Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Page 10

  ‘Would you like to explain what upset you so much, Miss Warwick?’ he asked, settling himself into another chair.

  ‘Oh, please call me Wanda,’ she requested, then continued, ‘I did a tarot reading for Mrs Yaxley across The Green yesterday, and the last three cards didn’t seem to fit in at all with all of the others. They predicted calamity and death; something I fluffed over, and said there must be some mistake. There obviously wasn’t, though, and I didn’t get in quickly enough with reassuring Mrs Yaxley either, because she went off with the jitters a short while later. But I was right, wasn’t I? I was right?’

  ‘Indeed you were, Ms … Wanda. So you’re a tarot card reader, are you?’ Falconer asked, quite curious to know exactly what this weird woman did.

  ‘I’m actually a white witch, but I read the cards, and also have a certain amount of psychic ability. I’m sure it was a warning and my unconscious influence that made those particular cards turn up yesterday. They just didn’t gel with any of the other groups of cards. I was being given a warning from beyond the veil, of a tragedy about to occur, and failed to recognise it for what it was.’

  Carmichael looked impressed, but Falconer could see her milking this one for all it was worth, especially if she’d spooked her client, as well. The word would soon get round the village grapevine, and maybe she’d even get a piece in the local paper, with her looking her psychic best, and utterly witchy.

  ‘What happened to the poor old lady?’ she asked, still pale, but her eyes alight with excitement.

  ‘It would appear that someone got into the house – we don’t know how yet – got the combination of her safe out of her, banged her on the head, then made off with her collection of jewellery.’

  ‘How awful. And where was she found? In her chair? On the floor?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into further detail at the moment, Ms … Wanda, for procedural reasons.’ The woman was obviously fishing for details, so that she could tell people that she’d envisaged the whole scene: that it was revealed, from ‘the other side’, in great detail, to her psychic mind.

  ‘I’m sure you understand,’ Falconer apologised, but noted the thwarted look in her eyes. She wouldn’t get quite as much mileage out of this as she had, at first, supposed, now that she couldn’t describe the scene of the death with some detail, and it would be in the local rag before she got her hands on exactly where the death had occurred.

  ‘I understand,’ she said rather sharply, then continued, ‘Everybody hereabouts knew about them, you know, but only a very few have ever seen them. I haven’t. That being so, how can I help you, if I can’t tempt you to have a little glance into the future?’

  Falconer quelled Carmichael with a glance. He was looking just a little too like an eager puppy who has been offered an unexpected walk. ‘We’d like to ask you about the last time you saw or spoke to the deceased, and whether you are aware of anyone who bore the old lady a grudge.’

  Realising the inspector had rumbled her, she informed them that she had seen Lettice at the party, and had had a brief word with her. (No luck there, then, concluded Falconer.) She had not seen Miss Keighley-Armstrong again, after she had left the party in the company of Rev. Florrie, who had volunteered to run her home in her car.

  ‘Did you hear anything from the direction of Manor Gate later in the evening, when you’d returned home?’

  ‘By the time I got home, it was raining stair-rods, and the thunder was almost deafening. I don’t think I’d have heard a brass band over the racket that made.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone local with whom Miss Keighley-Armstrong was on, let’s say, bad terms?’

  ‘I don’t know about bad terms, but she had a down on that woman from Coopers Lane, Sour-Puss Asquith. She was always visiting Lettice, sucking up to her and schmoozing her.’

  ‘Miss Keighley-Armstrong told you this?’

  ‘No, but it was as plain as the nose on your face. I saw them talking together last night, and the hostile vibes that were coming off Lettice were almost visible.’

  Yeah, sure! ‘Anything else, Wanda?’ Falconer had got used to the feel of her forename in his mouth now, and used it with more ease.

  ‘Not that I can think of, but if you leave your card with me, I’ll give it some thought.’

  When they were out of the cottage, Falconer declared, ‘What a fraud! I’ll bet she pulls that trick of weird cards influenced by the ether at least once a quarter, in the hope that something will happen just after it which she can attribute to her psychic ability. Psychic ability, my big fat hairy arse!’

  ‘It doesn’t look that big, sir,’ replied Carmichael with a straight face, then let a smile break out, to let the inspector know he was only kidding. ‘Shall we take a short break in The Druid’s Head for a coffee, sir?’

  ‘Good idea, Carmichael. Let’s get over there.’

  ‘And I thought she was scary.’

  ‘Scary, she might have been. Genuine, she ain’t,’ replied Falconer, firmly closing the matter for the time being.

  In Coopers Lane, Roberts had arrived at Tresore and was at that moment receiving an effusive welcome from Toby Lattimer. ‘Do come in,’ he invited when Roberts had introduced himself. ‘I thought something was going on, and now you’ve arrived to satisfy my curiosity. Sit yourself down and I’ll put on the kettle, so we can have a nice pot of Darjeeling and a good old gossip, and you can give me every little detail about what’s happened.’

  This was more like it, thought Roberts, heading for the comfiest-looking chair and eyeing the plethora of ornaments and cabinets of bits and bobs that filled the room. Bit overcrowded, he considered, but it looked like there was some good stuff in here.

  When Lattimer returned, bearing a tray, Roberts was not surprised to see that it bore a silver tea service, and that the cups and saucers were porcelain, giving him a moment of nerves that he might drop and break his cup. He could be a tad clumsy when he was nervous, and anything valuable and breakable always made him break out in a sweat. Deciding that, no matter how bad-mannered it looked, he’d have to cradle the delicate vessel in both hands, with no extended pinkie, to avoid disaster, he took out his notebook.

  ‘Right, first question,’ he stated, as Lattimer poured the pale amber liquid into his second best china. ‘Were you at the party at the hall, last night?’

  ‘Indeed I was, young man, and Lettice – Miss Keighley-Armstrong, that is – got quite tiddly on the punch, and made a bit of an exhibition of herself, in my opinion. What has she done? Streaked down The Green, or something similarly shaming?’ he asked, his eyes like slits.

  ‘She’s dead,’ declared Roberts, without a thought for the man’s feelings. The stream of amber liquid wavered, as the information was assimilated, and Lattimer put down the teapot and just stared at his guest.

  ‘Dead? She can’t be! I only saw her last night. Don’t be so cruel.’

  ‘I’m not, sir. She really is dead – and murdered, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Do take a cup,’ said Lattimer, on automatic pilot with courtesy, because of the jolt the detective’s words had given him. Recovering himself slightly, he asked, ‘How? When? Who? Why? I want to know everything you’ve discovered.’

  Golly, the man really was a gossip hound. ‘That’s the reason I’m here, sir, to try to find out anything I can about what may have happened, and who may be responsible for what happened. Just a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Fire away, then, but I don’t see how I can help you.’ Toby Lattimer had almost recovered his aplomb and was determined to milk this exciting visit for all it was worth.

  ‘You’ve already stated that you attended the parish party last night, so did you speak to Miss Keighley-Armstrong during the course of the evening?’

  ‘Yes, to that particular question. I stayed a couple of hours, fascinated by Lettice, as she was well away, swigging the punch, and I did speak to her. She had become a little too free, talking about her mother’s jewell
ery, and I spoke to her about her indiscretion. You never know who might be listening, or who they might pass the information on to, in all innocence.

  ‘She didn’t give a fig, though: said she’d had precious little joy from the inheritance because she never wore any of it. The least she could do was to be able to talk about it, and make a few people feel envious,’ Lattimer ventured, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘Do you think she had anyone in particular in mind when she made that last comment?’ asked Roberts, his pen at the ready.

  ‘Looking back, I seem to remember that she shot that Asquith woman a bit of a venomous glance. That’s Maude Asquith: lives next door in a monstrosity of a house with the ridiculous name of Khartoum.’

  ‘We’ve just met,’ declared Roberts unhappily, then added indignantly, ‘She said she was Miss Keighley-Armstrong’s best friend.’

  ‘What a load of old codswallop. She wishes! She sucked up to Lettice at every opportunity that presented itself, and she was always calling round on the off-chance that the old lady needed some shopping, but it was really to try and endear herself to her. No chance! What a bum-suck!’

  Roberts laughed, before he had time to stop himself. ‘Well, she is,’ stated Lattimer, before the detective had had the chance to apologise. ‘There’s just no other word for it. Her behaviour would make a cat sick.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t find her very welcoming, Mr Lattimer.’

  ‘The only people that old biddy would welcome into her home would be the Queen or the Governor of the Bank of England.’

  ‘That excludes me, then,’ said Roberts, chuckling. This interview seemed to be going better than the last one.

  ‘And me,’ agreed Lattimer. ‘I never went round there unless I absolutely had to. Now, what else can I tell you about our small but far from happy community?’

  ‘You have gossip?’ he asked, naively, but it was taken in good part.

  ‘Just as I collect little bits and pieces,’ – here Toby Lattimer held out his arms and indicated the contents of the room – ‘so I collect bits and pieces of gossip, and store them away, in case they ever come in useful.’ As he said this last, his eyes flicked from side to side like a wary animal’s, on guard in case there was any danger to his hoard.

  ‘Fire away, sir,’ invited Roberts, his notebook open, his pen ready to start recording any juicy little titbits.

  After forty-five minutes of very interesting information about Shepford St Bernard’s inhabitants, Roberts found himself out in the fresh air and craving caffeine. Maybe he’d stop into the pub on his way to Sweet Dreams, and satisfy his craving with a double espresso.

  As he came out of the little alleyway that led down the side of Carpe Diem to The Green, he caught sight of Falconer and Carmichael crossing the road, with probably the very same thought in their minds. He’d definitely join them, to see how they were getting on.

  Chapter Eight

  Shepford St Bernard, Sunday afternoon

  The landlord of The Druid’s Head didn’t usually open on Sunday afternoon but, after sticking his head out of an upstairs window to see who was knocking at the door with such persistence, he came down and let them in, quite happy for them to have a short meeting on his premises so long as they didn’t want anything alcoholic served. They didn’t.

  Within five minutes, Falconer sat sipping a cappuccino, Roberts his desired double espresso, and Carmichael a pint of orange squash – because he was still feeling a bit dehydrated – accompanied by three rounds of sandwiches, which the landlord’s wife had whipped up for ‘the poor hungry lad’.

  ‘So how did you get on, Roberts?’ Falconer asked, receiving the reply,

  ‘Apart from the pub, two and a “not at home”.’

  ‘Same as us,’ replied Carmichael indistinctly, through a mouthful of ham sandwich

  ‘I met a really unpleasant old woman, though. She was a real nasty piece of work, and she said she was going to make a complaint against me. Given her attitude, I reckon I ought to be able to complain about her. Ignore it, if she says anything nasty about me. The nastiness is all in her head,’ said Roberts, pleading his own case before he was even charged.

  ‘Any complaint made about one of my officers will be considered with a completely open mind,’ the inspector replied, watching in disbelief as the last mouthful of sandwich entered Carmichael’s gaping maw. How did he do it? And feeling the way he had just that morning.

  Swallowing furiously, the sergeant said, with a hint of awe in his voice, ‘We met a real witch.’

  ‘You never!’

  ‘We did. In that cottage opposite called “Ace of Cups”. She all but passed out when we gave her the news of the murder.’

  ‘Oh, Carmichael, you are so naïve sometimes. If I told you I was the Queen of Sheba you’d believe me.’

  ‘No I wouldn’t, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause you’re a man, so you couldn’t possibly be a queen of anywhere.’

  ‘Fair point, and well-reasoned,’ was Falconer’s response, adding, for Roberts’ benefit, ‘She claimed to be a white witch; a follower of Wiccan, whatever that means, and, please, don’t either of you start explaining it to me, because I’m not in the least interested. I just know that she’s a charlatan, and we’ll leave it at that, shall we?’

  The other two looked at him rather sharply. This woman had obviously upset him, but neither of them was about to ask how.

  ‘Now, if you’ve finished, let’s get on with the job at hand, and we’ll meet back at the station when we’re finished. OK?’

  A unison ‘OK,’ agreed with him, and they went their separate ways again for the rest of the afternoon.

  Falconer and Carmichael’s first call of round two was at ‘Tootelon Down’ – ugh! What a twee name – which was at the northern end of the terrace of three, just opposite The Druid’s Head. This was the home of Violet Bingham, a widow who revealed herself, when she opened the door to them, to be somewhere in her mid-seventies. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, tears still wet her cheeks, and her free hand held a wet and crumpled old-fashioned linen handkerchief.

  She bade them enter, and apologised for her distraught state. ‘I had a call from dear Rev. Florrie,’ she told them. ‘She thought she ought to let me know, as Lettice and I have been best friends for years now. I met her when my children were quite young, and we just clicked. I’m completely devastated at what has happened, and I shall help in any way that will assist in catching whatever evil person has done this.’

  By now they were in her sitting room on comfy chairs, the room a sea of rich red and white with touches of gold. It was surprisingly luxuriously decorated and furnished, in comparison to the other residences they had visited, and a bright log fire burnt in the hearth, making the room even more cosy and comfortable.

  ‘What a lovely room, Miss Bingham,’ Falconer could not help but state.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I think so, too, but it isn’t to everybody’s taste. There’s a mort of chintz in the interiors of this village, but I just can’t take to it. I like plain colours, well-coordinated, with just the hint of a highlight.’

  After this statement, she stopped abruptly, and her tears returned. ‘I really don’t understand how I can talk quite calmly about interior design, when my heart is breaking. Poor, poor Lettice! I do hope she didn’t suffer. Who could do such a thing to an old woman like that?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out, Miss Bingham. We have a few questions we’d like you to answer, then we’ll leave you in peace,’ Falconer assured her.

  ‘Oh, don’t rush on my account. At least company distracts my mind from the awful visions I’ve been imagining. Let me get you some refreshment. Would you like some tea, perhaps?’

  ‘That would be very kind of you. Thank you,’ agreed Falconer, aware that they had only just had coffee, but recognising that the woman needed company more than she needed solitude and, if she had, indeed, been Miss Keighley-Armstrong’
s friend for so long, she might be able to fill in the details about the victim’s character, and provide the names of anyone who may have had reason to dislike her.

  Carmichael, he noticed, was as happy as a pig in poo. The chairs were man-sized, and he knew that his sergeant would welcome any fluid offered after his stint of carousing the evening before.

  Once settled, Violet, with innate intuition having provided Carmichael with a large mug, rather than the dainty china cup and saucer she provided for herself and Falconer, and proceeded to unburden herself of anything that might prove useful to them.

  ‘As I said, I met Lettice a long time ago, and we were friends while my two were growing up. When my husband died, we became even closer, spending a part of most days together, usually at her house. She wasn’t much of a one for going out, and preferred people to come to her – a bit reclusive, really. Her only regular trip out was to church every Sunday, and even that stopped when Rev. Florrie arrived. But she soon got over herself on that one. Rev. Florrie can be very persuasive when she puts her mind to it.’

  ‘How did she manage about her shopping and suchlike?’ asked Carmichael in the silence between answer and next question, and ever practical.

  ‘She had it delivered from the village. Neither shopkeeper minded bringing it up to her, as she was sort of semi-gentry. Her parents had always been the most affluent residents before they died, and their reputation just transferred itself to Lettice.

  ‘If she wanted anything a bit more exotic than they stocked, I would pick it up for her when I went to the supermarket. I didn’t mind at all: we were good friends.’

  ‘Had she fallen out with anyone in the recent past?’ asked Falconer, Carmichael sitting eagerly with his pen to the ready, hoping for some meaty stuff.

  ‘Not really, except for with the vicar, before she got to know her properly. She could be a bit sharp-tongued, but then she didn’t see that many people, so she couldn’t get herself into hot water.’

  ‘What about Miss Asquith, who also claimed to be a good friend of hers?’ enquired Falconer, not realising he had really thrown the cat among the pigeons.