Waif

Julius Falconer

Description

Fancy a twenty-first-century murder linked to an eighteenth-century parish register? - with a stroll through the byways of ancient Middle Eastern languages, a piece of eighteenth-century silver, a spot of genealogy and trips to France, Italy and Austria thrown in? Then this is the book for you!The discovery of the body of a petty criminal one winter's night in 2011, in a quiet Yorkshire hamlet, sets in train a series of events which stretches Inspector Walter Moat's capabilities to the utmost. His wily opponent, as he eventually discovers, is an elusive master-criminal called Lomax, who weaves a devious and ruthless path to achieve his goals. Moat and his sergeant find themselves attempting to nail a crook intent on thwarting the resolve of a friendless waif.Follow the inspector in an intricate and baffling investigation in which only a brainwave saves his reputation. Allow Mr Falconer to lead you by the hand (or possibly by the nose) until, it may be, the light dawns on you before it dawns on the inspector.Gracious English, dry wit, learned asides, well-researched background - all the Falconer hallmarks are here.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 16 février 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782282150
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Waif



Julius Falconer
Copyright

First Published in 2012 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
The waif Copyright © 2012 Julius Falconer
Julius Falconer has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work
Pneuma Springs
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Falconer, Julius. The waif. 1. Yorkshire (England)--Fiction. 2. Detective and mystery stories. I. Title 823.9'2-dc23
Mobi eISBN 9781782280149 ePub eISBN 9781782282150 PDF eISBN 9781782280989 Paperback ISBN:9781907728341
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.
Permission to reproduce an entry from the Wigginton Parish Register, in the custody of the Borthwick Institute, University of York, is hereby acknowledged with thanks.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Dedication


To Tracy

- not for the first time! -

in memory of

‘A Poor Girl, a Traveller’
The Novel
ONE
My name is Moat. Since this will mean nothing to you, gentle reader, let me tell you that I am a detective inspector with the North Yorkshire police and that the case of which you are about to read - one of the most perplexing of my career – nearly persuaded me to resign my post in favour of cultivating orchids (or, I suppose, cabbages, if orchids should prove to be beyond me). I should perhaps add that there is a good reason why I am not letting the egregious Mr Falconer write up my notes on this case: I doubt his capacity to exclude both the huge Falconer ego and the consequent determination to leave his own enormous imprint on a work that I intend to be entirely my own. I can assure you, if you are doubtful about the wisdom of this move, that the story is in safer hands than if Mr Falconer were let loose on it. Trust me.

The investigation started with a telephone-call to the police-station one rainy night this last winter. It came from an elderly lady, living in the village of Lumby off the A63 in Yorkshire, not far from Selby, who had heard noises in the street as of a struggle. Resisting the temptation to dismiss the call as that of an oversensitive and nervous woman on a wild winter’s night, the station dispatched a constable from Sherburn in Elmet (often pronounced – I believe properly - and sometimes written ‘Elmete’, dear reader) to reassure the old lady that all was well. To his astonishment, there was indeed a body in the road outside her house, bearing every sign of death by battering round the head with a brick, which lay close by. The constable wasted no time in radioing through to Northallerton for assistance, and that was how I came to be involved. The body was male, but beyond that identification was difficult. The face no longer existed recognisably, and there was nothing in the pockets, by way of credit cards, for example, which could tell us who the victim was. I asked the constable to reassure our informant that she was not in any danger herself and that the matter was in safe and capable hands (God save the mark!).

When the scene-of-crime crew were at their work in the street, I walked up to the house to have a word myself with the lady, a Mrs Sylvia Pike, widow, native of Lincolnshire but, having married a York man, long-time resident of Yorkshire. I found Mrs Pike and the constable cosily ensconced round a pot of tea. The latter made to leave, but I motioned him to remain for my little chat with the lady of the house.
‘Now, Mrs Pike,’ I began soothingly, ‘tell me how all this came about.’
‘Well, inspector - I suppose I call you inspector?’
‘Yes, that will be fine,’ I murmured diffidently.
‘You know, inspector, some people are so touchy, I’m always frightened of putting my foot in it. I once called a consultant surgeon “doctor”, and he was most put out. Gave me a long-winded explanation about how I was wrong and made me feel quite uncomfortable. Trollope says somewhere in The Warden , doesn’t he – a lovely book, inspector, you should read it some time - that the love of titles is common to all men, but I’m not sure I go along with ’em. Why should an army officer still call himself “major” years after he’s left the forces, or a GP “doctor” when he’s retired? Isn’t plain “Mr” good enough for them? However, I’m wandering from the point, aren’t I, inspector? Oh, you mustn’t think I’m getting at you, by the way: you’re in harness; we need to know where you come in the hierarchy. I mean, I’d tell an inspector things I wouldn’t bother a sergeant – or a constable - ’ she added, ‘with, because they haven’t as much authority, have they? No, no, I shall happily call you “inspector”, so don’t you worry that I’m insincere. My husband was nearly always Mr, although he could legitimately have called himself “doctor”, because he had a doctorate in music, you see, but he rarely bothered. Didn’t want to give himself airs, he said.’
‘Very interesting, Mrs Pike. So what did you hear tonight?’ I was anxious to stem the flow of chatter, as you can imagine.
‘Well, I was lying in bed, wondering whether I’d woken because of a restless mind or for some other cause - the bad weather, perhaps, or indigestion, although I had no heartburn - very rarely suffer from it, you know: that’s what sensible eating does for you. I mean, if you’re still getting heartburn at seventy, you haven’t taken life’s lessons on board, have you? As I say, I was lying in bed, minding my own business and preparing to go back to sleep, when I heard a cry - or was it a shout? difficult to describe, you see, especially because it took me by surprise, and it had gone before I was fully aware of it, so to speak. It was almost as if someone were screaming up at me, to attract my attention, although, as you know, I’m some way back from the road. On the other hand, it could have been someone just shouting out in fear - or pain - or someone crying after another person. Well, after a minute’s hesitation, I got up to have a look. I fumbled for my dressing-gown - no point in getting cold, was there? - put on my slippers and went over to the window. I cautiously parted the curtains, but of course it was very black outside and I couldn’t see anything. Not at first, that is; but gradually, as I continued to peer out, I thought I saw a body in the road, not far from the street-light. I wasn’t going out myself, was I? not an elderly woman alone on a dark night, oh, no! So I phoned you. That’s all there is to it.’ She subsided at last into a silence which I knew, if I did not seize my opportunity, would be short-lived.
‘I see,’ I commented. ‘A very succinct account, if I may say so. Thank you, Mrs Pike.’ It was only a white lie in the interests of public relations, and white lies are tolerated by the moral manuals in certain circumstances. The saintly Roncalli, before he was pope, wasn’t above a spot of lying, when it came to saving Jews by writing out false baptism certificates. However, I digress. ‘Now, did you see any movement? Anyone running away, for example? Did you hear a car?’
‘No, no, I’ve just told you all I saw, inspector. You don’t expect me to make things up, do you, just to keep you happy? I saw what I took to be a body in the road. I was apparently right, according to Constable - sorry, dear, I didn’t get your name.’
‘Reynolds, ma’am.’
‘Constable Reynolds. He tells me it was a body in the road: some poor man battered to death, by the sounds of it. What a tragic world we live in, inspector: violence all round us, and, if that wasn’t enough, natural disasters almost wherever you look. If God made such a beautiful world, why is it so awful now? Can’t just be humans, can it? I mean to say, we didn’t invent earthquakes and tsunamis, or volcanic eruptions, or hurricanes, did we? No, that’s all God’s work, and only he can see the point of it - if there is one, of course. Perhaps there’s no point to it. Perhaps there’s no God, inspector, and we’re spinning round aimlessly in an infinite void. Have you ever thought of that?’
‘Well, I have, as a matter of fact - but back to business, Mrs Pike: can you be exact as to the time at which you heard the cry - or shout?’
‘No, I can’t, but I tell you what, and I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself. I phoned the police within a few minutes of seeing the body, and I’m sure you’ll have a record of my call.’ She beamed triumphantly.
‘So, just to recap, Mrs Pike: you heard a shout or a scream or a cry. You took a little time to get up, put on a dressing-gown and slippers and look out of the window. After another short time to adjust to the outside conditions, you saw what you took to be a body lying in the road. Have I got that right? Is that about it?’
‘Certainly, inspector. That’s what I’ve been telling you, but you’re rather slow at picking it up. I mean, we could’ve had this conversation over and done with in seconds. Now, what about another cup of tea? We’re all up, so we might as well employ the time usefully, mightn’t we?’ Declining politely, I took my leave.

Although Constable Reynolds had been on the scene quickly, the rain had washed away any possible traces of feet or tyres. It was not possible to tell even the direction in which the assailant had fled - or perhaps quietly made his escape. A mark in the grass showed where the brick had lain before being selected as a murder weapon. The minimal clues made our job extremely difficult. Who was the victim? What was he doing at Lumby in the wee small hours? Had the meeting with his assailant been pre-arr