She was about to call through the door when Eleanor said, ‘Melissa, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. What is it?’
‘I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry about Mrs Bliss.’
It was a second or two before Melissa grasped what she meant. In the shock and confusion of Eleanor’s confession, the fact that Angy and Sybil had been struck down by the same hand had simply not registered. Now, the realisation was like a blow to the solar plexus.
‘Sybil? Of course, you killed Sybil as well! But why? What had she done to you?’
Eleanor’s voice, though weak, suddenly became as chatty and matter-of-fact as if she were speaking about the weather. ‘I nearly bumped into her coming out of Delia’s house, khikhikhi! Wasn’t it silly of me? I was pretty sure she’d recognised me and I was worried about that so I followed her home. I had to stop her telling anyone.’ There was a short silence before Eleanor murmured reflectively, ‘Angy did deserve to die, don’t you agree, after what she said about Rodney? But it was a shame about Mrs Bliss.’
For all the depth of emotion in her voice, she might have been apologising for allowing Snappy to jump up with muddy paws. Even if they get her out in time to save her, thought Melissa despairingly while Eleanor alternated between rationality and childish prattle, they must surely find her unfit to plead.
From outside came sounds of car doors banging and footsteps hurrying up the front path. A key turned in the lock and Shergold’s voice was raised in petulant anger, demanding to be told what was going on and being curtly answered by DCI Harris’s rasping bark. Melissa scrambled to her feet and lurched on to the landing.
‘Up here!’ she called. ‘For God’s sake, hurry!’
She went back into the bedroom and her heart seemed to stop at the sight of the bright scarlet stain seeping from under the bathroom door and spreading over the peach-coloured carpet. As the owner of the house rushed into the room followed by a seemingly endless procession of police and ambulance personnel, she shrank against a wall, shaking uncontrollably as she stared down at her right hand, sticky with Eleanor’s blood.
Somehow, she found the main bathroom and got her head over the handbasin in time to avoid throwing up on the pale blue carpet. Her teeth were chattering as she rinsed away the mess, washed her face and hands and dried them on one of a row of towels that had been carefully arranged on a rail in graduated sizes and varying shades of blue. Disturbing them seemed like an intrusion, as if the towels were there as part of the decor and not intended for practical use. Still shivering, she sat down on the blue candlewick toilet-seat cover and put her head in her hands.
She could hear muffled thumps and a jumble of men’s voices; they must be trying to force open the en suite bathroom door. She wondered how long it would take them, how much blood Eleanor would lose before they got to her, whether they’d get her to the hospital in time to pump more into her so that she’d be fit to go through the due process of the law. She longed to slip out of the house and go home but knew it was her duty to stay and talk to Harris. Anyway, there’d be a man posted at the door to ask politely if she’d be kind enough to wait. She wandered downstairs and into the kitchen. There by the back door were the shoes that Eleanor had been wearing that morning. She picked up the right one and stared down at the brass-headed drawing pin embedded in the sole.
It seemed an eternity before she heard the tread of feet coming down the stairs, slowly, as if carrying a burden. There was more slamming of doors and the ambulance siren began to wail as it drove away. Hearing her name spoken, she went into the hall. Harris was there and behind him stood Rodney Shergold, his slight figure dwarfed by the detective’s bulk. He looked dazed and his eyes were slits in a face the colour of Cotswold stone.
‘Are you all right, Melissa?’ said Harris.
‘I’m fine. What about Eleanor? Is she . . . ?’
‘Still alive but lost a lot of blood. Sergeant Waters is going with Doctor Shergold to the hospital. I’ll drive you home and we’ll talk there.’ She swayed and he caught her arm, calling over his shoulder, ‘Have you got any brandy? Mrs Craig’s out on her feet.’
Shergold passed a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not sure where she keeps it,’ he muttered. He glanced helplessly round him and then up the stairs. ‘What on earth possessed the stupid creature? Causing all this trouble! You should see the mess . . . the carpet’s ruined!’
‘Don’t worry about a drink, I’ll be okay,’ said Melissa to Harris. The idea of accepting anything from Rodney Shergold filled her with revulsion.
She felt something brush her legs and heard a soft whine. Snappy had crept out of his basket and was pressing himself against her as if reminding her of her promise to his mistress. She could feel his body quivering as she bent down to fondle him.
‘Poor little chap,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
Shergold’s face darkened. ‘Get that disgusting animal out of here!’ he said, scowling.
She picked up the dog and went into the kitchen to collect his lead. ‘Shall we go?’ she said to Harris, and without so much as a glance at the master of the house, she led the way to the door.
Twenty-Three
‘What first put you on to Eleanor Shergold?’ asked Harris when Melissa had stumbled through her story.
They were sitting in the kitchen at Hawthorn Cottage. Melissa had led the way there, muttering something about coffee, but it was Harris who, after pushing her with surprising gentleness into a chair, had filled the kettle, found the brandy and poured some into a glass for her. Now, he sat at the other side of the table, calm and relaxed and looking more like an invited guest than a detective investigating a murder.
‘It was a recipe for scones,’ explained Melissa. ‘She gave it to me months ago but I never glanced at it until yesterday. It rang a vague bell but it wasn’t until this morning that the penny dropped.’ She explained how the application form in Philippe Bonard’s prospectus had acted as a trigger. ‘Even then, it never occurred to me that she had killed Angy; I just thought she’d pretended to be Delia Forbes to get to the art classes without Rodney knowing about it. In a way, of course, it was just that. I don’t think the idea of murder entered her head until she heard Angy making those cracks about him.’
She closed her eyes in a futile attempt to obliterate the scene in the kitchen at Cotswold View: Eleanor, arms upraised, hands clamped on the knife, eyes blazing with hatred and vengeance as she relived the moment when her rival rose and turned, like a sacrificial victim, to receive the fatal thrust.
‘She must have gone absolutely berserk,’ she muttered.
‘That might be true in the case of Angy but from what you tell me, when she killed Mrs Bliss she knew exactly what she was doing.’ Harris’s meaning was obvious; there would be no question of a court finding Eleanor unfit to plead.
Melissa played absently with her glass. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘all the time she was talking to me, up there in the bedroom, she was like a child caught out after doing something naughty. First she was trying to justify it, then saying how sorry she was, then laughing . . . ’
‘Laughing?’
‘While she was telling me how she went into Angy’s room, when she’d finished washing away the blood after killing her, she sounded almost gleeful, as if she was describing a playground game.’
‘She went in there? What for?’
‘To retrieve the sketch of herself that Angy had drawn. She sounded quite proud of herself for having thought of it, and for remembering to keep her gloves on all the time. She described how she’d picked her way to avoid stepping in the blood, just like she steps round puddles when she’s walking the dog.’
Melissa inhaled long and hard to quell a spasm of nausea at the memory of Eleanor’s foolish, self-satisfied giggle. Her eyes went to the corner where Snappy had settled down on an old blanket, entirely at home. What a mercy, she thought to herself, that there were no children . . . but perhaps, if there had been . . .
who could tell?
‘She certainly covered her tracks pretty well.’ Harris shifted on his chair and it creaked in protest. ‘Led us a merry dance.’
‘I should have realised earlier that she’d been coming to the college,’ said Melissa thoughtfully. ‘She once spoke of Barney as if she knew him, and only yesterday Dudley Ford said something about her being out on Tuesday afternoons. Sooner or later, it would have come out that she was using Delia Forbes’s name.’
‘Next week, to be precise,’ said Harris. ‘She’s expected back on Wednesday.’
‘And all the time you thought Barney Willard was the murderer,’ she reproached him.
‘Ah yes, Willard.’ A strange expression flitted across the big detective’s features. ‘I hope you . . . ’ He broke off; it was the first time she could remember any hint of hesitancy in his manner.
‘What do you hope?’
He rose from his chair and turned away, ignoring the question. ‘I’d best be going,’ he said. At that moment, the phone rang. ‘Would you like me to take that?’
‘Go ahead. It might be for you anyway.’
He lumbered out of the room, returning after a few moments. ‘That was Waters, calling from the hospital.’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Shergold died a few minutes ago without regaining consciousness.’
It was a pitiful way for a woman’s life to end, but Melissa felt only relief at the news. Survival would have left Eleanor without hope or comfort; death was by far the lesser affliction.
Looking for another charming murder mystery you can read in one sitting? Make sure to order Murder on the Clifftops, the next Melissa Craig mystery!
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Murder on the Clifftops
A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 3
Get it here!
French cheese, fine wine and… a mystifying murder?
A delightful afternoon stroll turns to disaster when the guests of an artists’ retreat in the French mountains spot the body of a man at the bottom of a cliff.
Amongst them is Melissa Craig who, binoculars at the ready, suddenly finds herself at the centre of a very puzzling mystery. Was it an accident, or was he pushed?
Her suspicions are confirmed when another body is found days later in almost exactly the same spot. It can’t be a coincidence; someone in this idyllic French village is up to no good, and it’s up to her to find out who.
Between the eccentric locals and mischievous guests, Melissa finds herself with no shortage of potential suspects: was it the surly handyman with a dark past, or perhaps the short-sighted widow with an excellent golf swing? But the real question is: how close to the edge will Melissa have to tread to find the culprit…?
An absolutely unputdownable murder mystery you’ll read in one sitting. Perfect for anyone who loves Agatha Christie, P.D. James or Faith Martin.
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Also by Betty Rowlands
THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
Murder at the Manor Hotel
A Letter From Betty
Dear Reader
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Betty
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1
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Meet Melissa: cat lover, caring mother… daring detective?
Melissa Craig is absolutely delighted with her new life in an old crumbling cottage, spending her days pruning the primroses and getting to know Binkie, the ginger cat next door. She only wishes she had made the move to the countryside sooner.
But when a knock at the door brings news of a shocking discovery, she suddenly finds herself thrown in to the middle of a baffling mystery: the bones of a young woman have been found in the woods just behind her new home.
Perhaps the little village of Upper Bembury is not as idyllic as it first seemed?
Strange phone calls in the night convince Melissa that the police are barking up completely the wrong tree, so she can’t resist doing a little digging of her own. From the bingo hall to the beauty salon and beyond, her search ruffles a few feathers and uncovers many of the village’s most scandalous secrets, but gets her no closer to finding the culprit…
The discovery of a tatty old photograph in a drawer is the final piece of the puzzle she needs, but as a newcomer in this close-knit community, does Melissa have what it takes to get to the bottom of this extraordinary murder mystery alone?
A joy to read! An absolutely unputdownable whodunnit for fans of Agatha Christie, P.D. James and Faith Martin.
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
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www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Betty Rowlands 1992, 2018
Betty Rowlands has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN: 978-1-78681-658-0
Originally published as Finishing Touch by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, 1992
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Murder in the Morning Page 26
