Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1)

by Andrea Frazer

  III

  As they made their way round the corner towards Pilgrims’ Rest, Falconer could not help but express his puzzlement about one aspect of the previous evening. ‘What’s all this shiftiness about when people went to bed last night?’ he asked of Carmichael irritably. The inspector was sweating due to the necessity of keeping his jacket on and the rise in temperature since they had arrived in Castle Farthing earlier that morning. His whole body was overheated and itchy, and he felt sure he was coming out in a heat rash.

  ‘Couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘There’s something going on here and I wonder just how widespread it is. I mean, it’s hardly likely there was a hole in the space-time continuum and they all got sucked in, is it?’

  ‘In the what, sir?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  IV

  When Piers Manningford opened the door to them he was a sickly grey colour, he had bags under his eyes and looked like he had hardly slept. ‘What do you want?’ was his brusque greeting.

  ‘I presume you’ve heard about Mr Lowry?’ Falconer asked.

  ‘What? Shooting his mouth off in the pub about me and Cassie? I was there; I didn’t need to hear about it.’

  ‘You’ve not been out this morning?’

  ‘Do I look as if I’m fit to be seen in public?’

  Treating this as a rhetorical question, Falconer announced baldly. ‘Mr Lowry is dead.’

  ‘Dead? He can’t be! How? Didn’t choke on his own bile did he? That’d be poetic justice.’

  ‘Mr Lowry was murdered sometime after leaving the local pub last night.’

  ‘Murdered? Good God, you’ve not come here to try to pin this on me, have you? For if you have, I want my solicitor present.’

  ‘We’ve come here to ask you a few questions, that’s all, and if you’ll let us in, we can conduct this a little less publicly.’

  There was no offer of coffee this time, and the sitting room had become dusty and untidy during Dorothy Manningford’s absence. Her husband obviously had more on his mind than where the dusters and vacuum cleaner lived.

  ‘Would you tell us, in your own words, what occurred yesterday evening in The Fisherman’s Flies, and what you did afterwards, sir?’ God! thought Falconer, what a stupid question – who else’s words would the man use? And what an opportunity he, himself, had missed. If only he had taken up that invitation to the party from Cassandra Romaine, he could have been in at the kill, as it were. Mentally kicking himself with the boot of hindsight for missing out on such a golden opportunity, he cast a glance at Carmichael to see that he was ready to take notes.

  Carmichael was alternately sucking the end of his pen and shaking it. ‘What’s up?’ Falconer hissed.

  ‘Run out, sir.’

  ‘Here, take mine.’ Falconer drew an exquisite silver ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and handed it over. ‘And don’t suck the end.’ Really, with Carmichael around, every day was a circus – the sergeant was certainly dressed like a clown, and now he was acting like one, and making a monkey out of his superior officer to boot.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’ He said to Manningford. ‘Would you care to start?’

  ‘If you two have finished playing pass the parcel, certainly.’ (Ouch!) ‘That miserable worm – and no, I’m not sorry he’s dead – only went and announced to the whole pub that Cassie and I were having an affair. God, I was scared when I thought old Morley’d seen us, thought he’d either spread it about or bleed me white, or both. Then he was dead and I felt safe again. Then I find out that that old bird next door had sussed us and told you. Martha’s OK – I didn’t think she’d gossip because of Cassie’s kids, but then I had you two to worry about. Jesus, was I glad Dorothy was away. And now this – blown wide open. I’ve not slept a wink. Someone in this festering hellhole of tittle-tattle is going to see it as their moral duty to inform my wife of “her husband’s adulterous behaviour” and that’ll be the end of me. Finito. Ruined.’

  ‘If we could just get back to last night, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh, I came straight home with a sick headache, as you can probably imagine.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  With hardly a hesitation he answered, ‘As soon as I’d downed several large scotches and some painkillers. Dorothy’s due back this afternoon and I still don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. Do I act normal and wait for the sword of Damocles to fall, or do I confess all? No! Oh God, what a mess. What a bloody, stinking mess I’ve made of things.’

  Outside once more, Carmichael ventured an opinion. ‘Looks like he’s in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Looks like he’s just given himself a first-class motive for the second murder as well as the first, my lad,’ and Falconer rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Odds-on favourite is our Mr Manningford, and we haven’t had to do anything – he’s trussing himself up like a turkey without any help from us.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday 16th July – afternoon

  I

  At the vicarage, the day had started badly for the Swainton-Smythes, and, as lunch drew to a close, it was not improving. Lillian, after being dispatched for a lie-down while Falconer and Carmichael questioned her husband, had awoken refreshed but emotional (or, rather more sober but spoiling for a fight, as a less kindly person might describe her state).

  She had insisted on a pre-luncheon gin and tonic to steady her nerves and had, without consultation with Rev. Bertie, uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay to accompany their tinned salmon salad. When she had cleared away the plates and returned to the table with the cheese board in one hand and a decanter of port in the other, her husband sent up a silent prayer to St Jude, and prepared to batten down his emotional hatches. It looked like Lillian was on course for a real bender, and all he could do was to be there and protect her from herself.

  II

  On their way back to Market Darley, Falconer had made a quick diversion home and pressed his offending shirtsleeve, before they continued their journey back to headquarters. There, they spent a little over an hour at their desks, and then had lunch in the staff canteen (sausage, egg, chips, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread for Carmichael: tuna salad and a baked potato for Falconer), before returning to Castle Farthing to resume their questioning.

  III

  They started at The Old School House. Martha Cadogan answered the door to them and, in doing so, let out her new canine companion, who capered round the policemen’s ankles and leapt up at them in an ecstasy of welcome.

  ‘Get down, Buster, and let the gentlemen come through the door. What will they think of us, keeping them on the doorstep like this?’

  She walked ahead of them a small, white-haired figure with a slight hesitation in her slow step that belied her arthritis. ‘Come into the kitchen. The kettle’s hot and I’ve just baked some scones.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Cadogan,’ Falconer acknowledged.

  ‘Don’t mention it, young man. I suppose you’ve come about young Lowry. Such an unpleasant young man, he was. Rosemary in the shop was giving a news broadcast when I called in for my paper. She says she doesn’t gossip, but she’s dreadful.’

  Had no one a good word to say about the dead in this village? ‘Would you mind telling me anything you can remember about the fallings-out at the party last night?’ asked Falconer, helping himself to a warm, golden-topped scone. Carmichael already had four on his plate, split and filled with butter and jam, teacup beside his heaped plate. He was certainly a hard worker where food was concerned. His notebook was on the old pine kitchen table, the ribs of the table-top’s grain raised with many years of scrubbing. The sergeant’s pen (he had collected a new one from the office, when Falconer had forcibly regained possession of the one he had lent him earlier) was held at the ready in his right hand, while his left conveyed the unexpected culinary largesse to his mouth.

  ‘I heard some disagreeable exchanges while I was sitting wi
th Lillian and Bertie, but I turned a deaf ear at those points. I didn’t want another run-in with that young man, after what he had done to poor Buster.’

  ‘What about later? Just before Lowry left? I understand your nephew-in-law saw him home.’

  That’s right. I’d gone to the bar to ‘stand my round’, as I think the saying goes. Bertie doesn’t have a large stipend’ (here Carmichael looked mildly alarmed at what he initially assumed to be a personal medical term) ‘and Lillian has no opportunity for paid work with her parish duties.’ (And her drinking, thought Falconer.) ‘It was while I was at the bar that what I think of as ‘the big scene’ occurred. It was all very nasty and spiteful – and unnecessary – accusing the Brigadier of murder, calling the Rollasons bad parents, putting down his own wife, then letting the cat out of the bag about you-know-who. I didn’t get involved. I might have got a kick myself for my pains, who knows? No, I just kept my distance, and then dear Bertie came over and took him away. It quite ruined the party, and we’d all been having such a nice time.’

  ‘What did you do after the vicar took Lowry home?’

  ‘Oh, I toddled back here.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Of course, on my own! This is Castle Farthing, Inspector, not the East End. I only had to turn into Drovers Lane and I could cut down the access road to my own back gate. It’s no distance at all, and I always carry a torch in my bag – so handy for extra light, and not a bad little weapon, should I ever have need of such a thing.’

  Whew! ‘What did you do when you got in?’

  ‘I rang Bertie to see that all was well, then it was just my usual bedtime routine. I put out some food and water for the hedgehogs and any stray cats, fed Buster, made myself some hot milk and took myself off to bed.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Cadogan.’

  ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead, you know,’ she continued, as if she had not heard him, ‘bad blood will out. He’d probably have ended up just like his great-uncle, and when I think of all the unpleasantness he caused during his lifetime, well, the village is better off without the pair of them. At least that poor wife and those children of his might benefit from their misfortune. If Michael inherited from Reg, and I doubt Michael made a will at his age, why, Kerry can stop worrying about where the next penny’s coming from now. They never divorced, you know, so I suppose it’ll all go to her.’

  This last had never occurred to Falconer. He had just assumed that she was his ex-wife. He would have to check that one out as soon as he saw her again, as it put rather a different light on the matter of motive, in her case.

  IV

  During the afternoon, the heat had continued to build and it was searingly hot. It was certainly too hot to be sitting outside, and at The Old Manor House Brigadier Malpas-Graves led them into a blessedly cool sitting room at the north end of the house. French windows were opened wide to the garden, and a large-bladed electric fan hummed from the centre of the ceiling, sending deliciously cool draughts round the room.

  Joyce Malpas-Graves was sitting at an embroidery frame, a pair of half-glasses perched on the end of her nose. ‘Hello, Inspector; hello, Sergeant. You look all hot and bothered. Can I get you a cold drink?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Carmichael was feeling like a boiled lobster in his shirt and long trousers, and thought longingly of his baggy Bermuda shorts.

  As if in an act of telepathy Joyce added, ‘I should go back to your lovely bright beachwear tomorrow, Sergeant. So much less chafing in the heat, don’t you think?’ and, leaving him blushing at what this implied, she stabbed her embroidery needle viciously into her work and bustled from the room.

  ‘Heart of gold, that old girl,’ commented her husband, gazing after her fondly.

  Motioning them towards a battered leather chesterfield sofa, the Brigadier took the seat opposite where his wife had been sitting and opened the conversation himself. ‘Come about the Lowry boy, have you?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Wondered if you could tell us about last night?’

  ‘Certainly can. Ah, here’s Joyce with the jolly old drinks. Take one, take one, don’t be shy.’ He drank deeply. ‘That’s better. Now, where was I? Last night? Yes. Got myself all steamed up again, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, you did, didn’t you, Godfrey. For shame.’ Joyce had resumed her needlework and spoke without looking up.

  ‘I did, old girl. Ought to be ashamed of myself at my age, twice in as many weeks.’

  ‘What did you get steamed up about, Brigadier?’

  ‘That blasted young pup Lowry only accused me of murdering his great-uncle. Me – a murderer? Oh, I know now how ridiculous it sounds, but in that atmosphere – and I’d had a few pink gins …’ he tailed off.

  ‘How many, I wonder?’ The voice sounded again from the embroidery frame.

  ‘Far too many, m’dear. I’m going to have to keep a weather eye on just how many I sup. Gets the sap rising and I forget my age – and my dignity, I suppose. Blow me, I nearly popped old Reg one over my veg and stuff, and there I was again, ready to mix it with his great-nephew. Well, I’ll be blowed! Hope I didn’t put the evil eye on them – you hear about that sort of thing out east, but I never really thought there was anything in it. Joyce, you don’t think …?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Godfrey.’

  ‘Quite right. Silly of me.’

  The little sitting room was a testament to an army family that had travelled widely. On an assortment of carved and inlaid tables were items of brassware, carvings, and contorted figures of wood and stone. A small display cabinet held delicately carved pieces of ivory and jade, and in the empty fireplace sat a fair-sized copper gong. The walls and mantelpiece displayed framed photographs of a rather younger Brigadier Malpas-Graves in uniform, and what were, from the family resemblance, his father and other male relatives, similarly uniformed and variously decorated with medals.

  ‘Another drink, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Malpas-Graves, I was miles away, admiring the room. Very masculine,’ Falconer replied, tactfully but insincerely.

  ‘Used to be my father’s study. Got very fond memories of running my train set round in here when I was a nipper.’

  ‘Godfrey! You used to do that after we were married.’

  The Brigadier cleared his throat loudly in embarrassment and turned back towards the policemen. ‘Anything else I can help you with, gentlemen?’

  ‘Can you tell me what you did after Lowry created that big scene and was led off the premises?’

  ‘Old George went round with some more food, and his wife chivvied people along to have another drink, but the atmosphere had been spoilt. We didn’t stay long after that. Just pottered on home.’

  ‘What did you do when you got home?’

  ‘I went straight to bed, inspector.’ Joyce’s voice sounded once more from behind her work.

  ‘And I stayed up with a night-cap to cool off a bit, get my head showered. Sat in here and read my book for a bit.’

  ‘What time did you go up to bed?’

  ‘No idea, old boy. No clock in here. See?’

  ‘Did you notice, Mrs Malpas-Graves?’

  ‘Hardly, Inspector. We have separate rooms.’

  And that appeared to be that, except for the fact that the Brigadier’s left wrist wore a rather elderly, but nonetheless handsome, Rolex watch.

  ‘No clock, my arse,’ muttered Falconer as the door closed behind them.

  V

  The curtains at the downstairs window of Jasmine Cottage were closed, and the cottage looked empty, deserted, somehow forlorn, but their second summons was answered and the door pulled open for them to enter. Kerry Long was a sorry sight. Her hair was tangled, her face devoid of make-up, her nose and eyes were red and swollen from crying. When she spoke, her voice was thick with unshed tears, and Carmichael’s soft heart went out to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I look a state. Come in so I can shut this door. I don’t want to be an object of
pity.’

  She led them into the darkened front room and just flopped on to the settee, like a marionette that has had all its strings suddenly severed. ‘You’ve come about Mike?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I just can’t believe he’s dead,’ and with this, her body was wracked with sobs.

  Falconer stood like a statue, moved and irritated at the same time, by the only show of grief they had encountered in connection with either death. It was Carmichael who showed a more practical approach, and he immediately sat down beside her, put an arm round the young widow and handed her a crumpled handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Kerry took this gratefully and buried her face in his shoulder, still sobbing like a small child.

  ‘Tea, sir.’

  ‘Sorry, Carmichael?’

  ‘Go and make some tea.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Go to the kitchen and make some tea – good and strong, and very sweet. I think Ms Long could do with some.’

  Stunned at this reversal of roles, Falconer walked like an automaton to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Maybe there was more to Carmichael than met the eye. The younger man had reacted instinctively with compassion to the young woman’s pain, and Falconer realised with surprise that he was grateful not to be burdened with that himself.

  When he returned with a tray holding three brimming mugs and the sugar bowl, it was to a much less emotionally charged scenario. Carmichael still sat beside Kerry, but she no longer clung to him. Her tears had ceased for now, and she had managed to find time to run a comb through her hair, an open handbag at her feet testament to this last.

  ‘Have you got any biscuits?’ Carmichael asked her.

  ‘Yes. In the cupboard beside the cooker.’

  ‘Well, you run along and wash your face while I get them. Then we can have our tea and see how you’re feeling.’

  She left the room with a watery smile and Carmichael disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. Falconer just stared. Well!

  VI

  ‘I know we weren’t together any more, but we had two kids and we had history. You can’t just switch off all those years together as if they hadn’t happened. And it doesn’t matter if you’re not in love any more, all of the feelings don’t go away.’