Pascal Passion

by Andrea Frazer

Overview

‘A mischievously entertaining crime novel' SIMON BRETT

The fourth instalment in The Falconer Files, Andrea Frazer's insanely grippingvillage detective series topped off with a delightful slice of humour. Perfect for fans of Agatha Christie, Lillian Jackson Braun and Midsomer Murders.

READER'S CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF ANDREA'S QUIRKY CRIME NOVELS!
***** 'What can I say, I am hooked... wonderful characters, superb touches of humour, if murder & mayhem can ever be described as delightful then this book along with the rest in the series delivers' Reader Review

***** 'As expected, Andrea Frazer has done it again with this book. Great plot, many twists and turns, some sad bits but some funny bits too... Now onto the next one and I cannot wait...' Reader Review

***** 'Andrea Frazer has a great way of involving you in the book. It is never boring and keeps up the pace all the way through the book, highly recommend this series' Reader Review

***** 'Another lovely old fashioned whodunit, I really love this writer, her style is so flowy and easy to read' Reader Review
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Stacey is an unassuming little village, its greatest asset being its small but excellent Church of England Primary School. This delightfully old-fashioned establishment of only two classes, one of infants, the other of juniors, has been run by the same pair of ladies for decades.

It is in the year that the headmistress, Audrey Finch-Matthews, is to retire, that the smooth running of this long-established educational establishment is interrupted by murder.
When Detective Inspector Harry Falconer and Detective Sergeant Davey Carmichael of the Market Darley Police arrive to investigate, they discover a host of motives, both past and present, and grudges that reach right back through the years.

As the Easter weekend grinds inexorably on its way, Death stalks the village again, and it suddenly becomes imperative that the murderer is caught before there are more fatalities.
Falconer soon realises that this is not the work of an opportunistic psychopath passing through, but of someone within the small community itself, taking lives at will, and there is no indication that the slaughter will stop here...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9798223993988
Publisher:	Jdi Publications
Publication date:	06/11/2023
Series:	The Falconer Files Murder Mysteries , #4
Pages:	218
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.50(d)

About the Author

Andrea Frazer is married with four grown-up children, and lives in the Dordogne with her husband Tony and their six cats. She has wanted to write since she first began to read at the age of five, but has previously been busy raising a family and working as a lecturer in Greek (she has a Fellowship Diploma in Greek) and teaching music. Apart from writing, Andrea continues to teach music, and now also teaches French to expatriates. Her interests include playing several instruments, reading, and choral singing with two choirs.

Read an Excerpt

Good morning, Imogen. You know where the cake tin goes, don’t you, Charlotte?’

‘Good morning, Spike. Yes, I can see that Mummy’s been busy in the kitchen. Isn’t that lovely?’

‘Use your handkerchief, Milo dear, not your sleeve. Not a problem, Mr Snoddy. I can understand how difficult it is for you, living in a caravan like that. Why not hang on at the end of school and buy something delicious as a treat?’

‘Yes, Mummy will be cross if you scuff your lovely new shoes, Mercedes. Pick your feet up, dear, and walk properly. What a grown-up boy you are, Austin, carrying that big plastic box. In the foyer, Mrs Allington. The table’s just on the right.’

‘Angus MacPherson, don’t you let me hear you use that word again, or you’ll be staying in at playtime for the third time this week.’

‘Isaac Borrowdale, I want that chewing gum straight in the bin when you get inside. Do you understand? Straight away! I will not have a repeat of what happened on Monday.’

‘Don’t worry, Lorcan. I expect it’s the chilly wind. Thank you so much, Mrs LeClerc.’

She called into the school foyer, ‘Mrs Chadwick, do you think you could let Imogen see herself into the classroom? Lorcan here has had a little accident. Spare pants in the usual place. Thank you.’

As the children were delivered to the school door, many of the parents shot through the doors with tins or plastic containers, for there was to be a bake sale that day, as the school was breaking up for the Easter Holidays, and breaking up very late, for today was Maundy Thursday, the double Bank Holiday weekend almost upon them.

Thus did Audrey Finch-Matthews, long-since widowed headteacher of Shepford Stacey Church of England Primary School, welcome her charges to school, and call her thanks to the contributing mothers, on the last day of the spring term. As she cajoled and upbraided the youngest of the pupils, she patted her dark brown (dyed) curls into place and allowed herself a moment of smugness. Hers was a popular school and, although numbers were low at the moment, she had not an ounce of worry that it would close. The vicar had recently opened a waiting list, allowing children from other villages to apply to attend the school, and they should be packed to the rafters in September.

On the other side of the entrance, Harriet Findlater, fifty-seven-year-old spinster of this parish and teacher of the upper school class (seven- to eleven-year-olds), held court with the mothers delivering their offspring to school on this bright spring morning. Her mind was also on the school and its future, for Audrey Finch-Matthews would reach her sixtieth birthday this year and Harriet hoped, with a burning fervour, that she would retire and give her a chance to run the school, before she had to retire herself.

‘Come along, Sholto, and stop pulling on Mummy’s arm so. If you don’t get a move on you’ll be late, and then where would we be, eh?’ Audrey asked, seeing India Bywaters-Flemyng struggling to insert her son through the school gates.

Picking up his pace, the five-year-old stopped in front of Mrs Finch-Matthews and asked, ‘Where would we be, Miss? I expect you know, ’cos you’re a teacher,’ his face a mask of innocence.

‘Sholto! Mind your manners! I’m sorry, Mrs Finch-Matthews, but we do encourage him to be inquisitive and ask questions,’ Mrs Bywaters-Flemyng explained, a sly smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

‘Hm! Well, perhaps you ought to teach him the difference between a genuine enquiry and an enormous piece of cheek. Young as he is, I’m convinced he’s bright enough to tell the difference, even if Mummy isn’t,’ the head teacher answered, being completely un-enamoured of India’s superior ways and attitude to others. She wasn’t the only one around here with a double-barrelled name, and she was just going to have to live with the idea.

Really, the cheek of the little imp, and his mother hadn’t upbraided him with even a look of disapproval. Whatever was the world coming to? When she was Sholto’s age she would have been awarded a clip round the ear for such facetiousness, followed by another one, when her mother heard about what had happened. How times had changed since she herself had started school.

There was not usually impertinence of this kind from the pupils: it was something that had arrived with Sholto Bywaters-Flemyng and, if she had anything to do with it, would end with him too. She had always been very strict about respect for adults, and that pint-sized chancer and his arrogant mother were not going to change anything.

‘What extraordinary names the children have these days, don’t you agree, Harriet?’ she asked, as they entered the school after the last of their pupils, and closed the doors on the outside world for the last time this term.

‘Oh, I do agree, Audrey. It was all Susans, Lindas, and Jennifers in our day: and good old Steven, John, and Peter for the boys. Life was so much simpler then, like the names.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Harriet. Just look at the Allingtons. Their six-year-old (bless her cotton socks) is called Mercedes, and their two-year-old is called Austin. Have they got some sort of subconscious car fetish, or is it just me, unable to keep up with the times?’

Treating this as a rhetorical question on her own part, she continued, ‘Do you remember those pretentious parents who sent their ghastly precocious twins here a couple of years ago? And we had to take the extraordinary step of permanently excluding them, the little devils?’

‘Castor and Pollux,’ confirmed Miss Findlater.

‘I always thought of them as Bastard and Bollocks, I must admit,’ confessed Mrs Finch-Matthews in a stage whisper.

Blushing at this unusually strong language, Harriet contributed, ‘I understand they go to that private school on the other side of Market Darley, now – as boarders, I believe.’

‘I presume they have a psychiatric dorm, if they’ve taken those two,’ opined the head teacher, lifting a wry eyebrow. ‘Now, let’s see if we can locate Charlotte Chadwick to get her to put these cakes into some sort of order, and get prices on them.

‘Which reminds me: the decorators are arriving just before we close for the term, so we’d better get Charlotte to brew an urn of strong tea; they always seem to need so much of it. Well, they’ll just have to pour their own, and be grateful that we even have such a thing as a tea urn. Hmph!’ she concluded, with a rebellious expression on her face.