Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Oh, come on!’ she said again as she slowed down to pass through a village. ‘You don’t really believe Clive did it.’ No, replied a small voice in her brain, but others might if they heard what he was saying this afternoon.

  All right, what are the alternatives? The Up Front Agency has an unsavoury sideline and no one knew that better than Babs. Wait a minute, though, there was nothing on those pictures to show where they were taken. It was Bruce who had jumped to conclusions. Maybe they came from a different source altogether . . . one of Babs’s weekend regulars for example?

  Thoughts of the regulars brought Henry Calloway to mind. But he had been to the police and told them what he knew. That was hardly the action of a murderer. Still, he might have reasoned that if, as Melissa had pointed out, the police would have traced him eventually, it would deflect suspicion if he had volunteered his information in advance. Suppose Babs had discovered his identity and threatened to tell his wife . . . or even the Church authorities? It seemed unlikely; from what the Rector had said, there was love and tenderness on both sides in their relationship.

  What about the Farrells? The son was known to the police as a receiver . . . did he have other rackets as yet undiscovered, like peddling pornography? Perhaps his supplies were delivered by special messenger to Petronella’s, to be picked up casually by his mother. Babs could have found out and decided that she could make even more money — a lot of money, perhaps; the disgusting trade was lucrative if you found the right customers — from blackmail.

  Then there was the fact — no, not yet a fact but a strong probability — that drugs were being distributed from The Usual Place via certain members of the U.P. Club. Babs could have tumbled to that as well. Maybe the two rackets were interconnected; drugs and porn were often to be found in unholy partnership. A rootless girl, however streetwise she might be in some respects, would be no match for dealers in that sort of trade. The decision to eliminate her might have been a collective one. And if the partners feared that she had confided in Clive, then Bruce could well be right and they had tried to silence him as well.

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ murmured Melissa as, thankfully, she escaped from the city and began the familiar climb up the Cotswold escarpment. ‘If Clive didn’t kill Babs, and I don’t want to believe he did, then two strong possibilities are: someone at The Usual Place or the Up Front Agency. My money’s on Pete Crane . . . scratch the surface of that spurious bonhomie and you’ll find a thoroughly nasty piece of work.’

  She was nearly home. Iris was expected this evening. It might help to talk it over with her. Bruce, she knew, was otherwise engaged — with Rowena? Forget about that.

  ‘One final question,’ she reminded herself as she turned into the lane. ‘If drugs are involved, and if Pete is the mastermind, where is he getting his supplies? Petronella’s?’

  Twenty

  Melissa was just closing her garage door when Iris’s elderly Morris Minor came bumping along the track. Her spirits lifted at the sight.

  ‘Am I glad to see you!’ she called as her friend got out of the car.

  Iris gave her a penetrating glance. ‘You look tuckered!’ she commented. ‘Been working too hard?’

  ‘I wish that was the only reason. I’ve had a harrowing afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Iris lugged her ancient holdall from the boot. ‘Got supper organised?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought . . . I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Must eat. Plenty in the freezer. Fresh fruit here.’ She held up a bulging string bag. ‘Come and share.’ The prospect of company was even more inviting than the thought of food.

  ‘I’d like to, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble. Half past six all right?’

  ‘That’ll be lovely!’

  Iris slammed down the boot and went indoors. Binkie, appearing from nowhere, rushed after her and was greeted with little cries of rapture. Melissa, glancing in the hall mirror as she returned to her own cottage, gave herself a watery smile. It was true, she did look exhausted. It was good to have Iris back, a relief to think there would be someone to talk to in the evenings. She flopped into an armchair, put her feet up and closed her eyes. She felt herself nodding off when the telephone rang. Wearily, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Dick Woodman.’ His speech was slow and stilted, as if he was unused to using the phone. ‘Can I speak to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Something funny’s going on.’ His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘You want to hear about it?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Can’t figure it out. I heard someone talking to Mr Hepple, the keeper.’

  ‘What were they saying?’

  ‘Something about a sow farrowing tonight and he must be on the alert. We’ve got no sow farrowing here, and if we had it’d be no concern of Mr Hepple. And I saw . . . ’ He broke off. ‘Can’t talk now. Can I come and see you?’

  Melissa suppressed a yawn. She was still half-asleep and had not the faintest idea what he was talking about but could think of no reason to refuse.

  ‘Yes, if you like. When?’

  ‘This evening be all right? I always come over to the Woolpack on a Friday. If I leave a bit early and drop in on my way home about ten, would that be okay?’ His speech had quickened; over the wire she could hear approaching footsteps and the sound of men’s voices.

  ‘Yes, fine, I’ll be here.’

  He put down the receiver and Melissa sat back and closed her eyes again. Someone hammered on the door and she went to open it, yawning and blinking. Iris was standing in the porch, grinning like a witch.

  ‘Thought so. You fell asleep.’

  ‘Oh, God, I suppose I must have. What time is it?’

  ‘Quarter to seven. Supper’s ready.’

  ‘Give me a few minutes to freshen up and I’ll be round.’

  An hour later, Melissa was relaxing in an armchair in Iris’s sitting-room with a mug of coffee beside her and a loudly purring Binkie on her lap.

  ‘That was a super meal!’ she said. ‘You should open a vegetarian restaurant.’

  Iris’s lip curled. ‘No, thanks. Hate people en masse.’ She sank into her customary position on the floor and reached out to tickle the cat’s ears. ‘Want to sit with Muvver or stay wiv oo’s Auntie?’ Binkie remained where he was. Melissa listened patiently to the futile coaxing until Iris gave up, reverted to her normal voice and asked if she was feeling better.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ She put her hands to her face. ‘I’ve got myself involved in something that I don’t fully understand and I have a feeling that any minute, something horrible is going to come crawling out of the woodwork.’

  Iris said nothing. She reminded Melissa of a garden gnome as she sat there, straight-backed and cross-legged, her head cocked on one side and her eyes as sharp as needles.

  ‘It’s a very complicated story,’ Melissa began. ‘I’d like to tell you . . . it would help me organise my own thoughts.’

  It took a surprisingly long time. As she talked, Melissa saw disapproval dawning in her friend’s eyes and a hint of blue in their greyness that gave them the quality of bright steel. When she described the way they had trailed the couriers from the U.P. Club and Bruce’s plans for a second attempt, disapproval turned to anger.

  ‘Got you on a string, this toy-boy of yours!’ she burst out.

  Melissa flushed. ‘Don’t call him that!’ she said uneasily. ‘He does tend to go over the top a bit but he really is a serious investigative journalist. I know I’ve let him talk me into things I wouldn’t have done on my own but it’s been quite exciting . . . and very useful background for a novel at the same time. There’s absolutely nothing between us.’

  Iris sniffed. ‘Should hope not. Hate to see you make an ass of yourself.’

  Melissa, stroking Binkie’s head, thought wryly of Iris’s own hopeless passion for poor Mr Calloway. Did it eve
r occur to her that she too could easily have made an ass of herself?

  ‘Well, go on!’ Iris commanded. ‘Must be more than that.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Without mentioning the Rector’s possible involvement, Melissa went over the implications of what she had learned from Clive that afternoon.

  Iris’s mouth crimped in disgust. ‘Dirty little whore! Deserved all she got!’

  ‘That’s not quite fair . . . she had a traumatic childhood,’ Melissa reminded her. ‘What worries me, though, is that Clive could well be a prime suspect.’

  ‘You think he might have done it?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. The first time we saw him, he was so quiet and . . . sort of saintly . . . he obviously cared deeply for Babs and I couldn’t believe he’d hurt her. Now I’m not so sure. He’s capable of intense anger — I saw it in his eyes — and he admitted to feelings of violence. He’s strong, too . . . his fingers are like steel clamps.’ Again she recalled the marks on Bruce’s forearms.

  ‘Well, if he did it, they’ll get him. Not your problem.’

  ‘He should at least have a good lawyer. I’m thinking of ringing his father to warn him what’s likely to happen. I’ve got his number.’

  Iris shrugged. ‘Could do. Then wash your hands of the other business.’

  ‘What other business?’

  ‘This drugs business your . . . this cub reporter keeps on about. If Clive killed Babs, that blows his theory out of the window.’ Iris’s lips curved in a cat-like smirk. Plainly, she considered Bruce bad for Melissa and was anxious to see him removed from her life. Perversely, Melissa found herself siding with him.

  ‘It merely gives another possible motive for the murder. Clive himself believes Babs was planning blackmail.’

  ‘So he says. Could have been a red herring. He could have killed Babs, buried her body and had the blackmail story all ready in case things went wrong.’

  ‘But he didn’t know where she was.’

  ‘Could have found her, between The Usual Place and the accident. Plenty of time. Or he could already have killed her and then been pretending to rush around looking for her. An even redder herring, so to speak!’ Iris, enlarging on her theory, was growing animated.

  It was Melissa’s turn to pour cold water. ‘You’ll be saying next he planned the accident. He was badly smashed up, remember? And you can’t tell me he could remember his story after suffering brain-damage and amnesia!’

  ‘Might have done. Strange thing, the human mind.’

  Melissa gave a resigned sigh. What difference, in the end, would it make to Clive? Whether he was guilty of murder or not, he was scarred for life. There were other casualties, too, in this wretched business. Henry Calloway, Gloria . . . yes, and all the victims of the drugs racket that Bruce kept reminding her about.

  ‘I can’t wash my hands of it now,’ she said, half to herself. ‘They are pushing drugs from the U.P. Club and I want to help prove it.’

  Iris banged her mug down on the floor in a fury. ‘By swapping copies of that beastly little rag?’

  ‘If I can figure out how.’

  ‘You’re mad! End up a corpse yourself! Go to the police!’

  ‘We intend to, but we want to have something concrete to show them. Bruce says . . . ’

  ‘Damn Bruce! Little boy playing cops and robbers while you take the risks! Don’t be a bloody fool!’

  Melissa had to admit that similar thoughts, less forcefully expressed, had occurred to her from time to time but in the end she had always yielded to Bruce’s powers of persuasion. She gave a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘There are times,’ she said, ‘when I think I’d have done better to have stayed in London. At least the people there who kept trying to organise me were family or old friends!’

  Iris stared stiff-backed into the empty grate. ‘Sorry!’ she muttered. ‘Didn’t mean to interfere.’

  Remorsefully, Melissa put a hand on her friend’s thin shoulder. ‘I wasn’t getting at you, honestly!’ she said. ‘It’s . . . oh, I don’t know! Ever since I came here I’ve had someone on my back . . . first Bruce with his crusade . . . and Joe breathing down my neck . . . and then there’s old Mother Foster; every time I go into the shop she’s got some trivial bit of gossip she wants me to write into a book. And the Rector keeps suggesting the most hackneyed ideas for plots. Even Dick Woodman plays a game called “looking out for tit-bits for my story-books”. Oh, Lord, that reminds me, he’s coming round presently. I’d better get back.’

  ‘Dick Woodman? Coming to see you? What about?’

  Melissa stood up and Binkie slid from her lap with a resentful squawk.

  ‘He sounded quite mysterious . . . said he couldn’t talk on the phone but something funny was going on and could he come and see me after leaving the Woolpack this evening.’

  ‘Remember what I said. Stay out of trouble!’

  Melissa was touched by the concern in her friend’s face. Her voice, too, had a softer edge than usual. ‘I’ll try!’ she promised.

  ‘Tell me what Dick says?’

  ‘You think it’s likely to be important?’

  ‘Might be. Very down-to-earth chap is Dick. Plenty of common sense.’

  ‘Why don’t you join us and hear for yourself? Come round for a nightcap.’

  ‘Thanks, I will. Be round in a little while. Sooner if I hear a knock on your door.’

  It was nearly nine o’clock and the embers of the sunset flamed blood-red behind the swaying black tree-shapes on the skyline. Clouds were piling up from the north-west with a promise of rain. As Melissa let herself into Hawthorn Cottage, a faint, sorrowful sigh was borne along the valley by the rising wind. Hastily she closed the door and switched on the porch light. She was curious to know what Dick had to say but wished he’d left it until some other time. It had been quite a day and she doubted if her tired brain could cope with any more that night.

  ‘He said he was going to leave the Woolpack early,’ said Melissa, yawning as the clock chimed half past ten. ‘What time does it close?’

  ‘Not till half past.’ Iris, sitting as usual on the floor with folds of plaid worsted heaped round her knees, took a swig from her glass. ‘They play skittles on a Friday night. Expect he stayed to the finish after all. Shouldn’t worry.’

  Eleven o’clock sounded, then eleven fifteen. At half past eleven Melissa went to the door and peered out. The wind was blowing more strongly but there was no rain in the fresh, sweet air. Out of the blackness came faint squeakings, rustlings, the hoot of an owl. There was no sign of any human life.

  ‘Expect he had a few too many and forgot all about it,’ observed Iris, looking over Melissa’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t he give you any idea of what it was about?’

  Melissa frowned. ‘I really can’t remember. I was half-asleep at the time but I got the impression that he’d heard something and seen something unusual and thought I’d be interested. Someone was coming and he didn’t want to be overheard.’

  ‘Not coming now, that’s for sure.’ Iris threw her jacket over her shoulders and stepped outside. The two of them stood for a moment looking up at the sky. The gaps in the hurrying clouds were peppered with stars. Iris took a deep, satisfied breath. ‘Aah, that’s better! Get London out of my lungs. Well, goodnight, sleep well!’

  ‘Goodnight!’

  Melissa locked and bolted the door and went round checking that windows were fastened and the back entrance secure. She switched off the downstairs lights and went upstairs. She was very, very tired. Normally she read for a while before settling down for sleep but tonight she put out her lamp as soon as she was in bed and flopped on to her pillow with a deep sigh of utter weariness. It had been an exhausting and, in many ways, a disturbing day. The interview with Wally had been stimulating, promising an original dénouement to her novel, but uppermost in her mind was her visit to Clive.

  It was all so depressing. If, as seemed likely, he were to be questioned about Babs’s death, who would advise hi
m? He was in such a strange state of mind that he might easily say something to incriminate himself. He was in desperate need of help and yet he was steadfastly turning his face from the one person who cared for him. It was inconsistent with his undoubtedly strong religious feelings; she remembered Henry Calloway’s sermon on forgiveness after the discovery of Babs’s body and wondered if he would be willing to talk to Clive, then reflected that in the circumstances it would hardly be tactful to suggest it.

  She had Clive’s father’s telephone number. Perhaps it was up to her. Tomorrow she would call him, make an appointment to go and see him and let him know of his son’s plight. She seemed to have won Clive’s confidence; there might be something she could do to heal the breach between father and son.

  Sleep was very near. As she felt herself drifting away, she wondered why Dick had changed his mind about coming to see her. Iris’s diagnosis was probably correct. He’d be along tomorrow. She tried to remember his precise words on the telephone. Something funny was going on . . . he’d seen something . . . and there was a sow . . . what was the word? Harrowing? No, farrowing. She had never come across it and although she had picked up quite a lot of information about rural life since moving to Upper Benbury she knew little about the habits of livestock. Visions of the Empress of Blandings floated before her and she wondered drowsily if Dick had overheard plans for a commando-style raid of the type constantly feared by Lord Emsworth. The notion brought with it a welcome note of light relief and she fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  She was awakened by the sound of the wind and a flurry of rain on the windows. The luminous hands of her bedside clock stood at half past two. She closed her eyes again but although her body was ready for more sleep, her mind had clicked awake. It was a familiar sensation and she knew it might be an hour or more before she could hope to drop off again. Hot milk sometimes helped. Grumbling to herself, she got up, huddled into a dressing-gown and went downstairs.