I
The leaves in the hedgerows and on the trees in Castle Farthing had turned through their annual rainbow and were beginning to fall.
Outside the vicarage sat a removal truck, furniture being transferred to its cavernous inside by the usual motley crew of removal men: a very fat man, a very wizened old man, and a tall, gangling youth still wearing a veritable bandit’s mask of acne. A figure in black darted back and forth, exhorting them to be careful of this item, to take great care not to drop that.
In the churchyard a middle-aged woman wandered between the rows of gravestones, a small dog at her heels. Occasionally she would stop and read, her lips moving silently.
Below his wife Norma’s name and dates she read:
REGINALD ERNEST MORLEY
Born 11th April 1926. Died 13th July 2009.
RIP
A few steps further on she halted again:
MICHAEL SHANE LOWRY
Husband of Kerry and father of Dean and Kyle
Born 9th October 1979. Died 16th July 2009.
MUCH MISSED
She moved on, the dog darting off now and again to investigate tantalising smells and interesting rustles in the undergrowth. At the other side of the churchyard she stopped for a third and final time to read:
MARTHA WINIFRED CADOGAN
Born 7th March 1924. Died 22nd July 2009.
THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD
She raised a hand to wipe away a stray tear, as a figure in clerical garb approached her. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Lillian my dear. It’s best we’re going. Too many painful memories here. Come along, it’s almost time. Pastures new and all that.’
‘Poor Auntie.’
‘God was merciful, Lillian. Even if she had lived, the brain tumour they found would have killed her before she stood trial: you know that. And her condition does go some way to explaining her behaviour. She was used to putting down sick and injured animals. In her altered mental state, she probably just saw it as putting down sick and flawed people.’
‘How can you be so charitable, Bertie? What about “Thou shalt not kill”?’
‘What about “To err is human, to forgive is divine”? Aunt Martha was ill, and God will forgive her. He is infinite in his mercy, and all we mere mortals can do is accept that. At least we’re taking good care of Buster. She’d have been pleased about that. Now, do you fancy a last cup of tea before we get underway?’
‘Please, Bertie.’
Lillian Swainton-Smythe had not touched alcohol since her aunt’s death.
II
Dean and Kyle Lowry were out in the back garden of Jasmine Cottage, shrieking with delight as they chased the falling autumn leaves around.
Kerry Long now owned the cottage. With the help of her godfather’s solicitor, her husband’s estate had passed to her, along with the deeds of the property next door. This last, along with the garage lease and contents, had been sold, and the proceeds, together with the cash and insurance indirectly inherited from Mike’s detested great-uncle, had allowed her to purchase Jasmine Cottage. After covering the outstanding funeral expenses, she had even been left with a small nest egg to invest for her family’s future.
She was glad the children were so absorbed in their game, chasing around outside and tiring themselves out. She would like a bit of peace and quiet that evening.
Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen and made her smile, as she laid the table in the small dining room. Two candles sat in squat glass holders, one at each end of the table, a posy of short-stemmed, rust-coloured chrysanthemums in the middle. She was looking forward to the meal she had planned for that evening, and the children would be so pleased to see Uncle Davey again. He had been like a rock, such a support to all three of them since that terrifying morning in the garden of The Old School House.
III
In the centre of the village, the general store Allsorts was just shutting up shop for the day, as The Fisherman’s Flies opened its doors to another evening’s trade.
The sun was low in the sky and on the green Tristram Rollason was taking his evening constitutional, running round and round the pond shouting ‘quack’ and flapping his arms at the alarmed ducks, watched fondly from the nearby bench by his mother.
In the garden of Pilgrims’ Rest, Dorothy Manningford was taking a last walk round the garden before locking up for the evening. She still walked with a limp, a legacy of her accident that would be with her for some time yet, and the ankle and arm she had broken ached on damp days but, overall, she was content. She had got used to life on her own since Piers had moved in with his cousin Bruce, and she relished the peace and freedom she had gained, however painful that transition had been.
There had been other changes, too, in Castle Farthing. The Romaines had left the village, and the flagstaff of a ‘for sale’ sign stood to attention in the front garden of their property.
Crabapple Cottage had been bought by a couple of ‘townies’ with two golden retrievers, as a weekend retreat. Appalled at its primitive interior, they intended to gut it and rename it ‘The Hideaway’. Thus, it was empty most of the time, affording Dean and Kyle Long the chance to play un-chastised and to relish their continued freedom.
The garage in Drovers Lane stood empty, awaiting redevelopment by a large oil company, the nearest source of petrol now situated in Steynham St Michael some three and a half miles away and a temporary but unwelcome inconvenience to many.
Village life rolled relentlessly on, without heed of its victims or their fates. All was pretty, all was serene, as it always had been; as it always would be: on the surface.
At The Old Manor House, Brigadier Malpas-Graves surveyed the borders of wallflowers he had planted out a few days ago.
‘I say, Joyce,’ he called. ‘Something’s been digging in this corner – something quite big. You don’t suppose it’s one of those damned dogs from old Morley’s place, do you?’
THE END
The Falconer Files
by
Andrea Frazer
Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Page 21
