Death in High Circles (The Falconer Files Book 10) Read online

  Every item of information arrived in a rush. He was in Carmichael’s house. He was in bed with that bloody dog again, his insides were about to explode like Vesuvius, and it would be impolite to let that happen in front of, let alone all over, his sergeant. There was half a thought in there that involved a christening, but his priority was to react to the word evacuation in all its meanings.

  Rising almost vertically, the pathetic figure on the bed exited the bedroom with more energy than it had seemed possible it could contain, entered the bathroom with a howl like a screaming banshee, slammed the door behind it, and then made noises that made Carmichael’s hair stand on end, while he considered that he might have to redecorate in there rather sooner than he had thought.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday

  A little later, a raggedy wildman sat on the settee in Carmichael’s living room, twitching and coughing, as the house-holder encouraged him to finish drinking a black mixture from an egg-cup. ‘You’ve got to drink it, sir. It’s the antidote.’

  ‘The antidote to what? What on earth did I eat at last night’s reception to land me in such a state?’

  ‘You never made the reception, sir. You barely made the ceremony, and you certainly didn’t have anything to eat.’

  ‘Then, what the hell happened to me? I feel like I’ve been excavated by a food processor, then run through a mangle.’

  ‘My brothers, sir. They’re what happened to you, but for now, it’s most important that you finish this antidote.’

  ‘But what in the name of blue blazes is it an antidote for? Snakebites?’

  ‘My mother’s cure-all panacea.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to take it?’ He was acting very childishly, and he knew it, but childish was how he felt.

  ‘Then you’ll be laid up for days. Just drink it. I’ll hold your nose if you like.’

  ‘You keep your hands off my nose. Hold your own, if you want something to do. Give it here!’ Falconer grabbed the egg-cup and swallowed it in one, then retched, and wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Keep it down, sir. It’ll do you good,’ Carmichael advised, watching him with anxious eyes.

  Falconer sat, his face narrating the story of the struggle his insides were having to retain the tiny amount of noxious liquid, then he went a rather funny shade of mauve, took an enormous breath, and asked for a cup of coffee. ‘By golly, that was good stuff!’ was his only comment, as he smelled frying bacon from the kitchen, and suddenly felt on top of the world.

  A few minutes later, he regained the power of coherent speech and said, ‘I still don’t know what happened, but if this marvellous feeling that has just infused my body is courtesy of something your mother did, then she’s a truly wonderful woman. Now, what about some breakfast, and we can discuss what happened yesterday evening later. There doesn’t seem to be any harm done.’

  There was only one further moment of panic, halfway through a hearty and very unhealthy fried breakfast, when Falconer suddenly remembered his abandoned cats, but he was quickly soothed with the tale of Ma Carmichael’s quick thinking and positive action. He would go straight home after he had eaten, having first checked his alcohol level with a breathalyser – property of Market Darley police station – and would join his sergeant as soon as he’d showered, changed, and begun to feel more like himself, and less like an animated scarecrow.

  It was Stella Christmas, wife of Doc Christmas, that first suspected there might be something amiss across the road, and she voiced her anxieties that Thursday morning over breakfast. ‘You know that Lionel missed Bridge Circle this week?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘You said he’d left a message about going to see his mother,’ answered her husband, his mouth full of eggy soldier.

  ‘I’m getting a bit worried about him,’ Stella replied, her forehead creased in concern.

  ‘He’s a grown man.’

  ‘But it’s not like him to just disappear like that.’ Stella was pressing home her point. ‘You know how punctilious he is about everything? It’s just so unlike him not to phone at least one member and get them to pass on a message.’

  ‘Maybe it was an emergency,’ countered Philip, drinking deeply from his enormous breakfast teacup.

  ‘If it was an emergency, it would’ve been quicker to make a phone call than to write a note and prop it up tidily on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘Has anyone seen him since he went away? I mean, he may be back, and just keeping himself to himself.’

  ‘There were no lights on there last night. I made a point of looking, so that I could drop in today if he’d returned.’ She’d got her teeth into things now, and Philip knew it was better to let her have her head than to try to talk any sense into her.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘you ask around and see if anyone’s seen him. Ring his number, and knock on the door as well, and if you don’t turn up an explanation, let me know. I suppose he could have had an accident, or something, while visiting his mother, and even be in hospital, waiting for someone to notice he’s not around. He’s so self-effacing he’d be likely to do something daft like that.’

  ‘But he’s also a stickler for good manners and detail.’ Stella was determined to make a mystery out of it. ‘If he was in hospital and conscious, he’d probably have got someone to call Mabel Wickers. He’s as friendly, if not more, with her as he is with anyone else hereabouts.’

  ‘Drop in on old Mabel as well, then. Now, I’ve got to get to work. You get digging, Poirot, and let me know what you turn up.’

  Kissing his wife on the forehead, Dr Philip Christmas left the house, dismissing the matter from his mind, and having not the faintest idea what his wife’s idle curiosity would turn up.

  Stella Christmas knew her husband didn’t take her worries about Lionel Dixon seriously, but she was genuinely perturbed. It was so out of character for the man not to dot all the ‘i’s and cross all the ‘t’s, and to go away without a word to anyone, was decidedly out of character.

  As she cleared away the breakfast things, she made her plans for the day. She could go next door to Sideways and have a word with Mabel, to see if he’d said anything to her about his mother. Then she’d ring his number on the telephone and, if there was no answer, she’d go over to the house itself and bang on the door.

  A little peep through the windows wouldn’t be amiss, although she knew that the Bridge Circle members had searched every inch of the property on Monday, as she’d been one of them. He may have returned in the meantime, however, and done something stupid, like falling off a stepladder while changing a light bulb.

  If none of these actions turned up anything, she’d go off and do a little shopping on the village parade, see if she couldn’t stir up a little gossip on her errands. After that, she’d be stumped, but at least she could let Philip know that no one knew where the man had got to.

  But, hey up, she could call at Black Beams to see if the Maitlands knew where he was. She knew that Lionel and Marilyn had a friendship of sorts, and she might know more than anyone else, once pressed.

  The owner of the Carsfold bed and breakfast still had the middle-age couple in residence. For a pair touring the area, they spent an awful lot of time in their room, and their car still didn’t seem to be repaired.

  He wasted no time worrying about that, though, for as long as they paid their way, they could stay till kingdom come as far as he was concerned. They were quiet, their needs were modest, and they didn’t bother him. If only all his guests were so little trouble.

  At her friend Lena’s house in Market Darley, Mabel Wickers was unable to settle or relax. Her mind was in a turmoil about what had been going on in Fallow Fold, and she finally decided that it would be better for her to go back there, and get to the bottom of what was happening, then return to Lena’s when she was in a calmer frame of mind.

  She didn’t see her friend many times a year, although there was not much geographic difference between their addresses, and she didn�
�t mean to waste an opportunity to reminisce and have a laugh, because she was too preoccupied to relax.

  She hadn’t intended to stay long anyway, so she’d leave in the morning, after making arrangements to come and stay for a full week later in the year. She’d be back on the trail on Friday morning and, maybe, she ought to own up to sending that letter.

  Stella Christmas considered the shops on the village parade. The post office and the hairdresser’s were easy. She could call in for some stamps and then make an appointment for a cut; she was certainly due for one. The tearooms could provide her mid-morning break, and the rest would just constitute her shopping for the next few days, although she usually ordered her provisions online.

  She could pick up bits and pieces from the mini-market, a few other bits and bobs from the general store, and make an enquiry on behalf of a non-existent friend for a property in the area at the estate agent’s. If she used a low enough price range, they’d have nothing, and be none the wiser about the real reason for her visit – and she intended to be nothing if not thorough.

  If she went into the bakery, the greengrocer’s, and the butcher’s as well, she could get some nice cakes for after dinner tonight, and the greens and meat for the Sunday roast, and that would be every establishment visited. If she couldn’t pick up some gossip with all those calls, then her name wasn’t Stella Christmas. And it was.

  As the shops were just to the south of Christmas Cottage, she wouldn’t even need to get out her little car. She could do the whole thing on foot, and if she didn’t glean much, she could make some social calls this afternoon. Sometimes she got quite bored at home, which was the reason she had joined the amateur dramatics group. Learning her lines at least gave her something constructive to do.

  It was a very warm day again, and she had no need for a coat, but her weather eye decided that there would be a storm arriving in the not-too-distant future. This gorgeously warm and sunny spell couldn’t last for long; not in this country.

  As she had no intentions of making any heavy purchases, she treated herself to taking her wicker basket with her, which always reminded her of childhood daily shopping trips with her mother – so it was with a light heart that she trotted the few yards necessary to reach the start of the retail establishments available to the residents of Fallow Fold.

  A lot of the shopkeepers were in the drama group, so they wouldn’t find it odd that she was rather chatty in a nosy sort of way, today. They’d probably just think she was extra loquacious due to the good mood produced by this prolonged spell of sunshine and balmy breezes.

  Their establishments had been renovated from the shells of the old shops that had been, variously, corn merchants, ironmongers, feed and seed sellers, and outlets for local produce, and had been saved, by a grant from a heritage fund, from demolition and replacement by a soulless parade of modern shops.

  There were black beams aplenty, and mullioned windows, thatch and ancient tile, and they all wore striped, coloured awnings with pride. Their owners, in the main, lived in the renovated accommodation above the commercial premises, and formed a small community of their own within the larger community of the village.

  The owner of the minimarket confided that he thought the Maitlands were on the fiddle, somehow. He didn’t know what they were up to, but he had always thought they were a bit ‘sus’, but of Lionel’s departure, he knew nothing.

  In the general store, the owner’s wife admitted that she had always considered Lionel a very dubious character, who probably had a secret family tucked away somewhere. The estate agent was able to offer her no properties for her fictitious friend, but was able to confirm that The Retreat had not been put on the market, and its owner not known to have left the area.

  The hairdresser was too busy to talk, so Stella just made an appointment for the following week, then went into the tiny post office to purchase some stamps, where she, unexpectedly, hit pay dirt. The old lady who had run this establishment for what seemed like the better part of the last hundred years, told her that Lionel’s mother had died some fifteen years ago.

  This she knew for certain because when he had gone off to arrange the funeral and clear her house, he had his mail re-directed to her address. He had been gone three weeks, before returning with a van full of mementoes, and an even quieter disposition.

  The bakery and greengrocer’s yielded nothing of interest, but the butcher had a tale to tell, and he was a real old woman where gossip was concerned. Above his shop lived that legendary character, the butcher’s dog, and his master took him for a long ramble through the surrounding countryside every day, after he shut up shop, weather permitting.

  On two occasions, over the last couple of weeks, he had come across Lionel, out in the fields on his own, with no dog, as he didn’t possess such a thing, nor reason to be there. It was unlike the man to go walking through the fields, being very much a home body, but the butcher had been interested to note that there was a strong scent of perfume coming from his clothes on both occasions, and he suspected that old Lionel was seeing someone at last, even if it was in secret.

  He had continued to walk the dog towards an old tumbledown hut at the edge of the field and, there again, there was the haunting memory of perfume. The chap had been keeping trysts with someone hereabouts, and he’d give a good leg of lamb to know who it was.

  This was getting more interesting as she went on. Lionel couldn’t have been called away to look after his mother, simply because his mother was dead, and he’d been out and about in the fields keeping trysts with an unknown woman. There seemed to be a lot about the quiet and unassuming man that no one really knew about, and yet he didn’t seem the sort to have a secret life. But then, whoever did?

  Stella’s last port of call was the tearooms, where she ordered a pot of tea for one and a poached egg on toast, as it was already getting on for lunchtime, and it would save her having to get something when she got home.

  Just as she was tucking in, a shadow crossed her table, and she became aware of Heidi Schmidt looming over her. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked. ‘I feel in need of confiding in someone, for I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Stella, chewing vigorously on a mouthful of toast. ‘If there’s anything I can do, just fire away.’

  ‘It is something Ferdie told me,’ she began, then broke off to order a cup of coffee and a toasted tea-cake. ‘He has remembered something from the night he was hit over the head, but he doesn’t want to cause a fuss. He thinks it would make him unpopular.’

  ‘What has he remembered? Something about who did it?’

  ‘That is correct, ja. But he does not know what to do about what it is he is remembering.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what he remembered, and I’ll see if I can advise you. If you decide it’s best not to say anything, I’ll just forget what you told me. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds very sensible. He says he didn’t see who hit him, for they hit him from behind, but the person said something, and he recognised the voice.’

  ‘What did his attacker say?’ asked Stella, now speaking in a whisper, as was her companion.

  ‘He said, “That’s for my daddy, you filthy Kraut.” At that, Heidi’s features crumpled, and she fought not to let the tears run down her cheeks.

  ‘And whose voice was it, my dear?’ asked Stella, gently, putting her hand over the shaking fingers of the German woman’s.

  ‘It was that American man’s; the one they call Duke.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. Some people seem to relish keeping hatred alive, instead of letting it die with those who were involved in it. Would you like me to get my husband to talk to the inspector about it?’

  ‘Ferdie does not want there to be any charges. He does not want to remind people of such an appalling event in our history.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll get Philip to speak to Inspector Falconer, and he’ll see that a warning is given, but nothin
g is made public. Tell Ferdie everything will be sorted out with the least fuss and the greatest discretion.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Falconer, feeling rather more chipper after a long, hot shower and a fresh set of clothes, finally arrived at the station about eleven thirty. Carmichael was the soul of discretion, merely handing a DVD copy of the christening proceedings, to go with the one the inspector already had of the wedding, and had never viewed, feeling that it might drag up some memories that were better suppressed.

  Carmichael’s only comment on the ceremony the previous evening was, ‘Well, that’s my lot, all with their passports to heaven. No hanging around in Limbo for them. They’re official now.’

  The sergeant then worked diligently at his desk, and only a stray guffaw sounded, as Falconer sat like an embarrassed cat, trying to regain its dignity. Had he had the ability to sit with his legs in the air and lick the base of an imaginary tail, he would have done so.

  All was quiet as an hour ticked away, then the silence was abruptly shattered by the ringing of the telephone. Falconer made a frantic grab to silence the shrillness and found Doc Christmas at the other end, puffed up with news of the doings in Fallow Fold.

  ‘You’ve got a new detective on your beat, old chap: gumshoe goes by the name of Stella Christmas, and she’s definitely got one over on you.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve sent your wife out on my behalf, because I’m not up to it?’ Falconer felt momentarily annoyed at this trespass on his territory. ‘How would you like it if I went round cutting up bodies, to see what they’d died of?’ – an offer that conjured up a distressing image of the dismembered rats the cats had left as their gift to him.

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Harry boy. It’s just the result of a conversation we had at breakfast, and you know how women love to gossip. Anyway, I am now at liberty to let you know a little something about all the hoo-ha in my home village, the first fact being that Lionel Dixon would never have left a note claiming that he’d gone to see his mother, because, apparently, his mother died fifteen years ago.’