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

by Betty Rowlands

  Normally Becky—who had gone along more out of an interest in the handsome, athletic Mr Evans than in Elizabethan drama—would have been hanging around with them. Today, however, she had said a perfunctory ‘See you later,’ to her brother and set off to walk the short distance home, calling ‘Things to do!’ over her shoulder when he demanded to know why she was in such a hurry. ‘What things?’ he had shouted at her retreating back, but received no answer.

  After a while, Billy said thoughtfully, ‘That Cissie, she were about the same age as Juliet, weren’t she? Funny, that,’ he added, half to himself as the others made no comment. ‘Wonder if she were in love too?’

  ‘Dunno ’bout that, but I reckon this lad here fancied her,’ said Dave, indicating Gary with a jerk of his head. ‘What about it, Romeo?’ Receiving no reaction, he dug Billy in the ribs and whispered audibly behind his hand, ‘No wonder her Mum reckoned it were him what were chasing her.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Gary shouted. His face worked and tears oozed from his eyes despite his desperate efforts to control them.

  ‘Leave it!’ said Billy. ‘Can’t you see he’s upset?’ He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, but Gary pulled away from him with a convulsive jerk. Billy withdrew his hand and looked at his feet in embarrassment.

  ‘I asked her out, but she kept putting me off,’ Gary said. ‘Okay, I did like her, but not … I mean, I never … I knew how strict her Mum was … I was going to offer to walk her home on Saturday after she finished work, but I didn’t think she’d let me so I—’ He covered his eyes with his hands; his chest heaved with the sobs that he fought to choke back. ‘If I’d gone with her it might never have happened,’ he finished brokenly.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Billy. ‘You wasn’t to know.’

  ‘D’you reckon old Tommy Judd did something to scare her?’ said Dave after another long silence. ‘I mean, suppose she saw what we saw—he wouldn’t want her to run home and tell her Mum, would he?’ He seemed taken with the notion of Tommy Judd as the villain of the piece. ‘I can’t see Cissie doin’ deals with him like we did,’ he added with a leer.

  ‘I heard me Dad say the police reckon she were runnin’ away from someone,’ said Billy. ‘It could have been Tommy—what d’you think, Gary?’ Gary shook his head. He was plainly finding the conversation distressing.

  ‘I dunno,’ he muttered.

  There was a silence while they pondered the imaginary scenario. Then Billy said, ‘D’you reckon we ought to tell?’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ Dave demanded. ‘An’ who’re you thinkin’ of tellin’?’

  ‘The police, I suppose.’

  ‘No, we can’t do that!’ This time it was Gary speaking. His voice was no longer shaky and he sounded alarmed at the suggestion. The others looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Billy.

  Gary hesitated for a moment as if casting around for reasons for his outburst. Then he said, ‘They’ll want to know how we found out.’

  ‘That’s a thought,’ said Billy. The probable consequences of admitting to authority what they had been up to a week or so ago made the idea suddenly less attractive. ‘We could say we was just peerin’ through the window,’ he suggested. ‘We don’t have to tell about, you know—’

  ‘Tommy might grass on us,’ Gary pointed out, ‘to get his own back, don’t you see, and then we’d be in big trouble. Besides,’ he continued as another thought occurred to him, ‘he ought to be good for another supply before long.’

  ‘You got a point there,’ agreed Dave with a snigger. ‘I vote we keep quiet.’

  ‘I reckon so too,’ said Gary. ‘You agree, Billy?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Billy looked troubled.

  ‘You listen to me!’ Gary took him by the arm and swung him round. ‘You don’t say nothin’ to no one, d’you hear?’ he hissed. He was the taller of the two by several inches and more heavily built. His face was flushed and his jaw thrust out as he glared down at Billy.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Billy pulled away and rubbed his arm, glancing at his watch as he did so. ‘Let’s forget it—I’m goin’ home for me tea.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Dave and the two of them trudged off in the direction of Lower Benbury. Gary remained there for several minutes, deep in thought, before he too set off for home.

  When Becky reached Oak Tree Farm she found her father in the kitchen. Whenever the work about the farm allowed, he made a point of being there to welcome his children home and his normally morose expression lightened as she entered.

  ‘How’s my girl then?’ he asked, giving her a hug. ‘Enjoy the play, did she?’

  ‘It were okay.’ She kissed him briefly on his prematurely lined, weather-beaten cheek and perched on a corner of the scrubbed deal table on which Jake had lined up three blue and white striped pottery mugs, a bowl of sugar and a bottle of milk. A kettle was singing on the stove and a white teapot stood on the draining board next to a red and black tea-caddy patterned with oriental figures and peacocks picked out in silver and gold.

  ‘Where’s Gary?’ he asked.

  ‘Stayed behind talkin’ to Billy and Dave.’ Becky studied her slim brown legs with satisfaction as she swung them to and fro.

  Jake frowned. ‘I don’t trust that Dave Potter, he’s a bad influence. His Dad’s a dodgy character as well.’

  ‘Oh, Dave’s a bit of a prat, but he’s okay,’ she said carelessly.

  Her father gave her a sharp look. ‘That’s not a nice word for a lady,’ he chided.

  ‘Sorry.’ She gave a disarming smile and his frown of disapproval faded. ‘Dad, you know Cissie Wilcox’s Mum does for the ladies at Benbury Manor?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘She’s too upset to work at the moment.’

  Jake gave a sympathetic nod. ‘Only natural, poor woman. I know how I’d feel.’ He brushed his daughter’s soft cheek with toil-worn fingers and she grabbed his hand and held it for a moment against her face.

  ‘Dad,’ she said, looking up at him with an earnest expression in her chestnut-brown eyes, ‘I’ve been thinking—suppose I offer to help out until she’s ready to start again?’

  ‘You mean, charring?’ Jake’s face darkened and he pulled his hand away. ‘You’ll do no such thing, my girl. I’m not having you scrubbing floors for those toffee-nosed old biddies.’

  ‘Oh Dad, it won’t be scrubbing floors, just a bit of ironing and dusting, that sort of thing. It’s only to keep Mrs Wilcox’s job open for her till she feels better.’

  ‘Let Gloria Parkin help out. She’s used to that kind of work.’

  ‘She’s doing for some of Cissie’s Mum’s ladies, but she hasn’t time for all of them. Please, Dad,’ Becky slid off the table and snuggled up to her father. ‘She can’t afford to lose the job and it’ll only be for a little while. I’d like to do something to help.’

  Jake put an arm round her and gazed fondly down at the young, unusually serious face turned up to his. ‘You’re a good, kind girl, Becky,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

  ‘So it’s okay, then?’

  He did not answer, but gave her a squeeze before releasing her and attending to the kettle, now coming to the boil. He poured hot water into the teapot, swilled it round, poured it down the sink and reached for the tea-caddy. He was whistling softly, the way he always did when considering a question. Becky watched his every move. She had learned long ago how to handle him, when to plead her case and when to remain silent. She was confident that she had said enough in this instance to persuade him to let her have her own way.

  He made the tea, stirred it, put the lid on the pot and said, as he did every time, ‘I’ll just let that draw for a minute or two.’

  ‘What d’you say, then?’

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Only for a couple of weeks, mind, and as long as it doesn’t interfere with your school work.’

  She was careful not to appear triumphant. ‘Thanks Dad, I’ll go an
d see them right away.’

  She made for the door into the hall, but he called her back. ‘Aren’t you having a cup of tea with me first?’

  ‘’Course I am. I’ll have it when I’ve changed.’

  In her bedroom she rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling out one garment after another, considering, rejecting, impatiently running her fingers through her glossy mane while trying to decide on the most suitable outfit. She longed to wear the new mini-skirt and figure-hugging top, but reluctantly put them aside as being inappropriate for today’s purpose. She finally settled for jeans with a loose-fitting sweat shirt and trainers. She brushed her hair, tied it neatly back from her face and considered her reflection in the full-length mirror that had belonged to her mother.

  ‘Yeah, that’ll do,’ she said aloud. ‘For a start anyway,’ she added with a giggle. She reached for a perfume spray, then changed her mind and put it back. ‘First things first,’ she told herself and went downstairs to have tea with her father.

  At about the same time as Becky set off on her mission to Benbury Manor, Melissa received the expected telephone call from Bruce Ingram.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier,’ he said. ‘Seen anything of your reclusive neighbour today?’

  ‘He put my morning paper through the letter-box, but I didn’t actually see him. He must have gone up to the shop as soon as it opened.’

  ‘And no sign of him since?’

  ‘I’ve not been keeping him under observation, you know. I’ve been working my socks off most of the day.’

  ‘I take it you’ve had time to look at the stuff I gave you yesterday?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘It is the same Graham Shipley, if that’s what you want to know. What are you planning to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing for the moment. The police haven’t released the name of the person who found Cissie’s body and there was nothing in today’s briefing to suggest that they’re treating the death as anything but accidental.’

  ‘Then why not let sleeping dogs lie?’

  ‘I’ve had a word with my editor and we’ve agreed to do just that for the time being, unless there are further developments.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Somewhat to her own surprise, Melissa found herself even more anxious than before to protect Graham from press intrusion based on hearsay and unproven circumstantial evidence. The image of his ravaged face, as he spoke of his broken marriage and separation from the daughter he obviously adored, was still vivid in her memory. Hard common sense told her that she should distance herself from any emotional judgement, but her instinct, based on the ability to judge character on which she prided herself, insisted that he had been a victim of circumstances and deserved to be left in peace to rebuild his life.

  ‘Of course,’ Bruce went on, ‘there’s no guarantee that some other paper won’t get hold of the story and use it.’

  ‘What about your Birmingham friend—the one who sent you the faxes? Is she likely to pass it on?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s part of her job to hunt through back numbers in response to requests from people like me. She won’t be the least bit interested in the story for its own sake.’

  ‘You’ll keep me posted, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure—and you’ll do the same if you unearth any more details?’

  ‘I don’t plan to do any digging, if that’s what you mean.’

  But before long, Melissa was to find herself doing just that.

  Eleven

  After a long, tiring but fruitful day spent toiling over her novel, Melissa took a hot shower, ate her supper in her dressing-gown and was in bed soon after nine o’clock. She snuggled down among the pillows with Emma, intending to read for an hour or so, but the events in Jane Austen’s elegant imaginary world were powerless to prevent her mind reverting to the brutal reality of Cissie Wilcox’s death, Matt Waters’s disturbing remarks about its possible cause and—despite her wish to believe in his innocence—the doubts raised in her mind by the reports of Graham Shipley’s encounter with a nameless, faceless adolescent girl. His life had been devastated, he had admitted to having a breakdown, and who could tell what long-term damage his mind had suffered as a result? A picture flashed into Melissa’s head of Becky Tanner sidling into the queue in front of him at the barbecue and looking up at him with a provocative smile that was almost an invitation. He had shown no reaction, had appeared to ignore the girl’s presence completely, yet there had been something in his set, expressionless face that, on reflection, she found disturbing. Then the picture changed and she saw him sitting on the ground with the Parkin boys and their friends, talking and laughing with them, the epitome of the kindly schoolmaster. Surely, a man who showed such a natural rapport with children, such spontaneous pleasure in their company, was incapable of violence? Clinging determinedly to this thought, Melissa eventually fell asleep.

  It was gone nine o’clock when she awoke to a wet and blustery day that would, she decided, be most profitably spent in reading over and editing the chapter she had drafted the previous day. She got dressed and went downstairs; her copy of The Times lay on the mat and she remembered with a pang of guilt that Tuesday was her day for fetching the papers. Graham must have got tired of waiting, she thought, as she took it into the kitchen and settled down to do the crossword over her breakfast coffee and toast. As she unfolded it, an envelope with her name pencilled on it fell out. It contained a brief, unsigned note which read, Can you spare me a little of your time? I badly need to talk to someone.

  As if he had been sitting beside the phone awaiting her call, he answered straight away and was at the door a couple of minutes later in response to her invitation. His face was drawn and his eyes red-rimmed; it was plain that he had not slept. He accepted a mug of coffee and, after a slight hesitation, a slice of toast. He ate and drank without speaking; his hands were shaking, his whole body seemed tense and there was a nervous, watchful quality in his manner, as if he feared something dire might happen at any moment.

  At last he said, ‘You must think me presumptuous—I mean, you hardly know me, but I—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said as he appeared to be at a loss how to continue. ‘Neighbours should help one another if they can.’ It sounded banal, but it was difficult to think of anything more constructive without betraying that she had a shrewd notion of what the problem was. He was plainly on a knife-edge and the most important thing at the moment seemed to be to help him calm down and talk when he was ready.

  His next words took her by surprise. ‘That policeman who called on me on Sunday—is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘You saw him? He said you weren’t in.’

  ‘I saw him, yes. I was looking out of the window, but it was getting dark and I had no lights on so he didn’t see me.’

  ‘So you pretended to be out?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you’re wondering why.’

  ‘If you want to tell me.’

  ‘I was afraid he was going to ask me questions about … what happened to me last year.’

  ‘When you had your breakdown?’

  ‘Yes.’ Graham began fiddling with his coffee mug, avoiding her eye. ‘I never told you how it all started, did I?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me now if you don’t want to.’

  ‘But I do want to, if you don’t mind listening. You’ll probably hear about it soon enough, now your policeman friend knows—’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Melissa interrupted. ‘I’m not privy to everything that goes on during a police enquiry.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He seemed nonplussed and she said, ‘Look, if you want to change your mind—’

  ‘No, no, I want to talk about it.’ He covered his face with his hands for a moment and swallowed hard before continuing. ‘Sergeant Waters called again yesterday morning and this time he saw me through the window so I couldn’t avoid him.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘He said he’d be
en ‘making a few enquiries about me’. He’d found out,’—here Graham closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep, shuddering breath as if summoning the strength to continue—‘that in my last job a girl called Jasmine Dixon accused me of indecent assault. That’s why I had to leave, why my marriage collapsed and my wife refuses to let me see my daughter …’ Suddenly, his control snapped under a wave of pent-up fury and bitterness. ‘That bitch … that little tart … she’d been practically throwing herself at me for weeks. I never said anything … I know now I should have spoken to the Head, I knew how tricky this sort of thing could be but I was so careful not to give her the slightest encouragement … and then … she came to me one afternoon in the classroom when all the other kids had gone and broke down in tears … she seemed genuinely distressed and I put an arm round her to comfort her … it was the stupidest thing I’d ever done … and then one of her friends came in and immediately she … Jazzie … began shrieking that I’d touched her, put my hand up her clothes, if the other girl hadn’t come in I’d have … raped her.’ He lowered his head and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper on the final words.

  Anxious not to betray the fact that she already had some knowledge of the affair, Melissa said, ‘I assume there was a police enquiry?’

  ‘Of course, and I wasn’t allowed anywhere near the school, or to talk to any of the students while it was on. Eventually the police said that the evidence wasn’t strong enough to bring charges. Privately, one of them admitted that they suspected the girls had set me up—out of spite, because I’d rejected Jazzie’s advances. The head teacher and the school governors accepted my version and I was reinstated, but the damage was done. Some of the parents stood by me, but others began a campaign to get me out, saying they were afraid for their daughters. It was damaging the school’s reputation and the only thing I could do was agree to resign. The whole thing had put a terrible strain on my marriage and that was the last straw. Sheila left me the next day and took Patsy with her.’