She had consumed a bottle and a half of red herself the previous night, before falling, helter-skelter, into a deep, alcohol-induced slumber, and was not surprised when she found the other side of the bed empty when she awoke, heavy-eyed and muzzy-headed.
Melvyn she located slumped in an easy chair in his study, a picture of an old reprobate and lush. He must have slid down the back of the chair when he passed out, and his long grey hair was splayed up behind him on the chair back.
He had obviously been sick as well, for there was dried vomit in his unkempt beard, and down the front of his checked shirt. There was mud on his boots, which he hadn’t even bothered to take off, and grass stains on the knees of his disreputable ancient jeans. What on earth had he been up to during the night?
Unaware of what had taken place at the house next door during the hours of darkness, she wasn’t too worried, and dismissed his condition from her mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d found him like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Anyway, she felt pretty dreadful herself, and betook herself off to the kitchen for a large mug of strong coffee and a reviving dose of liver salts.
Lionel Dixon, the Schmidts’ neighbour on the other side who had watched the nocturnal event from his front bedroom window, came downstairs to find another envelope on his hall mat, the double of the anonymous one he had previously received. This, he picked up with right fore-finger and thumbnails, as if his hand were a pair of human tweezers. He felt so queasy, he thought that if he actually touched the thing, he might throw up.
He knew what it would contain, and temporarily hid it from himself behind the clock on the sitting room mantelpiece. He’d need some ammunition in him, before he could stomach perusing the evil therein contained, and made his way to the kitchen in a state of nervous tension.
Yes, he knew he should have opened it immediately; he knew who had put it through his letterbox; and he knew he should confront the sender but, now, as once before, he simply lacked the required backbone. He was also honest enough to realise that he would never show the letter to the police, but there was one person he could consult, and maybe call off the dog of war.
There was one other from whom he could seek advice and information in a subtle way and, steeling himself to open the second letter, then add it to the first in the secret drawer of his bureau, he approached the telephone with more than a little misgiving.
Between these two troubled households, in Rose Tree House, Heidi was contemplating her forthcoming interview with the police. In her panic of the previous night, she had forgotten all about Ferdie taking his air pistol out with him, in an effort to brand the prowler in an unmistakable way.
It had come to light, however, as soon as Ferdie’s inert body – dead, in her mind’s eye – had been turned over, and there it had been, underneath his considerable and solid gut, where he must have dropped it, just as some person unknown had dropped him.
Would Ferdie be charged with carrying an offensive weapon, even though he was on his own property, and only in pursuit of discouraging any further vandalism to private property? Would she get into trouble for knowing what he was doing, and not discouraging him from carrying out his foolhardy plan of action? Would she be upbraided for forgetting to point out that they were not married, and her name was actually Heidi Laux, not Schmidt? If only she had thought to remove the weapon, none of this would be happening.
Granted, Ferdie would still be in hospital, but he hadn’t actually fired the gun, and no one would have known anything about its existence, had she not thoughtlessly left it outside, in her panic. Mein Gott, was it an offence here, to actually own such a thing without a licence? She didn’t know the answer to any of the questions that were ranging through her mind, and she was in turmoil.
This was the first time they had run into any trouble, other than the usual kind of xenophobic behaviour in which some British people felt obliged to indulge, and she was scared, not just for their position within (or without) the law, but also for how serious Ferdie’s injury was. She would visit him during the course of the afternoon, and hoped to find him in not too bad a way.
During the afternoon, there was much exchanging of gossip and conjecture in Fallow Fold, not least between regular members of the congregation and choir of the Church of St Mary Magdalene. Coffee was always served from an urn at the back of the church after service and, this week, a larger number of people than usual stayed behind to sip and snipe.
Martin and Aggie Fidgette were, naturally, at the heart of this, with Martin as choir master, and his wife as a leading member of the choir. He was still in a fury about the price that had been quoted for the repair to the paintwork of his beloved old car.
It really was a toss-up, what with the excess on his premium, whether to claim and have the work done immediately and live with the higher monthly payments, or to stay as he was, and save up to have the work done. It seemed grossly unfair that he should be financially penalised for the wantonly destructive behaviour of unthinking and uncaring others.
It was he who started a hare running, with a racist remark that particular morning. Still wearing his choir master’s robes, he stated, ‘Bloody foreigners overrunning the village these days. Last night one of them got what he deserved, and who’s to say that it wasn’t another one of the devils that did all that spiteful damage the night before?’
‘Martin!’ Aggie upbraided him, shocked at his hate-filled statement.
‘Well, there’s nobody to say it but me in this place. Everyone else is so nicey-nicey, and doesn’t dare speak their mind. It takes someone with my guts to bring everything out into the open, if these things are going to be cleared up, and not become regular features of the life of Fallow Fold.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ added Duke Zuckerman. ‘Where were they all in the war?’ He could ask this question because Antoinette was not a believer, and therefore didn’t attend services, the Dutch couple never rose before noon on a Sunday, and the Schmidts were otherwise engaged today, and did not attend as a regular event anyway.
‘The French and the Dutch were hiding under the stairs from the Nazi jackboot, and it was only the British and the Americans who dared to question their right to rape Europe.’
‘Shut up, Duke,’ snapped Madison. ‘Wrong time, wrong place!’
‘I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking,’ he retorted, with a strange gleeful grin on his face. ‘Someone gave that Kraut what for, and I’m not exactly crying into my hankie.’
‘No, but you are making a racist fool of yourself in front of half the village. Just can it, baby. You can vent your spleen in the privacy of our own home, when we’re not on consecrated ground.’ Madison was getting angry with her loose-lipped husband. This wasn’t the way to make friends and influence people, and Duke should know better. Before he knew it, they’d be tarred with the same brush, even though they were native English speakers.
‘The war’s been over for well over sixty years. Poor Ferdie wasn’t even born when it happened. How on earth can you put him in the same category as those who were alive at that time? And most people who did what they did, did it because their survival depended on it!’ This was the ever-sensible voice of Mabel Wickers. ‘Live and let live; that’s what I say.’
‘You say what you like, Mabel. I simply don’t trust foreigners.’
‘Duke, I think it’s about time we went home. You’re not in a very sociable mood today, and I think we ought to be getting along, before you say something I’ll regret.’
As the American couple exited the building, Dale Ramsbottom had the urge to add his two-penn’orth. ‘Actually, I tend to agree with old Duke. Why should it always be our villages that the damned foreigners decide to settle in? I don’t see them flooding into Castle Farthing, or Stoney Cross, or even Steynham St Michael. Why here? What’ve we got that other villages don’t have?’
‘Obviously not tolerance,’ spat Mabel Wickers, and stumped out of the church in disgust.
‘I think it’s all our lovely social hobby circles,’ opined Sharron Ramsbottom. ‘There’s such a wide choice of activities, you can keep yourself busy when you’re retired, even if it is like us, in early retirement, and never be bored.’
‘The war was nothing to do with the Schmidts or any of those others. But perhaps we should set up a branch of the Hitler Youth here, and then we could all go around and spray swastikas all over the properties of those residents who can’t prove one hundred per cent Anglo-Saxon white lineage.’ Aggie Fidgette was also feeling ill at the amount of hatred that had been generated by recent events, and deeply ashamed that her husband had been the instigator of this particular hate-fest.
Just a week ago, she would never have thought this sort of discussion even possible, let alone likely. Not only did she not really know her neighbours, it would seem that she didn’t even know her own husband well enough to sense his secret bigotry.
When Mabel had huffed her indignant way home, she was surprised to receive a phone call from Lionel Dixon, asking if she would entertain a short discussion that he felt it imperative he have with someone whom he knew not to be a malicious gossip or rumour-monger.
This lightened her mood considerably, after the conversations and comments she had just heard – and in a church, of all places – and she agreed to let him pop over whenever it was convenient for him. There was nothing like a little flattery to boost the ego.
He arrived at her back door, which was furthest from the road, and out of sight of casual passers-by, about a quarter of an hour later, looking flustered and nervous, and he shot into the house almost before she could invite him to enter.
‘What on earth is the matter with you, Lionel? You look like you’re being pursued by all the hounds of hell,’ she asked, after letting him settle in an armchair in the sitting room.
‘I have something that has been preying on my conscience, and I wanted to ask advice as to what I should do. Should I just leave things as they are, or should I do what all my instincts dictate?’
‘I’ll get us a little pre-luncheon sherry, and you can tell me all about it,’ she replied, heading for the decanter on the sideboard. ‘Is this a personal matter, or does it involve others?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he replied, a little too vehemently. ‘But I do think it’s something that ought to be … ah … regularised.’
‘Here you are,’ she said, handing him a small schooner of pale liquid. ‘Drink this and get it all off your chest. You’ll feel better for it.’ And so would she. It might wash away the nasty taste in her mouth with which the gathering after the service had left her.
Dixon was a master of prevarication, and he wrapped up his own, very personal problem, by disguising it as a matter of legality. ‘What do you know about that Maitland couple?’ he began. ‘Only, I have some very serious suspicions about them, especially the chap.’
‘Has he rattled your cage, Lionel?’ asked Mabel with a wicked twinkle in her eye. She wondered if maybe Melvyn had insulted his sensibilities. Maybe he had called him an old woman, or even hinted that he was not as manly as a man should be. That would certainly drive Lionel to a savage fury of self-protection and protestations.
‘I won’t reveal my sources for these suspicions,’ he brayed, self-righteously, ‘but I happen to believe that the man is guilty of tax evasion on a grand scale, and not just income tax.’
‘That’s a pretty stiff accusation, old … boy,’ she replied, managing to avoid calling him an old woman. ‘Where’s your evidence?’
‘Oh, I have my sources, as I said before, but they will remain anonymous,’ replied Lionel, slyly. ‘I just don’t know what to do about it. What would you advise?’
This was getting as dirty as the comments on incoming foreigners had been at the church, and Mable’s feeling of discomfort was returning. Draining her glass hurriedly, glad she had only filled small schooners, she rose slowly from her chair, saying, ‘I should look to the dictates of your own conscience. This isn’t anything to do with me, but if it leaves you uncomfortable, knowing this, then get it off your chest. Just don’t ask me to ratify what you decide to do.’
Lionel also rose, having heard enough to reassure him that the decision he had made earlier was the right one, and he snuck back to The Retreat, much more at ease in his mind, not even noticing the stiffening in Mabel’s manner. He should have known there was a logical and easy resolution to the harassment that he was suffering. Hit his tormentor where it hurts; that was the ticket!
In Castle Farthing, the focus for the whole day was preparation for the baptism of the Carmichael household’s three children in the village church on Wednesday evening. The couple had not wanted it to be during the day on a Sunday, perhaps even during a service, because, with his vast and party-animal family, it would degenerate into the rocket-fuelled booze-fest that had so unnerved the inspector. It would be a small, intimate affair.
He had asked special permission for the lady vicar of Shepford St Bernard – Castle Farthing not having its own vicar at the moment – to conduct a candlelight service for him, close members of his family, and a few carefully-chosen friends and fellow residents of the village. The two boys, Dean and Kyle, had an inset day on Thursday, thus upsetting their usual bedtime would not be a problem, and baby Harriet could sleep on a clothesline, thank God.
At work, he had been full of the plans he and Kerry were making to ensure this was an unforgettable family affair, but had been rather distracted over the last couple of days, due to giving Monkey away, and the forgotten and completely unanticipated arrival of Mulligan. Today, however, he was full of good ideas, sitting with Kerry at the dining table, ticking things off lists and making new ones, when old ones were finished with.
‘The cake will be brought over on Wednesday afternoon,’ Kerry informed him. ‘Auntie Rosemary’s friend has already finished it. She’s just giving it a little more time to dry out and set the icing. Auntie and I will be working on the food during the morning, and again, after the cake arrives, and we’ll take it straight to the village hall. George Covington’s offered to help with that, taking it in the back of his van, so that should go all right.
‘The Yaxley twins are taking care of the music, and your brothers are setting out the tables and chairs for the short supper afterwards, and we’ll hope to be done and dusted by ten. I’ve got the old christening robe that Auntie Marian gave me before she …’
At this point, Kerry gulped, and suppressed tears. There had been a tragedy involving her godmother in the recent past, and she still could not bear to talk about her. ‘Sorry, Davey. I’ve got the gown, and the old goffering iron, so our Hattie’s going to look like a right little princess.’
‘That’s my girl. Whatever would I have done if I hadn’t met you?’
‘Met someone else instead,’ Kerry teased him with a watery smile.
‘Not in a million years. You’re the only one for me, and you know it,’ he replied, planting a kiss on her head. ‘We were fated to spend our lives together, so no arguing!’ Davey Carmichael had never been happier in his life.
Having fitted the last little bolt, Falconer took his seal-point Siamese into the privacy of his bedroom, and sat him down on the bed, to give him a good talking to about his position in the household. ‘Now, look here, old chap; you’re the founding member of this feline gang, and you’ve got to exercise some discipline. You know neither of us likes to live in a muddle, but that’s what you’re letting that monkey, Monkey, turn the place into. Get a grip, and dole out some discipline, so that things can get back to normal. Got it? Good!’
As his speech had unfolded, he had leaned closer and closer to Mycroft, and the cat’s reply to his plea was to give him a look of withering Siamese disdain, as if to say, his owner would never understand the power of the pure-bred feline charisma that Monkey exuded, and to lick him affectionately on the nose. ‘I hope that was in lieu of a spoken agreement,’ said the cat’s owner, and smiled at the lithe creatu
re, who had once lived as an only cat, in a much less rumbustious atmosphere as existed in the house now, and had never complained about it. Or misbehaved. Before.
Chapter Seven
Monday
As Falconer dropped his briefcase beside his desk on Monday morning, the telephone shrilled loudly in the empty office. He didn’t know whether to expect DC Roberts back today, or whether Superintendent Chivers would keep him on traffic duty as further punishment. Carmichael he expected at any minute.
‘Good morning,’ he spoke into the mouthpiece of the instrument. ‘Market Darley CID. Inspector Falconer speaking. How may I help you?’
A vaguely familiar voice identified itself as Wanda Warwick from Shepford St Bernard, and his mind visualised the white witch he had met in the course of his last case. ‘I’m calling again about Bonnie Fletcher – you know? – the one who just seemed to disappear into thin air?’
‘I remember. You mean she hasn’t turned up yet, or got in touch?’
‘Not a word,’ Wanda replied, anxiety in her voice.
‘And you said “again”. Have you phoned the station before?’
‘I know it was only Saturday, but the officer did say I’d be contacted before the end of the day, and I heard nothing that afternoon, and not a dicky bird yesterday; and I know the police are a twenty-four hour service now, so I was a bit surprised.’
‘Did you get the name of the officer you spoke to?’
‘It was a DC Roberts. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Not for you, Ms Warwick. If you could drop into the station, we can officially record her as a missing person, and start a search for her. Are you sure she hasn’t just gone on holiday?’
Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10) Page 7
