Death of an Old Git (The Falconer Files - File 1) Read Free Page A

due south, and forks around the lower half of the green’s diamond. To the right, an obtuse angle is formed, with Church Street leading to St Cuthbert’s parish church (Saxon tower, Norman font, and unusual sarcophagi in the churchyard), the vicarage and the village hall. The left-hand lower section of Castle Farthing houses its only pub, The Fisherman’s Flies, a petrol station and an occasional doctors’ surgery.
    A casual visitor wandering north up the High Street which, a few short steps ago, had been the Carsfold Road, might be momentarily disconcerted by the simultaneous change of road name on both sides of the green. (New postmen were driven to distraction by the proliferation of quaint house names, and the eccentric numbering system that had developed, like a separate life-form, over the years.)
    The north-western quarter of the village, now being passed through by our imaginary visitor, possesses Castle Farthing’s few shops – a general store, a farmers’ co-operative, and a tea shop. At the very top of this corner of the village, where the stream weaves lazy coils through the vale, is a trout farm. The remaining quarter houses a post office, a terrace of ramshackle thatched cottages, picturesque to look at but uncomfortable to live in, and The Old Manor House.
    To the rear of the grandly-proportioned Old Manor is the ugly scar of a new housing development, and a caravan park occupying some of the land that used to belong to the big house, since sold off for the upkeep of an elaborate, draughty and inconvenient residence, which also just happens to be the best address in the village.
    III
    Reg Morley didn’t give a fig for picturesque, so long as life was interesting, and today had been extremely interesting. Settling in a grubby armchair, he replayed its highlights in an imaginary video, from the ‘interesting’ eavesdropping in the woods earlier – interesting and, maybe, profitable, if only he could get it properly figured out in his head – to the three extremely satisfying arguments he had enjoyed since returning home.
    Buster’s whining interrupted these thoughts, and he realised that the dog had some last-minute business to conduct. On a whim, the old man decided to take him out the front, see if he could not get the dog to leave someone a little present for the morning. Then he might shut him out for a bit. The kiddies next door would be asleep by now, and a bit of hearty yapping should give that cheeky mother of theirs the run-around for a while, trying to resettle them.
    As he stood outside the post office in the gathering dusk, holding the lead of an obliging Buster, a flash of colour caught his eye. A red or brown would have gone unnoticed in the fading light, but this vivid turquoise was almost arrogant in its brightness. As Buster gave a single yap to indicate the end of his ‘business’, a penny dropped in old Reg’s brain. And as the penny dropped, a devious smile spread across his sour features. And, as he smiled, the figure turned and looked directly at him. Reg raised his free hand and waved lazily. He could afford to be magnanimous because, now he did have everything figured out, he could concentrate on how to extract the maximum profit and the maximum fun from that knowledge. He had them both bang to rights, one by the voice; the other, by the clothing.
    Reg Morley had never in his life heard the word Schadenfreude , and now he never would, which was a pity since he had revelled in it for all but the first two or three years of his miserable, bitter life.
    Giving a harsh tug on the lead that set Buster whining, he half-dragged the little dog back through the front door of his cottage. Martha Cadogan, passing on the other side of the green on her way home from supper with her niece and nephew-in-law, averted her gaze at this unnecessarily harsh treatment of a dumb animal.
    The last sliver of the setting sun slipped below the skyline, and the serene orb of a full moon glided