Strict and Peculiar (The Falconer Files Book 7) Read online

  Craig bowed his head in acknowledgement of this unexpected accolade, and said, ‘I’ve always been very biddable. My parents were very lenient with me when I was growing up, but I wasn’t the sort of child who rebelled against authority. I was quite happy –’

  ‘With your train sets,’ burst from each and every woman present, not quite in unison, but he understood what they meant. He had an enormous layout of trains, stations, and miniature countryside in his house which many a grown man would envy. It had been his hobby throughout his childhood, and his enthusiasm had never waned. Many mocked him as childish, but those who were men did so with a secret envy, knowing that their wives would never stand for so much of the floor space being taken up by this sort of hobby.

  His new girlfriend, Elizabeth Sinden, the one-time goodtime girl of the village, had turned over a new leaf when a murder had occurred in the village at the beginning of the year, and instead of entertaining a new man friend every week had accepted a courteous offer to go on a chaste date with Craig.

  She had not regretted that decision, thoroughly enjoyed playing with his trains with him, and felt that they were headed for something more permanent. It was so lovely to be treated as a whole person – a lady – and not just as a piece of meat, and Craig was a perfect gentleman, with all the old-fashioned courtesies that didn’t seem to exist any more in people of his age and younger.

  Craig was thirty-nine years of age, and had never been married. Elizabeth, at thirty-five, and divorced, had had what seemed a lonely life stretching in front of her, with no one in particular to spend it with. Now, though, it sparkled with possibilities, and she harboured a secret hope that they might even marry, and she might be granted her wish of motherhood. Buffy had been an old-fashioned girl at heart herself, before her divorce. Craig had steered her back to the straight and narrow, and only just in time, in her opinion. She had become Elizabeth again, as she had been when she was young.

  Everyone who knew her was very pleased about her current circumstances, and there was many a secret wish harboured that this fairy-tale would have a happy ending for them both.

  ‘I love Craig’s train sets,’ Elizabeth burst out, and everyone laughed at the expression of indignation on her face.

  ‘Don’t you take any notice of us,’ advised Dimity. ‘We’re all very happy for you both. More power to your elbow.’

  ‘Elbow?’ Craig mouthed, but Elizabeth dug him in the ribs, and he very sensibly kept quiet.

  ‘When we’ve all had sufficient here,’ suggested Bryony, ‘I wonder if we might go on up to the chapel, to see if it’s no longer a crime scene, and if so, whether Mr Hillman and Mr Warwick have had time to paint over that terrible disfigurement on the wall?’

  ‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ agreed Dimity, and the others nodded. Although the chapel would be able to be used again for services should anyone wish to resume them, it would also be a curio; a tourist attraction for those who visited the village and had sufficient interest to take a step down Tuppenny Lane to visit it. They had been promised an official sign from the Tourist Board when it was finished, and had been inspected and passed as of sufficient local historical interest.

  As Bryony collected cups and saucers on her tray, the others donned their outdoor gear, which was now more substantial than it had been just a couple of weeks ago as the weather was unseasonably cold, and a bad winter was confidently expected. Hats were pulled on, gloves were donned, and scarves were wound around necks as they prepared to go out and face the hostile elements, even though it was only the first of November.

  Dimity and Patience led the way down Dairy Lane, turning left into Farriers Lane, and then left again into Tuppenny Lane, where the chapel was situated between the chip shop and the now sadly closed down library, and Patience gave it a regretful look as they walked past its locked doors, not to be opened again until it was stripped of its stock and fittings, to be sold off to some other body for some other purpose.

  The doors were unlocked, the blue and white tape that had declared the chapel a crime scene gone, so there must be somebody there, and the five villagers hurried into the building’s shelter from the cutting wind. It was what was usually referred to as a ‘lazy wind’: that is, one that could not be bothered to go round one, but went right through one instead.

  Once inside, the first thing of which they were aware was that the red painted Greek graffito had, indeed, been painted over. Someone must have worked overtime to get that done by today. Within a small fraction of a second, their minds became aware that the red writing had been replaced by some other message, this one also in red paint, on top of the fresh layer of white. This was in English, and read: ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord .’

  ‘Oh, my dear goodness!’ exclaimed Dimity, clapping her hands to her mouth in horror. ‘What on earth’s going on here?’

  There were gasps from her companions, and smothered oaths as their brains took in all that had happened since they had last been in the building.

  A lone voice asked, ‘What’s that, up there on the altar?’ Elizabeth Sinden had been the first to drag her eyes away from the new desecration, and she now alerted them all to the fact that things were even more wrong than they had thought.

  They turned to her, to find her pointing at the crude stone table that had served the chapel as an altar, and would do so again, when it was reopened. Its rough surface now bore a burden – a lumpen shape covered with what looked like, in the dim winter’s light, an old table cloth of some sort.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ asked Bryony, the first one to find her voice. ‘Come on, let’s go and take a look. If this is someone’s idea of a joke, I must say that I am not in the least amused, considering what’s already happened this year in the village.’ Murmurs of consent greeted this remark, and they followed her down the aisle to see what awaited them at the east window.

  It was Dimity who was bold enough to reach out a hand and twitch the cloth – which did indeed prove to be an old red chenille tablecloth – aside, and reveal what lay underneath its folds in anonymity. On being greeted with the gaze of dead eyes, one of them slightly bruised and swollen, Dimity gave a little scream of surprise, and dropped the cloth back into its all-enveloping position.

  Bryony reached out a hand and twitched away the tablecloth again from what lay beneath it, and revealed the dead body of Steve Warwick, the plasterer and painter who had been working at the chapel. This was much worse than the appearance of a new graffito, and the reactions of those present reflected this.

  Dimity toddled, in a rather drunken fashion, towards the front pew, and dropped down on it before she passed out. Elizabeth stood transfixed, and Craig put his arm around her shoulder and led her away from the offending sight. Bryony stared with horrified interest at the features of the dead man, one side of his face bruised and swollen, the opposite side of his head at the right temple caved in like the shell of a boiled egg hit with a spoon, but it was Patience who was the most practical of the bunch.

  ‘We’ve got to report this to the police. This is obviously murder, and we need to get in touch with them as soon as possible. Does anyone have their mobile phone on them?’ she asked.

  A chorus, indicating that no one had thought to bring this particularly useful piece of modern equipment, greeted this question.

  ‘Has anyone got a key to the church?’ she asked, with a little more confidence in her second question.

  ‘I have,’ volunteered Dimity. ‘It’s in my pocket. I made sure I had it with me this morning, because I intended to come here this afternoon and didn’t expect to find the doors unlocked.’

  ‘Right!’ said Patience, marshalling her thoughts. ‘I suggest that we all adjourn to Bryony’s again, if she has no objection, and telephone the police from there. This man seems to have been dead for some time, so it would be a waste of time summoning medical help. Perhaps Bryony would be so good as to make us another cup of her excellent coffee, for the shock.’

  B
ryony Buckleigh indicated that the plan was acceptable to her with relief, as she had not really wanted to return to an empty house after what she had just seen. There was probably a murderer on the loose, and she lived alone, so the thought of company was a cheerful and comforting one.

  As they regrouped for leaving, Elizabeth suddenly said, ‘Did I just hear a movement up in the organist’s loft, or am I imagining things? I thought there was a sort of rustling sound. Shh, everybody.’

  There was absolute silence in the little chapel for about ten seconds, then it was broken by Craig’s voice, declaring that anything Elizabeth thought she had heard was probably the result of shock and an over-active imagination. This remark was greeted by an embarrassed little titter from the others present, and they left the chapel, Dimity conscientiously locking the front doors behind them and re-pocketing the key before they set off for ‘Honeysuckle’ once more.

  In the organ loft, a figure raised itself to an upright position in the gloom, and looked down at the broken body below. With a sharp intake of breath, the figure left the loft, descending the winding little staircase that led up to it, and let itself out through a small door on the north side of the chapel that no one had even bothered to check.

  At the college, Chris Roberts had been greeted politely by Elspeth Martin, who seemed to be in a rather strange mood. Although her eyes looked anxious, there were high spots of colour in her cheeks, indicating some sort of excitement. Surely it couldn’t be at seeing him again? he thought arrogantly.

  Before the class was called to order she managed to introduce him to Antonia Knightly and Jamie Huntley, her particular friends on this course. ‘And the tutor’s Jocasta Gray, but I told you that when I met you, didn’t I? Here she comes now. We’d better get ourselves sat down and settled: she doesn’t like unruly students. Says it destroys the positive thoughts she has gathered together for the teaching session.’

  The woman who entered the room was tall and slender, with prematurely grey/white hair, worn in a bun on the top of her head, wisps and tendrils escaping to soften the lines of her lean face. She wore the black gown to which she was entitled, and discreet make-up which enhanced her features rather than changing their colour. Chris thought her beautiful, and could understand why Elspeth was suffering from a severe case of heroine-worship.

  Jocasta Gray had been perceptive and conscientious enough to get together all the class notes and hand-outs that Chris had missed due to his late registration in the limited time available to her, and made a point of singling him out before she began the lecture to offer these to him. She told him that if he had any questions, she was always ready and willing to talk to him, and he suddenly felt like he’d won the lottery.

  Her voice was musical and hypnotic, and he found that, by the time they broke for coffee, he had not written a single word on his notepad, but had merely doodled a couple of hearts, and written Jocasta six times. He knew that he was making a bad start, but, so bewitched was he that for the moment he didn’t care.

  Elspeth led him to the refectory so that they could get some refreshment, and there she introduced him to three other students, Amelia Harrison, who was studying history, Aaron Trussler, who was studying physical education, and Daniel Burrows, one of the philosophy students, and the only one to offer his hand to be shaken. Chris noticed that he winced as he took the hand, looking down at it to see one of the knuckles grazed and all of them slightly bruised and swollen.

  ‘How did you hurt your hand?’ he enquired, earning himself a frown from Burrows.

  ‘Jack slipped when I was changing a wheel on my car,’ he retorted curtly, and turned to Aaron Trussler, giving Chris the cold shoulder.

  Aaron Trussler, conscious of the snub, leaned over to tell Chris that Daniel should have come to him. He was doing a car maintenance course at the weekends, and could have done the job much more quickly and efficiently. ‘I’ve got an old van,’ he informed Chris. ‘Always breaking down, so I thought I’d better find out how to fix the thing, so that it doesn’t cost me a fortune every time something simple goes wrong.’

  Wonder what all that was about, thought Chris, but, like most things that didn’t immediately make sense, he sent it off to the back of his mind, where his subconscious could work at it and see if it could come up with an explanation.

  These six seemed to have formed a little clique, and it wasn’t long before he found out what they had in common: they were all members of the group he had seen advertised on the college noticeboard who met to discuss local religious beliefs, practices, and history. ‘Of course, there are a lot more of us, but we’ve gelled as a group, so we hang out together, timetables permitting,’ explained Elspeth.

  ‘Oh, I saw that on the noticeboard, and thought I’d give it a try. There’s a meeting tonight, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes!’ answered Elspeth, with enthusiasm. ‘That would be lovely, wouldn’t it guys?’ she asked the others, who didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as she was, but nevertheless, nodded their heads in agreement. ‘Ooh, look! Here comes Jocasta now,’ she suddenly informed them, then blushed at the very sound of the tutor’s forename.

  And, indeed, Jocasta Gray was approaching their table, cup of coffee in her hand, and a smile of greeting on her face. ‘I see you’ve rounded up our new boy,’ she exclaimed, pausing at the table. ‘Good for you. I’ve a feeling it won’t be too long before he’s one of us,’ she stated, mysteriously, while the others nodded their heads in apparent understanding.

  ‘I hope I’ll soon be one of you, too,’ replied Chris, smiling back at them all, and wondering what he’d just let himself in for.

  ‘Can’t stay long,’ declared Jocasta Gray, as she took a place at the table and placed her hot cup of coffee on its surface. ‘I’ve got an appointment later, and I don’t want to be late, but I’ll see you all tonight anyway. Are you going to come to our little discussion group, Chris?’ she asked, and Chris blushed to the roots of his slightly-too-long curly hair.

  ‘I’d seen the notice about it when I popped in to the college on Saturday, and I’d certainly thought it might be very interesting,’ he replied, feeling like a schoolboy again with his first crush.

  ‘That’s marvellous!’ said Jocasta, and left him grinning like a fool as she turned to one of the others and started asking him questions about the arrangements for printing the agenda that evening.

  ‘I simply don’t believe it!’ roared Falconer as he crashed down the telephone handset.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Carmichael, bewildered as to what could have set off the inspector in such a way.

  ‘You know we’ve been over to Steynham St Michael about that paint job in the chapel?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. What is it? More defacement?’

  ‘It’s murder! That’s what it bloody well is!’ yelled Falconer, not a man who swore lightly. ‘There’s been another bloody murder there! Get your coat. We’re off. Christmas will meet us at the chapel.’

  Carmichael grabbed his long black coat from the coat-rack and followed the inspector, fighting to get his arms into its sleeves as they left at a trot.

  ‘Why are you so cross, sir?’ asked Carmichael, diligently doing up the buttons on his coat.

  ‘I seem to have dealt almost exclusively with murders since I’ve been here. I thought we might just work our way through the various villages, and that would be that, but we’re going out to murder number two in Steynham St Michael, and we haven’t even finished all the villages yet for their first murders. If we have to keep going out to repeat visits, I’ll spend the rest of my life investigating murders in banjo country. That’s why I’m so cross! And where the hell did you get that coat, Sergeant?’

  Carmichael had felt overwhelmed by this unexpected tirade, from his usually even-tempered boss, and the question at the end had really thrown him.

  I can’t remember, sir. I’ve had it years, but I haven’t worn it for ages, because it hasn’t really been cold enough for it. Why?’


  ‘Because you look like a scarecrow in it – a right tatty-bogle!’ replied Falconer, still feeling out of sorts, and taking this murder personally.

  ‘Kerry likes it!’ he shot back.

  ‘I’m sure she does. Oh, take no notice of me. I’m just in a bad mood. Let’s go back to Steynham St Michael, and see what’s waiting for us. At least we know some of the villagers there, and can be sure of a reasonably warm welcome after solving that previous case there.’

  ‘They were pretty nice to us the other day,’ commented Carmichael.

  ‘Yes, they were,’ agreed Falconer. ‘I’m sorry about what I said about your coat. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. Everybody has off-days.’

  ‘That’s very understanding of you, Carmichael.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  Chapter Six

  Monday 1st November – later

  They took Carmichael’s car, because Falconer was feeling so tetchy that he didn’t want to risk driving in that mood. On the way, Carmichael suggested that they stopped at the mobile café, just a mile or so outside the village, to get a cup of tea. They were liable to get very chilled in the chapel, and a cup of tea would warm them up just before they had to stand around in the cold. ‘And it might cheer you up a bit, sir,’ he added.

  ‘OK! I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get a couple of cuppas and sit in the car and get it nice and fuggy.’

  At the serving hatch, Falconer scanned the price list, and applauded Carmichael’s choice of tea as that was only £1 a cup, whereas coffee was £1.50. ‘Two teas,’ he called out to the rather portly man serving, and took them from him, giving one to Carmichael, who immediately began to help himself to sugar from the container provided in the hatchway.

  The man behind the counter looked on in wonder as Carmichael put spoonful after spoonful into his polystyrene container, and finally began to stir the sticky mixture with his plastic spoon.