Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘I think you already know what you should do.’

  ‘You mean, Rick should give himself up? But he didn’t kill Angy! She was dead already!’ The words rang with the passionate, unreasoning conviction of a girl in love. ‘Ms Craig, please!’ she implored again, ‘let me come and talk to you!’

  It was, of course, Melissa’s plain duty to end the conversation without arousing the girl’s suspicions and immediately pass the telephone number to the police. Well, so she would, she assured her conscience, after hearing what Lou had to say. ‘I hardly see what I can do, but come if you want to,’ she agreed. Fifteen love to writer’s curiosity.

  ‘Oh, Ms Craig, thank you!’ Relief all but swamped the words. ‘How will I reach you?’

  ‘The trains run from Paddington. How long will it take you to get there?’ Melissa checked herself from asking the obvious question; the girl might fear betrayal if she wanted to know her exact whereabouts.

  ‘I don’t know. Half an hour perhaps.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ Melissa rummaged in a drawer and dragged out a timetable, glancing at the clock. ‘There’s a train at eleven – you should be able to catch it. Get a ticket to Stowbridge and I’ll meet you at the station.’

  ‘You’re so kind. Ms Craig, you won’t tell anyone?’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone you’re coming to see me,’ Melissa promised, ‘but if you have any important information, the police will have to know. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I want to talk to you first.’ The words struggled out through a tangle of sobs.

  ‘You be on that train,’ said Melissa. She cut short the stumbling thanks and put down the phone. So much for her intentions of doing some work. Never mind, this was more exciting. She’d have to organise something for lunch though, instead of making do with a sandwich. First, however, she’d take the walk she’d promised herself. It would help to clear her head in readiness for whatever Lou had to say.

  Leaving the cottage, Melissa climbed the stile and made her way along the footpath which led past the church to the village. In the far corner of the churchyard, a woman was tending a grave; she bent over the stone urn to arrange fresh flowers, then stood quietly with bowed head and folded hands. Soon, thought Melissa sadly, it would be the turn of Uncle Vittorio and Aunt Rosina to stand sorrowing over the grave of their niece. Such a waste of a young life.

  Outside the church, she was surprised to see Snappy, tethered to a drainpipe. He had at last accepted her as a friend and began whining and wriggling with pleasure as she approached. Stooping to pat him, she glanced into the porch. The inner door stood open and through it she caught sight of Eleanor Shergold sitting in one of the pews. Melissa felt a pang of remorse. The murder must have been a severe shock to her and she would no doubt be deeply concerned over its effect on her husband; she should have gone to see her yesterday, or at least telephoned. She tiptoed across the aisle and sat down beside the motionless figure.

  Eleanor was staring at the altar. She did not turn her head when Melissa entered and for a moment it seemed that she was unaware of her presence. Melissa touched her arm; still she did not move but as if a tap had been opened, tears spilt from her eyes and began streaming down her face. She made no attempt to wipe them away and one by one they dripped from her nose and chin on to the hands that lay folded in her lap. It was as if a statue had started to weep.

  ‘All this must be terrible for you,’ said Melissa in a hushed voice. She fished a paper tissue from her pocket and held it out. ‘Here, take this. It’s quite clean.’

  Her words seemed to break a spell. Eleanor stifled a groan, put her hands over her face and began quietly sobbing. Melissa slid an arm round her and patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘There now . . . it’s all right . . . it’s all right,’ she soothed.

  With her face still hidden, Eleanor began shaking her head violently from side to side. ‘They . . . think . . . Rodney . . . did it!’ she gasped between sobs. ‘Oh dear God, what shall I . . . what shall we do?’

  ‘Rodney? Oh, surely not!’

  ‘They’ve been questioning him. He’s quite ill with worry, and the reporters have been pestering him. A detective came to the house and took some of his clothes . . . it’s like a nightmare!’ She reduced the tissue to a pulp and Melissa, searching her pocket, managed to find another.

  ‘Listen, Eleanor,’ she said gently, ‘you have to understand how the police work. They question everybody very closely, just to make sure that they find out every tiny detail that might be useful. It doesn’t mean . . . ’

  With more violent shakes of the head, Eleanor began demolishing the second tissue.

  ‘They suspect Rodney! I know they do . . . they took his fingerprints!’

  ‘They’ve taken all our fingerprints. It’s just routine, honestly. Everyone associated with Angy has to be checked – her colleagues, her friends, the students in her art class . . . ’

  Eleanor lowered her hands and turned to stare at Melissa, an expression of bewilderment on her blotched and swollen face. ‘Her students? They think it might be one of them?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s just for comparison with prints they might find in her flat – on the murder weapon, for example. Once they’ve eliminated someone, the prints are destroyed.’

  Eleanor was clearly unconvinced. ‘It’s terrible to think of Rodney being suspected,’ she whimpered.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wrong. As a matter of fact, they’re already looking for someone else.’

  Hope blended with the fear in Eleanor’s ashen face. ‘I know they’ve been questioning Mr Willard but he was the one who found her.’

  ‘No, not Barney. Someone else, an ex-boyfriend of Angy’s.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’ The look of bewilderment returned, as if Eleanor had difficulty in grasping the significance of what Melissa was saying.

  ‘It seems she jilted him, which might be a motive.’

  ‘Of course, there has to be a motive, doesn’t there?’ Eleanor was beginning to calm down; she stopped crying, dried her eyes and patted her hair with quick, fussy movements of her small, white hands. ‘They couldn’t really think a man in Rodney’s position would have a motive for killing a little secretary, could they?’

  If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be laughable. Eleanor’s devotion to her husband amounted almost to veneration. It did not seem to occur to her that he might suffer from any of the normal masculine weaknesses.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right,’ Melissa repeated. ‘Try not to worry.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ Eleanor’s eyes still betrayed anxiety but she had regained her self-control.

  From outside came the sound of impatient whining.

  ‘I think Snappy’s getting restless,’ said Melissa. ‘Hadn’t you better see to him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Eleanor put on her gloves and stood up.

  ‘Are you going home? I’ll walk with you if you like.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Eleanor repeated mechanically and followed Melissa from the church like a submissive child.

  Rodney Shergold was cutting his front lawn when they reached Cotswold View. He glanced up as they approached and gave Melissa a distant nod without interrupting his progress up and down the small patch of grass. As the two women were saying their goodbyes he came to the end of his task, switched off the motor-mower and headed with it towards the narrow gate at the side of the house.

  ‘I’ll leave you to do the edges, Nell,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’ll have coffee when I’ve finished the back.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Eleanor. With a brief, tremulous smile at Melissa, she trailed meekly behind him.

  As Melissa passed Tanners Cottage on her way home, Dudley Ford was pretending to trim his already immaculate front hedge while shooting glances up the lane from beneath the brim of his panama. No doubt he had observed her talking to the Shergolds and was itching for the chance to find out what she knew. She would have hur
ried on after an exchange of greetings and comments on the splendour of the morning but he moved forward to take a snip at a dandelion growing on the grass verge and contrived to block her path.

  ‘Dreadful business, this murder!’ he observed as he straightened up, red in the face and breathing heavily. He leaned towards Melissa with an air of great confidentiality. ‘A CID johnny called on us, asking if we could say what time a certain person came home last Tuesday. We were able to help him . . . we can see their house from our bedroom and we just happened to be looking out of the window at the time, don’t you know.’ His fierce little eyes swivelled towards Cotswold View. ‘We’ve been wondering,’ he lowered his voice and gave a sly grin, ‘whether there was any hanky-panky going on?’

  ‘It was probably just part of their routine enquiries,’ said Melissa briskly. ‘They check up on everyone’s movements for elimination purposes.’

  He was not to be put off. ‘Never can tell with these quiet, donnish chappies . . . and having a homely little body like that for a wife . . . I understand the poor young lady was quite a beauty?’

  ‘She was a very lovely girl and it’s been a great shock to us all,’ agreed Melissa. ‘Excuse me, Dudley, I have to meet someone at the station.’

  ‘Of course. I mustn’t detain you!’ He raised his panama, all correctness and courtesy. As Melissa turned to go, she saw Harriet Yorke approaching. Anxious not to be further delayed, she merely nodded and waved but before she was out of earshot she heard Ford’s voice boom out a greeting. The Yorkes lived next door to the Shergolds and might have gleaned some scraps of information that he could wheedle out of Harriet. What a busybody the man was!

  Thirteen

  Lou had allowed her coal-black hair to grow into a softer, more feminine style that flattered her small features. She was wearing little or no make-up, so that for a moment Melissa did not recognise her. It was her air of nervous tension that set her apart from the other passengers as she jumped from the train at Stowbridge, searching the platform with a fraught expression that only partially lifted when she caught sight of Melissa.

  ‘Oh, Ms Craig!’ she exclaimed, rushing forward with outstretched hands as if afraid Melissa would vanish if she did not lay hold of her. From the way her mouth twitched, it was plain she was on the verge of breaking down. Melissa took her by the arm and piloted her through the booking hall. When Lou got in the car, the bulky jacket that she wore over her washed denim skirt got in the way of her seat belt and her movements as she struggled to fasten the buckle were jerky and nervous. Melissa had barely turned the key in the ignition when she began to speak in a brittle, staccato voice.

  ‘Ms Craig, I don’t know what to do! I’ve told Rick to go to the police but he won’t and I’m so afraid . . . ’

  ‘I can’t concentrate on what you say while I’m driving,’ said Melissa gently. ‘It’s only a short distance.’ Lou bit her lip but took the hint and settled quietly into her seat. ‘And by the way, suppose you start calling me Melissa? I’m not terribly keen on Mizz.’

  The minute they were indoors, Lou burst out, ‘I suppose, because you saw Rick stab Angy’s portrait, you think he killed her!’

  ‘Why don’t you just sit down and tell me the whole story from the beginning.’ Melissa led the trembling girl to the sitting-room and sat beside her on the window-seat. ‘What about a drink, or some coffee? Have you had anything to eat today?’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’ There was desperation in Lou’s eyes and she clutched at Melissa’s arm while words poured from her mouth like water from an overflowing vessel. ‘He was there but he didn’t do it! I know he stabbed the portrait but he’d got over all that and he never killed her . . . he did it out of sheer unhappiness and frustration . . . but that was months ago . . . you must believe me!’

  ‘Look, I can’t make any sense of all this, so try and calm down,’ said Melissa.

  Lou withdrew her hand, leaned her head against the wall and stared out of the window as if trying to pull her thoughts together. She had abandoned the huge earrings for dainty gold studs and wore a fine gold chain round her neck. For a split second she seemed to metamorphose into Angy . . . Angy with dead eyes wide open and blood gushing from the terrible wound in her throat. Horror crept into the room and settled beside them like a crouching beast.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ Lou mumbled.

  ‘Just tell it the way it happened and try not to get sidetracked,’ said Melissa, thinking that this could take a long time. Workwise, the day was already a write-off and in any case she was eager to know what the girl had to say. It might help to clear Barney. The police would have to know about this visit, of course; her conscience persistently reminded her that she should have informed Harris already but she silenced it by telling herself that a few hours would make no difference. It wasn’t as if Rick was a dangerous psychopath who might kill again, she reasoned, and Lou had as good as agreed that after their talk she would tell them what she knew.

  ‘After the bust-up I didn’t see Rick for several weeks,’ Lou began. ‘Then I ran into him again. He’d left home. His parents were furious over the engagement business. They felt they’d been made fools of . . . and the ring is some sort of family heirloom and his father went on as if it was all Rick’s fault that Angy had made off with it.’ Lou began fulminating at the injustice of it all.

  ‘Never mind whose fault it was. Just stick to the facts,’ said Melissa, trying not to sound impatient.

  ‘All right, I’ll try.’

  The story, told with mounting bitterness, was a classic example of a well-intentioned action leading to tragedy. Rick had gone to Cheltenham to help some friends to set up an art exhibition and Lou had gone with him. She had found out from Angy’s relatives that she was living in the area and had secretly taken the opportunity of getting in touch with her. Her main motive was simple: to retrieve the ring and thereby enable Rick to make peace with his family. As Lou’s story progressed, however, it emerged that she had been living with Rick for several months and had high hopes of becoming engaged to him herself.

  Angy had professed to be delighted to hear from her, had invited her to her flat but refused point-blank to hand over the ring. Instead, having been assured that Rick no longer had any violent feelings towards her, she earnestly pleaded that she had long been awaiting an opportunity to return it in person and apologise for causing so much distress. With every evidence of cordiality and goodwill, she invited them both round for supper the following evening.

  By the time she reached this point in her narrative, Lou’s eyes had hardened, her nostrils were flaring and her small-boned hands were gripping her knees like talons. She reminded Melissa of an angry young hawk.

  ‘She sat there wearing her cat-at-the-cream expression and saying how lovely it would be for all three of us to be together again!’ Lou spat out the words as if they had turned rancid in her mouth.

  ‘Did you think she was trying to get him back?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘I didn’t know what to think. Angy always played up to a man . . . any man. She just couldn’t help it. Even though she once told me she didn’t really care much for men, she said it was fun to see the way they reacted to her. I could imagine her in her sexiest dress and her most alluring perfume, cooking pasta the way Rick liked it. I was afraid . . . ’

  ‘That he’d realise he was still in love with her?’ suggested Melissa gently.

  Lou nodded miserably. ‘I made excuses, said I thought he’d be too busy and so on, so she said, “Well, just pop round for a drink then.” She was quite determined to get Rick there and there was no way she was going to give the ring to me. I even thought of trying to grab it from her but she put it away in the drawer where she kept it and stood in front of it. I wasn’t going to fight her for it but I was so angry I could have killed her.’ Lou’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, what am I saying? I didn’t mean that, honestly!’

  ‘All right, I believe you!’ Melissa patted her hand. Tel
l me what you did then.’

  ‘I went back to the house. We were all staying with some friends of Steve’s – that’s the man who’s organising the exhibition; Rick shares a studio with him in London. They hadn’t come in yet so I started getting some food ready and tried to make up my mind what to tell Rick. Already I was wishing I’d never been to see Angy, even though I knew how much being estranged from his family had hurt him and it would mean a lot to him to get the ring back.’ Lou put her hands over her eyes. ‘Oh, if only I’d let well alone!’

  ‘Now, let me get this straight,’ said Melissa. ‘You went to see Angy on Monday afternoon and told Rick that evening about the invitation for Tuesday, right?’ Lou nodded. ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He was very surprised, but over the moon about the ring.’

  ‘Did he agree to accept Angy’s invitation?’

  ‘Yes, but he said he’d go on his own. I had to stay behind to cook supper for the others.’ Lou’s heightened colour betrayed her embarrassment, as if she could read Melissa’s unspoken disapproval at this example of male chauvinism.

  ‘How did he get there?’

  ‘Steve lent him his car.’

  ‘And what time did he arrive?’

  ‘He thinks it was a few minutes after six.’

  ‘Where were you when he left?’

  ‘At the house – he dropped me off on the way. Steve and the others were still working and I began getting the meal ready. Oh, if only he’d let me go with him!’ Without warning, Lou began beating her forehead and moaning; plainly she was on the verge of hysteria.

  Melissa grabbed her wrists. ‘Now stop that, you’re not rehearsing Ophelia! What time did Rick get back?’

  ‘A little before seven.’ Lou’s voice, her hands, her whole body shook uncontrollably. ‘He walked in looking dreadful, like a ghost. He collapsed into a chair and began to cry . . . it was ages before he could say anything. There was blood on his hands and I thought he’d had an accident. I found some brandy and it steadied him a bit . . . and then he told me he’d been to Angy’s flat and found her dead.’