Carmichael – the Davey element of the family – had informed George Covington, the landlord, in advance of the onslaught, so that he wouldn’t be caught out and think that the performers of a travelling circus had turned up out of the blue. Mrs Carmichael senior – Daisy by name, although no one could have looked less like a daisy than Ma Carmichael – was particularly excited about going out with her family.
It was a long time since they had all been together and, due to her unplanned surprise pregnancy which had resulted in baby Harry, she had not really been out for a long time, and she felt like she had been newly released from prison.
Her detective son joined them, engulfing her in a bear hug, as he did with his sisters, and shaking hands and slapping the backs of his brothers in good-natured welcome. Daisy had brought them up well. Although they still lived in a council house in Market Darley, her boys knew their manners, and none of them had ever been in any trouble with the police: just as well really, as the prospect of one of their own brothers arresting them was not a happy or comfortable thought.
What Falconer had considered a chaotic household before Carmichael had moved out was, in fact, a well-oiled machine that functioned efficiently, although some parts of the machine were a little oversized. Creating a solid block of humanity, they burst in through the doors to have George Covington shout out a welcome to them, his wife Paula already at the pumps, ready to fulfil their order, having dispatched their barmaid to attend to serving at the hall, so intrigued was she at the thought of seeing the Carmichaels en famille.
‘Seven pints of your best bitter, please,’ called Merc over the babble of his family’s voices, for all the other customers in the pub had fallen silent at this onslaught of giants, and it was only the smiling faces of the Covingtons and the jolly way they bantered with the members of this group of newcomers that earthed the electricity in the air, and let the other customers know that there would be no trouble, and there was nothing to worry about, for Carmichaels, en masse, can be quite intimidating.
As Paula filled pint glasses and George handed them over the bar, the buzz of quiet conversation soon resumed, and Imogen went in search of a couple of tables that they could pull together so that they could all sit and chat without any of them being separated. There was so much news to catch up on.
Rome had finally found himself a girlfriend, Juliet a boyfriend, and Merc’s business was really doing well, people in general not having the money these days to use removal companies for anything that would fit in a Luton, and so much furniture was now being bought second-hand.
Their ma also had some photos of little Harry, and there was the likelihood that Davey would finally tell them what had really happened when Harriet had been born, for they had been told nothing about the birth, her son informing her that he wanted to wait until they were all together before he told the tale to save him having to tell it six times.
They made a noisy group in the corner furthest from the door, loudly exchanging news and ribbing each other mercilessly at what they heard. Only one customer left in protest, that being the old man who lived in Ivy Cottage, in the same terrace as Carmichael, and he had only given them five minutes grace before draining his half-pint glass, and taking hold of the walking sticks that he had finally been persuaded to use after the iciness that had prevailed underfoot for so long over Christmas and the New Year.
George Covington noticed his exit, but thought that his custom would be no loss. Sometimes the old man managed to string out one half of mild for the whole evening, so his takings weren’t about to go down noticeably. On the contrary, he was looking forward to a bumper evening, with the lively crowd of Carmichaels all on good form.
At ten o’clock, Carmichael announced that it really was about time he got back to ‘Cherry and the kildren’, but Merc persuaded him that he ought to have another pint, as it was two babies’ heads they were wetting, then, when he had drunk that, Rome appeared at his shoulder with a tray containing shots, his excuse being, ‘Gotta get them properly soaked, haven’t we – the babies’ heads, I mean.’
By this time, Carmichael’s resistance was low, and he took one of the glasses, a thimble in his huge hand, and tossed it back with enthusiasm. ‘Gotta get ’em a’solutely dren-hic!-ched!’ he declared with the hammy seriousness of the inebriated.
A lot of toasts followed, and quite a few more drinks, and when Carmichael reached the ‘loving’ stage of drunkenness and began to hug his siblings and tell them how much he loved them all, Merv appeared at his side and nodded to Ham. Each of them took an arm, and helped their brother to his feet, Ham informing him that it was time they got him back to the bosom of his other family, as the minibus was due to collect them in ten minutes.
With a last loving embrace of his mother, he was steered out through the door and across the green in a wavering line that would have done credit to any self-respecting snail. Kerry heard them coming and had the door already open so that they could deposit him on the sofa, before going back to the pub for their ride home.
Kerry took one look at her husband, sprawled the full length of the sofa with his legs dangling over the edge, his head tipped backwards over the other end and, as he began to snore, went to the linen cupboard and grabbed a spare duvet. Arranging this as best she could along his enormous figure, she locked up and went upstairs to bed.
The boys had been asleep for hours, and she had already fed the baby. Now, she needed sleep herself, as her day would start tomorrow at six o’clock, never mind that it was Sunday. Babies didn’t understand Sundays, any more than they understood their parents’ need for a full night’s sleep, and didn’t have the energy to play for an hour at three a.m. if the babies awoke and were full of energy and feeling a tad bored.
Saturday evening – Shepford St Bernard
Rev. Florrie arrived at the hall at half past five, just to check that everything that could be done had been done, and was joined shortly by the Yaxley twins, who had decided that they ought to make just one final check of their equipment before dazzling the party-goers with their innovative DJ-ing technique.
It seemed no time at all after that until the first of the guests began to arrive, first those with young children as expected, a few of them from the Sunday school, others, out of sheer curiosity and in reaction to the leaflet that had been stuffed through their letterboxes.
Florrie greeted them all with equal warmth whether she had met them before or not, and began to introduce people and get them talking and helping themselves to food and liquid refreshment. The older guests whom she already knew started coming through the door shortly after half past six, and the tables steadily filled with food, both sweet and savoury, the table set aside for drinks rapidly to expand its range of choices.
By seven o’clock the Yaxleys had got the music in full swing, and a party atmosphere was really beginning to develop. Apart from one panicky moment, when a six-year-old had been discovered to be draining beer cans of any leftover fluid they possessed, everything was running smoothly, the hum of chatter rising to a level that was equal to that produced by the mixing decks.
Jasper and Belinda Haygarth had seated themselves really close to the food tables, and made frequent forays to it to refill their plates. Toby Lattimer and Gwendolyn Galton were in their element, talking antiques next to the bar, and Maude, Violet, and Lettice made a trio that would have graced any production of Macbeth, holding court as far away from the speakers as they could get.
In the middle of the hall, Julius Twelvetrees was doing his best to make conversation with Colin Twentymen, and not appearing to get much change for all the effort he was putting in. Colin managed to field every probing question effortlessly and politely and after about ten minutes excused himself, as he said he was going outside for a smoke of his pipe. Everything was going exactly as he had envisaged it earlier when he had finished his baking, with the exception of one bewildering comment that he still did not fully understand.
Krystal Yaxley and Wanda
Warwick were the only two in the hall who couldn’t seem to settle, both wandering from group to group without becoming immersed in any sustained conversation, and avoiding each other in a rather obvious way should their paths cross. Neither had got over the rather odd occurrence that afternoon, and each wanted to be left in peace to consider what they believed had really happened.
The main entertainment of the evening came from an unexpected source. The three Scottish play witches, Lettice, Maude Asquith, and Violet Bingham, had underestimated the strength of the punch that Rev. Florrie had thrown together in her rather haphazard way, and a number of people present there that evening would wake up with dry mouths and headaches the next morning, so innocuous did it taste to the uninitiated.
The volume of the conversation from this trio suddenly rose in volume, and was accompanied by gusts of wheezy laughter. Florrie eventually visited their corner, intrigued by what could be amusing them so much, but was none the wiser after listening for a while.
Lettice suddenly got to her feet and began to circulate, chatting with all and sundry, a very different Lettice from the everyday one, who was invariably rude to anyone who tried to make conversation with her. Her two friends gazed on, perplexed, then sank another glass of punch and forgot all about the change in her character, as they too felt the urge to be uncharacteristically sociable.
Both those who knew the three ladies, and those who had never met them before, were regaled variously with tales of Maude Asquith’s late grandfather’s heroics in the Siege of Khartoum, Violet Bingham’s long friendship with Lettice and, most surprising of all, Lettice’s tales of her father’s life in South Africa and all the gems he had had made into fabulous pieces of jewellery for her mother. This latter was something that Lettice hardly ever mentioned, being quite close-mouthed about her childhood and her parents, and astonished Violet and Maude when they overheard her.
Taking the opportunity to intervene by grabbing her arm in passing, Maude hissed at her that she should keep quiet about the valuable pieces that her mother had left her, but Lettice just laughed, and said she didn’t often feel like opening up about her life, and to leave her alone as she was enjoying herself. Toby Lattimer also approached her and whispered something in her ear, but she shook her head at him and laughed. She was having a good time, and was going to let no one put a stop to her enjoyment.
By the time that Rev. Florrie took her by the arm about nine-thirty, she must have spoken to just about everyone who was there. Fortunately, by that time, the majority of people had left to go home, this not being the sort of ‘do’ that would be likely to continue into the early hours, and the vicar asked the Yaxley boys to keep an eye on the last few stragglers while she ran Lettice home.
She’d already slipped out to position her car just outside the hall’s door, and took Lettice firmly by the arm, to help support her in her rather squiffy state, and inserted her bulky body into the passenger seat.
‘Oh, I did enjoy that, Vicar,’ she said, squirming to get herself comfortable. ‘I haven’t had so much fun in years. It did my heart good to get out and talk to other people, instead of just having that sour-faced old Asquith biddy coming round all the time, sucking up to me like a leech, and peppering her conversation with the most spiteful gossip I’ve heard in years.’
‘Don’t be so ungrateful, Miss Keighley-Armstrong. At least she comes round to visit you,’ Florrie admonished her.
‘As do you, my dear, but your motives are much more charitable. Maude only comes round to lick my,’ she whispered the next word, ‘arse,’ then blushed, ‘because she’s hoping I’ll leave her something in my will. Oh, don’t you object, Vicar. I know very well what she’s up to, you can be assured of that.’
‘Let’s get you off home, so that you can have a good night’s sleep,’ Florrie advised, as she pulled up outside the front door of Manor Gate. ‘Come on; let me give you a hand out. I’ll see you safely to your sitting room before I go back to clear up.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of going in by myself, you know. I’m not senile,’ retorted the older woman.
‘Of course you’re not,’ replied Florrie, ‘but you are just a little bit tiddly, and I’d never forgive myself if you went in and tripped over the cat, or something silly like that, and ended up hurting yourself after such a splendid evening.’
‘It was rather good, wasn’t it? I must say that I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a long time. Thank you very much, my dear, for doing something positive about this parish. I didn’t realise how it had stagnated, but since you’ve been here, it’s begun to wake up again.’
‘Well, thank you kindly. There you are,’ Florrie fussed, settling Lettice in her favourite chair, and poking the fire and adding another log before she left. ‘Is there anything else I can do before I go?’
‘No, you get back and say goodnight to your last guests. There’ll be plenty of clearing up to do, and I know how early you have to rise in the morning for early communion.’
Leaving the old lady comfortably settled, an uncharacteristic smile on her face, her cat The Bishop settling himself on her lap, the vicar drove back to the church hall to get stuck into restoring the place to the state it had been in before she started hanging her balloons and streamers.
The weather had turned during the evening, and the clouds that had gathered after sunset now began to shed their load of rain, already turning heavy, and a flash of lightning in the distance was followed by a rumble of thunder. How lucky they’d been, that the wet weather had held off until after the party.
The storm grew in violence, rain lashing the village, driven by strong winds and even more ferocious squalls. Gutters gurgled as rivulets ran downhill, to disappear down drains in the vain hope of reaching the sea, and spring flowers that had shown their heads too early in the season, coaxed out by the unseasonal sunshine and warmth, were battered and beaten down.
No one heard the shrill scream of alarm, muffled as it was, not just by the storm, but by the thick walls of the old building. No one heard the pitiful cries for help either, and by midnight, the only audible sounds were those of nature, playing untamed in the environs of the small community, amusing itself by seeing how many branches it could detach from trees before it blew itself out.
No one slept well that night, except for one. That ‘one’ slept the sleep of the dead, and for very good reason.
Chapter Six
Sunday morning – Shepford St Bernard
The rain was still falling like stair-rods when Rev. Florrie left for early communion, so she took the car, even though she could have reached the church much more directly on foot by cutting through the graveyard. She had no intention of standing in the chilly church in a soaking-wet cassock, and treated herself to this unplanned use of her rackety old vehicle.
When she had finished her lonely task, she decided to visit Lettice, as she knew she had been having some trouble with the tiles on her roof, but would be unlikely to seek the expertise of a builder if left to her own devices. A streak of meanness ran right through her like the writing inside a stick of rock, a trait, she claimed, she had inherited from her mother, who was always scandalised when her father presented her with yet another piece of fine jewellery.
The unmade-up cul-de-sac past the back of St Bernard’s was a sea of water-filled potholes and ruts. Whereas it had been merely a rough drive the evening before, when she had collected and returned Lettice, today it was treacherously slippery, and she drove with care as she approached Manor Gate at the end of it.
Getting out of her car, she made a dash for the porch, and was immediately alerted to the fact the something was out of kilter, as the door, sheltered as it was by the porch, swung gently on its hinges, open, and inviting unwelcome attention to anyone with an eye for the main chance.
Entering the house cautiously, she was immediately greeted by the elderly black and white cat, which meowed piteously at her, and tried to lead her towards the kitchen, where its food bowls lived. Rev. Flor
rie took this as a sign that there was no one in the house who shouldn’t be there. Had that been the case, the animal would have hidden itself and kept quiet.
Still feeling slightly cautious, she examined the ground floor rooms, calling quietly, ‘Lettice, are you there? It’s only me, Florrie. Are you all right?’ but answer came there none. She paused in the kitchen to pour some dried food into the cat’s bowl and refill its water, then slowly mounted the stairs, her level of anxiety increasing with every step.
I do hope I don’t find her dead in bed, she thought, as she made her way along the landing. Bracing herself, she flung open the first door, and found herself looking into a bathroom that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1930s advertisement. Lady Luck was toying with her today, and the next door she opened, a little more calmly this time, was a store room filled with boxes, a sagging old brass-framed bed in the dead centre of it.
As it turned out, she found no one on the first floor, and was perplexed as to where a woman of Lettice’s age could have got to during the hours of darkness, on such a fearful night, weather-wise.
She felt under the doormat in the porch, as she felt for a key which, inevitably, proved to be there, sighing with exasperation at the fact that she had had no joy in dissuading Lettice from this dangerous practise. A quick prayer that she hadn’t fallen victim to an unwelcome visitor formed in her head, even as she spotted the humped shape just a few steps away, where the headstones of the graveyard joined the shallow frontage of Manor Gate.
At one time, long after the Georgian manor had been reduced to rubble through the ravages of time and a calamitous fire, the house had been used for a curate (the parish being largely rural, and church attendance being the norm rather than the exception), and no wall had ever divided the two.
Reluctantly, and as slowly as if she were walking in treacle, she braved the weather conditions and approached what, at first sight, appeared to be a pile of old clothes that had been carelessly tossed away.
Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Page 6