Then, just when he thinks he has got himself into a position he can talk his way out of, Lillian puts a spanner in the works and delivers a drunken sermon on adultery and the sins of the flesh to his wife. What was even more surprising was the cunning used by the old soak in ringing Dorothy’s mobile, thus avoiding being fobbed off by Piers on the landline. So, Piers still thinks he’s safe, as Dorothy lies doggo and bides her time, even setting him up with a little time trap of her own. Does the stupid man fall straight into it? Of course he does, led by vanity. And his dick.
Then the balloon goes up and Piers is caught with his trousers down (and a pretty good left hook, if Falconer was not mistaken). All hell breaks loose: the man is scared witless he’ll lose everything. What on earth is he going to do now? Do away with Lillian? That would solve nothing. No, he must get rid of Dorothy.
She was obviously going to walk out on him. Even if she threw him out first, she had her own car. She would drive it sooner or later. Cutting the brake pipes was money in the bank for him, literally. It was also crazy, but Manningford was probably not feeling particularly rational with all that had happened recently.
There he was, nice home, nice lifestyle, plenty of money, hot little bit on the side. All was well with his world. Then it just blew up in his face. How could he possibly have acted rationally as things went from bad to worse? Strike three! Except that Dorothy was still alive. That had not been part of the plan.
Falconer felt that he had really got under the man’s skin and seen things from his perspective. All the other village grievances with Morley and Lowry had blinded him, distracted him from the obvious. What a fool he must have seemed to Manningford, running from one suspect to another like a sniffer dog with a cold. Well, he had got him now. He would apply for a warrant in the morning.
There were other things that he had to do, though, and do right away. Manningford knew that it was Lillian who had blown the whistle on him, but there was someone else who had direct knowledge of the affair and, although she had been discreet about it, Manningford knew that that person was Martha Cadogan. Falconer was not sure just how unbalanced the man was, but he was not about to take any chances with either of these women.
Picking up the phone, he dialled first The Old School House, hoping that the old lady had not already gone to bed. ‘Miss Cadogan, it’s Inspector Falconer here. I hope I haven’t woken you.’
‘Not at all, inspector. I was watching the hedgehogs come for their supper. So sweet. I often sit up to watch them.’
‘You’re not outside, are you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I haven’t time to explain now, but I want you to do something for me. Don’t ask any questions, just do it, and I’ll call round to see you tomorrow and explain.’
‘What is it you want me to do, Inspector?’
‘Lock your doors, close and lock your windows, and don’t answer the door to anyone. And if anyone should come to the door or try to get in, phone me immediately.’ Here he gave her his home number.
‘It seems most irregular, but you said you’d explain tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cadogan.’
Having repeated these instructions in a call to the vicarage, Falconer felt he had done all that he could for the day, and spent a restless night expecting the shrill summons of the telephone to rouse him at any moment.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saturday 18th July – morning and afternoon
I
Falconer had obtained his warrant and roused a still-sleeping Carmichael, who had only been relieved from his hospital bedside duties at 2 a.m. An official car and uniformed driver collected them, and they were at the door of Pilgrims’ Rest by seven-thirty. Manningford was not yet up, and it took a while for him to answer the door. He was unshaven, his hair standing on end, his body wrapped in a blue-and-red-striped towelling robe. His eye was still bruised and swollen and he wore insomnia like an aura.
‘Not at your wife’s bedside, Mr Manningford?’ Falconer was not feeling all sweetness and light, having slept little himself.
‘With the police by her bedside I hardly felt welcome. I phoned to see if she’d come round.’
‘Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure. Well, I’m afraid I’m not here to improve your day,’ said Falconer, following him into the house. And with that the inspector produced the warrant and went through the formalities of arrest.
Piers seemed genuinely shocked, and sank into a chair as if his legs would no longer support him. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Not us, Mr Manningford.’
‘Well what the hell is all this, then? Surely I’m the injured party. How on earth can you cast me as the villain of the piece because of a bit of extra-curricular rumpy-pumpy?’
‘That’s not what you’ve been charged with.’
‘Then tell me how the hell things have come to this?’
‘You knew your liaison with Mrs Romaine had been discovered by Mr Morley.’
‘Yes, I admit that.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. Cassie had been pretty sure it was him in the woods that day. Later on she was walking past the village green, and he saw her and recognised her even, though the light was going – she wears some pretty bright colours. And the look he gave her, she said, was so smug. Oh, he knew all right. Even had the arrogance to lift his hand and wave to her.’
‘That’s a very brave admission, considering you have no alibi for Morley’s murder.’
‘I was here all evening. I told you that. And Dorothy was here too.’
‘Upstairs, if I remember correctly, engrossed in her work. Maybe she didn’t hear you go out, or maybe she was covering for you, as she had no idea then what you’d been up to. It’ll be very interesting to speak to your wife when she regains consciousness.’
‘If she sticks to the truth, she’ll tell you no different to what I’ve told you.’
‘And then there was Lowry’s murder, so soon after his outburst about you and Mrs Romaine. How convenient for you that your wife was away and there’s no one to account for your movements. No alibi, Mr Manningford.’
‘And neither have half the men in Castle Farthing, if you only but knew it.’
Falconer knew there had been something fishy going on during the final hour of Wednesday evening. There had been so much prevarication and evasion about what time various inhabitants of the village had retired to bed that he had begun to suspect a meeting of the local witches’ coven.
‘Explain yourself, Manningford.’
‘There was a meeting, wasn’t there?’
‘I don’t know, man. That’s why I’m asking you. What meeting? Where? Who was there?’
‘At The Old Manor House. It was the Brigadier’s idea.’
‘When?’
‘Midnight.’
‘What was it about? What was the purpose of this meeting?’ Falconer asked. It might prove to be a coven yet.
‘To try to put Mike Lowry out of business and run him out of town – village, whatever. We were going to try to get rid of him. Oh God, I don’t mean kill him, just to get him to move on and leave us in peace.’
‘Apart from you and the Brigadier, who else attended this little gathering?’
‘All the others who had had a spot of trouble with him: George Covington, Alan Warren-Browne and Nick Rollason.’
And now Lowry was dead, thought Falconer. That explained an awful lot of shifty looks. And where did that leave him? With just enough rope, he thought. Manningford, knowing he would have an alibi from at least four other people at midnight, could easily have slipped along to the garage first, then just turned up at The Old Manor House as if nothing had happened. For that matter, he could have gone along after the meeting just as easily. After all, Dorothy had been away and could not say whether he had been in or out, or what time he had left or returned.
As they drove Manningford over to Market Darley Fa
lconer, however, still had a tiny morsel of uneasiness nagging at him. Manningford being the guilty party seemed to tie up all the loose ends, but had he, Falconer, missed something? Was there something he had been missing all along, and was it still dangling there, still loose and unnoticed?
II
Using his own car (heaven be praised!) this time, and accompanied only by Carmichael – who appeared to have been too tired to select anything controversial from his wardrobe that morning – they returned to Castle Farthing in the early afternoon to make the promised calls on Martha Cadogan and Lillian Swainton-Smythe.
They found Martha in her back garden securing a piece of trellis to the top of a low stretch of fencing. ‘Hello you two,’ she greeted them. ‘Pass me those pliers will you? Buster got it into his head that the honeysuckle was blowing raspberries at him and managed to pull this down in a revenge attack – little tinker. There now, one more twist. Done! Come inside while I put the kettle on.’
Once she had settled them at the kitchen table she listened, head to one side, as Falconer explained the reasoning behind his brief telephone call the night before, and the arrest that had occurred that morning. As his narrative ended, he expected to be deluged with a barrage of questions, the answers to which would fuel the boilers of the village gossip machine for many a day. Instead, however, she seemed not even to have been listening.
‘Look at Buster out there now, chasing butterflies. Isn’t he a darling? He’s such a happy doggy here with me, and we do enjoy each other’s company so much. I only wish I’d had him when he was a puppy. Oh, and I must tell you, one of the feral cats – you know, the ones I put food out for – actually let me stroke the top of its head this morning. It’s been coming closer and closer for weeks now but I haven’t taken any liberties. I’ve just waited. And today it let me touch it, and do you know, it actually purred. It was only for a few seconds, but it was like a little miracle. It’s so wonderful, the power animals have to learn to trust. And such a sweet little robin has been coming to the bird-table every day for almost a fortnight, and then, just this morning when I’d put out the scraps, I actually saw a pair of goldfinches feeding. What a heart-lifting sight that was. Such beautiful little birds.’
‘Fascinating, Miss Cadogan. You do seem to be blessed with the company of wildlife.’
‘Indeed I am, young man; very blessed indeed.’
The woman is obsessed, thought Falconer as they left, absolutely besotted with animals and birds. She had not even asked how Dorothy Manningford was, seeming more concerned with her blessed feral cat.
III
A visit to the vicarage found another woman with but a single subject on her mind. They were admitted by a very quiet (and stone-cold sober) Lillian Swainton-Smythe, her face the picture of contrition.
She ushered them into the cheerless sitting room and sat in silence, while Falconer repeated what he had just told Martha Cadogan. Only when he had finished did she speak.
‘It’s all so terrible. It’s like we’ve been cursed ever since that old man was killed. Bertie just cannot forgive himself for leaving Michael’s bedsit unlocked that night. Over and over it he goes. If only he’d sat with him until he’d woken. If only he’d brought him back here for the night. If only there’d been a letterbox he could have slipped the key through. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him that he can’t change what has already happened, he won’t let it go. He says it’s his fault that someone got in and murdered the young man, and it must be a judgement on his failure as a minister of God.
‘He won’t listen to a word I say, and I just don’t know what to do with him. He’s spent so much time in that church praying for forgiveness and guidance that he can hardly get up out of a chair where his knees are so sore.
‘And look at me. I’m no better. What do I do when my own husband is wracked with guilt and needs my support? I get absolutely blind drunk and cause another barrel-load of trouble by blowing the whistle on Piers Manningford, where, if I’d left well alone, he’d probably have talked his way out of it and stopped seeing Cassandra. But no, I have to put my size twelves in, don’t I?’
‘Please, Mrs Swainton-Smythe, this isn’t doing you any good.’
‘But it’s the truth. I get on my moral soapbox, all fuelled up with gin, and Dorothy ends up at death’s door with her marriage in tatters. It’s all my fault.’
‘If it’s anyone’s fault it’s Mr Manningford’s. He was the one conducting the affair, not you.’
‘I had no right to interfere,’ she said contritely.
‘Mrs Manningford would have found out anyway. Lowry made sure of that by broadcasting the news on Wednesday night.’
‘But I was the catalyst. I was the one that brought it to a sudden head – like a boil, if you like. And now Dorothy’s lying in hospital in a coma, her body all bruised and broken. Oh, I do hope she comes round soon, just so I can apologise and beg her forgiveness.’
Good grief, thought Falconer. At their last visit, old Miss Cadogan hadn’t one word to say on the recent village tragedies, but this woman was running on like – well, like a thing that ran on and on. His mind was too punch-drunk from Lillian’s tirade to come up with a suitable description.
‘There is one thing I’d like to confirm with you,’ he interrupted, hoping to distract her, but at that moment they heard the sound of a key in the front door, and Rev. Bertie came through to join them, his face a picture of misery.
‘Glad you’ve joined us, sir. Just something I need to check: a loose end I need to tie up. When you got back from seeing Lowry home,’ (the vicar winced at the memory of what he considered his dereliction of duty) ‘what time did you go to bed?’
‘About eleven-thirty. Lillian’ll tell you.’
‘That’s right. I stayed down for a little night-cap.’
I bet you did, thought Falconer, but managed to keep the thought out of his expression. ‘What time did you go up, Mrs Swainton-Smythe?’
‘I’m very much afraid I can’t remember. I fell asleep in the chair. I don’t remember a thing from Bertie going to bed until I woke up with an awful thirst, still in the chair, about half-past five.’
IV
On their way back to headquarters, what had seemed so certain to Falconer the previous evening and early this morning was turning to doubt. What if his reasoning had been flawed? What if he had arrested the wrong man? Manningford had seemed genuinely dumbfounded at his arrest. Could anyone be that good an actor?
And wasn’t Lillian Swainton-Smythe behaving rather like Lady Macbeth, in that she seemed so consumed with guilt? The Reverend Bertie may not have been present at that silly Boys’ Own meeting at The Old Manor House, but what had his wife been up to? Was she dead drunk, or was she out and about with murderous intent – maybe even with no recollection whatsoever of her actions. God, that would be a real shit-kicker. How the hell would he prove that? Hell, he needed a holiday – or a lucky break.
Chapter Twenty-two
Monday 20th July – morning
I
It was a quarter past seven on Monday morning. Harry Falconer had just showered and dressed, and was about to sit down to his breakfast, when the phone rang. With a stern warning to Mycroft to keep well away from his master’s kipper, he rose and walked over to the wall phone, listened for a minute or so, and replaced the receiver with a muttered ‘thank you’.
So, Dorothy Manningford was awake, he thought, lightly buttering a slice of wholemeal bread. That should make for some very interesting questioning a little later. Even if she were unable to recall the ‘accident’ itself, she might have some light to shed on her husband’s whereabouts on the night Reg Morley was murdered. If she had been covering up for him before, in the light of what had since happened, the gloves should be off now. If she had anything to tell, he had no doubt she would be more than willing to pour it out to him. Today could prove to be a very good day. Maybe this was the lucky break he had been hoping for.
A quick phone cal
l secured an arrangement to pick Carmichael up from his home in Victoria Terrace, so that they could go straight to the hospital. Falconer was in fine form and whistling a catchy number from ‘The Pirates of Penzance’ as he pulled up outside the sergeant’s house.
‘Morning, sir.’
Falconer’s breathy melody hit an accidental F# as Carmichael opened the car door. What in the name of blue blazes was the lad wearing today? (Or should that have been ‘blue blazers’?) This was a totally new combination – a bad taste confection whipped up to rot the wisdom tooth of elegant attire. Falconer’s eyes took unbelieving note: shorts, in black-watch tartan; shirt, in bishops’ purple; socks, fluorescent orange; trainers, yellow.
Seeing the attention his appearance had drawn, Carmichael smiled. ‘Do you like it, sir? All new. Me mum got it for me down the market yesterday. She says it’s ever so cheerful and I think so too.’
‘It’s absolutely unique,’ replied the inspector truthfully, thereby dodging the prickly issue. There was no kind way he could give his real opinion. Maybe colour blindness ran in the family.
II
Dorothy Manningford had regained consciousness in the early hours of the morning, and they found her slightly propped up in her bed and dozing. As they entered the room, she stirred and acknowledged their presence with a movement of the fingers of her left hand, in which there was still attached a drip needle.
She had been moved from the ITU and was now in a private room, a much more cheerful and less de-humanised place than that in which they had last seen her. The flooring was still in an easily mopped material, but pictures hung on the walls, and a television set squatted at the end of her bed, should she feel up to its dubious offerings in the name of entertainment.
‘I rather hoped I’d be seeing you soon,’ she greeted them, lucid, although she sounded very weary.
‘How are you feeling?’ It was a daft question, as Falconer realised almost before the words had left his mouth, but he could think of nothing more suitable to say.
‘Pretty much as bad as I probably look. They haven’t allowed me a mirror yet.’
Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Page 18
