‘There’s to be a big party coming in at the weekend for the polo,’ Dick went on. ‘They come every weekend during the season. You want to see what they get through! Champagne by the bucketful and food from one of the fancy restaurants where they sell their fruit and veg from Hanger Hill.’
‘What’s Hanger Hill?’
‘Another of the estate farms. Got a pick-your-own over by the old turnpike. Soon be strawberry time . . . my Jennie makes lovely jam and strawberry tarts!’ He smacked his lips. ‘Well, I must be on my way. I’m still keeping my eyes open for tit-bits for your story-book!’ He climbed back into the cab of his tractor.
‘What sort of tit-bits?’ she called after him.
He looked down and winked. ‘Never know, do you, with all those rich foreign folks!’
‘Don’t let anyone see you snooping around or you’ll be in trouble!’ advised Melissa with a laugh as she returned his wave.
She retraced her steps, feeling a great deal better than when she set out. Meeting Dick, with his cheerful grin and warm Cotswold accent, had helped her to clear her brain of foolish, disturbing fancies. He was in a sense the living contradiction of them since he had, as she had jokingly told Joe Martin, been the model for her first murder victim. And there he was, solidly alive, going about his daily tasks with his tractor and his dog, making everything sane and normal again.
The encounter had also reminded her of a problem she had been wrestling with for her book. Some research was called for.
After tea she sat down to answer Simon’s latest letter. He was having a wonderful time, the heat was a bit of a problem but only when moving from air-conditioned premises to an air-conditioned car. With any luck he’d be able to get over to England later this summer. Fancy a real-life corpse — if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms, ho ho! — being dug up almost on his mother’s doorstep. How was the new novel coming along? A carefully casual reference to Aubrey told her that, while not wanting to pry, he was disappointed by the break and would like to think it was temporary.
She had a loyal, considerate son. She was fondly convinced that he would never have taken the job in the States if it had meant leaving her on her own. Aubrey had come on the scene at what had seemed to be exactly the right moment and had been at great pains to win the younger man’s confidence and reassure him that his mother was loved and cared for. Still, he would have to accept that the relationship was definitely at an end.
Of course, I know you think of my welfare and don’t like me to be alone and all that, but you mustn’t worry. I admit that when you started growing up and making your own life I went through a spell of something like panic, especially with Grandpa retiring and he and Grandma moving so far away from London. Looking back, I’m sure that was what attracted me to Aubrey in the first place. I thought I needed looking after but he overdid the protective male and I had to break away. I really am much happier now, truly, and have been learning some quite surprising things about myself. So please, no more worrying, okay?
‘Oh, hell!’ Melissa ripped the letter across and took a fresh sheet of paper. ‘Why this orgy of self-justification?’ She began again.
I’ve finally broken with Aubrey and it was a great relief. I should have done it ages ago.
The book is coming on slowly. You’d be surprised how life keeps getting in the way. Death too. Our murder victim has been identified but local interest in her has waned recently. Everyone’s far more exercised about an elderly widow who’s been left with a tiny pension and is trying to raise some money by selling part of her enormous garden as a building plot. From the way Major Ford is rallying opposition, anyone would think this would mean our being threatened by space invaders!
Gloria’s Stanley has bought her a pair of earrings that no honest car dealer could afford. I suspect that Iris is right and I know one shouldn’t side with crooks but I’d hate for him to be caught. It would break Gloria’s heart and she’s such a dear . . .
Melissa finished her letter, sealed it and went downstairs. It was a little after five; if she took the short cut she could just catch the evening post.
There was no one about as she skirted Daniel’s hut, took the path through the woods and made her way across the churchyard. The west door of the church stood ajar and the Rector’s bicycle was propped against the wall alongside. On her way back from the letter-box she saw that the door was closed and the bicycle leaning just inside the gate. No doubt its owner had gone back for something he had forgotten. She crossed the churchyard and began picking her way down the path towards home.
She was almost at the bottom when a figure stepped out from among the trees. For a moment she was startled; then she recognised Henry Calloway. He stood awkwardly, directing darting glances here and there as if trying to give the impression that he had come upon her by chance while out walking instead of hurrying down to waylay her. His face was pale and his expression troubled.
‘Mrs Craig, I wonder if you could possibly spare me a few moments? I know your time is precious but . . .’
‘Of course!’ She was at pains to project warmth into her voice. He was plainly in desperate need of someone to talk to. Had he been almost anyone else she would have invited him to her cottage for a sherry but if they were seen, tongues might wag and things were complicated enough already. So she stood still, shading her eyes from the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the young leaves overhead, and waited. It took a little time; for several moments he fidgeted with a twig ripped from a beech sapling, caressing the young shoots with plump, gentle but powerful fingers.
‘She was so small, so vulnerable, under that hard little shell,’ he began at last. ‘Life had not been kind to her.’
‘You mean Babs?’
He nodded. ‘She had been terribly . . . damaged in her early life.’
‘In what way?’ prompted Melissa when it seemed he could not go on.
‘I believe the modern expression is “abused”,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Who by?’
‘Her father. Her mother died when she was a baby and a very close relationship with him developed . . . too close, it seems. Somehow the welfare workers learned of it and she was taken into care. She loved her father very deeply and the separation broke her heart. Soon after, he was killed in a car accident and she never saw him again.’
‘Poor kid,’ said Melissa softly. It explained a lot.
‘I think that was what drew her to me . . . she saw me as a father figure as well as a lover.’ His fingers became still for the moment and he cradled the twig in the palm of his hand. ‘After we had made love, she would lie in the crook of my arm like a tired child.’ His face worked and tears streamed down his face.
Melissa felt her own eyes burn in sympathy. ‘Did she know you were a priest?’
‘She may have suspected but I never confessed. I was too ashamed.’ He bit his lip and the beech twig became more engrossing than ever.
‘When she disappeared what did you think?’
‘I . . .’ For a moment he could not go on but he swallowed hard and continued. ‘I was told she had left. I was concerned that something might have happened to her. Girls like her are exposed to all kinds of danger.’
‘Did you make any enquiries?’
‘How could I? Someone might have found out who I was . . . it would have meant ruin for me . . . and my family. The other girls didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual . . . people in that milieu are so casual about these matters.’
Melissa felt her sympathy evaporate. ‘So why should you worry?’ she said scornfully.
He bowed his head. ‘I deserved that.’
‘At least Clive cared enough to go looking for her.’
For the first time since the conversation started, he raised his head and looked directly at her.
‘You know about Clive?’
‘Yes.’ She did not offer to explain. ‘Did Babs ever speak about him?’
‘From time to time, in a very stran
ge way. She insisted he was not her lover. I gather he was quite strait-laced and I’m afraid she rather despised him for it. She called him . . . some kind of a freak.’
‘A Jesus freak, would it have been?’
The Rector winced and nodded, tearing viciously at the sapling twig. ‘I think she intended to use him to her advantage. She was obsessed with the fear of poverty in her old age.’
‘Do you think she planned to marry him?’
‘She used to drop odd hints, although half the time she used such peculiar expressions that I was never sure what she meant. But I had the impression that she felt she had something to gain from the relationship although I believe he had quite an ordinary job.’
‘I understand his father is quite well-to-do. Perhaps she knew that?’
‘She may have done. I think she was a little afraid of him, though.’
‘Of Clive? Why do you say that?’
There was a long silence while Henry Calloway contemplated the mangled remains of the twig.
‘She told me once that they had quarrelled, quite violently. It seems he had a quick temper. For him, it was bad enough that she worked in a bar. She was terrified that if he found out she . . .’
‘Was a stripper and a prostitute as well?’ It was obvious that he could not finish the sentence. ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd that if she hoped to settle down with Clive, she didn’t do as he evidently wanted and give up her job? There can’t have been much money in that, and in the long run . . .’
‘It wasn’t just a job to her,’ muttered the Rector. ‘She enjoyed . . . making love.’ The admission brought a sheet of flame to his face.
‘Did she take you to her lodgings?’
He nodded.
‘Did you ever see anyone there, or notice anything strange going on?’
He looked at her in some surprise. ‘Strange? No, nothing. Her room was at the top of the house and I understand the owner lived on the first floor, above a women’s hairdresser. The shop was always closed when I went there and I never actually saw anyone else.’ The round face puckered in distress. ‘What shall I do?’ he quavered. ‘I don’t know how to face people . . . Anthea will surely know something is wrong. I managed to keep my indiscretions from her but this . . . thank God, she is away at present . . . her sister has had a mild stroke. One shouldn’t rejoice at the misfortunes of others but at least it has saved me from telling yet more lies.’ His cheeks sagged and his mouth hung open. He reminded Melissa of Aubrey at his most abject and it sickened her. ‘Mrs Craig, please help me, advise me.’
‘You know very well what you should do.’ She was startled by the harshness in her own voice. ‘You have information which could be of great help to the police in their enquiries. Sooner or later those enquiries will almost certainly lead to you. If they find out that you have withheld information, you can’t expect much sympathy. If you go to them now, and can convince them that you had nothing to do with Babs’s death, they may be able to keep your name out of it.’
‘You really think so?’ For the first time, a glimmer of hope shone in the pale eyes. ‘But then again, you see, we aren’t absolutely sure that the . . . the victim . . . really is Babs, are we?’ He was clutching at straws. Melissa wondered what Iris would feel if she could see him now.
‘You don’t really believe that.’ It was ironic, she thought, that she should be saying this after putting that very point to Bruce. But now she was as certain as he was. Babs was dead, she had been strangled and her body buried in the woods, and the murder might well be tied up with some dangerous racket using the Up Front Model Agency and possibly also Petronella’s Vanity Box as cover.
On the other hand it might simply be, as Iris had declared, a sordid sex-killing. Then Clive would be a suspect, and Henry Calloway, and any one of an unknown number of Babs’s regulars. It was the kind of case that the press would go to town on and the public lick its chops over. For the Rector of Benbury, it would mean disgrace and ruin.
Henry Calloway flung away the broken twig and squared his shoulders.
‘I shall do as you say, Mrs Craig,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘Thank you for listening to me.’
Eighteen
The news of the identification of the body discovered nearly two weeks previously in the woods near Upper Benbury rated only the briefest report in the local papers, being totally overshadowed by an horrific rape and murder case in Kent. Only one or two of the national dailies considered it worth a mention. The police would of course proceed, painstakingly and methodically, to trace the tortuous, overgrown paths that had led Barbara Cartwright from the dubious shelter of a children’s home to a grave in a Gloucestershire woodland. At some stage they might invite the public to help. But for the moment, the murder-loving public had other things on its collective mind.
For several days Melissa was able to concentrate on her book with few interruptions that were not of her own choosing. Iris, too, was hard at work on an entry for a design competition sponsored by a prestigious national magazine. In between stints at typewriter and easel the two women tended their gardens, compared notes on the progress of their crops, called into the village for necessary shopping or stretched their legs along the valley footpaths. Their neighbourly relationship was developing into a satisfying and comfortable friendship. By mutual consent they avoided any reference to the tragedy.
In church on Sunday the Rector was pale but outwardly cheerful, having evidently made superhuman efforts to conceal his grief and shock. His wife was still away, caring for her temporarily disabled sister. Melissa pictured him, urging her to stay as long as she was needed, terrified that her searching eye would penetrate the thin veneer of composure.
On Sunday afternoon, Iris loaded a battered holdall and an enormous portfolio into her car and departed on a business trip to London.
‘See you on Friday!’ she called out of the window. ‘Remember to feed Binkie!’ Melissa felt a sense of desolation as she drove away.
Bruce telephoned on Monday afternoon.
‘I checked on young Farrell’s record.’
‘Yes?’
‘Several convictions for receiving, but only small stuff.’
‘That doesn’t tell us much, does it?’
‘No, not really. By the way, be sure to get a copy of today’s Gazette!’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘You’ll see. Can’t stop now . . . I’ll call again this evening.’
Mrs Foster, engrossed in the paper when Melissa went to collect her copy, was full of the news that was splashed across the front page.
‘Woodland Corpse Sensation’, ran the headline. ‘As a result of information received,’ the story continued, ‘the police are examining the theory that the remains recently discovered in Benbury Woods are those of a young woman who worked in a local night-club.’
‘Wonder what she was doing here?’ Mrs Foster speculated in her squeaky little voice, eyelids fluttering with excitement. ‘No better than she should be, I don’t doubt!’ She leaned across the counter, thrusting her round pink face towards Melissa. ‘D’you think someone in this village did it?’ she asked fearfully.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Melissa, willing it to be true. She paid for her paper and hurried away, sensing Mrs Foster’s disappointment that she did not stay to rake over the details. Not that there was much to rake over as yet. There had not been time to uncover much about the victim’s short life — just a few sketchy details and a photograph of a girl with china-doll eyes and a shy, childlike smile. Mr Peter Crane, the manager of The Usual Place, had expressed his distress at the news. ‘A quiet girl who didn’t mix much with the others at the club,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘She left quite suddenly without saying where she was going but this was not unknown for casual workers. We’re all very shocked.’
‘Have you given those photographs to the police?’ Melissa demanded when Bruce telephoned that evening.
‘I have.’ He sounded smug and virtuous.
‘Did you say how you came by them?’ She had forgotten, in her anxiety to avoid further active involvement in his schemes, to ask him to keep her name out of it.
He chuckled, having obviously read her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry . . . journalists are careful to protect the anonymity of their sources. I told them I recognised the model as Babs and pointed them in the direction of the Up Front Agency. I can’t wait to hear what they turn up there.’
‘So you’re not still miffed because I wouldn’t . . .’
‘Oh, no!’ He seemed anxious to reassure her. ‘I did think it would have been exciting to suss out the agency ourselves, but . . .’
‘Ourselves? What was your part in the operation going to be?’
‘Er . . . well, figuratively speaking!’ She pictured his disarming grin. ‘Anyway, I thought it over and I saw your point of view . . . and I’m very grateful for your help. We might be hearing something in a day or two. By the way, who d’you suppose tipped the fuzz off about Babs?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ If anyone was going to drag Henry Calloway’s name into the affair, it would not be Melissa Craig.
‘How’s the book going?’
‘A bit iffy at the moment. All this real-life sleuthing seems to have blunted my creativity.’
‘Can I help? You know what brilliant ideas I have! Who was it suggested the U.P. Club for a rendezvous with your supergrass?’
‘Yes . . . well, I don’t think I’m going to be able to use that after all.’
‘You mean you’re abandoning my brilliant suggestion? Now I really am hurt!’
‘Well, you come up with a plausible method of distributing supplies of drugs via a strip club patronised by a load of giggling housewives.’
‘Dish ’em out with the bingo cards?’ Bruce suggested hopefully.
‘Much too slap-happy. You can’t have all the women involved . . . that would be ridiculous . . . so sooner or later, some dope would be handed to a respectable mum by mistake. No, it’s got to be something really slick and foolproof.’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 19
