Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery

by Betty Rowlands

  Iris shook her head. ‘Stuck-up lot, don’t mix with peasants. Ask the Rector.’

  ‘Does he know them, then?’

  ‘Calls now and again. Pastoral duty and all that. Never gets any joy but perseveres. Why?’

  ‘I was just wondering how they reacted to a body being dug up in their woodland.’

  Iris sniffed. ‘Probably more bothered at their precious pheasants being disturbed than about the victim.’

  ‘I suppose, technically, you were trespassing on their land?’

  Iris shrugged. ‘So what? Lived here years before they came. Former owners didn’t mind.’ She marched on in silence for a few minutes. ‘Perhaps one of them did it.’

  ‘Committed the murder, you mean?’

  ‘Could be. Filthy rich, might be international crooks.’

  Melissa concealed a smile. Anyone who refused admittance to Henry Calloway was damned in Iris’s eyes.

  They had reached home. Iris stopped with her hand on the latch of her gate. ‘Come for a drink?’

  ‘Er . . . better not, thanks all the same. I’ve left something in the oven.’

  Iris gave a sardonic grin. ‘Meat, I suppose. You’re welcome. See you later, then.’

  When she got indoors Melissa dialled Bruce’s number but there was no reply. Not surprising really. Young men living independently were unlikely to spend Sundays quietly at home. He was probably out with a girlfriend, or spending the day with his parents. She rather hoped it was the latter.

  The joint she had left in the automatic oven was sizzling merrily and smelled delicious. It was a pity Iris was vegetarian; it would have been nice to have her company. No point in asking her round for a sherry either. Even the smell of meat, she had once declared, made her puke.

  Melissa drank her sherry, dished up her meal and ate it in the kitchen with her notes for The Shepherd’s Hut at her elbow. From time to time she jotted down details that occurred to her for fleshing out the characters or tidying up the plot. Then she took a fresh sheet of paper and began making separate notes about the actual events of the past two weeks. There was a lot of material here that she could use, if not in this novel then in the future. She should have done it before but there hadn’t been time. She made a second set of notes about the people she had met since coming to Benbury. One or two points struck her as possibly significant and she highlighted them with a coloured pen.

  In the evening she tried Bruce’s number again. This time he was there.

  ‘I’ve just come in,’ he said. ‘Been helping my father mend his garage roof. I suppose you’ve been at your desk all day, devising fiendishly clever red herrings to baffle your readers!’

  ‘Not quite all day. Believe it or not I’ve been gardening this afternoon. It was too nice to stop indoors and Iris nobbled me the minute I put my nose outside, telling me it was time I sowed my carrots.’

  ‘That lady sounds quite a character,’ said Bruce. ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Maybe you will. But listen, I didn’t ring you to talk about horticulture.’ She told him about Clive’s latest call. ‘He does seem to be getting better, although I don’t think he’s back to normal by a long way. What do you think I should say if he does phone again?’

  ‘Tell him you’ll come and see him. I’ll come with you; it’ll be easier talking to him face to face. We might really be getting somewhere!’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘He’s been moved from Gloucester Royal Hospital to a private clinic in Clifton. I’ll check to find out if it’s okay for us to visit.’ He sounded excited, like a hound on the scent. ‘It looks as if there’s been a breakthrough, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you that some other people might be interested in him?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If your hunch is right, and there is a link between Clive’s accident and Babs’s murder — if she was murdered, that is — then it might be very inconvenient if he were to recover his memory.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth! Yes, I see what you mean. We’d better get down there as soon as possible. Could you make it one evening this week, if I fix it with Matron?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Anything else?’

  ‘Only that, according to Iris, the Rector makes pastoral calls at Benbury Park from time to time and gets the elbow. On the basis of this affront to her beloved Rector she’s prepared to write the owners off as international crooks!’ If she expected appreciation of the jest, she was disappointed.

  Bruce pounced. ‘My God, she could be right!’

  ‘Oh, leave off, will you? They’re probably perfectly harmless people who simply don’t want to be bothered.’

  ‘Still, it wouldn’t hurt to find out a bit more about them. The Rector would at least know who they are.’

  Melissa heaved a sigh. ‘If I have an opportunity, I’ll ask him,’ she said. Anything to shut you up, she added mentally. ‘And you’ll contact me again when you’ve arranged for us to visit Clive?’

  ‘Will do. Have you . . . er . . . decided yet?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What we were discussing last night.’

  ‘Oh, that. No, not yet. I’m still thinking it over.’

  ‘I see.’ He had obviously hoped for a firm commitment but realised he wasn’t going to get it just yet. ‘Well, I’d better get off the line in case Clive is trying to get through. Ciao!’

  ‘Goodbye, Bruce!’

  She waited up until after eleven o’clock but there was no call from Clive that evening.

  Thirteen

  Monday morning was grey and cool with a blustery wind and intermittent rain making a slanting Morse Code pattern on the windows. Melissa, still in her dressing-gown, nibbled toast and drank coffee while watching a blackbird foraging on the patch of weed-ridden grass that, with the aid of her new mower and shears, she had hacked into what might some day become a lawn. There was plenty to do out there, and still a few things to see to in the cottage once Mr Allenby’s dilatory workers had finished the odd jobs. Today, however, she had earmarked for writing.

  She finished her breakfast, took a shower and put on one of the loose-fitting leisure suits that she preferred to wear about the house. It was a warm golden brown and it occurred to her as she glanced in the mirror that it accentuated the colour of her eyes. She seldom bothered with make-up when she was at home on her own but as she tied her long dark hair back with a velvet ribbon she remembered the hint of admiration in Bruce’s voice as he jokingly remarked on the appearance of women crime writers in general and herself in particular. ‘A fine figure of a woman’ and ‘feminine’, he had called her. Well, she thought, peering a little closer, she had quite good bone structure, her skin was clear and considering she’d be forty-five next birthday her figure was pretty good. Still, Bruce couldn’t be much over thirty, the gap was far too wide. Forget it, she told her reflection, strangling the notion at birth. She threw down the brush and went to her study.

  Bruce rang at six o’clock, while she was cooking her supper. He sounded excited.

  ‘They’ve released a report from the pathologist. The deceased was a woman, probably in her twenties. There was a fracture of the hyoid bone, indicating manual strangulation, but they’re being cagey about how long the body had been there. A lot of scientific waffle about soil conditions affecting the rate of decomposition but they think between eight and twelve months. Babs went missing ten months ago. It all fits so far!’ His voice rose a couple of tones and he was almost panting with excitement.

  ‘Did they find any clues to identity?’ asked Melissa cautiously.

  ‘A pair of hoop earrings and some slave bangles. Babs used to go in for that type of cheap jewellery.’

  ‘So do dozens of girls,’ Melissa pointed out, reluctant to pour cold water but determined to be realistic. ‘What about clothing?’

  ‘Black high-heeled shoes. Mass-produced, nothing distinctive. Some shreds of cloth, st
ill undergoing tests. No indications to date of sexual assault but after all this time you’d hardly expect it. It all fits!’ he repeated excitedly.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They’re hoping to identify her from dental records. They’ll be circulating all the local dentists, asking them to check. That could take some time, of course.’

  ‘But we already know that Babs wasn’t registered with a local dentist.’

  ‘That’s right, but of course the police aren’t looking for Babs at the moment so they’ve got to go through all the hoops. It’s going to take time but I’m positive we’re on the right track.’

  ‘Mm . . . it’s all circumstantial. Doesn’t take us very far forward, does it?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t take us backwards.’ She could tell he was disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘No, that’s true. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound off-putting.’

  ‘So long as the body remains unidentified, the killers aren’t under any immediate threat so they’ll carry on with their operations as usual. Now tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘I told you yesterday.’

  ‘I mean since then.’

  ‘Since then, I’ve been working on my book. I can’t be a full-time amateur sleuth and a full-time writer, you know.’

  ‘Sorry!’ She could picture his rueful grin. ‘I just wondered if you’d had a word with the Rector or anyone . . . ?’

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve spoken to all day.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, don’t you find it lonely?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve been in the company of some fascinating people . . . crooked art dealers and unscrupulous collectors with a murderer chucked in for good measure . . . riveting company!’

  ‘What . . . oh, I see!’ He sounded sheepish. ‘Well, I’ll keep you posted. I’m off home now. I’ll be ringing the clinic later this evening.’

  ‘Oh, yes, about Clive. Good. Let me know.’

  ‘You’re still game to come down there with me? We could have a meal afterwards and compare notes.’

  ‘That sounds like a nice idea.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch.’

  Melissa ate her supper and afterwards went for a stroll round her garden. The sky had cleared and the sun was warm. She scanned her newly created vegetable bed and felt a surge of excitement at the sight of tiny green tufts where she had planted potatoes. She hurried next door to break the news to Iris.

  The back door of Elder Cottage stood ajar but there was no sign of her neighbour. She pressed the bell and a muffled voice called: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Melissa. Are you busy?’

  ‘Come through. Sitting-room.’

  Melissa found herself staring at a headless, inverted trunk clad entirely in black. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘With you in a minute.’ After a short interlude the torso developed arms and legs and unrolled itself on to the floor. ‘The Plough,’ Iris explained, lifting her head. ‘Marvellous for the circulation. Strengthens the back. The Fish next, to balance up.’ She lay back, breathing deeply and noisily. Then she arched her spine, tilted her chin to the ceiling until she was resting on the top of her head and folded her hands on her chest like a knight on a tombstone. Binkie, who had been watching the proceedings from an armchair, slid to the floor and climbed on to her stomach, purring in delight.

  ‘Push off, Binkie!’ said Iris good-humouredly, without moving a muscle. Ignoring the command, Binkie showed every sign of settling down. Melissa scooped him up and returned him to his chair.

  ‘Shall I come back later?’ she asked as Iris gently subsided, relaxed and closed her eyes.

  ‘No, wait. Shan’t be long.’

  Melissa sat down and tickled Binkie’s ears. Presently Iris opened her eyes, sat up, crossed her legs and rose to her feet in one lithe movement. Her thin body in its skintight black leotard was a supple, elongated shadow.

  ‘I wish I could do that,’ said Melissa. ‘I’ve never practised yoga. Maybe I should start.’

  ‘Nothing like it. Strengthens the body, calms the mind. Want a cuppa?’

  ‘Not just now, thanks. I think my potatoes are through.’

  Iris shook her head. ‘Can’t be!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Much too early. Must be weeds!’ The grey eyes sparkled with good-humoured mockery at Melissa’s disappointment. ‘Care to see my studio? Got a new design I’d like you to see.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Iris led the way upstairs and opened a door into a room that seemed to vibrate with light. The ceiling had been entirely removed to reveal the rafters and the roof was lined with plasterboard which was, like the walls, painted a brilliant white. There was a window at one end and a second window let into the slope of the roof.

  In addition to the usual litter of artist’s materials there was a shelf containing bolts of plain cloth in a variety of shades. An old-fashioned easel supporting a large rectangle of white board stood at an angle in one corner. Fastened to it was a sheet of paper on which a design had been executed in bold black strokes. Iris waved a hand at it.

  ‘Tell me what you think. No polite noises. Tell the truth.’

  Melissa stood in front of the easel and stared at the design. It was an abstract, of course — or was it? Didn’t those spiky, criss-crossed strokes suggest a forest? It had strength and vigour but there was a subtle, underlying hint of menace. Here and there, hardly noticeable at first but gradually becoming more apparent, almost as if they were increasing in size, were tiny patches of brilliant red. Some were half-hidden in crevices between two branching lines; some hinted at a slowly spreading stain on a tree-trunk; others, elongated, like scarlet drops about to fall, clung to the tapering ends of what could have been twigs. It was plain that although Iris had quickly recovered from the initial shock of her discovery, deep down she had been very disturbed indeed.

  ‘Well?’ Iris was impatient for a reaction.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s very dramatic,’ Melissa said slowly. ‘And, in a way, frightening.’ Iris was watching her with an anxious, almost a hungry expression in her eyes. ‘I think I can see why you did it,’ she said gently.

  Iris released a deep, quiet breath. ‘Thought you’d understand. Not commercial, of course. Who’d want to live with that?’ She covered the design with a sheet of plain paper. ‘Feel better now. Got it out of my system.’

  ‘Could I see some of your other designs?’

  ‘Some other time. Care for a walk?’

  ‘Yes, if you like. I’ll have to change, though.’

  ‘Me too. See you in a minute.’

  For a while they strolled in silence along the edge of the brook. Iris led the way along the narrow path, straight-backed, swinging her arms in her toy-soldier walk. She was bare-headed and the setting sun picked out gleams of coppery gold in her hair. With her fine features she must have been attractive once, even beautiful.

  The air was still and bright, the sky almost cloudless. A tiny plane buzzed overhead and Iris stopped to watch it, hands cupped over her eyes.

  ‘Think they’ll find out who did it?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘The murder, you mean? First they have to identify the victim.’ Melissa repeated the details of the police report that Bruce had passed on to her. ‘It could take several weeks.’

  ‘That young man of yours, you said he had a theory?’

  Melissa hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to confide in Iris, who had shown an unexpected readiness to talk to the press.

  ‘It’s all very vague at present,’ she prevaricated. ‘He doesn’t want to say much in case he’s mistaken.’

  ‘Can understand that,’ Iris grunted. ‘Nobody wants to appear a fool. Oh look,’ she went on, her voice squeaky with delight. ‘Here comes the Rector!’

  He had apparently emerged from the woods. He was wearing an old tweed jacket over his clerical vest and collar and his grey fl
annel trousers were tucked into gum-boots. His greeting was determinedly cheery but there was a hint of sadness about his eyes. He, too, was still feeling the effects of the tragedy.

  ‘Good evening, ladies! Out for a breath of air? Lovely evening!’

  They agreed that it was indeed a most beautiful evening and spent a minute or two enlarging on this theme. It was Iris who broke the chain of cliché.

  ‘Mrs Craig was asking yesterday about the Benbury Park people, Rector,’ she said. ‘Told her you could help.’

  ‘Really?’ Mr Calloway walked along beside them, his face alight with interest and anticipation. ‘Is this in the cause of research for the new novel?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Melissa, hoping she might be forgiven the white lie. In a way it was true. An historic Cotswold manor-house might do very well as the nerve-centre for her gang of art thieves. Perhaps, with the Rector’s assistance, she might even wangle a visit.

  Mr Calloway was beaming and rubbing his hands together. ‘Ah, I can tell it’s going to be one of those nice old-fashioned murder mysteries! They’re the best kind, I always think! Weekend house-party . . . body in the library and a bloodstained knife in the butler’s pantry . . . ?’ He looked eagerly at Melissa for confirmation.

  ‘Something like that!’ she agreed, smiling. ‘The problem is, I’ve never been inside a privately owned mansion. Houses that are open to the public don’t have quite the same atmosphere as someone’s home.’

  ‘True . . . true . . . and atmosphere is so important, isn’t it?’ He spoke with the air of a connoisseur. ‘I’m not at all sure whether the present owners would be willing . . . they don’t actually live in the place . . . it’s run by the staff.’

  ‘Estate manager, farm manager, gamekeeper,’ recited Iris. ‘Swan about as if they owned the place. Owners never show their faces except for the shooting and polo parties. Not Colonel Brent-Smith’s way . . . supervised everything himself.’

  ‘Yes, they are away a great deal,’ sighed the Rector. ‘And even when they’re there, they don’t take an interest in the life of the village the way the Brent-Smiths used to.’ He turned a woebegone gaze on Melissa. ‘You know, Mrs Craig, they used to open the gardens for charity year after year . . . and they were always most generous to the church. Five hundred pounds they contributed to the roof restoration fund . . . but when I wrote to ask Mr Francis for some help in repairing the central heating, he never even acknowledged my letter.’