Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Got it, sir,’ replied Roberts ruefully, getting up and heading for the bar to speak to the landlord.

  ‘Who are we going to interview?’ asked Carmichael, with the everyday eagerness that Falconer had been taking for granted for some time, and had only missed this morning, when it was not present.

  ‘We’re taking the west side of the village, from the first house, right round to The Rectory. I shall need an official statement from the vicar, and I also want to access a house key again, for the insurance company will need to be contacted, not just for their information, but so that we can check whether they have photographs of the jewellery for identification purposes.’

  ‘Let’s ride them dogies then, sir,’ replied Carmichael, apparently speaking a foreign language. ‘I’m back on ma horse.’

  Falconer and Carmichael left the pub premises before Roberts, he being in deep, note-taking conversation with the landlord before moving on to Coopers Lane. Their first port of call was ‘Robin’s Perch’, the occupant of which had been named as a Miss Bonnie Fletcher. After a lot of ringing of the doorbell, enthusiastic use of the doorknocker, a few calls of, ‘Miss Fletcher, are you in there?’ and a quick look round the back of the property, they decided that she was either deaf or not in, and moved on to their next target.

  ‘Bijou’ was also a detached cottage, but in need of a lick of paint to its door and windows. Their knock was quickly answered by a man in his sixties, dressed casually in a cardigan and open shirt collar – no sign of a tie, but then it was Sunday.

  Falconer gave their names and, the two of them displayed their warrant cards, for confirmation that they were kosher, and the man gave his name as Julius Twelvetrees, and invited them in, the three of them eventually settling in a sitting room that looked rather like the set for a dated sitcom – too cottagey to be real.

  ‘I heard all the hoo-ha with cars and whatnot, this morning. What’s been going on? Something up at old Lettice’s place? Forgotten to pay her TV licence; something like that?’ He spoke light-heartedly, but there was a tremor in his voice that belied his words.

  ‘I’m sorry to inform you that Miss Keighley-Armstrong is now deceased, and that we are treating her death as suspicious,’ Falconer informed him, as Carmichael made himself as comfortable as was possible, given his build, in a chintz armchair that was scaled to the size of the room – dinky – and took out his notebook.

  ‘Good God!’ the man replied, with what seemed like genuine surprise. ‘Whatever happened to her?’

  ‘It would seem that someone gained admittance to her house, hit her with a bronze statuette, then broke into the safe, and cleared it of anything worth stealing. Do you personally have any knowledge of what was in that safe?’

  There was a moment of silence before Twelvetrees spoke, during which he looked as if he were screwing himself up to an unpleasant admission. Which he was. ‘As a matter of fact I do. She showed me what was in there; just the once, you understand, and several years ago, at that,’ he admitted, colouring as he spoke, although whether this was from guilt, or genuine embarrassment, it was impossible to tell.

  ‘And why would she do that, I wonder,’ queried Falconer, ‘when I’d heard she was a bit of a recluse.’

  ‘It was just a reaction to my profession at the time. I suppose she wanted to show off her pieces to someone who would really appreciate them.’

  ‘And what profession would that be, Mr Twelvetrees?’

  ‘I used to be a jeweller – retail, that is,’ he informed them. ‘Had a little shop in Market Darley. Maybe you remember it? It was in one of the roads that lead off the market square. ‘Bijouterie’, it was called.’

  ‘No, but then I don’t buy jewellery,’ replied Falconer, only to be outdone by Carmichael, who piped up with, ‘I bought my wife’s engagement and wedding rings there.’

  ‘Do you know, I think I remember you, now. Such an unforgettable build,’ Twelvetrees batted back at him with a small smile.

  This was all getting a bit too pally for Falconer’s liking, and he steered the interview back to the subject in hand. ‘Did you attend the parish party last night at the hall?’

  ‘I did indeed. I didn’t stay to the end, but it was better than I thought it was going to be. Damned good job that lady vicar made of it, I thought.’

  ‘Did you speak to Miss Keighley-Armstrong at all during the evening?’

  ‘Not as I recall. I spent most of my time there nattering to old Toby Lattimer about this and that. I did try to speak to my relatively new next-door neighbour, but he seems to be an uncommonly uncommunicative fellow, and I got myself snubbed, if you want to know.’

  ‘I shouldn’t let that worry you, sir. We’ll be speaking to him soon, and he won’t be able to snub us: we’re unsnubbable, and have got the badges to prove it,’ replied the inspector, making a rare joke.

  ‘Ha ha! Very good, Inspector Falconer,’ Twelvetrees applauded his efforts.

  ‘When did you last see or speak to Miss Keighley-Armstrong, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her since after church last Sunday, and I haven’t seen her since the party last night. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, sir. Now, are you aware of anyone who might hold a grudge against the deceased, or who is desperate enough for money that they would risk breaking in and stealing what was in the safe?’

  ‘How’d anyone get the combination out of her in the first place?’ asked Twelvetrees, genuinely interested.

  ‘Intimidation and violence are the usual methods, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind answering my last question.’

  Twelvetrees sat in silence for a moment, as he wracked his brains for anything that might be of interest to his two unexpected guests.

  DC Roberts’ first call was to Carpe Diem, a Georgian house which was well enough maintained so that a first impression of it didn’t mark it down as scruffy, but closer inspection revealed a rather lackadaisical attitude towards upkeep. The lawn was not shaggy, but the flowerbeds were empty, and although fairly weed-free, no spring flowers poked their heads out of the soil. The paintwork wasn’t neglected, but a more thorough look revealed the window frames were beginning to flake.

  At the front door, he noticed that the varnish had worn thin in places, with the onslaught of the weather, and the brass knocker was dull and unpolished. Ms Gwendolyn Galton, he thought, was either losing heart, or had more pressing calls on her cash.

  Seizing the knocker, which was a lion’s head, firmly in his hand, he applied it three times, surprised at just how much noise it made. After a minute or so, he knocked again, then made his way round the property, to see if the owner was in the back garden. Finding this not to be so, he cupped his hands round his eyes, and sneaked a peek through the downstairs windows.

  Not a very tidy person, he decided, noting that what appeared to be the dining room had sheets of newspaper everywhere, and some small ornamental items scattered across the table, not displayed proudly on units or shelves, as he would have expected them to be. Deciding that there was definitely no one at home, he trailed round to the front again, wrote a brief message on one of his cards for the owner to phone him, slipped it through the letterbox, and moved on to the next property, galled at this inauspicious start to his first case back on duty.

  I hope I have a bit more luck with the rest of them, he thought, otherwise the guv’s going to think I’m a right slacker. And here’s me, raring to go, hoping that I’m going to be the one who spots the vital clue which brings the murderer to justice.

  Falconer and Carmichael, in the meantime, having finished with Julius Twelvetrees, now stood at the door of Carters Cottage, hoping that Colin Twentymen was at home. They didn’t have long to wait to have their hopes realised, as the door swung open within a few seconds of the bell ringing, and a man of medium height, with greying blond hair and a beard and moustache showing just a touch of faint red, stood before them.

  He ushered them inside without a w
ord and, still silently, motioned them into the kitchen and into wheel-backed chairs in the larger than expected room. ‘Mr Twentymen?’ enquired Falconer, somewhat nonplussed by this rural English Marcel Marceau.

  ‘’S right,’ he replied. ‘You’re police.’ His attitude was curt to the point of insolence, but that may be explained by the rare occurrence of finding policemen on his doorstep.

  ‘We’re here about Miss Keighley-Armstrong,’ Falconer continued, refusing to be intimidated by the man’s brusque manner. ‘She’s dead, I’m afraid – sometime last night, we believe – and we’re asking people when they last saw or spoke to her. At the moment, we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

  ‘Didn’t know her. Not been here long,’ replied Twentymen, giving them no information whatsoever.

  ‘Did you attend the party at the hall yesterday evening?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Did you see or talk to Miss Keighley-Armstrong?’

  ‘Saw her. Didn’t speak to her.’

  This was like pulling teeth, or getting blood out of a stone. Did the man not know how to construct a full sentence, or was he always like this? ‘Miss Keighley-Armstrong also had a valuable collection of jewellery stolen from her safe. Did you know about this collection?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Have you any idea who, in this village, might have had a grudge against Miss Keighley-Armstrong, or a score to settle with her?’ Falconer silently bet himself a tenner that Twentymen would not use a proper sentence to answer this question, nor provide them with anything they didn’t already know.

  ‘Nope. I don’t indulge in idle gossip, and keep myself to myself.’

  Damn, he’d lost his bet, and was glad he hadn’t had the opportunity to make the wager with Carmichael, or he’d be ten pounds out of pocket, and still none the wiser. He gave it one last shot. ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might be helpful to the case?’

  ‘Nope. Sorry.’ At least he had a trace of manners, somewhere, in that he offered this cursory apology.

  ‘We’ll be on our way, then. Thank you for your time.’ They could hardly thank him for his help, for they were leaving empty-handed, with not even a jot of new information.

  Outside the door again, Carmichael heaved a huge sigh and commented, ‘Doesn’t waste his words, does he?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied Falconer, unconsciously echoing Twentymen.

  At the house next door, a tiled Victorian pile of a building, the garden neat in an almost military fashion, with bulbs showing their shoots in serried ranks and the outdated name of Khartoum, Roberts found the owner at home, and anxious to get him off the doorstep, once he had revealed himself as a detective.

  ‘Get inside quickly, young man,’ she ordered him. ‘I don’t want any of the neighbours to know I’ve had a visit from the police, after which she hurried him into a sitting room straight from a fin de siècle television period drama, and indicated that he should sit on a hideous horsehair-stuffed sofa.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked without preamble, sitting bolt upright opposite him in a similarly uncomfortable armchair, and glaring at him with injured innocence at the thought that she should have such an unwelcome visitor.

  ‘I’m here to try to gather any information you may have, that might help me find the murderer of a Miss Keighley-Armstrong of Manor Gate,’ Roberts stated baldly.

  He got no further, as she gave a shrill scream, her hands flying to her face. ‘No,’ she shrieked. ‘Dear Lettice can’t be dead. You must be mistaken. Oh, what a wicked trick to play on an old woman. Who put you up to this, young man?’

  Roberts held out his warrant card to her, as asking to see it was a precaution she had not taken, in her haste to get him out of general view. ‘I can assure you that I’m deadly serious, Madam,’ he replied.

  ‘Miss,’ she corrected him automatically. ‘But I only saw her last night. When did this happen? Oh, poor, dear Lettice. She was my best friend, you know, and I shall miss her so.’

  She may have sounded heartbroken, but he could see her peeping surreptitiously between her fingers as she spoke, in an effort to gauge his reaction to her distress. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any distress,’ he apologised, determined to take the line of least resistance. ‘Perhaps you could answer a few questions, and then tell me something about your friend.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector.’ Either her eyesight wasn’t up to much, or she was trying to charm him. Either way, he didn’t feel like putting her right, as being addressed as Inspector was unexpectedly pleasant.

  ‘Did you see Miss Keighley-Armstrong at all, yesterday?’ he asked, feeling quite puffed up with importance at his unexpected promotion.

  ‘Of course. I saw her at the party in the church hall. I spent quite a bit of the evening sitting with her and chatting.’

  ‘What sort of mood was she in? Did she seem worried about anything, or mention anything that was causing her anxiety?’

  ‘Absolutely not. She seemed in fine form, and had a jolly good time. I do remember, though, that she talked a lot, and quite loudly about her jewellery, and I did suggest to her that this wasn’t a wise thing to do.’

  ‘And why did you advise that, Miss Asquith?’

  ‘Because you never knew who was listening and taking note of it all. She could have been robbed.’

  ‘She has been robbed. It’s all gone. Every last piece. And she’s been murdered, into the bargain.’ He informed her, with a ‘what do you think of that, then?’ expression on his face.

  ‘Oh my good Lord! All of that beautiful jewellery gone – just like that,’ the woman exclaimed, a look of profound loss on her face, this expression completely genuine.

  ‘Had you seen the pieces, then?’ asked Roberts, anxious to have them described to him.

  ‘Not actually seen them, but dear Lettice did talk about them sometimes, and they sounded fabulous. Like a treasure from the Arabian Nights. Did she …? Do you know if she …? Did you find her will?’ There it was, then; the old biddy had been hoping to be mentioned in the will, and was desperate to know whether or not she’d been left something.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose any information on what was actually found when the house was searched. I can only tell you what was not.’ Roberts could see the sort of woman he was dealing with, now, and was not willing to offer her any comfort at all. He’d keep the knowledge gained from the insurance papers to himself, as well. No point in letting her off the hook she’d been caught on any earlier than he had to.

  ‘One final question: did you see Miss Keighley-Armstrong again after the party?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t, young man. What exactly are you implying?’ She was so indignant that a red spot appeared on each of her cheeks, and she began puffing and blowing with the grossness of what she perceived as a grave insult.

  ‘I’m implying nothing at all, Miss Asquith. For all I know, you could have gone round to see her after the party for a milky drink and a good gossip about how the party had gone.’

  Somewhat mollified, Maude satisfied her honour by replying, ‘I most certainly did not, young man, and I shall expect to be kept informed about any progress on the case, being her best friend. Also, I’ve not been at all happy with your attitude towards me this afternoon, and I shall certainly be speaking to your superior about it, Constable. It’s simply not good enough!’

  So, all that ‘Inspector’ business had been so much B-S, to try to get more details out of him. Roberts left Khartoum with no new information, but the impression that he had just spent some time in the company of a leech. Mean old bat didn’t even offer him a cup of tea.

  Falconer and Carmichael had, by that time, arrived outside the second of a terrace of three cottages, this one being name ‘Ace of Cups’, a name that perplexed them both, this phrase meaning nothing to either of them.

  To their surprise, the door was answered by what looked like a middle-aged witch, straight from the pages of the Grimms’ fairytales. The woman was
dressed from head to toe in black, and her long hair was also dyed the colour of jet. She was adorned by various silver charms and unrecognisable symbols, strung on chains and hanging from her neck and both her wrists, and positively jingling as she came to rest with one hand on the door.

  Both men were struck dumb by this unexpected apparition, and it was the witch who was the first to speak. ‘Were you perhaps hoping for a reading? Speak up and don’t be shy; I don’t bite.’

  There was a silence of perhaps five seconds before Falconer regained his voice. ‘Miss Wanda Warwick?’ he enquired, tentatively.

  ‘That is I,’ she replied. ‘How can I help you? I can fit you in this afternoon if you’d like.’

  ‘I think we might be at cross purposes here, Miss Warwick,’ explained Falconer. ‘We are from Market Darley CID, investigating the death of Miss Keighley-Armstrong of Manor Gate, and wondered if we might have a short word with you about the deceased.’

  Wanda’s already pale face turned even paler, and she gasped, before gabbling, ‘I knew there was something dreadful about to happen when I turned over those last cards yesterday, and now I’ve been proved right. How did it happen?’ Reaching the back of one hand to her forehead, she made a fair facsimile of a woman about to swoon, and Carmichael shot forward to catch her, before she fell.

  As the sergeant helped her indoors and into a chair, Falconer trailed in behind them, thinking, naïve boy, to fall for so obvious an act. The inspector wasn’t fooled for a minute. She put on a fair performance of being profoundly shocked at something, but whatever this was, there would be some sort of glory in it for her, or he was a Dutchman.

  ‘I was supposed to be doing readings at a fair today, but I simply couldn’t face it.’

  ‘So, was it the weather that put you off? It can’t be much fun out in this rain for a whole day, getting soaking wet and not being able to dry off.’

  ‘Oh, is it raining? I can’t say that I even noticed. I’m still too spooked about what happened yesterday afternoon.’