Kerry’s first words were not about their visit to the Warren-Brownes, however. She had other things on her mind. ‘It’s Mistress Fang,’ she opened the conversation. ‘She’s been whining now for about an hour, and I think she’s about to whelp. What on earth are we going to do? There’s no way we can get in touch with a vet.’
Falconer took one look at Carmichael’s stricken and helpless countenance and said, ‘Get some clean towels, and boil some water. We may need to sterilise a pair of scissors, but first, let’s get her up on the table where we can get at her easily. You’ll have to help, Kerry, because I don’t think your husband’s going to be much good to us. Carmichael, go and get a big bowl.’
‘What for, sir?’
‘For you to be sick in, of course. I’ve been a victim of your dicky tummy before, and I have no intention whatsoever of giving you the opportunity to vomit all over me on Christmas Day.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carmichael’s face was already turning green as he looked at the little dog lying on the table, whimpering and whining. Sir was right: he did need a bowl.
When Kerry arrived back with the towels, had got out a pair of scissors, and put some water on to boil, Falconer explained to her, ‘She should be able to manage perfectly well on her own. Animals have still got instincts about this sort of thing. We’re only here to make sure that things go all right. Now, as each new pup is born, she’ll probably give it a good licking to get it ticking, and she should deal with the umbilical cord on her own.
‘If, however, any of them are reluctant to breathe, we should give it a good rub with a towel to stimulate it to take its first breath. Now, do you feel up to this?’
‘No problem,’ Kerry replied, stoically. I’m just glad it’s not me in labour while we’re snowed in.’
From the kitchen came the sound of vomiting.
By half-past ten it was all over, and Mistress Fang lay happily suckling the three minuscule puppies she had just ushered into this world. Falconer was having a celebratory glass of wine while Kerry joined him in some sparkling grape juice. Carmichael sat miserably in an armchair looking decidedly nauseous and – if it may be dared – hang-dog.
‘Nothing to it!’ declared the inspector, raising his glass to the new mum and her pups. He’d been in a complete panic when he realised he was going to have to assist at the birth of the puppies. He had covered it well, and Carmichael’s sickly turn had deflected any suspicion away from him, but he wouldn’t like to have to do it again. He’d only ever seen anything like that done on television before, but he’d kept his calm, and now he was the hero of the hour. He had no quarrel with that.
As Carmichael was still slumped in his chair, Falconer suggested that Kerry get herself off to bed. The boys had already gone up, exhausted from their early start to the day, the excitement of all the presents they had received, and the energy they had expended throwing snowballs at each other. ‘We’ve got a lot to sort out today from the evidence we’ve gathered today, and we’ve still got to look at the video footage and the stills from the church. We’ll be going over to the vicar’s room again tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’ asked Kerry, wondering if he was intending to join some sort of church group.
Good God! They hadn’t told her about the murder of the clergyman with everything else that was going on. ‘Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you that there’s been another murder. I don’t want you to get upset about it, but Rev. Searle is also dead. It seems that someone gave him a hip flask with poisoned spirits in it. Just don’t dwell on it, and try to get some sleep. I’ll send your husband up when we’ve finished.’
Kerry’s face had looked anguished when she’d received the news of this further death, but she bore it stoically, not wanting to precipitate the end of her pregnancy before its time, and promised to do her best to put it out of her head for, as she honestly stated, she hadn’t actually known him well, although she felt sorry for any family he left behind.
When she’d gone upstairs, Carmichael refreshed himself with a can of chilled lager, and Falconer asked him where his laptop was, so that they could view what they had captured earlier that day, and saw his sergeant’s shoulders slump. ‘I’ve only gone and left it in the office,’ he replied, looking sheepish.
‘What on earth did you take it into the office for?’ Falconer asked, horrified that even this should be denied them.
‘It was playing up a bit, so I was going to take it in to the shop to get them to have a look at it, but I left it too late, so I thought I’d leave it there to remind me when I went back in. After all, I thought, we’ve got the main computer at home but, of course, now we haven’t got any power to run it.’
‘Great!’ Falconer, like both Carmichael and Queen Victoria before him, was not amused. ‘So now we’ll have to take it in turns to squint into the video recorder to review what was filmed, and fight for space to look at the back of the camera to see what that captured. And then they’ll both run out of battery power, and we’ll be completely wiped out. Great!’
‘Sorry, sir!’
‘Arse!’ said Falconer, but he said it under his breath. He didn’t usually swear or cuss, but he just couldn’t help himself, at this latest blow. The only tool they had left, he’d believed, was the laptop, with its limited battery life, and now they didn’t even have that. ‘Arse and double arse!’
Left to their own devices, they made themselves some turkey and stuffing sandwiches and a pot of tea, and sat down at the dining table to rationalise what they had learnt that day, and where the greatest suspicion lay.
‘We’ve got the paedophile angle,’ spluttered Carmichael through a mouthful of bread. ‘That was a bit of a facer, wasn’t it, sir?’
‘You can say that again. It seems that adults aren’t the only local residents that Jeffries has been disturbing. I’m surprised that Kerry didn’t pick up anything on the grapevine. I’m surprised, too, that she didn’t know about the state her godmother’s in.’
‘She has been worried about her, you know, but she hasn’t been going out much the last month or so. I told you how she tried to avoid that old fiend. It would seem, from what her aunt said, that neither has Marian Warren-Browne. So Kerry not only hasn’t had the opportunity to plug into the local gossip, she hasn’t seen much of Marian for some time. I dread to think what’s she’s going to say when she finds out. What the hell was all that when we were there earlier?’
‘Don’t think about it now. Let’s get on and make some lists. Who have we got for the paedophile angle?’
‘Well, given the timing, I’d have said it was definitely someone who’d been at Midnight Mass, and then to the pub.’
‘Good thinking, Sergeant! And here was me thinking we’d have to get Social Services out to interview all the families with children in the village.’ There was a pause. ‘Which we probably will have to do when we can get in touch with them, but for us now it will only be those families who went on to the pub, or maybe someone who’d come back later perhaps because one of their children said something after the crib service.
‘It would be quite cunning not to go to Midnight Mass, then catch the dirty old devil on his way out of the bar. What do you think of that one, then, Carmichael?’
‘I think we’ll still have to get Social Services out, as you said, just to make sure that the village kids are OK after what Auntie Rosemary said.’
‘True! But who can we put on our list that we definitely know about. I’ve got no idea who all the Brownies and Cubs were, so we’re stymied there, but to go back to the crib service, who was there who had children, apart from just about everybody. Who do we know for definite?’
‘Apart from the Stupples, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there’s me for a start, sir. I was there with the boys.’
‘And you think nobody would have noticed if you’d gone out in the night and done that? You haven’t got the stomach for it. You proved that earlier. And don’t tell me Kerry just conju
red up the rumours about him from the ether, because not only is it impossible, so is what was done in that church for someone in her condition.’
‘I was only being fair, sir. Actually, the only other kiddie I can think of is Tristram Rollason. I saw him there with his parents, and they’re hopelessly devoted to their little darling: always have been since he was born. But I don’t really know any of the other kids, as I seem to spend most of my time at work. Like today, for instance. Sometimes I wish I had a nice nine-to-five job like everyone else.’
‘Carmichael, you’re surely not thinking of leaving the Force?’ Falconer was horrified at this prospect.
‘Of course not, sir. It’s just that sometimes I wish I had more time to spend with Kerry and the boys, especially with another kiddie on the way.’
‘Hang on in there, Carmichael. You’re an excellent detective, and it would be the Force’s loss if you left.’
There was a moment of silence as both of them acknowledged how far their partnership had come. Carmichael felt that Falconer was becoming like a real fiend to him. (He also knew, in the back of his mind, that the missing ‘r’ didn’t matter, because he understood that Mrs Frazer was a somewhat cavalier typist and a rather hit-and-miss proofreader, and her little error wouldn’t be catastrophic.) [4] Shaking himself out of his reverie, he said, ‘Right, sir; so that’s the Stupples on the list, and the Rollasons, until we can get a bit more mobile after the thaw.’
‘I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got to go on at the moment. But we’ve always got the adults he fell out with, and, no, I won’t put Kerry at the top of the list. We’ll start with Robin De’ath and Cedric … Oh, God! What’s his name?’
‘Malting,’ replied Carmichael, referring to his notes, ‘and don’t forget Alice Diggory and Henry Pistorius. It doesn’t matter how rational people appear after the event. They may have done something dreadful in a moment of madness.
‘I don’t suppose the oldies could have got together and got rid of the biggest pest in their lives as a group? What do you think, sir?’
‘You mean it wouldn’t need one really strong person, rather three or four weaker ones working together. What about the nail gun, though?’ Falconer was intrigued by this idea.
‘Who’s to say it wasn’t wrapped up in Christmas paper and in a bag that one of them carried, just looking like another innocent present if anyone managed to catch a glimpse of it.’ Carmichael was rather pleased with his suggestion. It certainly put a new light on matters, if more than one person had conspired to do away with the old devil.
‘And none of them would be any stranger to putting on an act, considering what they used to do for a living. Malting’s always writing dialogue to suit the mood of his plays, Diggory would have had to do a lot of acting, dealing with her classes, for you can’t let pupils see who you really are.’
‘And Pistorius was used to delivering lines; De’ath, no doubt, mixing with actors and the like all the time,’ Carmichael finished.
‘Very true, and this person had already arranged a little gift for Rev. Searle, which could also just have sat in a bag until it was time to plant it on one of the deserted pews, but we’ll go into that later. It’s certainly not impossible that this crime was carried out by more than one person, one of them even being a woman if she had some help.’
Abandoning that highly interesting line of thinking and moving on, Carmichael suggested, ‘In that case, you’d better add Rosemary Wilson to your list, and both the Covingtons. Jeffries had, after all, been casting aspersions on their honesty with regard to the drinks they served.’
‘Very true. What a large suspect pool we have. That’s what you get when someone very unpopular comes to a sticky end. Now, that leaves us photos and videoing at the pub to get through tomorrow. We’ll have to move the vicar’s body down to the cellar, too. We don’t want it going off like an out-of-date Christmas turkey, and it should be nice and cool down there.
‘Then we’ve got to re-interview the Stupples, Pistorius, Diggory, Malting, and De’ath, not forgetting a more satisfying interview with the Warren-Brownes – perhaps Marian will be feeling a little better tomorrow – and the Rollasons, which was a brainwave of yours. Oh God! And Mrs Wilson and the Covingtons. So much for a peaceful Yuletide. We’ll still be on this case come Easter if we don’t get an early break.
‘We’d better have a look at what we filmed today as well, before we go up.’ Falconer now had his head in his hands as he surveyed the amount of work they had to do on the morrow. ‘You take the video camera, and I’ll take the camera, then we’ll swap, then I think we’d better go to bed before we meet ourselves on the stairs getting up tomorrow morning.’
When Falconer finally reached his room he found that Mulligan had managed to wriggle his way under the duvet and was snoring loudly and contentedly with his head on the pillows. ‘Move over, you great lug, and let me share the bed. You might not be my bedfellow of choice, but at least you’re warm. And absolutely no farting! Do you understand? Not even one little toot on the bum-trumpet. I don’t want to suffocate in the night.’
As he got ready for bed, he could hear the wind begin to howl again and, taking a quick look out of the window, he realised with a sinking heart that the blizzard was back. They’d no doubt have to dig their way out again in the morning, and his shoulders and back still ached from all the shovelling they’d done only that morning.
During the night the snow began to lie again, making short work of the pathways that had been sliced through them with both shovels and tractor. The weather hadn’t done with Castle Farthing yet. It still had plenty more to offer, to test both the patience and the ingenuity of its residents.
No soft yellow lamplight spilled out of the houses now. Everyone was in bed with hot water bottles if they had them, trying to keep warm and to forget the severe trials of the worst Christmas Day any of them could remember. The village was clothed in a darkness so complete that Castle Farthing might not even exist outside its residents’ dreams. The only evidence that it did was in the shapes that resisted the urgent fall of the snow, and there wasn’t a soul that did or could see this passive but solid resistance.
The wind drove the whirling storm of flakes in avalanches of snow and howled mercilessly in the eaves and chimneys, master of this little world, for the moment.
[4] Read your Edmund Crispin!
Chapter Ten
Boxing Day – morning
In the intense cold caused by the snow lying outside, Falconer had decided, even wrapped as he was in winter flannelette pyjamas, to lose his inhibitions a bit and, when he woke up the next morning with his arms round Mulligan’s thick neck, he didn’t turn a hair. The dog was warm and, in consequence, so was he, and he closed his eyes to go back to sleep, as it was much too early to get up yet, given the time he’d got to bed.
But he hadn’t considered that there were young children in this house so, no sooner had he snuggled down under the duvet for another hour or so of repose, he heard the bedroom door open and two joyous voices welcome him to another day in the Carmichael household. Rudely pulling the duvet away from both him and his bedfellow, the boys informed him that it had snowed again in the night, and all their hard work in creating paths the day before was once more under a thick blanket of snow. At their tender years, they were thrilled, but the information left Falconer decidedly unimpressed.
A tired voice from the next bedroom told them to leave Uncle Harry alone to get a bit more sleep, but it was too late now. Falconer was wide awake, and would only court sleep in vain if he settled down in the bed again. Besides, it sounded as if the whole household was getting up. He heard the sounds of little feet padding down the stairs, followed by the heavier ones of Kerry moving as fast as her swollen bulk would allow, and the sound of Carmichael’s razor could be heard from the bathroom.
Dressing as quickly as he could, he decided he’d try to get sole tenancy of the bathroom a bit later, as the pipes for the downstairs shower room had frozen,
and went down to see what help he could provide in getting the fire going again and lighting the lamps. His first action was to fling open the curtains. There might not be much light outside, but any there was would reflect on the snow and make some inroads into the dark house.
Outside, their energetically dug paths from the previous day had disappeared under the fresh fall in the overnight blizzard, but he could already hear the sound of the farmer’s tractor, clearing a path once more so that the residents wouldn’t be trapped in their homes. That at least meant that Carmichael and he could get on with making a list of tasks for the day, get to The Fisherman’s Flies to get the photographic evidence they needed, move the body, and visit people in their own homes to interview them in more depth.
Carmichael made his way downstairs about twenty minutes later, pink and fresh from the shower and Kerry immediately shooed the boys upstairs to clean their teeth and have a wash. The master of the house headed straight for the fire and Falconer left him to it. He knew nothing about keeping a fire in all night and resurrecting it again the next morning. Kerry was busy lighting the lamps and candles, having already put a kettle on a gas ring to boil water for tea, so he went over to the basket that had been placed to the side of the fire to see how mother and pups were doing this morning.
Mistress Fang lay on her side, the three pups suckling happily, and Mr Knuckles had curled himself up round her back, so a very happy doggy basket indeed met Falconer’s eyes. He was still amazed at how he had coped with the pups’ arrival into this cold and inhospitable world, working purely from instinct and common sense, and having inconveniently forgotten all the television programmes he had watched showing the birth of animals. He still felt like a hero though, and decided to enjoy it. It didn’t happen often, and should be revelled in.
Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8) Page 12