Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Can you tell me how he teased Alice Diggory?’ asked Falconer, aware that there was a gap in his knowledge of the little media gang.

  ‘He teased her mercilessly about the state of the English language today, which could only be down to the teachers they had been taught by during their schooldays. He even bought her a dictionary and a book on English grammar for her birthday, and I don’t think I’ve seen the woman more embarrassed. And the biggest offender of them all, strangling the grammar of the language, was Digby himself, but he just couldn’t – or wouldn’t – see that.

  ‘But that was just him. He had the sensitivity of a breeze block, and he behaved like a playground bully a lot of the time. Me, I’ve never had any trouble with bullies, so I just ignored him when I could. That’s not to say he couldn’t get my goat, but in the main I just took it as a demonstration of his own inadequacy.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, Mr Pistorius. Can you remember who else was in the bar after Midnight Mass, by any chance?’ Best to get a list of names, thought Falconer, as they hadn’t known a thing about this little hoolie at the beginning of their interviews.

  ‘There was that Stupple chap – the one who does the Cubs, and the couple that I believe used to run the post office, but they didn’t stay very long. You must’ve made a run for it straight after the service if you didn’t see us lot heading for the pub. There were also a few people that I didn’t recognise, but that’s probably because they’re not regulars and only came along because of the novelty of the situation.’

  Then, before the man could leave, he froze halfway out of his chair and exclaimed, ‘Hey, before I go, I’ve got something highly coincidental to tell you.’ Falconer pricked up his ears at this statement.

  ‘Do go on, sir.’

  ‘It must have been in the early sixties, and I think it was Reuters that reported it. There was to be the first Christmas display in a big department store in … Tokyo it was, I think; somewhere in Japan, anyway. The window display was kept under wraps until the press had all arrived, and then, when it was unveiled, there was this huge Father Christmas nailed to a cross. Unbelievable that that scene’s been re-enacted in Castle Farthing, but with a real body. Who’d have believed it of a sleepy little place like this?’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ replied Falconer, for once completely taken by surprised, but keeping his reaction to himself. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Pistorius …’

  ‘Call me Henry, please.’

  ‘Henry, did you notice if the Warren-Brownes were in the bar before you came in here? That’s the couple who used to run the post office.’

  ‘They weren’t, no. That Warren-Browne woman always looks ill to me: very delicate, in my opinion. I understand she suffers from attacks of migraine. Shall I just go back to the bar, now?’

  ‘No,’ said Falconer, thinking. ‘Ask Mrs Covington to come through, just for a minute. I know she’s got a whole host of lunches to get served and she’s had a huge shock this afternoon, so tell her I won’t keep her long.’

  Paula Covington swept in with a frown on her face. ‘Do you know how much I’ve got to do?’ she asked in an irritated voice before she’d even sat down, but it was easy to discern that the frown was only for show and that, underneath, she was severely affected by what she had found upstairs in one of the pub’s guest rooms.

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I won’t keep you long. Just a few questions. How long has your husband known about Jeffries’ real job at the BBC? Who was here after Midnight Mass? And in what order did they arrive and leave?’

  ‘Well, I can answer the first one straight off. He’s known for a few months now, but he’s managed to keep it under his hat until last night. I think he’d had enough of Mr Know-It-All Jeffries, hinting that our spirits were watered down and the beer not well kept. We never liked the way he was always having a go at that nice group of retired people, but the man’s behaviour yesterday was just the last straw for George. He wanted the wind taken out of that man’s sails, and to see how he liked it, being ridiculed.

  ‘He wasn’t at all sorry afterwards. He said that if the man never set foot in his pub again, it would be too soon. Oh, God! I didn’t mean that! George wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’d never have done that to him! You surely can’t think it was George that …’ Her voice trailed off into a horrified silence.

  ‘Of course I don’t, Mrs Covington. I just want an accurate picture of what happened yesterday. Now, about the other two questions.’

  ‘I can’t possibly answer those off the top of my head. You’ll have to give me time to consult with George. He’s got a much better memory than me, and I can’t think straight the way things have turned out today. And I must get off now, or I’ll burn the turkeys.’

  Paula Covington swept out of the room, her mind now totally distracted from the two murders, her thoughts all on the number of meals she had to serve up to the hungry customers in the bar. It was, after all, Christmas Day.

  ‘Well, I think that about wraps it up for now, although we’ll have to find out who else had fallen out with the man and if they came here for a drink last night. On the other hand, we promised to go and see Marian Warren-Browne. What do you think about all that stuff from Stupple then? I shall want another word with him, if it was his kids getting felt up. And his wife!’

  ‘Would she have been strong enough, sir?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘A mother in defence of her children can have the strength of ten,’ Falconer replied.

  ‘I can understand that, but how would she have known he’d gone back to the church if she wasn’t at the service?’

  ‘Her husband could’ve told her when he got back.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Carmichael, reluctantly, ‘but with all the Cubs and Brownies they look after, I’d thought that either of them would’ve thought it was a matter for the police.’

  ‘Not in righteous anger, they wouldn’t. Come on, let’s get wrapped up, and get this afternoon done and dusted. I feel in need of your fireside at the moment, and I won’t rest until I get there.’

  Before he could get into his coat, however, Paula Covington put her head round the door and announced that Rosemary Wilson who ran the village shop had just not been interviewed yet, and did they want a word with her, too? With a sigh, Falconer hung up his coat again, and nodded his acquiescence. How could they have forgotten to speak to Kerry’s aunt?

  Rosemary Wilson, Kerry Carmichael’s aunt, ran the shop that sold just about everything, which had the appropriate name of Allsorts. If you needed a new bucket, or mousetraps, Rosemary stocked them. If you needed a length of washing line, or some clothes pegs, you’d find them on her shelves. If you hankered after a new stepladder, or a pasting tray for decorating, these she had, too. Her shop was like an Aladdin’s Cave, with almost anything you could think of on the shelves, hanging from the ceiling, or in the back of the shop in the stockroom.

  As the plump woman bustled in and took a seat, she exclaimed, ‘I never thought I’d see myself seeking sustenance here, today, but I’d only half-cooked the turkey when I ran out of gas. I was a right fool not to check it in good time. What a love Paula is, cooking for us all. It’s just our good luck that’s she’s got a proper professional kitchen out the back, and can cook so many birds simultaneously.

  ‘I’m not the only fluffy-head today, though. Mrs Stupple found herself out of gas too when she went to put her turkey in the oven, so they popped it on the kids’ sledge and pulled it down here in the hope that Paula could help them out. She said she couldn’t see them eating sandwiches on Christmas Day. And now I gather that you forgot all about me when you were speaking to everyone else.’

  ‘Hello, Rosemary. Sorry. Our Christmas Day’s not exactly going to plan, either,’ Carmichael greeted her, a smile of welcome on his face. ‘The inspector’s just got a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.’

  Falconer cleared his throat, to remind Carmichael just who was in charge, and let him know that this was still a formal inte
rview. He’d be calling her ‘Auntie’ next, and then where would their authority be?

  Like the others, she had noticed nothing awry, apart from the obvious, at the services the day before, but she did make some comment about wandering hands where the youngsters were concerned. This information was coming out of the woodwork from all sides now, and yet no one had ever breathed a whisper of it before, not even on the village grapevine, which was considered to be all-knowing and all-seeing.

  ‘I’ve seen it in my shop,’ she declared. ‘While mummy or daddy was looking for what they wanted, he’d sidle up to them, and just put a hand on their arm or tousle their hair, and ask if they’d like any sweeties.

  ‘I’ve taken him to task for it on many an occasion when I’ve seen him at it, but I’d be willing to bet that there were a lot of times he made sure I couldn’t see what he was up to.’

  ‘So you fell out with him, did you?’

  ‘I certainly did. I said only a few days ago that if I caught him at it again on my premises, I’d bar him and I’d seriously consider calling the police.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’ This was getting very interesting.

  ‘Made out he didn’t know what I was talking about. Called me a dirty-minded old gossip, and stalked out of the shop. I was relieved, I can tell you. The thought of him taking umbrage and not coming in any more just about made my day.’

  ‘Can you remember which children you caught him acting inappropriately with?’

  ‘Not off-hand, but I could think about it and make you a list, if you want me to.’

  ‘That would be fantastic, Mrs Wilson,’ agreed Falconer with enthusiasm. They could really be onto something here, although it would take a lot of investigating by Social Services, even after this case was all finished and tidied away. And the perpetrator could never even be punished, because he was dead.

  ‘Is anyone going to call on Alan and Marian today, do you know?’ she asked. ‘Marian’s not been out and about much lately and I’m just a bit worried about her. She seems to be getting more and more headaches, and sometimes, she’s – well, to be brutally honest about it, she’s rather muddled and forgetful.’

  ‘We’ll be calling in ourselves after we’ve finished here,’ volunteered Carmichael. ‘Kerry’s orders.’

  ‘That puts my mind at rest. All things being normal, I would have gone up to hers today, but I don’t really feel up to struggling through this weather. Let me know how she is, won’t you?’

  ‘Will do, Auntie Rosemary,’ replied Carmichael, making Falconer wince with embarrassment. No detective sergeant worth his salt should refer to someone under police interview as ‘Auntie’ anything. He’d have to have a word with him, and get him to remember that he was a representative of law and order, not some schoolboy talking to a relative.

  He finally decided not to chide Carmichael, today being the day it was, and merely asked him to make a note of the fact that they’d need to call on the old man whom he referred to as ‘Father Christmas Two’ and his nephew, to find out where they were in the early hours of the morning. Murder had been done before over somebody stealing someone else’s prize position in the community.

  Back out into the cold once more, they donned their non-uniform headgear and headed off past the village green for Sheepwash Lane, where they would call first at The Beehive before scuttling back to Jasmine Cottage. Sheepwash Lane had been cleared even before the roads round the village green as this was the route from the farm, so they knew that they weren’t wasting their time.

  It was Alan Warren-Browne who opened the door to them, letting out a shout of laughter as he looked at what they had on their heads. They had been so warm that they had forgotten they were wearing the monstrosities, and snatched them off simultaneously as he asked, ‘Is this part of the new winter uniform, or is it only for plain clothes chickens?’ And he stood, silhouetted against the lamplight from the interior and chuckled to himself, before asking them in and calling upstairs, ‘Marian, we’ve got a couple of ‘fowl’ police officers come to visit. Are you coming down?’

  When they sat down in the sitting room, even in the dimness of the lamplight, they could see that Alan Warren-Browne had a glorious black eye. ‘How did you get that?’ asked Carmichael, studying the other man’s face minutely.

  ‘Slipped coming home from the pub after Midnight Mass,’ Alan Warren-Browne said, and his hand went unthinkingly to his bruised face. ‘Silly really. I should know better at my age to try to hurry when conditions are so treacherous underfoot,’ he further explained, but he met no one’s eye when he said it, which Falconer took to mean that his attention was all on the shuffling they could hear, as of someone coming down the stairs very slowly. Marian was on her way.

  Alan leapt to his feet and went to guide his wife in, explaining that she’d had ‘one of her heads’ come on in the pub after Midnight Mass, and had gone to bed as soon as they had got home and hadn’t been up yet today, which was witnessed by the pile of unwrapped presents under the unlit Christmas tree.

  Marian was wearing only a nightdress, a dressing gown, and a pair of slippers, and made straight for a chair in front of the log fire as the two detectives looked at her in concern. ‘Has she seen a doctor, Alan?’ asked Carmichael.

  ‘She’s got an appointment in the New Year. Don’t worry: she’s often like this after one of her headaches.

  ‘This bad?’ asked Falconer, looking carefully at the strained face and hands twisting unconsciously in her lap.

  ‘She’ll be all right, won’t you, my girl?’ said Alan with a note of false cheerfulness in his voice, at the sound of which Marian raised her head and seemed to notice for the first time that they had visitors.

  ‘Hello,’ she greeted them. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘It’s me, Auntie Marian: Kerry’s husband,’ replied Carmichael as both he and Falconer looked on, aghast.

  ‘Kerry … Kerry,’ the woman muttered quietly, then her face brightened, and she announced, ‘I’ve got a baby goddaughter called Kerry. Do you know her?’

  Alan Warren-Browne rose swiftly from his chair and made to usher them out of the house. ‘She sometimes gets confused when she’s had a really bad migraine. If you could come back some other time, I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘Did you know that both Digby Jeffries and Rev. Searle are both dead?’ Falconer asked, determined not to leave with nothing.

  ‘How dreadful,’ Warren-Browne responded, but there was no concern in his voice for the departed. ‘I must get back to Marian. You can see yourselves out, can’t you?’

  ‘I need to know what you did after Midnight Mass, sir,’ Falconer challenged him.

  With a sigh of exasperation, the man replied, ‘We went to the pub for a drink, but Marian said she wasn’t feeling very well, so we came home. Satisfied?’

  ‘Straight home?’

  ‘And straight to bed, where my wife has been ever since, so if you would excuse me, I need to go and see how she’s feeling. What are you doing there, darling?’ he asked, as Marian joined them in the hall.

  ‘Saying goodbye to your friends,’ she replied, as both policemen donned their multi-coloured hats. She pointed at them and laughed with the glee and unselfconsciousness of an amused child, and that was the last they saw of her that day.

  The door slammed in their faces and they adjusted their chicken disguises against the knives of the bitter wind. That woman’s lost the plot, thought Falconer. She’s completely away with the fairies.

  Chapter Nine

  Christmas Day – evening

  The light had totally gone by now, and Carmichael produced a torch to light their way along Sheepwash Lane back to Jasmine Cottage, both perplexed and concerned at what they had just witnessed.

  It had been a day of unpleasant surprises: from the finding of the body of Digby Jeffries in such bizarre circumstances first thing that morning, then had followed the surprise of the old clergyman’s unnatural death and the allegations against Jeffries of paedo
philic tendencies. Finally, they had found Marian Warren-Browne in a state of great confusion, not recognising either of them, and believing that Kerry was still a baby. Maybe she was having some sort of a breakdown.

  ‘What am I going to tell Kerry, sir?’ asked Carmichael, in turmoil after their unsettling visit to his wife’s godparents. ‘If I tell her the truth, she’ll want to go straight round there, and I can’t have her going out in weather like this. She’ll fall over and hurt herself and the baby.’

  ‘I think telling her about Marian’s condition can wait until there’s been a thaw, then you can run her there in the car. And Alan said she had a doctor’s appointment in the New Year. It can’t do her any good to know what a state her godmother’s in: it might even trigger early labour, and there’s no way we can get her to the hospital in these conditions.’

  Falconer was quite right, and Carmichael knew it. He’d just have to keep this to himself until such times as it was more sensible to bring up the subject.

  To lighten matters, Falconer said, ‘I’m really glad you thought to bring a torch. It hadn’t crossed my mind that the Christmas tree lights would be out as well as the street lights. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Good work, man.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Carmichael, but he didn’t seem any the more cheerful.

  Kerry welcomed them back to the cottage as if they had been gone days, for it felt like that to her on such a special day. This was the first Christmas they’d been married, and this wasn’t what they’d planned at all. She’d even had reservations when Davey said he’d invited his boss, but she’d had no idea the day itself would end up the way it had.

  As they entered the cottage Mulligan fell on Falconer as if he were a long-lost friend he hadn’t seen for years and gave him a damned good sniffing-over, licking his face until the inspector called for help. The boys were also over-excited because they’d been out in the back garden, where Carmichael had dug a path to the garden shed, and had had a very boisterous snowball fight until their mother had called them in before they got frostbite.