Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9)

by Betty Rowlands

  Murder at Benbury Brook

  An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery

  Betty Rowlands

  Books by Betty Rowlands

  THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Murder on a Winter Afternoon

  Murder in the Orchard

  Murder at Larkfield Barn

  Murder in Langley Woods

  Murder at Benbury Brook

  Murder at the Old House

  Murder in the Dining Room

  Murder in a Country Garden

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Hear More from Betty

  A Letter From Betty

  Books by Betty Rowlands

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Murder on a Winter Afternoon

  Murder in the Orchard

  Murder at Larkfield Barn

  Murder in Langley Woods

  For Len, with love

  Prologue

  ‘Well, Mr Shipley, that all seems satisfactory so far.’ A momentary smile softened the angular features of the head teacher of St Monica’s Preparatory School.

  Graham Shipley returned the smile with a feeling of relief; for the first time since the start of the interview he felt an easing of the tension that, despite the diazepam tablet he had swallowed before leaving home, had kept him sitting bolt upright on the uncomfortable chair with his hands gripping his knees.

  ‘Your references are excellent and I am impressed with your enthusiasm for your subject,’ Miss Monroe continued as she reassembled the sheets of his CV and slipped them back into the acetate folder in which he had submitted them. ‘I am particularly interested in your outline project, ‘History on the Hoof’—although I have to confess I find the title somewhat bizarre. I imagine it has some significance that the children will understand?’

  Graham smiled again and nodded. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt they will,’ he assured her. Really, he thought, this old bird was almost an anachronism, with her iron-grey hair drawn into a bun, her rimless spectacles, her tailored blouse buttoned up to the neck. He remembered noticing when she entered the room that her skirt fell to a decorous calf-length over her stockinged legs—they were surely stockings, he could not imagine her wearing tights—and that she wore black lace-up shoes. She would not have appeared out of place in a Victorian schoolroom.

  Aloud, he explained, ‘In its modern colloquial sense ‘on the hoof’ implies doing something—eating, for example—while on the move.’

  Miss Monroe frowned. ‘That is something I could not approve,’ she declared. ‘At St Monica’s we insist on correct behaviour at meal-times.’

  ‘Oh quite,’ Graham agreed. ‘I’ve used the expression figuratively, simply to imply a sense of activity and personal involvement. History shouldn’t be seen as something dry as dust and shut up in books and it isn’t only about kings and politics and wars. It’s about the way those things affected ordinary people—their work, their homes, their problems and especially their children—and the way what happened in the past influences what goes on today.’ He felt himself warming to his theme. ‘I plan to open the project by asking the children what they think is meant by the title,’ he continued, ‘and I expect to generate—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Shipley, you have made your point.’ Once again the head allowed herself the ghost of a smile. There was a brief silence before she spoke again. ‘I think we have covered everything concerning the appointment itself. There now remains the question of your health …’

  ‘I assure you, I’m perfectly fit now.’

  ‘… and also of your marital status,’ she went on as if she had not heard the interruption. ‘As to the first point, your doctor appears confident that you are well enough to take up full-time employment again. May I ask if you are still taking any medication?’

  ‘Only a mild tranquilliser for occasional use, to relieve stress … I don’t need it very often.’ Graham felt the tension rising again, threatening to turn to panic. Why had she found it necessary to touch on his private life? How deeply would she probe? He realised at that moment how badly he wanted the opportunity to work in a small, independent school such as this, tucked away in its peaceful rural setting, far removed from the rough and tumble of a state comprehensive. It held the promise of relief from the hideous chain of circumstances that had brought him to the brink of disaster, in the process destroying his marriage and threatening to end his teaching career.

  Miss Monroe was nodding as if she approved of his response. ‘Generally speaking,’ she said, ‘stress levels among my staff are, I believe, fairly low. Naturally, problems do arise from time to time, but it is our policy to tackle them as a team and we give one another mutual support—as Christians should.’ She paused, as if to give him the opportunity to comment, but he merely nodded and waited for her to continue.

  ‘As you are no doubt aware,’ she went on, ‘this school is an Anglican foundation and we try to uphold the beliefs and moral principles which many people nowadays unfortunately find inconvenient. You mentioned earlier that you are a committed Christian, and yet you are divorced.’ Her tone challenged him to explain this apparent contradiction.

  For a moment, he wished he had put ‘Single’ or even ‘Widower’ on his application form. He had been tempted, but had on reflection decided that it was better to be honest. The former response would have made him a potential target for any lone woman in search of a partner, a prospect that in his present state of mind filled him with horror. The latter would not merely have invited sympathy, but also created the need to invent a background to support it. The truth gave him a valid and understandable reason for being reserved about his private life.

  ‘I was the innocent party, but I’m not prepared to go into details,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am not involved with another woman—nor do I intend to be,’ he added, reading an implied question in the hint of a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I admire your discretion. Had you attempted to justify your situation by vilifying your wife, I would have hesitated to believe your story … or to offer you an appointment on my staff. May I take it that you are still interested in joining us in September?’

  It took a moment for Graham to grasp the fact that the interview—it had been almost an inquisition—was over, that his time in the wilderness was at an end, that he was on the verge of regaining his status as a man with a profession and a regular job who could look the world in the eye without fear or shame.

  ‘Yes, I most certainly am,’ he assured her.

 
; ‘Good. Then let us consider the practical details.’

  One

  It was with a feeling of thankfulness that Melissa Craig, bestselling writer of crime fiction, turned off the main road and drove slowly in third gear on the final stage of her journey from London to the Cotswold village where, a few years ago, she had made her home. She was returning after a short stay with friends; for a few days she had enjoyed the change of scene and the lively pace of life in the capital, but despite having spent the greater part of her fifty-odd years there, nowadays it was only in the unpolluted air and comparative tranquillity of the Gloucestershire countryside that she felt entirely at ease.

  Ahead, the lane wound its leisurely way downhill for a short distance and crossed a stone bridge spanning a stream before tackling the steep half-mile climb the other side. Melissa lowered the window, delighting in the sound of birdsong that drove the roar of motorway traffic from her head and the caress of the gentle breeze that cleared its fumes from her lungs. Soon, she would be back in Hawthorn Cottage, enjoying the stunning view across the secluded valley with its quietly flowing brook, cattle grazing on the sloping pasture and the patch of woodland rising to the skyline.

  Rounding a bend she caught sight of the single-decker bus which twice a week ran a shuttle service between Stowbridge and the outlying villages. It was just pulling away after dropping off a handful of passengers—four teenage youngsters, three middle-aged women and one elderly man—at the bottom of the hill. She slowed to a crawl to allow it to get well ahead on its slow grind in first gear to Upper Benbury and idly watched as the four adults set off towards the turning to its twin village of Lower Benbury. The women walked ahead in a gossiping group while trudging slowly along behind them, clutching a plastic supermarket carrier, was the unmistakable figure of Tommy Judd, a local character who lived in a tumbledown cottage in the woods and went around winter and summer in the same tattered overcoat and down-at-heel boots.

  The youngsters doubled back to the bridge, where they leaned their elbows on the parapet, apparently deep in conversation. As she drew nearer Melissa recognised the pony-tail of Billy Daniels, the elf-locks of Dave Potter and the cropped head of Gary Tanner, all students at the local comprehensive. Slightly apart from the group of lads was Gary’s younger sister Becky, a pert, pretty fourteen-year-old with a swinging mane of glossy chestnut hair. Melissa tooted gently on her horn and waved and they gave brief nods of recognition as she passed. ‘Don’t forget your French lesson this afternoon, Becky,’ she called, and the girl gave a cheeky grin as she waved back.

  ‘I’ll be there, Mrs Craig,’ she promised.

  Melissa completed her journey, put the car in the garage, dumped her suitcase in the porch and spent a few minutes leaning on the field gate opposite her front door. Yes, it was all there, just as she had left it. Other things might change, but the glacial valley had a timeless quality that never failed to soothe. There followed a twinge of nostalgia as she thought how good it would have been if her friend Iris Ash, the owner—and until almost a year ago the occupant—of the adjoining Elder Cottage, had been there to welcome her back with a cup of herbal tea and home-made nut cookies, and put her through a series of yoga exercises to help her unwind after the trip. But last October, Iris had married Jack Hammond and gone to live with him in the South of France. Their departure shortly after former Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris went off to begin his new career in America had left a huge gap in Melissa’s life. On reflection, it seemed that she had missed Iris more than Ken. Her relationship with her ex-lover had been on the turbulent side, particularly towards the end; that with her eccentric artistic neighbour had over the years developed into an enduring, undemanding and mutually supportive friendship.

  She heard a car approaching behind her. The gravel crunched beneath its wheels as it bumped slowly along the uneven track leading to the cottages and pulled up a short distance away. There was a creaking of hinges, an increased revving of the engine that faded and died as the car was driven into the garage, the muffled sound of the door being closed followed by a gentle thud of wood against wood and the scrape of a key in the lock. The new tenants, presumably, returning from their day’s excursion. There had been a succession of them throughout the summer, for the most part city folk escaping from the hurly-burly of urban life, some quietly enjoying the peace of the countryside, others shattering it with their noisy comings and goings. At least, Melissa reflected as she turned her head with a smile and a polite ‘Good afternoon’, these latest arrivals didn’t over-rev their engines or slam doors.

  She was expecting a couple, but it was a man on his own. He was fortyish, on the tall side, thin, clean-shaven and bespectacled. His eyes were clear and candid and his manner pleasant enough, but his smile as he returned her greeting held a hint of reserve.

  ‘I’m Mel Craig,’ she said. ‘I live here.’ She nodded in the direction of Hawthorn Cottage.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Craig. My name’s Graham Shipley.’ He hesitated for a moment before saying. ‘I’ve rented Elder Cottage until next March.’

  His voice was a light tenor; the hand that took hers and held it briefly in a firm clasp had long, tapering fingers. She wondered if he was an artist, or possibly a musician. At the same time he had a bookish look about him, although the fact that he showed no reaction to her name suggested that crime fiction—or at least, her particular contribution to the genre—was not on his reading list.

  ‘Iris—Mrs Hammond—mentioned that someone had taken Elder Cottage on a six-month lease, but I hadn’t realised you were moving in so soon,’ she remarked. ‘Up to now it’s just been let by the week to holiday-makers.’

  ‘It’s an idyllic spot for a holiday,’ he remarked, with a glance across the valley as it lay soaking up the late August sunshine. ‘I know this part of the country, I used to …’ He broke off and a shadow flickered across his face.

  She waited for him to finish, but he had switched his attention to the bunch of keys in his hand as if trying to decide which one would open the front door. He spoke with a trace of a Midlands accent and she was about to ask where he came from, but although the shadow had faded she had the impression that a shutter had come down in its place. Her writer’s curiosity was immediately aroused, but she sensed that he would stonewall any attempt on her part to enquire into his background and it was clear that he had no interest in learning more about herself.

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here,’ she said. ‘Upper Benbury’s a lively little village and the people are very friendly. Mrs Foster’s shop is quite well stocked, by the way,’ she added, briefly eyeing the bulging supermarket carrier he held in one hand. ‘I do hope you’ll give it a try. We’re very lucky to have it—so many small shops are going out of business nowadays.’

  He nodded absently without replying. Having found the right key, he turned away and entered Elder Cottage, closing the door behind him without a further glance in her direction.

  ‘Well, that put you in your place,’ Melissa said to herself with a shrug. If he didn’t want to be sociable that was his lookout. She glanced at her wristwatch; it would soon be time for Becky’s lesson and she had unpacking to do. Humming a tune, she went indoors.

  She would have felt a little less light-hearted had she known what was occupying the minds of the four youngsters back at the bridge.

  Two

  A pair of mallards glided out from under the bridge and Billy Daniels picked up a stone and threw it at them. They took off with startled squawks and a noisy flapping of wings. All three lads broke into foolish, braying laughter, but Becky rounded on them.

  ‘Why d’you do that?’ she demanded. ‘They wasn’t doin’ you no harm.’

  ‘Fun,’ sniggered Billy.

  ‘You’re stupid!’ she shouted, bunching her fists. ‘All of you, stupid!’

  ‘Shut up Becky Tanner or I’ll clout you one,’ threatened Dave Potter, a mean look in his hard, pale eyes.

  Becky flinched, even though s
he knew he would not dare touch her in front of her brother. ‘Don’t let him hit me, Gary,’ she whined, sidling up to him.

  ‘Leave her be, Dave. She likes to think she’s grown up, but she’s only a kid.’ Becky put out her tongue at him, then lapsed into a sulky silence.

  ‘She’s too bloody cheeky,’ muttered Billy as he resumed his study of the water.

  ‘She’s right, though, we are stupid,’ said Dave. The others stared at him, dumbfounded.

  ‘You gone soft in the head or somethin’, stickin’ up for a girl?’ said Billy.

  ‘Not stickin’ up for nobody, just statin’ a fact. We came here to think how to get ticket money for Friday evening, not chuck stones at bloody ducks.’

  ‘All right, clever dick, since you’re so smart, you got any ideas?’

  ‘I just had one.’ Dave jerked his tousled head in the direction taken by their elderly fellow passenger. ‘Tommy Judd.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘My Dad reckons he’s a miser. He draws his pension every week, but he never goes to the pub or buys tobacco or new clothes nor nothin’. So what’s he do with his money?’ The other two lads turned to look at him, the same idea already half-formed in their minds, while Becky stood scornfully aloof and Dave answered his own question by saying, ‘My Dad reckons he hides it somewhere indoors.’