Strict and Peculiar

Book 7: The Falconer Files

by Andrea Frazer

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

In the village of Steynham St Michael, the old Strict and Particular Chapel is, at last, undergoing renovation, to the delight of the local inhabitants, who believe it will prove useful as a tourist attraction for the village. The renovations, however, have been dogged by the sightings of mysterious hooded figures, and tributes of flowers, left here and there on the site. The newly painted interior is then found defaced by a mysterious message in red paint, and this last prompts a call to the police. DI Falconer and DS Carmichael of the Market Darley CID make an initial visit, and believe that the unexplained events at the Chapel may be the work of a small cult, believed to originate from the college in Market Darley. When a new DC, on secondment, arrives, Falconer immediately sends him undercover as a student, spending his own time trying to lay his hands on a local drug dealer. Then, a body is found on the stone altar table in the Chapel, and events begin to spiral out of control.

Release date: December 5, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 183

Sample

Chapter One

Friday 29th October





Detective Inspector Harry Falconer stood staring at the graffito on the internal wall of the Strict and Particular Chapel in Steynham St Michael, his lips moving silently as he read what had been daubed on the wall in red paint.

‘Are we going to need a classicist, sir?’ asked Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael, utterly defeated by the strangeness of the letters used for the message, whatever that message may prove to be. It might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphs, as far as he was concerned, for it didn’t mean a thing to him.

‘No need, Carmichael. This is Modern Greek and, if I’m not mistaken, it’s an adaptation of the words of a popular song.’ Here, he paused, and sang in a surprisingly tuneful light tenor voice, ‘Ee ekklisia echei tee thikee tees istoria, Kapya teen egrapse ston teecho me aimata.’

‘But what does it mean, sir?’ Carmichael asked, not one jot wiser.

‘The original goes roughly, “The road has its own story. Someone has written it in paint on the wall.”’

‘And?’ Carmichael still knew no more.

‘This has been adapted to give the message, “The church has its own story. Someone (female this time) has painted it in blood (plural) on the wall.”’

‘OK, I give up. What’s it supposed to tell us?’

‘That there’s going to be trouble, Carmichael: trouble with a capital ‘T’. We knew there had been some shenanigans up here, at least since the builders moved in to renovate the chapel, because the site manager has been in touch to complain of trespassers on the site and, can you believe it, small bunches of flowers left in various parts of the building.’

The chapel had long fallen into disuse, and Carmichael had visited it when they were in the village on another case. [1] The Strict and Particular Chapel had once housed the members of a splinter group who believed in punishment for the wicked, had the strictest of moral beliefs, and led exemplary lives, with the exception of the punishment they meted out on their own when they strayed from the path of righteousness.

Until recently, there had been a large wooden cross housed in the chapel, which its adherents had dragged out every Good Friday, taking it in turns to haul through the streets of the village, to emphasise that this was the day that Christ was crucified.

This cross, now an interesting artefact in itself, had been removed with the permission of those whose families had been members of the congregation to a more secure housing in St Cuthbert’s (Church of England) Parish Church, in Castle Farthing, there being no Strict and Particular chapels still open and holding services.

The chapel was being renovated by funds collected by descendants of its original attendees, with a view to either re-opening, or using it as an historical exhibit of times gone by, and it was thought that the cross may be damaged, or even stolen, during said renovations. It would be restored to its rightful home when the work was finished and its future had been decided upon.

This latest act of intrusion, including vandalism this time, had been reported by the site manager first thing this morning, and Falconer and Carmichael had attended the scene, out of genuine interest rather than on their instincts as policemen. Neither of them had been inside the chapel before, and both of them were ‘gagging’ to have a look and imagine what it must have felt like to be a member of such a tiny sect (or denomination, however you liked to refer to its members).

Falconer took a few photographs with his phone, and summoned a small SOCO team to the site, in the hope that whoever had done this would have left some trace of themselves, or themself, behind. As was drummed into all police officers now, a miscreant not only takes something away from the locus of a crime, be it fibres on their clothing, or something accidentally acquired on the soles of the shoes, but also leaves something behind. It may be a careless fingerprint, a drop or smear of blood, or it may just be fibres from clothing, but modern forensic methods had become so much more sophisticated than they were even twenty years ago, that a thorough search of any locus was a must these days.

Even in its nearly-restored state, they could imagine how bleak the chapel must have been in its heyday. The walls were of whitewashed stone, the pews as unforgiving as the God of those who had sat in them, and the floor flag-stoned. The altar was a simple stone table with a wooden cross placed in its centre. It was so nearly finished that the desecration of it seemed much worse than it would have done if it had been committed earlier in the restoration.

After a couple of minutes of absorbing the atmosphere, both detectives shivered, almost simultaneously, and headed outside for some fresh air.

The weeds and long grass had been removed from the small graveyard, and some small effort had been made by locals to restore and make readable again the headstones, now all upright, rather than at the sagging angles that they had previously presented to the eye, like a set of teeth badly in need of orthodontic attention.

Once outside, they realised how cold it was for this time of year and did up their coats, pulling up collars over their ears to shield them from the biting wind. As they did so, they noticed Dimity Pryor, an elderly spinster who worked part-time in the village’s charity shop, and Patience and Noah Buttery, all descended from fervent members of the chapel’s now-deceased congregation.

Carmichael called out, ‘Hi!’ and loped over to meet them, while Falconer remained just outside the doors to pull on his gloves and get his scarf out of his pocket. He had not known it this cold at this time of the year since he was a child. There must be a severe winter on the way, if this was any indication of what was to come.

He joined the little group just after they had exchanged greetings and pleasantries. ‘We noticed that the library was closed when we arrived,’ said Falconer, addressing his remark to Patience and Noah, who had been librarians there when he had last visited the village.

‘It went a few months ago,’ explained Patience, letting her gaze fall to the ground as she remembered the event with sadness.

 ‘We’d worked there together for a long time, and it was difficult to take in that it really wouldn’t be opening its doors again,’ added Noah.

‘So what do you two do now?’ Falconer asked, and immediately could have bitten his tongue off. What if they were existing on unemployment benefits, and living hand-to-mouth?

‘We’re on the wagon,’ declared Patience, and gave him a little smile.

‘Shouldn’t that be the neighbours across the road?’ asked Carmichael, remembering the trouble they had had before with the heavy-drinking Littlemores, Amy and Malcolm, who rather lackadaisically ran the craft shop in the High Street when sober enough so to do.

‘Don’t be silly! And ‘that’ll be the day’ with those two. No, we’re both working on the mobile library. A couple of people on the rota took early retirement during the cut-backs, and we were slotted in to take their places,’ explained Noah.

‘It’s proved to be a great move for us.’ Patience took over the story. ‘Not only do we work less hours, but we meet so many people, going round all the villages and hamlets, it’s like having a vast circle of new friends.’

‘Usually, only people from Steynham St Michael came into the library here, with a few from other villages sometimes making the effort, but with the mobile, everyone’s really pleased to see us, and it’s like one long house party for us,’ concluded Noah.

‘And what about you, Dimity?’ asked Falconer. ‘Still working part-time at the charity shop?’

Dimity smiled at both detectives, and explained, ‘Oh, no. I’m manager these days. The woman who used to run it decided she’d had enough, so they asked me to take over, and it was a good thing, because it filled in some of the time I would have expected to spend with Hermione. She left such a hole in my life.

‘And are Mr Rainbird and Mr Warlock still in their old establishments?’

‘Of course! How else would they occupy their time, except to bicker with each other?’ she replied with a grin.

Charles Rainbird ran the antiques shop in the High Street, and Vernon Warlock the book and gift shop at the eastern extremity of the same street. Falconer and Carmichael had come to know them quite well, on a previous case they had investigated there.

‘Would you like to come back to Spinning Wheel Cottage for a hot drink?’ asked Dimity, always anxious about the welfare of others.

‘That would be delightful,’ agreed Falconer, ‘but we’ll join you in a few minutes, if that’s all right. I just want a quick word with the site manager here, then we’ll collect the car and be with you as soon as we can.’

Their chat with Dave Hillman, the site manager, didn’t take long, and the time that had elapsed during their conversation with old acquaintances had been enough to allow the tiny SOCO team which had been assigned to this vandalism to arrive, so Falconer was happy that he was leaving the locus in safe hands.

It was cosy inside Spinning Wheel Cottage, and Dimity had already brewed both a pot of tea and a pot of coffee by the time they arrived, for Noah and Patience had also been included in the invitation even though they only lived next door in Pear Tree Cottage. Both homes were situated on the Market Darley Road, just down Tuppenny Lane, and a left turn from the chapel.

Although the sitting room of Dimity’s home wasn’t tiny, the presence of Carmichael in it made it look more like a room in a playhouse, so tall was he, and with a build to match. He had had to duck his head to go through the front door, and then again to enter the sitting room from the minute hall.

A path was immediately cleared so that they could warm their hands by the blazing log fire, and Patience went into the dining room to fetch a couple of extra chairs so that they could all sit down.

After Dimity had served them with the hot drink of their choice, goggling at the amount of sugar that Carmichael spooned into his cup, and handed round a plate of home-made biscuits, returned empty to her, in the hopes, of at least Carmichael, of a refill, she took her own cup and looked round at them all, sitting there enjoying the warmth of her home and her refreshments.

‘Such a nice reunion,’ she commented, then added, ‘but also, so sad, that Hermione will never be able to join us again.’ Hermione Grayling, a local author and long-time friend of not only Dimity, but of Charles Rainbird and Vernon Warlock as well, had been murdered back in January last, and Dimity still missed her regular company and their conversations about their shared history immensely.

The sergeant was squeezed into what had appeared to be a rather roomy Windsor chair, before he had decided to sit in it. Now he looked like an adult squeezed into a similarly styled chair but made for the proportions of a child. He had decided that now was the time for him to make a contribution to the general conversation.

‘Anggy goffup?’ asked Carmichael, through a mouthful of oat- and chocolate-chip biscuit crumbs. This alien-sounding language was easily deciphered by those present as, ‘Any gossip?’, and Falconer suppressed a wince at his partner’s intrusive question, then was surprised by the eagerness with which the others gave their answers.

‘The Littlemores are still on the sauce, but I believe I mentioned that up at the chapel,’ was Noah’s contribution to the subject.

‘And Elizabeth Sinden – you remember Buffy? – she’s walking out with Craig Crawford,’ added Patience.

‘They’re doing a real old-fashioned job of it, too,’ interjected Dimity. ‘They go out on proper dates, and hold hands like teenagers in the street. It lifts the heart to see two people getting on so well together, without throwing themselves into bed in the first five minutes of their relationship.’

Falconer was pleased to hear this, as he had considered Buffy Sinden a lovely person under all the heavy make-up and unsuitable clothes. She had determined, when he had last seen her, to turn over a new leaf, and it sounded like she was doing exactly what she had planned to do.

‘Not much else is going on, though,’ said Patience. ‘Nothing much ever happens in Steynham St Michael.’

‘Apart from our little contretemps at the beginning of the year, that is,’ concluded Noah, then blushing as he saw Dimity’s grimace, at having the subject raised again. ‘Sorry, Dimity,’ he apologised. ‘Me and my big mouth!’

Abruptly pulling herself together, Dimity asked the two detectives, ‘And what, may I ask, brings you back to these parts again? I assume it’s something to do with the chapel? I was on my way there to see how they were getting on when we bumped into you.’

‘It is indeed, Miss Pryor. There have been reports recently about someone trespassing on the site – leaving bunches of flowers, that sort of thing. The latest, however, is a case of vandalism. Some writing has been applied to one of the newly painted walls … ’

He was interrupted at this point by sharp intakes of breath from Noah, Patience, and Dimity, and they all looked shocked. ‘Whoever could have done that? What does it say?’ asked Dimity, her eyes wide with shock. ‘It’s had so much work done on it; I don’t see how anyone could have the heart to spoil it.’

‘The writing, which incidentally was done in red paint, to simulate blood, I think, is in Greek – Modern, not New Testament or Classical. It says, and I quote,’ he said, getting out his own notebook, ‘“The church has its own story. Someone has written it on the wall in blood.” From the grammar used, it would indicate that the writer is a woman, and the word for blood is written in the plural,’ he informed them.

‘It’s that bunch of crazies from the college,’ Patience stated, with certainty in her voice.

‘What bunch of crazies? What college? How do you know this?’ Falconer’s questions came along this time like London buses, in a trio.

‘We’ve heard it from various people as we’ve gone round in the library van,’ Noah informed them. ‘Apparently they’re from the Market Darley College of Further and Higher Education – that dump that’s trying to get university status. They might as well confer that status on the baboon house at the zoo, for all it means these days.’

‘Now, now, Noah, don’t get on your high horse,’ Patience admonished him, then, turning back to Falconer, and trying to look in two directions at once, to include Carmichael, informed them, ‘There’s a bunch of kids at the college who have decided that the old ways are best, then mixed those up with a load of mumbo jumbo and formed themselves a little cult. There’re not a lot of them at the moment, but the numbers are likely to grow, knowing how gullible young people are these days.’

‘I bet it’s them,’ growled Noah, darkly.

‘Do you have any idea who might be involved in this ‘cult’?’ asked Falconer.

‘Sorry, no.’ It was Patience who answered, and Noah and Dimity both shook their heads, while Carmichael scribbled a quick note in his pad to record the information.

‘Well, thank you very much for the tea and coffee, and the biscuits: but thank you, most of all, for the lovely warm-up in front of your fire. We really needed that, after standing in that draughty old chapel,’ Falconer said, rising from his seat, and indicating to Carmichael, with a look, that they’d better be leaving and get back to the station.

‘Lovely to see you all again,’ added Carmichael, his voice becoming slightly indistinct again, as he crammed a final biscuit into his mouth.



[1] See Inkier than the Sword

Chapter Two

Friday 29th October – later

Back at the station, Bob Bryant, the desk sergeant, indicated that he’d like a word with them, before they went up to their office, and they changed direction away from the staircase in answer to his hissed summons.

‘What’s up?’ asked Falconer, hoping there wasn’t another murder for them. It was ‘brass monkeys’ outside, and, yes, he did know the origin of the expression.

‘You’ve got a new one, upstairs.’ he whispered, his head bowed down towards the desk top in conspiracy.

Catching his drift, Falconer lowered his own head, and put it close to Bob’s. ‘A new what? Is it something exciting?’ he hissed, the sibilants echoing round the cavernous entrance like a nest of snakes.

‘A new DC. He’s been seconded from Manchester, apparently,’ Bob hissed back.

‘Why?’ asked Carmichael, in a normal speaking voice, and the other two men jumped, with the difference in volume.

‘It’s compassionate,’ the desk sergeant explained, his voice returned, now, to a normal volume. ‘His mother lives in Market Darley, and she’s just had a stroke: needs some help for a while. Rather than take unpaid leave, he requested to be stationed here for a few weeks, so that he can give her a hand with getting used to life with less mobility.

‘Don’t worry,’ he added, catching the look on Falconer’s face, ‘Social Services are involved too, and they’ll be installing equipment and stuff to make life easier for her. This lad’s just here to help her get used to it. He’ll soon be out of your hair.’

‘And where is he, at the moment?’ asked the inspector, a suspicious look on his face at the thought of this stranger going through the papers on their desks and in their drawers.

‘I’ve put him in the canteen, and settled him with a cup of coffee, a doughnut, and a newspaper. Don’t worry; he’s only been there about half an hour.’

‘I’m not worried, Bob. I’m merely concerned about the confidentiality of the papers left out on view whe. . .