Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel

by Rowlands, Betty

  ‘By someone who didn’t understand Stewart Haughan very well,’ said Ben drily. ‘From what you’ve told me, and what I’ve seen for myself, he had about as much conscience as Winnie the Pooh had brains.’

  ‘That might not have been apparent to everyone. He had charm as well and he could turn it on like instant sunshine,’ said Melissa, remembering the dazzling smile that had accompanied his outrageous denial that he had ever accused his wife of planting the messages. ‘I’d say he was capable of putting on any act and doing almost anything that suited his purpose. If anyone got hurt that was their hard luck – I doubt if he’d even notice.’

  ‘A typical psychopath, in fact. It doesn’t always lead to acts of violence,’ Ben explained, seeing her look of surprise. ‘At least, not physical violence – it can show up in lots of ways. I wonder if, somewhere along the line, something he did resulted, directly or indirectly, in the death of a young woman?’ His expression brightened as inspiration struck. ‘A young woman called “Hope”, perhaps?’

  Melissa shook her head. ‘I thought of that. I asked if he’d ever known or employed anyone by that name, but he was quite definite he hadn’t.’

  ‘That needn’t mean a thing. He could have been lying, or – if Hope had become troublesome, or maybe pregnant – he could have dumped her and then emptied his memory of the whole episode. That’s how a psychopath’s mind works.’

  Melissa gave him a curious glance. ‘You’ve made a study of them?’

  ‘Did a bit of research once for a feature I was writing.’ Ben frowned momentarily, as if recalling something unpleasant. ‘Let’s get back to Haughan. What do we know about his background?’

  ‘All I know is what he told me over dinner last night.’

  ‘Let’s have it, for what it’s worth.’ Ben indicated the armchair and picked up the kettle. ‘Want another mug of Strickland’s Special?’

  ‘Not just now thanks. I may want to drive presently.’ Melissa sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, reliving that ghastly evening. ‘He was boasting about how he’d devised this brilliant new learning system he calls CRALLS – your brain absorbs the information while your hands are busy performing some creative task. That’s how he himself began learning foreign languages. He boasted that the system was his idea from start to finish, but Verity claims the initial inspiration was hers. She’s responsible for all the creative crafts taught here.’

  ‘Sounds as if she had more than one reason for holding a grudge,’ Ben commented. ‘Why did he want to learn foreign languages, by the way?’

  ‘Before setting up this Centre five years ago, he was a marketing executive for a firm in London. His boss put him in charge of European sales.’

  ‘Any idea what firm it was?’

  ‘I think he said they made bathroom and shower fittings.’ Melissa pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘He did mention a name … something to do with water … ‘clearwater’, ‘watershed’ … does that ring a bell?’

  ‘‘Headwaters’?’ suggested Ben.

  ‘That’s it! You know them?’

  ‘Only too well.’ He spoke with what sounded like a touch of bitterness. ‘So, he was a marketing type. A ladies’ man, no doubt, full of charm and bullshit for all occasions. Chat up the receptionists, screw the purchasing managers’ secretaries …’ Ben broke open a fresh packet of cigarettes, his mouth curling in contempt.

  ‘It could well be,’ Melissa agreed. ‘As I said, he had the kind of sledgehammer charm that would knock an impressionable woman silly. Maybe one of his conquests from that period took him seriously … ruined her life over him, wrecked her marriage or broke off her engagement … maybe some jilted husband or fiancé has at last caught up with him. Is something wrong?’ she added.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You were giving me a strange look.’

  ‘Was I? Just thinking about what you were saying. You reckon some jilted lover’s been plotting murder for five years or more?’ Ben went over to the window and stood with his back to her, drinking coffee and staring out. For a minute or two he was silent, apparently deep in thought. ‘It’s a hell of a long shot,’ he said at last. ‘Besides, how could the killer get close enough to plant these messages … if they are connected with the killing? We still don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘Someone who came here on a course – sent by their employer, maybe. He recognises the name of the proprietor, realises it’s the man who ruined his life … he’d probably have several weeks’ notice … that would give him time to plan …’

  Ben drained his mug, swung round and put it back on the tray. His movements were slow and deliberate, his brow knotted above his deep-set eyes. He used his spent cigarette to light a fresh one before crushing the stub in the ashtray. ‘It’s a fascinating theory, but to follow it up would take days, maybe weeks, of detective work.’ He met Melissa’s eager gaze with a weary smile. ‘Sorry, Mel, I think you’ll have to let old Deadpan get on with it – he’s got the resources.’

  ‘You disappoint me. I thought you’d jump at the chance of pipping him at the post.’

  ‘I agree, it would be fun – but where do we start? Even if we confined our enquiries to people who were here at the relevant time, it could run into a dozen or more. We’d have to get lists of students, find out who they work for, check whether any of those firms had been customers of Headwaters while Haughan was one of their reps … it’s not practicable, Mel, can’t you see that?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she admitted glumly. It had seemed such a brilliant idea. Then she had another brainwave. ‘What about the Headwaters staff? Maybe the connection is there? Stewart’s former secretary, for example … couldn’t you at least find out through one of your contacts …’ She broke off, aware that she was beginning to sound emotional.

  ‘You really feel strongly about this, don’t you?’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m a woman, I can understand something of what Verity has suffered … I don’t believe she had any part in her husband’s murder, but I can see why Ken Harris suspects her. She’s been through enough hell already … if I could turn up something to lead the police to the real killer … surely there’s something we can do.’

  ‘I suppose I could get someone to make one or two enquiries into Haughan’s London past,’ said Ben, after another pause. ‘All right, you’re on. I might chat up that dolly bird in the office as well – Sadie, isn’t it? – see what I can pick up there. How about you? I take it you’re going to do your share of ferreting around.’

  ‘This may sound pointless, but I’m going to try and find out a bit more about haiku,’ said Melissa, whose thoughts had begun running on another track, now that she had gained her point. ‘From what I remember, it’s a form with very precise rules. If I could talk to a person who’s really familiar with it, I might get an idea. My friend Iris knows someone – I’ll have a word with her. You never know, the messages may contain clues that wouldn’t occur to an outsider.’

  Ben shrugged. His own knowledge of haiku went no further than recognising the name and he was plainly not prepared to attach any significance to the anonymous writer’s use of the form.

  ‘Would Haughan have been likely to spot clues, even if they were there? He doesn’t seem to have been the type to go in for poetry.’

  ‘No, but he might have spotted a connection with something in his past that had nothing to do with poetic form. All right,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘I know you claim that psychopaths can empty their memories when it suits them. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s bugging me and I shan’t rest until I’ve followed it up. She picked up the scrap of paper that had triggered their discussion. ‘I’d better take this and hand it over to whoever’s in charge of the search party. Good hunting!’

  ‘You too!’

  There was a payphone on the ground floor of the main building, tucked away beneath the massive oak staircase. At the far end of the impressive entrance hall was a fireplace with a surround and overmantel m
ade from one solid piece of stone, beautifully carved with flowers and classical motifs. Above it hung an early painting of Uphanger, flanked by portraits of a jovial gentleman with ruddy cheeks and white whiskers and a serene-looking lady in a lace fichu and frilled cap. The original owners, perhaps – Verity’s ancestors? As she waited for her call to be connected, Melissa pictured the hall as it might have been at Christmas long ago, with bright rugs on the flagged floor, a log fire blazing and lights glittering on a tall tree surrounded by gifts. The kind of picture to gladden the heart of a child. Verity’s child, who had not lived to see it.

  There was a click, and ringing tone for a few seconds, before she heard Iris’s brisk ‘Hullo!’

  ‘Iris, it’s Melissa.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What makes you think …?’

  ‘Heard it in your voice.’

  ‘You’re right … but I can’t explain now.’ Despite the fact there was no one within earshot, Melissa spoke in a low tone. ‘Iris, you remember that book you lent me about haiku? What was it called?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. I’ll look it up if you hang on.’

  ‘You mean, you still have it? I thought you’d borrowed it from someone at college.’

  ‘I did. Took it back every week for ages. Never saw the chap again. Didn’t bother too much – only a thin paperback. Maybe he had another copy.’

  ‘Will you lend it to me again?’

  ‘Sure. What’s going on?’

  ‘Be with you in half an hour. I’ll tell you then. Bye.’ As Melissa replaced the receiver, a door at the far end of the hall opened and Martin Morris appeared, apparently making for the office. She stepped forward to intercept him.

  ‘How is Verity – Mrs Haughan – now?’

  ‘She’s still shocked, of course, but the doctor has given her a sedative.’ He hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘Would you mind going to see her? I know she wants to thank you for being so … sympathetic.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘If you go through that door,’ – he indicated the way he had just come – ‘you’ll find yourself in a passage leading to the private quarters. She’s in the kitchen.’

  Melissa found Verity at an ironing board, with a wicker basket of laundry on the floor beside her. In the strong sunlight that streamed through the end window, she looked paler and more fragile than ever, the iron almost too heavy for her small hand.

  ‘Are you sure you feel up to doing that?’ said Melissa.

  ‘It has to be done. Mrs Lucas isn’t in this week. Stewart said, with only two guests, we didn’t need her. He said we might as well save the money. He always liked to save money. It was because of saving money that Tammy died.’ Her mouth crimped and tears oozed from her eyes as she blindly pushed the iron to and fro.

  ‘Leave it for now.’ Gently but firmly, Melissa took the iron, stood it on its heel and pulled out the plug. ‘Why don’t you send for Mrs Lucas – you can’t cope on your own. There’s the business to look after as well.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll get Peggy to call her.’ Wiping her eyes, Verity went to the telephone and pressed the button to call the office. When Peggy answered she gave the instruction and then added, ‘I’ll be coming to talk to all the staff after lunch. Say at half-past two – will you tell them?’ She put down the telephone and turned to Melissa. ‘You’ve been so kind … I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Anyone would have done the same. If there’s anything else I can do, just ask.’

  ‘I mustn’t impose on your time. You’re a guest, here to get on with your writing.’ A subtle change had come over Verity; she was calm and composed, almost businesslike. ‘Now, about lunch …’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about me. I can get something at a pub.’

  ‘No, no, you must have it here … you’ve paid for it. And dinner … you and Mr Strickland … Mrs Lucas will see to it, if she can come, otherwise I’ll manage. I insist,’ she added, as if to counter any further objection.

  ‘All right, thank you,’ said Melissa. Despite Verity’s appearance of fragility, she detected a steely resilience beneath the surface. ‘I’m going out now, but I’ll be back in time for lunch.’

  ‘So, what’s all this about?’ demanded Iris as she led the way into the kitchen of Elder Cottage.

  ‘Stewart Haughan – the proprietor of Uphanger Learning Centre – has been murdered,’ said Melissa.

  Iris’s eyes and mouth rounded in astonishment. ‘Good heavens! When?’

  ‘Some time early this morning. And guess who’s in charge of the investigation?’

  ‘Your own PC Plod? The one you went there to dodge?’ The look of consternation changed to one of impish glee. ‘He’s been checking on you. Rang me last night. Didn’t admit to knowing where you were, but he guessed. No flies on that one!’ Still grinning like a Cheshire cat, Iris filled a kettle, put it on the stove and took out three of her hand-painted mugs.

  ‘No coffee for me, thanks,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s coming out of my ears already. And you can take that smirk off your face,’ she added crossly.

  ‘No offence,’ said Iris, unabashed.

  Melissa pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. Immediately, Binkie, Iris’s fluffy half-Persian, who had stood expectantly watching from the moment she entered, sprang to her lap and settled down, purring in ecstasy.

  ‘Aah, bless him, he loves his Auntie Mel!’ crooned Iris. ‘Just me and Gloria for coffee, then.’ She glanced up at the ceiling as a series of bumps and the whine of a vacuum cleaner overhead spoke of the activities of their cheerful, energetic domestic help. ‘Bet Ken’s eyes popped when he saw you there. What did you tell him?’

  ‘The truth. I’ll tell you the whole story some other time, but I’ve been over it twice already since breakfast and my head’s buzzing.’

  ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘Ken seems to think the gardener and Haughan’s wife are having an affair, and that he did the deed, possibly with her connivance.’

  ‘And Madame Melissa Poirot disagrees, I suppose?’

  ‘Well … yes. And Ben has his doubts as well.’

  ‘Who’s Ben?’

  ‘A journalist – another ‘writer in retreat’ who arrived this morning.’ As briefly as possible, Melissa recounted their deliberations, finishing with her own conviction that the key to the mystery lay in the haiku messages. ‘That’s why I want to re-read that book,’ she explained. ‘It’s a pity you lost touch with the chap who lent it to you … I’d like a talk with him.’

  ‘Funny you should say that.’ Iris went to the dresser and fetched a thin volume with a pale green paper cover on which the title The Joys of Haiku was printed in mock oriental characters. ‘He’s written his name at the back. Never spotted it before – only looked in the front. Here.’ She handed the book to Melissa. Inside the back cover was written in pencil, ‘M. Dunmow’, with an address in Cheltenham.

  ‘Oh, fine.’ Melissa slid the book into her handbag. ‘When I’ve finished with it, I could return it for you. I’m sure to be going to Cheltenham one day next week.’

  ‘Thanks. Time he had it back. So, what’s this place like?’

  ‘Beautiful. I brought one of their brochures for you to see, by the way.’ Melissa fished it from her handbag and put it on the table. Iris picked it up, flipped idly through the pages, put it down again and glanced at the clock on the wall, which showed a couple of minutes past eleven. ‘Coffee’s ready. Better call Gloria.’

  The cottage shook as Gloria’s substantial frame trundled down the narrow staircase. She came bouncing into the kitchen, her round, rosy face registering surprise and pleasure at seeing Melissa.

  ‘Ooh, Mrs Craig, I thought you was away this week!’ she exclaimed. She settled her ample behind on one of Iris’s rush-seated chairs and reached for a nut cookie. Her eye fell on the Uphanger brochure. ‘This where you’re staying?’ She studied the cover with interest. ‘It looks lovely.’ She began turning
the pages, pausing at one showing a photograph of a beaming Stewart Haughan in the centre. Arranged in a semi-circle below it were smaller portraits of Verity, Peggy, Pam, Sadie and two other women whom Melissa did not recognise, but guessed were the language teachers.

  ‘I knows that one.’ Gloria jabbed a plump forefinger at one of the faces. ‘She were in hospital with my sister. Peggy someone.’

  ‘Peggy Drage,’ said Melissa. ‘She’s Mr Haughan’s secretary.’ She was about to add ‘the late Mr Haughan’, but changed her mind. The prospect of repeating the story yet again for Gloria’s benefit was too much. Iris could tell her later.

  At the moment, however, Gloria was preoccupied with medical details. ‘Had a hystree-otomy,’ she said between slurps of coffee.

  ‘I think you mean hysterectomy,’ suggested Melissa.

  ‘Thassit.’ Gloria smacked her lips and repeated the word with relish. ‘Real upset she were, and so were her Dad. Never had no kids, and now she never will. She were crying buckets one day when I were visiting and her Dad were trying to comfort her.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Melissa softly. ‘I can imagine how she must have felt. She’s still quite young.’

  ‘Mm.’ Gloria, herself the mother of three thriving youngsters, nodded sympathetically. She finished her coffee and stared reflectively into the empty mug. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if some bloke had let her down,’ she said. ‘It’s the sort of thing they do, innit? Her Dad should’ve gone and sorted him out.’

  Melissa pushed back her chair. ‘I must be going. Thanks for the loan of the book, Iris. You’ll go to my house tomorrow as usual, Gloria?’

  ‘Course I will.’ Gloria waved from the sink, where she was rinsing out the coffee mugs. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘Dunmow,’ repeated Melissa to herself as she reversed the car and set out on her return journey to Uphanger. ‘Now, where have I heard that name before?’