‘It looks like you’ve hit the jackpot, Inspector,’ commented George. ‘I’ve never seen such an exotic slot machine before in all my life.’
Falconer smiled at this graveyard humour. Carmichael began to laugh, then to choke, and Paula rushed from the scene calling, ‘I’ll get you a bucket from the kitchen, love.’ The sergeant put down his portion of their burden, and the other two leaned the unbending old man against the doorframe as Carmichael ran after Paula before he threw up over the corpse.
‘That young man all right?’ queried George, looking after Carmichael’s retreating back when there was a sliding noise and the mortal remains of Rev. Searle, losing their precarious balance against the doorframe, went bowling down the flight of stairs, becoming more pliant after every step it hit.
‘Fine!’ replied Falconer. ‘He’s just got a bit of a dicky tummy. He’ll be as right as nine-pence once he’s had a good boke. Now, I suppose we’d better go down and see what state that body’s in. Bloody careless of us, that was.’ He was amazed at how calm he felt after such a calamity. Maybe he’d just tipped himself over the edge.
George, too, was unexpectedly insouciant. ‘Good: I’m glad ’e’s down there, because I don’t want to be seen by my customers moving dead bodies around as if I were Sweeny Todd. I’d be out of business in a week if that happened. Thank God there’s no one in yet to see what we’re up to.’
‘That’s not quite the point, though, is it?’ queried Falconer. ‘We’ve just let a corpse – evidence of extreme importance in a case of murder – fall down a flight of stairs into a pub cellar, doing God knows what damage to it on the way down.’
‘Damned lucky that ’e was dead, then, and couldn’t feel a thing, isn’t it?’ commented George Covington, not worried a jot about what the powers that be would say about such a calamity.
Carmichael returned looking rather shamefaced, and they trooped down the steps to make sure that the rest of Rev. Searle’s trip to its resting place down below went without hitch. From the deep, Carmichael’s voice echoed hollowly upwards. ‘Oh my God, sir! Look at the angle of his head! He looks just like that kid from The Exorcist. Should we try to make him look a bit less … broken?’
There was a pause. ‘And where the hell have his teeth disappeared to? They must be down here somewhere.’
‘Don’t move another step, Carmichael!’ yelled Falconer. If his jumbo-sized sergeant managed to do the fandango on them, they’d be reduced to dust!
At this point, Paula Covington closed the door at the top of the staircase, and this was just as well, as the first customers of the day were making their way into the bar in search of warmth and hot drinks, and wouldn’t have been very impressed if they could see the contortions that were going on under their very feet.
Paula had already returned to scoop up the flotsam and jetsam that had issued from the body’s pockets before it took a tumble, and had it all gathered in a crumpled moneybag for Falconer when they all came back into the bar. ‘There you go, Inspector. All tidied up and ready for your inspection,’ she said, as she handed it to him.
‘Thanks for all your cooperation and patience,’ he said, putting the bag into one of the capacious pockets in his coat. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now, although we’ll have to have another word with you sometime. I’d thought we could do that this morning, but I hadn’t counted on the little local difficulty we encountered moving the ‘you-know-what’. Come along Carmichael.’
Once outside, he enquired after his sergeant’s well-being. ‘I’m fine, sir. It was the thought that we might have to break some of his joints to get him through that really got to me.’
‘Me too, although I didn’t think you’d be so imaginative, so I didn’t actually vocalise the thought, when it went through my mind,’ retorted Falconer, but he smiled as he said it. He hadn’t fancied the possibility of them having to do that any more than Carmichael had. He just had slightly better control of his stomach.
Rosemary Wilson had opened her shop, knowing that people wouldn’t be able to cook, and might want to stock up on things that they could eat without having to heat. She’d also done so in order to catch up on the gossip, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged that particular information out of her.
The place was full of people, either fighting over the last tin of peaches or the last hot water bottle and box of candles, but when Rosemary spied their faces through the throng she gave an enormous smile of welcome, thinking that here at last would be news, and grist for the gossip mill. ‘Love the hats!’ she shouted over the heads of her customers.
Falconer put his hand to his head and heaved another great sigh of failure. They’d been very good so far today at whipping off their downright weird headgear, but their entrance to the shop after what had just happened had left them off their guard, and the damned chicken monstrosities were still on both their heads. Well, there was no point in being coy about them any more. They might as well wear them and be damned, he thought, as some of the people now staring at them started to cluck and crow at the sight of them thus attired.
Rosemary, however, had nothing to add to their knowledge so far, and was more concerned with asking if they’d visited Marian Warren-Browne. ‘I’m worried about her,’ she confided in them. ‘Some days she looks like death. And she’s started saying some very strange things. I’ve had a word with Alan, but he just keeps saying there’s nothing to worry about and that it’s all in hand.’
She had nothing to add to what they already knew about Jeffries’ behaviour in her establishment, and they left shortly afterwards and headed back to Jasmine Cottage for something hot to eat and drink. ‘I hope you can eat fast,’ said Falconer, thinking of all the visits they had to make that afternoon.
‘Oh, I can get it down almost as fast as I can get it up,’ replied Carmichael, and then descended into a pensive silence, as he realised what he had just said, and fought the nausea that washed over him again as he remembered the rapid loss of what had remained of his breakfast back in the pub.
Chapter Eleven
Boxing Day – afternoon
Kerry had a huge spread of cold meats, mashed potatoes, salad, and pickles waiting for them, as well as a pot of tea, and for just over an hour, they ate, drank, and basked in the warmth of the house, but it was soon time to get their outdoor gear on and get back on the job. Carmichael was glad he could discard the rucksack of photographic equipment, and went upstairs to get a different coat for their afternoon out in the bitter weather.
Hurtling downstairs again, ready for the off, Falconer caught sight of him wearing what he’d gone to fetch, and shouted, ‘No! You’re surely not going out in that thing? You know how I feel about it.’
‘I don’t really think it matters what you feel about it,’ replied Carmichael rebelliously, pulling up the collar of the ancient, moth-eaten (and huge!) fur coat he had worn once before, to the office. ‘It’s me who’s wearing it, and it’s the warmest thing I’ve got.’
‘But people will see me with you,’ the inspector spat back.
‘Then let them. I live here, and they know my ways, and they’ll not think the less of you because you’ve let me wear my warmest coat in the coldest weather we’ve had for years.’
‘He’s right, you know,’ chimed in Kerry, and Falconer had to admit defeat on this occasion. Carmichael was Carmichael, and nothing he could say or do would ever alter the man’s basic character.
Their first visit was to old Albert Carpenter and his great-nephew, John, at the north end of the terrace in which Carmichael’s home was situated. There had been plenty of ill-feeling from both of them over Albert’s well-established role as Father Christmas being usurped.
Falconer’s first impression of the interior of the little cottage was that John Carpenter must have moved in with his great-uncle. The furniture was certainly of the right period, and the large television stuck out like a sore thumb in the tiny parlour. The little Christmas tree was real, the decorations on it, as with the
ones strung from the ceiling, very old and well-used, most of them being of paper and carved wood rather than the plastic and tinsel decorations that have taken over from traditional ones.
The old man had been listening to the radio when they entered the room, but soon became garrulous when they mentioned the inclement weather. ‘This ain’t nothin’ to what we ’ad in 1962-63. Nigh on buried the ’ouses, that did. The sea and everythin’ froze. I got some pictures somewhere of my niece and nephew when they was young, a-standin’ on the waves down on the coast. ’Tis true. The sea itself froze over, and people could walk on it like they was doin’ a miracle. Ice stayed around till Easter, too. Don’t get winters like that no more. Everyone’s too namby-pamby to cope with weather like that these days. ‘Why, some folks even chopped up their banisters and shelves because they ran out of things to burn to keep warm, and we ’ad to ’ave food parcels dropped to us by ’elicopter because there was no way for deliveries to get through for weeks. We ’ad ’ard times that winter. Never seen anythin’ like it before,’ he informed them, then added, ‘Exceptin’ for ’47 and ’48, a course. That were even worse!’
When Albert had completed his tale of times gone by, they announced their business there, and John turned off the radio as his elderly relative’s voice raised in indignation and fury. ‘’E ’ad no business bein’ there in that there red suit. Father Christmas I be in this village, and ’ave been for donkey’s years. ‘’E ’ad no right to try and take my place. I’m not dead yet, even if that old bugger is. I ’ope ’is soul rots in ’ell, puttin’ ’is nose in where it ’ad no right nor business to be.’
By the time Albert had finished this heartfelt speech, he had risen from his chair and was shaking his fist in the air. John moved over to get him back down again and apologised for his great-uncle’s behaviour. ‘He’s been really worked up about all the upset, and it took me till yesterday evening to get him calmed down, and then you come round and start him off all over again; but he shouldn’t have spoken like that in front of you.’
He eventually took them into the kitchen where they could sit at the wooden table after he had put the radio back on for Albert, which settled the old man back into silence so that they could leave him in peace.
‘Your great-uncle really had his nose put out by Mr Jeffries, didn’t he?’ Falconer opened. ‘Had you not thought to contact the locum vicar and tell him that he played the part by dint of long tradition?’
‘Didn’t know how to,’ replied the younger man, looking somewhat sulky at this intrusion upon his private life. ‘Anyhow, if no one says anything to him, he’ll just forget about it now, so least said, soonest mended, as far as he’s concerned.’
‘But he was furious right up to last night?’ Falconer made this a question.
‘That he were. He was ranting and raving all over the house after that nasty business at the church, and he still wouldn’t let it go yesterday, either.’
‘Did either of you leave the house after you got home from church?’
‘We haven’t gone out since the crib service. There’s no way I was going to have to haul the old man down there again, what with the snow and everything. It was hard enough to pull him through it for the crib service, let alone do it again at that time of night in the dark.’
Well, that was a point-blank denial, and there didn’t seem any point in prolonging their time here. The old man wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what was done, and his great-nephew wasn’t giving anything away for now. And they had other fish to fry. Standing up, they took their leave of John Carpenter, not bothering to disturb old Albert again in case he worked himself up into another fury, had a heart attack, and left them with another seasonal corpse on their hands: one for which they were personally responsible!
It was Nicholas Rollason who answered their knock at the door of The Rookery, explaining that they’d just missed Rebecca as she’d gone to open up the Tea Shop for cold folks to drop in for tea, coffee, or hot chocolate. She knew she didn’t have enough bread for sandwiches until she’d had another delivery, but she had plenty of tins of home-made biscuits she could offer them.
He invited them into the sitting room where a delighted Tristram, now a rumbustious three-year-old, was playing with his new toys. They had heard news of the deaths, as Nicholas had gone into Allsorts earlier on, to get another box of candles, as they had no paraffin lamps, and they had both been shocked that such violence could occur again in such a peaceful village.
‘It was really Mr Jeffries that I wanted to speak to you about,’ Falconer said, as they sipped a very naughty and very much on-duty sherry – just to keep out the cold, you understand.
‘I’d have been having words with him at the crib service if he hadn’t been there in that ridiculous outfit,’ Nicholas said with anger in his voice.
‘Why’s that, Mr Rollason?’ So they had noticed the kind of man that so many others thought he was!
‘Not all that long ago he was too bloody familiar with our Tristram, and I wanted to have it out with him. Rebecca told me about him, with his hands all over the poor little soul’s arms and legs, and I didn’t like the sound of that one bloody bit. I’d have sorted it out there and then, but there’s a lot going on at the farm where I work – a lot more than usual for this time of year, and I just hadn’t got round to it.
‘And now it seems as though someone else had a much bigger beef with him than I did. I’d just have blacked his eye for him, but someone else had a big enough grudge to kill him. Any further forward with the investigation, Inspector?’
‘We have a few ideas we’re working on,’ fenced Falconer, unwilling to let him know that so many people had an axe to grind with the man that they were spoilt for choice as far as suspects went, and that the man they were talking to was one of them.
‘Was it common knowledge, what you thought of him?’ he asked, to distract him from enquiring any further into their investigation.
‘No one ever said anything. I did ask Rebecca if she could be mistaken, but she gave me that look that women give you: the one that says you’re an out-and-out fool, so I just crumbled and felt sure that she knew what she was talking about.’
‘Has she mentioned any further similar incidents to you?’
‘No, but then she’s made sure that she has someone to look after Tristram when she’s working and there’s no playgroup. That was the last time he was in the tea shop running free, as it were. Why don’t you go down to the teashop and have a word with her?’
‘She’ll probably be run off her feet, but we may call back again at a more convenient time if we think a word with her could prove helpful. Thank you for your time.’
Once outside again chicken hats were donned as they headed for the Stupple residence at Pilgrim’s Rest.
The household was in uproar when they arrived, the four children zooming around with their new playthings like turbo-charged pixies. In the grate a fire was roaring, and Warren Stupple explained that it was usually empty with just a screen in front of it, but because of the emergency caused by the weather he had gone outside to collect as much wood as he could and chopped it up for them to burn. There were six of them after all, and they had to keep warm somehow.
Both Falconer and Carmichael agreed with him, and sat down in front of his fire with relish. They were chilled to the very marrow. ‘Have you ever had occasion to observe anything to his detriment about Mr Jeffries’ behaviour towards young children?’ Falconer thought that this was the best approach to get the man talking.
‘Yes, I damned well have,’ replied Stupple, with vehemence. ‘And I was going to do something about it as soon as this damned snow thawed. I was disgusted with his behaviour on several occasions, and the way he unnecessarily touched the children at the crib service just about made me sick. Of course, it was expertly done, and no one who wasn’t looking out for it would have noticed anything untoward, but I knew what the man was like, and watched him like a hawk.’
‘Has anyone
else, to your knowledge, noticed anything out of order?’ This was an important question, as everyone else seemed to have kept their doubts about Jeffries’ integrity to themselves.
‘I’ve heard talk between the mothers at Cubs, as has Helena, my wife, between the Brownies’ mothers, but nobody has spoken directly to us. I was so concerned at him playing Father Christmas that I’d determined to report his behaviour to your lot as soon as was humanly possible. But it looks like someone got there before me, doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does, Mr Stupple. Is your wife around, by any chance, so that we can have a word with her about what she heard, too?’
‘She’s in the kitchen hand-washing some socks and underwear for the kids. Do you want to go through?’ They did.
But Helena could only confirm what her husband had already said, and it added up to some very overt and inappropriate behaviour with young children, when he didn’t think anyone was looking his way. ‘I don’t know why no one ever spoke out before,’ Helena stated.
‘Because no one wanted to be first,’ replied her husband. ‘After all, we’ve never said anything to anyone official, so we’re just as bad as everyone else.’
‘But we would have done in the New Year,’ Helena countered.
‘So may a lot of others have determined so to do, but someone else felt much stronger than the rest of us, and actually murdered him.’ Warren had a very old-fashioned turn of phrase sometimes.
‘Warren!’
‘Well, it’s true, and it’s impossible to hide from the fact that now two people have been killed in the village, and these two gentlemen here are obviously doing their level best to find out whodunit, and in such atrocious conditions, too.’
‘I realise that. I’m sorry for the old clergyman, but Jeffries is no loss to this world. It’ll be a much better place without him, and I know you feel just the same as I do.’
Christmas Mourning (The Falconer Files Book 8) Page 15