Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Yes! I see just what you mean. He only needs a little red hat and a fishing rod, and you could put him at the side of your garden pond any day of the week,’ replied Falconer, still leaning towards a light-hearted manner, but Carmichael had been spot-on with his description. Even sitting down, he could see that the man indicated was not tall, but he was on the tubby side, with white hair and a white beard, and he seemed to be hell-bent on having his say within the group, his right index finger being waggled in the air for emphasis.

  ‘That’s Digby Jeffries, one-time employee of the BBC,’ explained Carmichael, through clenched teeth, ‘and the one on his left is Robin De’ath, ex-Channel 6. They’re like a pair of terrible twins, lording it all over not just the locals, but over the other incomers as well.

  ‘See that big man opposite Jeffries? He’s also ex-BBC, but only radio, and the World Service to boot: Henry Pistorius. How they like to put him down because he was nothing to do with television. He holds his own, though. He’s more than a match for them, and sometimes they come off the worse for tangling with him.’

  ‘What about the scrawny fellow and the grey-haired lady?’ asked Falconer, now genuinely interested in the characters that Carmichael was describing.

  ‘The little chap is Cedric Malting, and he seems to have no character whatsoever.’

  ‘What’s he doing with the group of mighty incomers, then?’ asked Falconer, getting into the mood now.

  ‘He says he’s a playwright, and can list quite of number of plays he says he’s written, but none of them has ever been published or performed on a professional stage. A couple of them have had an amateur airing, and he thinks that puts him on a level with the others, but they look down their noses at him most of the time.’

  Falconer forbore to mention the comedic sketch on class that had featured John Cleese, Ronnie Corbett, and Ronnie Barker, because he thought it unlikely that Carmichael would have seen a programme from such a long way back. But it made him smile, nevertheless, to think about the similarities between this and what Carmichael had just said. ‘And what about the woman?’ he asked, rekindling his interest after his little sortie into memory.

  ‘She’s a retired English teacher: tells them all about the appalling standard of English currently in use in broadcasting and in the media in general, and yearns for the days when English grammar lessons will be re-introduced into the school curriculum. Fat chance!’

  ‘And you’d like me to have a little word with our friend Jeffries?’

  While they were talking, however, the noise level from the table under scrutiny had risen, and the finger-wagging Jeffries was now waving his arms about in the air, and getting into a very agitated state. Henry Pistorius was also similarly roused and half-standing from his former sitting position, leaning across the table and hissing in anger.

  At this point, George Covington appeared from behind the bar and approached the table, calling, ‘Now, now, gentleman. No need for any bad feeling. Either drink up and make up, or I shall ’ave to ask you to leave these premises, for I won’t ’ave no trouble in my bar.’

  Digby Jeffries rose to his feet, pulled his coat from the back of his chair, dragged it on, and stumped his way to the door, without a word to any of the others he had been sitting with. As the door let in a blast of arctic air, Henry Pistorius burst out laughing, and the whole bar heard his deep voice comment, ‘Piddling little pip-squeak!’

  As George made his way back to the bar, having reassured himself that peace had broken out at the table Digby had left, Falconer beckoned him to their table. ‘What was all that about, then, George?’ he asked.

  ‘Police takin’ an interest, are they?’ asked the landlord with a gust of beery breath.

  ‘Not really. Just nosiness, I suppose,’ explained Falconer, not wishing to disclose why he had an interest in anything that upset Digby Jeffries.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure, but if I know my Digby, I expect ’e was name-droppin’ again. ’E’s always doing it; I can almost ’ear the clangs from be’ind the bar. “When I met this celebrity … When I was working on this show with … When I was at so-and-so’s party, I bumped into …” ’E never gave up with the self-aggrandisement, and I expect the others just got tired of ’is boastin’ and braggin’.

  ‘Old ’Enry and that Robin ’ave achieved a lot more in their careers, I ’ear. That Jeffries, it turns out, was just a floor manager, but ’e keeps that to ’imself, and is wringing ’is BBC connections for every drop ’e can get out of them. It’s not my place to tell anyone else what ’e actually did do, so I stay out of it. I reckon ’alf of his stories are made up, the other ’alf exaggerated out of all recognition, but ’e still thinks ’e’s cock of the walk because ’e was BBC television staff.’

  ‘Thanks very much for that information, George. I do believe it’s put some powder in my flask. That man’s been upsetting Carmichael’s Kerry no end recently.’

  ‘That man’s upset just about everyone in the village. Tell ’er to take no notice of ’im. ’E’s all wind and piss, when you get down to it. Tell him to stuff whatever ’e’s been sayin’ where the sun don’t shine. I’ve just about ’ad enough of ’im. If ’e causes any more trouble in ’ere, I’m goin’ to bar him, and that’s a fact,’ the landlord informed them.

  ‘It doesn’t quite work like that with pregnant women, though,’ Carmichael stated lugubriously.

  ‘Well, you got troubles of your own, lad. Give ’im a smack in the gob if ’e upsets ’er again. That should sort ’im out good and proper. None of us will tell on you.’

  ‘I wish it were that easy,’ sighed Carmichael.

  ‘Well, don’t you worry! ’E’ll get ’is comeuppance one of these fine days, and I ’opes you’re there to see it,’ was George Covington’s final comment on the matter, and throwing the drying cloth, which he habitually carried everywhere, over his shoulder, he strolled back behind the bar.

  ‘I have a suspicion that George is right, you know. It didn’t look as if he was flavour of the month over there. There must be a lot of other people who feel like you, and one of them is going to crack. Just make sure it’s not you. And tell Kerry if she catches sight of him again to hide and not come out till he’s gone,’ Falconer advised him, draining his glass. ‘Shall we go back to the cottage now, so that I can say goodnight to Kerry? I doubt he’ll be back in here tonight.’

  ‘OK, sir. And I’ll try to keep my cool in future.’

  [1] See Strict and Peculiar

  [2] See Battered to Death – A Falconer Files Brief Case

  Chapter Two

  Saturday 25th December – Christmas Day, 2am

  There were no stars and no moon to shed light on Castle Farthing. Only the light from the village green, children’s bedrooms, landings, and from those careless enough to leave their Christmas lights on overnight, lit the centre of the village. The sky, though invisible, was still pregnant with snow, and a wind from the north-east howled in chimneys and eaves as it scoured through the little community, sculpting and shaping the surfeit of snow that had already fallen with more skill and artistic sensitivity than any human hand could have achieved, or eye envisaged.

  At that hour, there were still footprints visible in the whiteness, evidence of some human movement and some activity carried out, but the ever-falling curtain of white soon filled the depressions and erased any trace of their existence. By daylight, no one would know that anything at all had occurred out in the open in the earliest hours of Christmas Day.

  But there had been a lot of activity. There were a number of sets of prints which had been ploughed in the virgin covering which all led to the church, but one less leaving it. Anyone taking an overview of the village at this time would have seen from whence the footprints had come, and been able to work out with a fair degree of accuracy the chain of events which had led to the inevitable.

  Doors had opened and closed quietly, not even spotted by the most dedicated youngster, still on watch for the arrival of Father Chr
istmas, and later another set of footprints had joined the original tracks that had been made before the busy distraction in between.

  Only the elements had been witness to what had happened, and as far as the human population was concerned, they were deaf to the voice of the elements, the elements being incapable of communication on mere human matters.

  Friday 17th December

  Carmichael had been making his entrance to the office for a week now with no more foul tempers. He had, however, raised a fair head of steam in Falconer. The ‘surprise’ that the boys had mentioned when Falconer had visited the Carmichael household had turned out to be a random-coloured knitted hat with ear-flaps and a sort of Mohican sprouting of multi-coloured wool from the nape of the neck to the front of the hat.

  The boys said that they had saved their pocket money for it, because Daddy’s head got so cold. Carmichael, touched more than he could express, had hardly had the thing off his head, and he looked extraordinarily like a gigantic chicken to his colleagues. No one would be able to take him seriously were he to talk to them with that on his head. Falconer had forbidden him to wear it when on official business, but he had it on every morning when he came into work, and replaced it on his head every evening when he left. Much to Falconer’s embarrassment, he also wore it in the canteen, and raised many a smile and chuckle by doing so.

  Carmichael considered that things like that hat made the world a happier place, and if there were enough of these little things, the world would be the better for it.

  Falconer considered sitting at a separate table.

  Later in the day, Carmichael raised the ‘bogey’ of Christmas. ‘I asked you ages ago to spend it with us, sir – last December, if I remember rightly – and you said you would.’

  ‘I know I did,’ replied Falconer, desperately looking for a way out of his so-long-ago promise, ‘but what about my little pride of felines? Don’t they deserve Christmas as well?’ he suggested, hoping to play on the soft side of Carmichael’s nature.

  ‘They can have Christmas any day of the year, sir, with respect. They’re hardly crossing off the days on a calendar, are they?’

  ‘No.’ He had a feeling he was going to lose this one.

  ‘Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day,’ said Carmichael, rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘You can stay over, or go back to your little furry friends at night: your choice.’

  ‘Three days?’ queried the inspector, his voice higher than its normal pitch with panic at the thought of three days in the Carmichael household, with two tiny dogs, one of them pregnant, a cat, two boisterous children, a pregnant woman, and the great galumphing galoot that was his sergeant.

  ‘It would be such a help to Kerry, although she doesn’t realise it. Christmas will be so much more work for her, and if I try to help her she always refuses and does things herself. With you there, I can say we’ll do the clearing away and the washing-up, and she can hardly turn down an offer from my superior officer, can she?’ the sergeant pleaded.

  Bugger! thought Falconer, and agreed with a heavy heart. He knew he’d enjoyed his brief window on a Carmichael Christmas the previous year, but he was looking forward to getting back to his own routines with no other humans involved. He’d already turned down invitations from both his parents and his aunt Ursula, and was looking forward to a bit of seasonal peace and quiet, never mind goodwill to all men: cats were less demanding, and a morsel or two of seasonal meats would work wonders as a bribe to their peace and quiet.

  ‘With the weather like it has been, we might even get a white Christmas this year. It’s certainly looking that way,’ said Carmichael with longing in his voice, and Falconer’s spirits took another nose-dive. That was the last thing he needed; to be snowed in with the Carmichaels until God knows when.

  ‘With my luck, we probably will,’ was Falconer’s only comment, and for a few seconds, he lowered his head into his hands and said a little prayer that this should not come to pass.

  That evening, Digby Jeffries entered his house with a smile of triumph on his face. That talk with Alan Warren-Browne, one of the former church wardens, had done him a huge favour and, with the knowledge he had gleaned, he had been able to achieve an ambition he had held gleefully to himself for the last few months.

  Gossiping in the post office, the general store, and out and about, he had learnt that during the years when St Cuthbert’s had had its own vicar, there had always been someone to play the part of Father Christmas at the crib service for the children on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Further probing had discovered that this had been carried out by the same man for decades: one Albert Carpenter of Woodbine Cottage, the last in the row which ended at the boundary of The Old Manor House’s grounds, and included the two cottages that the Carmichaels now owned.

  Albert Carpenter had not been averse to having the occasional visit from Jeffries, and he had learnt that the old man intended to continue this role while he still had breath in his body. He was currently eighty-nine years of age, and getting decidedly unsteady on his feet.

  What an opportunity! Jeffries had thought, and had then worked on his well-honed technique of extracting information from people to ascertain from the ex-postmaster the name of the vicar who would be conducting the Christmas services in Castle Farthing this year.

  Just a little more wheedling and prying had produced an address for the retired vicar; one to which he had hastened that very day to raise the subject of the man behind the red suit. Albert Carpenter was obviously of unsound health, claimed Jeffries, citing recent visits to Albert’s home, and his advanced age; this being the case, he volunteered his own services, real white beard included, along with the promise not to trim it this side of the festivities.

  Rev. Searle had fallen for his taradiddle hook, line, and sinker, and Jeffries had been duly appointed to the role with alacrity when he claimed he also had the outfit, used in years gone by in his former parish of residence.

  This was in fact an outright lie, as he had bought his costume before offering his services in that previous parish and been turned down flat, having been informed that there was a waiting list to play the role and he would just have to await his opportunity in the fullness of time – which meant ‘never’, in the then incumbent’s opinion. Said incumbent was always uneasy in Jeffries’ company, and had a few shrewd suspicions that would preclude the man for ever from the role.

  The red suit had hung at the back of his wardrobe ever since, being placed in the same position when he moved to Castle Farthing, and had hung there ever since. He had, of course, used it for his grandchildren’s Christmases but, now he was divorced, he was not being included in the arrangements for the festive season this year, this being his ex-wife’s year as the honoured guest.

  Poor red suit! Always the bridesmaid and never the bride! Now it had an opportunity to have a proper public airing, and not just in the living room of wherever he had happened to spend Christmas.

  Of course, he’d said nothing to Albert Carpenter. Let him presume all he wanted. By the time that old codger had dusted off his no doubt ancient costume, it would be far too late. The die was cast.

  Hugging this fact to himself, he headed straight for his bedroom, where he undressed and tried on the costume, posturing and posing in front of the cheval-glass, and booming, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ in a variety of volumes and pitches. When he bored of this, he moved the long glass to where he could see his side of the bed, and used a well-plumped-up feather pillow as a child, cradling it on his knee, and practising his ‘spiel’ for use in just a week’s time. How he was looking forward to it.

  Eventually he came out of what had seemed like a semi-trance, and thought, Oh, you’ll dance to my tune all right, because if you don’t, I’ll stop playing; and when I stop playing, the Heavens will fall.

  Always a bumptious little man, he had begun to turn spiteful, bullying, and domineering in his mid-fifties, and this was the main but by no means the only reason that his wife had left h
im. As a young man, he had been the life and soul of any party, but as he aged and realised he would never progress beyond what he was, he had turned sour and bitter, and the only things that made him happy were upsetting others and getting the better of anyone; it didn’t matter who it was, as long as he came out on top.

  While Jeffries was thus employed, several other inhabitants of Castle Farthing were cursing his name and the very day he had arrived in their midst.

  In his anticipation of triumph, and while waiting for the appointed time for his meeting with Rev. Searle, he had divided his time between several of the local establishments, his mood infused with a particularly high level of spite.

  In The Rookery in the High Street, right next door to the tea shop which she ran, Rebecca Rollason was in tears, telling her husband Nick of the scene Jeffries had caused that lunchtime in her establishment. He had only ordered a cup of coffee, and she usually insisted that something to eat – even if it was just a toasted teacake – was purchased with a drink, during this sometimes very busy period, but she had said nothing to Jeffries because he was a local.

  This elicited no loyalty to her, however, as he had called her over after a couple of sips from his cup, and declared, in an unnecessarily loud voice, that she had used instant coffee. All the faces at the other tables had turned in their direction, as she explained that she only used the very best Costa Rican beans, and ground them herself.

  This cut no mustard with this particular customer, though, and she found herself getting into quite a heated discussion about the source of this particular drink. Eventually, with a red face, she had led him behind the counter and into the small kitchen, and shown him the unground and ground beans. His flippant comment – ‘Oops!’ – was made out of earshot of anyone else in the establishment, and several customers had left in the time it had taken to convince him of the veracity of her ingredient.