BELLS AND SMELLS

ANDREA FRAZER

Reverend Florrie Feldman has put the unpleasantness of her old parish behind her and made a fresh start in the sleepy little village of Ford Hollow, a community at peace – on the surface.

Underneath the calm façade the usual rivalries and petty jealous are simmering. There is also a deep undercurrent of resentment towards a company which plans to build a new housing estate, altering the ancient landscape irrevocably.

Shortly after Florrie takes over the parish reins, the church choir’s oldest member is found in his usual seat, dead as a doornail, his neck broken. Enter Detective Inspector Harry Falconer and Detective Sergeant ‘Davey’ Carmichael …

With accusations of dirty deals, nefarious businessmen, and crooked committees, the atmosphere in the village is tense – and murderous! Falconer and Carmichael tackle the escalating events in their usual style – and there is emotional turmoil for Falconer in the shape of his ‘old flame’, Dr Honey Dubois …

This book is dedicated to Major Jonathan Redding and Peter Needham, without whom none of these books would have been possible.

This book is dedicated to Major Jonathan Redding and Peter Needham, without whom none of these books would have been possible.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Feldman, Rev. Florrie – new incumbent at St Cuthbert’s, Ford Hollow

Ian Brown, Mon Repos, High Street – crucifer

Burton, Albert – Tulip Cottage, Drovers Way – head chorister

Davies, Gail and Clive – licensees of The Plume of Feathers, Dairy House Lane

Garfield, Polly – the Old Bakery, Dryden’s Passage – cleaner

Hartley, John – boyfriend of Chelsea Winter

Jell, Joel and Lisa – Bluebell Cottage, Drovers Way – step-father and mother of Chelsea Winter

Monaghan, Rev. Jude – The Rectory, Church Street, Carsfold – head of the Team Ministry

Mundy, Marjorie – Eyebrows, Pig Lane – an elderly wit with health problems

Pooley, Yvonne and David – Wheel Cottage, High Street – she, choir mistress and organist.

Scardifield, Willard and Thea – Clouds, Fallow Fold Road – both in the choir, he the stand-in organist

Slater, Sylvia and Silas – Vergers Cottage, Pig Lane – he the thurifer

Sutherland, Elodie – Lizanben, High Street – an elderly spinster who lives with her very old mother. Lay Reader

Winter, Chelsea – daughter of Lisa Jell

Landbank Ltd

Trevelyan, Cardew – finances and bookkeeper

Grimble, Sheridan – architect

Smallwood, Xavier – surveyor and new land sourcing

Aylesford, Sigmund – sales and negotiations

Others

Greenslade, Michael – chief planning officer

Carstairs, Kenneth – a member of the planning committee

Dibley, Victor – a member of the planning committee

Of Market Darley Police Station

Detective Inspector Harry Falconer

Detective Sergeant ‘Davey’ Carmichael

Detective Constable Chris Roberts

Detective Constable Neil Tomlinson

Desk Sergeant Bob Bryant

PC Merv Green

PC John Proudfoot

Superintendent Derek ‘Jelly’ Chivers

Josie – server in the canteen

Vi – cook in the canteen

Associates

Dr Philip Christmas – Forensic Medical Examiner for the force

Dr Hortense ‘Honey’ Dubois – mental health consultant

PROLOGUE

Ford Hollow wasn’t a very pretty village, nor was it of any great size. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the presence of St Cuthbert’s Church it would have been a hamlet.

In the past, its few inhabitants had relied on local farms to provide the men with agricultural work, and this had been fine – then. Now, the rivulet that cut off a corner of the River Darle had spread out, encouraged by wetter weather, and had made the rather boggy land at the south end of the farm there absolutely impossible for raising either animals or crops. The farm had floundered, and eventually the farmer and his family had moved elsewhere.

It was long after this that the farmer, now an old man, managed to offload the parcel of land on to a company which rejoiced in the name Landbank Ltd, which had then sold it on in tiny parcels to investors, in the hope that, although zoned as agricultural, it may one day become development land, as the housing shortage squeezed tighter and tighter.

There were two centres for gathering in the village: the afore-mentioned church was one, the other was the only public house, The Plume of Feathers. Both attracted a strong and faithful clientele, and the church also had a mother and toddler group, a branch of the Mothers’ Union, a lot of vying for places on the cleaning and flowers rotas, a choir, and a Brownie pack.

The Plume of Feathers had a team of enthusiastic darts players, a five-a-side football team, and a cribbage team, and was well attended most nights of the week.

The only retail establishments were a shabby early sixties redevelopment of three terraced premises, offering a general store, a post office, and a fruit and vegetable retailer who tried, as far as was possible, to stock his shop from the local allotments and smallholders who were not at too far a remove.

The rest of the buildings in the village, all residential except for the church and pub, were a hotch-potch of dates and styles. There were a couple of older properties which were still thatched, and a row of farm labourers’ cottagers down Drovers Way that had been bought up by a builder when they were all but derelict, had been renovated with a keen eye to price, then sold on for maximum profit, one to a local for investment, who then rented it out. There were also a few Victorian/Edwardian houses and a couple of pairs of thirties semis. No one century or decade had been able to make anything much of Ford Hollow.

As the story opens, Ford Hollow has just had a new incumbent appointed at St Cuthbert’s, who will be a new member of the local team ministry, headed up by Rev. Monaghan, who lives in Carsfold and whose responsibilities cover not only Ford Hollow and Carsfold, but also the villages of Downland Haven and Coldwater Pryors, neither of which has its own vicar at the moment, and they are, therefore, served in rota form by the head of the team himself.

Chapter One

Wednesday

Reverend Florrie Feldman looked round the large, high-ceilinged sitting room with its massive windows – her favourite room in her new home – and smiled. She had been sad to leave Shepford St Bernard, but it had been a short if eventful time for her first parish, and she was looking forward to a rather smoother ride at St Cuthbert’s.

This was some vicarage, she thought. It must have been built when vicars were of independent means and, consequently, could afford to keep large families. It was marvellous, though, to have so much space for meetings and events which she would host in the future. She loved the space, and wouldn’t feel at all as if she was rattling around in it, with only her new cat Kelly Finn, a blue Burmese her parents had treated her to on her birthday. Her previous pet had, unfortunately, been killed by a car, and she had missed him sorely.

Kelly Finn was still in her wicker basket for travelling, as the furniture had not yet arrived and, instead of hanging around like a spare part, she decided that, now she had had a peek around the whole house, she would just nip to the church to see if it was how she remembered it when she had made an incognito visit after she was told she would be moving parishes.

This had been the bishop’s idea, as he only seemed now to have comprehended that she had suffered some very unfortunate incidents in Shepford St Bernard, which had been the first parish solely in her charge since she had been ordained.

Leaving Kelly Finn howling in protest at her unexpected incarceration, Rev. Florrie almost skipped out of the vicarage and down the garden path to her new place of work. St Cuthbert’s was just across Pig Lane, on the opposite corner from her new home.

It was as charming as she remembered it; small, but perfectly formed, and it had some stained glass as evidence of its age. So many churches today had had their stained-glass windows vandalised, and many of them could only afford to replace them with plain panes. Not so here, and she looked with sheer pleasure at the pattern of colours that the sun made on the uneven stone floor as it streamed through the windows.

The choir stalls were small, in scale with everything else, but they were there, resplendent before the altar. There was a light burning in the sanctuary, and the faint smell of incense pervaded the place of worship, a leftover from the last service held there.

The vestry, when located, was adequate for its needs, and everything that she could see in the building was scrupulously clean, the brasses gleaming and winking in the rays of the sun, the flowers fresh and beautifully arranged. She wasn’t sure of the size of the congregation, but the buildings and its appointments were well loved and looked after by those who did attend its services.

A delicate clearing of the throat just by her left shoulder made her jump, and she turned to see a woman in her mid-forties standing behind her.

‘Sorry if I startled you. Are you our new vicar?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ admitted Rev. Florrie, and held out her hand. ‘Reverend Florence Feldman, but do call me Florrie.’

‘I’m Polly Garfield from The Old Bakery in Dryden’s Passage, and I’ve just come to check whether the flower water needs changing,’ the other woman said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. She was a fairly slim woman of average height and had shoulder-length light brown hair. Today she was wearing a sensible cotton skirt and a white T-shirt, and looked very cool and collected.

‘You’re a regular attender, are you?’

‘Fairly regular, and I’m also in the Mother’s Union and my younger daughter’s in the Brownie pack.’

‘So, you’ve got both of those have you? Tell me a bit more about the church’s activities.’ Rev. Florrie was curious about how much activity there was for the members of the congregation, apart from services.

‘Well, we’ve got a choir, although it’s not very big; we have house groups that meet weekly on a rota of people’s homes, there’s, obviously, the Parochial Church Council; there’s a mothers’ and toddlers’ group in the small hall three mornings a week, and we have, of course, our rota of cleaners and flower providers and arrangers. We tend to have coffee and a bit of a natter at the back of the church after services.’ Polly Garfield positively glowed after delivering this good news that the church was alive and well, and had a good following.

‘We also occasionally arrange parish picnics and line-dancing evenings,’ she added, as an afterthought.

‘This is a busy parish, if you’ve got all that going on,’ the vicar replied with an answering smile. Polly Garfield’s grin grew so big at this compliment that it nearly split her face in two.

‘Have you shown yourself around yet?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t taken even a peek at the organ,’ Florrie replied.

‘Let me show you the way.’

‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed the new vicar, as she gazed on the ancient and not very venerable instrument, as she had fired it up and was pressing a note or two here and there.

‘Oh, dear, indeed,’ her guide replied. ‘We can keep this place immaculate and well-loved, but there’s nothing but a huge bill for repair and renovations or complete replacement we can do about that old squeezebox.’

‘Have you got an appeal up and running?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then it’s time we got one started. Would you like to be in charge of it, Polly? It’ll mean keeping a record of money collected and organising events, then extracting any relevant expenses that might have been incurred.’

Polly Garfield blushed an unlovely red at being honoured with such a responsibility and again pumped the new vicar’s hand, too embarrassed and overcome for speech.

‘I’m going to put a leaflet through everyone’s door about a parish meeting so that we can all get to know one another, but I’ll also be calling on people in their homes to introduce myself, over the next week or so.’

‘That’ll go down well,’ replied Polly, now recovered from her speechless state. ‘Some parishioners are too old and frail to attend services, and they’d really appreciate that. The old vicar used to take them communion, but Rev. Monaghan says he hasn’t got time what with all his other parishes. He reckons he’s far too busy.’

‘I’ll make the time, even if I have to knit it myself,’ declared Florrie, and Polly smiled at the little joke.

‘Could you knit me some, too? I could always do with an extra hour here and there.’

‘If I can get the wool.’

Polly Garfield excused herself and went to check all the vases, to ascertain whether they just needed topping up, or a complete change of water, while Rev. Florrie went outside again, to see if the removal lorry had turned up with all her worldly goods. God forbid anything happened to that vehicle.

Rev. Florrie arrived back at the vicarage to find a bunch of removal men staring testily at the unanswered and unyielding front door. ‘Sorry, guys,’ she called, quickening her pace. ‘I was just taking a quick look round my new church. I didn’t mean to hold you up. Shall I put the kettle on? When I can find it?’

‘That’s the spirit, Rev! We made sure to pack the kettle and mugs at the very back of the van for easy access, and if we can’t find the teabags, we always keep a supply in the cab.’ The man who addressed her was a short and portly individual with bright carrot-coloured hair and, now she had returned to let them in, a twinkle in his eye. He looked like someone who was usually very cheerful. ‘Right, you lot: get unpacking. The sooner the job’s done, the sooner you can have a fag break.’

Rev. Florrie went indoors, was immediately brought the kettle and mugs, with another of the team entering the kitchen with a box containing coffee, tea, and an unopened bottle of milk, the latter described as a moving-in present. She thanked him rather prettily, and he looked a little shy and replied, ‘It’s just something that we always do. It helps to get the tea to us quicker,’ he finished naively.

‘Clever idea,’ she replied. ‘I’ll give you a whistle when the brew’s ready.’

While they were sitting on the steps drinking their tea, a tall woman, probably in her late fifties, very upright and severe-looking, came through the gate and cast a disapproving glance at the gaggle of overalled men sitting outside the door.

‘Visitor for you, Miss,’ called out the carroty-haired man, and Rev. Florrie showed herself at the door.

‘Good morning,’ she called, shooing the men away so that she could offer entrance to this forbidding woman. ‘I’m Rev. Florrie. How can I help you?’ she asked, holding out her hand. There would be a lot of this in the near future.

‘Elodie Sutherland,’ the older woman announced, grasping Florrie’s with unnecessary strength. ‘I’ve just called round to introduce myself, as lay reader of this parish.’

‘Delighted to meet you. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea with me?’

‘That’s very kind of you, Rev. Feldman.’ So she had taken the trouble to find out Florrie’s full name. ‘Perhaps I could fill you in on some of the activities of the parish, and also some of the personalities.’

‘And where do you live?’ Florrie had already made a note of Polly Garfield’s address as soon as she had got back to her new home.

‘At a house with the ghastly name of “Lizanben” on the High Street, with my aged mother. My parents were called Elizabeth and Benjamin, as you’ve probably already guessed, and my mother won’t have the name changed because she says it reminds her of happier days when my father was alive. I can’t see why she should have been happier then,’ she concluded.

I can, thought Florrie, but didn’t say a word.

‘A very common man was my father,’ the rather severe woman continued. ‘When my mother passes over I shall, of course, rename it. Now, I thought you’d better know a bit about what you’re up against in this parish.’

Here we go, thought Rev. Florrie. She wants to get in first before someone else says something about her.

‘We do have a bit of trouble with the children during service. I don’t know if you know but, after the sermon, the Sunday school joins the congregation, so that they can go up to the altar rail while the adults are taking communion, and have a blessing – just the laying on of a hand on the head and a few words said – nothing complicated.

‘But they are so disturbing to the general atmosphere of the service. They fidget and whisper, and bring down the tone of the devotion that the early part of the service has. I have sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t be better if the vicar went through to the Sunday school at some point, and blessed them en masse. That way they wouldn’t have to come into the church at all and ruin the atmosphere. What do you think?’

Rev. Florrie sat a few moments in silence, then made up her mind. ‘If they never come in during a service, then how are they supposed to feel part of the congregation, let alone learn how to behave during one? It’s like restaurants here in England. We never take our children to them in case they misbehave, so that when they’re older of course they don’t know how to, never having been trusted before.

‘On the continent, children attend meals in restaurants from a very early age and, therefore, learn the code of behaviour when young. Personally, I think it’s imperative that the younger members of the congregation are included in at least part of the service.’

‘Hmph!’ Elodie Sutherland made a disapproving noise and speared the vicar with a steely gaze. ‘Do you also think it right that children too young for the Sunday school should come with their parents and whinge and cry throughout the service?’

‘I think a play corner in the church would solve the problem. If there were plenty of things for them to amuse themselves with, they would be less disruptive, and better-behaved when they did go into the Sunday school, and thus better-behaved when, as members of that, they joined the service for a blessing.’

‘You’re quite a radical cleric, aren’t you?’ asked Miss Sutherland.

‘Not really, but I am aware of falling attendance numbers, and I want to do anything within my power not to drive people away. If we lose the parents, we lose the children, who are the next generation of church-goers.’

‘We shall have to agree to differ. Now, about the other activities that have been arranged in the past: I feel I should tell you that there have been parish picnics and line-dancing nights at which alcohol has been available.’

‘What, hard liquor?’

‘Not exactly hard, but Rev. Monaghan has provided punch for participants as part of the ticket price.’

‘So that he doesn’t need a licence?’

‘That’s right, but I don’t see that there’s any place in the church for alcohol.’

‘What about the communion wine?’ Florrie parried with a small twitch of the lips.

‘Well, that is, of course, not wine any more; it is the blood of Christ.’

‘For those that believe, but for all forensic purposes it is, in fact, an alcoholic beverage.’ Rev. Florrie wasn’t going down without a fight.

‘I think that’s a bit radical for an ordained member of the clergy.’ Neither was Miss Sutherland.

‘I’m sure we’ll sort all our differences out in perfect harmony, eventually,’ murmured Florrie, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.

‘In that case, I’ll see you at the Mothers’ Union meeting in the week.’

‘You have children?’ asked the vicar, now definitely interested.

‘Not as such, but I was made an honorary member several years ago,’ replied Elodie Sutherland, blushing slightly.

‘How very irregular! Now, does your mother come to church or would you like me to take communion to her at home?’

‘You’re starting that up again, are you?’

‘Most definitely. Age and infirmity should be no barrier to taking full part in a Christian life.’

‘I shouldn’t bother, if I were you. She says we’re all going to Hell anyway, and she stopped believing in that sort of thing years ago.’

‘Well, perhaps I could just visit her for a little company.’

‘You may do as you like. She’s a very uncooperative woman who can be extremely difficult at times.’

As she showed her visitor out, thanking her for all the information – contumely – she had imparted, Florrie decided that she would definitely go to see Mrs Sutherland at home, if only to see what living with a very catty daughter had done to her.

The removal men had just finished bringing in her possessions and had, thankfully, put everything in the room for which it was marked, and Rev. Florrie had closed the door on them and sat down to drink a mug of tea when the doorbell rang again.

With a sigh, she rose and went to answer it, pinning a smile of welcome on her face. On the step she found a slightly dumpy woman of about forty, with a determined glint in her eye. Not another one who wants to tell me how to do my job, she hoped, and held out her hand in welcome. ‘Hello. And you are?’

‘Yvonne Pooley, organist and choir mistress,’ she announced, giving Florrie’s hand an abrupt jerk downwards, and bustled her way into the vicarage. ‘I came round because I am the one who was deputised by Rev. Monaghan to keep a diary of events for you when you arrived.

‘I have it all written down here,’ she announced, handing over some sheets of paper. ‘That’s all your duties for the rest of this month, by which time you should be able to keep your own diary.’

‘Thank you very much, er, Mrs Pooley, is it?’

‘It is. My husband and I live with our two children in Wheel Cottage in the High Street, should you need any help or advice. Ask any time.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That would be very refreshing.’

‘Mug, or cup and saucer?’

‘Cup and saucer. I do think one should do one’s bit to keep up standards, don’t you?’ she asked, as Florrie looked guiltily at her own over-sized mug on the table.

‘Oh,’ fluffed Florrie, opening a cupboard door and surveying its almost empty interior. ‘For a moment I forgot that almost all my stuff is still packed. I’m afraid I only have a few mugs that the removal men separated out so that I could feed them with cups of tea. I’m so sorry. Would a mug be all right, just this once?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Pooley, with a superior sniff. ‘It’ll do, just for once.’ Her face had on it an expression that clearly showed that she would have been more efficient, and sorted out a separate box for cups and saucers to accommodate visitors when she had first taken possession of the property.

‘Right. Let’s get down to business,’ she continued imperiously. ‘I shall need you to provide me with a list of hymns for Sunday by Wednesday. Choir practice is on Fridays at seven o’clock in the church. We won’t expect you to attend. Anthems I choose myself and run them past you before they’re sung.

‘We sing at weddings for a nominal payment which I really think needs revising – only about a pound per chorister at the moment. We don’t do funerals. Sometimes there are services which involve all the churches in the team ministry and, for these, we usually have a combined choir, practices for which are held in Carsfold. Again, you need not be involved.

‘Unless you have a particular request, processional music and any other incidental stuff is usually chosen by me, but your views will be taken into account. Also, I hold a church key so that I can go in anytime to practise on the organ. I expect to retain this to maintain the standard of the playing. Do you have any questions?’

‘No,’ Rev. Florrie almost whispered. Mrs Pooley knew what she was about, and wasn’t going to be diverted from her course by anyone, especially not some upstart of a female vicar.

‘So, I’ll see you on Sunday, then, if that’s all.’

‘Thank you very much for the information, Mrs Pooley. I’ll make a note of everything you’ve told me.’

‘You’ll find it all in the notes I’ve made for you.’ Yvonne Pooley rose from her chair, her mug of tea hardly touched, and marched off to the front door, where she efficiently let herself out.

Rev. Florrie remained in her chair. That had told her, hadn’t it? She’d have to adhere to current practice, or she’d have a real war on her hands.

There were no more unscheduled visitors that day, so she buckled down to some unpacking, before slipping into bed, exhausted, at about half-past eleven, determined to visit some of her parishioners at home the next day.