Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘A few minutes after three-thirty. I took my register into the office and gave it to her.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Yes. It was part of her job to keep a record of the students’ attendance.’

  ‘Did you simply hand over the register and leave, or did you stop for a chat?’

  ‘You mean on this occasion, or generally?’

  Detective Sergeant Waters sat back in his chair. ‘Let’s say both. Were you on good terms with Miss Caroli?’

  ‘Of course, everyone was. She was a very friendly girl.’ Perhaps a little too friendly for her own good, Melissa thought. ‘Complaisant’ was a word that had occurred to her when she first learned of the murder. Hating to upset anyone. Always willing to do whatever was asked of her. Perhaps there had been times when she had been over-willing? Was this why Barney had watched over her so jealously? Aware of the detective’s scrutiny, Melissa dismissed this line of thought as pure speculation.

  ‘So you would sometimes stop for a chat with her when returning your register?’ Waters pursued.

  ‘Sometimes. When Doctor Shergold wasn’t there.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, things in general. Her students, my students. I presume you already know she’d been taking one of the art classes as well as her secretarial work?’

  ‘We do.’ Of course they knew and very soon they’d be interviewing all Angy’s students. Almost certainly, someone would mention the incident between Barney and young Godfrey Mellish. She pictured Barney at the police station, shocked and dazed by his awful discovery, longing to be left alone with his misery yet being asked endless, probing questions. In no time at all his feelings towards Angy would come out.

  Meanwhile, Waters pressed on with his own line of questioning. ‘Did she ever tell you about her background or her family?’

  ‘As it happened, I knew a little already.’ Briefly, Melissa told what she knew of Angy’s affair with Rick Lawrence, alias Ricardo Lorenzo, and its melodramatic conclusion. The policeman’s face remained impassive but she sensed his mounting interest as he put more questions and made notes.

  ‘Now, Mrs Craig, back to last Thursday. Was Doctor Shergold present then?’

  Melissa thought for a moment. He had been there, she remembered, and when she entered he had been looking across at Angy and she had been looking at him. They had obviously been discussing something that continued to hold their attention for a brief moment after Melissa’s appearance and from the strained, almost pleading look on Shergold’s face, that something might have been personal. He had dragged his eyes away and begun fiddling with the drawers in his desk while Angy – cool, relaxed, smiling her pussy-cat smile – held out her hand for the register as if she had not a care in the world.

  ‘Last Thursday, Mrs Craig?’ Detective Sergeant Waters broke into Melissa’s recollection.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking. Yes, I remember now, he was there.’

  ‘So presumably you didn’t stop for a chat with Miss Caroli?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just handed over your register and left?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Without saying anything at all?’

  ‘I expect we exchanged a few words. She might have said, “Was it a good class?” and I’d have said “Yes, fine, see you next week.” Something like that.’

  ‘What about Doctor Shergold? Did he speak to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. He isn’t given to small talk.’

  ‘Did he speak to Miss Caroli while you were in the room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But this wasn’t unusual?’

  ‘Not in the least.’ For a moment, she thought that Waters was about to ask point-blank if she knew of any relationship between her head of department and his secretary, and was relieved when he did not. She wanted more time to think before deciding whether to voice her suspicions.

  ‘You say she was a very friendly girl,’ Waters continued, with a subtle emphasis of the adjective. ‘Did she have any particular friends at the college?’

  ‘Not that I know of but I’m only here once a week for a couple of hours. I don’t know a great deal about relationships among the staff.’

  ‘But presumably you chat to people over coffee, or in the staff room?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  ‘So did you ever hear anything to suggest that there was anyone in particular . . . ?’

  Melissa side-stepped the question that Waters had pointedly left unfinished. ‘She was an extremely attractive girl with a delightful personality and a charming manner. I’m sure plenty of people enjoyed her company.’

  ‘What about Mr Willard?’ Melissa almost jumped at the sudden switch in the line of questioning. She sensed that Waters knew she had been evasive. ‘Mr Willard,’ he repeated. ‘I understand he was particularly attached to Miss Caroli?’

  ‘He was very protective towards her.’

  ‘Protective.’ Waters repeated the word reflectively, as if he were considering a clue in a crossword puzzle. ‘Protective against anything – or anyone – in particular, would you say?’

  Melissa shifted her grip on the folder of papers she had brought for her class while Waters’ eyes delved into hers.

  ‘Mr Willard has rather old-fashioned – you could say chivalrous – ideas about men’s attitudes towards women,’ she replied. ‘Some of the male members of the staff are apt to make comments that he considers disrespectful. He gets very annoyed at times.’

  ‘Especially when such comments refer to Miss Caroli?’

  ‘She is . . . was . . . quite young, living alone and a long way from her family. I think he saw her as particularly vulnerable.’

  ‘How about you?’

  Melissa smiled faintly. ‘Me? I don’t think he’s particularly concerned about my welfare.’

  ‘I mean,’ explained Waters patiently, ‘did you consider Miss Caroli in need of Mr Willard’s . . . protection?’

  Melissa thought for a moment before saying, ‘Some people might have thought her naive but she didn’t strike me that way. I’d say she had a cool head on her shoulders but I can understand how a man, especially an older man, might feel concern for her.’

  ‘Well, thank you Mrs Craig, you’ve been very helpful. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to allow the officer over there’ – he nodded towards the constable, who peeled the backing from a sheet of black-inked paper and laid it on his desk with a sheet of white paper beside it – ‘to take your fingerprints? Purely for elimination purposes, you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’ She knew the drill, had referred to it in more than one novel, but this was her first experience of it. While the constable guided her fingers she asked casually, ‘Detective Sergeant Waters, would you mind telling me who is in charge of this case?’

  Waters looked faintly surprised, but answered without hesitation. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Harris is leading the enquiry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  In the hall, the constable was still waiting patiently by the front door. In response to a sign from the detective, he popped his head into the office and spoke to someone inside.

  Doug Wilson emerged. He walked without his usual jaunty swagger and looked distinctly uneasy. When he saw Melissa he hurried across and murmured: ‘Take my students into your class until I’m through, will you? They might bugger off if I don’t show up and that’ll upset Rodders. Give ’em something to write. They’re an easy bunch, their English is quite good . . . ’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Already it was almost half-past two. Melissa hurried upstairs.

  Eight

  The members of the writers’ workshop were horrified by the news of the murder. Sybil Bliss, the only one besides Melissa who had actually known Angy, was in tears. The members of Doug’s English class, all young and excitable, discussed the affair among themselv
es in a babble of different languages. Unable to interest them in any other topic, Melissa finally managed to impose some sort of structure on the group by leading a discussion on capital punishment until Doug came to take charge of his students and enable things to return to something like normal for the remainder of the session.

  When the classes dispersed there was still no sign of Barney. Apart from Doug and Melissa, the staff room was deserted. The same thought was in both their minds.

  ‘You don’t suppose they’ve arrested him, do you?’ she asked.

  Doug stared at her. ‘Don’t tell me you think he’s the killer! Not our saintly old Uncle Barnaby?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, smothering the uneasy doubt stirring at the back of her mind. ‘He adored Angy. He wouldn’t hurt a hair of her head. Where can he have got to?’

  ‘He’s probably gone straight home,’ said Doug, ramming books into an already over-full briefcase. His jaw was set, his movements hurried and nervous.

  ‘He’ll be in a fearful state,’ said Melissa. ‘He lives alone, doesn’t he? Someone should be with him.’

  ‘He’d probably rather be on his own.’

  ‘He must feel dreadful after finding her like that. Do you know any more details?’

  ‘Not many. It seems he went round to her flat this morning and found her there. He rang the police and then he rang Rodney, who’s been gibbering ever since.’

  ‘What was he doing at Angy’s flat?’

  ‘Trying to find out why she hadn’t been in college since Tuesday, I suppose. By the way, wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when the fuzz were questioning our beloved head of department?’ Doug assumed a passable imitation of Detective Sergeant Waters’s voice. ‘“And what was your relationship with the deceased, Doctor Shergold? Purely professional, you say? Are you sure there wasn’t more to it than that? What would you say if I told you that at least one witness . . .”’

  ‘Witness? What witness?’ Melissa cut in. ‘Just what have you been telling the police?’

  ‘Only what I’ve seen for myself – burning looks, lustful glances. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed them!’

  ‘I’ve seen you give a few lustful glances in Angy’s direction but that doesn’t mean you got anywhere,’ retorted Melissa, still reluctant to agree with Doug but unable to contradict him outright.

  ‘Ah, but who’s to say Rodders didn’t?’ countered Doug. A sly, lascivious grin spread over his fleshy features and she felt a wave of disgust. There was something about the man’s preoccupation with sex that suggested graffiti on lavatory walls; in the present circumstances it seemed especially repugnant. The gleam in his eye was an open invitation to share and savour his prurient thoughts.

  Abruptly, she changed the subject. ‘Do you know if Angy rang to say why she wouldn’t be in yesterday morning?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s hardly possible.’ Doug put his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet. His face became grim, his brow knotted under the tangled thatch of hair. ‘It seems she was killed some time on Tuesday afternoon or evening.’

  ‘You mean she’s been lying there dead since . . . oh, how awful!’ A queasy spasm in her stomach sent Melissa’s hand flying to her mouth. Doug hastily pushed open the window.

  ‘Let’s have some fresh air. We can’t have you keeling over.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be all right in a moment.’ She began drawing deep breaths and expelling them noisily through her mouth, thankful for the instruction in yoga that Iris insisted on giving her from time to time.

  ‘Okay now?’ said Doug when she had pulled herself together.

  ‘Yes thanks. How come the police told you all this?’

  ‘They didn’t, not in so many words, but that chap Waters kept banging on about my movements after leaving here on Tuesday so I put two and two together.’ He began prowling round the room, fiddling with filing trays and adjusting books on the shelves. ‘I’ve got an alibi of sorts. I went for a jog and then to the sports centre for a shower and into the bar for a drink. Lots of people saw me but of course there were gaps and it seems I’d have had plenty of time to sneak into Angy’s place, do the deed and reappear.’

  ‘Where is Angy’s place?’

  ‘She’s got a studio flat in Tranmere Gardens.’

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No, I bloody well haven’t!’ Doug snapped. ‘You’re as bad as Waters . . . that was his angle. “Where do you go jogging, Mr Wilson? In the park? How do you reach the park? Along Millers Road? That intersects with Tranmere Gardens, doesn’t it? Are you sure you didn’t turn down there to number twenty-two now and again? On Tuesday afternoons, perhaps?”’ His breathing had grown heavy and his face red; he stabbed the air with his fists in an explosion of rage and resentment.

  ‘Barney’s the one I feel sorry for at the moment. He doted on that girl,’ said Melissa, hoping a change of subject would calm him down. The effect, as it happened, was disastrous.

  ‘Yes, his little virgin lily!’ sneered Doug. ‘Well, my guess is that he’ll soon learn how far out his judgment was . . . if he hadn’t rumbled her already.’

  A hand grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him round and sent him reeling under a blow to the face. Barney had entered unnoticed and had evidently overheard the end of the conversation. Melissa was appalled at his appearance. Untidy tufts of hair straggled round a face that seemed to have caved in around the skull and his eyes were glaring.

  ‘You grubby-minded young oaf!’ he panted, his voice unsteady and barely recognisable. ‘How dare you speak of her like that!’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Doug, massaging his jaw. All the bluster had left him and he silently gathered up the rest of his books and shuffled out, avoiding eye-contact.

  Barney lurched across the room, slumped into his chair with his arms sprawled on the table and bowed his head. For a moment there was silence; then, softly at first but swelling like an incoming tide whipped to a frenzy by the wind, grief and shock poured out of him in wave after wave of dry, juddering sobs.

  Melissa stood helplessly by, waiting for the worst of the storm to pass. Presently he grew quieter; like an exhausted swimmer seeking a handhold he made helpless, groping movements among the papers on his desk. Melissa reached out and took one of his hands in hers. Ice-cold fingers closed like a trap and she gasped with the unexpected pain. Immediately, he relaxed his grip and raised his head, mumbling an apology.

  Melissa put her free hand on his shoulder, unable to think of anything to say but: ‘Poor Barney! Oh, poor Barney!’

  ‘Dear God!’ he whispered, staring at the wall as if the dreadful sight was there in front of him. ‘The blood . . . there was so much blood! And her eyes . . . they were open!’ His fingers, still grasping Melissa’s, gave an involuntary jerk as he relived the sheer horror of the memory. ‘They looked bewildered, as if she was saying “Why? Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?”’ Tears spilled down his cheeks. ‘She was so lovely . . . Angy, my little girl!’

  Melissa, standing motionless at his side, felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. One question hammered at her mind but to voice it was unthinkable. To break the tension, she glanced at her watch and said: ‘Have you been at the police station all this time?’

  He shook his head. ‘They let me go some while ago. I didn’t notice the time. I went and sat in the park for a bit and then I wandered around and came back here.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘They gave me cups of tea . . . they offered me a sandwich but I couldn’t face food.’ His face was the colour of parchment, the flesh taut, the lips bloodless. He rose suddenly to his feet and gripped Melissa by the shoulders. Despair contorted his face and his eyes were wild. ‘What am I going to do?’ he pleaded in a thin, high-pitched wail. ‘Oh God, tell me what I should do!’

  ‘You’re in shock. You should really see a doctor,’ said Melissa uneasily. It was nearly five o’clock; all the students had long si
nce left and the building had become silent.

  ‘Doctor?’ Barney threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. ‘What can a doctor do? He couldn’t help her, could he? He couldn’t pour back the blood and sew up the gash in her throat and bring her back to life!’

  ‘In her throat! She was stabbed in the throat?’ Melissa’s mouth became dry.

  Barney passed a hand in front of his face, as if trying to erase an image too terrible to contemplate. ‘They think I did it.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why should they think that?’ Melissa tried to inject some surprise into the question despite having the same thought, the same lurking fear. Common sense warned her to make some excuse and get away, yet the notion of leaving Barney alone with his distress seemed too callous to contemplate.

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ he said bitterly. ‘Someone did, so why not me? Everyone knew how I felt towards her. I had to admit that we’d had an argument, that I lost my temper and hit her.’ He stared down at his shaking hands with a bewildered expression as if unable to believe them capable of such a deed.

  Melissa was dumbfounded. ‘You hit her?’ she echoed. ‘But why?’

  ‘I struck her in the face. My little Angy, how could I have done it to you!’ Another wave of grief broke over him; he covered his face and rocked to and fro in anguish.

  ‘Would it help to talk about it?’ she asked when he was calmer. It was a stupid, trite-sounding question, like a line from a TV soap, but for the moment it was all she could think of.

  He leaned back in his chair and began speaking in a weary monotone. ‘On Sunday evening I called round at her flat. I was concerned about her. She hadn’t seemed herself lately and I had the impression she was keeping something from me.’

  ‘You saw her often?’

  ‘She needed someone to keep an eye on her. She was so trusting, you see, and so sweet-natured. I was afraid that sooner or later, someone would take advantage of her.’ The old-fashioned euphemism sounded perfectly natural, coming from Barney. ‘It seems as if I was right,’ he added, still in the same toneless voice.