Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2) Page 7

  By the end of the fourth line, the audience had already become restive, and by the beginning of the eighth line, had begun a slow hand-clap, led, it was noticed, by those who didn’t actually live in Stoney Cross – nobody resident in that village would have displayed such ill manners to dear, sweet, pretty Christobel. They would have applauded her efforts, and just said that she was so young, and merely needed time to grow as a poet.

  Having no idea of this kindness, however, and now thoroughly unsettled by the censorious noise from the body of the hall, she halted, shuffled her papers again, mumbled a ‘thank you for your time’, and slunk away through the emergency exit, thoroughly humiliated and embarrassed.

  Marcus had joined in the slow hand-clap as he was feeling drowsy again, and agitated by the appalling standard of the offerings. He’d have liked to have had a refreshing little nap, but knew he would have to see this thing out first. Not only had he given his word [!], but he intended to shred every moment of this weekend when he got home and began to record his programme.

  Hugo Westinghall was next to be thrown to the lions, but unexpectedly calmed the angry mob with the quality of his writing. Like his wife, he was a romantic novelist but, unlike her, he did not pepper his stories with sugary descriptions and cliché-ridden conversations. The audience calmed down under the restful tones of his voice, and really listened to the extract he read from his latest book. At the end of his oration, as he closed his book, there was a huge round of genuine applause, and a few of those present stamped their feet and whistled in appreciation. He left the stage with his head held high, greatly relieved that he had not received the treatment meted out to poor little Christobel.

  Hugo’s offering was followed by that of his wife, Felicity, but their styles varied considerably and she was, as yet, unpublished. As she droned on about strong hirsute hands creeping under bodices, and the sighs and moans of pleasure as a nipple was caressed here, an ear nibbled there, the audience became restive again.

  Her many beads and bangles jangled and clattered over the flowing cotton of her long frock, as she began to tremble. Once or twice, her long dangling ear-rings caught in the material at her shoulders, and her reading was punctuated with the occasional ‘ouch’ and ‘ow’. That her voice was flat and monotonous did not help in any way, and soon, the hall was filled with boos and cat-calls.

  Minty waited no longer, and thrust herself into the performance area, elbowing Felicity out of the way quite vigorously. Her appearance calmed things down, and she began to thank the audience for coming to their little entertainment, while silently thanking her lucky stars that they hadn’t charged for it. They’d all want their money back, and there would be a hell of a row. At least it had been free, and they’d probably forget it all the more quickly as they hadn’t had to put their hands in their pockets.

  Finally, she apologised for the fact that there would be no dancing to end the programme, as their dancer, Serena Lyddiard had injured herself in practice, and she hoped that they would all wish her a speedy recovery. At this, Marcus pricked up his ears. This was the lady to whom he had not been introduced, and he was anxious to remedy the situation. He’d have to ask around in The Inn again, to see if he could pick up sufficient information to locate her geographically.

  Rising from his seat and slipping on his jacket, he thought furiously as he headed, inevitably, back towards the public house.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday, 6th September – evening

  I

  The Inn was as busy as it had been since Friday evening; all the tables in the bar were occupied, and many more people were standing around in groups or at the bar. Peregrine and Tarquin were run off their feet, having failed, over the past few days, to secure any extra help. This was of no consequence, however, as it just meant that they would trouser more money for themselves.

  Marcus sat at a table for two, alone, the second chair borrowed for use at another table. He had had some success with his prying and probing, and now sat, lost in a brown study, contemplating what he would say when he compiled his programme.

  He was feeling particularly waspish and wickedly witty at the moment, but realised that he might have to lie low for a while after it was broadcast. In fact, he would have to keep a low profile until it was broadcast, not wanting any of that lot he had witnessed that afternoon, nor any of the artists, to beg him for a favourable review. He told it as he saw it, and would not compromise his honesty [spite!] for anyone.

  He’d need to give them at least a couple of days to simmer down, maybe waiting until mid-week to make an appearance. Maybe not. And he’d better go into complete hiding on Friday afternoon for sure, for there would, no doubt, be many verbal ‘contracts’ out on him after the programme, if he had anything to do with it. How could they expect anything else, after all those dreary pictures yesterday and that shameful shambles this afternoon?

  II

  At a table near the window sat that day’s cast of performers, mostly untouched drinks before them, sunk in gloom at the way events had turned out. Christobel Templeton’s eyes were red and puffy and she sat, like a disheartened mouse, with her husband’s arm around her shoulder.

  She was dreading the arrival of Friday afternoon, and didn’t know how she would have the courage to face up to her radio-phonic humiliation. But even worse would be the days in between, with all her neighbours knowing what a fool she had been to think she could write poetry. She heaved a great heavy-hearted sigh, and absent-mindedly downed the double brandy that Jeremy had bought her to calm her nerves.

  Felicity Westinghall was conspicuous by her absence. She had volunteered to look after the children this evening, an almost unheard-of occurrence. Hugo now sat opposite Christobel, bathed in an aura of pride over his work. After all, he was published; Felicity was still working on achieving this level of acceptance. He had felt the odd pang of guilt at the difference in their readings’ reception, but he wasn’t going to let it burst his bubble. He’d ‘done his apprenticeship’ years ago and was reaping the rewards for it now. Felicity would just have to work at achieving a more believable style.

  Delia Jephcott, there with her partner Ashley in tow, was also looking suitably cowed by her experience that afternoon, but it was the presence of Marcus Willoughby in the village that was her biggest worry. What if Ashley found out? Whatever would he think of her? She’d always professed to having been absolutely single – had never wanted to have anything to do with marriage. Now she’d be caught out for the liar she was.

  And she’d lied about her age when they’d moved here. Everyone knew she was a bit [ha ha!] older than Ashley, but not the extent of their age difference. This second thought worried her almost as much as the first one. Did people believe her, or were they silently mocking her? Well, if they didn’t know now, they soon would, with that forked-tongued lizard around. What was she going to do? She’d just have to persuade Ashley to move away with her. She’d never be able to brazen out both of her little ‘secrets’. And she just knew that she’d come down in the night and raid the fridge and the biscuit barrel, which would be followed by the inevitable consequences. She really would have to get a grip, or she’d have a third problem to face up to.

  Ashley, totally oblivious to the turmoil taking place beside him, supped on, making the most of this visit to The Inn. It might not be the celebration everyone was hoping for, but he was just as willing to raise a glass or several to their failure. It made no difference to him, and maybe it would deflect Delia’s attention from him for a couple of days, while she got over her humiliation.

  Camilla Markland was similarly subdued, dealing with her inner turmoil by shovelling crisps into her mouth. Always slightly overweight, she envied her husband’s metabolism – he could eat whatever he liked, and still stayed as thin as a rake. Oh, God! She stayed her hand, once again on its way to her mouth. What if he tells Greg? And another thought, much like Delia’s: what if it gets about that I’m five years older than him? It might seem
trivial to some people, but those people were usually men. Women were much more sensitive about that sort of thing, and it worried her terribly.

  Fiona Pargeter and Lydia Culverwell were in an entirely different frame of mind, however. Having nothing to hide, and being absolutely blinkered about their lack of talent, they were head to head, in an indignant discussion about how their efforts would be reviewed. Usually the best of enemies, they had become the best of friends in adversity.

  ‘It was definitely that piano,’ Lydia concluded on behalf of both of them. ‘Jangly old horror; I could hear it was out of tune when Rollo started playing your accompaniment. No wonder you had such trouble.’

  Fiona nodded her head in grateful agreement – it was much better than planting all the blame on her vocal chords. ‘And how could you be expected to play Chopin on what, in anyone’s opinion, sounded like an old pub piano?’ she sympathised. The truce would not, of course, last long, but for now, they were sticking together like … well, like a couple of very sticky things!

  From an adjacent table, Sadie’s strident voice made itself heard. ‘What was up with you this afternoon, Camilla? Couldn’t see, because we’d forgotten to put in our turquoise-coloured contact lenses?’

  Jerking her hand out of a packet of cheese-and-onion, and scattering crisps across the table, Camilla took a deep breath of fury and almost screamed across the pub, ‘You bitch! You said you wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t.’ Raking the bar at large with her disguised eyes, she continued, ‘She wears them too, you know! Only hers are blue. Those aren’t her real eyes!’ she concluded, slightly inaccurate in her fury.

  ‘Oh, shut up and get a life, woman. I don’t give a monkey’s fart who knows about my lenses any more, but after this afternoon’s little fiasco, I reckon you should wear your rose-tinted ones in future. Real life won’t seem so painful through those.’ Sadie, feeling rather better than she had the day before, had decided it was someone else’s turn in the barrel and, after several glasses of wine, had elected Camilla to the post.

  III

  That argument could have run and run, but there were very interesting noises coming from the bar where Marcus was trying, unsuccessfully, to obtain another drink.

  ‘I really think you’ve had enough, sir.’ This was Tarquin, trying to be diplomatic, but doomed to make no headway, ‘And it is nearly closing time.’

  ‘I on’y wanna ʼnother brandy.’ Marcus was definitely a bit the worse for wear, having started drinking at lunchtime. He had also made a trip back to The Inn at the interval, and returned straight after the disastrous performances had ended. He had eaten very little during this time, which had only exacerbated the speed of his inebriation.

  ‘Why don’t you just go home, sir? You must have had a very busy day; in fact, a very busy weekend.’ This was Peregrine, interjecting in support of his business partner.

  ‘Don’ wanna go home yet! Wan’ ʼnother drink.’

  Peregrine took the helm. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t serve you.’

  ‘Why no’?’

  ‘Because we think you’ve already had enough to drink, sir.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Marcus sounded suddenly more sober as his dander rose. ‘How bloody dare you, you simpering, mincing couple of queers – you and your bleedin’ poof-parlour gin-house. How bloody dare you! I wann’ another brandy, and you are going to serve me, you soddin’ arse-bandits.’

  It took four strong male customers (and Sadie!) to remove him from the premises and send him on his way. But he wasn’t done yet. He’d bloody show ʼem! He’d show ʼem all! For his was the kingdom, the power and the glory … With this religious theme rolling around in his mind, he turned towards the Church of St Peter and St Paul, with the idea that he had a bone to pick with ‘The Boss’, and that this was definitely the right moment to do it.

  IV

  When the place was empty of customers and all the clearing away had been done, Peregrine and Tarquin sat down at one of the tables in the bar, between them a soda syphon, a bucket of ice and a bottle of Campari. ‘What an evening!’ exclaimed Tarquin, the younger of the two men, sighing with relief that it was over.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. And what a weekend! Still, we managed, in the end,’ agreed Peregrine.’

  They had, in fact, just finished enacting the story that Enid Blyton never got round to committing to paper – ‘Peregrine and Tarquin Pull it Off’. ‘And what about that drunken old poseur, calling us a pair of poofs?’ Peregrine added, taking a delicate sip of his Campari and soda and pursing his lips in a little moue of distaste.

  ‘Exactly! And all the rest!’ Tarquin was nodding his head in agreement. ‘Fancy calling us a pair of poofs,’ (here, he sighed, then continued), ‘when we’re a brace of bi-s!’

  Peregrine nearly choked on his drink in amusement.

  V

  Marcus staggered along School Lane, then turned unsteadily into Church Lane, his destination the Church of St Peter and St Paul. He had it in his befuddled mind that he was not receiving the respectful treatment he deserved from life, and, fuelled by an excess of alcohol and the resultant delusions of grandeur this state always induced in him, decided it was high time he had a word with someone about this – and he always went straight to the top.

  There was no radio or television playing in The Vicarage, as Reverend and Mrs Ravenscastle were tidying up, in preparation for going up to bed. It was Adella who heard the noise first, the windows still being open. There seemed to be some sort of rumpus at the church, purposely (but foolishly) left unlocked by Benedict, in case should anyone wish to go in to pray.

  Calling it to his notice, he stopped and listened. It sounded like someone shouting and, when there was a crash, as of something heavy being thrown or pushed over, Benedict headed for the door. ‘I don’t know what’s going on over there, but it sounds like I’d better take a look,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I was going to go over in a few minutes and lock up for the night anyway.’

  ‘Do be careful, Benedict, dear. You don’t know who’s in there or what they’re doing. There could be a whole mob of them, for all you know.’

  ‘It sounded like one person to me, and remember, I put my faith in the Lord for my protection.’ So saying, he closed the door and hastened towards the porch of the church.

  Inside, he found an inebriated Marcus Willoughby, standing by an overturned pew and shaking his fist heavenwards. ‘If you really do exist, you’re a right bastard. You know I’m important, yet you le’ me be humiliated like this,’ he roared, and carried on in this vein until Benedict laid a gentle hand on his left shoulder.

  ‘Steady, old man!’ he soothed, moving round so that he was face to face with Marcus. ‘I don’t know what all this fuss is about, but why don’t you just slip off home to bed; sleep it off, and come and see me in the morning if you’d like to talk about it.’ It cost him a lot to be so solicitous to the man who had torn his family apart, but his respect for the position he held deemed it necessary.

  ‘Soddin’ fraud!’ Marcus bellowed.

  ‘That’s a bit strong, old chap. I’m just offering you pastoral care.’

  ‘No’ you, ’im – your bleedin’ God. ’E doesn’t ez, ez, ez … ezzist. A’ my life ’e’s ’ad it in for me, an’ I jus’ wanna bi’ of a break. Even tho’ ’e do’n’ ezzist.’ Marcus’s speech had deteriorated again as his rage settled a little. ‘An’ ge’ your ’ands off me, you no goo’ God-botherer-erer,’ he continued firmly, losing his way on the last word.

  Benedict put an arm across Marcus’s shoulder and began to guide him, slowly but surely, towards the door. The only light in the church coming from the votive lamp, it was not until he had almost reached the porch that he saw the face of his wife, a distressed expression on her face, peering in at them. Adella shrank away from them as they exited, and her husband pointed Marcus in the general direction of his own home. They watched as he tottered away, still mumbling and complaining under his breath. He’d get ’em all!
He was going home to record his programme, and he’d rip them to ribbons. Tear them to shreds. They’d treat him with a proper respect in future. He’d tell the whole world what a bunch of bitchy, treacherous and talentless nobodies they were, then they’d be sorry, and he’d be top dog again. His programme would wipe out their pathetic little Festival, or he was a Dutchman. Sharpening his mental claws, an evil smile spread slowly up his face, finally reaching his eyes. He would assassinate them, each and every one, and expose their pathetic little secrets. He’d leave them raw and begging for mercy, by the time he’d finished with them. And then, he thought, it might just be time to move on – possibly to the Caribbean, he quite fancied that. Maybe coming to Stoney Cross hadn’t been such a good idea after all …

  Chapter Eight

  Monday, 7th September – early hours

  I

  It was nearly two o’clock when Adella Ravenscastle was woken by her husband trying to creep upstairs to join her in bed. ‘Where on earth have you been at this time, Benedict?’

  ‘Sorry, my love. I couldn’t contemplate sleep after that thing with Willoughby, so I went for a bit of a walk to calm my temper, then I went and prayed for a while.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Adella, knowing she shouldn’t ask.

  ‘For forgiveness for him for what happened tonight, and for remorse and forgiveness for what he has done to our family. I also prayed for understanding for myself, and that I should be given the strength to really forgive him for his awful sin of taking a life.’

  ‘Oh, Benedict, I don’t think I can stand it: him living here in our parish, and having to see him, bump into him when I least expect it. I don’t know if I can keep my nerve. I don’t know even if I can keep my temper.’

  ‘God will give you the strength, my dear. And don’t forget, we aren’t the only ones suffering due to his presence. Squirrel was just beginning to come to terms with Bubble’s loss – yes, I know it was only a dog, but he was family to her – and now he’s turned up and re-opened the wound. I haven’t seen her since she baptised him in tea,’ he concluded, quite pleased at his little clerical joke. If it was a weak one, he did not care. So had the tea been. ‘Let’s just sleep on it for now, and I’ll go round to see Squirrel tomorrow, see how she is.’