Many who knew her had speculated about why she was so attached to such dreary baubles, when her mother had possessed such fine jewellery, made up especially from stones her husband had purchased during his years in South Africa, but none could come up with any explanation that would explain this fondness for such tawdry ornaments.
Her old black and white cat, previously taking a nap on the sofa, awoke, stretched luxuriously, then jumped to the floor and made his way over to the open doors. ‘Well, hello to you, Mischief. Finally woke up, did you?’
The cat stared at her as she spoke to it, then turned to take a look out into the garden. Ignoring the birds – he was much too old even to think he could catch one nowadays, he turned back towards his mistress and made a brave attempt to jump into her lap.
Picking him up and plonking him on his goal, her hand automatically started to stroke his head, and she smiled at the loudness of his purr. He was getting on a bit, she thought, but he had been good company, and a much needed distraction when Daddy had finally died, and she was left totally on her own in the world. Maybe they’d both go to sleep one night and slip away together in the same night. That would be perfect, but very unlikely.
Turning her mind towards their new lady vicar, she smiled at how horrified she had been at the woman’s appointment, being one of the first to get up and leave during the Induction service. But, give her her due: the woman had made a point of visiting her, to discuss any worries that might exist in her public disapproval, and had carried on visiting ever since.
Lettice’s second thoughts had led her to thoroughly approve of Rev. Florrie. She now considered her a bright and enthusiastic girl to whose visits she now looked forward, and thought that she would do a lot of good in her calling, especially for women who had real problems.
Her persistence was the real reason she had agreed to go to the parish party, her insistence on a lift there and home again, just her way of letting Rev. Florrie know who was still in charge, and that she hadn’t broken the old woman’s spirit with her weekly visits that were becoming more and more of a pleasure, much to Lettice’s surprise.
Heck! She wasn’t getting soft in her extreme old age, was she? That would never do! As she came to this decision, she heard the tinkle of the old-fashioned pull doorbell, and pulled herself to her feet to answer it, rather hoping that it would be Rev. Florrie, for she felt a little of that young lady’s company would be good for her, while she was still in such a good mood, herself.
‘Hello, Maude!’ she greeted her visitor with a grimace, her feelings of goodwill to all the world suddenly evaporating. ‘I can’t ask you in, I’m afraid; I’m very busy today with some paperwork from my solicitor. Unless it’s something urgent, do you think you could call back another time?’
Maude Asquith smiled sycophantically at the old woman, and said that it didn’t matter a jot. She was only a few minutes’ walk away, and could pop over anytime without any inconvenience whatsoever. That said, she made an involuntary movement that resembled nothing more than a semi-curtsy, and turned from the door to return home.
‘Thank the good Lord for that,’ muttered Lettice under her breath as her visitor departed, having no idea how her off-the-cuff excuse had excited the spurned caller.
Maude hurried off back home, her stomach churning with excitement. Two years ago next month, it would be, since she had started to court the old woman. This talk of paperwork from a solicitor could mean she had achieved her objective. Never even contemplating that it might have been an out-and-out lie just to get rid of her, she had visions of Lettice drawing up a new will in her favour, and her mouth almost watered at the appetising thought of so much money.
While Colin Twentymen cultivated his garden at the rear of Carters Cottage, two other village residents sat at a table in the beer garden at the rear of The Druid’s Head, stretching out their pints as long as they could. Both retired and both able to comprehend the attraction of each other’s former professions, they spent as much time as they could in each other’s company to avoid, what they referred to as, ‘being stalked by all the old tabbies’. There was safety in numbers, they believed, and they were much more vulnerable to attack when they were alone.
Today being such a glorious and unseasonably warm day, they had met in The Druid’s Head after a scratch lunch in their own homes. Money for a pint was one thing; money for a pub lunch was quite another, and completely out of the question financially. They were both pragmatic where money was concerned, and hated to waste it on unnecessary expenses like eating in the pub.
At the moment they were discussing their finances. Julius Twelvetrees, who resided at Bijou, The Green, and Toby Lattimer of Tresore in Coopers Lane, also retired and an avid collector of small but beautiful things, had found their pensions shrink in value over the years, and the current financial situation had more or less wiped out interest from savings which had made up part of their incomes in the past.
‘There was a time when I could count on nine per cent on my savings, and some good dividends from my shares,’ moaned Toby Lattimer, ‘but the way things are at the moment, with everything seeming to get more expensive by the day, I’ve a real job just getting by on what my pension buys these days.’
‘I know how you feel, but at least you could sell some of your bibelots, and you’ve got a load of antique furniture. I know they’re mostly small pieces, but some of them are quite exquisite.’
‘Perish the thought!’ his compatriot in complaint exclaimed. ‘And what about you? You’re a retired jeweller, for heaven’s sake. Surely you’ve got some old stock from your shop that you could hock to bring in a bob or two?’
‘All gone, I’m afraid. I’ve been doing that for some time now, and I sold the very last bit just before Christmas. And I’ve still got that great pile of a house in Carsfold. That’ll have to go. I can’t keep that on any longer. It costs far too much to run; the heating bill alone would turn your stomach if I showed it to you.’
‘Have you got any idea how a couple of old codgers like us could make a bob or two just to fill the larder?’ asked Julius hopefully.
‘Well, yes, I have had an idea occur to me, but a bit less of the ‘old codgers’ if you don’t mind. Me, I’m in my prime, even if you are over the hill.’ Toby was, in fact, sixty-six and Julius sixty-eight years of age.
‘Come on, man, spit it out, and don’t keep me in suspenders, as they say. I mean, apart from winning the Lottery or having a rich relative die and leave you the lot, what other chance is there of coming into a large sum of money?’
Toby merely tapped the side of his nose with an index finger and winked at his eager companion. ‘All in good time, Julius, old chap. All in good time. What I will tell you is that it involves a bit of stake money, involves the currency market, and isn’t entirely without risk.’
‘You can forget that, then. Firstly, I haven’t got any stake money and, secondly, if I had, I couldn’t afford to risk it. Whatever it is, you’ll have to go it alone, and maybe I’ll join you, if it proves to be a success.’ Julius was definitely out.
‘Just sounding you out, old man: just sounding you out, that’s all.’
From the little detached house next to the church, there was neither sound nor movement. Bonnie Fletcher fled the village each weekday morning in her little Peugeot, swearing that today would be the day that she missed her train, and returned every evening at about seven-thirty, tired and exasperated, after yet another day spent in the city.
Most weekends she spent in Market Darley where there was a little more nightlife than that provided by The Druid’s Head, usually cadging sofas or a spare room from her old school-friends, with whom she socialised. There was no point in going out if she couldn’t have a drink, and if she had to drive home, she might as well not go out at all.
Some residents wondered why she didn’t just sell up and move to Market Darley, for that was where she spent two days of the week; the other five she commuted from there, so there seemed little p
oint in her living in such an out of the way place as Shepford St Bernard. And this she wouldn’t have done, unless her grandmother hadn’t left her the cottage, after spending her last ten years in a nursing home.
Property prices were still falling in some areas, and this was definitely not the time to put a piece of prime real estate, such as her pretty village cottage, on to the market. She would put up with her rushed life, as it was only until the market picked up, and she could ask a fair price for a very desirable residence. Bonnie Fletcher considered that she had her head screwed on the right way, and could run her life with the maximum precision, if she just trusted her instincts.
Chapter Two
Friday morning – Market Darley
The door of the CID office in Market Darley was flung open with so much enthusiasm that it rebounded off the inside wall of the room, and DC Chris Roberts bounded in booming an enthusiastic, ‘Morning, Guv. Morning Our Davey.’
The two men already in the office both looked up at him with disapproving expressions. ‘That’s “Sir” or “Inspector” to you, Roberts, as well you know,’ this from DI Harry Falconer, the senior plain clothes officer who was almost at the end of his tether with this relative newcomer’s inability to understand that he hated being called ‘Guv’.
The extra-large man at the other desk patiently waited his turn to complain, and advised the new arrival, ‘I’d prefer it if you’d call me Carmichael. Davey’s only for family and very close friends.’ DS Carmichael was similarly not enamoured of Roberts’ informal manner of address.
DI Falconer and DS Carmichael had been working together for some time now, Falconer having joined the Force fresh from some years in the army, after completing a university degree. DS Carmichael had joined as a rookie in uniform, working his way up to his current position more by luck than by judgement.
DC Roberts had arrived on secondment the previous autumn, having secured a temporary transfer from Manchester to help his mother, who had suffered a stroke, and needed some assistance in her daily life while recuperating. His first assignment had been to go undercover as a mature student at the local college but, after an unfortunate incident that hospitalised him for some time, followed by a long period of convalescence, he had been preparing to return to work in the early February.
Unfortunately, a few days before he was due to resume his duties, his mother had suffered another and more catastrophic stroke, and had not survived. That had necessitated him seeking compassionate leave to deal with the paperwork, always a part of any death and, during this period, he had requested a permanent transfer to Market Darley, as he had inherited the family home on his mother’s demise, and now needed time to go back to Manchester to give notice on his old digs and tidy up his affairs that end.
Thus, on this beautiful early March morning, he had re-entered their lives with his habitual breezy brashness. ‘I’m back!’ he announced unnecessarily, as if his returning presence was the most wonderful present they could ever receive, headed for the empty desk that had been prepared for him, and slumped down in the office chair as if he had only been gone for ten minutes.
‘Doing anything special this weekend, then, Davey boy?’ he asked Carmichael, his good natured face split with a broad, good-humoured grin.
‘Please call me Carmichael,’ replied the sergeant, making no attempt to answer the question.
‘OK! Keep your hair on! I only asked if you’ve got anything planned for the weekend.’
As Carmichael composed his answer in his head, Falconer muttered, ‘Sounds like a ruddy barber,’ under his breath.
‘As it happens, I am doing something rather special this weekend; tomorrow night, in fact,’ Carmichael replied, his face lighting up as he remembered his plans for later.
‘What’s that then, my little sergeant?’ asked Roberts, drawing a scowl from Falconer, and the admonition to show a little more respect for his senior officers.
‘I’m going out with my family for the very belated wetting of two babies’ heads,’ he informed the DC, his expression daring him to ask for more details.
‘Oh yes, I remember now. Someone told me you’d become a father, and that Detective Inspector Falconer – I bet that was fun for all concerned – had delivered the new arrival. Congratulations to both of you. But whose is the other baby?’
Falconer didn’t rise to the bait, and left it to Carmichael to provide any detail that the DC thought was his due. Carmichael obliged willingly, to avoid the topic of little Harriet’s birth, simply announcing, ‘My new little brother,’ then buttoning his lip, as if there were a draught in the room, and he needed to keep his teeth warm.
With a widening of his eyes, Roberts let his mouth fall open and, before he gave himself time to think, asked, ‘Good God! How old is your mother, for heaven’s sake?’ then, seeing the vast body of the DS start to rise from his chair, carried on without a break, with, ‘All right! All right! I realise that was out of order. I was just surprised, that’s all. What’s his name?’
‘Harry,’ he replied, knowing exactly what was coming next.
‘And your little one? A girl, I heard.’
‘Harriet,’ announced Carmichael, adopting an aggressive manner that dared Roberts to challenge anything he had just learnt.
Roberts, however, had the hide of a rhinoceros and commented, one index finger on his bottom lip, ‘Oooh! Has the inspector been making house-calls then, or is all this just a coincidence, Inspector, sir?’
Falconer looked daggers at his newly returned DC, and explained that Carmichael had named his daughter after him because of the circumstances that had resulted in him delivering the baby. ‘About Mrs Carmichael Senior’s choice of name, I have no knowledge whatsoever, although I thought she usually favoured Shakespearean names. What’s the story there, Sergeant?’
‘Same old thing, sir, except this time she didn’t go for a character. She was all caught up with that speech about … I dunno, something about “Cry God for Harry”. There’s no point in asking me. I don’t read a lot of Shakespeare, but Mum’s always been hooked in a strange sort of “watching the films” way.’
‘But you said she’d named you ‘Ralph’, and only gave you a Shakespearean middle name.’ Falconer had forgotten why this was. Roberts merely sat with his mouth open as this esoteric conversation unravelled before his very ears.
‘I thought I told you she had a thing about Sir Ralph Richardson at the time, only she always pronounced it ‘Raif’. God only knows why! And that’s why I like to be known as Davey. If I’ve given my permission, that is,’ he finished, with a glower at Roberts.
‘What the hell are the rest of your family called, for goodness sake?’ Roberts was, by now, fascinated, and wanted to follow through to the bitter end.
Taking this in good part, Carmichael began to enumerate his six siblings, quite enjoying the experience of somebody actually being interested in anything concerning him. ‘The oldest is Romeo, but he’s just known as Rome and he’s a builder. Next there’s Hamlet: known as Ham, and he works on a farm. Third is Mercutio, just called Merc, and he’s a ‘man with a van’ – does all kinds of stuff.
‘I’m next, then the two girls. Juliet’s the eldest, and she’s a hairdresser and beautician, and Imogen’s a librarian. Now we’ve got little Harry to add to the mob as well.’ As Carmichael finished, he smiled at the thought of his siblings, having long ago got over the initial embarrassment he had felt at his mother having another baby at her age.
‘Blimey! What a tribe! Have you got any brother or sisters, Guv?’
‘Sir,’ Falconer corrected him.
‘Sorry! Have you got any brothers and sisters, SIR?’
‘No,’ replied the inspector, with a note of finality in his voice. ‘Now, if we could get on with a little work before lunchtime, I’d be very grateful. Here, Roberts, I’ve got some crime figures in this folder for you to collate. Just hand them in to Bob Bryant on the desk when they’re done. Thank you.’
As DC Rober
ts accepted the file handed to him and dipped his head towards his work, Falconer asked Carmichael what his exact plans were for this delayed celebration. Carmichael’s expression of familial pride was a joy to see, and he explained, ‘Merc’s arranged a minibus taxi for them all to come over to Castle Farthing, and we’re going to spend the evening in The Fisherman’s Flies. Dad’s babysitting – unheard of in the past – and Ma’s coming with them all, as part of it is to celebrate Harry’s birth. It should be a riot.’
‘Not as much of a riot as your crazy wedding was, I hope.’ Falconer still shuddered when he remembered the state the Carmichaels had got him into at that.
‘Dunno, sir, but it should be a blast, and I’m not rostered to work on Sunday, so I can get over whatever happens at my own pace.’
‘Can I come?’ asked Roberts.
‘No!’ said Carmichael emphatically. ‘It’s family only,’ and turned back to the paperwork on his desk.
Falconer sighed with relief, having, for a moment, wondered if the sergeant was going to extend an invitation to him as he had delivered young Harriet.
Chapter Three
Saturday morning – Shepford St Bernard
In The Rectory in Shepford St Bernard, Rev. Florrie woke early, as usual, her mind already seething with all the duties and chores she had to get through that day. She would start with morning prayers in the church, a part of her duty that she usually carried out in utter solitude, as no one ever bothered to show up for them, then she would get back to the hall and blow up some more balloons.
Her efforts the previous day had seemed pretty good to her. Sixty balloons had taken a lot of puff, but when she tied them together in threes and hung them from various points along the wall near the ceiling, they had suddenly looked pathetic, and she had resolved to return there on the morrow and redouble her efforts. There were also some paper chains that she had managed to recover from a box in the attic and these she would also hang, just to give the place a less bare and more festive air.
Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Page 3
