Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘He’s got the sensitivity of a house-brick. It’ll be impossible to persuade him that what he’s done is completely out of order, so I suggest that we don’t even waste our breath trying,’ sniffed Robin.

  ‘That’s going to be easier said than done,’ sighed Cedric Malting. ‘Look! Here he comes with a tray of drinks, and the crib service is going to be his only subject of conversation. You wait. I’d put my shirt on it.’ Cedric won his bet.

  ‘That was a grand job I did today,’ Jeffries began, handing out the drinks. ‘Did you see the expressions of wonder on those kiddies’ faces?’ he asked proudly.

  ‘I think you’ll find that those faces were expressing astonishment rather than wonder. How would you have felt at that age, being confronted with two Father Christmases?’ asked Henry Pistorius, in his pragmatic way, immediately breaking their agreement not to discuss the subject.

  ‘Henry’s right, you know. It must have been terrifying for them. You surely can’t imagine that that row in the vestry was unheard in the body of the church. Why, Albert Carpenter was shouting fit to bust before the end. Not only did the poor little ones have to put up with working out why there were two men in red suits, they had already heard them almost coming to blows off stage, as it were.’ Alice Diggory had become incensed at the thickness of the man’s hide.

  ‘Coming to Midnight Mass, are you?’ Robin De’ath asked, always one to try to stir with the largest spoon available to him.

  ‘Definitely!’

  ‘More soberly dressed, I hope.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I shall keep on my costume until I go to bed tonight. After all, I can only wear it one day a year, so I might as well get the maximum pleasure out of it.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Jeffries. It’ll only bring more trouble down on your head,’ advised Cedric Malting.

  ‘Bullshit!’ he retorted, and applied himself to his drink.

  At the next table sat Alan and Marian Warren-Browne, doing little other than eavesdrop unashamedly on the quartet beside them, when the latch on the door to the staircase gave a clunk, and Rev. Searle tottered through, now in ‘civvies’. Alan waved him to join them, as seemed only polite, as he was an ex-church warden. ‘What can I get you, Vicar?’ he asked as the old man eased himself into a chair.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, young man,’ he replied, raising a smile from both the Warren-Brownes which said more than words could express. ‘I’ll have a dry sherry, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  Alan went to the bar to fetch his drink while Marian congratulated him on a very nice Crib Service, not being so crass as to mention the little matter of the Father Christmas twins. This certainly animated the old man, as he had not taken a service, let alone a Christmas one, for so long, and after effusive thanks for her appreciation, he called out in his still almost pulpit-strong voice, ‘Hello again, Father Christmas. Grand job you did back there. I should think that, if they decide to open the old church here again for Christmas, you will be one of the first people they get in touch with. Congratulations on your absolutely grand costume.’

  Jeffries swivelled round and beamed at the old cleric. ‘Any time, Rev., any time. If you ever find yourself in need of a Father Christmas, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me – Christmas bazaars, parties, or services, I’m always available.’

  The others at his table winced with embarrassment, and turned the conversation to the weather. Anything was better than Jeffries constantly slapping his own back, and it was unusually early for snow in these parts.

  Alan Warren-Browne returned to the table with Rev Searle’s dry sherry and hinted to Marian that they had promised to drop in on the Carmichaels, Kerry being their god-daughter, and them having presents to deliver before the morrow.

  Marian was unusually quiet and he asked her if she was all right, only to receive the reply, ‘You know.’ And he did, and tried to distract her with their plans for Christmas dinner. They were planning to have Rosemary Wilson round to visit them; the keeper of the local shop, Allsorts, and Kerry Carmichael’s aunt. Neither household wanted to intrude on Davey Carmichael having his boss round for the day. Kerry had enough to contend with, with her pregnancy, two excited children (three, if you included her husband), two dogs, one of them pregnant, and a stray cat that had made its home there.

  The decision to leave was made for them when Jeffries motioned the vicar to join their table, and welcomed him as an honoured guest in their midst. ‘Come on, love,’ said Alan. ‘Let’s get these presents delivered so that you can have a little nap before we go to Midnight Mass, or you’ll be crippled with one of your headaches tomorrow and miss all the fun.’

  Back at Jasmine Cottage there had been another incident, unexpected by all those under that roof with the exception of Carmichael himself. As soon as Kerry had gone into the kitchen to begin making the hot milky drinks, an absolute cascade of barking and howls had sounded from the back garden, making her cry out in surprise.

  Carmichael had already risen from his chair and gone to the back door, from whence he ushered in the biggest dog that Falconer had ever seen. ‘That isn’t your little surprise, is it?’ he hissed urgently to his sergeant, his fingers automatically crossing as they had done when he was a child and wishing for something not to be true.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ Carmichael hissed back, then called for everyone’s attention, a totally superfluous act, as he already had the eyes of all the family on both him, and the dog that looked as big as a race horse.

  ‘This,’ he declared, ‘is Mulligan.’

  ‘Not the Moores’ dog?’ asked Kerry, naming one of their neighbours in the terrace.

  ‘Spot on, Kerry,’ replied her husband, a dopey smile on his face, as his own pets sniffed inquisitively at the new arrival and the mountain of canine flesh beheld them benignly.

  ‘So what’s he doing here?’ she asked in puzzlement. ‘Davey, just what have you done?’

  ‘I got a phone call from them just before we left for the Crib Service,’ he explained. ‘They were supposed to be going to their daughter’s tomorrow – she lives in Shepford Stacey – but with the weather closing in like it has, their daughter just turned up on their doorstep in the Range Rover, and told them they’d better come immediately, or they’d be snowed in.

  ‘As they hadn’t intended to stay away overnight, that left them with the problem with what to do with Mulligan at such short notice. Their daughter can’t have him because she’s very allergic to dogs.’

  ‘That’s what she says,’ interjected Kerry, thinking that she might develop a sudden allergy to dogs if threatened with one as big as Mulligan as a house guest: then realised that it was already too late to even contemplate this plan of action, as Davey had evidently invited Mulligan to spend the night with them.

  ‘So,’ continued her husband, ‘I said he could stay the night with us. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.’

  Yes, she’d been perfectly correct. He had, the big soppy dope!

  There was complete silence as all present absorbed this interesting information.

  ‘What if he rolls on one of the other animals?’ asked Falconer, an expression of deep misgiving on his face. He wasn’t fond of dogs, but they seemed to find him irresistible.

  ‘He won’t. He’s as gentle as a baby, aren’t you, Mulligan?’

  The dog looked up at the sound of his name, then espied Falconer and began to taste the air with his nose in interest. There was someone over there that he just had to go and meet. His life wouldn’t be complete without an introduction to this man with the fascinatingly attractive smell.

  ‘What if we’re all snowed in and he has to stay till New Year?’ asked Kerry, appalled at the thought of having to dodge this huge animal in their home’s relatively small rooms – small compared to Mulligan, at least. ‘You’ll have to look after him. I’ve got enough to do, especially since I’ve become the size of an elephant. I just can’t take on any more work.’

  ‘He’ll be no trouble at
all,’ replied Carmichael, unhooking the leash with which the dog’s master had left him tethered in the garden. ‘I just love Great Danes, don’t you, sir?’

  Sir didn’t reply, as he was underneath Mulligan, fighting for air, while the dog gave his face a rather too vigorous wash with its tongue. Carmichael rushed over and hauled the dog from its prey, telling it to sit while he held its gaze with an extended forefinger. ‘Uncle Harry doesn’t want to play, Mulligan. Lie down and leave him alone,’ he ordered, and the dog retreated to the rug in front of the fire, whining in frustration.

  The visit by the Warren-Brownes was short and sweet, as Marian said she was feeling under the weather and wanted to get home for a lie-down before Midnight Mass. After she left, Kerry expressed her worry at her godmother’s health.

  ‘She hasn’t looked well for ages,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t seem to be with it, and her skin’s almost translucent. Uncle Alan says it’s because she’s not eating properly, but I’m not so sure. I’m going to try to get him on his own after Christmas and give him a good quizzing to see what he knows that we don’t.’

  ‘I should let sleeping dogs lie if I were you,’ replied Carmichael. ‘If there’s anything else wrong with her, they’ll tell us in their own good time. Now, Mrs Carmichael, I don’t want you going to Midnight Mass tonight. I want you to put your feet up and have a jolly good rest while we’re gone. I don’t want you going into labour and having the baby on Christmas Day. Who’d cook the dinner?’

  He ducked and laughed as she threw another cushion at him, something that was becoming habitual, due to her inability, so late in pregnancy, to get up and box his ears for him. Who’d cook the dinner, indeed!

  The church was full for Midnight Mass, no more snow having fallen in the meantime, and the vicar conducted a very enjoyable service, his enthusiasm shining out through his eyes and echoing in his voice.

  The only fly in the ointment was, as anticipated by some, Digby Jeffries, still in his red costume and sitting prominently in the front row, brazen as only a man with his impenetrable hide could be.

  At the end of the service, many of Castle Farthing’s population had managed to find a little something to wrap for the reverend gentleman, a gift in appreciation at his coming out of retirement to put the Christ back in the village’s Christmas, and these he received with visible gratitude as they were handed to him as the faithful left the building to trek home through the snow.

  The only out-of-tune note during the service had been his announcement that he would be leaving the church doors unlocked, as he had done every Christmas Eve night since he had been ordained. ‘For,’ as he put it, ‘if there is no room in God’s house for a stranded wayfarer on the eve of his son Jesus’ birth, how could a church call itself the house of God.’

  He declared that he’d never been robbed yet, doing this, and he was sure that everything would be as right as rain in the morning as he would leave it this evening. Unfortunately, however, in the event of further snowfall, he would reluctantly have to cancel the Christmas Day service.

  A word from Falconer before the party left did nothing to change his mind about leaving the building unprotected, and they left the church ahead of most of the other members of the congregation, in Carmichael’s rush to get back to see how Kerry was faring in their absence, with her unexpected new friend, Mulligan.

  Others without such worries headed towards The Fisherman’s Flies for a last drink before Christmas Day dawned, George Covington having opened especially for this purpose, with the hope that none of the local constabulary should visit the area during this illegal little gathering, and he locked the pub doors so that he could claim that it was a ‘lock-in’.

  A light falling of snow after the service had done its best to erase the plethora of paths that had indicated the presence of so many people gathered in one place but, that seeming to have been the purpose of the weather, it soon stopped, a smooth blanket whiteness having been restored.

  Back at Jasmine Cottage Kerry proved to be fine, but things did not go so well for Falconer. As he made his way upstairs to the room designated to him, Mulligan was as close behind as it was physically possible for him to be, his nose pushed firmly into Falconer’s backside while the dog sniffed happily and wagged its tail, and Falconer whimpered for assistance.

  ‘Sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do about it. He’s such a big dog he could probably batter his way into any room he chose. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with him as an overnight guest tonight. Don’t worry though; he’ll be going home tomorrow evening.’

  So will I, thought Falconer, and thanked God that he had only one night to spend under the roof of his crazy sergeant.

  An overview of Castle Farthing at two-thirty am would have revealed the presence of later visitors in the fairly deep snow, leading both to and from the church. There was definitely one more set of tracks leading there, than there was leading away …

  At three o’clock, the wind arrived with a roar, and thrummed through the overhead wires and howled in the eaves. In its wake it dragged the snowstorm, which fell in a blizzard, intent on holding the little village in its sway for some time to come. Within an hour, it would have been impossible to discern that there had ever been any disturbance to the recently trodden whiteness leading to and from the church.

  By morning, the village was snowed in, the drifts leaning all the way up to cottage windowsills and completely covering the bench on the village green and cars on the road. Not a sound was to be heard, as the snow fell relentlessly, while the savage wind had now calmed and moved on to wreak havoc elsewhere.

  Chapter Six

  Christmas Day – morning

  Falconer was jerked awake by the excited yells of the boys at six o’clock. They had evidently found their stockings, and wanted the whole world to know about it. What Falconer didn’t want the whole world to know about was the fact that he had woken up with his arms round Mulligan’s neck, Dr Honey Dubois’ name on his lips, and doggie dribble on his pillow.

  In fact, so rapidly did he move away from the dog that he half-fell out of bed, and had to make a grab for the animal’s body to stop all of him landing on the floor and rousing Carmichael to come in to see what had happened.

  As he collected the sum of all his parts squarely on the bed again, he became aware of a banging noise emanating from downstairs, and hastily pulled on some clothes so that he could investigate the source of this inexplicable row on such a morning. He descended the stairs to find Carmichael busy constructing a huge wooden-framed, wire-sided cage in the sitting room. The two dogs and the cat were sitting attentively watching him as he hammered away, whistling through his teeth while he did so.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Falconer asked, and Carmichael jumped at the sound of his voice, so absorbed in his task had he been.

  ‘Merry Christmas, sir,’ he greeted the inspector. ‘My surprise present is three chickens, hidden in the garden shed for now, and I’m constructing their chicken house for them.’

  ‘Inside?’ asked Falconer.

  ‘It’s warmer in here,’ explained Carmichael, as if stating the bleedin’ obvious to an idiot.

  ‘So you’re happy for them to be inside chickens, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, sir. When it’s built, I’ll put it out in the garden for them.’

  ‘How?’ Falconer watched Carmichael’s face as he looked, first at the almost completed chicken house, then at the size of the back door.

  ‘I see your point, sir. Would you mind giving me a hand to take this thing to bits? I’ll have to do it later, when all the presents have been opened.’ The young man had turned the colour of holly berries, which was very appropriate given the season of the year.

  They had only just finished this task when the boys came tearing down the stairs to show off all the wonderful things that Father Christmas had brought them in the night. They were in a high old state of excitement, and both of them groaned when the telephone ran
g.

  As Carmichael went to answer the summons, Falconer pulled a curtain aside to see what the weather was like. Although it was still dark, he could see from the few street lights around the village green and the multi-coloured glow from the Christmas tree that there had been a much heavier fall of snow during the night, and they appeared to be well and truly snowed in.

  Across the green at The Fisherman’s Flies, which was fully illuminated, he could see that the snow was over halfway up its doors, and the bench on the green had disappeared under its thick covering and was now hard to discern, so thick was the snowfall. There was no sign of either moon or stars, and it could be assumed that the sky sported more snow-laden clouds, just waiting to deposit another load on the surrounding landscape.

  Panic immediately set in. He’d asked his neighbour to feed the cats the night before, in the certainty that he would be able to go back to his own house later today. Now, that looked a physical impossibility, and he grabbed his mobile and rang his neighbour, in the hope that he would be able to feed his little furry family until this avalanche of snow was either tamed, or disappeared. There was no way the roads would be clear yet, and no guarantee when the local authority would get around to arranging emergency snow ploughs and road-gritters on such a date.

  He ended the call completely reassured that his neighbour would play Mother Goose to his little darlings until such times as he could get home, and would even sit with them every day to give them a little company and dispel any loneliness they might feel, just as Carmichael re-entered the room.

  ‘Family, to wish you Merry Christmas?’ Falconer enquired with a relieved smile, now that his little crisis had been solved.

  ‘No,’ denied Carmichael with a grave face. ‘Murder! In the church. That was George Covington on the phone.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It would appear that Rev. Searle, although he’d cancelled today’s service, insisted that it was necessary for him to get to the church somehow, to say morning service anyway. George, ever obliging, dug a passage through and escorted him there, knowing that the church had been unlocked overnight, and anxious to check that it hadn’t been burgled.