Arranged around the soft furnishings, five cats slept in blissful innocence. Who? Did what? Not us! That must have been some other cats, when you were out and we were taking a nap. He could hear their reaction to his interrogation already, and knew it would be a waste of time.
Wearing some rather natty spearmint-coloured rubber gloves, and clutching a handful of paper towels as an extra barrier against the squishiness of the various inside bits of rat that had found their unfortunate way outside their hosts, he cleared up the mess, disinfected the floor, and sat down to drink his Earl Grey before jumping into the shower.
As he soaped and rinsed, and shampooed and rinsed, he imagined the uproar that probably held sway in the Carmichael household, the preparations only being made more difficult by the pups and dogs, as Paula Covington probably wouldn’t arrive for her dog-sitting duties much before they left for the church.
Then he remembered that they still had Mulligan as a house guest, and laughed out loud, which had the unfortunate effect of him getting a mouthful of shampoo bubbles. Coughing and spluttering, he realised that Carmichael could even interfere with his peaceful existence from as far away as his own home.
He dressed carefully in his best Italian suit, and his favourite pair of shoes, that he had purchased in Venice, at a little place on the Rialto Bridge, confident that he would arrive home as immaculately attired as he left it, his duty done, and the thought pleased him.
It had been quite a while ago that Carmichael had originally asked him to be godfather to the boys. It must have been when he was going through the official adoption process, before young Harriet had been born. Here, he winced, as he remembered the baby’s delivery, with only midwife Falconer on duty, the arriving-little-girl’s father having passed out on the sofa.
The subject had been dropped for a long while, but been revived now and again, and it was only on their last case together that Carmichael had had the get-up-and-go to do something about arranging a date for this momentous family event.
Granted, Castle Farthing didn’t have a resident vicar any more, and that was an obstacle that meant arranging anything, had to be thought of when there was actually a local vicar in view, but he was glad that it would, at last, be laid to rest, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it any more, popping up out of the woodwork, like an evil spirit, to taunt him.
As he got into his Boxster to leave for Castle Farthing, the sun was shining, and all was well with the world.
In the bar of The Fisherman’s Flies, Falconer found the two out of uniform PCs already arrived, and having a drink with the Carmichael brothers. And sisters. A quick tot-up revealed the presence of Romeo, Hamlet, Mercutio, Juliet, and Imogen, some of whom had been school contemporaries of both Merv and Linda.
Taking a deep breath to inspire courage, he strolled, as nonchalantly as he could, over to them, and bade them good evening. The eyes of both Merc and Rome lit up when they identified who had greeted them. Here was game indeed; a victim on the hoof, as it were.
With an easy innocence, Imogen, catching the looks of her brothers, offered Falconer a drink, then winked at the others behind his back. This was sport that none of them had anticipated and, here it was, delivered right into their hands. They didn’t need to speak about their plans, as they were almost telepathic when confronted with a target for mischief.
Juliet engaged him in conversation, playing on how lovely it was that such a fantastic couple as Merv and Linda were finally getting together, while Merv moved over to the dartboard with Ham and Rome, the chief trouble-maker. They’d had a thoroughly good time playing with Davey’s boss at the wedding, and this could be a good opportunity to repeat the experience.
Of course, had their mother and baby Harry been in the bar, they would never have dared to plan such an outrage. But they weren’t. So they did. As far as they were concerned, Falconer was an innocent abroad, and deserved to be taken advantage of by the natives. All it took was a wink to Juliet, Ham, and Imogen, and the plan was set.
Falconer had ordered a half of black-and-white Irish, as sufficient fluid and alcohol to sustain him before the service, and sipped cautiously at it as the talk settled on weddings, past, present, and future. The inspector had no awareness whatsoever that, when distracted by one of the Carmichael sirens, the other was slipping a tot of vodka into his glass.
Peanuts were proffered to distract the taste-buds and increase thirst and, before he knew what was happening, another half-pint glass sat in front of him. ‘Go on,’ urged Imogen. ‘It’s only a pint, with the two of them put together. No harm in them at all.’
The innocent abroad took her at her word, and his drink continued to be added to, tot by tot, until Merv, Romeo, and Mercutio finished their game of darts and re-joined the others at the bar. ‘Quick brandy for the road?’ asked Romeo and, before Falconer could refuse, the glass was already on the bar in front of him, and it seemed churlish to refuse.
Downing it in one, like the Carmichaels, he went to leave his place, leaning on the bar top, and found that his legs both wanted to go in different directions and leave him in the middle with no means of holding himself up. He was also bemused to find that the bar now seemed to be located on a sea-going craft, and that the floor heaved gently up and down with the movement of the waves.
He found himself supported surprisingly gently, one brother at each side of him, and towed across to the church, like a stricken boat being led to shore, wondering why he felt so peculiar when, to his certain knowledge, he had consumed no more than a pint of Irish and a shot of brandy.
On entering the church, the double candles that he saw created a tremendous urge in him to giggle, and he was staggered to see how many sets of twins were in attendance. A huge Carmichael leaned down to him and mouthed words that he was unable to understand, so he just smiled in a friendly way, and waited to be led to his seat.
He also beamed at Rev. Florrie, the vicar from Shepford St Bernard, as she seemed to want to have a look at him, too. Never had he been so popular. What he didn’t hear, however, was the urgent conversation being conducted at the back of the church in whispers.
‘What did you do to him, Rome?’ hissed Carmichael, his good humour on its last legs since the entrance of the inspector, evidently in an advanced state of inebriation.
‘We just slipped him a couple of Russians, to ease his nerves,’ replied Romeo.
‘He’s clearly the highly-strung, nervy type,’ added Mercutio, ‘so we thought we’d take the edge off things for him.’
‘We were only doing it for you, Davey, boy,’ concluded Hamlet, beginning to feel worried at the expression, redolent of storm clouds, that was gathering on his brother’s face.
‘If you’ve spoilt this for me, then I’m finished with the lot of you. Your childish little pranks may seem funny to you, but this is one of the most important days of my life, you little toads.’
A shadow was cast across the whole group as Mrs Carmichael senior joined them, and asked in no certain terms, what had happened. ‘It’s these clowns, Ma. They’ve only gone and spiked Inspector Falconer’s drink in the pub, and now he’s almost legless. He’s supposed to be chief godfather. What the hell are we going to do?’
Ma wasted no time on words. Grasping Romeo and Hamlet by an ear each, she dragged them painfully outside to give her instructions for saving the day, and she would brook no argument.
Amidst the candlelight and spring flowers that lent their atmosphere to the chill inside of the church, Falconer stood straight and tall, as he repeated the age-old words. He renounced the devil and all his works, and he turned to the light, accepting the lit candle he was offered, although he held it in a somewhat wavering way. He stood for photographs afterwards, and smiled for the camera, as if there were nothing wrong.
What he did not do was appreciate how beautiful the old Castle Farthing church looked, bathed in the light of a multitude of candles, and decorated with flowers from almost every garden in the village.
The
brigadier, who sat in the back row, was particularly furious, because his wife had positively raped his flower garden for their contribution to this display, telling him in a patient and logical voice, that such a severe pruning would encourage them to grow even better, and it wasn’t often they had such an event in the village church, now they no longer had a vicar of their own.
Falconer kissed baby Harriet and patted the boys on the head, congratulated the parents, thanked Rev. Florrie for a beautiful and memorable service, and all this with a back-up squad of three Carmichaels.
When he had completed his formal duties in the church, Ma Carmichael and two of her sons steered him outside and round to the back of the church, where he was gloriously and flamboyantly sick, before collapsing from the knees up. By now, he could decipher what was being said around him with much more clarity, and he listened to the conversation that was taking place above his spinning head.
‘If I ever catch you little bastards doing anything so stupid and irresponsible again, I’ll turn you in for assault and poisoning. That was the inspector you were fooling with. He’s an important man, and he expected to drive himself home tonight. What if he’d actually managed to get in a car? You’d have been had up for manslaughter, that’s what would have happened!’
‘You actually brought your remedy with you, Ma?’ asked Romeo, still amazed that his mother had saved the day for everyone.
‘You bet I did, you little toe-rag. Now, let this be a lesson to you. You’re not kids any more, and you can’t go around playing foolish pranks on those with a position in society. You leave orf your childish ways, from tonight onwards.
‘I don’t ever want to hear again about you spiking anyone’s drink. It’s a bit more than a fall off a push bike these days, now you’re getting on a bit. Most of your friends would have got into a van or something, and then driven into a brick wall – or something similar – and you’d be behind bars for the rest of your days. Act your ages, not your shoe sizes! This is the last time I’m going to tell you.’
Ma Carmichael, when there were celebrations in the offing, usually carried a battered old flask with her, which contained a magic potion known only to her, the recipe having come from her grandmother. No one else in the family knew what went into it, apart from tabasco sauce, but it could evaporate drunkenness for a period of up to an hour or more, before the recipient collapsed. It was a little of this that she had administered to the chief godfather in the privacy of the church porch, just before the service started.
She had sidled up until she sat beside him, told him he looked a little peaky, then led him away to somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed, now that all had assembled. Then she just held the flask to his lips. Falconer was so far gone that he sipped automatically, and didn’t even think of questioning what he was drinking.
As she put her flask back in her capacious handbag, Ma Carmichael took a peek at her patient, and was pleased at what she saw. The inspector was now red of face, his eyes were starting out of his head, his mouth hung open, and his body had begun to twitch all over.
Sliding back to her own place, she smiled with pleasure. Once again, the old cure was working, and he should be good until after the dunking and name-calling. After that, he’d probably have to be removed from public view until morning, as the after-effects could be hair-raising and even more undignified than making an arse of oneself in public.
As soon as the baptismal service concluded, and she had had her little word with two of the main miscreants, she ordered them to take Falconer back to Davey’s place and put him to bed. He’d be fit for nothing else before the morrow, and he’d need a good long sleep to get the various ingredients out of his system.
That only left her with one problem. She knew he had cats, and they would need feeding both tonight and in the morning. Grabbing Ham and demanding his van keys, she took a drive over to Market Darley. She knew where tonight’s poor victim lived, and called in to see his next-door neighbour when she got there, explaining that the man next door had been taken poorly at a party, and wouldn’t be home before tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.
The neighbour, being a conscientious animal-lover himself, and who had a key, promised to take care of the situation, and that she was to tell the stricken Mr Falconer not to worry one little bit about his charges. They would be well looked after.
Ma Carmichael was feared and adored by each and every one of her children in equal measure. She was a formidable woman who could cope with everything but spiders, and she felt she’d saved, not only Falconer’s face, but Davey’s celebration as well. All she had to do was drive back and mention that the inspector had been feeling unwell, and had retired to the cottage for a little lie down. The truth could come out tomorrow, as it inevitably would have to, when Falconer told what he could remember of the night before.
She’d deal with the irresponsible behaviour of her own brood in good time. Let them wait. Let them stew.
Even without the godfather-in-chief being present, the party removed itself to the village hall, and the celebrations got underway.
The hall was decorated, as it usually was for any village celebration, with balloons and streamers. Folding tables and chairs had been set out in a ‘U’ shape, and food, to which everyone present had contributed in some way, was set out on the tables, along with party hats and blowers – Carmichael couldn’t resist such childish additions to any party.
The cake for the occasion was set in the middle of the short length of the ‘U’, and was, in typical Carmichael style, a representation of another of his passions. Not for him the traditional fruit cake iced and decorated with flowers. He had ordered a huge wheel of a cake adorned with five blue creatures of varying sizes; to whit, his family represented as Smurfs, for he had an extensive collection of the little blue people, collected over the years.
Small bunches of spring flowers also adorned the tables, and Rev. Florrie had brought over with her the DJ-ing twins who so enlivened parties in Shepford St Bernard, knowing that if anyone could make a party go with a swing, it was these two youngsters. They not only had an extensive collection of music, but could tailor it, at a glance, to suit the mix of people gathered to celebrate.
To start with, though, there were speeches from the proud father and the officiating vicar (in the absence of a certain godfather), and toasts to those newly enrolled in the Christian family.
Carmichael had bought a new suit for the occasion, there being a branch of outfitters in Market Darley that could provide for his unconventionally large build, and Kerry wore a simple dress of white cheesecloth, embroidered with bright flowers at the neck and the hem, and they both looked as if they would burst with pride.
The proud father, red of face and stuttering with nerves to start with, soon gained confidence, and gave a moving talk on how his life had changed since he had met Kerry, and how she, the boys, and now young Harriet, had made his life heaven on earth, ending with, ‘and no man could ask for more, or be happier than I am today.’
There was a huge round of applause as he finished, and many an eye was filled with tears, moved by the simplicity of Carmichael’s earthly treasures, which were people, and not worldly goods or money.
Rev. Florrie make a brief speech in which she thanked all those who had attended, explaining that baptisms were on the decrease, as were church numbers, and that it had been an honour and a pleasure to officiate at such a well-attended and happy occasion.
The highlight of the evening for some however, was seeing Carmichael dance for the first time. By build, he had unnaturally long legs and arms, but when these were released to react to the beat of music, no one was safe for a distance of several yards, and eventually other dancers just stopped to watch him.
He was lost in the music, and flung himself around with abandon and his eyes shut so tightly that, when the music ended, he found himself with an audience of just about every guest, some of whom were doubled up with mirth.
One of the twins took the micr
ophone at this point, and announced that anyone on the dance floor at the same time as their host may consider wearing a hard hat, and even Carmichael could see the joke, having been videoed once, performing what Kerry referred to as his Downland Tribal Fling.
Falconer himself was totally oblivious to the small party that returned to the cottage for a bit more of the afterglow. He knew nothing about Carmichael looking in on him, to see that he was all right, and in the recovery position. He noticed nothing when Kerry threw a duvet over him, as he was collapsed on top of the bed, nor when she removed his shoes and loosened his tie. He slept on, innocent and un-assaulted.
After his unanticipated slug from Ma Carmichael’s battered old flask, the next thing that Falconer was aware of was his face being washed, and he thought, for a second or two, that he was back in the nursery. But never had such a foul-smelling face-cloth been used on him before, and that moved him to open one sticky and encrusted eye, only to find that it was looking into another eye, but much bigger than his own, and rather bloodshot.
His second eye creaked open, and was immediately closed again by a voluptuous lick. This definitely wasn’t any nanny he’d known! With a groan, as he moved his head, a plaintive whine assaulted his delicate hearing, and a pile of boulders crashed inside his head. If he wasn’t mistaken – and he certainly could be the state he felt he was in – there was a dog with him, wherever he was.
Had he been involved in an accident? He didn’t remember being anywhere where there was likely to be a landslide. It also didn’t feel as if he were lying on the ground somewhere. It was soft underneath him, but a vile smell was assailing his nostrils, so maybe he had been injured by a chemical explosion.
At that moment, a thunderously loud voice broke into his reverie, and he identified what sounded like Carmichael with a loud-hailer booming, ‘Morning, sir. Mulligan, we know you love him, but stop all this farting for joy routine. You’ll gas the poor inspector, and he’s only just back in the land of the living. Bacon and eggs, sir?’
Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10) Page 10
