Death at Hazel House
An utterly addictive cozy murder mystery
Betty Rowlands
Books by Betty Rowlands
THE SUKEY REYNOLDS SERIES
Death at Hazel House
Death at Dearley Manor
Death at Beacon Cottage
Death at Burwell Farm
THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
Murder at the Manor Hotel
Murder on a Winter Afternoon
Murder in the Orchard
Murder at Larkfield Barn
Murder in Langley Woods
Murder at Benbury Brook
Murder at the Old House
Murder in the Dining Room
Murder in a Country Garden
AVAILABLE IN AUDIO
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder in the Morning (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder on the Clifftops (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder at the Manor Hotel (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder on a Winter Afternoon (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder in the Orchard (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder at Larkfield Barn (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder in Langley Woods (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder at Benbury Brook (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder at the Old House (UK listeners | US listeners)
Murder in the Dining Room (UK listeners | US listeners)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Hear More from Betty
Books by Betty Rowlands
A Letter From Betty
Prologue
It is half-past three in the afternoon and things are pretty quiet in the High Street branch of the Regional Bank. A normal Wednesday afternoon, in fact. Although most of the shops have long since abandoned the old-fashioned custom of early closing, many of the locals have not. Typically, therefore, there are few people about in the town centre at the moment. Things will probably get busier later on when classes at the technical college are over and the students begin dropping in to draw cash for their evening’s entertainment. Meanwhile, a mere handful of customers – none of them in any apparent hurry – are waiting to cash cheques or pay bills.
For the moment there is only one teller on duty. A colleague has just taken delivery of cash from a security van – always a slightly anxious time but everything has gone smoothly and safely as usual. No one talks openly about the possibility of a raid, but there is a sense of relief when the time of greatest potential danger has once more passed uneventfully. Now everyone can relax. The two women glance at the clock, anticipating the afternoon cup of tea.
Suddenly the doors burst open and two men wearing black balaclava helmets and waving sawn-off shotguns rush in from the street. They seem nervous. Nervous gunmen are extra dangerous, the police tell the witnesses later, but no one thinks of that for the moment. One woman says that for a second or two there was something almost comical in the way the men swung their guns from side to side, like actors in a movie. ‘It was like watching something on the telly,’ she tells reporters. ‘I thought for a moment, this isn’t true, I can’t believe it’s happening.’
But moments later it becomes a horrifying reality. The terrified customers are made to lie on the floor and one of the gunmen stands guard over them while the other throws a holdall over the top of the screen and yells at the two employees to fill it with money. With the barrel of the gun pressed against the glass he keeps on shouting, ‘Get a move on! I want all the money! More! More!’ as, with hands that shake so violently they can hardly control them, the women stuff wads of notes into the bag.
‘You! Lie still or you’ll get it!’ A gun barrel is jabbed into the neck of one of the prone customers who is feebly trying to retrieve his spectacles, which fell off as he dived to the floor. The man freezes, but not quickly enough for the second gunman, who raises a booted foot and stamps viciously on the outstretched hand. The victim lets out an anguished groan.
‘Shut up!’ screams the assailant. ‘Shut up and keep still!’ The command is ignored. Perhaps it has not even registered. Moaning faintly, the injured man reaches out, seeking with one hand to stem the blood oozing from the other. Without another word, the gunman brings the butt of his shotgun crashing down on the man’s head. The blow makes a horrid, cracking sound. Transfixed with terror, the rest of the victims shut their eyes and will themselves not to scream, not to make a sound, not to move a muscle, so that they will not be attacked. All they want now is to stay alive.
They hear a hoarse cry of ‘Let’s go!’ followed by charging footsteps and the crash of the swing doors, signalling that the nightmare is over. From out in the street comes the sound of a powerful car speeding away. Someone presses an alarm switch. The shaken customers pick themselves up and begin, almost mechanically, to dust themselves down.
All, that is, except one.
The raid occurred too late to reach the evening editions, but the following day it was reported that a car believed to be the getaway vehicle had been discovered burnt out on a patch of waste ground outside the town. Two men had been arrested and a third was being sought. The injured man had been rushed to hospital but was found to be dead on arrival.
In due course, Terence Holland and Frank Pearce were tried, convicted and sentenced to terms of imprisonment. To date, none of the money has been recovered and the third man has not been traced. The case remains open.
One
Hugo Bayliss swaggered out of the men’s changing room at the Bodywise Health Club in Gloucester wearing his new designer label exercise gear. He had spent several moments studying the effect in the mirror and decided he looked good. He cast an eye over the other fitness freaks, sizing up the talent. A couple of middle-aged hausfrau types were pounding away on treadmills while keeping up a breathless conversation. Nothing doing there. A few muscular young men with bull-necks, fiercely bulging muscles and legs like tree trunks were pumping iron as if their lives depended on it. They were fine specimens, but Hugo wasn’t that way inclined. But in the far corner, on one of the exercise bikes, a slim woman with short dark hair and pale, sharp features was pedalling steadily and with little apparent effort in time with the pop music blasting from loudspeakers fixed on the walls.
Hugo strolled across and nodded a greeting. She turned her head and gave him a brief smile in return. She had nice eyes, white, even teeth and a firm jawline, and she was wearing close-fitting black shorts and top. Under a pretence of adjusting the load on the bike next to hers, he treated himself to a surreptitious glance at the smooth, lightly tanned leg moving rhythmically at his elbow and then, as he straightened up, a quick eyeful of firmly rounded breasts and a very satisfactory cleavage. Somewhere in her thirties, he judged. Not too old, but good and mature. Just his type.
&n
bsp; He mounted his bike and began pedalling, looking ahead at the screen which was showing a Michael Jackson video. Over the blare of the music, he remarked casually, ‘Haven’t seen you here before. Just joined, have you?’
She sat upright, took her hands from the handlebars and rested them lightly on her thighs, still pedalling. He saw that she was wearing a wedding ring. That was a good sign. Hugo avoided single women, they tended to get possessive. Not that the married ones couldn’t be a problem sometimes. Like Lorraine, for instance. He’d already made up his mind to ditch her. This one looked as if she could be a worthy successor.
‘I joined six months ago, but I don’t come at fixed times,’ she said. ‘It depends on when I happen to be free.’
‘Work irregular hours, do you?’
She gave a faint smile, ‘You could say that.’
‘Now, let me guess. You’re a model?’ She shook her head, her smile deepening. ‘You should be, you’ve got the looks.’ He was careful not to say figure.
She tilted her head back slightly, her mouth curving in amusement. ‘Thanks,’ she said. She jumped off the bike and went over to a rowing machine. She had her back to him as she settled into the seat. She had a delicious-looking bottom.
Hugo carried on with his workout, keeping an eye on her as she went through hers, waiting for a chance to speak to her again. It came when she seemed to have difficulty adjusting the load on one of the climbers.
‘Want a hand?’ he asked.
‘That’s kind of you. These things are always so tight,’ she complained. ‘I’m trying to set it on four.’
‘No problem.’ He altered the setting and she hopped on and began jigging up and down. He mounted the adjacent machine. After a few seconds he said, ‘So what is your job, then?’
‘I’m a photographer.’
‘That’s interesting. You work for the local paper?’
‘No.’
‘You take portraits?’
She seemed to find the question faintly comical. ‘Sometimes.’
Hugo thought a photo session with this woman, whose manner held a hint of secrecy which he found intriguing, might be a very good lead-in to something more interesting. Sex, for example. He persevered.
‘What else?’
‘It depends on what’s thrown at me.’
‘You mean, you’re freelance?’ She made no reply. He had a sudden inspiration. ‘You go to people’s houses? Do features like in Hello! magazine?’
She tilted her head back a second time and laughed. Her breasts rose and fell. He was aware of something stirring in his own anatomy and hoped it wouldn’t show under his shorts, but she wasn’t looking at him anyway. ‘What’s so funny? Did I guess right?’
She turned to face him for a moment. ‘In a way, I suppose you did.’
‘Tell you what,’ he said eagerly, ‘I’m looking for someone to do some shots of my place. Some really good ones of the garden and the pool and conservatory and so on. The wife’s always nagging me about it, but I never get around to it. Too tied up with business, I guess. What d’you say?’
She shook her head. A beep from her climber indicated that her time was up and she hopped off. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why not? I’ll pay whatever you ask.’
‘Sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Not my line.’
Sod it, he thought, I’ve been too obvious, too pushy. Aloud, he said, ‘Well, if you change your mind, you’ll find me here most Monday mornings. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Sukey,’ she replied. ‘Sukey what?’
‘Just Sukey.’
‘Unusual name. Pretty, too. Suits you.’ She didn’t ask for his, but that didn’t stop him. ‘Mine’s Gary by the way.’ He never used his real name at the club. None of the instructors knew who he was, only the manager, and it was more than Dave’s job was worth to talk out of turn.
‘So long, Gary,’ said Sukey. She picked up her towel and headed for the ladies’ changing room.
Hugo carried on with his workout until she emerged, clad in an emerald green tracksuit, a nylon holdall slung casually over her shoulder. Her hair was damp from the shower and clung to her head in little chocolate-brown ringlets. She looked stunning and he really fancied her. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she signed off and handed her programme to the duty instructor, who initialled it before returning it to the file. Hugo gnawed his lip in frustration. As the club’s owner, he had a perfect right to check on any of the members, but young Rick had no idea who he was, and he had no intention of letting on. If only Dave had been on duty – but, what the hell, she’d be here again, he could wait.
Meanwhile, there was his current bird to settle.
There was no doubt about it, Lorraine was a really good lay and it had been great at first. He’d known she fancied him the day he went to her house to discuss the installation of the sauna and Jacuzzi she’d conned her old man into buying for her. After they’d wrapped up the details there were drinks all round and when she handed him his scotch on the rocks she’d brushed her little finger against his, so lightly that he might have imagined it if he hadn’t simultaneously caught the invitation in her eye. He’d called her up the very next day, pretending that there were one or two points that hadn’t been settled. Her husband was away on business, she said, but she was sure she could deal with the queries. The only query had been how quickly they could get into bed. She was that hot for him.
As time went on she became more and more demanding, sulking and storming at him if he didn’t come running every time she called him on the phone. He had, naturally, not told her his home number, which was ex-directory and would never be revealed by anyone in his office, but just the same he worried that Barbie might find out. Barbie knew better than to question him about things that were none of her business, but if he started getting calls from a strange woman it could get awkward. So Lorraine would have to go.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he did his best to sound convincing. ‘Darling, I’m afraid I won’t be seeing you for a few months,’ he said when he had got his breath back. She had been unusually energetic that afternoon and he was tired after his workout. ‘Got to go to the States to set up a new company.’
She nestled her naked body against his. God, he thought, she’s ready to go again. Where does she get her energy? Instinctively, he edged away, but she followed. ‘Where to?’ she breathed in his ear. ‘Why don’t I come with you?’
He sighed, trying to sound genuinely sorrowful. ‘Not a chance, pet. I’ll be taking the wife, and she won’t appreciate the idea of a ménage à trois.’
‘We could have a great time.’ Unexpectedly, she rolled away from him, got out of bed and put on a satin dressing gown and slippers. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Here, put this on.’
He got up, grabbing the towelling robe she threw at him, and followed her from the room. She led the way along the landing and opened a door at the far end. ‘This is Arthur’s study.’
It was a smallish room overlooking the garden. Bookshelves lined two walls and a mahogany desk stood in front of the window. Lorraine pushed some of the books aside to uncover a wall safe. With practised fingers she rotated the knob until the door clicked open. Inside was a heap of jewel cases. She picked one up, opened it and casually displayed a diamond necklace. ‘My latest present from my doting husband,’ she said. There was a hint of scorn in her voice and Hugo thought, poor bastard, if he only knew.
Aloud, he said, ‘Is that it?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Of course not.’
Below the jewel cases was a metal drawer. She pulled it open, rummaged under a heap of papers and took out a key. Hugo watched curiously as she dragged the swivel chair away from the desk, went down on all fours, removed a loose mat and then rolled back the piece of carpet underneath to reveal another safe set in the floorboards.
Lorraine sat back on her heels and looked up at Hugo. ‘There,’ she said simply.
He shrugged. ‘So your old man needs mor
e than one safe. What am I supposed to do about it?’
‘Don’t you want to see what’s in it?’
‘If you want to show me.’
She inserted the key into the lock, raised the hinged lid and laid it back on the floor. ‘How about that, then?’
Hugo almost rubbed his eyes. The sizeable cavity was jam-packed with bundles of sterling banknotes. The ones on the top layer were fifties. Wordlessly, he went on his knees beside Lorraine and picked up a bundle. The ones underneath it were fifties as well. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. ‘Where the hell did he get this lot?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He never talks business with me.’
‘Must be some business. Any idea how much there is?’
‘About a quarter of a million.’ Her voice was ice cool, but her eyes, as she turned to face him, were burning with excitement. She leaned towards him until her mouth brushed against his. ‘Think what we could do with it, just you and I!’ she breathed.
He dropped the bundle he was still holding as if it had sprouted thorns. ‘What are you suggesting?’ As if he didn’t know. She’d been hinting for some time that she wanted him to go away with her and he’d stonewalled. But he’d never envisaged anything like this. His eyes went back to the open safe and its contents, and the germ of a plan began to form in his head.
‘We could go to South Africa, or Australia, or somewhere else far away and exciting,’ she was saying. ‘We could change our names… it shouldn’t be too difficult… you must know lots of people—’
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