Matron shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, and I do not think he would be welcomed if he did.’ She hesitated, looking down at her blotter and tracing its outline with one finger. ‘I should not really discuss a patient’s private affairs with strangers, but it seems that the two are totally estranged. Even a mention of his father seems to upset Clive.’
‘Would it have anything to do with his affair with Babs, do you think?’ asked Melissa.
‘That would not have helped at all, I’m sure, but I have reason to think the trouble goes much deeper than that.’ Matron looked from one to the other, a mixture of doubt and compassion in her eyes. ‘I . . . I do not think, as you are not members of his family, I can tell you any more.’
‘We quite understand and we’ll be very careful not to upset him,’ said Melissa. ‘Thank you for allowing us to see him.’
‘Not at all. I’m sure if this obsession with Babs could be resolved, it would be a help to him.’ There was a knock at the door and a young woman in a blue overall entered the room. ‘Nurse will show you to Clive’s room. Only a few minutes, remember. I’ll send her along when your time is up . . . and please, if he shows any signs of agitation, ring the bell by the bed and she will come at once.’
Clive Shepherd, clad in pyjamas and dressing-gown, was seated in an armchair with a rug over his knees when Melissa and Bruce entered his room but despite their protests he struggled to his feet with the aid of a crutch. He was tall and thin, with hollow cheeks and dark, deep-set eyes. Apart from the cast on his right leg and a scar that ran up his right temple and vanished under a fold of straight dark hair, he showed no outward signs of his injuries.
The hand he offered them was cold but its grip was firm and strong and Melissa sensed something of the implacable will that had kept him alive. When he spoke, there was animation in his voice. Evidently he was having a good day.
‘I understand you’re a friend of Babs?’ The dark eyes probed hers, searching.
‘Er . . . not exactly,’ said Melissa, feeling as if she were picking her way among broken glass. ‘Bruce knows her. You and I have spoken once or twice on the telephone.’
‘Ah, yes!’ A flame of recollection spurted in his eyes, like the wick of a lamp suddenly turned up. ‘You asked me to ring again . . . tomorrow?’ The flame flickered uncertainly; the intervening days had become blurred.
‘I thought it would be nice to come and see you instead,’ said Melissa with a friendly smile which he returned, rather hesitantly. It transformed his face, giving him an almost saintly appearance.
‘And you?’ he turned back to Bruce. ‘You know her? You’ve seen her?’
It was Bruce’s turn to improvise. ‘Not this week,’ he said. ‘I think she must be away. I work quite close to The Usual Place and I see her there now and again when I drop in for a drink.’
Clive sighed deeply and his smile faded. Something like anger smouldered in his eyes. ‘I keep telling her, I don’t like her working at that place. I asked her to meet me there but they said she’d gone. I don’t believe them. Why wouldn’t they let me talk to her?’ His skeletal fingers gripped the arms of his chair.
The first signs of agitation, thought Melissa. Bruce had noticed it too and replied in a calm, soothing voice.
‘She’s taken a few days off, by the looks of things. Gone to see her family, perhaps.’
Clive shook his head and his knuckles began to whiten. ‘She hasn’t any family. She was brought up in homes. I’m the only one who’s ever cared about her.’ His eyes became moist and his mouth worked.
‘Oh well, I shouldn’t worry,’ said Bruce. He was calm and reassuring with a touch of authority in his voice, like a doctor with a good bedside manner, thought Melissa. It worked, too. Clive’s grip on the chair relaxed and he sat back and closed his eyes.
‘Shall I give her a message if I see her?’ Bruce went on.
The effect of this offer was alarming. Clive sat bolt upright and clutched at Bruce, gripping his arms with both hands.
‘Tell her not to do it!’ he said fiercely. ‘It’s a fool’s game . . . dangerous . . . and wicked!’ His colour had risen and he was breathing hard. The visitors exchanged nervous glances.
‘Calm down, mate,’ said Bruce. ‘No need to get uptight.’
‘She mustn’t . . . do it!’ The voice was getting weaker. ‘Dangerous game . . . black . . .’ He released his grip and a blankness settled over his face. He sank back with closed eyes.
Bruce, rubbing his arms, half-rose from the chair in alarm. ‘We’d better ring for Nurse,’ he muttered.
Melissa was already on her feet, reaching for the bell, but at that moment there was a gentle knock and the nurse who had escorted them reappeared. She hurried over to Clive, pulled out a watch and began checking his pulse.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Melissa anxiously. ‘We were talking quite quietly when he suddenly got very uptight . . .’ She stared at the thin face with its sunken cheeks and livid scar and felt her throat contract. If Babs was dead, sooner or later he would be sure to find out, and the knowledge would bring unspeakable hurt.
As she watched, Clive opened his eyes and smiled. Melissa was reminded of pictures of medieval saints.
‘It’s been nice talking to you,’ he said in a tired but rational voice. He held out his hand. ‘Please come again.’ With a flick of her eyes and a brief nod the nurse dismissed them.
‘We’ll see you again soon,’ promised Bruce. Clive made no effort to get up this time, but his handclasp was as firm as ever.
When they got back to the entrance hall, Bruce went over to the reception desk. The same girl was sitting there and he gave her a paralysing smile of which Melissa felt the ricochet effect.
‘Would you do something for me?’ he asked in a voice rich with unimaginable promise.
The girl looked up at him with adoration in the sea-blue eyes. Yes, yes! they said. For you I will walk barefoot over hot coals!
‘What do you want me to do?’ she murmured.
‘When anyone rings or calls to enquire about Mr Shepherd, just make a note of their name and ask where they can be reached. I’m organising a fund-raising event for the Intensive Therapy Unit in Gloucester,’ he went on, his manner dripping with the milk of human kindness. ‘I’m trying to contact friends of former patients, to invite them to contribute. I believe Mr Shepherd was in there before coming here, wasn’t he?’
Melissa could barely control her amazement at this outrageous story. Convinced that no one could possibly fall for it, she braced herself for a flood of awkward questions but there were none. The girl appeared to take the bait without hesitation.
‘What a simply lovely idea!’ she cooed.
‘I’ll give you my number. Have you got something I can write on?’ No prizes for guessing why he doesn’t give her his card, thought Melissa.
The hand that passed him the memo pad trembled with excitement.
‘Shall I ask people to ring you direct?’
‘No, just tell them I’ll be in touch. You ring me with the details, okay?’
Of course! proclaimed the shining eyes. Any excuse to talk to you is more than okay by me! I’ll bet if you tilted her up she’d say ‘Mama’, thought Melissa bitchily.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Bruce.
‘It’s Rowena.’
‘Pretty name for a pretty girl!’ She simpered with delight. ‘Oh, by the way!’ He tilted his face a little closer to hers. ‘Don’t go telling the rest of the staff here. It might get back to someone at the hospital and I want it to be a surprise.’
She looked doubtful. ‘What about when my colleague’s on duty?’
Bruce looked non-plussed for a moment. ‘Ah . . . well, I’ll have to rely on you both to be discreet.’
‘You can rely on me,’ she assured him earnestly.
‘Thanks so much, Rowena. I’ll wait to hear from you. Bye!’ He blew her a kiss as he turned away, bringing a blush to her cheeks and setting her eyelashes fluttering.
‘You are quite preposterous!’ said Melissa as they returned to the car. She tried to sound severe but laughter escaped. ‘May you be forgiven all those lies, and for arousing false hopes in that poor girl’s quivering bosom.’
‘Her bosom did quiver rather nicely, now you come to mention it,’ said Bruce with a sidelong glance which Melissa ignored.
‘I can’t really see what you hope to gain by that exercise anyway,’ she persisted. ‘I mean, if someone with evil intent does enquire after Clive, he or she isn’t likely to give a phone number.’
‘Of course not, but at least we’ll know that someone who doesn’t wish to be identified is showing an interest. And in that case,’ he started the engine and began driving slowly back towards the gate, ‘Clive could be in deadly danger.’
‘Then we’d have to tell the police.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He sounded reluctant.
‘Where to now?’ she asked, noticing that he was taking a different road to the way they had come.
‘To a pub for a drink, and then we’ll think about dinner.’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
The evening was mild and they found a pub with a garden overlooking the river. Bruce fetched the drinks and they sat on rustic seats and watched the antics of a blackbird splashing around in the bird-bath. Other customers sat quietly chatting and laughing, enjoying the late sunshine that settled over the countryside in a velvety golden haze. It was tempting to forget such sordid matters as crime and its attendant miseries. They were, however, uppermost in Bruce’s mind.
‘Well,’ he said after a long pull at his pint of real ale. ‘Now we know that Babs was contemplating blackmail.’
‘We don’t know for certain,’ objected Melissa. ‘She does seem to have been contemplating something that Clive disapproved of and thought was dangerous, but we don’t really know what it was.’
‘Oh come on, he distinctly said . . .’
‘He said something that sounded like “black” but it could have meant something quite different.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s supposed to be religious, he might have been talking about the blackness of her soul if she didn’t turn from her sinful ways.’
Bruce looked down his nose. ‘You don’t really believe that!’
‘I suppose you may be right, but . . .’
‘I know I am.’
Privately, she too was sure of it but the consequences of admitting it alarmed her. She felt herself being drawn into a shadowy, sinister web. She concentrated on mutilating the lemon in her gin and tonic, aware that Bruce was watching her closely.
‘How would Nathan Latimer tackle this?’ he said suddenly.
She frowned. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’
‘Not a bit. Your Nathan is a stickler for the old logical deductive process, so unleash him!’
She could see that beneath the teasing manner he was perfectly serious. He wanted her help. She took a mouthful from her glass and set it down.
‘All right, let’s start with what we know for certain. Clive is infatuated with Babs but disapproves of her lifestyle and would like her to leave The Usual Place. Eventually she does that but she doesn’t say a word to Clive. She also leaves her flat without leaving an address. No one has seen her since and most people, including the police, seem to accept that she’s gone off of her own accord, except Clive. He is last seen at The Usual Place with his knickers in a fearful twist, hinting that someone is keeping something from him. At least, I’m assuming that was the last time he was seen. Was he traced anywhere else?’
‘Yes, after he was chucked out of The Usual Place he went to at least two pubs in the city but he didn’t drink very much according to witnesses . . . just sat in a corner with half a pint, looking miserable. At the last sighting, he was definitely on his own.’
‘And the next thing we know, he’s had a near-fatal accident. By the way, you were there while he was making that scene . . . did you hear him say anything about this “dangerous game” Babs was supposed to be playing?’
Bruce thought for a moment. ‘It’s getting on for a year ago, so I can’t be sure of every word. My impression was that he wasn’t prepared to accept that Babs would take off without a word, that he was convinced someone knew where she was and he was determined to get to the bottom of her disappearance. “They needn’t think they can get away with it” sticks in my head. But no,’ he concluded after some further thought, ‘I’m sure that if he’d said anything that suggested blackmail, I’d have remembered.’
‘So according to what he’s been saying to us this evening, he knew — or thought he knew — more than he was prepared to say at the time?’
‘Why do you say “thought he knew”?’ asked Bruce.
‘Babs and Clive come from very different backgrounds. He said she was brought up in homes whereas he’s obviously well-educated. Streetwise kids use a lot of slang expressions . . . maybe he didn’t really understand some of the things she came out with . . .’
‘Are you saying you don’t believe Babs was planning to blackmail anyone?’
‘No,’ Melissa said slowly, ‘I’m simply saying that we can’t list that under the things we know for certain, just on Clive’s say-so. For the moment, we have to file it under a “possible/probable” heading.’
Bruce gave her a searching look. ‘Which do you think — possible or probable?’ he asked.
Melissa took another sip from her drink. In spite of her reluctance to become involved, that part of her brain that enjoyed devising puzzles for Nathan Latimer to solve was ticking over fast.
‘I haven’t quite decided. Tell me, how many people would you say were in the bar that night?’
‘It was pretty busy, but not packed to capacity.’
‘Could it be that someone there who knew what had happened to Babs quietly slipped out and followed him when he left?’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,’ Bruce was quick to point out. ‘That’s why I’m convinced his so-called accident was contrived . . . you’re beginning to believe that too, aren’t you?’
‘Not necessarily, although I’m not saying for sure that it wasn’t. We can’t discount the possibility that Babs did tell someone — perhaps one of her regulars — that she was planning to leave town, that that person was in the bar and out of the kindness of his heart went after Clive to tell him he was wasting his time looking for her.’
Bruce looked disappointed. ‘That still doesn’t account for the accident.’
‘It could do. If this person didn’t put the message across very tactfully, and it came out inadvertently that Babs was a hooker as well as a stripper . . . that would really have upset Clive . . . it might have sent him right over the edge for the time being.’
‘So you’re going back to what you said at the start . . . that Babs deliberately dropped out of Clive’s life because she’d got bored with him and he wouldn’t stop pestering her?’ Bruce’s expression made Melissa think of a wounded basset-hound.
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, unable to restrain a smile. ‘I was merely saying that on the basis of what we know for certain, that could be the case.’
Bruce put down his empty glass with an impatient gesture. ‘I don’t believe it. Babs believed that Clive had prospects . . . people heard her say so. We know now that she was right; someone in his family, probably his father, is wealthy enough to keep him indefinitely at Cedar Lawns. So why drop him?’
‘Ah, but suppose Clive mentioned that his father was well off but made it clear that they were estranged. Babs could have hung on for a while in the hope that there’d be a reconciliation, realised after all that it wasn’t going to happen and tried to put an end to the association. Clive, believing she was in love with him, and being crazy about her, wouldn’t let her go.’
‘You think that’s how it was?’
‘You asked me how Nathan Latimer would reason the thing through, and that�
�s what I’ve been trying to do.’
‘You haven’t answered the question. Do you believe there are absolutely no suspicious circumstances in either Babs’s disappearance or Clive’s accident?’
‘No,’ Melissa said quietly. ‘To be honest, that’s what I’d like to believe . . . but no. I’m not sure about Clive’s smash-up — that could have been a genuine accident — but I do think Babs was up to something dangerous, and it could well have been connected with drugs. But how we go about proving it, or even turning up some piece of evidence to get the police to start an investigation . . . that’s something else. Is there something wrong?’ she added.
Bruce had been massaging his forearm for several seconds and was now staring down at it as if he had made an unpleasant discovery. He began rolling up his shirtsleeve.
‘Remember when Clive got so excited and grabbed me by the arms?’ he said. ‘I thought at the time, this bloke’s got hands like rat-traps. Look.’
The two of them stared in astonishment at the purple marks where fingers had dug into the flesh.
‘I’m sure that the girl whose body was found in the woods was Babs,’ Bruce went on, slowly, as if thinking aloud. ‘It’s been established that she died from manual strangulation. We suspect that after he left The Usual Place that night Clive may have learned things about her that he didn’t know before.’ He lifted his head and looked directly at Melissa, his eyes troubled. ‘What do you suppose his reaction might have been?’
‘Good Lord!’ said Melissa. There was a long silence while they considered the implications.
‘Maybe he found her after leaving The Usual Place . . . ’
‘. . . and killed her in a fit of jealous rage . . . ’
‘. . . after a few drinks . . . ’
‘. . . buried her body . . . ’
‘. . . drove off like a madman . . . ’
‘. . . maybe hoping to kill himself . . . ’
‘. . . and then fought like hell to live? Not logical,’ Melissa finished. ‘No, I can’t believe it, not Clive. There was a sort of saintliness about him, he’s no killer.’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 14
