Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1)

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Are you saying they’re up to some fiddle?’ It was not unlikely; par for the course, so to speak, if one believed what one heard about the motor trade. Gloria’s rings looked genuine and she was lavish in her use of expensive perfume.

  ‘They?’ Sly malevolence gleamed in Iris’s sharp grey eyes. ‘He’s the one on the fiddle, she’s on the game if you ask me! Works in a fancy club a couple of nights a week and we know what type goes to places like that, don’t we?’ The unusually long sentence seemed to reflect the depth of Iris’s feelings on the matter.

  By way of changing the subject, Melissa peered into the plastic bucket. ‘Dandelions!’ she remarked. ‘More wine?’

  ‘Right. Ever tried it?’

  ‘I don’t think I have.’

  ‘Come and have a tot before lunch.’ Without waiting for a reply, she marched off towards her own cottage.

  They sat in her spotless, ultra-modern kitchen sipping a sweetish pale yellow concoction and nibbling home-made nut biscuits. Melissa recounted with relish some of the choicest tit-bits from Gloria while Iris, who plainly had a different sense of humour, muttered derogatory asides. As they were chatting, someone passed the window and tapped on the back door. Iris’s sharp features fused into a glow of pleasure as she ushered in her visitor.

  ‘Mr Calloway! Do come in!’ She turned to Melissa with a hint of a blush on her cheek, a trace of archness in her smile. ‘Our Rector . . . Mrs Craig, my new neighbour.’

  He was tall with sparse fair hair, a round, pink face and the innocent expression of a well-scrubbed choirboy. He beamed at Melissa and encased her hand in plump, slightly damp fingers.

  ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you!’ he declared with sparkling eyes, like a child gazing at Father Christmas. ‘We don’t get many famous authors in our quiet part of the county!’

  Melissa stared at him. ‘How did you . . . ?’ she began.

  He chuckled and wagged a finger at her. ‘I met Gloria . . . Mrs Parkin, that is, as I was walking down from the village and she stopped to tell me. She said you tried to deny it!’

  Melissa shook her head, smiling.

  ‘Oh, yes, you did . . . she told me!’ The finger continued to wag in benevolent reproof.

  ‘She asked me if Mel Craig was a relation of mine, and I said “no”, which is perfectly true,’ protested Melissa. ‘Then she spotted my photograph on the dust-jacket.’

  ‘Aha!’ His smile became roguish. ‘Little Mrs Parkin isn’t just a pretty face!’ From the corner of her eye, Melissa observed Iris’s mouth screwed up in distaste. ‘She knows I’ve read all your books and she couldn’t wait to tell me. I’m afraid,’ he confessed, looking as if he had been caught with a comic concealed in his hymnbook, ‘that I get them from the library . . . I’d like to buy them but . . . the fact is,’ his voice dropped to a comically conspiratorial whisper, ‘my wife doesn’t really approve, so I hope you’ll keep my little secret!’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Melissa cheerfully. ‘We have Public Lending Right now, you know, so it’s all grist to the mill! And I promise not to split on you if you don’t split on me!’

  ‘Ah . . . I’m afraid it’s bound to get out without my saying anything. The penalty of fame, you know!’

  Melissa shrugged. She might have known that keeping a secret in a village was a non-starter. ‘Oh well, it’ll be a nine-days’ wonder, no doubt,’ she said.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Calloway. Have a tot!’ urged Iris, pouring dandelion wine into a third glass. She plonked it on the table, her mouth still signalling disapproval.

  The Rector, one hand hooked in readiness over the back of a chair, expressed just the right degree of surprise and appreciation before drawing it back and lowering his plump rear on to the seat. He had brought with him a plastic carrier which he propped against the leg of the table.

  ‘Here’s your copy of the parish monthly,’ he said to Iris, extracting a flimsy magazine with a line drawing of the village church on its cover. She took it from him as if it were a rare and precious gift. ‘I’m afraid it’s very late this month. The printers have been extra busy. They charge us a special rate, you see,’ he explained, turning to Melissa, ‘so if any urgent jobs come in, our poor little mag goes to the bottom of the list.’ He dived into the carrier again and hesitantly withdrew another copy. ‘I don’t suppose you would care to subscribe? Only twenty-five pence a month.’

  ‘Of course!’ Melissa accepted the magazine and was rewarded by a smile of gratitude that was almost saintly in its simplicity. ‘I’ll have to pop home for the money . . . I haven’t got my purse with me.’

  ‘That’s quite all right — you can give it me any time. I’ll just make a note.’ He drew out a small black pocket-book and wrote. ‘Mrs Craig, Hawthorn Cottage — there! I’ll see you get your copy every month.’ He beamed at her again. His eyes were clear, wide and trustful under a smooth high forehead. It was difficult to tell his age; he could have been anything between forty-five and sixty for he had the clear, fine skin that often goes with very fair hair and stays firm and unlined for many years. He lifted his glass first to Melissa, then to Iris and once again to Melissa. ‘Your very good health, ladies, and welcome to Upper Benbury, Mrs Craig!’ He drained the glass and set it down. Iris promptly refilled it, ignoring his token protest. ‘An excellent year, Miss Ash, if I may say so!’

  ‘Glad you think so!’ simpered Iris.

  ‘I wonder . . . ?’ The Rector turned his grey-green eyes on Melissa and cleared his throat. ‘Shall we be seeing you in church on Sunday, Mrs Craig?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, I expect so.’ It was several years since she had regularly attended church but to say ‘no’ would have seemed churlish, like refusing a personal invitation. ‘What time are the services?’

  ‘All the details are in here!’ He patted the magazine lying on the table. ‘We’re not very High . . . I hope you’re not too High?’ He looked anxious, as if wondering what could be done to accommodate her if she proved to be High.

  ‘No, I’m not at all High,’ she assured him and he looked relieved. ‘I really must be going. Iris, thank you so much for the wine, and it’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Mr Calloway.’

  ‘A great pleasure for me, and a great honour!’ he assured her, scrambling to his feet as she got up. ‘I must be getting along too. Thank you for the dandelion wine, Miss Ash. I’ll see you both on Sunday then, ladies?’

  The ladies assured him that he would indeed see them on Sunday. At the gate, he turned in the direction of Melissa’s cottage instead of walking back towards the road.

  ‘I take a short cut just past Daniel’s hut,’ he explained. ‘There’s a footpath leading up the bank straight into the churchyard. It’s rather steep and a bit tricky when it’s been raining — muddy, you know, and slippery — but it saves quite a distance over going by road.’

  ‘I must stroll along there some time and find it,’ said Melissa, adding impulsively, ‘I’m going to be using that hut in my next novel.’

  ‘Really?’ He stopped short outside her door and turned on her an expression of mingled amazement and delight. ‘How very exciting! May one enquire how it is . . . er . . . going to feature in your story?’

  ‘I don’t usually discuss my plots with anyone except my agent,’ said Melissa. He looked so disappointed that she hastened to add, ‘But I might be very grateful for your help when I come to do the research . . . local customs, bits of country lore, that kind of thing. I always try to make my backgrounds authentic.’

  The Rector nodded eagerly. ‘I shall be delighted to help in any way I can . . . delighted and honoured!’ He rubbed his hands together and chuckled. There was a gleam in his eye that his wife, Melissa suspected, would not have approved. ‘To think I shall be working with a real crime novelist!’ he gloated. ‘Do please call on me at any time . . . except, well, perhaps it would be better if we kept this a secret between ourselves, eh? Otherwise they’ll all want to join in, haha!’

  �
�I shall be the soul of discretion!’ Melissa assured him. She found him a delightful character, simply asking to be written into a novel himself. Saintly, unworldly country cleric with a secret weakness for the crime novel becomes embroiled in murder and mayhem in sleepy rural parish. She wondered how it would look on a dust-jacket. Joe would probably laugh it out of court.

  Mr Calloway was standing a little way back from her cottage, rocking on his heels and appraising the clean, newly pointed stonework and the restored roof of genuine Cotswold tiles.

  ‘Mr Allenby has made quite a good job of the old place,’ he observed. ‘It really was in a dreadful state — I used to get quite nervous when I visited poor old Jacko . . . afraid the roof might fall on my head, don’t you know, haha! I expect you’ve made it look a bit different inside . . . ?’ He finished the sentence on a questioning note whose meaning was unmistakable.

  ‘You must come and see it when I’ve got everything straight,’ said Melissa. ‘Perhaps you’d care to call in for a cup of tea one afternoon when you’re passing?’

  ‘That is most kind of you!’ He was at pains to convey the impression that such an invitation was the last thing he had in mind.

  When, eventually, he said goodbye and clambered, rather awkwardly, over the stile, Melissa went indoors, got out her pad and made copious notes over her lunch of sandwiches and coffee. Iris had written off the village folk as ‘deadly dull, most of them’. Well, that was all a matter of opinion. The ones she had met so far, including Iris herself, made a fascinating study.

  Five

  On Saturday afternoon, Melissa prepared a casserole for her evening meal. While it was cooking, she sat down and wrote to Simon.

  At last I’m beginning to get straight. The chaos has been unbelievable — yesterday it came to a head, with the carpet fitters crawling all over the place and Charlie the carpenter getting in their way, trying to fix things that should have been fixed before I moved in. It became quite fraught at one stage and I had to make cups of tea in relays to keep them apart.

  I’m thrilled with the cottage and its situation and can’t wait to show it to you. Do try and make a trip to the UK this summer. Your room has a lovely view over a valley whose sides are dotted with sheep and gambolling lambs. I think they’re enchanting but my next-door neighbour tells me, ‘wait till they start shearing’; it seems that the lambs have trouble recognising their shorn mothers and it can take twelve hours or more for them to sort themselves out. Meanwhile they’re bleating like a non-stop chorus from Animal Farm and sleep becomes difficult!

  My next-door neighbour is an arty lady called Iris . . .

  Melissa devoted a couple of pages to Iris, Gloria, the Rector and the Rector’s wife, a humourless lady with an expression of permanent disapproval who had called on her that morning to try and recruit her for the Women’s Institute and the church flower-arranging rota. She smiled as she pictured Simon’s reaction to his mother’s new environment. Her smile faded as she referred once more to his letter.

  You ask about Aubrey. Please don’t. I’m trying to get him out of my system. Yes, I know he’s reliable and kind and supportive and has always been a very present help in time of trouble but he was getting such a BORE! He would insist on treating me as utterly helpless and in need of protection, which I’m fast discovering I’m not, and it was getting very wearing. I did battle very successfully with the builder over getting some remedial jobs done and I’ve already discovered that I can use a hammer and a screwdriver. I’ve put up hooks for my pictures (a nice man in the DIY shop showed me how) and I’m sure there are lots of other jobs I can learn to do. Iris will help, she’s amazing. She can do carpentry, paint gates and mend fences when she’s not designing fabrics. She’s going to help me plan my garden. I suspect she’ll make me grow organic vegetables and cultivate stinging nettles for the butterflies.

  Do write again soon. I love to have your news.

  Having signed and sealed her letter, Melissa decided to walk into the village straight away to post it, even though the next collection was not until Monday morning. The spell of fine, dry weather was threatening to break. A layer of thin cloud veiled a fretful sun and a cool wind ran along the valley, ruffling the surface of the brook. Melissa buttoned up her jacket and strode briskly along the track to the main road. Iris, toiling in her garden, waved a gloved hand in greeting as she passed.

  The village lay at the head of the valley. The stone houses clung to the hillside in irregular tiers and clusters, looking as if they had been washed up by a tidal wave that had receded, leaving them stranded. They huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, some tall and narrow, some squat and sprawling along the irregular streets. Now and again a slit of a side road, climbing at a daunting angle, gave glimpses of a second rank of similarly assorted dwellings, separated from the front row by a double bank of steeply sloping gardens. Ice-cream-coloured blossom danced in the breeze, mats of purple aubretia lay scattered over rockeries and cottage walls were bright with the young foliage of climbing roses and Virginia creeper.

  The first spots of rain fell on Melissa’s hand as she dropped her letter in the box. She glanced uneasily at the sky. The cloud was rapidly thickening and the breeze had strengthened. There had been mention of showers on the radio; she should have dressed more sensibly.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Craig!’ The Rector skidded to a halt and jumped off his bicycle. ‘Looks as if we’re in for a squall.’

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing. I’m going to get caught if I don’t hurry.’

  ‘Take the short cut,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll show you where it is. It’ll save you seven or eight minutes.’ He dismounted and walked with her as far as the entrance to the churchyard, pointed out the lichen-covered gate half-hidden behind some mouldering tombstones and parted from her with a cheery: ‘See you in church tomorrow!’

  The path ran downhill through woodland. It was stony in places, criss-crossed with brambles and, as the Rector had warned her, inclined to be muddy even though the weather had been dry for a week. After a wet spell it would be a quagmire.

  The rain began in earnest, pattering down through the trees. She walked as fast as she dared, afraid of wrenching an ankle on a stone and wondering whether it would after all have been better to take the road. When she reached the bottom of the path and emerged into the open, it was raining quite hard.

  She was standing at the top of a tall bank, looking down at the valley bottom at a point where a bridge with a metal handrail spanned the little brook. The grassy slope fell away steeply at her feet, treacherous and slippery in the wet. In her haste she almost slid down it but checked herself just in time. Start to run down there, she thought, and you’d have a job to stop. You’d be lucky to reach the bottom without breaking a leg.

  Melissa turned for home, breaking into a run. The rain came down harder than ever; by the time she reached the old shepherd’s hut it was pouring. Without a second thought she took shelter inside.

  It was unexpectedly dark. On the one previous occasion when she had come here, the sun was shining and she had merely poked her head round the door, a detached and curious observer. Now, she felt herself enshrouded in its atmosphere of damp and decay. A gust of wind whistled round her shoulders and set the door creaking.

  Her heart was thumping and she was panting slightly. She really ought to take more exercise. She took out a handkerchief and dried her face, squinting at the sky through a gap in the stone wall, trying to assess the direction of the wind and whether there was a break in the clouds.

  ‘Quite a downpour!’ said a man’s voice behind her.

  Melissa spun round. Deep in the shadows behind the door stood a tall figure. She backed away in alarm as he took a step towards her. As he moved into the half-light she could see that he was young and well-built, fresh-faced and with fiercely penetrating blue eyes. He was bareheaded with short dark hair and his hands were thrust into the pocket of his waxed jacket.

  ‘Don’t be afeared,’ he said in a soot
hing voice. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

  It was all Melissa could do to contain a scream. She remembered hearing that psychopaths sometimes thought and spoke of themselves in the third person in order to absolve themselves from responsibility for their violent acts. She felt cold in the pit of her stomach and her heart pounded more violently than ever. She shot a despairing glance beyond the man. Perhaps, if she was quick enough, she could get through the door before he grabbed her. Then a slight movement near the floor caught her attention. A black dog, its body almost entirely concealed behind its master, was peering round his legs with a curious, not unfriendly eye.

  The dog’s presence was reassuring. Psychopaths who lay in wait in deserted places in order to attack defenceless women did not normally take their dogs with them. Melissa managed a shaky smile. ‘I’m . . . not really used to dogs,’ she said, glad now of the excuse for her display of nerves.

  ‘You’ll be the writing lady from Hawthorn Cottage.’ He spoke with the broad Gloucester vowels that were becoming familiar to Melissa and somehow reminded her of the fat woolly sheep grazing the slopes opposite her cottage. She relaxed still further.

  ‘That’s right,’ she admitted. ‘How did you know?’

  He laughed. ‘Things get around pretty quick in these parts.’

  The fact that he had identified her so easily suggested that he knew Gloria. Perhaps he was Mr Parkin? He seemed about the right age but he did not quite fit in with her notion of a second-hand car dealer. She thought of asking him but changed her mind. If she were mistaken it could be embarrassing. She tried the indirect approach.

  ‘Do you live in the village?’

  He shook his head. ‘Rookery Farm . . . the other end of the valley. Nearly into Lower Benbury.’

  ‘But you must know the people in Upper Benbury?’