Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  She hurried indoors and went to the telephone. Trembling slightly, she dialled Barney’s number. He answered immediately, as if he had been standing by the instrument.

  ‘Barney, it’s Melissa.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression . . . ’

  ‘Was it the wrong impression?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Barney, please listen. I’m not sure whether I believe Rick Lawrence killed Angy or not but I am sure that you didn’t, truly I am.’ A gush of tears took her by surprise, swamping the last few words.

  ‘You mean that?’ Instead of being wooden, his tone had become hostile. Melissa pressed blindly on.

  ‘Of course I do. I was only trying to warn you that things aren’t always cut and dried. We don’t know everything.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, there could be more than one person who hated Angy enough to do that to her. You’re making her sound like some kind of monster.’

  And you’re making a hash of this, Melissa. It’s hard enough for him to accept Angy’s shabby treatment of Rick, her lies about the ring and her deceit in letting him think she was carrying another man’s child. Now you’re suggesting that’s only the tip of an iceberg.

  ‘Is that what you’re saying?’ he persisted.

  ‘Barney, it’s a wretched, miserable business and I can only guess what it’s doing to you. I haven’t got any answers. All I can say is that whatever happens, I do believe in you.’

  ‘Thank you, Melissa,’ he said quietly and this time she knew she had reached him. ‘That helps a lot.’ There was a pause before he added, ‘I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Yes, please do. Goodnight, Barney.’

  She put down the receiver and was on her way upstairs when the telephone rang. It was Lou – frantic, almost incoherent, reporting that Rick had vanished along with his passport, that the police had been to see her and had asked hundreds of questions. She was sorry . . . terribly sorry . . . but she’d had to tell about her visit to Melissa . . . she hoped it wouldn’t mean trouble for her. The end of the message disintegrated into sobs which no amount of soothing words could stem.

  Thank goodness for Iris, thought Melissa as she plodded wearily up to bed, for insisting that she cover herself by reporting Lou’s visit. Presumably they’d now be watching the docks and airports. Ten to one, they’d have Rick Lawrence by the morning.

  The next day was Sunday. There was nothing on the seven o’clock news; she listened again at eight and nine but still there was no mention of the hunt for Rick Lawrence. It was a relief when Iris called for her to go to church. All the regular attenders were there: the Yorkes, glossy as newly-painted furniture; the Fords, sending darting glances round the congregation to see if anyone was missing; the Shergolds, sitting in their usual place near the door in the pew where Melissa had come upon Eleanor the previous day, Rodney with his normal air of self-importance that might or might not be hiding an inner anxiety, his wife pale and twitchy as she pulled off her gloves to turn the pages of her hymnbook.

  The one o’clock news included a brief statement that a man had been detained early that morning while attempting to board a cross-Channel ferry at Dover and was helping police with their enquiries into the murder of Angelica Caroli, found stabbed in her Gloucestershire home the previous Thursday.

  On Monday evening it was reported that the man detained the day before had been released without charge. Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris, in a radio interview, announced that another line of enquiry was being pursued. He appealed to any member of the public who had been in the neighbourhood of the deceased’s home at the critical time to come forward.

  A joyful Lou called Melissa to thank her for her kindness and to say that Rick was now reconciled with his parents. No, he hadn’t actually said anything about getting engaged yet. The poor darling had been through a lot and couldn’t be expected to . . . well, she was sure Melissa would understand how he must be feeling.

  Melissa murmured some banal phrases of encouragement and put down the telephone with a feeling of desolation. For Lou, the future held almost certain disillusion; for Barney, the shadow of suspicion; for those who had loved Angy, the anguish of uncertainty. And meanwhile, a ruthless killer still lurked in the darkness.

  Fifteen

  Melissa rang Barney’s number but there was no reply. He should be home by now; there was no evening class on Monday. She tried again an hour later with the same result. After some hesitation she called Ken Harris’s home and was told by his wife that he had not yet returned. Her imagination went wild; she pictured Barney seated in a hard chair in a dingy police interview room while the detective probed and bullied and cajoled, plucking away at the outer layers of his mind, stripping it down to its sensitive core, implacable in his search for signs of weakness or guilt. He would use whatever insight into Angy’s true nature that he had gleaned from Rick and Lou to undermine the pure, unsullied image that Barney was dedicated to preserving. She spent the evening trying to work, with limited success.

  At ten o’clock, Harris rang back. ‘Sorry I was out when you called,’ he said affably. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to contact Barney Willard.’ That was foolish, she thought, laying yourself wide open.

  She detected some irony in Harris’s voice as he replied, ‘We haven’t arrested him, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ There were sounds of swallowing and the rattle of a cup in a saucer. ‘I did pop round for a chat with him earlier this evening and I thought he seemed a bit jumpy. Perhaps he’s gone to the pub to steady his nerves.’

  ‘So he’s still under suspicion?’ Melissa’s heart descended into her stomach and lay there, throbbing like a muffled drum at a funeral.

  ‘He’s one of several people who may be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Oh please, Ken, spare me the jargon. Why did you let Rick Lawrence go? He had a long-standing grudge against Angy . . . surely he’s the obvious . . . ’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Harris said blandly, ‘things are almost too obvious.’

  Immediately, she grasped his implication and was outraged. ‘Are you suggesting that Barney made up his mind to kill Angy and cold-bloodedly chose a method that would throw suspicion on someone else? He wouldn’t do a thing like that! It’s monstrous!’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. We’re simply proceeding with our investigations.’

  ‘Oh please, Ken, what have you got on Barney?’

  ‘You know very well that I can’t give you that sort of information,’ said Harris, his gravelly voice unusually gentle. ‘But here’s something I’d like you to think about. Of all the ways to commit a murder, isn’t it a strange coincidence that Angy was stabbed in the throat, just like she was in the portrait?’

  ‘Not if the same man carried out both attacks.’

  ‘You heard the reports. We’ve eliminated Lawrence from our enquiries.’

  Melissa felt as if she was falling through layer after layer of despair. ‘I won’t believe Barney killed Angy!’ she declared.

  ‘Now look here, Melissa!’ A note of impatience, anger almost, had entered Harris’s voice. ‘I want you to promise me you won’t see Willard alone again until this case is cleared up. Do you hear me?’ he went on as she remained silent.

  ‘If you’re so sure he killed Angy, why don’t you arrest him?’ She hadn’t meant to shout, and the rage and frustration in her own voice shocked her.

  ‘At the moment, there’s insufficient evidence to arrest anyone,’ said Harris quietly, ‘and if I thought you were keen on any of the other men in this case, I’d be saying the same thing about them.’

  Damn you, Kenneth Harris, thought Melissa, for making me doubt Barney all over again. Aloud, she said miserably, ‘All right, I promise.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Thanks, Ken. Goodnig
ht.’

  She put down the receiver and stood for a moment with her hand resting on it, her head bowed and her thoughts in turmoil. Then, feeling utterly defeated, she went mechanically through the routine of locking up the cottage for the night and plodded upstairs. In the bathroom, her woebegone face stared at her from the mirror. She scowled in disgust at the sight of her drooping mouth and reddened eyes.

  ‘You look a fright!’ she said aloud. ‘You’ve been making a fool of yourself, dripping around like some lovesick teenager. Ken’s right. Iris was right. You’re old enough to have known better.’

  She cleaned off her smudged make-up, filled the bath and had a long soak. Tomorrow she really must settle down to serious work on her novel; time was slipping past, her deadline was approaching and if she didn’t get on with it she’d have Joe making agitated phone calls and coming down to visit. She didn’t want to see Joe or anyone else; she wanted to close her mind to the outside world and crawl back into the safe, controllable environment of her imagination. As she lay down in bed and put out her light, she forced herself to recall the latest chapter, completed a few days before, and fell asleep mulling over the next.

  When she awoke next morning it was raining. That should please the farmers – and Iris; for a couple of weeks or more it had been dry and unusually mild and the land was thirsty. She stood at the open kitchen window with her early cup of tea clasped in both hands, listening to the swish of the falling water and watching it gather in tiny globules on the tips of the leaves of the apple tree like crystal drops on a chandelier before sliding with a slow, regular inevitability on to the grass. The air was cool and pure; she felt an urge to be out in the rain, to smell and taste it, let its cleansing freshness wash over her. She dressed quickly, put on rubber boots and a waterproof, and set off along the footpath leading to Benbury Woods.

  Half a mile or so along the valley bottom, the path converged with another which led down the hill from the village. Someone was approaching, clad like Melissa herself in waterproof and wellingtons. A small brown dog scurried out of the undergrowth, pulled up at the sight of another human, then rushed towards her. It was Snappy, a squirming bundle of wet fur and muddy paws, greeting her with excited yaps while his mistress uttered a torrent of ineffectual commands and reproaches.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m only wearing old clothes,’ said Melissa reassuringly as the dog hurled itself at her legs. ‘You’re out early, Eleanor. I thought I was the only one mad enough to go walking in this weather.’

  Eleanor smiled and pushed a sodden lock of hair under her hood, which was pulled close to her face by a drawstring. ‘Yes, dreadful isn’t it,’ she agreed. ‘Still, the farmers need it, Rodney says, and the garden . . . ’

  Compared with the near-despair that she had shown during their recent encounter in the church, her manner was almost jaunty. Perhaps she’d heard on the college grapevine that Barney had been getting an undue amount of visits from the police and was rejoicing that the heat was off her beloved Rodney. Well, that was natural; only a short time ago, when Rick Lawrence was the quarry, Melissa had felt exactly the same.

  ‘I take it you and Rodney are feeling better?’ she commented as they strolled side by side.

  Eleanor’s eyes sparkled. They were pure jade, like a shallow sea on a clear day, the eyes of a water-nymph set in a pale, pudgy face above a dumpy body encased in rubberised nylon.

  ‘Oh yes, much better, thank you. Things are still very difficult for Rodney, of course.’ Eleanor seemed anxious not to lose sympathy. ‘It’s not nice, is it, having one of your staff suspected of murder. And then, not having a secretary, you know, he even has to do his own typing! It’s too bad, really. He tries to do a couple of hours’ work on his book before going to the college. I get up to cook his breakfast and there’s no point in going back to bed . . . ’ She ended on a slightly peevish note.

  Melissa did not reply. Her sympathy had evaporated; she felt sickened by the self-centred attitude of the Shergolds. A girl had been murdered and their sole concern seemed to be its effect on their own convenience.

  ‘Of course, everyone kept saying how beautiful she was but she couldn’t really have been a very nice girl,’ Eleanor went on, her small mouth a prissy rosette of distaste. ‘All those men coming to her flat . . . ’

  ‘All those men?’

  ‘Well, there was that young man they arrested and then let go, and Mr Willard, of course, and who knows how many others? Girls like that simply ask for trouble, don’t you agree? Rodney says . . . ’ She broke off to pick her way round a patch of mud. ‘I do so hate getting my feet dirty, even when I’m wearing wellies, khikhikhi!’

  ‘Has Rodney solved the murder yet?’ asked Melissa, making little effort to keep the sarcasm from her voice. It was, however, completely lost on Eleanor.

  ‘Oh, he’s sure it was Mr Willard who killed Angy, and I agree with him.’ Of course you do, you haven’t got an independent thought in your head, reflected Melissa crossly as Eleanor prattled on. ‘Such a strange-looking man, I’ve always thought . . . khikhikhi . . . my father always told me not to trust men with beards. Silly isn’t it?’

  ‘Very silly.’ With an effort, Melissa twisted her mouth into something she hoped was a smile. ‘I think I’ll have to be going back now. Hearing about Rodney’s book has reminded me that I’ve got to get down to work on mine.’

  ‘How is it coming on? Have there been any more murders lately?’ Eleanor turned her head to peer at Melissa, her doughy face alight with a morbid curiosity. ‘I expect you’re finding this real-life mystery quite useful for a plot, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ Melissa was shocked at the lack of sensitivity and promptly made up her mind to use Eleanor as the model for a future victim. In her present mood, it would relieve her feelings to devise a sticky end for her. ‘So long for now, Eleanor.’ She turned and headed for home. Snappy bounded after her for a few yards, then scampered away to follow his mistress.

  Melissa glanced back for a moment and watched her plodding stolidly on her way. In her shapeless garments, she had the silhouette of a Russian ‘Babushka’ doll, the type that held a number of smaller dolls within its hollow wooden shell. Irritation melted into pity. However many prettily-painted Eleanors might lurk inside that dumpy frame, the combined influence of an overbearing father and a domineering husband would ensure that they remained securely locked away.

  Back indoors, she brewed coffee and ate a hasty breakfast before settling down to work. She unplugged the telephone and disconnected the doorbell, resolutely shutting herself off from the world as she manipulated her characters like pieces in a board game, reading their thoughts, putting speech into their mouths, controlling their destinies. Playing God with them, no less, someone had once said to her. The hours passed and she worked on, taking hurried meal breaks and firmly rejecting all thoughts of listening to the radio or reading the newspaper.

  At five o’clock she got up from her desk. She was stiff and tense in every muscle but she had done her first good day’s work since the discovery of the murder. She spent the evening rereading the day’s output and went to bed moderately satisfied. The plot was working and the characters had played their parts as she intended. She fell asleep with her mind determinedly focused on plans for the next chapter.

  The following day was Wednesday and Gloria, the extrovert young matron who ‘did’ for both Melissa and Iris, arrived to do her weekly stint of housework. She came bustling into the kitchen, exuding good humour and exotic perfume as she took off her jacket and put on her overall.

  ‘You’ve had your hair done differently,’ Melissa remarked. Gloria’s huge brown eyes sparkled as she twisted her head this way and that to give a better view of the elaborate blond topknot from which floated multi-tinted spiral streamers.

  ‘D’you like it? My Stanley says it makes me look like a film star!’

  ‘Very becoming,’ agreed Melissa. ‘It really suits you.’

  ‘Ooh, thanks. Any spe
cial jobs this morning or just the usual?’

  ‘Just the usual, please. I’ll be in the study if you want me.’

  ‘See you presently then!’

  ‘Dreadful business about the murder, innit?’ Gloria remarked as they shared their coffee break in the kitchen.

  Melissa suppressed a sigh. She had hoped to dodge the subject but might have known that Gloria’s boundless interest in all things morbid and sensational would make it impossible. ‘Yes, dreadful,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose you’ve been reading all about it in the papers?’

  Excitement sent the topknot quivering. ‘We got inside information!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know my Stanley’s showroom?’

  Melissa nodded, concealing a smile as she pictured the ramshackle building where Gloria’s husband operated his used-car business.

  ‘Well,’ continued Gloria between swallows of coffee, ‘the lady what polishes the cars for him has got a sister what does cleaning at Stowbridge Tech.’ She paused to crunch a ginger biscuit.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Laura – that’s Jean’s sister, see – was talking about the murder with the other cleaners during their tea break.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ murmured Melissa. The entire college must have been humming with gossip and speculation.

  ‘Some of them reckoned one of the teachers – some arty chap with a beard – might have done it, but Laura don’t think so.’

  So far, Melissa had been only half listening. Now, she gave the conversation her full attention. ‘She doesn’t?’

  Gloria shook her head, sending the streamers aswirl. ‘She reckons it were that chap she worked for, the one what lives in one of they new houses here in Upper Benbury.’ Gloria was from Lower Benbury herself, commuting to her various jobs in a red Ford Escort supplied from her Stanley’s stock of ‘genuine, low-mileage used cars’.