Choked off (The Falconer Files Book 2)

by Andrea Frazer

  As he wandered round the screens he sighed, tut-tutted, frowned and muttered into his hand-held recorder. Many exhibits he just passed by, thinking them too insipid and inept even to look at, although they would get a mention to illustrate his dissatisfaction, and the self-delusion of those who thought they were talented.

  Mrs Carstairs’ oils he dismissed completely out of hand. She had used a palette knife for some, and he chuckled as he thought that, maybe, she should have used a Stanley knife, and been done with it. Mrs Solomons’s water-colours he considered a complete waste of good paper and paints. In his opinion, she had no idea whatsoever of perspective, and her range of colours was too washed-out and limited.

  The pastels, so lovingly hung by Lionel Fitch, commanded his complete attention. This artist obviously saw himself as a bit of a modernist, and everything represented in his exhibits was askew and distorted. He must really love pink and purple, Marcus decided, as he viewed the deformed figures and landscapes. Glowering hideously, he began to mutter into his voice recorder, unaware that the figure standing almost by his shoulder was the artist himself, and that he could hear every low-volume word that Marcus uttered.

  On his perambulations round the hall, he espied Camilla Markland the harpist, browsing what was on offer. It was true that a few of the pictures sported little red stickers, indicating that they were already sold. There was no accounting for taste, he supposed, and homed in on his victim.

  ‘Hel-lo, my dear Camilla,’ he breathed into her ear, from behind, and was very satisfied with the start that this produced. ‘And how are we today? Ready for another night of sublime passion? My house is your house, as they say in Spain,’ he murmured, imagining his voice as irresistibly sexy.

  Camilla recovered from her shock and, a little green about the gills, adopted a pseudo-puzzled expression, and replied, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’ But her voice shook as she said it.

  ‘Ah,’ whispered Marcus, with a conspiratorial half-wink. ‘Our little secret, is it? Hubby doesn’t know? Never mind, I shan’t breathe a word, as long as we can have a repeat performance in the not-too-distant future. What do you say, sexy?’

  The harpist visibly swayed on her feet then, recovering her dignity, almost spat at him. ‘It’s been delightful to meet you, Mr Willoughby, but I really must be getting back home.’ And with that, she turned on her heel and tottered out of the village hall, breaking into a run as she reached Church Lane, her face now bright scarlet, and with tears in her eyes.

  What if he said something? What if he tried to force her to do something that would surely make her sick now? How was she going to keep it from her husband Gregory? Would it destroy her marriage? And, even more immediate, how on earth was she going to be able to perform in public tomorrow, knowing that that repugnant old lecher was in the audience leering at her.

  Remembering what had happened between them. She had had her Chardonnay goggles on when she had met him last year, after one of her performances, and her mind shied away from the dreadful, disgusting memories of what had occurred that night.

  As she left, Marcus had stared after her in a slightly bewildered fashion. She had seemed keen enough when they had last met. So he had been a little pushy, a bit pressuring, mentioning her husband like that – but he had enjoyed the hours they had spent together, and was very anxious to repeat the experience.

  Dismissing these thoughts from his mind, his eye alighted on Delia Jephcott, and he ambled suavely in her direction. Here, indeed, was some big fun, and he was going to enjoy this encounter to the utmost of his ability.

  Delia, over by the refreshment tables and looking almost naked without the presence of her flute, became aware of him as he laid a hand on her arm. Another rear attack, and not quite cricket. Turning round and identifying him, she pulled away as if in disgust, and launched straight into a whispered tirade. ‘Nobody knows about us. Not even Ashley – my partner. We may have a shared past, but that doesn’t mean you own the rest of my life. I’m happy here, and I don’t want anything to happen to spoil that.’

  Marcus smiled at her in mock bewilderment, and slightly lifted his shoulders in a movement, almost Gallic, in its expressiveness.

  ‘I mean what I say, Marcus. Just one word and you’ll be sorry. I mean it! If you let the cat out of the bag, I’ll wring your worthless neck, I swear I will.’ Giving him no chance to reply, she marched away to the other end of the hall and left by the emergency exit, still fuming.

  Somewhat bewildered by the unfavourable impressions he seemed to be making, he turned towards the refreshment tables for a cheering cup of tea, but before he had completed his turn, he had his cup of tea, boiling hot, and all over his jacket. Dripping, slightly scalded, and burning with anger, he confronted his attacker. ‘Bloody murdering bastard!’ yelled Squirrel, normally so quietly spoken and polite, who then pushed her way through the queue and headed for home.

  Mopping at his sodden sleeve with his handkerchief, Marcus decided to call it a day and go home to get something assembled for his next programme. He was just about in the right mood for it now.

  A few minutes after he had left, Lionel Fitch’s voice rose above the general hum of conversation. ‘I heard what he was saying into that machine of his, about my pictures – nasty, horrible things; and his face looked evil. I’m fed up to the back teeth with people like him. Who does he think he is, eh? Criticising people for being incomers and commuters, and all the other things His Lordship takes a fancy to having a go at?

  ‘I live here because I bloody-well want to, and because I can bloody-well afford to. Who’s he to talk? He only moved here yesterday – incomers, my big fat hairy arse – And into a converted barn, when he’s slagged-off everyone else who’s ever converted an old building. Hypocritical, sanctimonious old bugger! And I damned well am a good artist, whatever gobshites like him say!’

  IV

  Later that evening, Marcus Willoughby picked up his telephone receiver and dialled a number he had ferreted out, with some difficulty, during the course of the day. He had been thinking hard since Summer’s unexpected visit yesterday, and was now certain that he was right, and that this was the best course of action. After three rings, his call was answered, and he knew, as soon as the voice spoke, that he had scored a bulls-eye.

  ‘Hello Jenny – no, don’t hang up! I know who you are, and there’s nothing to be done about that. I just wanted you to know that our daughter has been in touch with me, but is mystified as to your whereabouts. I’m ringing to tell you that I believe it to be my moral duty to tell her who and where you are.’

  The line went dead, as the receiver was slammed down at the other end. ‘Jenny? Jenny?’ Gently replacing his own receiver, Marcus smiled to himself. Sanctimonious old humbug he might be, but he was looking forward to the little contretemps he was about to cause.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday, 6th September

  I

  Marcus Willoughby was whistling quietly on Sunday morning, when he exited The Old Barn and turned right, heading for The Old Mill. He had no idea what awaited him at Araminta Wingfield-Heyes’s property, but he could well remember the last time he had viewed her work, and this time, he would not have to leave a cryptic little card. This time he would not be anonymous.

  The home-made sign on the front door was turned to ‘open’ and, rapping a short tattoo on the wood, he made his entrance. He could not have wished for a better reaction, as Minty, who was again sitting at the foot of the staircase, leapt up with a little ‘ooh!’ of surprise and horror. Doom was writ large in her eyes as he formally introduced himself again and headed for her over-sized canvases.

  Minty, her short hair standing on end where she had been running her fingers through it in despair, tottered behind him, offering staccato little phrases of explanation, only just restraining herself from throwing herself on his mercy, and begging him to be kind to her work this time.

  Marcus maintained a sto
ny silence, while inwardly smiling at the power he wielded. Should he be brutal, or should he take a more non-committal stance this time? He couldn’t, as yet, make up his mind – her pieces were very striking, and displayed a wide palette. He’d leave it until later, he decided, and see what sort of mood he was in by the end of the day. He might even be nice – it really depended on how he felt when he had finished today’s tour of inspection. After all, she had been kind to him the day before, conducting him to the village hall and introducing him to everyone.

  Taking his leave of Minty with a curt handshake and just the merest hint of a smile, he turned his steps towards The Old School, to re-make the acquaintance of another artist whose work he had been scathing about. Minty watched his departure with confusion but little hope, and retook her seat at the foot of the stairs, sinking her head into her hands once more.

  II

  Sadie greeted his arrival much less timidly. Shaking him firmly by the hand (a little too firmly for Marcus’s liking), she gave him a defiant smile and invited him into her studio. She then disappeared towards the other end of the house, leaving him to view her sculptures, ostensibly without an anxious creator in attendance, in reality because she felt, as she would have put it herself, ‘shit-scared’.

  In the kitchen, early in the day though it was, she poured a large slug of brandy into her inevitable cup of black coffee, and sat down at the table to wait, drumming her black finger-nails restlessly on the table. All day yesterday, the old bastard had kept her and Minty in suspense, expecting him at any minute and dreading the moment he would arrive. Well, now he was actually here, albeit twenty-four hours after she had anticipated his arrival, he could trail round on his own. She would not give him the satisfaction of watching his reactions as he scrutinised each piece.

  And she had left ‘Art Critic’ in a fairly prominent place, and awaited his reaction with trepidation, mixed with just a morsel of glee.

  She didn’t have long to wait, as a howl of anger sounded from the studio. Scrambling to her feet she walked, her steps deliberately slow, towards the source of the fury, only to find Marcus in front of a totally different piece of sculpture, looking suspiciously innocent.

  ‘Did I hear you call?’ she enquired, sweet as saccharine.

  ‘Er, yes,’ he admitted. ‘I, er, stubbed my toe on one of your, um, thought-provoking pieces of, um, statuary. I do hope I didn’t disturb you in anything important.’

  ‘Not at all,’ admitted Sadie, and not at all taken in by his little act, either. He had seen ‘Art Critic’ all right, and had identified himself as the inspiration. Well, let him put that in his pipe and smoke it. She would take the consequences, whatever they were, for, even without her little surprise, she was sure that the outcome would not have been in her favour. He could go to hell, as far as she was concerned. And if he slated her work again, she just might indulge in a little more retaliation this time, something a bit stronger and even more personal.

  III

  After a light lunch in The Inn on the Green (which had been rather slewed towards the liquid, for most of its content) Marcus made his way to the village hall once more. Settling himself in the middle of the front row of seats, he waited to be entertained.

  At two thirty-two, only a couple of minutes late, Minty Wingfield-Heyes presented herself in the middle of the performance area and began to welcome the audience to the afternoon’s entertainment. After a few sentences, however, she became aware of Marcus smiling pityingly at her, and began to gabble, rushing into her first introduction as if it were a race, and fled behind one of the screens, having peeped out Fiona Pargeter’s name.

  At this end of the hall, and slightly right of centre, stood a venerable piano at which Rollo Pargeter took his seat, spreading the sheets of his music across the music-stand in the order in which he would need to play it. His wife, Fiona, had no music – for this was unprofessional – and planted herself in the middle of the area, a smile of sweet anticipation on her face.

  It all started so well – at least for the first six bars, when Rollo kindly pointed out in an audible whisper, that she was in the wrong key, and did she want him to transpose it? This did not bode well for the rest of her performance and, sure enough, as she ploughed through her three songs, her voice developed a strained quality, screeching more and more on the high notes, and straying sharp with nerves.

  By the end of her final song she was wildly out of tune and barely scraping by, scrabbling at the high notes, as a drowning man clutches at a straw. Face red as a tomato, she had some guts though, for she bravely took her bow and did not bolt at the end of her performance. She walked off sedately, head held high to prevent the tears in her eyes from falling to a small scatter of applause from the more polite (or tone-deaf) members of the audience.

  Minty briefly introduced Delia Jephcott in a high-pitched squeak, and the flautist came on carrying her music, stand and flute. After suitable arrangements with her music and the position of the stand, she raised her instrument to her lips and started to play.

  It was quite a long piece, and all went well until about half-way through, when she turned her gaze upwards from her music, and locked eyes with Marcus Willoughby, leering knowingly from his throne-like position; exactly where a king would have sat if being entertained by his courtiers. A sudden bolt of fear shot through her and, although she tried desperately to control her breathing, she began to over-blow, making some of the notes jump an octave higher than they should have sounded.

  Delia closed her eyes, for she knew the piece more or less by heart, to shut out the disturbing sight, and regained her composure about a quarter of the way before the piece ended. She had not covered herself with glory, she knew, but neither had she fled. She’d seen it out, admittedly with a bit of a wobble, but she had finished what she had intended to do, and now all she wanted was to get the hell out of that hall and run for home.

  Having had such a minimal effect, Marcus’s mood began to turn sulky. The liquid nature of the major part of his lunch was having its effect: he was beginning to get drowsy, and he was a nasty drunk, rather than the benevolent ‘I love everybody’ kind.

  Camilla Markland took to the stage next, unveiling her harp, which had stood, unnoticed and draped with a black silk sheet, to the rear of the left-hand side of the performance area. Rather unnerved by the two preceding performances, she took several deep breaths, before making herself comfortable and beginning to play.

  A short way into her piece, her fingers fumbled and brought her to a halt. Gamely picking up where she had left off, she began again, but her hands were shaking now, the nerves really biting. When someone from the audience (recognised by those residents of Stoney Cross present as coming from a vulgar denizen of Steynham St Michael) called out, ‘Come back, Harpo Marx, all is forgiven!’ Camilla’s mind went completely blank. Her fingers froze, and, for a few ghastly seconds, there was a deathly silence. Into this silence, Camilla rose, and ran from the stage, sobbing, straight into the arms of her husband, Gregory, who escorted her tactfully from the venue. [Gee, this is going well, isn’t it? Wish I’d been there!]

  Lydia Culverwell, who was next, had to grit her teeth and summon up all her courage to approach the piano, wondering if, perhaps, she should have chosen something a little easier to play. But, too late now, she let loose her fingers in a welter of anxiety, starting reasonably, if not absolutely accurately, heard the few mistakes she had made, and thenceforth gave her audience a fair imitation of Les Dawson in exuberant musical mood.

  Instead of sighs of emotion at the sad poignancy of Chopin’s music, there were little giggles and sniggers and, by the time she had finished playing, gales of laughter buffeted her from the body of the hall. How humiliating! She knew it was only nerves, and that she was a fine pianist. How she would live this down, she had no idea.

  At this point in the proceedings, Minty gabbled an announcement that they would take a half-hour break before the literary section of the performances, and would ever
yone like to adjourn to the refreshment tables, where tea, coffee, biscuits and cakes awaited them.

  Marcus did not bother to comply with this suggestion, as he did not relish being bathed in scalding tea again and, leaving his jacket over the back of his chair, proceeded to The Inn to fortify his inner man with a few more drinks – he’d need them if he was going to sit through any more of this. But needs must, if he was going to do a report on it for next week’s programme, and, oh boy, was he now looking forward to that.

  IV

  Minty was already welcoming the audience to the second half of the programme when Marcus shambled down the aisle to the left of the seating and made his way, a little unsteadily, to his previous seat. Minty, originally relieved by his absence and hoping that he had had enough and gone home, immediately lost her way in her welcome, and peeped a clipped introduction to Christobel Templeton, their very own [amateur] poet.

  Christobel crept, mouse-like, to take her place, dropping and picking up papers as she went. Why, oh why had she agreed to do this? Her husband, Jeremy, always encouraged her in her little efforts, and their cats, Byron and Longfellow, always attended to her contentedly when she read her verse to them. Now, for the first time, she doubted the quality of her poetry, and longed to be miles away and doing something completely different.

  Nervously, she re-arranged her papers, cleared her throat, and began to read, in a somewhat tentative voice, ‘Nature’s Bounty – by Christobel Templeton; that is to say – me.’

  Another clearing of the throat, then:

  The sunbeams played for hours and hours,

  Upon the hosts of lovely flowers

  That grow upon this earth so fair,

  To brighten up just everywhere.

  In field and garden, park and pot

  They always cheer us up a lot,

  And leave their fragrance where they go

  For all to smell and treasure so …