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

  Falconer’s current register of feline house-mates was: Mycroft, who had been an only cat for a long time, and was a seal-point Siamese; Tar Baby, who was a huge black ball of fluff; Ruby, a red-point Siamese, the latter both inherited from an escaped murderer on whom Falconer had developed a tremendous crush, and Meep (pedigree name ‘Perfect Cadence’), a silver-spot Bengal he was caring for while its owner, another murderer, was in prison.

  ‘Well, you’ve got five dogs, two stepsons, although they’re adopted now, aren’t they, and a new baby to care for. This will leave me with only five cats, so it’s got to be easier for me to give her a trial than for you to send her away and never know how she’s getting on. Come on, you little tinker, and we’ll see what the rest of the gang think of you.’

  ‘Thank you again, sir. I’ll be getting back, and tell Kerry and the boys that everything’s all right, now that she’s living here with Uncle Harry.’

  Falconer winced at this mode of address with which the boys had tagged him, ‘I did say it was only temporary, Carmichael; remember that.’

  ‘Oh, I know you, sir. You’re so soft-hearted, you’d never give her up, once you get used to her winning little ways.’

  ‘You mean like herding other animals, and stealing food?’

  ‘Things aren’t the same in your house, sir. In ours, they’re much more chaotic. I know you’ll manage beautifully and, before you know it, she’ll just be part of the family.’

  As Falconer turned to close the door, very aware of the furry little bundle now nestling on his shoulder, he left Carmichael tripping down the path, mission accomplished, and whistling for sheer joy at this unexpected success.

  Entering his living room, one shoulder, of necessity, lower than the other, four furry lumps roused themselves from sleep, their nostrils informing them that there was an interloper in their midst, and they immediately informed their keeper that there was dissent in the ranks.

  ‘Meep, meep-meep-meep!’ piped Perfect Cadence.

  ‘Meow-eow!’ mewed Tar Baby, in protest.

  Both Ruby and Mycroft joined their Siamese voices in their particular and unmistakeable call of, ‘Neow-ow-ow! In reply, Monkey gave a little chirrup, and dropped gracefully to the ground, immediately identifying Mycroft as their leader.

  She approached him, her belly slung low – what there was of it, for she was a very sleek brown brindled animal. She stopped a little distance from him and chirruped again, then lifted her head and gave a delicate sniff. The other three sat like statues, awaiting developments, Meep making a low growling noise in her throat.

  Mycroft sniffed back and tossed his head as he smelt the superficial and unmistakeable fragrance of d-o-g-s, in the plural, then took one long, deep sniff, to investigate further. Then he sat for a moment, as if lost in considering thought, and gave a small yip of acknowledgement, that encouraged the new resident to approach.

  Falconer sighed with relief. This was the moment he had been dreading. What if it had turned into a huge cat rumble, with them skidding and thundering all around the house in disapproval at the proposed change in the status quo?

  But they hadn’t, and if Mycroft gave the paws up to this little feline scrap, then the others would bow to his judgement as head cat.

  In Fallow Fold, it being the time of year for planning the activities for the new season, timed to coincide with the academic year, the nominal heads of all the activity circles had their heads bent over calendars, and referred to letters containing dates that certain members couldn’t attend. They also had replies to letters requesting that various local or nationally-acknowledged experts in their chosen field come to speak at one of their forthcoming meetings, and all these had to be co-ordinated to produce the schedule for the coming season.

  There was, of course, much swearing and cursing, as all the information was collated, and certain unpleasant circumstances raised their ugly heads.

  Mabel Wickers of Sideways in Ploughman’s Lays sighed theatrically in disgust. She could cope with letters of intention to miss certain meetings; what she was finding most frustrating was the in-fighting amongst the readers of the Book Circle about what books should be chosen to read over the next few months.

  And, for that matter, who would do readings for those they had already read together, for their day to shine in the village hall, when it was taken over for the best part of two weeks for each circle to publicly demonstrate what they had achieved during the past twelve months. That was a good way ahead, though, and does not come into this story.

  Mabel was a short and portly elderly woman with a wicked, dry sense of humour, but this particular problem was an area from which she could derive no fun at all, nor see any bright side. On one side she had a group of readers who insisted that they should all read prize-winning novels, as they obviously had more merit than anything else.

  From the complete other end of the spectrum, she had a few members who were vociferous about the sheer joy of ‘Aga sagas’, and pushed their case in a most unpleasantly pushy manner. Sometimes she felt like giving the whole thing up and just reading what she wanted to, with no interference in her choice, or opinions, of what she had read, from a crowd of silly women who were just squabbling to see who could get the upper hand.

  In the end, she simply scribbled down on a piece of paper, 1066 and All That, Five Run Away Together, and Babar the Elephant. Let them see how they like them potatoes! She’d had enough for one day. She could send along the dates of meetings to their collator, Melvyn Maitland, who lived just down the road in a house called Black Beams, and let him do the final timetable.

  In fact, she decided to walk down there. At least they offered a good-quality cup of tea in that establishment, which was more than could be said for some other houses she visited on a regular basis, and if there were a biscuit or a slice of cake offered, she could always justify its consumption later by having decided to walk there and back.

  At Black Beams, both Melvyn and Marilyn Maitland were at home, and it was Marilyn who opened the door to her, invited her inside and offered coffee and biscuits. Coffee? It wasn’t quite what Mabel had expected but, no doubt, the coffee here was as good as the tea, and she accepted gratefully.

  ‘Melvyn’s in the study’ Marilyn informed her guest.

  ‘He’s got a lot of the stuff through for what we call “optional term four”. That runs over the summer and is usually badly attended, but it doesn’t mean he can skimp on it. So many people want to change times, days, and venues that I reckon he’ll end up not only pulling out his hair but chewing off his own beard as well; positively using it like an oral set of worry beads. I’m sure, now that you’ve arrived, he’ll be relieved to take a break and forget all about the whole beastly muddle for half an hour.’

  When called for his coffee break, Melvyn appeared out of his study door cursing and swearing in a most venomous way. ‘Those bloody Americans!’ he yelled, not bothering to moderate his volume because they had a guest: it was only Mabel.

  ‘What about them?’ Mabel asked, intrigued to know what they had done to infuriate him so.

  ‘They just don’t honour their responsibilities in this village. I mean, Madison runs the Knitting and Needlecraft Circle, and a very good job she usually makes of it, even if her only interest in that whole craft area is quilting. We all know we have a lot of decisions to be made about exhibiting, and the dates for the optional summer term are always difficult, but she’s just written me a little note – posted, I might add, not delivered by hand – telling me that their ghastly offspring will be staying with them for three weeks of July, then the whole bang-shoot of them are going back to the US of blasted A for the whole of August.

  ‘That leaves Muggins, not only to work out the dates of the meetings, but also the exhibition. Well, I won’t have it. She’ll just have to appoint a deputy, and let her get on with it. I haven’t got time for this! And all I get paid is a tiny percentage from subscriptions and weekly refreshments and membership money.’


  Mabel had to admit that it was not much reward for everything that was expected of him. What she didn’t know was that both the Maitlands were ‘tax ghosts’, who never stayed anywhere long enough to register in the cognisance of local bureaucracy, and were beginning to feel that their time in Fallow Fold was nearly at an end.

  They had wandered their way around the world during the time they had been a couple, always working on the black, and in small ways. Thus, had they accumulated enough money to keep them on their travels, and made a little bit to put away in the meantime. Their expenses were low, and they were notoriously slow bill-payers.

  Mabel made mental notes as Melvyn ranted and raved, took a sip of her coffee, shuddered, took a bite from a biscuit, and shuddered again. The coffee was very cheap instant powder, and the biscuits were soft. That was very unusual. Perhaps they were suffering financially because of the amount of time he had to give up to be archivist and record keeper for all the circles, and didn’t have enough time left to do something better paid.

  ‘Put yourself in my position,’ she spat, feeling thoroughly out of sorts at the quality of refreshments she had been offered. ‘That blasted Book Circle nearly drives me out of my mind with its two warring factions about what sort of books we should list for reading, and I don’t get paid a penny. Sometimes I feel like chucking the whole thing up and just reading what I like.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just do it?’ replied Melvyn, still out of sorts with his own problems.

  ‘I think I might just do that. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to get on with enjoying your sulk.’

  She rose, grabbed her handbag, and marched back to the front door. ‘Don’t leave us in a black mood, Mabel,’ pleaded Marilyn.

  ‘I shall leave in any mood I see fit to. No doubt I shall catch up with the both of you when Melvyn’s not so peeved.’

  When the door had finally closed on their grumpy visitor, Marilyn asked her husband how his schedule was coming along, and he sighed mightily, and said, ‘I’ll read it to you. I’ve already had to re-do it once because one of the damned groups planned to change the day of its meeting, but there was such uproar at clashes with other members about other groups they belonged to, that I’ve had to rearrange it all out again.

  ‘If it’s not right this time, they can all go to hell and blue blazes.’ Wandering back into his study with Marilyn on his heels, he sat at his desk, lifted a large sheet of cardboard, and intoned, ‘Knitting and Needlecraft, Monday afternoons in the village hall – weekly: Monday evening, Bridge at The Retreat – weekly. Tuesday evening, Books at Sideways – fortnightly: that’s the only one for that day, thank God.

  ‘Wednesday is Gardening Circle at The Dark House – fortnightly, and Thursday evening, Classical Music in the village hall – fortnightly. Friday’s got Flowers in the village hall in the afternoon – monthly and Choir in the evening, weekly in the church. Saturday’s the Am Dram meeting, but no one from that group belongs to any of the others because of the amount of time they have to find to learn lines, so thank the Lord for that. At least there won’t be any clashes with the members of that circle.

  ‘And that just leaves us with Vegetables in Tally Ho! for Sunday lunchtimes. What a tangled web. I’ve had enough for today, and I’m now going to have several large drinks to freshen my temper and my patience. I’ll get this done on a poster for pinning up in the village hall, then I’m done with it for as long as I can get away with it. I feel like throwing the whole thing back in their faces and telling them to try to sort it out for themselves.’

  ‘But we need the money, Melvyn,’ said Marilyn in an anxious voice.

  ‘And don’t I know it,’ replied Melvyn, and left the room actually growling.

  In Rookery Nook, on the Stoney Cross Road, there were also cross words being exchanged about the regular meetings of the circles, and how it affected domestic life for them both. Martin Fidgette was not seeing his wife Aggie’s point of view at all.

  ‘I know you want to pursue your interest too, in retirement, but with all these meetings being weekly, fortnightly, or monthly, sometimes they all fall in the same week, and it’s just not good enough,’ carped Martin, his monotonous voice petulant with self-pity.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly my fault if that happens, is it?’ snapped back Aggie, glaring at her husband. This week the monthly flower meeting had taken place in the afternoon, which meant that when she got home again on her sturdy bicycle, there was very little time in which to prepare the evening meal before choir practice, which was that same evening. The choir was run by Martin, and he magnanimously permitted them to take their small, elderly car to that particular event, which was a weekly one.

  ‘And,’ she continued, ‘what about Sundays? You’ve got to be in the church well before time, to play for the earliest arrivals, then you go straight off to the Tally Ho! for your so-called Vegetable Circle meeting, which is every bloomin’ week. I have to cycle myself down there, then heave all the way back home on my own while you’re supping beer in the pub, and I just get to come back here and get the dratted roast dinner on for when you deign to return.’

  ‘I really don’t see that you couldn’t give up one or two or your activities,’ Martin replied ungraciously and extremely selfishly. ‘A man does need feeding properly, after all.’

  ‘Me? Why should I give up anything?’ Counting carefully on her fingers, she declared, with a small sense of victory, ‘I go to four clubs, you attend five different activities, and that doesn’t include all the time you have to spend in the church just practising the organ. It’s you who should give something up, not me.’

  ‘You’re my wife, dammit!’ He shouted. ‘You’re supposed to look after me – remember, you promised to obey.’

  ‘So when do I get to retire?’ Aggie was getting really angry now.

  ‘When I’m dead and gone, and then you’ll still have to look after yourself. I won’t have these rushed, shoddy meals! And I won’t give up any of my interests. In fact, I’m going to phone old Lionel Dixon now, and join the bloody Bridge Circle as well, and if that means I’m going to be offered a rushed and sub-standard meal on that night as well, because of your damned Knitting Circle, I shall eat at the damned pub instead of here. At least I’ll get a good meal there.’

  ‘You go over to The Dark House, but don’t expect me to have any supper ready for you when you get home. I shall be in bed!’ Aggie was really steaming now. ‘And you can give my excuses at choir tonight. This unpleasantness has brought on a dreadful case of indigestion, and I think I shall take an early night. Don’t forget to lock up before you go to bed.’

  And with that, she declined to clear away the plates, and stalked straight upstairs, carrying her latest book up with her. Of course, she’d come down for a cup of tea when Martin had gone, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, or about the fruit cake she had bought on her way home from the needlecraft meeting. That would be her little secret until she’d had a goodly wedge or two in private.

  Chapter Three

  In The Retreat in Ploughman’s Lays, Lionel Dixon was already making plans for the next meeting of the Bridge Circle which wasn’t until Monday evening. He had purchased new packs of cards for all the tables, with two spare packs, just in case of accidents. People were always misplacing cards, usually high value ones, which he was sure that they carried off in their handbags or pockets had they not had the chance to cheat with them.

  His main problem was how to get the members to pay their fair share of what the packs had cost him. There was no point whatsoever in buying cheap playing cards for an enthusiastic group that met weekly; they lasted for practically no time. On this occasion he had bought top quality cards, but knew that they would balk at having to put their hands in their pockets, especially as there was a charge for refreshments, as these came out of Lionel’s own pocket, and not courtesy of the WI, which it probably would have done had they used the village hall for their gathering. And much inferior that woul
d have been, too.

  He prided himself on his fondant fancies, sausage rolls, jam tarts, and sponge cakes, but the ingredients cost money which he wasn’t willing to donate to what, on some occasions, could be a bunch of whingeing ingrates. And he so hated asking for money. A very shy man, he was bold and direct only at the card table. In all other areas of his life he was quiet and retiring, and not very sociable. It seemed to be one of only two aspects of his life where he came alive, these days.

  He belonged to no other circles, finding that he had enough company and gossip in one evening to last him for the rest of the week, and had no further desire to seek out others for social intercourse in between these gatherings.

  On hearing the telephone’s urgent ringing, he cursed quietly and politely under his breath, put down the pack of cards he was checking, and went to answer the shrill voice of interruption.

  When he ended the call, however, he was smiling. A new member would be joining them, and that would liven things up considerably, giving him an excuse to mix people up a bit in their fours, and make up another four. He had three odd members at the moment, meaning that three people always had to volunteer to sit out on some of the rubbers. Suddenly he was looking forward to Monday. Something told him it would be a thoroughly enjoyable day.

  Two doors away, in Rose Tree Cottage, Ferdie and Heidi Schmidt were also in the midst of a disagreement. They jointly ran the gardening club, with fortnightly meetings on Wednesday afternoons in a back room at the public house, The Dark House, and Ferdie was not happy about the situation.

  ‘It was you who wanted to do this crazy thing. I don’t even like gardening. I want to go to the golf club north of Market Darley and play golf. Gardening is a waste of my time in an afternoon.’

  ‘Is golf not the same?’ asked Heidi, heatedly. ‘You said you wanted us things together to do after we finished working. Here I have arranged for us something, together to do, and you do not want it to do any more. Why are you so selfish being?’