Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3)

  INKIER THAN THE SWORD

  ANDREA FRAZER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Andrea Frazer

  Originally published by Accent Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477878835

  This title was previously published by Accent Press; this version has been reproduced from Accent Press archive files.

  This book is dedicated to Anthony Ian Frazer, who has spent the last forty years guiding me through life and keeping me safe. Thank you so much, Tony.

  Inkier Than The Sword is the third instalment of Andrea Frazer’s Falconer Files, a detective series chock-full of picture-postcard villages, dastardly deeds, and a delightful slice of humour. In the quiet village of Steynham St Michael there is an anonymous letter writer at work, jabbing and stabbing at the past's Achilles' heels of many of the upright citizens living there.

  After one resident is driven to extreme measures to escape exposure, another is driven to murder. In the village cards club, which meets once a week, tongues begin to wag, not only about the identities of the murderer and the poison pen letter-writer, but also about who exactly has received a letter.

  There are also changes afoot at Market Darley Police Headquarters, as the national economy dictates that it accepts the straitened circumstances planned for it, and complies with recommendations for change. And before any of this even happens, Harry Falconer drifts up from unconsciousness to find himself in complete darkness and barely able to move, the only sound being that of someone moaning in pain.

  Books by Andrea Frazer

  The Falconer Files

  Death of an Old Git

  Choked Off

  Pascal Passion

  Murder at the Manse

  Music To Die For

  Strict and Peculiar

  Christmas Mourning

  Brief cases – Falconer short stories

  Love Me To Death

  A Sidecar Named Expire

  Battered To Death

  Toxic Gossip

  Driven To It

  The Belchester Chronicles

  Strangeways to Oldham

  White Christmas with a Wobbly Knee

  Other adult fiction

  Choral Mayhem

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  The Residents of Steynham St Michael

  Buckleigh, Bryony – a widow, retired

  Buttery, Noah, and Patience – librarians

  Crawford, Craig – accountant and model railway enthusiast

  Gifford, Tilly, doctor’s receptionist and local gossip

  Grayling, Hermione – successful writer

  Kerr, Roma – owner of local ladies’ fashion shop, married to Rodney

  Littlemore, Malcolm, and Amy – own village craft shop

  Pounce, Hilda (‘Potty’) – cleaner for many of the residents

  Pryor, Dimity – works part-time in the charity shop

  Pryor, Gabriel – bank clerk

  Rainbird, Charles – antiques dealer

  Raynor, Monica and Charles – estate agents

  Sinden, Elizabeth (Buffy) – dental nurse and local ‘bicycle’

  Warlock, Vernon – runs the local bookshop

  The Officials

  Detective Inspector Harry Falconer

  Detective Sergeant ‘Davey’ Carmichael

  Sergeant Bob Bryant

  PC Merv Green

  PC Linda ‘Twinkle’ Starr

  Superintendent Derek ‘Jelly’ Chivers

  Dr Philip Christmas

  Contents

  Introduction: A Short History of Steynham St Michael

  Prologue: Demographic For A New Year

  Chapter One: The Physical Aspect of the Occasion

  Chapter Two: The Aspirational Side of Things

  Chapter Three: Insult to Injury

  Chapter Four: Clubs Are Trumps

  Chapter Five: Spades Are Trumps

  Chapter Six: Misdeal

  Chapter Seven: New Cards

  Chapter Eight: The Black Bitch is Played

  Chapter Nine: New Game

  Chapter Ten: A Penny A Point

  Chapter Eleven: No Trumps

  Chapter Twelve: Find the Lady (Or Other Culprit)

  Chapter Thirteen: Time Out

  Chapter Fourteen: The Final Trick

  Chapter Fifteen: Game Over

  Epilogue: Change in The Air

  Introduction

  Concerning Geography

  Geographically, Steynham St Michael splits easily into four quarters, due to the crossroads consisting of the south to north Market Darley Road, and the east to west road, known simply as the High Street, as it runs through the village.

  Its commercial buildings lie mainly along the two sides of the High Street but, after a short run of cottages running north on the eastern side of the Market Darley road, resume again, with one of the two public houses standing on the western side. Slightly further north, Tuppenny Lane leads off to the right, with the fish and chip shop on the corner, then the Strict and Particular Baptist Church (unused now), the library (under threat of funding reductions), a small area of waste ground and, finally, an infants’ and primary school, these days seen as a status symbol for any rural community.

  To the south west of the High Street are some comparatively recent houses, these having been built when some of the insanitary and tumbledown former farm workers’ cottages were demolished. Some of the more sturdy older dwellings, Queen Victoria Terrace and Prince Albert Terrace are good examples of houses built in the nineteenth century, but with a conscience that their fabric should be sound and that the buildings should last.

  In the south-east corner of Steynham St Michael is Barleycorn Crescent, built round the edges of the green and occasional cricket pitch and resembling the half-circle of the lower case letter ‘b’ to the upright of the Market Darley Road, when viewed from above, or from a map. These houses are pure nineteen-thirties, and as out of place as the Victorian terraces, the only advantage to living in them perhaps being direct rear access to the Co-operative Store and the recycling bins.

  Old Steynham St Michael is represented by its northern half, containing as it does the church of St Michael and All Angels, the aforementioned Strict and Particular Chapel (a particular attraction in itself), the prettiest and most picturesque cottages, the older and more traditional of the two public houses, and some pretty lanes hiding yet more desirable residences.

  Not an obvious tourist trap, and unlikely to become one, but the residents and proprietors of commercial establishments get by as best as they can in this uncertain world, with its precarious local, national, and global finances, and hope that the future has more to offer than today has.

  PROLOGUE

  Demographic For A New Year

  Friday 1st January

  The first day of a new year sees few people in their places of work. In Steynham St Michael, however, there was more commercial activity than may have been guessed at.

  Charles Rainbird, of Mill Cottage, Dairy Lane, and proprietor of Rainbird’s Renaissance (where beautiful things a
re given a new lease of life) was in his stock room at the rear of his establishment, which was situated at the meeting of the Market Darley Road and the High Street, putting it firmly in the bottom right-hand corner of the north-west quarter of the village.

  He was sitting in a disreputable-looking old armchair which sprouted horsehair and other components of stuffing at every corner. His upper body was bent over, and right inside an old chest, from which he was steadily removing items and putting them on a table beside him. He had been to a couple of auctions between Christmas and New Year, and had bid for a number of job lots in the hope of finding those things which are overlooked by the general and ignorant public, but are bread and butter – and possibly even jam – to a struggling antiques’ dealer.

  He had already had quite a few lucky finds, and the proceeds of his fossicking and ferreting in old boxes, crates, and trunks were piling up, leading him to think that, with a bit of elbow-grease, he should have some profits to come from a future auction himself. There were some nice examples of brown furniture, discarded in the general turnout of such items, that would bring a hearty sum if waxed well (over a bit of judicious filling here and there) and catalogued properly, and he might even get old Potty Pounce to come and give him a hand. She wasn’t such a bad old stick, really, and she certainly knew how to work hard for her pittance.

  Potty Pounce, the object of Charles’ thoughts, was in fact Mrs Hilda Pounce, widow of this parish, resident at number three Prince Albert Terrace, and ‘treasure’ of many a resident of the village, both present and past. On this newest day of the new year, she was dressing herself, ready for the low outside temperature, as she had been asked by both the Ox and Plough and the Fox and Hounds to lend a hand clearing up after the celebrations of the night before and, although this meant an early start for her so that the establishments could open again at lunchtime, she set out energetically.

  A few extra quid always came in handy, and she needed all she could get to keep up with the rising prices of just about everything. Why, it was getting so that she could hardly afford to heat her cottage, and times hadn’t been that bad since she was a child and her father had been out of work; the bitter winter of 1962/3 being a bad time to have a disagreement with your boss and let your mouth run away with you. Ah, the old times, she thought. Not always good times, but always with you, and nothing would ever change them, no matter how hard you wanted to or tried.

  Vernon Warlock, who ran the antiquarian and second-hand bookshop in the High Street, sat at his desk in Vine Cottage staring blindly out of his front window overlooking the Market Darley Road and shook his white-haired head in despair, setting free a gentle snow-storm of dandruff which alighted gently on the shoulders of his clean but shabby claret-coloured cardigan. He would have to telephone that chap again and see what he could let him have. Times had never been so difficult, and sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t just sell up and retire, with his beloved books, from commerce, as well as society. No doubt a benevolent and profligate government would look after him, as it seemed to everyone else.

  In Farriers Lane, at the cottage known as Chrysanthemums, Roma Kerr looked up from studying the accounts for the ladies’ fashions and haberdashery business that she ran with her husband, caught sight of said husband spilling black coffee as he coughed his morning cigarette into the ashtray, lost her temper and shouted. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed, you drunken, stinking lazy old soak? You’re no bloody use to me nor to anyone else! Get out of my sight before I do something drastic, like throw you out with the rubbish where you belong.’

  Rodney Kerr put down his nearly empty coffee cup in the fireplace, threw his cigarette butt into the charcoal from the night before’s fire, and left the room, trailing an air of cigarette smoke and gloom, mingled with stale whisky. He had no idea why he behaved as he did, except for the fact that he could not see anything to look forward to. Everything before him appeared to be grey, and he didn’t see how him stopping drinking and smoking too much was going to inject any colour into the future landscape. Roma could burble on all she liked about how they would revitalise the business and turn it around, but he didn’t see the point. The business was as dead as their future – as dead as their marriage – and nothing he could do could change that.

  Immediately opposite the Kerrs’ business in the High Street, Buffy Sinden slid open a wary eye, and peered at the pillow next to hers – empty. She might have known that anyone she met at a New Year’s Eve do at the Fox and Hounds was bound to be just another ‘leg-over’ merchant, lacking even the staying power to address breakfast. Oh well, never mind: more bacon for her then, and an extra sausage – the thought of which made her smile as she walked into the bathroom.

  Her reflection in the bathroom mirror soon wiped the smug look from her face, as she surveyed what was before her. Eye-shadow, liner, mascara, and lipstick were blurred across her features like old stage make-up. Her hair, bleached beyond conditioning, the ends split from daily back-combing, did not provide an edifying sight. She was thirty-five years old, divorced, had a very chequered past (the details of which she hugged possessively in the dark side of her heart), and a job as a dental nurse in the practice on Market Darley Road.

  Apart from these few and uninspiring facts, she did own her own home, Clematis Cottage, or at least as much of it as the building society allowed her to own while she was still in debt to them. She had a job, but not exactly a glamorous and exciting one, and she had a reputation as a good-time girl – the original good time that was ‘had’ by all. Even the postmen at the local sorting office were aware of her ‘social life’, and referred to her pretty little hideaway as ‘Clitoris Cottage’. It was time she pulled herself together, acted her age, and did something worthwhile with her life. Wasn’t it? Or could she really be arsed to make the effort?

  Hermione Grayling pursed her over-lipsticked mouth, pulled her eyebrows together with a frown, picked a final full-stop with the index finger of her right hand, and leaned back with a sigh. That was certainly enough for today, she thought, gazing at the sheet of paper in her old-fashioned manual typewriter. It may be very early in the day, but she just wasn’t in the mood. At the head of the page was the number ‘731’, and she realised that she was nearly at the end of another of her Victorian family sagas.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, she used the fingers of both hands to fluff up the unruly curls of the wig she had habitually worn since her hair had first got a little thin, then stretched her plump arms up in a gesture of relaxation. She would telephone her old school friend Dimity Pryor who lived just down the road in the terrace of ancient cottages on the Market Darley road. They could take afternoon tea together.

  That would be nice, and she could tell Dimity all about her ideas for her next nineteenth-century Aga saga. Dimity was always such a help with the little details, and seemed to have such an enthusiastic interest in the development of the lives of the families in the books, that she sometimes sounded proprietorial – as if they were hers instead of Hermione’s – though not as proprietorial as Vernon Warlock from the bookshop.

  He felt he had an absolute right to tell her what to do with her characters, book after book after book, and also what she should have done with them in those already published. Dear, infuriating old Vernon. She would invite him too.

  They should all three of them have toast and caviar, and some of those fresh cream meringues which were so deliciously gooey in the middle, with a pot of Darjeeling. It would serve the interfering little darlings right, for being so special to her, and so dear to her heart. She’d get Hilda to pour it for them, from her dearest great-aunt’s silver tea service, and in her very best Rockingham china. Hermione believed in keeping nothing for best, but in using and enjoying things while you had them, instead of keeping them perfect for someone else, after you were dead.

  In Pear Tree Cottage, next door to Dimity Pryor, Noah and Patience Buttery were considering their new year’s resolutions with earnest zeal. Both of them w
ere descended from the villagers who had, for decades, attended the Strict and Particular Chapel, and they took such a task very seriously. Any attempt to change for the better was to be considered long and hard, and assessed on the chance of its success. If it were to be a case of wasted effort, they would be better looking for something different to make a difference in this world.

  Their thirteen-year-old son had decided that he would donate ten per cent (like a tithe) of his paper round money to Christian Aid, but that had seemed enough of an effort to him, and he was now happily plugged in to his mixing decks, headphones wagging, lips flapping as, with eyes closed, he got down with the beat.

  At the corner of Tuppenny Lane in Forge Cottage, things were similarly lively, and as loud as they were in the Butterys’ son’s headphones. Amy and Malcolm Littlemore were at it again! Or rather, Amy Littlemore was drunk again (and so early in the day), which was not surprising, as Malcolm brought her her first couple of drinks of the day in bed, so that she could control her shakes enough to leave the bedroom and function, after a fashion. This being a Bank Holiday, she was a little ahead of her usual schedule, and had had more than usual at this time of the morning. Malcolm was trying to pacify her, or at least to turn her wrath upon something other than him if he could not allay it. It was the mention of new stock that had set her off this time.

  Malcolm had ordered a smattering of new lines to try to liven up their business. Amy had decided that, in her present mood, the shop was in dire straits and could afford not a penny on new stock, besides which, she personally had chosen their present lines, and why was it she who was always wrong, wrong, wrong?

  Neatly ducking a surprisingly accurately lobbed heavy glass ashtray, Malcolm rose to the occasion with a soothing bottle in his hand and, holding it out before him as a peace offering, approached his now silent partner – if only she would remain so! – and tentatively filled her glass. She rewarded him with a glowing smile on a face from which all vestige of malice and hatred had been expunged, and he knew she had forgotten, once more, what had set her off. If he was lucky, she’d be asleep in front of the box by the time the news came on, and he could have a quiet evening with just the gentle susurration of her snores to keep him company.