Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Glass or schooner?’

  ‘Glass, please.’

  The woman poured the drink, took the money and handed over the change with a pleasant smile.

  ‘Nice day,’ she commented.

  ‘Lovely.’

  Melissa sipped her sherry, helped herself from a dish of nuts and glanced around.

  The bar was separated from the restaurant by an elaborate structure incorporating an aquarium and a display of flowering and foliage plants which on closer inspection proved to be plastic. There was a buffet with an assortment of cold meats and salads while a menu of predictable hot dishes suggested rapid transfer from freezer to customer via the microwave. The bar and tables were scattered with cork mats imprinted with an exhortation to meet one’s friends at The Usual Place; pseudo-classical music issued from inescapable loudspeakers. Everything was clean, wholesome-looking and totally undistinguished. It seemed an unlikely setting for strippers and the ‘private functions’ Gloria had giggled over but no doubt the evening clientele would be of a different breed from the lunchtime trade.

  It would not, Melissa felt, be difficult to create a fictitious Usual Place that bore no resemblance whatever to this. She began playing with some ideas, absently twirling the stem of her empty glass. The barmaid sauntered across.

  ‘Same again?’

  ‘No, better not, make it an orange juice, please.’

  The woman smiled as she poured. ‘Don’t drink and drive, eh?’

  There was something about her that reminded Melissa of Gloria. She had the same open, friendly expression, the same warm West Country burr.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as she paid for her orange juice, ‘have you been here long?’

  The woman looked faintly surprised but replied without hesitation. ‘About two years . . . why?’

  ‘I was wondering if you remember a girl called Babs who used to work here?’

  ‘Babs Carter? Yes, I remember her. Little madam, she was — oh, I beg your pardon, is she a friend of yours?’

  ‘No, I don’t actually know her. It’s just that I keep getting odd telephone calls from a man who thinks I’m Babs and wants to meet me here. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea who he might be?’

  ‘Doesn’t he give his name?’

  ‘No. He sounds kind of strange and when I tell him he’s got the wrong number he just hangs up.’

  The woman frowned thoughtfully, shaking her head. More customers came up to the bar and with a murmured excuse she moved away to serve them. Presently, Melissa noticed her speaking to the barman and nodding in her direction; after a moment he came sauntering across. He was a big, sensual-looking man; instinct told Melissa that he fancied himself as something of a lady-killer.

  ‘Ruby tells me you were asking about Babs Carter,’ he said, leaning a forearm on the bar and treating her to an admiring glance and a whiff of expensive body-lotion.

  ‘That’s right. You don’t happen to know where she lives, do you?’

  ‘Sorry love, no idea. She left us . . . oh, must be nearly a year ago.’

  ‘And you don’t know where she’s working now?’

  ‘I seem to remember hearing she’d left town but I haven’t a clue where she went.’

  ‘Do you think any of your other employees might know? Has she kept in touch with any of them?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. These girls come and go . . . I’ve got better things to do than run around after them.’ His large, well-manicured hands indicated a certain frustration at the unpredictability of young females and Melissa nodded in sympathy.

  ‘I heard her boyfriend had a bad car accident.’

  The man was helping himself to nuts, popping them into his full-lipped mouth with one hand and nudging the dish towards Melissa with the other.

  ‘Ah, that one,’ he ruminated. ‘Nasty business that. His own fault, of course. Got so worked up he didn’t know what he was doing. Came round here making a nuisance of himself and we had to chuck him out. Next thing we heard they had to cut him out of his car on the Golden Valley by-pass.’

  Melissa shuddered. ‘Poor chap. I suppose he was lucky not to have been killed. Could it be him making the phone calls, do you think?’

  The man considered while disposing of another handful of nuts. ‘Might be,’ he said with a shrug. ‘He used to meet Babs here sometimes. Couldn’t think what she saw in him . . . not her type at all.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know his name, or where he lives?’

  ‘Sorry, love, can’t help you.’ He straightened up and signalled a response to an impatient customer. ‘I’d get your number changed if you get any more of those calls,’ he advised as he moved away. ‘That guy was a bit of a weirdo even before the accident.’

  Melissa finished her orange juice, slid from her stool and went outside. Someone touched her on the arm and she turned to see a fresh-faced young man in a bomber jacket and jeans. He had fair hair and an engaging smile.

  ‘Excuse me!’ he said. ‘Can you spare a moment?’

  ‘What is it?’ From his clothes, he might have been a student but a closer look told her that he was older than he at first appeared.

  ‘My name’s Bruce Ingram.’ He fumbled in an inside pocket and brought out a card. ‘I’m a reporter on the Gazette.’

  ‘I see.’ Melissa hesitated for a moment, fingering the card. ‘Well, Mr Ingram, my agent usually arranges interviews for me. Would you like me to . . .’

  ‘Your agent?’ His jaw dropped and his blue-green eyes rounded in consternation. ‘Are you . . . I mean . . . should I . . . ?’ He was floundering like a schoolboy who has forgotten his homework.

  Melissa restrained a smile. ‘Recognise me? Not necessarily . . . unless you read crime fiction, that is.’

  ‘You’re a crime writer?’

  ‘My name’s Melissa Craig but my pen-name is Mel . . .’

  ‘Mel Craig! Of course I should have recognised you, please forgive me! I’ve read your books and seen your picture on them . . .’ He looked so abashed that Melissa was tempted to pat him on the head.

  ‘Don’t apologise. It’s a very old picture anyway. Now, if it isn’t an interview, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was in there just now, while you were talking to Pete Crane.’ He jerked his head in the direction of The Usual Place. ‘I hope you don’t think I was eavesdropping, but I pricked up my ears when I heard Babs Carter’s name mentioned. And I thought I heard you say you’d been in touch with Clive Shepherd?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clive Shepherd. The fellow who had the accident.’

  ‘You mean Babs’s boyfriend. Is that his name?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I’ve only set eyes on him a couple of times but I know quite a lot about him.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can explain why he keeps ringing my number?’

  ‘I can’t account for that, I’m afraid . . . but I’m amazed to hear that he’s capable of ringing any number.’

  ‘Because of his accident?’

  ‘Yes. He was pretty badly smashed up and they didn’t think he’d live. Last report I had, he was making a very slow physical recovery but suffering almost total amnesia.’

  ‘I think his memory must be coming back. He remembers Babs even if he does get her number wrong . . . and he sounds terribly confused and emotional. But . . . if he’s not a friend of yours, do you mind telling me why you’re so interested in him?’

  ‘Willingly, but let’s not talk here. Will you let me buy you some lunch?’

  ‘That’s kind of you but I don’t normally eat much at midday.’

  ‘A sandwich, then . . . or a pizza? There’s a very decent trattoria just over the road.’

  ‘All right, a pizza then.’

  Bruce led her across Westgate and into a small restaurant with marble-topped tables and a Roman frieze on the walls. He found a table for two tucked behind a reproduction urn with a spider-plant straggling
over the sides. The place was half-full and buzzing with conversation.

  ‘It’s a good place to talk,’ said Bruce as they sat down. ‘Plenty of background noise and not much chance of being overheard.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing!’ said Melissa. There was the usual interval while the menu was consulted and the order given. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

  Bruce cleared his throat and hesitated. ‘I’d like to ask you a question but I’m afraid you’ll think I’m being impertinent.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t eat reporters when there’s an R in the month.’

  ‘Well then, I was wondering about your interest in Babs Carter . . . I mean, she can’t be a friend of yours? I do have a very good reason for asking,’ he hurried on as Melissa’s eyebrows lifted.

  ‘Why shouldn’t she be a friend of mine?’ she asked curiously.

  Bruce shuffled his feet and played with the reproduction Roman lamp that held sugar. ‘Look, I’ve met her and I’m pretty sure you don’t move in the same circles.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at the people I get to know in my researches!’

  ‘Of course, I was forgetting . . .’ He ran his hands through his short curly hair and then clapped them over his eyes. ‘Ingram’s put his foot in it . . . again!’

  Melissa burst out laughing, to the evident delight of the waitress who brought their order.

  ‘No, you’re quite right,’ she said when the girl had gone and Bruce had emerged from behind his sheltering fingers. ‘I’ve never set eyes on Babs or any of her friends. You obviously didn’t hear what I was saying to Ruby about the telephone calls.’ Quickly, she ran over the details, including the process of deduction that led her to discover the existence of The Usual Place.

  Bruce’s eyes sparkled in admiration. ‘That was jolly clever of you!’ he said. Melissa accepted the compliment without a qualm; Joe would never find out. Bruce leaned forward and dropped his voice. ‘You know, this is the most super bit of luck, meeting you like this. Would you care to help solve a real-life mystery?’

  ‘If you mean the phone calls, I thought . . .’

  ‘No, not that. I mean the mystery of Babs’s disappearance, and Clive’s accident.’

  Melissa stared at him. ‘The people at The Usual Place didn’t seem to think that there was anything particularly mysterious about them.’

  Bruce shrugged. ‘Why should they? If you ask me, Pete wasn’t sorry to see the back of Babs . . . or rather, he was glad to see the back of Clive. It used to get up his nose, seeing him hunched on the corner of the bar all evening when Babs was working, glowering over his tomato juice. By all accounts he — Clive, that is — was trying all he knew to get her to leave The Usual Place . . .’ He broke off as the waitress brought their order.

  ‘What sort of a girl was Babs?’ asked Melissa, picking up her knife and fork.

  Bruce considered while chewing a mouthful of pizza. ‘Pretty, lovely figure, loads of sex-appeal. Liked to give the impression of being a tough little cookie but I thought she was a nice kid at heart. Not exactly the innocent virgin though; in fact she used to take the odd favoured client home after the show on Friday and Saturday nights. Did you know they have strip shows at The Usual Place, by the way?’ he added, rather self-consciously Melissa thought.

  She grinned. ‘Yes, I know. Boys and girls, so I hear.’

  ‘Huh?’

  She told him about Gorgeous George and he flushed to the ears. It must be her presence that he found inhibiting, she thought; it was unusual, and rather refreshing, to meet a man who found that sort of thing embarrassing.

  ‘Yes, do go on,’ she urged.

  ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Babs . . . well, apart from her work in the bar and the night-club, she did a few modelling jobs. One way and the other she must have picked up quite a tidy little income.’

  ‘The barman said Clive wasn’t really her sort.’

  ‘I’d have said that too, but after I’d ferreted around a bit I began to wonder.’ For a while, Bruce concentrated on his food.

  Melissa felt the adrenalin beginning to flow. She smelled a story and knew from experience that she must allow him to tell it in his own time and in his own way. Too many questions could be a distraction. So she waited patiently while he organised his thoughts.

  ‘The official version is that Babs packed up and left her digs and her job without notice,’ he said after a minute or two. ‘When Clive called for her one evening and got no answer, he tackled the landlady and was told she’d gone, leaving her key with a note to say it was time she was moving on. He made a bit of a scene, called the old woman a liar and her son ordered him out. Then he went tearing round to The Usual Place and got a similar story — Babs hadn’t shown up for a couple of days. I happened to be there and it was not a pretty sight. He was almost hysterical, banging on the bar and shouting that someone must know where she was, she wouldn’t go off without a word to him and they needn’t think they’d get away with it. He wouldn’t quieten down so Pete — he’s the manager, by the way, not just the barman — threw him out.’

  ‘Pete said he was a bit of a weirdo,’ observed Melissa, as the waitress removed their empty plates. ‘That was delicious, thank you very much.’

  ‘Would you like anything else? I can recommend the Neapolitan ice-cream.’

  ‘Sounds lovely.’

  ‘And coffee?’

  ‘Please — cappuccino.’ He gave the order, planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  ‘I wouldn’t have called Clive a weirdo,’ he said emphatically. ‘Eccentric maybe, a bit strait-laced, but perfectly sane . . . at least, he was before the accident.’

  He was looking directly at Melissa and she became aware of the intensity of his gaze, the square set of his chin and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Beneath the boyish-looking exterior was a serious and very attractive man . . . but this wouldn’t do. She forced her mind to concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘It was later on that night that he had his accident. On a clear stretch of road. He’d had no more than a pint of beer, there was nothing wrong with his car, it was dark but it wasn’t raining, no other vehicle was involved. The only explanation the police could offer was that he was in such a state over not being able to contact Babs that he was driving recklessly and simply lost it.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that?’

  ‘I did at first.’ He waited while the waitress brought the ices and coffee. ‘Then I started thinking. Babs must have mixed with some pretty dubious characters . . . she could have been at risk in any number of ways. Suppose she said something to Clive that worried him . . . made him concerned for her safety. Then, without saying a word, she vanishes. That would account for him being so frantic and kicking up such a fuss. It wasn’t like him, you see . . . by all accounts he was normally a very quiet sort of chap.’

  ‘So you think that there’s a real chance that something has happened to Babs?’

  Bruce nodded. ‘Yes . . . and the more I think about it, the more certain I am that Clive’s accident was . . . no accident.’

  Melissa stared at him in horror. ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s been run off the road to keep them quiet.’

  ‘But it’s fantastic . . . you’ve no evidence.’

  ‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘But I do have a very strong hunch . . . no, don’t laugh!’ he pleaded at the sight of her smile. ‘It just doesn’t add up. Why should Babs walk out on Clive? I talked to some of the girls she worked with and they told me she led him a hell of a dance but she said more than once that Jesus freaks were a pain in the ass but they could still be a good prospect.’

  ‘Why should she call Clive a Jesus freak?’

  ‘He was rather religious, a bit puritanical by all accounts, although his colleagues quite liked him . . . without ever really getting to know him.’

  ‘What was his job, by the way?’

  ‘Insurance age
nt, making a modest but unspectacular living selling endowment policies. That’s how he met Babs, seems she wanted to provide for her old age. He fell for her in a big way. I had a chat with his manager and he told me Clive was a conscientious employee but very reserved. He never spoke about his family but they all knew of his obsession with Babs.’

  ‘If he had such an ordinary sort of job, why should Babs think he was a good prospect?’

  ‘That’s something I haven’t been able to find out yet.’

  ‘I can understand why he hated her working at The Usual Place.’

  ‘I suspect he was hoping to reform her.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Melissa. ‘You think that Babs has been abducted, or perhaps killed, that Clive knew something that made him suspicious and that his accident was staged to make sure he didn’t start snooping around or go to the police.’

  Bruce nodded eagerly, like a terrier that had scented a rabbit. ‘That’s it in a nutshell.’

  ‘I suppose this is an obvious question, but have you been to the police?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Considering I gave them virtually nothing to go on, they did a pretty good job of checking. They enquired at her digs and interviewed Pete and the rest of the staff at The Usual Place. They also checked out the Up Front Modelling Agency where she was registered. I believe they even went to the DHSS to find out if she’d got a job elsewhere.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Zilch, DHSS had never heard of her so she’d obviously been working at her various jobs on a casual basis. She wasn’t registered with any local doctor or dentist.’

  ‘What about the note she’s supposed to have left — did they see that?’

  ‘No, that had been destroyed, but there was no reason to suspect the old landlady of lying.’ Bruce heaved a deep sigh. ‘Everywhere they drew a blank. It seems Babs had always been a bit of a loner as far as girl friends were concerned, and she never really confided in any of them. They weren’t even sure where she came from. Some thought she was a local girl but there was some talk of her having spent some time in London.’

  ‘What about men, besides Clive, of course?’