‘Thanks.’ Iris set off down the garden. Halfway along the path she turned. ‘Let me know when you decide about going to Up Yours, won’t you?’
‘Uphanger,’ corrected Melissa, laughing. ‘You’ll be the first to know. In fact, you’ll be the only one to know.’
Three
In the kitchen of Uphanger Manor, Verity Haughan was preparing the evening meal. Chicken casserole with rice and green beans. When she was a child, Friday’s supper had always been fish – her mother’s St Peter’s pie had been a legend in the family – but Stewart hated fish so she seldom had it nowadays unless they went out for a meal, something they hadn’t done for a long time.
Verity put the casserole in the oven and went over to the window. Immediately outside was the kitchen garden, enclosed by a dry-stone wall which marked the boundary of the manor grounds and beyond which lay a familiar and well-loved landscape of woodland, pasture and arable fields. Under a blue sky flecked with high clouds a tractor, pursued by a flock of eager gulls, was ploughing the stubble of a recently harvested crop. It left a dusty wake that hung in the air like gauze and shimmered in the late afternoon light.
Martin Morris was still at work at the far end of the kitchen garden, lifting potatoes. Verity opened the window and leaned on the sill, watching him. If he should turn round, she would greet him and maybe he would leave his task for a few minutes and stroll over for a chat. Or she could wander out there on the pretext of enjoying the cool evening air after a day spent in her studio.
She found Martin a sympathetic, although reserved, character; during the short time that he had been at Uphanger they had had quite a few conversations, mostly about the garden but occasionally on other topics. As she watched him forking over the soft earth and throwing the smooth, pinkish-white potatoes into a basket, she reflected that although she had spoken to him freely – perhaps a little too freely at times – about herself, he had revealed very little of his own history. Beneath a quiet but friendly exterior he seemed to be a very private person; so far as she was aware he never went out, but spent his free time in the small caravan where he lived in solitude in a secluded corner of the orchard. It was comfortable enough, of course – Verity herself had seen to that – but it seemed unnatural for a comparatively young man to hide himself away. He was supposed to be writing a thesis, but no one knew what it was about. Enquiries about progress never elicited anything but the vague response that it was ‘coming along slowly’.
Verity turned from the window and set a pan of water on the stove for the rice before sitting down at the end of the old-fashioned pine-topped table to slice the beans into a colander. Somewhere in the house a door slammed and she heard Stewart approaching. Over the years, since they had come to live at Uphanger, she had learned to use her husband’s evening footsteps as a kind of barometer: slow, with pauses to look out of the passage windows, meant he was in a reflective mood, possibly mulling over the details of a new contract: brisk and purposeful suggested that he would enter with his head full of some new scheme, demanding her immediate attention at the expense of whatever else she might be doing: a light, sauntering tread, accompanied by a rather tuneless humming – Verity’s favourite, this, but all too rare – indicated a satisfactory day and the possibility of a tolerably relaxed evening.
Today, it was none of these. Pounding footsteps along the passage set the floorboards vibrating and the crockery on the wooden dresser dancing. Even before Stewart burst through the door like a thunderclap, his face flushed and his jaw set, Verity’s heart sank. Her own day had gone well and up to now her mood had been buoyant, but suddenly she felt indescribably weary.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘This.’ He thrust two crumpled sheets of paper under her nose, knocking over the colander and scattering beans in all directions. ‘Some pea-brain is sending me anonymous messages.’
Verity picked up the first paper and read the three short lines. ‘It’s hardly a message – more a complaint about the English weather. Where did it come from?’
‘How should I know? Some idiot’s been shoving them amongst my papers. If I catch him, I’ll stuff them down his throat.’
‘How many have you had?’
‘I don’t know, do I? I haven’t been keeping them as souvenirs. They started coming by post and I thought it was some rubbish one of the students on a writing course had churned out – though why anyone would expect me to be interested in this sort of crap I can’t imagine. Now the bloody things are turning up every five minutes.’
‘Have you questioned the staff?’
‘Of course I bloody well have. They don’t know anything. It could be anyone … people are in and out all the time … students, people delivering stuff …’
‘I still don’t see why you’re so het up.’ Verity began retrieving the scattered beans. ‘If they’re all like this, they’re not exactly threatening.’ She picked up the second paper. It seemed a lot of fuss about nothing, but if she didn’t show a proper interest … She scanned the three short lines; each word was like a knife stabbing at her heart.
Her blood became ice
She sleeps in winter’s embrace
Never to awake
‘Oh, my God!’ Verity covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
‘For Christ’s sake, what are you grizzling for?’ roared Stewart.
‘Tammy!’ she gasped. ‘Don’t you understand, it’s about little Tammy!’
‘Don’t talk such crap. That was years ago – we weren’t even living here then.’
Verity fought back her sobs as the pain of loss came rushing back. ‘What difference does time make? It’s about Tammy, I tell you. What else could it mean?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. A fat lot of help you are!’
For the first time in many months, despair at his lack of compassion welled up and would not be contained.
‘Haven’t you any human feelings at all?’ she said brokenly.
‘It was just one of those things. You can’t go on chucking it in my face for ever.’ He broke off as a thought appeared to strike him and his expression became ugly. ‘My God!’ he rasped. ‘I do believe … yes, you wrote this garbage!’ He snatched up the two papers and held them a couple of inches from her face with a shaking hand. ‘How dare you!’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ She wiped her eyes in a vain effort to stem the flow of tears. ‘How could you think such a thing?’
‘Well, did you?’
‘No!’ She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘I swear it, you must believe me?’
‘If you didn’t, who did?’
‘How should I know?’ Anger at his stony-heartedness began to gain the upper hand over sorrow. He had never tried to comfort her over Tammy’s death and had barely grieved, even when it happened. To expect sympathy now, all these years later, was a waste of time. She dried her eyes, checked the rice and tipped the beans into a pan of boiling water. ‘If it means so much to you, find out for yourself,’ she snapped at him over her shoulder.
‘I intend to.’ He went to a corner cupboard. ‘What I need now is a drink.’ He grabbed a bottle of whisky and a glass and poured himself a generous tot. He tossed it back neat and poured another, then held the bottle in front of his wife. ‘Want one?’
Verity shook her head. She was calmer now, but for the moment she could not bring herself to talk to him.
‘Suit yourself.’ Stewart returned the whisky to the cupboard and sat down at the table. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Chicken casserole.’
‘Fine.’ He sipped the second drink more slowly, staring out of the window. Verity glanced out as well and was relieved to see that Martin had finished lifting the row of potatoes and disappeared. She would not have liked him to overhear those bitter exchanges.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Stewart, downing the last of the whisky. ‘Some bugger’s obviously doing this to wind me up. A war of nerves, that’s what it is. Who’d want
to do that, I wonder?’ He was talking to himself now, frowning, fiddling with the empty glass. ‘A competitor, most likely. Someone I beat to a contract, maybe. What do you think?’
His eyes swivelled, focusing on Verity. Their expression was hard and vindictive; she wondered what had become of the romantic young suitor with whom she had once believed herself in love. He had quickly revealed himself to be self-centred beyond belief, almost, she felt in her bleakest moments, to the point of being psychopathic. Was he becoming paranoid as well?
‘Well?’ he said impatiently. ‘Don’t stand there gawping, say something.’
‘How should I know? You’ll have to question the people in the office again.’
‘I’m not going to let underlings get the idea that it’s seriously getting to me. I’ll handle this in my own way, make my own enquiries. Listen to me, will you?’
She was at the sink with her back to him, draining the beans. ‘I am listening,’ she said without turning round. ‘I take it you want your dinner?’
‘Too bloody right. How much longer do I have to wait?’
‘I’m just about to dish up. You were saying?’
‘It’s an offence to send anonymous letters, isn’t it?’
‘It depends.’ She put a plate of food in front of him and he began to eat, hungrily, without comment. She sat down opposite him and began toying with a piece of chicken. ‘It’s certainly an offence to send poison pen letters, or try to blackmail someone, but these are nothing like that.’
‘Hm.’ For a while, they ate in silence. Then he said, ‘This is probably the beginning of a campaign. Like I said, a war of nerves. Well, I’ll teach the bastard not to tangle with Stewart Haughan. I’ll give him bloody poetry! Got any more of that chicken?’
‘You have to find him first,’ said Verity as she ladled out more casserole. ‘How are you going to do that, if you don’t want to involve the office staff?’
‘I’ll have to think about it. A private investigator, maybe. No, they cost money. I could try the police. Yes, why not?’ He gave a triumphant smile, as if the problem had suddenly been resolved. ‘It’s what we pay our taxes for, isn’t it? I’ll report it to the police.’
Verity shrugged, waited for him to finish and served the dessert. She doubted whether the police would be interested in such a trivial matter, but there was no point in saying anything. He never listened to her opinion unless it confirmed his own. Let him find out for himself.
Four
On the occasion of her first meeting with Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris, Melissa Craig (known to her fans as the best-selling crime writer Mel Craig) had been exhausted, dishevelled and in deep shock after finding the body of a local farmer in a stream a short distance from her home. Harris’s attitude at the time had been none too cordial and she had not felt him to be a particularly sympathetic character, but as time passed and she came to know him better, she learned that behind his brusque manner and somewhat unprepossessing appearance (eyes on the small side, lumpy features and a tendency to excess weight) was an intelligent and sensitive man with whom she had much in common. Gradually, their relationship had become closer and more intimate; a short while ago, it had crossed the boundary of friendship into something more volatile, more exciting – and far less easy to handle. As Harris himself, with a characteristic touch of wry humour, had expressed it, sex had reared its lovely head, bringing wonderful moments of passion … and some fierce arguments. They were arguing now.
‘Why won’t you let me stay the night?’ he grumbled. ‘No one will know except Iris, and she won’t go spreading it around the village.’
‘That’s not the point. Early morning is my time for working, and I don’t want you around demanding breakfast and cups of coffee.’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘So what? My muse burns just as brightly on the Sabbath as any other day. So, on your bike, Ken Harris!’
Melissa got up and put on her dressing gown. She caught a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror and felt heartened at what she saw. With her chestnut hair tumbling round her shoulders, clear, unlined skin and fresh colouring, at forty-seven she knew she could pass for a woman ten years younger – and secretly rejoiced in the knowledge. She turned to glance at Harris, thinking how much better he looked since she’d persuaded him to lose weight.
‘I promise not to disturb you,’ he was saying.
‘Forget it. A three-foot bed is just about okay for making love, but not for sleeping – especially when one partner takes up two thirds of it.’
‘Come and live with me and I’ll buy you a king-size bed.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘You only want me for my body. Well, it’s all yours.’ He sat up and made a grab at her, but she eluded him.
‘And you only want me there to cook and clean and do your washing,’ she retorted.
His expression became earnest. ‘Not true. I care for you, Mel. Really care. I want to look after you all the time.’
‘I know,’ she said gently. She bent to give him a kiss. ‘And I care too. Only … I’ve got used to my independence … and I love Hawthorn Cottage and my way of life here … I’m not ready to give it all up. Not yet, anyway, so let’s not talk about it any more.’ She straightened up. ‘I’ll go and make some tea while you get dressed.’
Resignedly, he reached for his clothes. ‘I suppose I can take some comfort from “not yet”,’ he sighed.
A few minutes later he joined her in the kitchen and sat down while she brewed tea and set out cups and saucers. His eye fell on a brochure lying on the table and he picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘What’s that? Oh, the bumf from Uphanger Learning Centre … it came through the post. I very nearly gave one of my creative writing courses there a while ago, but they were too mean to cough up a reasonable fee.’
‘What sort of an outfit is it?’
‘According to one of my colleagues at Stowbridge Tech, a bit of a bucket shop. The principal is a man called Stewart Haughan who claims to have devised some brilliant new system for language learning. It’s something to do with combining traditional instruction and teaching a manual skill like pottery or weaving. He calls it the Creativity Assisted Language Learning System – CRALLS. Iris says it sounds like a sea-sickness remedy.’ Melissa glanced up from pouring milk into the teacups. ‘What’s your interest? Thinking of brushing up your embroidery?’
‘Haughan called at the station this morning, asking – no, demanding, I should say, he’s an aggressive sort of character – to see a senior CID officer. I gave him Sergeant Waters and I understand he wasn’t best pleased at being put off with anyone less exalted than a superintendent.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Seems to think someone’s waging a hate campaign against him – in the form of poems, would you believe.’
Melissa handed him a cup of tea and pushed the sugar basin across the table. ‘What sort of poems?’
‘Very short ones, I gather. He brought a couple along to show us, but Waters thought they seemed pretty innocuous. A bit dreary, he said, more like some sort of lament … certainly not threatening.’
‘Haughan must think they are, or he wouldn’t have gone to the police.’
‘He said something about a business rival wanting to get back at him for having snitched a contract to give language lessons to employees of some company or other. He wouldn’t name names and Waters was pretty sure he was holding something back, but he couldn’t get anything concrete out of him.’
‘So what does he expect you to do?’
‘Unmask the perpetrator, of course!’ Harris emptied his cup and held it out for a refill. ‘Waters told him politely that without more information – or unless the messages became overtly threatening – it was hardly a police matter, and he went off in the highest possible dudgeon.’ Harris gave a gravelly chuckle; evidently, Waters’s account of the interview had been a lively one.
Melissa
was intrigued. Her crime-writer’s mind was already speculating on possibilities for a plot. ‘I don’t suppose Sergeant Waters told you what was in the poems?’
Harris put down his cup and began fumbling in his pocket. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just remembered, he gave them to me to ask me what I made of them. I was just leaving, so I took them away to read later and then forgot all about them.’ He fished out two small sheets of paper and unfolded them. He read them, frowning, and then pushed them across the table. ‘What do you make of them?’
Melissa read the two short stanzas, then re-read them aloud, counting on her fingers. ‘I think they might be haiku,’ she told him.
‘Hi … what?’
‘Haiku.’ She spelled it out. ‘It’s a Japanese verse form. Haiku poems have to conform to a strict syllable count – five, seven, five. Like these.’
‘And what do they mean?’
‘I read somewhere that they’re supposed to “capture a fleeting moment of beauty, wonder or sadness”. There’s almost always a reference to the seasons, as there is in these. There’s certainly sadness. They seem to be a lament for someone who died young … a girl, since there’s a reference to “she”. I wonder why Haughan thinks there’s a connection with a business deal.’
‘Maybe a disgruntled competitor shot the employee who failed to get the contract,’ suggested Harris with a grin.
‘And someone who loved her is trying to lay the blame at Haughan’s door. Could be.’ She put the two pieces of paper on the table and leaned on her elbows as if trying to extract some deeper meaning from the words. In fact, she was memorising them.
‘That wasn’t a serious suggestion,’ said Harris, a trifle impatiently. He held out a hand for the papers and, a little reluctantly, she handed them over. ‘I’d better be on my way.’
The minute he had gone, she wrote the verses down. There was certainly a mystery here … surely Haughan would not have gone to the police unless he believed them to carry a deeper, more sinister significance. The fact that he had declined to give a reason for his belief intensified her curiosity. Suddenly, the prospect of spending a week in a so-called ‘writer’s retreat’ at Uphanger Learning Centre had become very alluring.
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Page 2
