Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files Book 1) Read online

  XI

  At The Fisherman’s Flies, Castle Farthing’s only hostelry, George and Paula Covington may not have been in the first, or even second, flush of youth, but they could have taught today’s young quite a bit about the execution and enjoyment of a little bit (or even a lot) of ‘afternoon delight’. They anticipated it eagerly as they finished clearing away the last of the lunchtime debris.

  Chapter One

  Sunday 12th July – afternoon and evening

  I

  From where she stood, feeding the ducks on the village green, old Martha Cadogan could see George Covington outside the public house, collecting glasses, as his wife Paula followed behind emptying ashtrays and collecting carelessly discarded crisp packets. Sunlight glinted off the weathervane atop the tower of St Cuthbert’s and the vicar, husband of Martha’s niece Lillian, greeted her as he cycled past on some unknown errand.

  Castle Farthing, with the exception of the surfeit of motorised through-traffic, had changed little since Martha was a girl. Now eighty-five, she reflected on the whole of a lifetime spent in one village, first as a child, then as the schoolmistress, and now, when no doubt she was known as ‘that old biddy from Sheepwash Lane’.

  A dazzle of bright colour lit the periphery of the old lady’s vision and she turned slightly to observe the village’s artist, Cassandra Romaine, swanning her way down the High Street, her outfit a rainbow of dip-dyed cheesecloth and vivid scarves. With a wave of her hand the younger woman turned left into Church Street, leaving the afternoon somehow cooler and less bright.

  Across the green the Covingtons had ceased to dart around the umbrella-shaded tables of The Fisherman’s Flies, and were taking a break to chat to a figure that Martha easily identified (for her eyesight was still sharp, despite her years) as Piers Manningford, an incomer who, it seemed, was doing his best to integrate into village life, despite a deeply felt desire to keep himself to himself most of the time. He seemed to be making a real effort. Perhaps he was just shy, she thought.

  From a window in the Castle Farthing Teashop a white tea towel appeared and was shaken vigorously. It was soon replaced with a head that yodelled ‘toodle-oo’ across the green. Martha acknowledged young Rebecca Rollason with a wave, and watched with amusement as young Tristram toddled unsteadily out of the teashop door, only to be scooped up within six steps, and carried, bawling in protest, back into the cool, safe interior.

  Hearing the yapping of a dog behind her, she turned to see Reg Morley, nearly as old as her, only a couple of years behind her at school, emerge from the musty interior of Crabapple Cottage with his Jack Russell. As he bent to clip on the little dog’s lead, a head emerged from an upstairs window next door in Jasmine Cottage to issue an ultimatum. ‘You just make sure that mangy mutt of yours does his business while you’re out and doesn’t save it up for my back garden later.’ Muttering under his breath, old man and dog set off to see what sport the afternoon had to offer, Reg pulling viciously on the lead when the dog veered off in excitement at an interesting scent.

  Martha Cadogan, having exhausted her supply of stale bread on the ducks who resided at the village pond, sat down on the bench next to the war memorial to watch the continuation of the Castle Farthing Sunday afternoon perambulations, in the hope of a conversation or two. The fair weather currently prevailing boded well for St Swithin’s Day on the fifteenth, and thus the superstitious promise of fair weather to come should prove a good opening gambit.

  Shadows were beginning to lengthen when the squeak of the church gate announced that either someone had mistakenly turned up for Evensong, or the shortcut from the woods had been selected in preference to going round the long route on the Carsfold Road.

  As the catch caught with a ‘snick’, a still-energetic Buster bounded round his master’s feet, slowing the old man’s already arthritic progress to a funereal crawl. Reg Morley did not seem to notice the joyous capering of his pet, as he looked alternately cunning and confused, even stopping at one point, at the corner of Church Street and the High Street, to raise the greasy peak of his ancient flat cap and give a tentative scratch at his head with a grimy, broken-nailed finger, as he stood contemplating something in the middle distance. A perplexed smile creased his forehead as he muttered to himself, ‘I knowed that one. I’d’ve knowed that voice anywhere. That other though – can’t place it. But who’d’ve thought it. Dirty buggers!’

  Finally rousing himself from this reverie, he gave a sharp tug on the dog’s lead and, getting no response, used his foot to gain attention, before heading the few yards to his own front door, whistling softly to himself, half a twinkle forming in his age-dimmed, rheumy eyes.

  Even if the old man had realised that this was to be his last day on this earth, he would still have been surprised at what a busy and informative evening he would pass, before leaving this vale of tears to meet his maker. Oblivious to what was to occur over the next few hours, Reg Morley lit the gas under his old tin kettle, switched on the radio, and opened the back door to let Buster out to run off the last of his energy before bedtime. The action was about to commence as fate marched inexorably towards his shabby abode.

  II

  Castle Farthing is a smallish village, too far east to be deemed in the ‘West Country’, and too far west to be considered a part of the south-east. A small-ish village in an area of many such small-ish villages, it occupies an enviable position in a shallow valley bordered, on the north, by a stream and the ruins that gave it its name, and, to the south, by agricultural land and woods. Farms also line the roads leaving Castle Farthing to east and west.

  As far as small-ish villages go, it can afford to be slightly smug, as it is on the picturesque side. A diamond-shaped village green at its centre is home to a duck pond, a war memorial, several venerable oak trees, and two benches, where passers-by can sit and enjoy a shady umbrella of leaves in the summer.

  The Carsfold Road enters the village from roughly due south, and forks around the lower half of the green’s diamond. To the right, an obtuse angle is formed, with Church Street leading to St Cuthbert’s parish church (Saxon tower, Norman font, and unusual sarcophagi in the churchyard), the vicarage and the village hall. The left-hand lower section of Castle Farthing houses its only pub, The Fisherman’s Flies, a petrol station and an occasional doctors’ surgery.

  A casual visitor wandering north up the High Street which, a few short steps ago, had been the Carsfold Road, might be momentarily disconcerted by the simultaneous change of road name on both sides of the green. (New postmen were driven to distraction by the proliferation of quaint house names, and the eccentric numbering system that had developed, like a separate life-form, over the years.)

  The north-western quarter of the village, now being passed through by our imaginary visitor, possesses Castle Farthing’s few shops – a general store, a farmers’ co-operative, and a tea shop. At the very top of this corner of the village, where the stream weaves lazy coils through the vale, is a trout farm. The remaining quarter houses a post office, a terrace of ramshackle thatched cottages, picturesque to look at but uncomfortable to live in, and The Old Manor House.

  To the rear of the grandly-proportioned Old Manor is the ugly scar of a new housing development, and a caravan park occupying some of the land that used to belong to the big house, since sold off for the upkeep of an elaborate, draughty and inconvenient residence, which also just happens to be the best address in the village.

  III

  Reg Morley didn’t give a fig for picturesque, so long as life was interesting, and today had been extremely interesting. Settling in a grubby armchair, he replayed its highlights in an imaginary video, from the ‘interesting’ eavesdropping in the woods earlier – interesting and, maybe, profitable, if only he could get it properly figured out in his head – to the three extremely satisfying arguments he had enjoyed since returning home.

  Buster’s whining interrupted these thoughts, and he realised that the dog had some last-minute business to
conduct. On a whim, the old man decided to take him out the front, see if he could not get the dog to leave someone a little present for the morning. Then he might shut him out for a bit. The kiddies next door would be asleep by now, and a bit of hearty yapping should give that cheeky mother of theirs the run-around for a while, trying to resettle them.

  As he stood outside the post office in the gathering dusk, holding the lead of an obliging Buster, a flash of colour caught his eye. A red or brown would have gone unnoticed in the fading light, but this vivid turquoise was almost arrogant in its brightness. As Buster gave a single yap to indicate the end of his ‘business’, a penny dropped in old Reg’s brain. And as the penny dropped, a devious smile spread across his sour features. And, as he smiled, the figure turned and looked directly at him. Reg raised his free hand and waved lazily. He could afford to be magnanimous because, now he did have everything figured out, he could concentrate on how to extract the maximum profit and the maximum fun from that knowledge. He had them both bang to rights, one by the voice; the other, by the clothing.

  Reg Morley had never in his life heard the word Schadenfreude, and now he never would, which was a pity since he had revelled in it for all but the first two or three years of his miserable, bitter life.

  Giving a harsh tug on the lead that set Buster whining, he half-dragged the little dog back through the front door of his cottage. Martha Cadogan, passing on the other side of the green on her way home from supper with her niece and nephew-in-law, averted her gaze at this unnecessarily harsh treatment of a dumb animal.

  The last sliver of the setting sun slipped below the skyline, and the serene orb of a full moon glided into prominence to gild the rooftops of this typical, peaceful English village.

  Chapter Two

  Monday 13th July – morning

  I

  The mist heralding a fine Monday had already dispersed in wraiths and ribbons, and the sun sparked diamond fire from pond and stream. Even at this early hour, when Castle Farthing was just beginning to stir and shrug off the sluggishness of sleep, a haze shimmered from the roads, and the village cats, ever vigilant in the pursuit of their own comfort, sought shade where they could.

  Commuters and agricultural workers had long left for their labours as the local children congregated at the war memorial to await the arrival of the school bus, and the commercial section of the High Street drew its bolts and opened its doors for another day’s trade. No chimney smoked to cloy the sweet summer air, most houses had their windows flung wide, and doors were propped wide open with an ingenious range of improvised doorstops: here a hefty flint, there an inverted floor mop.

  In the small sorting office at the rear of the post office, Alan and Marian Warren-Browne were putting in order the letters and packets for the first delivery of the day. Alan’s short frame was hunched over the table, his small hands furiously rifling through and extracting those items for outlying properties that would need delivery by van. His lips moved in a silent litany of addresses and, occasionally, he winced and rubbed at his back when he had bent uncomfortably far to reach an envelope.

  Opposite him, his wife’s waif-like figure worked more slowly, almost ponderously, as she assembled the on-foot deliveries for the main village. Every couple of minutes she would slow to a halt, raise a birdlike hand to brush her mousy fringe from her eyes, and wipe away the thin film of perspiration that had formed on her forehead.

  In the background, constantly, came the yapping that could only be Buster. On and on it went, although slightly muffled, which must mean that Reg could not be bothered to let him out into the garden to be about his morning ‘business’. That was a mixed blessing, for the barrier of the back door muted the sound a little and, if let out, the volume of the staccato yelps would increase. Then again, they might just stop completely given the little dog’s joy at being abroad in the fresh air.

  With a quick glance at the wall clock, Alan snapped an elastic band round the last of his letters, and rose to open the front door to any early customers. As he ducked through the low doorway, Marian ceased her sorting altogether and raised both hands to cradle her head. The dog’s frantic entreaties bit into her brain like needles: she could feel the fire in her head about to ignite. A silent tear rolled down her cheek, and she was too sunk in her own misery to hear her husband’s sharp cry of disgust and his bustling return, his right shoe in his hand, held at arm’s length.

  ‘Just one step outside,’ he explained, heading for the minute kitchen area where they made their tea and coffee when on duty. ‘Just one step and I was in it. He takes that damned dog through the woods every day and he’s got a perfectly good garden of his own, so why does that yappy little tripe-hound of his always do its business by our front door? One of those two is evil, and I doubt it’s the dog,’ he continued, mopping with kitchen roll and sprinkling disinfectant. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that old codger to have trained the dog somehow, got it to poo to order, just where he wants it to. He’s upset just about everyone in this village and I, for one, have …’

  He trailed to a halt as he returned to the sorting area and saw his wife’s waxen face beaded with sweat and streaked with tears. ‘Have you got another migraine?’ Marian nodded carefully and winced. ‘Is it that damned dog again?’ (Another careful nod.) ‘Well, that’s the last straw. I’m going round now to give him a piece of my mind, and if he doesn’t do something this time about that bloody animal, there just might be a nasty accident in the woods come pheasant shooting season.’ Alan fantasised about meting out a swift end to his canine adversary.‘Terribly sorry, Your Honour. There was a movement in the grass, he was off the lead and, well he is – was – such a small dog. Easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment.’ It’d be worth the day in court just for the peace and quiet.

  And with that, the postmaster disappeared. A few seconds later Marian heard a furious, ‘Oh, no! I can’t believe I’ve trodden in it again. Well, he’ll just have to have it on his carpets and serve him right.’ The door slammed shut and she was left with just the dog’s yaps and her pain for company.

  II

  From the window of the Castle Farthing Teashop, Rebecca Rollason held up her small son and pointed across the green. ‘Look at cross old Mr Warren-Browne banging on nasty Mr Morley’s door,’ she crooned. ‘Doesn’t he look funny with his face all red? He looks very, very cross to me.’ Tristram gurgled his approval of this impromptu entertainment, and she continued, ‘What’s he going to do now, then? Naughty Mr Morley must be hiding ’cause he doesn’t want to answer the door. Ah, cross old Mr Warren-Browne’s going down the side now. He’s going to surprise naughty Mr Morley at the back door. I don’t think naughty Mr Morley will like that, do you, precious? But we don’t care, because naughty Mr Morley is a dirty old man, and Daddy says he’s going to punch him on the snoot one of these fine days.’

  A muted banging sounded from the rear of Crabapple Cottage. ‘Let’s go sit outside for a minute, shall we, baby? Then we can hear better if the naughty men are going to shout at each other, and it doesn’t matter if they use bad words, because you won’t understand them, will you, my little bundle of joy?’ She settled her son on her hip and stepped out into the High Street, ears strained for the expected slanging match.

  But there came no shouting. Even the dog’s yapping ceased, leaving a silence that was almost painful to the ears. Rebecca’s pretty face creased in a frown, then her eyes and mouth became so many ‘o’s, as Alan Warren-Browne reappeared, this time through the front door, face now white, hair standing on end where he had raked his fingers through it in disbelief. Catching sight of Rebecca, he lurched towards the green calling hoarsely, ‘Police. Call the police. 999. Someone’s done for the old bugger. He’s as dead as a doornail.’

  III

  About seven miles to the north of Castle Farthing lies the town of Market Darley. As market towns go, it is quite pretty, with a weathered market cross, a sprinkling of churches, a couple of supermarkets, and a large selection of
the small, idiosyncratic shops that seem to congregate in towns of this ilk. It has a town hall, a cottage hospital, a hotel, four public houses and a limited range of the other necessary amenities. As it is the only place in the area that can be dignified with the name ‘town’, and as it is fairly central to the area’s villages, it also has a decent-sized police station which, at this moment, is running at minimum strength, mainly due to the number of officers fighting German tourists for sunbeds round pools in a variety of sunny locations.

  In an office, to the rear of the first floor in this police station, sits a man painstakingly re-shaping a ragged fingernail on an otherwise immaculately manicured hand. His hair is dark, short and straight; his eyes are dark and his skin is tanned; he is within six months of his fortieth birthday. Today, he is wearing an exquisitely-cut lightweight beige suit, a cream shirt, and a tie of pale pink silk; his socks are cream and his brogues brown; a handkerchief peeps shyly from his breast pocket. The heat of the day has left him unmoved, and he looks as immaculate as when he had dressed at seven that morning.

  At a desk opposite sits another man. Not much more than half the older man’s age, he is however nearly twice the size. Six feet five and a half inches in his rather large cotton socks, he is built along the lines of a brick outhouse. Everything about him is untidy. His hair sticks up in sweaty tufts, his tie is askew, his collar open. Ink stains his fingers and he breathes adenoidally through his mouth, as what passes for his brain fights the heat in order to deal with the paperwork before him.

  The internal telephone on the older man’s desk trills self-importantly and he puts down his nail file and lifts the receiver. ‘Yes?’ (Pause) ‘Speaking.’ (Pause) ‘Oh, not in another godforsaken village?’ (Pause) ‘If I must. But who will I take with me? My sergeant’s on leave for another week.’ (Pause) ‘You can’t mean that.’ (Pause) ‘You do mean that.’ (Pause) ‘A plague on your house, Bob Bryant.’