Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) (6 page)

After some time, Falconer suggested that they just bundle up the contents of the bureau, plus anything else that looked of interest, and take it all back to the station with them, so that they could examine it in more salubrious surroundings. This agreed, Carmichael was dispatched to the shop to purchase some black refuse sacks, while Falconer climbed the stairs to see if any clue awaited them there.

There were three rooms upstairs, none of which had been converted to a bathroom. Two of them were stacked with a variety of items: old bicycles, bits of what could once have been lawnmowers, wooden tennis racquets in old-fashioned presses, pictures with dilapidated frames and cracked glass, gloomy Victorian vases – a veritable Aladdin’s cave of jumble. The third, and largest, room was obviously where the old man slept. It contained a huge and very ugly walnut-veneered wardrobe with matching monstrous dressing table, a marble-topped washstand (with period basin and ewer, and probably in use since the old man’s childhood), and an iron-framed bed complete with greyish sheets, old army-surplus blankets and two un-slipped pillows, the whole in unmade disarray.

Under the bed where the cache of cash had been discovered there was also what is known in the vernacular as a ‘gazunder’. Falconer pulled this out, then wished he had not, for it was un-emptied from the night before Reg Morley had met his maker, and was more than a little fragrant.

Wrinkling his nose with distaste, he made a hasty perusal of the contents of dressing table and wardrobe, and was just finishing when Carmichael returned. ‘Right, I’ll bag up that stuff, you deal with what’s under the bed, my lad. I think you’ll find there’s a privy somewhere out the back.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

He was just about to put the last of the papers into the black bag when Carmichael returned holding something very gingerly by its edge. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Seems like a funny coin thing, but it doesn’t quite seem like proper money. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

Carmichael held out his discovery, which was about the size of an old half-crown, but rather heavier. A copper coin, it held an intricate pattern on one side, the date 1787 just discernible, and on the other, a worn profile of what appeared to be a male figure, hooded and with a beard. Any wording once engraved on its surfaces, bar the date, had long been worn to illegibility.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘I’ve no idea. Where did you find it?’

‘Down the edge of the path next to the privy. It was only luck that I saw it.’

‘It’s probably been there for years. It’s not exactly Ground Force out there. Give it here,’ Falconer pocketed it, ‘and I’ll look it up when I get a minute, see if I can find out what it is.’ And so saying, he gathered up the sack of papers, together with another small bag of assorted debris they had accumulated during their search. ‘You lock up, Carmichael. I reckon we’re about done here for today.’

IV

Outside once more, and away from the oppressive atmosphere of the cluttered little cottage, Falconer pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket (one of his little affectations, for he wore no wrist watch) and, after consulting it, decided, ‘I think we’ll call it a day for now. We’ll start up at that old dear’s tomorrow morning, then see who else there is to be seen, finish playing “Grass Thy Neighbour”. Then we can consolidate and start on Round Two.’ Round Two was Falconer’s favourite part of an investigation. He always moved very softly in his initial enquiries while he gathered ammunition. Round Two was ambush time.

As he dropped Carmichael off at his family home he ventured, ‘Oh, and Carmichael – Davey – tomorrow, do you think you could …’ but he was lost for words.

‘I could what, sir?’

‘You know, your dress.’

‘What dress?’

‘Your attire.’

‘I’m a what?’

‘Your garb.’

‘Sorry, sir. You’ve lost me.’

‘Wear darker colours, man. You look like a mobile paint-box.’ There, he had said it. Exasperation had dragged it out of him, but that could not be all bad if it meant that they were not quite so conspicuous on the morrow.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘Forget the ‘Davey’ bit. Carmichael’ll do fine, if you don’t mind.’

‘Carmichael it is, then, er, Carmichael.’ Touché!

Chapter Six

Tuesday 14th July – morning

I

Harry Falconer pulled up outside Victoria Terrace the following morning with a sick feeling of dread. He had already caught a glimpse of what lurked at the side of the porch. As the little sports car drew to a halt, what seemed to be an inordinately tall shadow detached itself from the property and advanced towards the waiting vehicle.

‘Mornin’, Sir.’

‘Good morning, Carmichael.’ The inspector’s baleful gaze took in the sight of a six-and-a-half-foot mourner in search of a funeral. Carmichael had taken Falconer at his word, nay at more than his word, and divested his appearance of all trace of colour. Today he wore only black: black trainers and socks, black knee-length shorts and a black tee shirt (no motif). On his head sat a similarly plain black baseball cap, still worn the right way round. His eyes were hidden behind black-framed sunglasses. He looked, Falconer thought, not unlike the angel of death on his way to a disco.

‘This dark enough for you, sir?’ the younger man asked as he folded himself, like a human ironing board, into the passenger seat.

‘You look like you’re about to make me an offer on something in oak with brass handles.’

‘Come again, sir?’

‘Nah!’ Falconer drove off, aware that his companion for today appeared to be an escapee from a Mafia picnic at the very least. Was there no happy medium for the lad?

II

Following the directions they had received the previous day, Falconer headed straight for Sheepwash Lane, to the left off the top end of the High Street, and found The Old School House with no difficulty. From its appearance, in the past this had obviously been the old Church of England village school, recognisable from the narrow, high-set, ecclesiastical windows visible to front and sides. The land to the front, and running part of the way down both sides, was tarmacked, and must have been the playground in its previous usage. They were unable to see round to the back of the property, as their view was obstructed by fencing smothered in a variety of climbing plants, the air thick with their scent.

The ringing of the front door bell produced a frenzied tirade of barks, and the door half-opened to reveal a white-haired, elderly woman holding on to the collar of a small dog, which she expertly fielded into a side room before opening the door full, and greeting her visitors with a broad smile.

‘Mrs Cadogan?’ began the inspector.

‘Miss.’

‘My apologies. Miss Cadogan. Detective Inspector Falconer and Acting DS Carmichael. May we have a few words with you, please?’

‘If you show me your warrant cards.’

These produced, she took them, put the security chain on the door, and went in search of her reading glasses, leaving the two men on the step feeling a little foolish, and not much more than five years old. Returning a minute or two later, she unchained the door, handed back their IDs and bade them come in. Martha Cadogan was nobody’s fool, and she took nothing at face value. As they entered, she eyed Carmichael up and down and asked, ‘Have you recently suffered a loss, young man?’

She led them right through the house and into the back garden, where she shepherded them over to a wrought-iron garden table surrounded by four chairs. Returning briefly indoors, she re-emerged carrying two tumblers. On the table stood a half-empty (or half-full, depending on whether one is a pessimist or an optimist) tumbler and a jug full of ice-cubes and an opaque liquid. Small beads of moisture on the outside of the jug attested to the liquid’s cooling properties.

‘Home-made lemonade, gentlemen?’ she offered, and had poured for them before they had time to answer. Lowering herself carefully into a cushioned chair, the little dog at her feet, she asked, ‘How may I be of assistance? I presume you’ve called about yesterday’s unpleasant discovery?’

It was obvious that she had been a schoolteacher. Carmichael had removed his baseball cap and was sitting to attention. Even Falconer looked like a man on his best behaviour. ‘Is that Mr Morley’s dog? I understood from your niece that you had rescued it,’ Falconer enquired.

‘I did indeed rescue it. And it’s a he.’ A glint of something as cold and hard as steel had appeared in her eyes. ‘That wretched John Proudfoot was only going to pack him off to the RSPCA sanctuary. He even refused, at first, to let me in to feed him. Well, that’s when a few home truths came in handy. Three years I taught him, on this very property, before his family moved to Carsfold. He needed reminding of the snotty-nosed little wretch who used to wet himself during story-time, rather than put up his hand to be excused.’

‘And that worked, did it?’ Falconer knew it had worked: knew it would have worked on him, too, and more effectively than any order from his senior officers in his army days. Carmichael merely looked intimidated and fingered the peak of his cap nervously.

‘I’ll say it did, young man. I had that poor dog and all his bits and pieces out of there in a trice. Unless, or until, someone claims him he’ll be company for me, and walking him will give my old bones a good stretch. But was it just the dog you came to enquire about, Inspector?’

Pulling himself together, Falconer launched into coaxing-out whatever background information about the deceased, and his chequered relationships with the other villagers, that he could.

‘A long time? I’ve known him all his life, young man. He was a nasty, spiteful little boy who grew into a nasty, spiteful old man. All his life he’d never do anyone a good turn if he could do them a bad one.’ (Goodness, they called a spade a spade in Castle Farthing.)

‘When we were at school, you had to keep your eye on anything you had – marbles, sweeties, comics – or he’d be away with them. And if we girls went out to the old earth closet, we went in twos, one to use it, the other to check round the back to see that little Reggie Morley wasn’t on ‘knickers-watch’. And I lost count of the little girls who went home in tears because he’d dipped their pigtails in the inkwell. He did it to me once, but only the once, mind. And he never changed.’ She sighed, floating on a cloud of memory and lost youth.

‘Can you recall anyone whose back he may have put up, recently, Miss Cadogan?’ Falconer broke through her reverie.

‘Oh, I can give you a list, but it’s a long one,’ and she enumerated the grievances with the Brigadier, with Mrs Wilson, Kerry Long, and Mike Lowry. Her final pieces of information were, however, news to them

‘I’m sure my niece mentioned all the bother he’s caused at the church. Really, Bertie is a saint to have put up with a man who was hardly what one would call a regular worshipper.’

This was news indeed, and Falconer did not want to alert the lady to his total ignorance. ‘Yes, if you’ll just go through the main grievances for the sake of accuracy and verification,’ he encouraged, hoping she would not see through his bluff. This was “Grass Thy Neighbour” at its best.

‘Lillian seemed to think he was light-fingered with the collection, but she had no definite proof. No, it was more the trouble he’d make whenever there was a special service, as if he wanted to blight it for everyone else.’

‘What sort of trouble did he cause?’

‘Usually just bad feeling, like when Bertie wanted to change the time of the carol service, but last harvest was rather more horrible.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, there was some sort of to-do about what would go in the old folks’ hampers – they’re made up from the harvest offerings and go to old folk (like me, I suppose) in the village. Some of us, though, don’t really need them, and thought it would be nice if some of the produce could go to the cottage hospital.’

‘And Mr Morley didn’t agree?’ Falconer’s voice was very quiet and controlled.

‘He wasn’t the only one, but he was the most abusive.’

‘So what happened? What did he do?’

‘No one knows for sure it was him, but when Bertie arrived for service on the morning of the harvest festival, all the fruit and vegetables had been cut up and mutilated, and weren’t fit for anything but the pig bin.’

‘Did Mr Morley, or anyone else, have access to a key?’

‘Didn’t need to. Bertie opens the church at seven-thirty for early communion, and he doesn’t lock it between services, in case someone needs to look in for a prayer or solace.’

‘Not very nice,’ judged Falconer. ‘Did he have any other unpleasant traits?’

‘Has anyone mentioned that he was a bit of a peeping tom?’ A vision of the village shopkeeper arose in the inspector’s mind as he confirmed that, yes, they had been told of the old man’s proclivities. ‘Well, beyond the garden wall here,’ Miss Cadogan pointed, ‘is an access road, little more than an alleyway that runs down from the end of the terrace of cottages in Drovers Lane, turns right, past the end of my garden, past next door, and ends with access to The Rookery and the teashop.’

‘And?’ Falconer resisted the temptation to ask where all this geography was leading.

‘I know for sure that he’s been spying on that young Rebecca Rollason – runs the teashop and lives next door at The Rookery.’

‘You know for sure, or you’ve heard.’

‘Oh, I know, young man. I was out putting my dustbin in the alley late one evening a week or so ago, and I heard a noise. When I went down to see what it was, Reg Morley pushed past me and nearly knocked me flat, in his haste to get away.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘My nose, alone, confirmed it,’ she said rather tartly and with a sniff. ‘And Buster was with him, so that was a bit of a give-away.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘I went down to see if I could see what he’d been up to. When I got to the end of the alley, the only light was coming from upstairs at The Rookery. The curtains weren’t drawn and young Rebecca was just putting on her night-dress.’

This was shaping up nicely, as Nick Rollason had (unconfirmed, but probable) called on Reg Morley on the night of his death. Falconer plunged in with a question. ‘Did you tackle the old man about his behaviour?’

‘There was no point. He’d been like that since childhood, as I told you. No, I went and had a quiet word with her husband when next I saw him, and suggested that drawing the curtains was probably a good idea.’

‘Is that all then, Miss Cadogan?’ Falconer was preparing to rise, nodding at Carmichael that the interview was at an end.

‘Except for those other two, and I really don’t know whether he knew anything about it, or even if I ought to mention it, as it doesn’t yet seem to be common gossip.’

‘What other two?’ Falconer was right back down in his chair again, all ears.

‘It’s Mrs Romaine from next door and Mr Manningford from the corner house.’

‘What about them?’

‘I had better set the scene first. The Romaines have three children away at school. He works in Carsfold – he’s a financial adviser, I think; he commutes – and she’s a freelance artist – has a studio at the end of their garden. The Manningfords live next door. She’s a bit older than him, one of those interior designers, works away a lot, no children. He works from home. Can you see what I’m leading up to, Inspector?’

‘You’d better lead me there, Miss Cadogan.’

‘She works from home: he works from home. The studio’s well away from the house – an ideal place for a tryst. They seem to forget that I’m here during the day, even if everyone else within earshot is out at work. Sometimes I’ve had to go in from the garden. But it’s not my place to say anything. Anyone who causes a rift between husband and wife ends up the villain – or villainess – of the piece.’ Spiteful old biddy, probably consumed with jealousy, thought Falconer as the old lady finally ran out of steam.

‘And you think you may not have been the only one aware of this liaison?’

‘It’s certainly a possibility, with one as nosy as he was.’ (She could talk. Cheek!) ‘But how will you find out if he was on to them?’

‘I shall ask them, Miss Cadogan. I shall ask them.’ With this, Falconer rose and beckoned to Carmichael to join him. There was work to be done and no time to waste.

As they showed themselves off the property, Martha Cadogan smiled to herself, well pleased with her morning’s work.

‘Next door, sir?’ asked Carmichael, as they closed the garden gate behind them.

‘That’s the ticket, Sergeant. I think we’ll leave the Brigadier, and tackle Lady Godiva after the village ‘swingers’.’ He knew he had used that last description incorrectly, but he was feeling frivolous and didn’t give a damn.

III

Repeated knocking and ringing brought no response from The Beehive, but remembering what Miss Cadogan had said, Falconer indicated to Carmichael to follow him round to the back of the property. There, they found a wide lawn, shaded towards the rear by a vast cedar tree, beyond which the garden narrowed into an ‘L’ shape. Beyond this could be glimpsed a smallish whitewashed building that adjoined the rear wall. Between them and what could only be Cassandra Romaine’s studio stood a cluster of some half-a-dozen beehives, from which emanated a hum that sounded almost electrical and, to the two policemen, decidedly threatening.

‘What do we do now, sir,’ enquired Carmichael, only to receive a stentorian ‘Shhh’ in reply. Falconer was rattled.

‘Why are you shushing me, sir?’

‘Do bees react to sound, Sergeant?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘Do you want to find out?’

‘Don’t think so, sir.’

‘Then shut up.’

This futile exchange was saved from further protraction by the appearance of a female figure, in the doorway at the side of the little building. ‘Can I help? I saw you through the end window. Not quite a true north light, but it’s the best we can manage. I hope you haven’t let the bees worry you. They’re sweeties really.’

Cassandra Romaine was forty or so, but still retained most of the bloom and vitality of a much younger woman. Today she was swathed in vibrant pinks and purples in the boho style, and her wrists and neck clinked with chains, beads and braided threads. Her auburn hair housed more braided threads of colour, and on her tiny feet she wore dainty gold- and copper-coloured leather sandals. As she approached them through the hives they were able to appreciate how tiny she was – barely five feet in height – and, with his first close-up glimpse of her features, Falconer could appreciate why any man would find her attractive.