‘Do you know if he heard from her again?’
‘Not at home, certainly. He was very grumpy for a day or two after that, but that was nothing new. He was quite mercurial in his moods. One minute he’d be a monster and the next he could be all sweetness and light.’
‘Did he ever discuss her with you?’
‘Not directly, but I do remember something else. I didn’t connect the two at the time … maybe there isn’t a connection … but a couple of weeks later he was reading one of the morning papers and he suddenly said, ‘Well I’m damned! The stupid cow meant it after all!’ and burst out laughing.’
‘Did he say what he was referring to?’
‘No. I asked him, and he said, “Oh, just a bit of unfinished business that’s been tidied up”, and went off to the office.’
‘You didn’t find what he’d been reading?’
‘He always took the paper to work with him. Anyway, I wasn’t that interested.’
‘Can you remember exactly when this was?’
Verity thought for a moment. Then she got up and went to look at a calendar that hung next to the dresser. ‘It was nine years ago last Sunday,’ she said in a faraway voice.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘It was Tammy’s first birthday. Stewart had forgotten.’
Some time later, when she was back in her own room and preparing for bed, Melissa remembered that Ben’s late wife had been called Ann.
Eighteen
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all there was at the moment. A woman called Ann, who had (presumably) been having an affair with Stewart Haughan, tracked him down in his own home and (apparently) threatened some action (unspecified) that she had (possibly) carried out two weeks later.
A string of assumptions, based on hearsay. Verity herself had admitted there was no evidence of a link between the phone call and the news item that had caused Haughan both astonishment and amusement … but supposing there had been? Could it be a story about the death of a woman, someone with whom he had been having an affair but who could not face the fact that it was over? He had expressed satisfaction at the way some ‘unfinished business’ had been settled; from what Melissa had learned of the man, such a reaction would in those circumstances be entirely in character.
He would be relieved to think he would no longer have to suffer the irritation and inconvenience of being pursued by a lover of whom he had tired. He would have no regrets, no more regard for the woman’s pain and humiliation than if she had been a sparrow in flight, broken and tossed lifeless into the gutter by a passing car. He would care still less for the anguish of bereavement suffered by those who had loved her.
Nine years on, Stewart Haughan had been murdered, apparently in an act of vengeance. Someone with a comparatively recent score to settle was under suspicion, but an exploration of the more distant past might bring to light evidence of a much older debt. Ben Strickland’s wife had died in a car accident and her name was Ann. In an unguarded moment, Ben had revealed a personal hatred of Stewart Haughan. That was all.
The chance of there being a connection between these facts and Stewart’s murder was, Melissa told herself again and again as she lay awake in the darkness, remote, hardly worth considering – but nevertheless, it existed. Added to her own conviction that Maurice Dunmow, alias Martin Morris, was innocent, it became a possibility that must be investigated. Tomorrow, as soon as the reference library was open, she would begin her search.
Having made her decision, she fell into a deep sleep and awoke late. There was no one about when she went across to the house, but an electric toaster, a pot of freshly brewed coffee and all the ingredients for a light breakfast were laid out on the dining-room sideboard and two places set at the table. She ate two slices of toast, drank a glass of orange juice and some coffee and went back to her room.
There was no sign of Ben. Presumably he was still asleep. That was a relief. She had no wish to explain to him where she was going. She tucked a notebook into her handbag, put on a coat and went round to the car park. There were two cars there besides her own, but only her Golf and an elderly Cortina, presumably Ben’s, showed traces of the rain that had fallen overnight. One of the office staff must have arrived already. As she drove towards the gate she passed Sadie on her bicycle, her face rosy with the effort of pedalling uphill. She gave Melissa a cheery wave as she passed. Another day was beginning at Uphanger Learning Centre.
The assistant in the reference library showed her to a dingy basement, where bound copies of newspapers dating back to the previous century were housed on massive steel shelves. An elderly man in a shabby raincoat and tweed cap, a hearing aid in one ear and thick glasses on his nose, was perched at one of the old-fashioned wooden desks, earnestly copying something into an exercise book. He did not so much as glance up when they entered.
‘Professor Griggs, a local historian,’ explained the assistant. ‘He’s as deaf as a post, so don’t waste time trying to have a conversation with him.’ She showed Melissa where to find the year she was looking for and left her to it.
The search took a considerable time because Verity had had no idea which of several national dailies Stewart had been reading, but at last she found what she was seeking – a short paragraph on an inside page of The Morning Record:
A woman was killed in an accident on the A419 in the early hours of yesterday morning. She was the sole occupant of a Ford Escort which apparently hit the crash barrier on a stretch of dual carriageway just outside Swindon before rolling over and landing on its roof in a ditch. The woman, later identified as Mrs Ann Strickland, wife of Record reporter Ben Strickland, had to be cut from the wreckage and was pronounced dead on arrival at the Princess Margaret hospital. Police are investigating the cause of the accident; a member of the rescue services stated that road conditions were good at the time and no other vehicle was involved.
So that was it. Either deliberately or from a moment of carelessness while in a state of blinding emotion, Ben’s wife had lost control of her car and died. The pain of bereavement and the subsequent damage to a promising career caused by drinking too much and too often had, all these years later, prompted the sudden, bitter outburst that Melissa had witnessed against the man he held responsible for the wreckage of his life. Did it mean that Ben Strickland had killed Stewart Haughan?
Melissa’s hand was unsteady as she copied the brief report and made a note of the date. She felt no elation or excitement at the successful outcome of her search, only sadness that yet more personal grief was about to be dragged mercilessly into the spotlight. She went upstairs, thanked the assistant and checked that she could obtain a photocopy later if need be. For the moment, the simple fact of her discovery would surely be enough to convince DCI Harris that he had more than one suspect to consider. She went in search of a telephone.
Harris was out on a case and the officer who answered Melissa’s call seemed unimpressed by her insistence that the matter was urgent. All he would do was offer to pass the message on, if and when the Chief Inspector made contact with the station, and would she care to leave her number? The last thing she wanted at the moment was to return to Uphanger and come face to face with Ben. She badly needed a sympathetic ear; on impulse, she gave Iris’s number, went back to her car and set off for Upper Benbury.
The rainclouds had rolled away, unveiling a sky of limpid blue. Nestling side by side under the hill, their stone-tiled roofs damp and glistening in the September sunlight, the two cottages – hers and Iris’s – had an air of unruffled tranquillity. The hawthorn hedge and the elder tree after which the respective dwellings had been named were laden with fruit, the bright red haws a gleaming contrast to the swags of dark berries. The valley beyond was splashed with the glowing pigments of autumn; on the hillside opposite, a herd of young cattle grazed, observed with detached interest by Binkie from his favourite niche on a drystone wall.
A bright yellow Fiesta, recently bestowed on Gloria from his stock of guarant
eed-genuine-low-mileage-one-careful-owner used cars by her adoring husband, stood before Melissa’s front door. She edged the Golf past, half intending to put it in her garage, then changed her mind and parked it alongside the hedge. There was no getting away from it; she would have to return to Uphanger later on, even if only to collect her things.
Iris emerged from her front door before Melissa had time to ring her bell. ‘What’s up now?’ she demanded. ‘Not expecting you back till Friday.’
‘Let me in and I’ll try and explain. I’ve been doing some research and I’d like your reaction to what I’ve uncovered.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’ Iris stood aside to allow Melissa to enter and then led the way into the kitchen. ‘Coffee or herb tea?’
‘Herb tea would be lovely. I hope I’m not interrupting you …’
‘Not a bit. Wanted to work in the garden, but too wet, have to wait till later.’ Iris filled a kettle and put it on the Aga. ‘Right. Now tell,’ she commanded.
‘Seems simple,’ said Iris when Melissa had finished her story. ‘Tell your PC Plod what you turned up and leave it to him. Don’t see the problem. You never wanted the haiku man to be the villain … now you’ve got something on this other guy …’
‘Yes, I know. The trouble is … I know this is going to sound awful but … I don’t want either of them … I don’t want anyone banged up for ridding the earth of an animal like Stewart Haughan.’
For the first time in her life, she was seriously considering the proposition that an act of violence directed by one human being against another could on occasion be justified, and she was shocked by the intensity of her own feelings. She got up and began prowling round the little kitchen. ‘He cared for nothing and nobody but himself,’ she went on, her anger mounting as she reflected on the toll of misery for which Haughan had been responsible. ‘He caused at least three deaths – four if you count poor Peggy’s aborted foetus – by sheer, callous indifference. He broke Verity’s heart, and those of God knows how many other women … and now two decent men, whose lives he also blighted, whom he pushed to the edge of sanity without even being aware of their existence, are going to be pursued and hounded and castigated, and one of them put on trial and condemned … and their pain and heartache splashed all over the press … where’s the justice in that?’ Melissa turned to face her friend with outflung arms and then, to her own astonishment and bewilderment, burst suddenly and violently into tears.
She sank into a chair and sobbed for several minutes while Iris, ever practical, put a box of paper tissues in front of her and sat patting her shoulder until she became calmer.
‘Know your trouble?’ she said when the storm had abated. ‘Too much involvement with murder and mayhem. Think about it, write about it … and then get snarled up in the real thing. Bad for the system.’
‘I don’t do it on purpose,’ Melissa hiccupped, still sniffing and dabbing her face and eyes with a lump of sodden tissue. ‘Some people are accident-prone – perhaps I’m murder-prone.’ She looked appealingly at her friend. ‘Iris, what should I do?’
‘Simple.’ Iris stood up, took their cups to the sink and rinsed them. ‘Tell the fuzz what you know. They’ll find out anyway, sooner or later. Then fetch your stuff from Uphanger, come home and forget it. Not your problem.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Wearily, Melissa combed her hair with her fingers. ‘As a matter of fact, I did try to contact Ken Harris as soon as I left the library, but he wasn’t available. Then I started thinking – whoever topped Stewart Haughan did the world a favour so why should I help track him down?’
‘Can’t go along with that,’ said Iris flatly. ‘Mind you,’ she added with a twinkle in her bright grey eyes, ‘there’s one or two in this village who wouldn’t be missed if your commando should pass this way.’
Melissa gave a weak giggle and received an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘That’s better. Hate to see you looking like a wet weekend. Wonder who that is,’ she added as the telephone began to warble. She picked up the receiver and after a moment held it out to Melissa. ‘For you.’
‘Mel? I got your message – are you okay?’ It was Ken Harris and he sounded agitated.
‘Yes, but I’ve found out something you should know, something that may help your enquiry into the Uphanger murder,’ she began.
‘What’s that?’
‘I know you suspect Martin Morris, but he wasn’t the only one with a grudge against Haughan.’
‘We know that,’ said Harris impatiently. ‘Is that all, because …’
‘No, please listen. Ben Strickland hated him because of the way his wife died …’
‘Strickland? Are you telling me you think Strickland killed Haughan?’
‘He had a motive, and opportunity, and …’
‘Now let me tell you something,’ Harris broke in. ‘Ben Strickland’s body was found behind a hedge this morning by a local farmer.’
‘Oh, no!’ Melissa felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. ‘Oh, Ken, how dreadful! What happened?’
‘The first indications are that he was killed in the same way as Haughan.’
It took a moment for the horror to sink in. Then she whispered, hardly aware of what she was saying, ‘So Ben was right, it was Maurice Dunmow!’ Her head reeled, she was spinning in a void, she felt herself falling and slumped against the wall, clutching the receiver with both hands. Iris came to her side and took her arm to steady her.
‘Melissa, are you there?’ Harris’s voice in her ear, sharp and unfriendly, penetrated the turmoil in her brain. ‘What was that you said?’
‘I … Martin … Maurice Dunmow …’ she stammered, hardly able to get the words out. ‘It must have been him. Ben said …’
‘Who the hell is Maurice Dunmow?’
‘He’s … Martin Morris.’
There was a brief pause before Harris said, in an ominously quiet voice, ‘I’m at Uphanger. You’d better get back here right away.’
Nineteen
‘Exactly when did you first learn that Martin Morris and Maurice Dunmow are the same man?’
For the second time, Melissa faced Harris across the dining-room table. Not her devoted friend and ardent lover, but a grim-faced Detective Chief Inspector, his sergeant at his side, interviewing a witness guilty of withholding vital information. Her heart thumped and her mouth felt dry.
‘I suppose … I began to suspect … when Peggy told me about a Kate Dunmow who had died in tragic circumstances after being sacked from Uphanger by Stewart Haughan.’ She hardly recognised her own voice, it sounded so shaky and subdued, as if she were a schoolgirl caught out in a particularly irresponsible prank. But this was no prank; despite her glib promise to Harris to ‘be his eyes and ears’, she had gone off on a wild-goose chase of her own instead of reporting her findings immediately. As a result of this folly, born of her blind, obstinate faith in her own judgment, a man had died. For the rest of her life, she would have to live with that awful knowledge.
‘What action did you take?’ Harris’s voice cut into her thoughts. She forced herself to look him in the eye. What she read there was not encouraging.
‘I’d already found the name and address of Maurice Dunmow inside the back cover of that book of poems.’ She indicated with a tilt of her head the copy of The Joys of Haiku lying on the table between them. ‘There’s a phone number as well; I rang it and got a recorded message. I couldn’t be sure, but the voice sounded like Martin Morris.’
‘Then what?’
‘The message said to try his office number.’
‘Which is?’
‘I didn’t write it down. The name of the firm is Fletcher and Crispin.’
‘Waters.’ Harris flicked a glance at his sergeant, who nodded and left the room. He turned back to Melissa. His jaw was set, his eyes those of an angry stranger. ‘It might interest you to know that the man who calls himself Martin Morris has not been seen since yesterday morning.’
‘Ben said over lunc
h yesterday that he’d been looking for him, but we had no idea he’d disappeared altogether.’
‘Also for your information, a portable typewriter was found in his caravan. We’re pretty certain all’ – the emphasis on the word was pointed and deliberate – ‘the so-called haiku messages were typed on it.’
So much for her theory about more than one writer. She had been wrong about that too, wrong about everything. Stricken by a sense of utter failure, she had to ask Harris to repeat his next question.
‘What did Strickland want with Morris?’
‘He said he’d seen him before but he couldn’t think where. Later on, he remembered, but I’ve no idea if he ever had a chance …’
‘Remembered what?’ Harris interrupted.
‘That he’d met him in a psychiatric hospital in Gloucester, where he – Morris – was visiting a patient, his sister.’
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘Late yesterday afternoon. I knocked on his door; I wanted to tell him what I’d found out and we … he offered me a drink and we talked it round.’ Slowly, jerkily, she repeated what she could recall of the conversation.
‘And so you came to the conclusion that Martin Morris was in fact Maurice Dunmow.’ Without warning, Harris thumped the table with his fist. ‘Why, in God’s name, didn’t you inform us immediately?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you realise that Strickland would still be alive if you had?’
‘Oh, I know, I know!’ Melissa moaned, her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t want to believe … I was so sure Martin was telling the truth … I told Ben I couldn’t bring myself to betray him … and he said he was going to tell you himself. When he said he was going to meet someone, I thought it must be you … and I got talking to Verity and we both agreed that it looked very black for Martin … Maurice, I mean … but we just didn’t want to believe …’
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Page 12
