‘What about men, besides Clive, of course?’
‘As I said, she had her favourite weekend customers but she was pretty discreet and there was never any trouble.’
‘So the conclusion seems to be that she’s a natural drifter who just decided to up and go. Is that what the police think?’
‘With nothing concrete to go on, what else can they think? No one has officially reported her missing and she was certainly over eighteen so she was free to move on if she wanted to.’
‘And the accident?’
‘Nothing whatever to suggest that another car was involved.’
‘Well,’ said Melissa, ‘unless you can turn up some new facts, it doesn’t look as if you’re going to get anywhere.’ She was disappointed. Nothing Bruce had told her seemed worth following up; he had a bee in his bonnet, that was all. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I have to be getting home. I’ve got someone coming to supper tonight and I’m planning to do some writing this afternoon.’
‘New novel?’
‘That’s right.’
He helped her on with her coat and paid the bill. Outside, he said, ‘Before you go, can I ask you one last question?’
‘Of course.’
‘As a crime writer used to devising mysteries, what are your feelings about this one?’
‘To be honest, I don’t think there’s much mystery about it. One way or the other, Babs had had enough of Clive and chose that way of getting shot of him.’
‘She could have just told him to naff off.’
‘And he could have refused to go. Doing a bunk might have been the only way of getting him off her back. You said he was obsessed with her, she described him as a pain in the ass. Maybe she decided she couldn’t take him any more, prospects or no prospects. He might have been a bit unstable. Oh dear, I’m talking about him as if he were dead, aren’t I?’ The thought gave her goose-pimples.
‘The way he is, he might just as well be,’ said Bruce sombrely.
‘Do you know how he’s getting on?’
‘I check the hospital from time to time. I’m hoping that eventually he’ll be well enough for me to ask him some questions.’
‘Do you think that’s wise? After all he’s been through I’d be inclined to let well alone.’
‘Really? I was hoping you might . . .’ His downcast expression reminded her of a dog deprived of its bone. Then a mischievous twinkle appeared in his eyes as he added, ‘I’ll bet Nathan Latimer wouldn’t let well alone!’
Melissa laughed. ‘Point taken! All right, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you come up with anything fresh, let me know and I’ll consider reopening the case.’ She took out one of her cards and handed it to him with a gesture of mock formality.
‘Thanks.’ He put it carefully away in his wallet. ‘Well, goodbye for now, Ms Craig.’
‘Call me Melissa,’ she said with a smile. She could almost hear his tail thumping as she turned away.
Nine
It was half past one when Melissa got back to her car. The drive home would take about twenty minutes, say another ten to unpack her shopping and stow it away. Iris was invited for seven o’clock, which meant she would have to start cooking at about half past five. Allowing for a short tea-break, she could fit in over three hours’ work on her novel.
As she left the outskirts of the city and began the uphill climb towards the Cotswold escarpment, she was struck by an odd string of coincidences. A real corpse had once been discovered in the shepherd’s hut where she was planning to plant her fictitious one. A character called Clive Shepherd had crossed her path. And now it was seriously suggested that a former employee of The Usual Place, which she intended to transform and make into a centre for some illicit operations that were not as yet quite clear in her head, was possibly a murder victim. It was curious how her imaginings kept finding echoes in fact.
It was at least a relief that the originator of the bizarre telephone calls had been identified, even if the reason for her being on the receiving end was still a mystery. She felt sympathy for Clive, by all accounts a worthwhile young man whose life had been shattered by his obsession with a girl who plainly cared nothing for him. At least he was beginning to show some improvement. If he should phone again she would address him by name, try to establish a relationship with him and explain, very gently, that Babs had moved away and he must try and forget her. Or perhaps it would be better if she went to the hospital and saw him. She could have a chat with his doctor or the matron and ask their advice. She might in some way be able to help his recovery.
As for the scenario Bruce had painted, she dismissed it as being utterly fantastic. On his own admission, he had nothing to go on — merely a gut feeling, his so-called hunch. Convinced that he was barking up the wrong tree, Melissa put the whole thing out of her mind and switched her thoughts to her new novel.
The sun was warm after the previous night’s rain. Gardens, meadows, hedgerows and trees sparkled with a vibrant freshness. Soon, the woodlands would become a collage of almost uniform green but now, for these few magical weeks of spring, they were a tapestry of a dozen tender shades, delicately embroidered, embellishing but not yet completely veiling the perfect symmetry of their branches.
She wound the window down and a soft breeze ruffled her hair and flowed over her face. She felt alert and eager, her head tingled as if an electric current was passing through it. She recognised the symptoms. After many hours of painstaking preparation — sketching out the framework of a plot, shaping her characters, creating their background and identifying some areas of research — she was ready to go. Even before she turned off the main road and began the gentle, winding, two-mile descent that led, paradoxically, into Upper Benbury, the opening paragraphs were taking shape in her head:
The cloud came hurtling out of the west like some monstrous bird of prey, dragging a curtain of rain in its talons. Nathan Latimer stopped halfway up the field to watch it. The sight of its onward rush exhilarated him; his pulses took their beat from the elemental forces around him. Not until the valley bottom disappeared in the squall did it dawn on him that he stood directly in its path.
On the other side of the field, under some trees, was an old shepherd’s hut. Nathan legged it across the rough grass as fast as he could, pursued by the wind and rain that had suddenly changed from performers in a spectacle into hunters seeking to devour him. A cloud of leaves, torn loose by the gale, whirled round his head and flew into his face before tumbling like dying birds into the stubble.
‘Dying birds . . . I rather like that!’ Melissa changed gear as the hill grew steeper. ‘Builds up a nice creepy atmosphere before Nathan trips over the body.’ She hummed a tune as her thoughts flowed on, conjuring up a picture of the shepherd’s hut.
The dilapidated stone structure, half its roof missing, had long been abandoned. The last incumbent had secured it with a padlock which was still intact but the top hinge had rusted away and the door swung crazily inward like a drunkard struggling to remain upright. With difficulty, Nathan scrambled through the opening, cursing as he struck his head on the low stone lintel. Baulked of its prey, the squall lashed at the hut as if in frustration, flinging water through the broken roof and shrieking in and out of cracks in the crumbling walls.
An approaching vehicle interrupted the flow. Melissa pulled into the hedge to make way for a brown van with ‘Benbury Estate Farms’ painted on its side. ‘Now, where was I? Must get this bit right.’ She let in the clutch and rolled slowly down the lane, her thoughts still on Nathan and his predicament. Any minute now . . .
It was a dismal place, the air dank and foul-smelling, the ground yielding soggily under his feet. The rain discovered yet another weak point in the roof and began dripping steadily down the back of his neck. He shifted his position and nearly fell over something lying against the wall, something firm but not hard, nor yet soft and yielding as a heap of hay or sacking might have been. His eyes had not adjusted to the gloom but he could jus
t make out a dark shape. A dead animal, perhaps a sheep, that had somehow blundered into the hut but been unable to clamber out again past the inward swinging door. Rotten luck on a poor beast, trapped there and starving to death. No wonder the place stank. He backed uneasily away. Accustomed and hardened as he was to the violence of the city, he had yet to come to terms with nature red in tooth and claw.
The rain was still pouring down. Nathan squinted through a gap in the wall and saw the edge of the cloud and beyond it, on the horizon, a brilliant band of blue and gold. In a few minutes the squall would pass. Just time for a cigarette. The flame of the match joined with the grey light filtering through the roof and enabled him to see clearly the object in the corner. It was not, after all, the body of an animal. Animals do not wear boots and trousers.
It would need editing, of course, but it was a start. She was nearly home, eager to get indoors and put it down on paper. She reached the point a short distance outside the village where the track swung away to the right. She always enjoyed the moment when, rounding a curve, she saw the valley open out ahead with the cottages, hers and Iris’s, snuggling cosily at the foot of the bank.
There was nothing cosy about the setting on this occasion. Two police cars were parked outside Iris’s cottage.
A small knot of people had gathered round the stile. Most of them were strangers to Melissa but one or two she remembered seeing around the village. Some of them were looking northwards along the valley to where, in the distance, groups of uniformed figures moved about, apparently searching the ground. Others were gaping at Iris, who was standing by her garden gate where a woman police officer seemed to be trying to reason with her. There was something unnatural and disturbing about Iris’s appearance. She was rigid, her thin hands were locked together against her mouth and her eyes were wild, as if some hideous image was trapped inside them. She seemed to be taking no notice of the policewoman but was staring past her in the same direction as the onlookers. Her face was the colour of clay. Melissa hurried over to her.
‘What in the world’s going on?’ she exclaimed.
At the sound of her voice, Iris unfroze as if a switch had been pressed. She reached out with both hands, her mouth twitching and her words coming in staccato jerks.
‘Melissa! Oh, Melissa, I found it . . . I dug it up . . . oh, my God!’ She doubled up and retched, noisily and uselessly. ‘Nothing left to throw up!’ she moaned, clawing at her stomach.
‘Are you a friend of hers, madam?’ asked the policewoman.
‘I’m her next-door neighbour.’
‘Could you see if you can calm her down? I’ve been trying to persuade her to let me take her indoors but I can’t get her to move. Inspector Grieves will want to have a word with her presently.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Whatever’s happened?’
‘She’s had a rather nasty shock,’ said the policewoman. ‘It seems she came across the remains of a body in the woods.’
‘Good heavens, how horrible! Come on, Iris, what you need is a stiff drink.’ Gently, Melissa took her by the arm. ‘We’ll be in my house,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Ghouls!’ Iris muttered, glaring furiously at the bystanders as she allowed herself to be led away.
‘Never mind them.’ Melissa sat her down in the kitchen, fetched a shawl to wrap around her shoulders and poured out a good measure of brandy.
Iris surveyed the glass with suspicion. ‘Don’t normally touch that stuff,’ she declared.
‘This doesn’t seem to be a normal day, so drink it up,’ Melissa commanded. She put a box of cream crackers on the table. ‘You’d better have one or two of these, your stomach must be pretty empty.’
After a momentary hesitation, Iris took several sips of the spirit and reached for a biscuit. It was an unexpected reversal of roles. So far during their short acquaintance she had been the dominant one yet here she was, doing what she was told like a frightened child.
There was an interval while Iris sipped and hiccupped and nibbled. After a few minutes her breathing settled down and colour returned to her face. She swallowed the last of her brandy and put down the glass. She had stopped trembling but her hands moved restlessly, clenching and unclenching as they lay on the table, then clawing at her face and tugging at the hair that stood out in springy disorder round her face.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Her voice was a tremulous squeaky whisper. ‘It was so awful, an arm, fingers, bits of bone with something beastly clinging to them . . . and the smell!’
Melissa slid an arm round her and patted her shoulder. Her own stomach stirred queasily as she pictured Iris disinterring a partly decomposed corpse. It was enough to make anyone throw up. The recollection that not ten minutes before she had blithely arranged for Nathan Latimer to make a similar discovery began sending shock-waves through her own system.
‘I think I could do with a snort as well!’ she declared. ‘Do you want another?’
‘Leaf-mould for the garden!’ Iris wailed, holding out her glass. Tears ran down her cheeks and dribbled from her chin. ‘That’s all I wanted. Went out early. Got two bags . . . decided to have just one more . . . and I dug my shovel in deep . . .’ Her face was awash, smeary with dirt and tears. Melissa tore a sheet from her kitchen roll and handed it over.
‘Come on now, try and pull yourself together. The inspector will be here in a minute.’
Iris looked aghast. ‘Have I got to talk to the police?’ Mechanically, she wiped her eyes, scrubbed at her cheeks and blew her nose. She examined her hands, still grimy with leaf-mould.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Melissa, ‘but don’t worry, it’ll only be a formality. He’ll simply want to know what you were doing there and what time it was and so on. The policewoman will be there too.’
As she spoke, there was a knock at the door.
Iris clutched at Melissa’s arm. ‘You’ll stay with me?’ she begged.
‘If I’m allowed to.’
‘Shan’t tell him anything unless he lets you stay,’ Iris insisted. ‘Haven’t done anything wrong. Want a witness.’ At least she was beginning to sound more like herself.
‘Don’t worry. You go and wash your face,’ ordered Melissa as she went to open the door.
Before the inspector had a chance to put his first question to a nervous-looking Iris, the telephone rang.
‘I’ll take it upstairs,’ said Melissa, avoiding her neighbour’s imploring eye.
‘Melissa? Bruce Ingram,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘I hear there’s been a bit of excitement in Upper Benbury!’
Melissa was taken aback. She had, of course, expected the press to be on to it before long but not quite so soon as this. ‘You’re quick off the mark,’ she said, trying not to sound hostile. ‘Surely it wasn’t mentioned at today’s police briefing . . . there hasn’t been time.’
‘Aha, you know your procedure!’ He sounded impressed. ‘No, I just happened to be at the police station checking on something else when the call came through.’
‘Well, it’s no use talking to me. You’ll have to get your story somewhere else.’
‘I’m not after a story.’
‘Oh, pull the other one! A journalist is always after a story.’
‘No kidding. Upper Benbury isn’t on my patch.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘Can anyone overhear us?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I’m upstairs and a police inspector is in the room below talking to her-who-found-the-body. I gather she dug it up along with leaf-mould for her garden.’
‘You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?’
‘No . . . what?’
‘Bet you any money that’s Babs’s body your friend just dug up!’ His excitement sizzled along the wire. ‘It may take a while to identify, of course . . .’
‘Oh, no!’ Melissa remembered her rash promise, given only an hour or so ago, and her heart sank. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’
‘I’ve got a very strong hunch
. . .’
‘You seem to get rather a lot of hunches.’
‘And they’re usually right. This’ll give us a start on the Bill. When can we meet to plan our strategy?’
‘Our . . . now wait a minute . . .’ It was one thing to solve the puzzle of some freak telephone calls. Getting involved in murder was something Melissa preferred to confine to the pages of her novels. ‘You’re not going to drag me into this,’ she insisted.
‘You did say, if I came up with anything fresh . . .’ he reminded her.
‘There’s absolutely nothing whatever to connect this body with Babs. We don’t know yet if it’s a man or a woman, and even if it is a woman . . .’
‘It is Babs!’ he insisted. ‘I told you, I have . . .’
‘I know . . . a hunch,’ Melissa finished for him. ‘Well you follow your hunch and leave me to get on with my novel.’ It was all getting too involved, there were too many real coincidences without Bruce inventing any more. ‘Please, leave me out of it!’ she begged.
But Bruce was relentless, his tenacity wrapped in persuasive charm. ‘Oh, come on, think of the edge it’ll give you on the competition to do a bit of real-life sleuthing. Many crime novelists would give their right arms for an opportunity like this!’
Melissa gave a resigned sigh. ‘I’d be glad if you’d keep the bit about crime novelists to yourself,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s gone round the village as it is and I’d rather it didn’t go any further.’
Bruce chuckled. ‘No interviews given, I take the point. Besides, the last thing we want at the moment is media attention. When we’ve cracked the case you’ll be glad of the publicity. Think of the boost to your sales!’
Melissa rolled her eyes to the ceiling. All this talk of cracking the case was too absurd. She was an author, not a private eye. Still, he had a point about the publicity. She could picture the gleam in Joe’s eye when he heard about it. It would probably be a wild-goose chase but it might just lead to something.
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 8
