Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8)

by Andrea Frazer

  This year, he had added to his household the silver-spotted Bengal, Meep (or Perfect Cadence, as she was registered), and he could hardly blame his quartet for being fascinated by this once-a-year contraption that offered so many objects to pat and paw and steal and gnaw. If he were a cat, he knew he’d be the worst offender of them all.

  The thought of Meep jogged his memory, and he went to get his camera to take a few shots of her as she patted a bauble. She had come into his possession in June, previously the property of a murderess, and he had promised faithfully to look after her. [3] Knowing how he felt about the cats he already had, he transferred the prints to his computer and printed them off on photographic paper.

  Taking a padded envelope from the drawer in which he kept his stationery, he parcelled them up and addressed the envelope to Ms B. Ironmonger, then added the name of the women’s prison that held this individual. Although he had no duty to do this, he did it out of compassion. There were precious few happy moments in a prison, but this little packet would provide a heart-warming moment or two this Christmas.

  This dealt with, he cleared his mind of those past unhappy events and went up to his bedroom, where he had concealed in his wardrobe, several presents for his feline companions. Although he felt a bit of a fool going to such lengths, he wanted to wrap them in secret, so that they would be a real surprise for the quartet on the day. He understood that he was anthropomorphising, but could not help himself. With no children to spoil, these furry personalities were his only indulgence, and his particular soft spot.

  In The Fisherman’s Flies in Castle Farthing, George and Paula Covington were clearing up after the lunchtime session. As they collected and washed glasses, disposed of empty crisp and other snack packets, and wiped down the tables and the bar, George aired his today’s grievance to his wife.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to bar that Digby Jeffries! Do you know what ’e said to me this lunchtime?’

  ‘Wossat?’ asked his wife, not paying him any particular attention.

  ‘’E only went an’ accused me of watering the Scotch; that’s what ’e went and did. Then ’e ordered a pint o’ bitter, as if to prove ’is point, and had the blasted cheek to tell me that my pipes weren’t properly cleaned, ’cos ’is beer was cloudy.’ George was highly indignant at this snipe at his integrity as the licensee of a public house.

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ replied Paula. ‘’E needs ’is ears given a good boxin’, that’s what ’e needs. I reckon ’e’s upset just about everyone in the village since ’e moved ’ere.’

  ‘Well, I’ll overlook it ’cos of the festive season, but come New Year, any more nonsense like that, and ’e’ll be out on ’is ear. I’ll bar the bugger, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘And I’ll be right behind you, George,’ replied Paula. ‘There’s several times ’e’s been in ’ere when ’e’s tried to cop a feel, and I’m not gonna stand for it any longer. Dirty old sod needs ’is ’ands cut orf, if you ask me.’

  ‘You never said anything before! Why not?’ queried her husband.

  ‘’Cos I didn’t want to cause any trouble, but I’ve been ’earin’ things about ’ow ’e treats other people, and I’ve decided that enough is enough. Our takin’s’d probably go up if ’e wasn’t in ’ere so much, upsettin’ other folks who only came out to enjoy a quiet drink.’

  ‘That’s a plan, then,’ agreed George, effectively putting an end to that topic of conversation, then immediately opening it again to tell her about the Brigadier.

  ‘I ’ad a phone call from the old Brigadier yesterday afternoon. I never said anythin’ about it, because I managed to get it sorted out, but as we’ve been on the topic, it seems that that old git Jeffries had dropped in on ’im without an invite, and given ’im a lecture on the battle ’e’s goin’ to re-enact for us in the back room. Told ’im ’e didn’t know what ’e was doin’, and the old boy was so upset, ’e only wanted to cancel the whole thing.

  ‘Well, I told ’im not to take any notice of old motor-mouth, Mr Know-it-All, and managed to persuade ’im to go ahead as planned. It’s only when you talk about it, that you realise just ’ow much trouble one man can cause. We’ve ‘ad nothin’ like that in this village since old Reg Morley popped ’is clogs.’

  ‘’E didn’t actually pop them naturally, though, did ’e?’ commented Paula, and they shared a few moments of silence as they remembered the tragic events that had occurred in the village in the summer of the previous year.

  [3] See Murder at The Manse

  Chapter Four

  Friday 24th December – morning

  Unusually for one so prompt, Carmichael was late arriving at the station, and offered his apologies to Falconer with an air of suppressed glee, bouncing on his toes with excitement, and his face lit with an inner glow of anticipation, as he smiled like a lunatic for no obvious reason.

  ‘Come on, spit it out! What have you been up to now?’ asked the inspector, beginning to feel anxious about his planned visits to the Carmichael household.

  ‘Just a little surprise present for the family,’ explained Carmichael, and seemed to be overwhelmed with mirth at this simple statement.

  ‘What are you plotting now?’ This boded no good for Falconer’s Christmas.

  ‘It’s a secret, sir,’ his sergeant replied with maddening simplicity.

  ‘Will I like it?’ This needed further investigation.

  ‘It’s not for you, sir,’ beamed Carmichael, starting to click his fingers and boogie on the spot.

  ‘I’m not going to like it at all, am I, Carmichael?’

  ‘Not for me to say, sir. Now, about the arrangements for later. You know how this lot get on Christmas Eve,’ Carmichael began. ‘Everybody not on duty just parties the afternoon away if they’re not a designated driver.’

  ‘Yes,’ was Falconer’s tentative reply.

  ‘Well, we don’t really drink, do we, sir?’

  ‘No-ooo …’ Falconer was getting more and more suspicious.

  ‘So, I thought we could just toddle off about one-ish, after an early lunch, so we could get back to ours to be in good time for the crib service at three. We’re all going to that, and I thought you’d like to come along as well.’

  ‘OK!’ This didn’t sound too awful. ‘But we’ll have to take a diversion to my place, so that I can change the cats’ water, top up their food, and clean out the litter tray.’

  ‘No problem, sir. So, it’s a date!’ And at this, Carmichael began to get that look in his eyes again as he sat down at his own desk, boogying in his seat and making it creak ominously. There was only so much strain that a standard office chair could take, and Carmichael was a heavy load to bear.

  As an afterthought, he added, ‘We can go to Midnight Mass as well, if you like. Kerry’s Auntie Rosemary said she’d sit in and listen out for the children.’

  ‘That would be nice, thank you, Sergeant. It’s probably my favourite service of the year, and most years the only one I can get to.’

  During the morning, the locum vicar, Rev. Searle, arrived at The Fisherman’s Flies where he was going to take a room for the night. He intended to conduct a full family Eucharist on Christmas morning, before returning to his empty bungalow in Carsfold. His wife had died some two years ago, and both of his children were going away for Christmas, giving him good reason to take up the opportunity to preside in St Cuthbert’s and relive a little of his past when he had been a respected and useful member of a community.

  He was looking forward to the three services he would conduct, and the company he would have, instead of the still silence of the bungalow with only the odd burst of seasonal television and radio to interrupt its quiet. Without a wife or parish, his life was now solitary. No parishioners turned up at his door asking for advice or help, no phone rang to book a wedding or a baptism, even a funeral.

  There were no more PCC meetings, no more choir practices; in fact no more anything. He had been feeling particularly surplus to requirements when he had be
en asked if he would come to Castle Farthing for these two days, and that man who had visited him to ask about playing Father Christmas had made him swell with a little seasonal warmth and anticipation.

  And the landlord of the pub in which he had booked a room had been most welcoming, and asked him if he would like to join them for Christmas dinner. All in all, this would probably be the best Christmas he had spent since his wife had passed on.

  His room was clean, aired, and welcoming, and his only worry was at the sprinklings of snow that occasionally flurried down. On reflection, though, what did it matter if there were a lot more snow? He had no one to rush home to, and he could certainly afford to stay on a bit longer in this genial hostelry with the remuneration he would get for his services.

  Plumping his suitcase on to the bed, he looked around him, and his face broke out into a rare smile. The room reminded him of the one he had stayed in at his grandmother’s as a child, up here in the eaves as it was, and he felt an unaccustomed wave of happiness wash over him. It grew a little stronger as there was a sharp knock at his door, and Paula Covington entered, bearing a tray with fresh coffee and biscuits for his elevenses.

  ‘How very thoughtful of you,’ he commented, taking the tray from her and setting it on the bedside table.

  ‘All part of the service, Vicar. Just call if you need anything. I’ll be in the bar, bottling-up for the lunchtime rush. We’ll probably be rushed off our feet this dinner, and we’ll definitely be overrun tonight. Still, at least at closing time we can send them on their way to you, so that they can have a damned good singsong before they go home,’ she commented, thoughtlessly condemning him to the anticipation of the arrival of a horde of drunks at his Midnight Mass.

  She said nothing about George’s plans to open for a short period after the late service, so that everyone could have a last snifter, as they didn’t have permission for this and would be doing it on the sly.

  Falconer and Carmichael finally arrived in Castle Farthing at a quarter to two, the sky already darkening and the flurries of snow getting more frequent and heavier. As they got out of their cars, Falconer looked around him at the village in its festive clothing. The parish tree was a marvel of lights and heavy-duty tinsel, the shops and pub were alight with colour too and through each cottage window glowed the electric rainbow of Christmas tree lights.

  With the slight covering of snow in the failing light, the village looked like a life-size 3D greetings card. Someone had even scraped up the modest offering of snow and made a tiny snowman by the village pond, so tiny that its carrot nose was as long as the whole figure was high, and was doomed to fall to the ground in the very near future.

  The village pond itself was covered in a very thin layer of ice. In some parts it was so thin that it gave access to the few ducks that braved an afternoon swim in these temperatures; it was much thicker in others, where they would slither and slide, confused as to why their natural element had suddenly become their enemy. Unless the temperature went up considerably, these poor aquatic birds were condemned, for a while, to be the laughing stock of anyone who was out and about watching their antics.

  Having been left on his own outside to contemplate the scenery, Falconer was suddenly exhorted to come on in before all the heat went out through the front door. There was no hall, and one stepped straight into the living room, thus there was no way to keep the heat in the living room once the door was open.

  Grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, which was filled with presents for the family who had so kindly bullied him into spending Christmas with them, he made his way swiftly into the house, to be engulfed in a sea of people and animals, all anxious to greet their honoured guest.

  When he was free from the melee, he handed his holdall to Carmichael to put his contribution to tomorrow under the tree with the rest of the presents, and looked round him. His first impression was that he had strayed into a department store’s Christmas grotto. Every surface was crammed with novelties and ornaments manufactured specifically for the season of goodwill.

  Carmichael, he noticed, had to adopt a gorilla walk in the room, so many decorations were there hanging from the comparatively low ceiling of the cottage. And the tree must have had several strings of lights twined round it for it to glow so brightly; he felt he almost needed sunglasses to look at it.

  At the foot of the tree, and climbing up its trunk (for it was a real fir tree) and into the bottom-most branches, were piled wrapped gifts, large and small, and in great number. Carmichael was surely the Ghost of Christmas Present, with all this largesse of the season.

  Holly was pinned to the picture rail and a sprig of mistletoe hung from the doorway into the kitchen, and Falconer made an early decision not to go into that part of the house unless there were no adults present. For one thing, he didn’t think he could reach Kerry’s cheek to kiss her because of the roundness of her figure and, for another, he didn’t trust Carmichael’s sense of humour further than he could throw a grand piano.

  The two boys were already scrabbling about under the tree to ‘cop a feel’ of the gifts, trying to identify the contents of each of the newly added presents, and Kerry settled her bulk, one hand in the small of her back, the other on the arm of a comfy chair, and sighed with exhaustion.

  Christmas was not the time to be heavily pregnant, and her resources were severely drained with the extra weight she was carrying, combined with all the work involved in creating a magical Christmas for her boys and husband, as they had never before spent this part of the year as a married couple, and she wanted it to be really special.

  Noting her tiredness, Falconer hastened to assure her that he was not there to add to her load, more to lighten it, as he and Carmichael would do everything they could to help her. Arriving at the chair with a footstool, her husband agreed with this sentiment, and carefully elevated her slightly swollen legs into a higher position to rest them.

  ‘I can manage,’ she claimed, but her eyes had dark circles under them from the lack of sleep that the last stage of pregnancy always brings. The unborn baby is so large that its movements are a constant source of wakefulness at night, and the engaging head an unwelcome pressure on the bladder, meaning more sleep disturbance as it boogied and danced.

  ‘You know you don’t have to come to either the crib service or the midnight mass,’ Carmichael informed her. ‘No one will criticise you for needing a bit of extra rest, and we two men can easily cope with these two monsters,’ he said, reaching out his hands and ruffling Dean and Kyle’s hair, ‘at the earlier one. They’ll be dead to the world during Midnight Mass, and it would save your Aunt Rosemary a trip across the green in the biting cold.’

  ‘Davey,’ she responded, ‘You are a mind-reader. I really didn’t fancy going out, especially because of how slippery it is after those snow flurries. I’d hate to fall, at this late stage,’ she said, massaging her bursting belly with her right hand. ‘If I hurt the baby, I would never be able to forgive myself. And anyway, I think my Braxton-Hicks contractions are starting, and that’s always an uncomfortable time.’

  ‘Your what? Your contractions are starting?’ Carmichael was suddenly all arms and legs. ‘Where’s your hospital bag? Can you babysit while I take Kerry to the hospital? This is all too early and unexpected. The nursery’s not quite ready. What should I do first? Should I ring up your godparents and your auntie? What about other relatives? What about Father Christmas?’

  ‘Shut up!’ the normally quietly spoken Mrs Carmichael yelled, to quench the cascade of questions that fell from her husband’s lips. ‘I said Braxton-Hicks contractions. They’re the practice contractions that can start a while before the baby’s born.

  ‘If you’d ever managed to get the time off to come to the antenatal classes with me, you’d know what I was talking about, but I know that your work has to come first because of its very nature.’ Kerry’s voice had softened; she knew her Davey only meant well.

  Carmichael meanwhile was left silent and turned
to stone, as he took in this information, both his hands frozen in the act of running them through his now tousled and wild hair. ‘So you’re not actually in labour?’ he finally recovered his voice to ask.

  ‘No, nor am I likely to be for a good while yet. Calm down and swing yourself back into normal Christmas Eve mode, Davey. Take a chill pill,’ she instructed him, and smiled up at his dazed expression. ‘Your first-born isn’t going to be a Christmas baby, believe you me.’

  Carmichael’s enormous form collapsed like a broken ironing board onto the sofa, his head extended over the arm one end and his legs overhanging the other. ‘Thank God!’ he sighed, extracting a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiping away the cold sweat that had broken out on his forehead and top lip.

  ‘Davey Carmichael, I do believe we’re going to have to have a dress rehearsal before I actually pop so that you don’t get yourself into such a state when it’s for real. If I stay home this afternoon, I’ll write a script of what we should do when I do go into labour, then, when it’s actually time, you can take the list and tick off things as we do them. If you get yourself into a tizzy like that when it’s really happening, you’re not going to be safe to drive me to the hospital, now are you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, in agreement. ‘Fatherhood’s harder than I thought, and it hasn’t even started yet.’

  ‘Oh, yes it has, Davey. Just look at those two darling boys, and consider the sterling job you’ve done since I’ve met you, bringing them up. You’ve made a profound difference to their lives, as well as mine, you can’t deny that: and you’ll be just as good when this little one’s born. You’ll just have to get used to how small he or she is, but that’ll change in no time.’