Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘It’s called — just a moment, I pinched a leaflet off the bonnet of one of the cars. Here we are: “Cathedral Cars”, proprietor Stanley J. Parkin.’

  Melissa closed her eyes. Exactly what she had feared. Her heart ached for Gloria.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Bruce wanted to know.

  For a moment, she could not answer. She wanted to pull out then and there, to have nothing more to do with this wretched game of detectives. Turn over stones and you find something nasty. Let someone else do it.

  ‘Melissa? Are you still there?’

  It was no good trying to wriggle out now. The Drugs Squad would be brought in and she’d have to tell them all she knew. It was her duty as a citizen. She pulled herself together.

  ‘Yes, I’m here — how did your colleague get on?’

  ‘Sophie? Not quite so well as we did, I’m afraid. She trailed Green Tights as far as the car park and as it happened her own car was parked not far away but by the time she got back to it, Green Tights was just disappearing through the exit. Sophie drove around for a while, hoping to pick her up, but no luck. She did make a note of the car though. She’s mad keen to get an exclusive . . . she wants us to try again next week.’

  ‘Us?’ Alarm bells rang in Melissa’s brain.

  ‘Yes . . . you’re game, aren’t you? And listen, take a trolley of your own this time and . . .’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Melissa cut in. ‘You’re not suggesting I try and switch . . . ?’ There was a pause. ‘You are suggesting I switch trolleys . . . oh, my God, haven’t I done enough? And supposing some of this leaks out . . . the villains might get wind of it and . . .’ All manner of lurid possibilities, many of them from her own books, presented themselves. Once again, she was seized by a fierce desire to be free of the entire enterprise, to wipe the slate of reality clean and retreat into her safe little world where the crimes were make-believe, the complications of her own devising and the villains cosily brought to book by the relentless, hawk-eyed Nathan Latimer.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bruce was assuring her. ‘Sophie’ll be like a clam. No one’s going to rob her of her scoop!’ He sounded almost contemptuous.

  ‘And you’re doing it out of pure altruism, I suppose!’ She knew it sounded waspish but she was beginning to feel overwrought.

  ‘Some of us have motives other than sensationalism,’ he protested.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, exposing the ills in society . . . the Public Has a Right to Know!’

  ‘Now you’re being cynical.’

  ‘Realistic. Everyone knows reporters are totally ruthless in pursuit of a story.’

  ‘Not this one. I didn’t follow up the indiscretions of your precious reverend, did I? Revealing that a man has a weakness for gawping at strippers would hardly further the cause of social justice and it’d probably destroy his family.’

  ‘What about Flash Harry’s family?’ Gloria’s face took shape in front of her, a smiling sunflower with love and pride glowing in warm brown eyes. The strain of the day was beginning to tell. Melissa felt close to tears.

  ‘The kids who’re being ruined by drugs have got families as well,’ Bruce said quietly.

  ‘You’re quite the little boy-scout, aren’t you? Just out of interest, how long have you been doing this job?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Not very long,’ he admitted at last. ‘I did a few other things before I thought of taking a crack at journalism. It seemed quite a promising way to help put right a few wrongs in society.’

  ‘What else have you done?’

  ‘Oh, various things. I did VSO when I came down from university, and taught English in the Middle East for a while, and then I started to train as a social worker . . .’

  Somehow it came as no surprise. He had never shown the killer instinct of a hard-nosed newshound, rather the persistent doggedness of a man with a mission. The sophisticated and sometimes flippant charm concealed a dedicated idealist. Melissa, calm again after her outburst, found herself increasingly warm towards him.

  ‘So,’ Bruce was saying. ‘Are we going to plan our next step?’

  ‘Why not tell the police what we’ve found out?’

  ‘What do we tell them? It’s all circumstantial; we didn’t actually see anything suspicious handed over. We could wait till next week and tail the other three couriers . . . just to consolidate. Hey, I’ve just had a brainwave! We’re agreed that the drugs were concealed in the newspapers, aren’t we?’

  ‘I’d say it was odds-on, but as you’ve just said, it’s purely circumstantial.’

  ‘That’s what I mean — we must get proof. You always take a shopping-bag of your own along, don’t you?’

  Melissa tightened her grip on the receiver. She could guess what was coming and it scared her. ‘I don’t want to know about this,’ she said faintly.

  ‘But it’s a cinch! All you do is swap your copy of the Gazette for one of theirs. Much easier than switching trolleys . . . someone might spot that. I’ll give you a free copy, you won’t have to buy one!’

  ‘Big deal. How d’you think I’m going to get away with that?’

  ‘You managed to snoop into all five trolleys today. Next time you’d only need to open one. Don’t you see, we could actually get our hands on a consignment of drugs! Can’t you picture us down at the nick, unfolding a copy of our worthy family newspaper and revealing the little plastic sachet taped inside? It’d be like a scene straight out of one of your novels!’

  ‘That’s where I’d rather keep it. Look, it was pure chance that Annie had the trots this afternoon and left the coast clear. I’d never get away with that performance twice.’

  ‘Yes, you could, you’ll think of something . . .’

  ‘You are so naïve it isn’t true. I’ll bet Annie had the fright of her life this afternoon when she came down and found me there on my own. You should have seen her eyes on my shopping-bag. If she hadn’t been able to see everything in it, its caviar to fish fingers she’d have found some excuse to detain me and have me searched. From now on there’ll be some kind of back-up in case there’s another emergency.’

  ‘With your inventive brain . . .’

  ‘Oh, my God, why do I listen to you? Go away and leave me in peace!’ Angrily, Melissa banged down the receiver. It was a crazy, hare-brained and potentially dangerous thing he was asking her to do. The trouble was, he was so damnably persuasive, she was afraid that she might find herself, against her better judgment, agreeing to it.

  But as it happened, things turned out rather differently.

  Nineteen

  The next two days were fairly uneventful. The calm before the storm, as Melissa remembered afterwards. Wednesday brought a letter from Aubrey. Since she had left him no option, he wrote, he had returned to Denise. Using a distorted reasoning and specious arguments that made her grind her teeth with fury, he attempted to lay at Melissa’s door the entire responsibility for the failure of their relationship and what he described as his ‘miserable existence from now on’. It was a whining, self-pitying letter and she took considerable satisfaction in using it that afternoon to light a bonfire.

  On Thursday she had a call from Bruce.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to the matron of Cedar Lawns,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit anxious about Clive and wonders if we were thinking of paying him another visit.’

  ‘We did promise to go again, didn’t we? How’s he getting on?’

  ‘Physically, fine, and he’s less confused than he was but he’s in what Matron calls a rather strange state of mind.’

  ‘What does she mean by that?’

  ‘She didn’t really explain.’

  ‘Does he know Babs’s body has been found?’

  ‘I don’t think so, and I don’t think Matron does either. Anyway, she didn’t mention it and I didn’t tell her. I thought it better to wait until one of us went over there. I’m tied up all day tomorrow and I’m away at the weekend. Is there any chance of your going?’

&
nbsp; ‘Where are we now — tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Friday the thirteenth. Are you superstitious?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ Melissa was riffling through her diary. ‘Let’s see. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow morning. I could go to Cedar Lawns in the afternoon. Shall I ring Matron and arrange it?’

  ‘Would you? That’d be great. I’ll give you a bell on Sunday evening.’

  Melissa smiled to herself as she put the phone down, wondering what his reaction would have been if she had told him where she was going on Friday morning.

  The girl who answered the phone at the flying school had sounded intrigued when she found she was talking to a crime writer, said she was sure they could help her with her research and told her to ask for Wally Morgan. Melissa, half-expecting to meet a gimlet-eyed, square-jawed and possibly bearded individual in greasy overalls, was surprised to find herself shaking hands with a chic, slim, vivacious woman of about thirty-five with softly waving chestnut hair and a puckish smile.

  ‘I’m Wally Morgan,’ she introduced herself, adding with a grimace, as if accustomed to raised eyebrows and puzzled glances, ‘it’s actually Wallis — my mother was a great admirer of the Duchess of Windsor. I suppose I should be thankful she wasn’t a fan of Tallulah Bankhead! Do sit down.’

  She waved Melissa to a chair in front of a table on which was spread a map of the British Isles. It was covered with solid blue lines, which Wally told her were designated air routes, and dotted lines enclosing areas of restricted flying space.

  ‘Outside these areas, which are mostly the major airports and military bases,’ she explained, ‘the air space is uncontrolled up to eight and a half thousand feet.’

  ‘You mean, anyone can fly around quite freely, without any kind of restrictions?’ asked Melissa in surprise.

  Wally nodded. ‘So long as they keep outside the controlled zones and observe the rules about minimum heights and so on — yes.’

  ‘What about overseas trips — to and from France, for example?’

  ‘Ah, that’s different. You’d have to leave from and land at a customs-designated airfield. Would that be a problem?’

  ‘It would rather. My crooks wouldn’t welcome a customs examination!’

  Wally chuckled. ‘What are they going to be carrying, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘You’ll have to read the book!’ said Melissa. ‘I’ll send you an autographed copy.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, let’s see how we can help. Of course, if your man comes in and out regularly, he could build up a rapport with the customs people both sides of the Channel. He’d need a valid reason for his trips and he’d have to fly a clean aircraft the first few times. After that he’d probably be okay and they’d nod him through, but it would be a calculated risk. There might be some eager-beaver new boy on duty, or the Special Branch might be on the look-out for terrorists and request a close check on everyone entering or leaving.’

  ‘Suppose he just sneaked in and landed quietly on his own airstrip without going through the formalities?’

  Wally grinned. ‘He wouldn’t get far. He’d be picked up on the radar and tracked home. Then he’d really be in trouble. Of course,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘he could take a chance and come in below radar level, but in a way that would make him more conspicuous. The chances are still strong that he’d be spotted and reported.’

  ‘How about coming in low at night?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Too dangerous. He could easily hit a pylon or fly into a hill in the dark.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Melissa felt her plot crumbling. ‘I’ve got this scenario, you see, of wealthy types coming in from various parts of the UK and the Continent to play polo and join shooting parties and so on. Most of them are on the level but every so often there’s an illegal cargo brought in or ferried out via this private airstrip belonging to the owner of a Cotswold mansion.’

  Wally’s eyes sparkled. ‘What fun! I was just thinking — I flew from here to Daventry the other day and I counted over twenty private strips. I wonder if any of them are used for smuggling?’

  ‘If they are, they must have figured out how to dodge the customs. Can’t you think of any way it might be done?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Wally lit a cigarette and drew on it in silence for a moment, deep in thought. Then she got up and went over to a map of Europe pinned to the wall.

  ‘Whereabouts is your man coming from?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh . . . let’s say somewhere along the coast of Northern France. Le Touquet or somewhere round there.’

  ‘If he takes off from a strip directly in the path of a mail plane or a regular air-express delivery, he could come in piggy-back. Under the tail of the other plane,’ she went on, seeing Melissa’s blank expression. ‘That way, there’d only be one blip on the radar screen, that of the authorised plane.’

  ‘Could he do this without being spotted?’

  ‘He’d have to take off without lights, of course, and then tail the other plane across the Channel. Once he was about fifty miles beyond the coast, he could just drop off and land on his own strip. He’d need landing lights, of course, but you can arrange for him to have those, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’ Melissa scribbled furiously in her notebook. ‘Is it usual for private strips to be lit?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite a few of them are. Some of the lights can be pilot-operated by remote control. Your crooks would have to be careful to establish some legitimate use of the strip at night and make sure the local controllers knew about it.’ Wally rubbed her hands together. ‘Have we devised a way to commit the perfect crime? Are your crooks going to get away with it?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Melissa assured her. ‘They’ll all get their come-uppance and right will triumph. My readers will expect it.’

  ‘Well, be sure and come back to me if you need any more help.’

  ‘I will, and thanks very much.’

  Melissa went back to her car and headed towards Bristol. At a set of traffic lights on the outskirts of Gloucester she pulled up behind a van similar to the one she had seen parked behind The Usual Place. With both rear doors closed, the complete legend read: ‘Hanger Hill Farm, Fresh Produce Delivered Daily’. Recalling Dick Woodman’s comment about the fancy restaurants that catered for the jet-set weekenders at Benbury Park, she wondered whether The Usual Place was one of them. She decided it was unlikely. Owners of private planes and helicopters would demand something a little more soigné than scampi and chips or microwaved lasagne.

  A short distance from her destination she stopped for a ploughman’s lunch at a country pub. The weather was fine, the sky the colour of harebells and the mid-May sunshine softly warm on her skin. When she had finished eating she followed a footpath along the banks of a stream and watched enthralled as a kingfisher, a tiny dart of dazzling colour, plunged from a willow branch into the bright, clear water. She was so absorbed that she forgot the time and it was after three o’clock when she arrived at Cedar Lawns.

  ‘You’ll find Clive considerably better in himself,’ said Matron, seated nun-like with folded hands behind her big desk. ‘His memory started to come back quite suddenly about a week ago. He remembers driving his car just before the accident but nothing about the crash itself. He became rather disturbed and excited and we had to put him under sedation. Then he seemed to go into a kind of . . . not a depression, exactly, but a mood almost of resignation, as though something sad but inevitable was about to happen. It’s a state of mind I’ve seen in terminally ill patients who’ve come to terms with death.’

  Melissa looked at her in horror. ‘Are you saying Clive thinks he’s going to die?’

  ‘I know of no reason why he should.’ Matron’s tone was reassuring. ‘Physically, he’s making excellent progress. The plaster has been removed from his leg and the physiotherapist is very pleased with him. You’ll notice a big improvement.’

  ‘Does he have any friends who come to visit him?’

  ‘Not many. Hi
s manager has been once or twice, and one or two people from his church come occasionally. Last Sunday afternoon a girl came to see him . . . now, what was her name? It began with a “D”.’

  ‘Dawn?’ Melissa suggested.

  ‘That’s it . . . Dawn. Do you know her?’

  ‘She’s my hairdresser . . . she knew Babs. She told me Babs treated Clive badly and I had the impression that she was rather keen on him herself. I knew she was planning to come and see him.’

  ‘I hope she’ll come again . . . the nurses said he seemed more cheerful afterwards. I’m glad you’re here . . . he seemed to take a fancy to you and Mr Ingram and he remembers your visit.’

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t been before. I’m working on a book, and I know Bruce has been very busy. Tell me, does Clive still talk about Babs?’

  ‘Now, that’s a strange thing. There was a time when he seemed to speak of nothing else. Now he hardly mentions her. Has there been any news?’

  ‘You haven’t read about it in the papers?’

  ‘No? What do they say?’

  ‘Babs is dead. She was murdered.’

  Matron’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes dilated; she listened to the story in shocked silence.

  ‘So that’s why she disappeared so suddenly!’ she said when Melissa had finished. ‘How absolutely terrible!’

  ‘Could Clive have seen the reports, do you think? Would that account for his sudden change of mood?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Matron passed a hand across her forehead. Despite her years of professional experience of sorrow and death, she appeared genuinely moved. ‘That poor boy has suffered so much already! When did this story appear?’

  ‘It was in the Gloucester Gazette on Monday. I’m surprised no one here spotted it.’

  Matron shook her head, frowning. ‘We don’t have the Gloucester papers. I suppose our local paper might have carried the story, but no one has mentioned it to me.’

  ‘If Clive asks about Babs, what should I tell him? I don’t want to distress him but he’s sure to find out sooner or later.’