‘You meant that?’ she whispered urgently as he got into his car and reached for the ignition. ‘Promise you won’t let that get splashed around?’
‘I promise.’
Feeling faintly sick, Melissa turned away and went indoors, ignoring Bruce’s farewell wave. A few minutes later there was a knock. Iris stood in the porch with Binkie clutched in her arms.
‘Got to talk to you,’ she muttered, her eyes on the ground.
‘Of course . . . come in. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thanks.’ In the kitchen, Iris prowled restlessly to and fro with her cheek pressed against Binkie’s head while Melissa loaded the supper things into the dish-washer and brewed more coffee.
‘Rather stay out here,’ she said when Melissa suggested going to the sitting-room. She sat down with the cat on her lap, staring at the mug on the table in front of her.
‘Can you trust him?’ she asked suddenly.
‘You mean Bruce?’
‘Hate reporters. Love a bit of dirt. One of them asked me . . . after I found it . . . if I lived alone. Know what he was thinking, dirty beast. Told him to mind his own business!’
‘I’m pretty sure Bruce meant what he said,’ replied Melissa. ‘The Gazette isn’t a scandal-sheet.’
Iris continued her contemplation of the steaming coffee-mug.
‘It’s true, you know,’ she blurted out after a long silence.
‘What is?’ Melissa asked the question mechanically but already she knew the answer and felt immensely sad.
‘What he said about . . . ’ Iris seemed unable to finish.
‘About Mr Calloway, you mean?’ Melissa prompted in a low voice.
Iris nodded. Her hands were cupped round Binkie’s head, her thin shoulders sagged, her head was bent and her eyes were closed. It was almost as if she were praying. Melissa’s mind went back to the evening when she and Bruce had come upon the Rector standing with bowed head beside that woodland grave. Did he know, or at least suspect, whose body had lain there? She remembered now what it was that had struck her as strange. It was the way he had said, ‘So it was a woman’, as if he had half-expected it.
‘How do you know it’s true?’ she asked.
‘Saw him once. Long time ago. Me and a friend had supper in . . . that place. We’d just come out. Saw him dive up that alley, through a side door. He didn’t see me. Found out later what went on there.’ She lifted her head and turned a ravaged face to Melissa. ‘He could have come to me!’ she moaned. Her eyes were streaming, her mouth worked, her arms encircled the cat in a despairing embrace. Words jerked out of her in gasps as she fought for control. ‘She . . . wouldn’t let him touch her . . . once she had the boys . . . needn’t have gone for tarts . . . could have had me!’ Her voice rose to a wail in which Binkie joined as her grip on him tightened.
‘Oh, Iris!’ Melissa felt her own eyes fill. ‘Who told you this . . . about Mrs Calloway, I mean?’
Iris’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘She did! Boasted about it. Thinks herself so pure and virtuous. Thought I was the same. Not married, ergo think sex is dirty. She’s the dirty one, the frigid miserable bitch. She drove him to . . . that!’
‘Here, drink this.’ Melissa put a glass of brandy beside the untouched mug of coffee. Oh my God, she thought, where is all this going to end?
Seventeen
Next morning, Gloria was bursting with curiosity about the proceedings at the U.P. Club. Melissa, still depressed by the revelations of the previous evening, tried to play the whole thing down. Gloria attributed her lack of enthusiasm to disappointment.
‘What a pity you missed Gorgeous George!’ she sighed. ‘I was dying to know if what they says about him is really true!’
‘You haven’t seen him, then?’
‘Can’t, can I? I has to fetch the kids from school. Besides, my Stanley’s place is only just around the corner. He’d half-kill me if he spotted me going in there!’ She wriggled with delight at the thought and a pair of earrings that Melissa had not seen before swung wildly to and fro.
‘They’re nice!’ Melissa remarked, hoping to divert attention from the antics of Gorgeous George and his public.
‘Like them?’ Gloria tilted her head to invite closer inspection. ‘Solid gold. My Stan says I deserve the best!’ Her brown eyes glowed with love and pride.
‘I think your Stan’s quite right,’ said Melissa gently.
‘Ooh, thanks!’ Gloria gave the earrings an affectionate pat before beginning to assemble her cleaning materials. ‘Mustn’t waste any more time, must I?’ She bustled off with the vacuum cleaner and Melissa went upstairs to write letters.
Later, just as they were finishing their coffee-break, there was a knock at the door. It was the Rector. In the fresh morning light his appearance was more wholesome and cherubic than ever. It was difficult to associate him with grubby little adventures at The Usual Place.
‘Good morning, Mr Calloway,’ said Melissa. ‘Do come in!’
‘Thank you.’ He wiped his feet carefully before stepping inside. ‘I see Gloria — Mrs Parkin — is here.’ He nodded towards the red Escort, beaming.
‘That’s right. She comes to me every Wednesday morning. We’ve just been having coffee; would you like a cup?’
‘Now that is most kind.’ He followed her eagerly into the kitchen where Gloria was rinsing her mug at the sink. She greeted him with a cheery smile as she reached forward to pick up a teacloth, treating him to a glimpse of cleavage which brought a sparkle to his eyes.
‘Morning, Rector. Bit chilly this morning, innit?’
‘Just a little, but at least the rain has stopped.’ He rubbed his hands and cleared his throat.
‘Right then, Mrs Craig, I’ll be getting on with upstairs.’ Gloria collected her paraphernalia, contriving as she did so to drop a duster. Melissa, spooning out instant coffee, noticed Mr Calloway’s appreciative eye on her well-rounded rear as she bent to retrieve it. Yesterday, she might have felt indulgent amusement, but not now.
‘I’ve brought this month’s parish magazine,’ he said, extracting it from his carrier bag with one hand and accepting the proffered cup with the other. ‘I was wondering . . . would it be an impertinence to ask if you would take out an annual subscription? Only three pounds, you know, and it would help to reduce the paperwork.’
‘But of course.’ Melissa took her handbag from a drawer.
‘That is most kind of you.’ He put the three pounds in a little purse and made a note in his pocket-book. ‘And . . . hrmm . . . I wonder if I could possibly prevail on you to contribute the occasional article?’
Melissa concealed a smile, remembering Iris’s warning. ‘What sort of article . . . not about crime, surely?’
‘Oh no, no, of course not. Just a little piece . . . I leave the topic to you, as a professional writer . . .’ He made a vague gesture as if trying to conjure inspiration out of the air. ‘Just now and again, you know . . . it’s so difficult to get fresh ideas from our limited list of contributors . . . of course, they all do a splendid job,’ he hurried on, glancing around as if afraid that some of them might be listening and take offence.
‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ Melissa promised. ‘Excuse me,’ she added as the telephone rang. She went into the sitting-room to answer it. Bruce was on the line.
‘Hot news!’ he told her. ‘A dentist in Worcester has identified the body in Benbury Woods as a former patient. He treated her about six years ago when she was living in a children’s home. Her name was on the records as Barbara Cartwright.’
‘Which you think she changed to Babs Carter?’
‘Exactly. The police are trying to trace what became of her after she left the home. We know where she fetched up, don’t we?’ Waves of excitement flowed along the wire.
‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘No need. They’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Have you handed those pictures over to them?’
‘Not yet. Haven’t
had time.’
‘I think you should make time. Any news of Clive?’
‘Rowena’s reported two calls. That girl is a jewel.’
‘And?’ Melissa suppressed a twinge of something she refused to recognise as jealousy.
‘His manager rang to enquire about his chances of coming back to work. He’s okay . . . he’s been to see Clive several times.’
‘And the other call?’
‘A man called Preston, on behalf of Clive’s father.’
‘Genuine?’
‘Oh, yes, it’s routine. The old man never contacts the hospital personally.’
‘Not exactly a loving relationship, is it? Well, nothing sinister so far.’
‘Rowena’s going to keep on monitoring. I must go now. I have to do a stint in the Magistrate’s Court. I’ll keep you posted.’
When Melissa returned to the kitchen, the Rector was standing at the window.
‘I’ve been admiring your garden,’ he said. ‘You’ve made splendid progress.’
‘Yes, it’s coming on. Iris gives me plenty of advice and encouragement.’
‘Ah, yes, Miss Ash is a dedicated gardener!’ He turned to Melissa, concern in his eyes. ‘I trust she has recovered from her terrible experience?’
‘Oh yes, I think so. She’s pretty resilient.’ There was a short silence before Melissa came to her decision. ‘That was a friend of mine who works on the Gazette,’ she said. ‘He told me that the body Iris discovered in the woods has been identified.’
‘Really?’ Mr Calloway’s face lengthened. ‘Was it someone local?’
‘A former inmate of a children’s home near Worcester called Barbara Cartwright.’
Apprehension flickered in the grey-green eyes. ‘Worcester?’ he whispered.
‘My friend believes that she came to Gloucester, changed her name to Babs Carter and worked as a bar attendant and stripper at The Usual Place.’
The moment she had spoken, she wished she hadn’t. The Rector’s face puckered like a shrunken toy balloon and his healthy pink colour faded to an ashy grey. His mouth worked but no sound came.
‘You knew her?’ Melissa asked.
He gave a great sigh that was almost a sob. ‘I knew a girl called Babs who . . . worked there.’
‘I thought perhaps you did.’
‘She . . . told me she came from Worcester.’
There was a clattering overhead and the sound of the toilet being flushed. They both looked up in alarm. They had completely forgotten Gloria’s presence.
‘Don’t worry, she can’t possibly have heard,’ Melissa said quickly.
‘How did you find out?’
‘I’m afraid you were seen at least twice at The Usual Place, going in by the side way.’
He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Who by?’
‘As far as I know, by people who are unlikely to give you away . . . unless of course it was you who . . .’ The notion seemed so monstrous that she could not finish.
‘Killed her? Oh no, no! I . . . loved her!’ The words were barely audible. Upstairs, Gloria’s voice rose in song above the hum of the vacuum cleaner.
‘You’d better come into the sitting-room and have a drop of brandy,’ Melissa suggested, but he made an emphatic gesture of refusal.
‘No, no, that would never do. Anthea would notice. I must go, I have to think. Poor little Babs!’
‘The identification isn’t absolutely certain . . . I mean, the police haven’t yet connected Barbara Cartwright with Babs Carter, but I don’t expect it will take them long.’
‘You think they will find out I knew her, and ask questions?’
‘It’s possible.’
He got to his feet. He seemed to have aged ten years in a few minutes.
‘Thank you for warning me,’ he said quietly. ‘You won’t . . .?’
‘I shall forget all about this conversation.’ Melissa handed him the carrier bag containing the rest of the parish magazines. ‘Don’t go without this . . . and I’ll give some thought to a few articles for you!’ She raised her voice to a hearty brightness as Gloria began clumping down the stairs. Mr Calloway took his cue like a professional actor.
‘That’s really most kind of you!’ He even managed a smile on his way out. ‘Good morning, ladies!’
‘He don’t look too good, do he?’ commented Gloria, rummaging in the cupboard for furniture polish. ‘Must be his indigestion. Always drinks his coffee too fast, he do!’
When Gloria had gone, Melissa ate a hasty lunch and went to her study. Recent events were fermenting in her mind along with the plot of her book. It was like having two casseroles in the oven at the same time, with one boiling over into the other. She had started to keep two sets of notes, one of actual happenings and the other with ideas for the story. Several times she had found herself making entries in the wrong file.
After recording the events and conversations of that morning, she sat for a long time staring at her typewriter, unable to forget the misery in Mr Calloway’s eyes. She did not for one moment believe he was a killer, but others might. If he were traced and questioned by the police there was a strong possibility that the press would get hold of it. Reporters would descend on him like crows on the carcase of a rabbit. His life and that of his wife and his sons would be devastated.
Then there was Iris. She had found the body. If her discovery should lead, after the slow but inexorable processes it had set in train, to the exposure of Mr Calloway’s weakness, the secret of which she had — unbeknown to him — guarded for so long, she would almost feel responsible for bringing about the ruin of the man she worshipped.
Melissa got up from her desk and moved restlessly about the room, trying to switch her mind back to her work. She had reached a point in her novel where a second murder was about to take place. Thinking back to the first chapter and the discovery of a corpse in the shepherd’s hut, she recalled that, even while she was absorbed in planning the opening paragraphs, Iris had been recoiling in horror from the realisation of what she had exhumed. Just a coincidence of course, but there had been others, less sinister but nonetheless bringing a sense of edginess to events that were in themselves commonplace.
Melissa had never believed in the supernatural yet now she found herself fancying that some mischievous spirit with a warped sense of humour was at work, using the creative powers of her mind to reveal past crimes or, worse still, to lead her into predictions of future violence and terror. There were moments, especially on chilly sunless evenings or on windy nights when she awoke to the moan of the wind through the broken walls of Daniel’s hut, when she had an uneasy sensation that Hawthorn Cottage had not yet accepted her as its rightful owner. Could it be possible that the shade of old Jacko, who had lived there in solitude for so many years, was hostile to her presence and had hit on a bizarre and horrifying form of revenge? It was a chilling, if wholly irrational, thought.
Exhorting herself not to be ridiculous, she jerked back her chair and went downstairs, feeling a need to be out of doors. She thought of asking Iris to come for a walk but decided against it. Sooner or later, she would learn about the identification of Babs’s body, but that could wait. The last thing Melissa wanted was to talk about it now.
The weather was cool and cloudy with a fresh breeze blowing from the west. Melissa put on her anorak and thick shoes and set off, following the path down to the brook. At this time of day there was seldom anyone about although presently, when the schools were out and if the rain held off, there would be children playing by the brook and in the evening a few people would bring their dogs to let off steam chasing rabbits up and down the banks. Once, this had been a well-trodden path for Benbury folk trudging to their labour on the outlying farms. Now, such as still worked on the land went by car.
Soon, Melissa found herself alone on the edge of Benbury Wood. The strengthening breeze made a rushing sound through the treetops. Branches creaked overhead. Small, invisible feet scurried among the undergrowth. Without admi
tting to herself that she felt in any way nervous, she avoided the dim paths and followed one she had not taken before, skirting the woods and climbing away to the left. It was steep, overgrown with brambles and evidently little used, but after a couple of hundred yards it gave without warning on to a farm track. She crossed over, picking her way round a heap of loose stones, and found herself on the crest of a broad, flat ridge looking out over the Severn Vale.
Away to her right, the ridge curved westwards; to her left it ran almost due south. In front of her, a little below the skyline and nestling in the curve like a baby in the crook of its mother’s elbow, was a handsome stone house set in landscaped grounds, partly hidden by trees and surrounded by a high stone wall. Through gaps in the trees, Melissa caught glimpses of a broad grassy track running in a straight line past the back of the property and along the ridge into the distance.
There was the sound of an approaching tractor. Presently it appeared, dragging a trailer-load of straw with a black dog sitting on top. The driver lifted a hand in casual greeting as he passed, then gave a broad grin of recognition. It was Dick Woodman. He pulled over to the edge of the track and leaned out of his cab.
‘Out for a walk, then?’ he called.
‘That’s right,’ she shouted back. ‘I haven’t been this way before.’
He jumped down, leaving the tractor engine belching diesel fumes into the undergrowth.
‘That’s Benbury Park down there,’ he told her.
‘I wondered if it was.’
‘See that? That strip of grass that looks like a race-track?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘That’s their private airstrip!’ He looked as proud as if he owned the property and she obliged him by looking impressed. She looked down again at the house, thinking what a perfect setting it would make for her novel. There was a pair of heavy iron gates let into the wall with a short drive on to the strip where no doubt cars would come to collect the airborne guests and drive them to the house with their luggage, their equipment and whatever else they might bring with them. It was frustrating not to be able to visit the house. It crossed her mind that the Rector had said nothing further about introducing her to the Vowdens. Well, he had other things on his mind now, poor man.
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 18
