‘Huh! Dear old Maudie?’ Violet’s face had coloured, and she seemed to be getting her dander up about something. ‘If you’ll just cover your sergeant’s ears, Inspector, I’ll tell you all about dear Maudie. She was what my husband would have called an “arse-licker”. Not a pretty epithet, but she sucked up to Lettice shamelessly.
‘She was one person whom Lettice did actively dislike,’ she continued, as Carmichael giggled quietly at such an ugly expression coming out of such a respectable, elderly mouth. ‘She was always calling round on the off-chance that Lettice might need something from the shops or the supermarket, then insinuating herself into the house, and – excuse the expression – “bumming” a cup of tea and a nasty little chat.
‘Lettice declared that there was nothing like a “nice” little chat with that woman. She’s a bag of hot air filled with gossip and spite and, recently, Lettice had taken to hiding in the walk-in larder, to avoid her snooping through the windows. She’d stayed firmly in her armchair once, in revolt to answering the door to her, but the cheeky old besom had gone round the house, looking through the windows. Lettice had to pretend to have been taking a nap, once she was busted.’
‘She sounds a thoroughly unpleasant woman,’ Falconer opined. ‘Our colleague called on her earlier, and found her in rather robust form, even threatening to complain about his behaviour.’
‘He won’t have been charmed, I can assure you,’ she stated, with emphasis.
‘Can you tell me about last night and the party – I assume you attended?’
‘Of course I did. One has to do everything within one’s power to help Rev. Florrie in her bid to revitalise the parish and build up the congregation.’
‘What was Miss Keighley-Armstrong’s mood at the party? Did she seem as if anything was on her mind, or that she was worrying about anything?’
‘Quite the opposite. She was in fine form, slugging down the punch as if there were no tomorrow …’ Here, she broke off. ‘Of course, for her, there really was no tomorrow. Maybe she had some sort of premonition.’
‘You don’t believe in all that supernatural stuff, do you?’ Falconer was surprised that this may be so.
‘Of course not, but I did hear about that reading Wanda – that’s our local witch – did yesterday, and how upset she was at the last three cards she turned up. Nothing stays private for long in a village, and I did hear that Krystal Yaxley was badly shaken by Wanda’s reaction.’
That was an interesting idea, Falconer suddenly thought. Maybe the cards had been rigged so that Wanda could get at the victim, while claiming that the information had been in the cards earlier that day, and she wasn’t responsible for which cards turned up. At best, she was possibly going for a bit of publicity about her powers: at worst, she was setting the scene for a dreadful act shortly after she had predicted it. Ms Warwick was certainly worth another look.
‘Back to the party, Mrs Bingham, if you’d be so good.’
‘Yes, the party; Lettice was in one of her very rare outgoing moods, and told all and sundry about her father’s work in South Africa, and about all the stones he had collected, and the fabulous pieces of jewellery he had had made for her mother. Anyone could have heard her, and I tried to get her to keep quiet about it, but she simply ignored me. All gone, now, I suppose.’
‘All gone, I’m afraid,’ Falconer confirmed.
‘Poor Lettice. Those stones cost her her life. Nothing material was ever worth that.’
‘When we found her, she had managed to get herself outside, maybe to call for help, and she was lying with her arms outstretched just about touching one of the old gravestones,’ Falconer informed her. ‘Do you think that may have meant something?’ The thought had only just recurred to him.
‘Maybe she was just trying to show that it was her stones that had gone, and that they had been the cause of her injuries,’ offered Mrs Bingham, speculating wildly.
‘That certainly is food for thought,’ said Falconer, thinking it imaginative but unlikely, but filing it away at the back of his mind, in case it came in handy at any time during the investigation. ‘Thank you very much for your time and the tea. We’ll get back in touch with you if we need to. Before we go, though, do you know who her next of kin is? We’ll need somebody to officially identify the body.’
‘She was all alone in the world, I’m afraid. Her last cousin died two years ago.’ Seeing Falconer’s desolate expression, she added, ‘I suppose I could do it. Heaven knows, I’ve known her long enough. I might as well be the one to see her off on her final journey.’ And she gave a deep sigh.
‘That’s very generous-spirited of you, Mrs Bingham. I’ll be in touch about day and time.’
‘What a nice old lady,’ stated Carmichael sincerely, after she had closed the door on them, and they made their way towards The Rectory.
Meanwhile, Roberts took the few steps necessary, having turned left on exiting the pub, to his next destination at Sweet Dreams. Krystal Yaxley answered the door to him after a short delay, still shouting to her sons upstairs to turn their bloody music down before she went mad, finishing with, ‘And you should have asked a fee for last night. We could have done with the money, no matter how little.’
Turning towards her caller, she apologised, and asked how she could help him. ‘DC Roberts from Market Darley,’ he introduced himself, and a fleeting look of fear crossed her face.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, suddenly wondering if this visitor had come to tell her that something had happened to her runaway husband. If it had, though, maybe the insurance would get her out of her financial mess, and the mortgage would be automatically paid off. The fear was replaced by a look of hopeful anticipation, this only to be wiped off her face when Roberts informed her that he was pursuing the investigation of the death of Miss Keighley-Armstrong.
‘The old lady’s dead?’ she asked, and the colour drained slowly from her face.
‘Did you know her?’ asked Roberts, intrigued by this reaction.
‘No, no, I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ she said, and remained standing where she was, a slight tremor developing in the hands that hung at her sides.
‘Do you think I might come in?’ enquired the DC, beginning to feel like a door-to-door salesman who had forgotten his case of brushes, and rather conspicuous.
‘Of course. I’m sorry. You just knocked me off kilter for a moment.’ Her voice had strong traces of a Lancashire accent, and he knew at once that she wasn’t a long-term inhabitant in these parts. ‘Come on in and sit yourself down. Can I get you anything to drink? I feel in need of a gin and tonic myself.’
‘Not while I’m on duty, Mrs Yaxley, but thanks for asking.’ Had Falconer not been in the vicinity, he would have agreed with alacrity, for he saw no harm in one drink, if one was driving. He didn’t fancy his chances of escaping without a wigging, however, if he ran into the inspector and breathed gin fumes all over him.
Once settled, and after a large swig from her tumbler, Krystal asked exactly what had happened, and why he thought she could help him.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss Keighley-Armstrong died last night, after a burglary. Her safe was found to be open, and her valuable collection of jewellery gone. Had you ever seen her jewellery?’
‘No, but I had heard about it. I think everyone in the village knew about it, but very few people were allowed to feast their eyes on it. And she was on such good form last night. Have you any idea who is responsible?’
‘Not so far, but our enquiries are progressing. Now, I know you said you didn’t know her, but could you tell me anything you remember about her behaviour yesterday evening? I assume you were at the party.’
‘Oh, yes. I had to be. My boys were DJ-ing. As it was, I had to get them to turn off one of the songs they played. They only went and put on Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady”. Not suitable at all for a church gig. They’re such little tinkers.
‘Anyway, Miss Keighley-Armstrong seemed to be
in her element. She was necking down punch, and telling all and sundry about her beautiful jewels, and how her father had been a gem dealer in South Africa, and how she’d lived there throughout her childhood. I don’t think there was a person in the hall that didn’t get the gist of her story,’ Krystal told him, draining her glass, then falling into introspection.
In the silence that followed, Roberts noticed that her hands had started to shake again. ‘Is there anything worrying you, Mrs Yaxley? You seem a bit nervous, if you don’t mind me mentioning it.’ He was on his best behaviour, but if she started to get slippery and avoid the issue, he’d revert to his usual, more robust approach.
Rising from her chair, she said, ‘Yes, there is, but I’ll need another drink before I tell you about it. This little anecdote’s a two-slug dose of Dutch courage,’ and she wandered off to the sideboard to refill her glass: two-thirds gin and a much smaller splash of tonic this time, he noticed.
Re-seating herself, she took a long swallow from her glass, and began, ‘It’s something that happened yesterday afternoon, but I’d better begin at the beginning. My husband walked out on us recently, and times have been very hard, what with the mortgage and twin sons at university. I’ve been looking out for work, but nothing suitable seems to be available at the moment.
‘Anyway, yesterday I consulted Wanda Warwick, a woman across the road who reads tarot cards, to see if she could see anything positive in my life; just to give me hope, really. Everything was going along swimmingly, until she turned over the last three cards, then she had a hairy fit.
‘I asked her what was wrong, and she started going on about it not being possible for those three to turn up like that. It all looked like disaster was looming, but she didn’t seem to think it could possibly be related to me. Then you turn up on the doorstep and, for a moment, I thought you’d come to tell me that my husband was dead.
‘No such bloody luck! However, something bad has happened, so it looks like her prediction was right, doesn’t it? It really spooked me,’ she declared, draining her second drink dry.
‘Never underestimate the role of coincidence, Mrs Yaxley. I, personally, don’t believe in the supernatural. The cards must just have been an unlucky fluke.’
‘If you say so, but I think you had to be there, to feel the atmosphere of evil that pervaded her sitting room when it happened.’
Ay oop! thought Roberts, his mind imitating the woman’s accent in his head. She’d already embroidered the story to make it more interesting. There’d be no chance of shifting her in what she believed had happened, but, thank God, that wasn’t really relevant to the enquiry.
‘Do you know of anyone who might have had it in for the woman?’ He was reverting to type now. No more Mr Nice Guy. ‘Someone audacious enough to knock her on the head, get into her safe, and make away with the contents?’
‘Sorry,’ she replied. ‘We’ve not lived here that long and, what with my husband taking off like that, and my boys having to come home from university to support me in my hour of need, I’ve kept myself well to myself. I haven’t got to know anybody that well. I know a few to pass the time of day with, and Rev. Florrie comes round to make sure I’m bearing up, once a week, but I don’t go out much, or have many visitors.’
With a sigh of resignation, Roberts rose from his chair and prepared to leave. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Yaxley. I hope life gets a little easier for you in the future.’ He was back on his best behaviour for departure, and took his leave of her with a smile and a wave.
He hadn’t taken the opportunity to speak to the sons, but that could be done later on in the enquiry. If they were away at university most of the time, they’d have had even less time to make friends. And if Inspector ruddy Falconer didn’t like it, he could damned well lump it.
He knew the last thought was only bravado on his part, but it made him feel better. For all the noisy music from upstairs and the tell-tale signs of family occupation, such as discarded newspapers and magazines, the house had had an atmosphere of hopelessness. He could taste the despair on his tongue when he was in there, and he didn’t want to spend a minute longer than he had to in such a depressing atmosphere.
His final visit was to Three-Ways House, where he was given to understand a Mr and Mrs Haygarth lived. To his surprise, once again, the door was answered by a woman in mid-argument. As the door opened, he caught the words, ‘… you can do it your bloody self in future. Perhaps that’ll satisfy you.’ Pause. ‘Good afternoon. How can I help you?’ The voice had gone from a shrill, harsh shriek, to a normal volume purr within a heartbeat.
‘Sorry to bother you, but are you Mrs Haygarth?’ Roberts felt suddenly unsure of himself.
‘That’s right, luv. What’s your business?’ Dammit! This woman had actually taken him for a salesman.
‘I’m Detective Constable Roberts from the Market Darley CID,’ he explained, holding out his warrant card, so there could be no mistake and that he’d suddenly whip a suitcase from behind his legs and try to sell her brushes and cleaning cloths. ‘I’m here to talk to you about the death of Mrs Keighley-Armstrong of Manor Gate, the house at the back of the church.’
‘I know where she lives … lived, I suppose it should be, if you’re right. What’d she die of? Exhaustion, after counting all her money?’
He had a right one here, and no mistake, he thought, as he asked if he might come inside. The vision of a suitcase was beginning to materialise on the path behind him, and he would have no truck with that. He was a detective, after all, and being made to stand on the doorstep was not how he was used to being treated.
‘Come on inside, then, but don’t be expecting tea and biscuits, or anything like that. We’re in the poor house, and we can’t afford to be giving refreshments to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who turns up out of the blue.’
What a graceless, spiky woman she was, he thought, as she led him into a cheerless sitting room where a man, who was presumably her husband, sat at a desk, his fingers working away at a calculator, his disgusted face staring at a heap of paperwork in front of him.
In an attitude that mirrored his wife’s, he grated, ‘Who the hell are you? And what do you want? If it’s money you’re after, we haven’t got any. Perhaps we could make a deal for my soul, though, in the absence of any filthy lucre to hand over to you.’
‘This is Detective Constable Roberts, come about Miss Keighley-Armstrong. Who appears to be dead,’ she added, as her husband’s expression grew even blacker and he made as if to speak.
‘Dead? That old biddy? I wonder who gets the stash. With the house, and goodness knows what else, it should be a fair few hundred thousand, if not over a million.’
‘Jasper!’
‘Well, here we are, virtually penniless, and that old cow was loaded.’
‘She was murdered sometime last night,’ Roberts stated emphatically, in an effort to get the situation on a more professional footing.
‘Good! Although I know she won’t have left us a penny piece.’
‘We didn’t know her, Jasper. Why would she leave us anything if she didn’t know us from Adam?’
‘That’s not the point. If we don’t halt the business losses, we’re going to be getting all our utilities cut off and the bailiffs in, and in less than six months, we’ll be repossessed and living on the streets.’ The man was working himself up into a real rage.
‘Would you please behave yourself, sir? I’m here on a serious matter, and I don’t want it side-lined by listening to your tales of woe. I sympathise with you if you’re in financial difficulties, but if you could just rein in your temper for half an hour, we can get this over with, and I can leave you in peace to carry on with your tantrum.’
This was bold stuff, and Roberts hoped that it didn’t lead to another complaint about him. He just didn’t see how else he could manage the situation without having to bail out and come back again the next day.
As he finished speaking, his wife yelled, ‘Jasper! Pull yourself toge
ther, and try to remember your manners. It’s not this poor officer’s fault that we’re up to our arses in alligators with the business.’
Between the two of them, they seemed to have made Mr Haygarth see sense, and he took several deep breaths, before rising from his chair, crossing the room, and extending his hand to Roberts. ‘Sorry! I was just going through this month’s figures so far, and they don’t paint a very pretty picture. You just happened to arrive at the wrong time. Please accept my apologies. You, too, Belinda. I’m sorry I went off on one.’
‘Let’s all sit down and find out what Detective Roberts wants, shall we?’ his wife suggested, and while they complied with her wishes, Roberts thought, Detective Roberts? I rather like the sound of that. It’s a lot better than Constable. More clout.
He cleared his throat to announce he was ready to begin, and told them about exactly what had happened the previous night, emphasising that he was only asking people their impression of the old lady the previous evening, and whether or not they knew of anyone who held anything against her from, perhaps, something that had happened in the past.
‘She was well away last night, that I do know, for I saw it with my own eyes, hoovering up all the free drink as if it was her last chance,’ Jasper almost spat.
‘But it was, as it turned out, Jas. She’s dead and will never go to another party, ever. Don’t be so unfeeling,’ Belinda chastened him.
‘True, true. But it’s got nothing to do with us. We did what we had to do last night, and that was to get a damned good feed, as it had been necessary to take along some food with us. There was no way we could provide food for other people, then have to come back here and cook a meal. The wallet just won’t stretch to that sort of thing anymore. In fact, I think it’s finally run out of elasticity altogether. We’re at full stretch.’
‘So you didn’t speak to her at all?’
‘We’ve already said that. Don’t you listen?’
‘Jasper, shut up!’
‘Mr Haygarth, if you intend to continue in this vein I shall have to ask you to accompany me to the station so that we can carry out this interview in more civilised surroundings.’
Grave Stones (The Falconer Files Book 9) Page 11