, horrified to notice that the bathroom door was now standing wide open, and he had another indoor meteorological phenomenon to cope with. He realised that Monkey was a cat clever enough to cope with the concept of door handles, and she had broken into his bathroom for the express purpose of egging the other four to help her shred the jumbo pack of eighteen toilet rolls he had purchased recently.

  This had happened before when Meep had first arrived, and he couldn’t believe he could have been so naïve as now not to foresee a repeat performance, especially knowing how she had upset the usual running of the Carmichael household, which could cope with a little chaos if anyone’s household could.

  The white shreds of paper were everywhere. This would require a black sack before he could even consider using the Dyson. Determining to put hooks and eyes on the outside of his upstairs doors, he trudged resignedly downstairs to fetch the big sucky thing, as his pets probably thought of it, and shooed them down ahead of him, where he locked them in the kitchen, until he had things properly cleared up again.

  Again, he had already done this once, to deter Meep’s exploration, but as she had settled in, they had not been in use, and he had removed them all quite recently when he had had his woodwork repainted. Unusually for him, though, he hadn’t put them away tidily, but had completely forgotten what he’d done with them – and didn’t have space in his head to spare, thinking about their possible location.

  The way he saw it, he could either spend the best part of two or three days looking for the things, or just go to the DIY store and get some more, for who knew what fresh mayhem Monkey could wreak in that elapsed time

  In the Carmichael household in Castle Farthing, where things should have been really peaceful after the removal of Monkey’s mischievous behaviour, things had taken a turn for the worse. Their neighbour’s dog, whom they had doggie-sat during the big snow-in over Christmas, had been booked to stay with them again in the spring.

  His owners were celebrating their pearl wedding anniversary this year, and their daughter had booked a week away somewhere warm, not just for celebration, but to compensate, both for the dreadful winter they had just endured and the fact that time had sneaked up on them stealthily.

  A knock at the door, just after the children had gone to bed, revealed both the huge dog that was Mulligan, and his owner, on the doorstep, the latter with a big grin on his face. ‘Thanks for offering to do this, Davey. You know how much it means to us and to our daughter’s family. Here’s his leash, his bowls, and his blanket. I’ll whizz you down some chow for him in a minute, but then we’ll have to get to bed. We have to be up at five thirty for the trip to the airport. You know how inconvenient travel is, now it’s so easy to do.’

  Chapter Four

  Saturday

  Falconer’s world was no less chaotic when he came downstairs the next morning in his dressing gown to have a cup of coffee before he showered and dressed. Rubbing his eyes – not scratching anywhere, thank God – and running a hand through his hair, he was horrified, when he had a chance to glance around at the downstairs, at the fact that a whirlwind had apparently hit his usually immaculately living quarters while he slept.

  His new cat had continued with her opening of doors, and his collection of everyday shoes from the cupboard under the stairs was a scattered mess right across the living room floor, some with their laces chewed and soggy. His wellington boots had been brought out, presumably caught and killed, and were now lying partly consumed by the kitchen door.

  The whole feline gang had flopped to their bellies when they heard him coming, and looked up at him now, with expressions of extreme innocence which, if they were human, would have conveyed, ‘It wasn’t us, honestly. We were just sleeping peacefully when this awful whirlwind came through, and there was nothing we could do about it.’

  Temporarily ignoring the mess, Falconer trudged through to the kitchen. The whole thing would have to wait
until he’d had a cup of coffee, but how come this hadn’t happened in Carmichael’s house? He hadn’t said a word about the cat being an actual vandal that could conjure up henchmen with a wink of her eye.

  Then he remembered. All the doors in Carmichael’s house had round handles that had to be turned, not long ones that could just be pulled down. He’d have to do something about that when he had time, but for now, he’d just put some more hooks and eyes on some of the doors of the rooms in which they could wreak the most havoc.

  Consequently, he arrived at his desk rather later than his usual hour, and found that Carmichael had not arrived either, and his chair was empty. The third chair, however, was occupied by DC Chris Roberts, recently discharged from hospital, after he had been involved in an unfortunate hit-and-run accident in a nearby village.

  This miscreant had his feet up on his desk, a newspaper held out in front of him, and a steaming cup of coffee on his desk. The room also smelled of cigarette smoke, and the young man had evidently been smoking with his head out of the window. Again.

  ‘What have I told you about leaving the building for a cigarette?’ Falconer barked, already put out by his ransacked living room earlier.

  ‘Don’t do it, guv,’ replied Roberts, peering over the top of his newspaper, not even bothering to put it down.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you before it gets through your thick skull, that you call me “inspector” or “sir”. I will not be called guv, and that’s final. Now, get that newspaper folded up, get your feet off your desk, and try to see if you can look like you’re actually working, for a change. I will not tolerate a work-shy officer who fugs up what is my office too, with filthy cigarette fumes.’

  ‘Sorry, guv … sir, sorry.’ Roberts certainly looked contrite, but the mood would not last for long. He was a truly incorrigible character who was unlikely to reform, in the opinion of other officers at the station. ‘You tolerate old John Proudfoot, though, and so does everybody else. He’s not so much ‘not the sharpest knife in the drawer’: he’s more of a spoon, and he never seems to do much more than eat, and sleep on the job.’