‘Madeleine and Dudley Ford are a pair of malicious old gossips. Don’t you take any notice of what they say,’ said Melissa tartly. ‘Now, have you finished here?’
‘Nearly . . . just these few carnations.’ With nimble fingers, Eleanor put the remaining flowers in place before rolling the newspaper into a neat parcel which she carried into the vestry. Melissa heard the sounds of a dustbin lid being replaced and the running of a tap as Eleanor washed her hands. She came back into the church and picked up her belongings.
‘Are you going home now?’ Melissa asked. Eleanor did not reply. She stood for several moments in front of the altar before turning away and walking back towards the door. Her head was bent and her shoulders drooped as if her fears had been only partially allayed.
Melissa hurried after her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Shall I walk home with you?’
‘That would be kind.’ Outside, she bent to unhitch Snappy’s lead. The dog whined and squirmed with pleasure, jumping up at the two women in turn. ‘Down, Snappy!’ said Eleanor in the same dead tone she had used when Melissa first arrived.
As they reached the corner of Woodbine Close, Dudley Ford emerged from his front door and came striding down the garden path with Sinbad snuffling at his heels. He had a jaunty air, his panama at its usual rakish angle and his cane swinging.
‘Oh, no!’ Eleanor groaned in dismay. ‘I can’t face him this morning. Excuse me!’ She scuttled across the road, dragging a reluctant Snappy who was obviously spoiling for a scrap, just as Ford reached his front gate.
‘Ha! Good morning, Melissa!’ He lifted his hat an inch or two and directed a toothy smile first at her and then at Eleanor’s retreating figure, as if ready to return the wave and the greeting that he evidently expected of her. ‘She seems in a bit of a hurry!’ he observed, implying with raised brow and compressed lips that such haste must hold some deep and possibly sinister significance. That anyone would deliberately avoid him would never enter his head.
Resigned to being detained for several minutes, Melissa forced herself to be pleasant, making suitable replies to his comments on the weather and agreeing that it was a bit unsettled, that frost was still likely to be a problem but was only to be expected at this time of year. She was certain, however, that it was not the weather that was uppermost in his mind. From the way his eyes kept darting to and fro she guessed that he had something more important to say and that he was waiting until Eleanor was safely out of sight and earshot. As she disappeared round the side of her house, he leaned towards Melissa with a sly, knowing look on his face.
‘Poor old Shergold has had another visit from the boys in blue!’ he confided. ‘Shouldn’t like to be in his shoes!’
‘Really?’ Deliberately, she used a tone of cool detachment. She had no wish to appear impolite but there was something about the man that made her cringe. He was so blatantly, shamelessly inquisitive, so ready to place the most sensational interpretation on the smallest of circumstances and, under the guise of concern, to savour to the full the trials and tragedies of his neighbours.
‘Brought something in a plastic bag . . . for identification, I shouldn’t wonder. Didn’t stay long but I expect they’ll be back. Part of their tactics, don’t y’know. Psychological pressure and all that.’ The florid countenance was within a foot of Melissa’s face. ‘Y’know what, I still reckon it was him who killed that girl, alibi or no alibi. And I reckon his wife thinks so too. She’s been going around lately looking like death warmed up.’ As if that settled it beyond doubt, he rocked back on his heels, planted his cane between his feet and assumed an expression of profound wisdom.
Melissa’s patience had been tried to the limit. ‘I don’t think we should make that sort of speculation without any evidence,’ she snapped. ‘The Shergolds must both be under a great deal of strain and it’s up to us all to be as supportive as we can. Excuse me, Dudley, I really must be going.’ Without waiting for the inevitable flourish of the panama and the affected little bow that she knew would accompany his farewell, she turned round and hurried away.
Twenty
When Barney opened the door to Melissa he greeted her with a smile but his eyes remained grave. He stood aside to admit her; in the tiny entrance hall he helped her off with her coat without touching her.
‘Do go in. Mind the step.’ He followed her into the sitting-room, still leaving space between them. Music played softly in the background as they stood on either side of the hearth, smiling uncertainly at one another like former lovers reunited after a long absence and wondering whether they still had anything in common.
‘It’s nice to see a fire,’ she said, breaking the silence.
‘Yes, it makes the room look cheerful, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘That’s Mozart, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. The clarinet concerto. Do you like it?’
‘I love all his music.’
‘So do I. Won’t you sit down? Can I get you a drink?’
She didn’t want to sit down. She wanted him to take her in his arms and make her feel once more the strong, swift surge of desire that she remembered from their one night together. Yet, perversely, she found it a relief that he kept his distance. So often since then she had lain awake in the darkness aching for him . . . but that had been before the discovery of Sybil’s body and the awful, emotional turmoil that had followed. The knowledge that he was not going to be charged with Angy’s murder had aroused profound relief but not elation; his invitation for this evening had brought pleasure but no excitement.
It was probably just as well. His own manner was controlled, almost detached. Perhaps he had no intention of making love to her again but had merely invited her round for a meal and a couple of hours of music and conversation, out of a sense of gratitude for her loyalty and her repeated assurances that she believed in his innocence.
She asked for red wine and when he brought it she raised the glass and tried to think of something original and witty by way of a toast but he forestalled her by saying, ‘Cheers,’ and she could think of no other response. They settled in armchairs and she saw how the standard lamp threw shadows on his face, accentuating the hollows in his cheeks and the overhang of his brow so that his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets and burn there in the firelight like lamps in darkened caves. Only the music and the hiss of burning wood broke the silence.
‘You must feel there’s a great weight off your mind,’ said Melissa at last.
He looked at her with a sombre expression. ‘Yes. It’s no fun, being suspected of murder.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t.’
‘You know they checked on Doug Wilson and Rodney Shergold as well?’
‘I hadn’t heard about Doug but in a case of murder, nobody close to the victim gets overlooked.’
‘They couldn’t find a motive in Doug’s case, but they tested some of his clothing just the same.’ Barney gave a short laugh. ‘They seemed particularly interested in cotton sweat-shirts. We found out later that we each had an identical one from Marks and Sparks. That would have set them a puzzle, wouldn’t it, if the fibres had come from one of them?’
She smiled back in relief. The ice, if not broken, was beginning to soften a little. ‘It certainly would.’
‘I wonder where they go from here?’ His face became serious again; he leaned forward and stared at the fire, slowly sipping his wine. ‘You said there might be a connection with this latest killing.’ He turned to her with a searching expression, as if he suspected her of withholding something.
‘They think Sybil was the victim of a walk-in thief – maybe a junkie, and it’s possible the same person killed Angy.’
‘When I think of all the time they’ve wasted, trying to prove me guilty while the real killer goes free . . . ’
His voice disintegrated. He stood up and began moving restlessly around the room, fiddling with books and ornaments and adjusting the glasses and cutlery on the table laid ready for their meal.
He had taken great pains to make it attractive; green candles in crystal holders stood waiting to be lit and in the centre was a bowl of white miniature roses, their heads like pale ghosts against the polished wood. He seemed to be considering it, as if wondering if something had been overlooked, but when he turned round, the pain in his eyes was almost too much for Melissa to bear. In an instant, she was beside him, standing close but still not venturing to touch him.
‘Whoever did it will be caught in the end,’ she said gently.
‘Yes, of course.’ He stared down at her, his mouth working. ‘It’s just so awful, not knowing. I lie awake at nights, seeing her lying there . . . ’
‘You must try not to brood.’
He gave a despairing little shrug and closed his eyes. Melissa decided that it was time to be sensible and practical. Too much sympathy would only encourage self-pity. ‘What about that dinner you promised me?’ she reminded him. ‘Is there anything I can do in the kitchen?’
It had been the right thing to say. He squared his shoulders and forced a smile. ‘What a rotten host I am! It’s all ready except for the steak. How do you like yours cooked?’
Melissa stared at the two slabs of raw meat that he took from the refrigerator and felt her appetite vanish. ‘I’m sorry, Barney,’ she faltered. ‘I don’t think I can face that.’
Instantly, he understood and put the steaks away. ‘How about a quiche? There’s one in the freezer . . . I can thaw it out in the microwave . . . and I’ve done a salad and jacket potatoes.’
‘That’ll be fine.’
By mutual consent, the conversation switched from mystery and death to more mundane topics: the latest political scandal; the protests of wildlife conservationists against a proposed motorway extension. By the time they sat down to eat, much of the tension between them had eased.
‘My vegetarian neighbour would thoroughly approve of this meal,’ commented Melissa.
‘You mean Iris Ash?’
‘That’s right.’ Melissa gave a mischievous grimace as she suddenly remembered the disapproving gleam in her friend’s eye on learning where she was spending the evening and, possibly, the night.
‘What’s the joke?’ Barney, too, was smiling as he reached out to refill her glass.
‘I was picturing her face when I said I was seeing you this evening.’
The smile faded. ‘She’s still worried about your safety?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that she has this idée fixe that my agent is the man for me. Truly!’ she added as the shadow on his face continued to darken and his head to droop.
‘She won’t be the only one who still has their doubts,’ he muttered, pushing his plate away. ‘We’re all under a cloud until they find the real killer . . . me, Doug, Rodney Shergold.’
‘I haven’t seen Doug since the day you . . . since Thursday of last week.’ Just in time, she remembered to avoid the direct reference. ‘How has he been taking it?’
‘I think it shook him pretty badly, but you know Doug. Likes to kid everyone he’s the big macho tough guy. Not like poor old Rodney! He’s been going round looking like the wrath of God. Haven’t you seen him?’
‘Only once. I gather he’s pretty much on edge. His wife is going round the bend, thinking he’s under suspicion, but I’m sure she’s barking up the wrong tree. Not that she’s the only one. Their busybody neighbour is convinced that he did it.’
‘But he’s got an alibi.’
‘It’d take more than a few facts to convince Dudley Ford that he’s mistaken! I haven’t a lot of time for Rodney but I really do feel sorry for Eleanor,’ Melissa went on thoughtfully, remembering the afternoon’s encounter. ‘I found her in church earlier on today, howling into her flower arrangement. The strain is really getting her down.’
‘Poor thing.’ Barney sounded as if he meant it. ‘What sort of a woman is she? I picture some self-effacing little creature who won’t say boo to a goose.’
Melissa laughed. ‘You’re not far off! She certainly wouldn’t say boo to Rodney but get her out from under his shadow and she’s got plenty of . . . character.’ She had been going to say ‘potential’ but felt it might sound patronising. ‘It’s sad really. She’s quite talented but she subordinates all her interests to his. It’s almost unhealthy.’
Barney nodded vaguely. It was clear that his mind was once more centred on the hunt for Angy’s killer. ‘What are the police going to do now, do you think?’
‘Just carry on with their usual kind of enquiries: forensic tests, house-to-house visits, appeals for witnesses. They’ll be trying to establish whether the two crimes are related or not.’
‘Finding your friend’s body must have been a terrible shock for you,’ he said. For a moment, he had put his own pain to one side to share in hers. She felt her eyes prickle.
‘It was awful,’ she whispered.
‘How did you come to be there?’
Briefly, she recounted her and Sybil’s efforts to track down Delia Forbes. ‘I keep asking myself what it could have been that she was so keen to tell me on the phone. I can’t help thinking it had something to do with Angy’s murder, but we’ll never know now. Some wretched little junkie saw to that!’
Barney was looking at her with a strange expression, half puzzled, half tender.
‘Were you really doing all this on my behalf?’
‘Sybil didn’t believe you’d killed Angy either. She . . . we both thought we’d like to do something to help.’
‘I find that very touching,’ he said.
‘It seemed a long shot, but we felt we had to try.’ She hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘We went to see Eddie Brady on Thursday.’
‘The man Angy was always talking about? Wasn’t he her landlord?’
‘Not exactly. “Eddie” is short for Edwina.’
Barney frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Eddie Brady is a woman. She was in love with Angy . . . very sincerely, very deeply. I don’t think there was any commitment on Angy’s part but I’ve no doubt Eddie hoped – and believed – there would be, given time.’
‘That explains why Angy thought my suspicions about her being pregnant were so wildly funny,’ said Barney, slowly and with some bitterness. ‘Why in the world couldn’t she have been more honest with me?’
Melissa was surprised that he had taken the news so calmly. She had thought long and hard before deciding that it was best for him to hear it from her rather than risk it reaching him through the more sensational tabloids, but she had braced herself for an outburst of shock, anger, even disgust.
‘My guess is that she hadn’t come to terms with the situation herself,’ she said. The more I think about it, the more it seems she was very confused about her feelings. She seems to have been a girl who drifted into relationships because she didn’t like upsetting people. Her so-called engagement to Rick was a disaster, and Eddie said . . . ’ She broke off, thinking that further revelations about Angy’s sex-life would be a mistake, but Barney pounced.
‘What did Eddie say?’
‘That Angy had started an affair with Rodney Shergold, as a kind of quid pro quo for letting her take the art class. Eddie wanted Angy to end it but said that she was too soft-hearted.’
‘Just a girl who couldn’t say “No”,’ said Barney with a quiet irony that held a hint of resignation. Once again, the feared explosion of rage had not materialised. He sat looking at his hands as they rested on the table, palms down, the fingers softly drumming. She thought how long and lean they were, a true artist’s hands, and remembered how they had felt when he touched her.
It was several moments before he spoke. ‘She never told me about Shergold but it was common gossip how he felt about her,’ he admitted at last. ‘I didn’t like to think of it but Doug Wilson was always making sly innuendoes. You’re right about her being tender-hearted, of course. She couldn’t bear to see anyone upset. When I think of what I did . . . I’d give anything in the world to undo that quarre
l with her!’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You told me how she taunted you . . . ’ Melissa was about to point out that Angy’s tender heart had not prevented her from flaunting Rick’s ring as if it were her own, nor had she intervened to protect Barney from hurt, but she merely said, ‘It was enough to make anyone angry.’
‘That’s no excuse for hitting a woman.’
‘A slap in the face doesn’t exactly amount to grievous bodily harm, does it? You must try and forget about it.’
‘I suppose so.’ He took the hand that, without thinking, she had reached out to him. ‘Bless you, Melissa. I can’t tell you what it’s meant to me, knowing that you cared, even a little . . . ’
‘I care quite a lot,’ she said softly. The warmth of his fingers on hers was like electricity.
‘Have you had enough to eat?’ he asked. ‘Shall we have coffee?’ He had it already prepared and he went and fetched the tray. ‘What about some more music? A piano concerto?’
‘Lovely.’
He put more logs on the fire and she sat on the floor with her back resting against a settle. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Iris always sits on the floor and I’ve got into the habit.’ It wasn’t entirely true but it could very well have been and he showed no surprise.
‘You don’t look very comfortable. Have a cushion.’ He took one from an armchair and put it behind her back. Then he sat on the floor beside her, half turned towards her, leaning on one elbow. They drank their coffee and he took both cups and leaned across her to put them on the settle. His arm came down on her shoulder and tightened round her, pulling her close. She smelled the clean tang of his breath, felt the softness of his beard and the purposeful movements of lips and tongue and hands. The air was filled with sublime music and the sound of burning wood was like the soft crackle of melting ice.
Twenty-One
On Sunday, as arranged, Melissa joined Iris and her American cousin for supper. David Burleigh was a retired professor of literature at a New England university, quietly spoken and witty. In normal circumstances, Melissa would have found him stimulating company but that evening she found her thoughts constantly wandering. The shock and mystery of two tragic and violent deaths jostled for attention with a sense of uncertainty over her future relationship with Barney. At ten o’clock, overcome by weariness, she excused herself and went home.
Murder in the Morning: An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2) Page 22
