Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘He left a note, and never mentioned locking up, so I guess we just leave things as we found them. He’ll be back, as soon as this crisis, whatever it is, is over, and he won’t thank us for moving as much as a mote of dust in his very private home.’

  ‘Why didn’t he leave the note stuck on the front door, then?’

  ‘Because anyone could have seen it, and he might’ve been robbed.’

  ‘That’s his look out. If he is, it isn’t our fault.’

  The matter was deemed to be a storm in a teacup, and the meeting was rearranged to take place in one of the other member’s houses, with all of them nipping home to find something to add to the evening’s snack table, at present like Old Mother Hubbard’s larder – absolutely bare. They wouldn’t be robbed of their bridge by this minor, if unusual, setback.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday

  Tuesday’s post brought surprises for more than one address. In Black Beams, Marilyn, who usually opened the post to save Melvyn the task of yelling obscenities at some of the stuff that came through the letterbox, actually yelped when she opened, first, a form to apply for a television licence, and second, an application form to register for the privilege of paying council tax, as their offices had been informed that Mr M. Maitland was now in permanent residence.

  Both authorities would be grateful to know the date from which Mr Maitland had been eligible to pay for these essentials, and had enclosed a preliminary bill from yesterday’s date, with projected payment for the next twelve calendar months, and a box in which to state the date on which they moved in to the property.

  ‘Mel!’ she practically screamed. ‘Someone’s really got it in for us! Look what’s come in the post! First, that phone call from the tax office yesterday, and now these!’

  Perusing the communications, his face blackened with fury, and he almost spat, when he spoke. ‘I know who’s responsible for this, and I intend to do something about it before the day is out.’

  ‘Don’t do anything rash, Mel. We’ve got to get out of here unobtrusively after all.’

  ‘I’ll be discreet, my little treasure, and you can get packing right now. We’ll go tonight. I know exactly where, now. No one will find us, I promise you. We’ll be safe again, where this devil can’t drop us in it again. Just don’t ask me what I’m up to until we’re ready to go,’

  Marilyn found his mood rather frightening, but was quite happy to be left to her own devices, too. There was a mort of plans to be made yet.

  Falconer also found something of interest in his office morning mail. For once, first class post had lived up to its claims. Granted, it was an anonymous letter, and he usually viewed these in a very dubious light, but this one had the postmark of Fallow Fold, and the printing was legible, the spelling impeccable. This could be a genuine tip-off, that someone knew what was rumbling under the surface in the village, and its arrival only confirmed his own misgivings.

  The letter consisted of only five words, but they were very telling words, as he read: I KNOW WHO DID IT. Now all he needed to do was find out who had written the letter, and what they knew, and he might have a clue as to who had been on a vandalism spree in the small community, and had escalated their campaign of anti-social behaviour to ABH.

  He’d go out there with Carmichael, to see if he could flush out his anonymous informant, but it would have to wait a little. It wasn’t as if anyone had been murdered, was it?

  Duke Zuckerman had been restless since the disturbances in the village and, on Monday afternoon, announced to Madison his plans to return to the States immediately. He claimed to have been very unsettled by what had happened in their ideal little village, and needed a return to his roots to settle him down.

  ‘But why will that help, honey?’ Madison queried. ‘We moved here to get away from all the stuff that goes on over there.’

  ‘Maybe I just miss the kids, and the ball games, and the food. Maybe I’m missing the culture I was brought up in, and all my good old buddies, and this English crap’s making me feel a bit hemmed in,’ was his vague reply.

  ‘You do what you want to do, Duke. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied here, so I shall hardly notice you’ve gone – no offence meant, honey.’

  ‘No offence taken. I’m glad you don’t mind. I just feel I need to get away for a while. I’ll phone the airport now, see if I can get a last-minute deal.’ Madison truly would not miss him much, except for the taking out of the household waste. She had a great deal of work to do on the quilt she wanted to exhibit this year, and not having to wait on Duke’s every whim would leave her a lot more time to attend to this.

  Also, he’d been acting kinda weird the last few days, and it made her feel kinda jittery and uncomfortable, as if he knew a secret she didn’t. A bit of time apart would probably do both of them a power of good.

  Maybe she could join him for a week or so before the kids were due to come over, and then they could go back with the kids at the end of their English vacation, as planned. This change of schedule would be advantageous, and would give her something to look forward to sooner before the kids actually came over.

  Meanwhile, in the Maitland household, Melvyn was stamping around like an enraged bull, pulling paperwork out of his desk and filing cabinet, and trekking off to the kitchen where he stuffed it into the fiery interior of the range at such a rate that smoke poured out of their chimney, making anyone who saw it wonder what sort of cold person lived there, to need a fire on such a lovely warm day.

  Marilyn packed personal things upstairs on her own. Melvyn’s possessions she just stuffed into boxes without a care about folding them. He was the cause of all her troubles, so why should she care about him? And what was the point, anyway?

  Her own things, however, she packed with considerably more care, making sure they were rolled or folded to cause the minimum of creasing, and placed into suitcases or holdalls in good order. Her clothes were all that she had in the world, and that world was not of her own making and, lately, not of her own choosing.

  Why should her possessions suffer because Melvyn was off on another of his gypsy adventures? She’d had enough of the whole thing. Her life had ceased to work some time ago, and it was high time she did something about it.

  While her husband continued to simmer and thump about on the ground floor, she made a couple of calls on her mobile phone – she had to have some privacy. She wasn’t just another of Melvyn’s possessions, after all – and thought her secret thoughts.

  The only blessing about this flit was that the furniture came with the house. They didn’t own a stick of that, either. Melvyn had been the original rolling stone who had gathered no moss whatsoever, not even a bed of his own. At least the travelling would be light.

  The Book Circle meeting at Sideways that evening was unusually well attended, and Mabel Wickers was flitting about like an overweight fairy, making extra pots of tea and coffee, and raiding her larder for more biscuits and sweetmeats to keep her guests occupied.

  Most of them had come not to discuss the current book being read, but to chew over the recent events in the village, and accusations were rife as to who was responsible for the wanton damage that had been done, as well as the attack on their German neighbour.

  Opinion was divided. Many of them had noticed the deteriorating mood of Melvyn, and had spoken, even if very briefly, with Marilyn, about her husband’s increased drinking, and were tempted to blame him and his explosive temper.

  A few, for some reason as yet unfathomable, thought that the culprit could live within the membership of the Amateur Dramatic Circle but, when asked why, could only come up with a weak response that hinted at jealousy on the part of someone in that group; that they were outside, what the speaker considered to be, the ‘inner circles’.

  ‘I’ve been speaking to that doctor’s wife, Stella Christmas, and she’s in the AmDrams. She thinks it looks like the work of a spiteful child, and we know what a load of spoilt children that lot are, fighting abo
ut who does this and that, and who gets the best part, or costume,’ offered Sharron Ramsbottom, who had joined the circle during the dire winter weather, due to the lack of opportunity to even get into the garden, but hadn’t managed to stick it out for more than a few weeks.

  ‘It’s not like any one group was targeted with the damage, is it? It was more a random attack on group members in general, and not one of those poncy actors had any trouble whatsoever.’

  ‘What about the attack on poor Mr Schmidt?’ asked Mabel, puffing through with yet another tray of tea and coffee.

  ‘That was probably more of the same thing, except Mr Schmidt was waiting for the culprit, ready to defend his property. I hope he doesn’t get into trouble with the police. It’s only right that you should be able to stop people damaging your stuff.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cheered Dale Ramsbottom, who had come along to support his wife; not that he read such things as books, but he was feeling at a loose end this evening, and anything was better than what was advertised as on the box. ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle.’

  ‘But Mr Schmidt isn’t an Englishman,’ Mabel threw into the conversation.

  ‘That’s beside the point, Mabel, and you know it. Those two work tirelessly to present their garden as a showpiece, and I don’t see why he should have to sit around and just let someone trash it.’

  ‘Hear, hear! again,’ spake her ‘ever-loving’. ‘If anyone had a go at my garden, I’d be prepared to give them what for. We’ll just have to be extra vigilant, and try to keep a better eye on our homes and gardens.’

  ‘And cars. But don’t let Martin Fidgette hear you talking about cars. He’s still absolutely rabid about what it’s going to cost him to put right the paintwork on his.’

  ‘But absolutely no vigilantes!’ Mabel cautioned, collecting up dirty crockery, and wishing they’d all go home. They’d hardly spent ten minutes talking about their current read, and she’d like time to get back to hers, as she had neglected it of late.

  Had it not been such a crashing bore of a volume, she’d have read it long before now. Maybe next month, she’d have a title ready for them, and hopefully, one that was a little less dry than the one they were currently critiquing.

  If she kept her mind occupied, she wouldn’t find herself thinking, again, about that foolhardy letter she had posted, shoving it into the post-box before she lost her nerve, and now wishing she had been a little more circumspect.

  With no cognisance of the accusations about him that were being bandied about just across the road, Melvyn continued to rage around, calling down contumely on everyone in the locality, and hurling larger personal possessions no longer needed into the garden, to be abandoned.

  At midnight, Maitland said he had some last minute business to attend to, and Marilyn sighed with relief to be out of his company at last. Three minutes later, there was a tap on the back door, and she answered it cautiously, just in case there was a last-minute hitch.

  At one o’clock in the morning, a van pulled out of the drive of Black Beams and drove off into the night, unseen by any wakeful neighbour or insomniac early hours’ walker.

  Everything had gone to plan – well almost. There had only been one hitch, but there was no point in thinking about that at the moment.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday

  The following morning, a van load of boxes was stored in a lock-up garage on one of the more maze-like areas of Carsfold, and a couple, each with a grip holdall, walked to a bed and breakfast establishment, where a prior booking had been made the day before.

  They would not be staying long, and claimed to be on a touring holiday, but had been caught out when their car broke down the previous day. They had managed to get to Carsfold by local bus, and would wait for their vehicle to be repaired before they moved on. They seemed a nice older, respectable couple, and nobody gave them a second glance.

  By lunchtime on Wednesday, Falconer found he could not bear Carmichael’s presence any more. The sergeant was cock-a-hoop at the forthcoming events of the evening, and if he wasn’t singing or whistling, he was dancing on the spot and waving around his arms to music that only existed inside his own head.

  Excited, hyperactive kids had nothing on Carmichael. He could outdo their irritating behaviour without having to make any effort whatsoever, due to his uncurbed, natural exuberance.

  Eventually, the inspector’s patience snapped with an almost audible ‘ping’, and he yelled, completely out of the blue, as far as his sergeant was concerned, ‘Get out of this office! At once! Go home and do something useful! Kerry could probably do with another pair of hands! I simply can’t think straight with you capering around like a drug-fuelled tarantula.’

  Then, to take the sting out of the tail, as Carmichael wasn’t doing anything wrong, just being happy, he added, ‘And have you got that Mulligan entered for the three thirty at Newbury, or does he need re-shoeing? When’s he booked in with the farrier?’

  ‘Ta, sir! And don’t be silly. It’s the two thirty at Chepstow he’s running in,’ replied Carmichael, with a facetious answer that trumped Falconer’s ace nicely. ‘Now, promise me you won’t be late tonight. We can’t start the proceedings without the most important guest of all; the man who delivered our little Hattie, can we?’

  ‘Who’s dog-sitting?’ asked Falconer, forever a practical soul.

  ‘Paula Covington from The Fisherman’s Flies. She doesn’t reckon they’ll be very busy tonight, with all this malarkey at the church and the hall.’

  ‘That’s kind of her. Now, get along, and let me get my head straight, or I’ll get nothing useful done all day.’

  This was like the school bell for the sergeant, and he capered out of the office and down the corridor towards the stairs, like a hulking great schoolboy finally let out of school for the day, whooping with glee so loudly that he made Bob Bryant on the desk visibly jump.

  ‘Harry sent you home, lad?’ he asked, when his nerves had settled down.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Carmichael, giving one final ‘woo-hoo’ of unbounded joy.

  ‘Good!’

  ‘Christening, this evening, Sarge.’

  ‘Good!’

  Bryant was just about sick to death of hearing about the ruddy triple christening, and this final insult to his nerves, as Carmichael cheered himself out of the building, had put the tin lid on it for him. Although, he supposed he’d have to suffer a confetti shower of photographs for the next few weeks. That was all right, he just wouldn’t pay attention.

  How Falconer stood the young man’s unbridled enthusiasm every working day was a mystery to him, although he knew that there was no harm in him. He could just be wearing, at times, with all that youthful energy to dissipate. The complete opposite of Roberts, he was.

  Mabel Wickers sat in her sideways-on house and fretted. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent that letter. With hindsight, what did she actually know for sure? Only what she had been told, and that might just be a tissue of lies, inspired by nothing more than natural antipathy or prejudice against a less conventional lifestyle.

  She’d been drinking far too much coffee, and rather more sherry than was good for her. She felt so uneasy that she decided, on the spur of the moment, to go to her friend’s house in Market Darley, and spend a day or two there. Maybe Lena could advise her, or at least point her in the right direction.

  Mabel knew, of course, that the right direction was to go straight to the police station to report that it was she who had written that anonymous letter, but she wasn’t ready for confession yet, and needed someone stronger than herself to set her on the path to righteousness.

  She left on the afternoon bus, thus missing the fact that, that evening, no lights glowed in either Black Beams, or The Retreat, and that there had been no sign of movement in either house since the day before; which was a pity, as so much might have been changed, if she’d only stayed behind to face the music, earlier than she was now about to do.

  Even more sop
py sentimentality and enthusiasm entered Falconer’s office when Merv Green and Linda Starr slipped in briefly, to announce that they were getting engaged. Carmichael, of course, would have been ecstatic for them but, due to his unscheduled absence, it was the inspector who had to endure almost half an hour of proposed wedding arrangements, cakes, dresses, honeymoon destinations, and venues.

  At that point, his patience reached the end of its leash, and he found himself promising to meet them for a quick drink after work, to raise a glass to the future. ‘Mind, I can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get over to Castle Farthing for the Carmichael baptisms. I am chief godfather, you know.’

  ‘No worries, sir,’ said Merv, with a grin. ‘We’ve been invited as well, so we could meet half an hour before the kick-off, in Carmichael’s local, then we’d be right on hand for when the ceremony starts.’

  ‘Good idea, Green. I’ll see you in The Fisherman’s Flies later, then.’

  ‘It’s a date, sir.’

  Falconer, unusually for him, left the station on time that day. He wasn’t sure what sort of state the house would be in when he got home, and he needed sufficient time to do his toilette, before turning up at the Carmichael thrash, as guest of honour. At least the baptism wasn’t being approached in the same way as the sergeant’s and Kerry’s wedding, which had been a themed fancy-dress affair, with everyone in pantomime costume.

  He believed that tonight’s celebrations would be wholesome and quiet, respectful and grown-up, and that he need have no fears of those dreadful Carmichael brothers spiking his drink, and making him look a fool, again. Carmichael was an extremely moral and upright character, but the same could not be said for the rest of his tribe – and he used the word ‘tribe’ consciously.

  Fortunately, nothing in his household, now he had fitted bolts to all the doors, was shredded or destroyed – with the exception of three juvenile rats, who had suffered an unplanned post-mortem on the kitchen floor, and made his stomach heave, as he went out to put on the kettle for an after-work cup of tea and fetch a plastic rubbish bag.