The Murder at Skellin Cottage

by Amy Cross

  Leaving the engine running and the headlights burning through the late-night rain, she clambered out of the car and splashed down into ankle-deep mud. Ordinarily she'd have picked her way carefully across the yard, but tonight she ran as fast as she could manage.

  “Harry!” she called out, before reaching the door and pounding with her fists. “Harry, please! Wake up! He's after me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Today

  “You've got the wrong man!” Jo pointed out as she followed Sam across the police station's car park. “You realize that, don't you?”

  “It's Jack Byron's case, Jo, and -”

  “Jack Byron's an idiot!” she continued, stepping in front of him to keep him from going through the door. “Harry Morgan didn't kill either of those women.”

  “I can't discuss the -”

  “And you know that full well! Jack Byron is doing what Jack Byron always does. He latches onto a suspect at the beginning of a case, and he gets this kind of tunnel vision! He doesn't consider any other possibilities! He considers it a matter of personal pride that his first instinct is always right!”

  “Over here!” Grabbing her arm, Sam led her around the corner so that they were less likely to be seen. “Until a couple of hours ago,” he continued, “I would have completely agreed with you. But Jo, the evidence is starting to pile up. For one thing, Harry Morgan was involved in a sexual relationship with both women, and in both cases the relationship had hit the rocks shortly before they were killed. For another, Harry had no alibi on the nights of the murders. And for another, it turns out that he'd been packing suitcases at his farmhouse. The man was planning to run away.”

  “I talked him out of that,” Jo replied. “I persuaded him to stick around.”

  “It's not looking good.”

  “All the evidence so far is circumstantial.”

  “What about the fact that he was seen loitering outside the hotel on the night Susannah Marriott died?”

  “What?”

  “Two separate witnesses both saw him. He denied it at first, but then he said he just waited to see her and then went home when he realized she wasn't there.”

  “Well, I...”

  “Plus,” Sam continued, “Harry's ex-wife Vivian says she saw him driving toward Skellin Cottage on the night Deborah was killed. Harry says that's not true, but Vivian has given a sworn statement confirming that she saw Harry's car near Skellin Cottage. Come on, Jo, even you have to admit that this is looking very bad for him.”

  Hesitating for a moment, Jo tried to think of an explanation.

  “Maybe you didn't know,” Sam continued, glancing over his shoulder to check once again that they hadn't been spotted, before turning back to her, “that he was also seen leaving his farmhouse on the night Alice, or Deborah, was murdered. He denied that too, until he realized Byron had a witness, and then he started going on about how he likes driving alone late at night to clear his head. Even you have to admit that he's starting to seem pretty slippery.”

  “That doesn't mean he killed anyone!”

  “No, but it means he's been caught lying to the police. Twice. In two separate murder investigations. Jo, it's starting to look as if despite everything that went on in her past, Alice Pritchard aka Deborah Dean was killed because of a simple lover's tiff. She rejected Harry and he couldn't handle it. Then the same thing happened this week with Susannah Marriott and boom, he did it again. Byron's calling in a psychologist to speak to Harry and determine his state of mind.”

  “But Harry denies it?”

  “Harry denies it. If this goes to a jury trial, though, you know how it's going to look. Juries don't take kindly to people admitting that they lied to the police, and Harry has lied multiple times.” He paused for a moment, seeing from the look in her eyes that she still wasn't convinced. “Maybe this case is done and dusted. Maybe you need to go and tell Lord Chesleford that justice is being served. I still can't believe you were hired as a private investigator. I mean, what kind of person hires a PI in the twenty-first century, eh?”

  “Someone who wants to know who murdered his friend,” Jo pointed out. “And Harry Morgan is not the killer.”

  “My hands are tied,” he continued. “Even Jack Byron gets it right occasionally, and it looks like his bull in a china shop approach has actually worked for once. Harry Morgan has been charged with both murders, and he's going to appear before magistrates in the morning. Then he'll be remanded in custody until he can be tried in court, and we both know that the jury won't think twice before convicting him. This is over, Jo.”

  Shaking her head, she took a step back.

  “In case you've forgotten,” he added, “Harry Morgan also gave his ex-wife a nasty little scar back when they were married. The man has a temper.”

  “He didn't kill anyone!”

  “So who did it, then?” Sam asked. “If not Harry, who?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Seems like you've got a problem, then.” He sighed again. “Let this one go, Jo. There's nothing to fight here. Jack's got his man, and I can't believe I'm saying this but for once I actually agree with him.”

  “I'm going to prove you wrong,” she replied, before stepping past him and hurrying back across the parking lot. “You've got an innocent men in that cell!”

  “Jo!” he called after her. “Laura and I are having a barbecue for the kids on Saturday! I thought you might wanna pop along! It'd be good for you to see people again!”

  Not even noticing the invitation, Jo was already at her car. Her mind was racing, but she knew one thing without any doubt. Harry Morgan hadn't killed anyone.

  ***

  “If you want me to say I'm surprised, I can't,” Vivian told Jo as they stood outside her house. “If you want me to say I'm sorry, I can't say that either. Harry's a violent man, and I'm just shocked that it took this long for the police to do something about him.”

  “You said you saw him driving toward Skellin Cottage on the night Deborah was murdered.”

  She fold her arms. “That's right.”

  “What time?”

  “Not long before she died.”

  “What time exactly?”

  “I don't know exactly,” she said with a sigh, “but it was him, alright. Apparently he's told the cops it's not true, but he would say that, wouldn't he?”

  “But he -”

  “Look at this!” she added firmly, tapping the scar just above her eyebrow. “Any man who does something like this to a woman deserves to rot in jail for the rest of his life!”

  “I'm not trying to excuse -”

  “He didn't even spend one night behind bars!” she continued. “Can you believe that? He could have given me concussion! He could have killed me! And what happened? Community service and that's it! It's a travesty when people can go around doing things like that, and then they just get away without any punishment at all!”

  “When you saw him on the night that Deborah was murdered, did he -”

  “I don't have to tell you anything!” she added, turning and heading to her front door.

  “I'm just trying to figure out the timeline,” Jo replied, hurrying after her. “Nothing else that I've seen so far has made me think that Harry's a murderer.”

  “Then you're as dumb as the cops,” Vivian muttered, turning to her and putting a hand on the door, ready to push it shut. “How does it feel to have been taken in and manipulated by him, eh? Do you feel like an idiot? Do you feel like a bloody fool? Welcome to my world, love. I never liked Susannah Marriott and I bloody loathed that Deborah Dean woman, but I wouldn't wish this on them. I wouldn't want either of them to get mixed up with Harry and end up dead.”

  She began to shut the door, before hesitating for a moment.

  “I tried to warn Deborah, you know,” she added. “I bumped into her and Susannah just a couple of days before the first murder, and I tried to warn her away from Harry. As God is my witness, I tried to do the right thing, but the s
tupid cow laughed in my face. Some people just won't be told, will they? And now they're both dead, but at least this time Harry'll end up in jail. He's belonged in there ever since the night he gave me this scar! Face it, Harry Morgan is a murderer!”

  With that, she slammed the door shut, leaving Jo standing on the front step.

  ***

  “The victim was stabbed six times in the small of the back,” Jo muttered as she sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading the coroner's report into Susannah Marriot's murder while rain tapped at the cottage window, “and then once in the chest. The final blow pierced the heart, but the previous six were -”

  She turned to the next page.

  “- sufficient to cause death. The weapon was a medium-length knife, no more than five or six inches long, and minor bruising around the wounds on the back indicate a small handle. Tears inside the wounds also suggest a non-serrated blade with a tapering tip.”

  Sighing, she leaned back for a moment and tried to imagine Harry stabbing Susannah six times in the back and then once in the chest. Even in her mind's eye, the entire scenario seemed impossible, and she couldn't shake the feeling that even if Harry had attacked Susannah after some kind of argument, it was highly unlikely that he'd have stabbed her so many times. Besides, the final wound on the chest seemed very calm and deliberate, as if someone had been keen to ensure that Susannah was dead, and that kind of calculation seemed beyond Harry.

  Hearing a sudden bump at the door, she looked over but saw no sign of anyone. She waited, and a moment later she heard the bump again.

  Getting to her feet, she headed across the room and peered out, but there was still no sign of anyone in the rain-spattered yard. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, only for a cat to slink inside and brush against her legs.

  “You must be the famous Merriwig,” she muttered, crouching down to give the cat a welcoming pat. “I've heard a lot about you. Did you take to being an outside cat after she died? Well, welcome back inside. I don't suppose there's any way you can tell me who killed your mistress, is there?”

  Letting out a loud meow, the cat slunk away and headed to an empty food bowl.

  “I thought not,” Jo said as she stood up again. “I didn't get any cat food in, but I'm guessing you don't run short of mice in a place like this.”

  Hearing her phone start to buzz, she headed back to the coffee table and saw that Lord Chesleford was trying to get through. She hesitated for a moment, before picking up.

  “Hi,” she said cautiously, “I was just about to -”

  “What the hell is all this nonsense on the news?” he spluttered. “They're saying Harry bloody Morgan has been charged with Deborah's murder!”

  “The police -”

  “I don't give a damn about the police! The police are a bunch of dribbling incompetents! There's no way Harry Morgan killed her!”

  “I agree, but -”

  “So what the hell am I paying you for, then?”

  “I haven't stopped looking into the -”

  “I thought you'd get to the bottom of this!” he continued furiously. “I thought you might actually be smart enough to figure out the truth. Instead, you've spent several days swanning around town doing next to nothing, no doubt building up a nice expenses claim, while another woman has ended up dead and now the police have picked up Harry bloody Morgan! For Christ's sake, they've got the wrong man! Even a simpleton can see that!”

  “Harry lied to them about his whereabouts,” she pointed out.

  “So? A man has a right to lie now and then, without getting arrested for murder!”

  “I'm reviewing some documents at the moment,” she explained. “I don't think this is over, Lord Chesleford, but for now the police seem very much convinced that they've caught the right person. There's nothing I can personally do to change their mind, other than keep looking into -”

  “Oh, you're bloody hopeless!” he continued, his voice trembling with rage. “How much have I paid you already? Five hundred pounds? And what have you done to earn that money, eh?”

  “If you're not happy,” she replied, “I can certainly refund you the -”

  “I wanted results!” he yelled, loud enough for her to move the phone a little further away from her ear. “I wanted poor Deborah's killer to be brought to justice. Instead, I turned on the news a few minutes ago and learned about this ridiculous sham!” He muttered something else under his breath, and a moment later there was a bump on the other end of the line. “Go to your room, Phillip! Now! I don't have time to deal with your constant whining! Stop blubbing like a baby!”

  “I completely understand if you've lost faith in me,” Jo said, trying to stay calm. “If you want me to stop looking into this, I'll give you a full refund of every penny you've paid me, but I'd really like the chance to spend at least a few more days looking into the two murders. I think what happened to Susannah is connected to Deborah's death, and I'm convinced -”

  “You're an idiot!” he snapped.

  “I'm not sure that I -”

  “Phillip, go to your bloody room this instant!” he shouted. “I won't tell you again! This is adult business, so stop gawping at me like that and get out of my sight!”

  “I have -”

  “Now!” he screamed, so loud that the phone briefly buzzed.

  “I have a copy of the autopsy reports,” Jo explained after a moment, “and I'm going through them right now. I was planning to call you this evening and tell you about my findings so far. I've tracked down Deborah's real identity and her real name, I've spoken to her ex-husband, I know why and how she ended up in Chelmsbury. I agree with you, Harry Morgan isn't the killer. I need to -”

  Before she could finish, she heard a pained cry on the other end of the line.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “What's that infernal child up to now?” Lord Chesleford muttered, and from the sound of thudding footsteps it was clear that he'd begun to make his way upstairs. “Phillip!” he roared, as another cry rang out. “You're testing my patience beyond all reason! You're lucky I don't keep a cane in this house!”

  “Are you sure everything's okay?” Jo asked. “It sounds like -”

  “What are you doing?” Lord Chesleford said suddenly, and now there was a hint of fear in his voice. “Oh God, Phillip, please don't hurt -”

  Suddenly the call went dead, leaving Jo standing in stunned silence in the middle of the cottage's front room. Quickly bringing up the number again, she tried to call back, only for the phone to ring a couple of times and then cut off. She tried one more time, and now no connection was made at all, as if the phone on the other end had been switched off.

  Grabbing her keys from the counter, Jo hurried out the front door and made her way toward her car. She told herself to stay calm, that most likely Lord Chesleford was just drunk again, but in the back of her mind she still couldn't shake a hint of concern. Phillip's voice had sounded so pained and anguished, and she help worrying that something was seriously wrong. As she began the drive to Chesleford Manor, she tried the number again, still without any luck, and finally she began speeding along country lanes, desperately trying to get to the house in case someone was in danger.

  As soon as she pulled up in the driveway at the front of the manor house, she saw that the front door was wide open. Racing out of the car, she hurried up the steps and into the hallway, and then she stopped as she heard more muffled cries coming from upstairs.

  “Hello?” she called out, her heart pounding as she began to make her way up toward the landing. “Is there -”

  Suddenly Phillip cried out again, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding in the distance and then a door slamming open and hitting a wall.

  “In here!” Lord Chesleford called out, his voice trembling. “Hurry!”

  Running along to Phillip's room, Jo stopped in the doorway and saw to her horror that Lord Chesleford was on the floor, clutching a bloodied wound on his right arm. Another thick wound ran across
his face, as if he'd been slashed by a knife.

  “It's Phillip!” he gasped. “He's out of his mind! He's trying to kill me!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Today

  Pushing the door open, Jo ducked down and stepped through the small opening that led out onto the manor house's lead-lined roof. A cold evening breeze was already whipping between the various chimney stacks that rose up from the depths of the building, and the uneven lead beneath her feet meant that she had to reach out and support herself against one of the stacks as she looked around and tried to spot Phillip.

  “Okay,” Sam said over the phone, “there'll be an ambulance and a response team with you in about ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Are you with the old duffer now?”

  “He's downstairs in Phillip's bedroom,” she replied, picking her way carefully across the large roof area, still trying to find Phillip. “I told him to leave the knife in the wound. He'll live. The front door's open.”

  “Alright, but where are you?” Sam asked cautiously.

  “I'm -”

  Before she could finish, her foot slipped and she fell, slithering down an angled sheet of lead before bumping against the side of another chimney stack.

  “I'm on the roof, obviously,” she replied, getting to her feet again and looking around, this time spotting a silhouetted figure at the far end. “I'll call you back.”

  “But Jo -”

  Cutting the call and setting her phone to silent, she began to clamber around the nearest stack and across the roof. As she got closer to Phillip, she realized he was standing with his back to her, right at the edge of the roof and staring down at the gravel yard more than twenty meters below. There was an anguished whimpering sound coming from his lips, and finally Jo realized that he was sobbing. Struggling to keep from slipping again, she clambered over the top of another small lead ridge and then stopped, seeing that Phillip's trembling right hand – though empty – was caked in blood.