‘Certainly not, you leave it to us. No doubt he’ll call you as soon as he hears.’ Harris leaned forward with clasped hands, his forearms resting on his knees and his head bent. ‘It puts us back to square one, of course.’
‘You mean, in the hunt for Angy’s killer?’
‘Right.’
‘Inspector Clarke seems to think Sybil was killed by a walk-in thief. Could the same be true of Angy, do you suppose?’
‘That’s something we’ll have to consider.’ He sighed and stood up. ‘Here comes your friend. I’d better let her take you home or she’ll eat me alive and spit out the bones.’
Nineteen
Melissa slept uneasily, haunted by visions of blood, twisted limbs, staring eyes and crushed bones. She awoke early, took a shower, went to her study and tried to work. Her output was not impressive but at least she succeeded for a couple of hours in driving the memory of Sybil’s murder into the back of her mind. It was a brief respite; when, presently, she took a break and switched on the radio, she found herself listening to the voice of Detective Inspector Clarke who was being interviewed by a reporter. She caught only the last few words: ‘the sooner this dangerous person is apprehended the better’, and switched off in frustration.
An hour or so later her telephone rang. She rushed to answer, thinking that it might be Barney, but it was a young journalist from the Gloucester Gazette who had interviewed her a few months previously when her latest book was published.
‘Melissa? Sophie. I hear it was you who found that woman’s body. What led you to think a tragedy might have occurred?’
Damn Inspector Clarke, thought Melissa. Harris would have kept her name out of it and she had forgotten, in her agitation, to ask for it not to be revealed. ‘The notion of tragedy didn’t enter my head,’ she protested, ‘but it did seem odd for her to break off in the middle of a phone call like that.’
‘And you immediately scented a mystery and set out to solve it for yourself!’ said Sophie in a voice of triumph. ‘Everyone’s asking themselves,’ she went on before Melissa had a chance to put a brake on her roller-coaster imagination, ‘whether there could be a connection between this crime and the Angelica Caroli murder. “Vicious Killer at Large in Quiet Market Town” – this’ll be on the front page of the tabloids!’
‘Angy was stabbed,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘If this was the start of a series of attacks, surely . . . ’
‘An opportunist killer would use whatever weapon came to hand,’ declared Sophie, undeterred. ‘The circumstances are similar: doors unlocked, quiet street, easy for anyone to sneak in unobserved. Of course, the police aren’t prepared to commit themselves yet but I’ll bet that’s what they’re thinking. By the way, you referred to the Caroli girl as “Angy” – did you know her?’
‘We were colleagues, that’s all.’ This was tricky ground. The last thing she wanted was for the local press to find out that she had a personal interest in finding Angy’s killer. Being well known had certain disadvantages for anyone who set a value on privacy.
‘Then perhaps you can tell me . . . ’ Sophie had seized eagerly on this possible lead and was determined to follow it, nose to the ground.
‘You probably know more than I do,’ Melissa interposed. ‘You go to the police briefings. I presume you were at this morning’s?’
‘Yes, of course, that’s why I’m phoning you. Can you give me some impressions? What did the place look like? Was there much damage or disturbance?’
‘I didn’t notice any but I never went inside the house. What else did they say at the briefing? Have the police got any leads yet?’
‘Not a lot.’ Sophie’s voice dipped in disappointment, as if she had been hoping for a graphic account of overturned furniture and blood on the walls. ‘Just exactly what did you see?’
‘I saw a woman’s body lying in the passage behind the personal door from the garage,’ said Melissa wearily.
‘That must have been pretty frightful for you,’ said Sophie, her optimism regenerated.
‘It was, rather.’ Up flashed an image of the hideous thing on the floor.
‘How could you be sure she was dead?’ No doubt Sophie was hoping for a lurid description. If she didn’t get one, she would invent it and she would embroider whatever she was told.
‘Her head and the side of her face had been bashed in,’ said Melissa. Already, the memory had set her stomach churning. ‘Look, Sophie, it was a pretty harrowing experience. I don’t really want to relive it.’
‘I quite understand!’ Synthetic sympathy floated over the line. ‘Can you describe your feelings when you saw the body?’
Melissa was running out of patience. ‘What do you suppose? I was shocked, I felt sick, I screamed. Now could you please answer my question? What else did the press officer say?’
There was a pause; Melissa overheard mutterings of ‘shocked’, ‘sick’, ‘screamed’, as Sophie scribbled in her notebook. She pictured her, frowning in concentration, her lower lip caught by her small white teeth and her short fair curls a-quiver.
The probing continued. ‘I believe you had someone with you?’
‘My neighbour.’
Sophie pounced. ‘Miss Ash? The one who came across that body in Benbury Woods a year or so ago? My, the two of you certainly have a knack of finding corpses, don’t you?’
Iris would be furious. She had a poor opinion of reporters after her experience at their hands during that unpleasant episode. ‘Look Sophie, do you have to mention names?’
It was hopeless, of course; there was no way Sophie was going to drop this one. At any rate, Joe would be pleased; he always relished a bit of publicity for his authors.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Melissa pursued. ‘The least you can do . . . ’
‘Oh yes, the press briefing. Well, there were two British Telecom engineers working in the street . . . ’
‘Yes, I know. One of them saw the body and passed out cold.’
‘Cor, did he? I’ll have to get hold of him!’ It was easy to imagine the sparkle in Sophie’s eyes as she snapped up this morsel. ‘They didn’t see anything because they were working in their little tent,’ she went on, ‘but they did hear someone hurrying past and then a car starting up a little way away. And a short while before that, while one of them was getting some tools or something from the van, a car drove past quite slowly as if the driver was looking for somewhere. He didn’t see who was in the car and it went up a side road. The police want the driver and the owner of the running feet to come forward . . . and of course, anyone who saw anything suspicious, please call this number . . . the usual stuff.’
‘Not much to go on, is it?’ said Melissa.
‘You never know. Someone may have spotted something. Anyway, thanks for the interview. Bye!’
‘Goodbye.’ As she put down the phone, Melissa wondered what garbled version of their conversation would appear in the columns of the Gazette that evening.
There was a tap on the window as Iris passed on her way to the front door of Hawthorn Cottage. She stood in the little porch with Binkie in her arms, her chin resting on his head; they both gazed at Melissa with calm, unblinking eyes.
‘How’re you feeling this morning?’ said Iris.
‘All right, I suppose. How about you?’
‘No problems. Did extra yoga last night. Giving a lesson this morning. Three or four people from Craftworks.’ Recently, Iris had taken an interest in a group of young artists who had set up a studio in a converted barn in Lower Benbury. ‘Care to join us? Settle your nerves,’ she added as Melissa hesitated.
‘You know I’m hopeless at it. Last time I let you talk me into having a go, I felt as if I’d had a session in a tumble dryer.’
‘Rubbish. Out of condition, that’s all. Put on some joggers and bring a blanket. Half an hour.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll just have a cup of coffee . . . ’
‘No coffee. Nothing to eat or drink till after.’ Iris swung roun
d and marched away. Binkie stared back over her shoulder and Melissa could have sworn that, behind his impassive expression, there was a smirk on his furry face.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Iris.
‘Much better, thanks!’ said Melissa warmly. It was true. Despite her scepticism, the slow, rhythmic yoga movements and the controlled breathing had exercised a calming effect. Iris’s protégées had consumed their coffee and nut biscuits and departed, leaving the two of them to put the sitting-room to rights.
‘Knew it would help,’ said Iris with an air of satisfaction as she heaved a sofa back into place. ‘Should do a little every day.’
‘Perhaps I will. Could you work out a routine for me?’
‘Promise to stick to it? No good just now and then.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Saw Rodney Shergold in the shop this morning,’ Iris observed, pulling a face. ‘Jumpy as a cat and as cross as two sticks. Eleanor had the cheek to have a tummy upset so he had to fetch his own newspaper. Poor thing! Can’t think how she puts up with him.’
‘She thinks the sun shines out of his . . . well, you know what I mean.’ Just in time Melissa remembered that although Iris had been known, in moments of crisis, to permit herself the occasional ‘bloody’, she strongly disapproved of vulgarity. ‘She’s been worried sick because she thinks he’s still a suspect.’
‘Of Angy’s murder, you mean? Is he?’
‘As far as I know, his alibi is okay.’ Melissa was on the point of telling Iris about Shergold’s affair with Angy and the business of the jacket. It was the kind of story that she would relish but with her blunt ways one could never be sure she wouldn’t at some time let the cat out of the bag. Not that one cared too much about the feelings of pompous, over-bearing Rodney Shergold but there was Eleanor to consider. She was suffering enough as it was.
‘Any developments? Or does that murder take a back seat now they’ve got a new one to think about?’
‘It certainly hasn’t taken a back seat and there have been developments, but I’d better not tell you what they are until the details are officially released.’ Melissa pushed the last chair into place and glanced round the room. ‘Have we finished?’
‘That’s fine, thanks.’ Iris picked up the tray of coffee mugs and headed for the kitchen, then stopped short. ‘Is that your phone?’ They listened for a moment; through the wall separating the two cottages came a faint, rhythmic warble.
‘Yes, it is. Excuse me if I dash!’ Melissa was on her way in a flash, but not so quickly that she missed the knowing look on Iris’s face. Almost certainly, she had guessed that the developments had something to do with Barney.
‘I was just going to hang up,’ he said in response to her breathless ‘Hullo’.
‘I was next door.’
‘I’ve had a visit from your policeman friend.’
So Harris had been round personally. She wondered how much he had told Barney about the purpose and the result of the forensic tests. Not much, she suspected, and it wouldn’t do to reveal what she knew. ‘What did he want?’ she asked.
‘He came to return my gear. I suppose they couldn’t find anything to incriminate me. He had the grace to thank me for my co-operation.’
‘That’s wonderful! I’m so glad!’
‘But not surprised, by the sound of it.’
‘Of course I’m not surprised. I always believed you were innocent!’
‘So you did. Thank you, Melissa.’ If he had guessed that she had prior knowledge, he was not prepared to say so. ‘I hear there’s been another woman killed not far from where Angy lived. D’you suppose there’s a connection?’
‘There may be. No one knows yet. It was one of my workshop students, Sybil Bliss. She used to go to Angy’s painting class as well. I found her body.’
‘How dreadful for you! However did that happen?’
‘It’s a long story and I don’t think I can bear to tell it again just now.’
‘I can imagine.’ The sympathy in his voice was heartwarming. Of course he understood, having been through the same gruesome ordeal. Worse, in fact. At least she herself was not being treated as a suspect. ‘Melissa,’ he went on, ‘when can I see you?’
It was what she had been hoping and longing for but there was no surge of delight, only a strong but strangely detached sense of relief that the worst of his ordeal was over. Perhaps she was still traumatised by shock. Surely, once she was with him, the magic would return.
‘How about this evening?’ she said.
‘I hoped you’d say that. Will you come here for dinner? I cook quite a reasonable steak.’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘About seven-thirty?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ She managed to convey enthusiasm but the feelings came from the head and not the heart.
She put on a coat and walked into the village for some shopping. On her way through the churchyard she was greeted by excited barks from Snappy, tethered to the boot-scraper by the south door. Immediately, she changed course and made her way among the gravestones, stopping for a moment to fondle and quieten the wriggling, prancing little dog before entering the church.
She was greeted by the familiar smell of ancient timbers overlaid with the indefinable atmosphere that clings to the interior of many old churches. Like the wooden chancel rail on which countless hands awaiting the sacrament had laid a patina, and the memorial stones in the floor of the aisle worn smooth over the centuries, the very fabric of the building seemed to have distilled and preserved some essence of generations of worshippers. There were traces in the air of beeswax, metal polish and fresh flowers, and the brass lectern, the candlesticks and the carved pews gleamed in the mosaic of light pouring through the stained-glass windows.
Eleanor, her back to the door, was standing in front of a flower arrangement on a pedestal at the side of the altar. She glanced round as Melissa entered, alerted by the creak of the heavy wooden door, but immediately returned to her task of removing faded blooms and replacing them with fresh ones. She had spread a newspaper on the chancel steps to receive the discarded items and next to it, arranged neatly side by side, were her handbag, a pair of scissors and a flat basket containing some sprays of foliage and white carnations. Melissa stooped to inhale the clove-like scent of the flowers.
‘That’s a lovely arrangement,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Eleanor had uttered no greeting and her voice sounded flat and tired.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Melissa.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ The response was sharp, almost defensive.
‘Rodney told Iris you weren’t feeling well.’
‘Just a stomach upset. I’m all right now.’ Eleanor picked up the fresh flowers and began trimming their stems. She kept her face averted but Melissa could see that she was drawn and pale.
‘Well, you don’t look all right.’ Poor thing, she must be having a rotten time just now. ‘Do you have to be doing this? Those flowers could last another day or two, surely?’
‘It gives me something else to think about,’ said Eleanor with a catch in her voice.
‘Something else? You mean, beside Angy . . . but you really shouldn’t . . . ’
Melissa’s attempt to find some words of comfort was interrupted by the sharp sound of metal on stone as the scissors slipped from Eleanor’s hand. Instead of picking them up, she moved behind the pedestal as if taking refuge. Melissa took a step forward and saw that she was clinging to the cast-iron pillar with both hands, her face half hidden among the foliage, her shoulders heaving.
‘Eleanor dear, what is it?’
‘It’s . . . it’s Rodney! I’m sure they think he killed that girl!’
‘Oh no, you mustn’t . . . ’ Melissa began but Eleanor paid no heed as wave after wave of pent-up fear poured out between her sobs.
‘Oh God, what shall I do if they arrest him?’ Her voice rose to a thin shriek.
‘Eleanor, I’m sure you’re making
a mistake . . . I don’t believe the police suspect Rodney.’
‘They do! They do!’ In the stillness of the empty church, the words echoed and re-echoed as if every rafter vibrated in sympathy. Eleanor released her grip on the pedestal and put her hands over her eyes, rocking to and fro and moaning, ‘I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!’
For a moment, Melissa was tempted to put the poor creature’s mind at rest by revealing what DCI Harris had told her, but immediately rejected the notion. Such a breach of confidence could rebound in all sorts of directions. So she murmured soothing words and patted Eleanor’s shoulder until, little by little, the rocking and moaning subsided like the vibration of a spring coming to rest.
‘Did you know,’ said Melissa when Eleanor at last became quiet, ‘that there’s been another murder?’ There was no response. ‘As a matter of fact, I found the body. It was one of my students.’
‘Oh, no!’ The words were barely audible. ‘Oh Melissa, I’m so sorry!’
‘No need to apologise!’ As an attempt to introduce a note of levity, the words were a disastrous flop. Eleanor succumbed to another shuddering tide of despair.
‘Now stop that!’ Melissa gave her a gentle shake. ‘The police think she – Sybil – must have disturbed an intruder, and there’s some suggestion that the same person killed Angy. Sybil had never even set eyes on Rodney so they couldn’t possibly suspect him of her murder, now could they? You’ll see, it’ll be all right, so stop fretting.’
‘You really think so?’ Eleanor raised a blotched and swollen face.
‘I’m sure so,’ said Melissa earnestly, and in perfect faith.
‘Well, I only hope you’re right. It’s been so awful, lately . . . and Major and Mrs Ford keep hinting . . . ’ Still convulsively sniffing, Eleanor dabbed her eyes.
‘Madeleine and Dudley Ford are a pair of malicious old gossips. Don’t you take any notice of what they say,’ said Melissa tartly. ‘Now, have you finished here?’
‘Nearly . . . just these few carnations.’ With nimble fingers, Eleanor put the remaining flowers in place before rolling the newspaper into a neat parcel which she carried into the vestry. Melissa heard the sounds of a dustbin lid being replaced and the running of a tap as Eleanor washed her hands. She came back into the church and picked up her belongings.
Murder in the Morning Page 21
