Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 3

  ‘Say no more, dear lady. Now, just let me get this straight – there’s going to be an Arts Festival in your village?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s going to be this weekend. That is, the fifth and sixth of this month?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’d like me to mention it on this week’s show, to help with publicity and attendance, no doubt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And to come along in person to report on it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fiona had never been at such a loss for words.

  ‘I should be delighted, my dear, provided that you furnish me with three things.’

  ‘What?’ asked Fiona, even more flustered now.

  ‘Why, the name of the village concerned, the name of your delightful self, and your telephone number, so that I can get in touch with you again about arrangements.’

  ‘Oh, of course, how silly of me! And you mentioned the days that I mentioned …’ She still had not pulled herself together.

  ‘I should be delighted to visit on both days, if you would so desire. Now, tell me about the arts to be represented, and I shall have some idea of what I am up against,’ he finished, preparing to take notes.

  She replaced the receiver of the telephone some twenty minutes later, quite breathless from being charmed. Patting her hair once more and rolling her lips together to make sure her lipstick was still evenly applied, she smiled to herself in self-importance, and prepared to pass on this wonderfully exciting news to the others.

  II

  ‘Hello, Serena, guess what?’ Serena Lyddiard was not in the mood for guessing games and said so, without preamble, having been badgered almost out of her wits by people ‘just calling’ to see if they could borrow the key of the village hall.

  ‘Oh, all right, it’s just that I’ve been speaking to that radio presenter …’

  ‘What radio presenter?’

  ‘Oh, of course, you weren’t there. Well, he does a programme on Radio Carsfold called ‘The Village Culture Vulture’ every Friday at three, and I’ve hunted him down,’ another unconscious pat at the hair, ‘and I’ve only got him to agree to advertise our little Festival this Friday, and to turn up in person, both Saturday and Sunday, so that he can fully cover everything.’ She purred to a halt.

  ‘Who is he?’ Serena wasn’t really interested, but realised she had been a bit uncharitable when answering the call, and had better get herself up to snuff before she hurt Fiona’s feelings.

  ‘Marcus Willoughby.’

  ‘Never heard of him!’ Whoops, manners slipping again.

  ‘Well, he sounded just divine on the phone. I bet he’s well fit. Anyway, thought I’d just let you know, and that it’s all down to little old me.’

  ‘Well done. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a cake in the oven, and it smells like it’s catching.’

  Fiona heard the receiver replaced, and shrugged. You couldn’t please all of the people all of the time. Reclaiming her good mood, she looked at her list of numbers, and began to dial the next one.

  III

  On one of the benches on the village green, Rev Benedict Ravenscastle was sitting next to an elderly woman who held a Yorkshire terrier by a slender lead. They were deep in conversation, the subject quite obviously a serious one. ‘I realise that you miss Bubble very much, and so does little Squeak.’ He cast a glance at the tiny dog, lifting its leg at the end of the bench. ‘But he’s been gone for over five months now, and I really think that you should put it to the back of your mind, and not depress yourself any more, my dear Squirrel.’

  Harriet Horsfall-Ertz, a staunch church-goer for all of her seventy-eight years (for she had been carried to church as a babe in arms by her parents) turned her rheumy eyes towards God’s representative here on earth (for the parish of Stoney Cross, at least) and said, ‘But it’s this thing with the soul, you see, and the Church thinking that animals don’t have them; so what’s going to happen to me when I get to the Pearly Gates, and there ain’t a little Yorkie capering around, all excited to see me again?’

  Still amazed at his audacity in using this elderly woman’s nickname, well chosen, as she was an avid car-booter and inveterate hoarder, Rev Ravenscastle stared wistfully towards the heavens, as if in search of inspiration, absent-mindedly running his right hand over his white hair. ‘I think, myself, that that is a little harsh of the Church, and if you would like my personal opinion …’

  ‘Yes, please, Vicar.’

  ‘I think that our pets, like children, bring us such joy, that it would be impossible for God to exclude them from His kingdom. I feel confident that you and Bubble and Squeak, in the fullness of time, will all be together again.’

  The smile that greeted this pronouncement was so full of relief and happiness, that he patted the old lady’s hand kindly, and rose to return to his duties. It may not be what he should have said, but it was what he needed to say to start the healing process, even this belatedly.

  Squirrel greatly missed Squeak’s brother, who had been killed on the road in Carsfold in the early dark of March, and she had not been the same person since. Maybe she would begin to pick up a bit again, especially with all the excitement of the Festival. She used to love to be out and about with her little dogs. Maybe she would return to this pastime with her one remaining dog, a little more comforted.

  IV

  Fiona hung up on the last of her triumphant telephone calls. Apart from Serena Lyddiard, she had spoken to Delia, Camilla, Sadie, Christobel, Felicity (and Hugo, who insisted on grabbing the receiver) and Minty – she, Fiona, was definitely the heroine of the hour. And now she must practise, but at least it would be in peace, for a while. That bitch Lydia Culverwell had beat her to the key last night by dint of leaving the pub just a little bit earlier than her, and positively running to Blackbird Cottage. Absolutely no shame, that woman; and, anyway, she herself had been wearing high-heeled shoes, and could not keep pace with her adversary.

  Well, at least with Madam out of the way in the village hall, she could really let rip with her own practice, as loud as she wanted, with no fear of interruption, and she’d have her turn as arranged – the chance to hear her voice soar through all that space, instead of being swallowed by the small areas of domestic living. Perhaps she would go on to the landing, where she knew there would be better acoustics, due to the staircase and hall.

  V

  At Blacksmith’s Cottage, Camilla Markland was in full venomous flight, taking out all her rage and frustrations on her long-suffering husband Gregory, who had unwittingly phoned her in his lunch hour to see how her day was going. (The fool should have known better!)

  ‘You know it’s only three days to my first recital, and I’ve only managed to bag half an hour, and that was by absolutely begging; and that’s on Friday, and that’s between those two awful warring women from Dragon Lane.

  ‘But you don’t want your harp there at the moment. You know you don’t like it being moved too much, and it would be so inconvenient if you had to go over there every time you wanted to run through your piece.’ These were wise words, but they fell on ears deafened by fury.

  ‘That’s beside the bloody point! And you know what will happen, don’t you? I’ll get over there dead on time, and the first one will over-run on purpose to rob me of valuable minutes, and the other one will arrive early and want to get in, and you know how long it takes me to set everything up just so. I simply won’t be able to find the right mood, and it’ll be a complete waste of time. And, with the harp there, I won’t be able to do any last minute practice, and I shall make an absolute fool of myself in front of everybody, and I just want to die.’ She burst noisily into tears, and hung up on her husband, rushing upstairs to sob in peace in the privacy of her bedroom, pushing her other niggling worry to the back of her mind. She’d have to deal with that ‘on the hoof’, as it were.

  VI

  From the open windows of The Old School, gusty laughter was carried away on the breez
e. Inside the building were Sadie and Minty, the latter having arrived a couple of hours earlier clutching a brace of bottles of chilled Chardonnay. She was feeling a little ‘windy’ about opening her home to strangers, and fancied a bit of a girlie-artist night with a friend. This was not, of course, the first time she had been part of an Artists Trail, but it was her first time from The Old Mill – it was a sort of ‘loss of virginity’ moment for the place.

  Sadie had welcomed her with open arms, having already consumed several cans of lager, and by the time they had polished off the wine, they were in a high old mood. ‘What about all that business in The Inn last night?’ called Sadie, her voice muffled by the interior of the fridge, where she was in search of an unfinished bottle or two of wine, to prolong their night.

  ‘I know! Unbelievable!’ called back Minty, squinting into her glass to make sure that there wasn’t even a tiny drop left to drink.

  ‘What a pack of two-faced bitches some of them are.’ Sadie’s voice grew in volume as she left the kitchen clutching the necks of two bottles, both of them over half full.

  ‘Oh, more drinky-poos!’ exclaimed Minty, clapping her hands like a little girl on Christmas morning. It didn’t seem to matter how many calories she consumed – she never put on an ounce of weight, and was, fortunately, happy with her slightly padded figure. ‘Li’l Minty loves her din … drinky-poos,’ a slight slur indicated that she might have had enough already, but was game for a few more glasses before she finally threw in the towel.

  ‘White or white?’ Sadie asked, squinting drunkenly at the labels and giggling as she set the bottles on the table.

  ‘White, I think, with just a li’l bit o’ white,’ Minty replied, with a definite snigger at her own staggering wit. ‘Goo’ frien’s, tha’s wha’ we are, innit, Sadie? We’re goo’ frien’s.’

  Tottering towards her visitor, slopping wine from the two brim-full glasses she carried, Sadie’s face took on a delighted look of mischief. ‘Yeh! And goo’ frien’s oughter share secre’s, di’n’ they?’

  ‘Oo, winey-poos for Li’l Minty. Hic! Yeh, they oughter share … wassnames.’

  Sadie, peering through one half-closed eye at her friend, cocked a finger towards her studio and led Minty to a cloth-covered lump of stone about eighteen inches high. ‘Woss ’at?’ the abstract artist asked, draining her so recently refilled glass at a gulp.

  ‘’M gonna tell you a story. ʼBout some old geezer who too’ the pisssss.’ The sibilant hiss went on a little too long, confirming her similarly inebriated state. ‘’E reckon … reckoned my work was rubb’sh. Silly ol’ sod! So I made this li’l thingummy for ’im. Loo’! I’ll show you!’ And with that she whipped the cloth away, staggering several crab-like steps to her left, and laughing again, one hand over her mouth to stifle her glee.

  What was revealed caused Minty to gasp, then burst into peals of delighted drunken laughter, her right index finger pointing at the sculpture in disbelief. What had been revealed was a large penis, the lower half erect, the upper half drooping, turning it into the semblance of an inverted ‘U’. The pubic hair was expertly represented, but there were no testes.

  ‘Whereza balls, Sadie? Whereza bollox?’

  ‘Ain’t got ’ny.’

  ‘Well, wossit called?’

  ‘Art Critic,’ Sadie pronounced, carefully and precisely. ‘Iss that geezer wot rubb’sh’d m’ work.’

  ‘Hee hee hee! Wozz ’is name?’

  ‘Can … can’t ʼmember atta momen’. Tell you la’er.’

  Minty took another look at the small sculpture and laughed so hard she wet herself a little, then, finding this fact absolutely hilarious, laughed even harder.

  The church clock chimed midnight.

  The signs were not auspicious for a bright and early start the next morning for Sadie Palister and Araminta Wingfield-Heyes.

  VII

  A little earlier, in The Inn on the Green, trade had been far from brisk, due to the fact that everyone involved in the Festival was at home, either titivating their contributions or practising their party pieces. A few customers chatted in a desultory manner, scattered around the old oak tables, but the bar itself was quiet.

  ‘Do you reckon we’re going to do a lot of extra trade over the weekend?’ Tarquin Radcliffe asked his business partner Peregrine McKnight, ‘Because, if we do, I reckon we’re going to need an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right, old chap. Got any ideas?’

  ‘Well, there was that Doidge dame – what was her name?’

  ‘Suzie.’

  ‘That’s right. Lived over in King George III Terrace. Do you want me to give her a ring and see if she can come in?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘OK! She was a good little worker when she was here at Christmas – bags of experience, and just got on with things. I’ll slip out the back and do that then.’ And Tarquin headed out to the rear of the building to do just that.

  He returned after only a couple of minutes. ‘Not just “no answer”, but the line doesn’t seem to be in service any more, so maybe she could do with the money, if she’s been cut off.’

  ‘Hello, Vicar,’ called Peregrine, to a figure who had just walked through the door, and beckoned him to approach the bar.

  ‘I haven’t come in for a drink, I’m afraid, Mr McKnight. I just called in to have a word with one of my wardens whose wife said he was in here.’

  ‘That’s all right, Vicar. I’d just like to pick your brains about one of your parishioners, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all, so long as it’s not confidential. Fire away.’ Reverend Ravenscastle’s face took on a slightly hunted expression as he said this.

  ‘The thing is, we’ve just tried to contact Suzie Doidge from King George III Terrace, and her phone line seems to be disconnected. Do you know if she’s OK?’ Tarquin put the question, as he had been the one who had tried to telephone.

  ‘Actually, I don’t. Know, that is. It would seem that she’s left the area. I think it was in the spring, but I can’t be sure. She wasn’t one of my regular worshippers, you know, but I try to keep in touch with what’s going on, even for those who feel no need to visit the Lord’s house.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Rev.,’ put in Peregrine. That was about as much of the ‘God’ stuff as he could take. ‘I think the gentleman you’re looking for is over there by the window playing dominoes.’ Ravenscastle turned and ambled away, and Peregrine and Tarquin looked at each other, then had to hide their faces as they began to giggle.

  ‘What about Annie Symons, over at Castle Farthing?’ Peregrine suggested. ‘She did a spot of filling in when you had your ingrowing toenail done. I’ve got her number in the book by the telephone. Won’t be a min.’

  He also returned with nothing positive. ‘No answer on the phone, so I gave The Fisherman’s Flies a tinkle – you know George and Paula Covington, don’t you? She used to give them a hand sometimes – handy-like, with her just being in Drovers Lane – but no joy there. George reckons she moved away to live with a sick relative, and Paula thinks she packed off to Australia to live with a cousin of hers. Whatever, she isn’t around any more.’

  ‘When do they reckon she went?’

  ‘Not really sure. Before the summer they think, maybe late spring.’

  ‘Just our luck! You can’t get the staff, you know,’ Tarquin stated, and stared into space, thinking.

  ‘Something’ll turn up, just you wait and see. And after all, it’s just a couple of days.’ This was Peregrine’s last word on the matter for now, as he stepped forward to serve an impatient customer who was tapping noisily on the bar with a £2 coin and pointedly clearing his throat.

  Chapter Three

  Friday, 4th September – daytime

  I

  It was early afternoon, and Stoney Cross was abuzz with activity. Some of the local artists were packing up their exhibits ready to be taken to the village hall, others, more astute, were already in the hall, busily
bagging the best of the display space. Large heavy screens, like room dividers, had been set up, at right angles to the two long walls. Between these, in the clear through-space, chairs were to be placed to make comfortable those who came to listen to the readings and music to be performed, and watch Serena Lyddiard dance.

  At the rear of the hall, at the opposite end to the performing area, trestle tables had been erected, and crockery and tea and coffee urns were being placed thereon, ready for those hungry and thirsty for more than the arts. The tea shop was providing the sandwiches, cakes and biscuits at a discount rate, and this particular catering venture, it was hoped, would provide a good profit for the church restoration fund.

  Reverend Ravenscastle and his wife Adella were in attendance at this activity, as was Squirrel Horsfall-Ertz and her inevitable companion, Squeak. His lead secured to the legs of one of the trestle tables, he had crawled beneath this shelter, and now slept peacefully through all the chaos, curled into a tiny furry ball.

  Sadie Palister was there to help, having recovered from her over-indulgences of the night before, and her deep voice could be heard booming across the centre section of the hall. ‘Mrs Solomons, will you please stop taking down Mrs Carstairs’ oil paintings and replacing them with your own water-colours. There’s plenty of display space for all.’

  ‘But I want mine here, in the light. They’re delicate works, water-colours, and must be hung with care as regards the lighting. Her oils are much gaudier – they could go anywhere and be noticed.’

  ‘That’s what she says,’ retorted Mrs Carstairs, suddenly becoming aware of what was going on. I don’t know about ‘delicate’, but it’s first come, first served, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t you agree Ms Palister?’ There was a degree of sucking-up in the final question, but Sadie ignored it, more interested in justice than getting caught in the cross-fire.

  ‘Mrs Solomons, I’m afraid you’ll just have to take your water-colours back down and let Mrs Carstairs have that space …’