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

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘I’ve tried to explain that … I panicked … I wish to God I had stayed to help, she might still be alive—’

  ‘Perhaps you did stay to help,’ Waters suggested in a deceptively quiet voice. ‘Perhaps you ran towards her, put your arms around her to try and comfort her. And perhaps she mistook your intentions … screamed … tore herself away and went charging into the woods and down that steep, slippery bank where she lost her footing and fell into the water, knocking herself unconscious. And perhaps you followed, and when you saw her lying there, perhaps’—here the hint of steel returned to Waters’s voice—‘that was the moment when you panicked, when you realised that there was a real chance that when—or should I say if—she recovered consciousness, she would give a very different version of the incident to yours.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I deliberately left that poor child to drown?’ Graham exclaimed. ‘That’s monstrous!’

  ‘According to our pathologist’s report,’ Waters continued implacably, ‘there was a fair chance that she was only momentarily stunned, that left alone she might well have come round in time to struggle out of the water by herself. Unless of course, she was prevented from doing so. Would you care to comment on that, Mr Shipley?’

  Fourteen

  ‘I know you have your reservations, Esther,’ said Judith Waghorne as she laid the table for breakfast on Wednesday morning, ‘but I sincerely believe that it showed a very nice spirit on Becky Tanner’s part, offering to help us out with the housework until poor Jean feels able to start again.’

  Her sister, who was placing sliced tomatoes on the grill pan, looked over her shoulder and commented tartly, ‘I doubt if she’s doing it entirely out of the goodness of her heart.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean,’ said Esther as she finished arranging the tomatoes and opened a fresh packet of butter, ‘that she’s more likely to be doing it for the money. Which is why,’ she went on, placing the butter on a white porcelain dish before carefully folding the greaseproof wrapper and disposing of it in the pedal bin under the kitchen sink, ‘I made it clear that if we accepted her offer we would pay her at a lower rate than we pay Jean.’

  ‘And she agreed to that without any argument,’ Judith pointed out. A slightly reproachful expression clouded her softly rounded features. ‘I do feel, Essie, that we should give her the benefit of the doubt. I’ve heard you say some rather unkind things about Becky—and I agree, she is inclined to be a little forward at times,’ she went on as her sister’s eyebrows rose at the implied criticism, ‘but it must be hard for her, not having a mother. I’m sure there’s no real harm in her. Let’s be honest, we all have our shortcomings, don’t we?’

  ‘You know your trouble.’ Esther, who was slicing bread for toast, gestured at her sister with the bread-knife to emphasise her point. ‘You’re too soft-hearted—and too easily fooled. As for Becky not having a mother, well, we know what kind of woman she was, don’t we? In my opinion, that girl takes after her. I should never be surprised to hear that she’s got herself into trouble.’

  ‘You don’t mean … pregnant?’ Judith’s mouth fell open. ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say! She’s still only a child herself.’

  ‘She’s fourteen and physically very mature, and she’s always hanging around with the boys—you must have noticed.’

  ‘They’re her brother’s friends,’ Judith pointed out. ‘I don’t think we should hold that against her. And if you feel so strongly about it,’ she went on, ‘I’m surprised you agreed to let her come.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done had I been here on my own, and certainly not if Gideon had been here. It was you who persuaded me, falling for all that sentimental twaddle she was talking about Cissie Wilcox being a dear friend of hers and how she owed it to her mother to do whatever she could to help …’

  ‘I thought it showed a very kindly, caring attitude. Why do you say it was twaddle?’

  ‘For one thing, she and Cissie went to different schools. As far as I’m aware, they hardly knew one another.’

  ‘Perhaps they met at the youth club.’

  ‘This is all beside the point. I’m not happy about having her in the house.’

  ‘It’s only for a couple of hours one morning a week,’ Judith pointed out, ‘and probably only for a week or two at the most. And we’ve made it a Wednesday morning, haven’t we, knowing it’s Giddy’s day to go into Stowbridge—’

  ‘I was the one who insisted on making it a Wednesday morning,’ Esther interposed. ‘And I hope you’ve remembered not to mention it to him.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t mentioned it,’ said Judith in a hurt voice. ‘I’m as concerned about shielding him from temptation as you are.’

  ‘I’m sure you are dear,’ said Esther in a softer tone, ‘but you must admit, you can be a little forgetful at times.’ She laid rashers of bacon alongside the tomatoes, placed the pan under the pre-heated grill and stooped to put plates in the oven to get warm. Glancing at the clock on the wall as she straightened up she said, ‘You’d better give him a call and tell him the breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. We don’t want him missing the bus.’

  ‘Isn’t he taking the car?’

  ‘Not today. He asked for it, but I’m driving into Cheltenham immediately after breakfast to have it serviced. I’m sure I mentioned it to you,’ she added with a touch of exasperation.

  ‘Oh yes, so you did. Well, I’ve got plenty to do indoors so I’ll be here to keep an eye on Becky.’

  ‘Quite.’ The sub-text of the monosyllable was, That’s the way I’ve planned it and I’m glad there are to be no arguments.

  ‘You’re up bright and early,’ Jake Tanner observed as he came in from the yard at Oak Tree Farm at half past eight and found his daughter in the kitchen, fully dressed in close-fitting jeans and a figure-hugging knitted top. She was frying bacon in a heavy iron pan and he inhaled in appreciation. ‘That smells good, love. Any chance of a bacon sandwich for your old Dad?’

  ‘Sure.’ Becky fetched more rashers from the refrigerator. ‘Goin’ to help out at Benbury Manor this morning,’ she explained, adding them to the pan and prodding them with a fork. ‘Mustn’t be late on the first day, must I? There’s tea in the pot, help yourself,’ she added.

  ‘I hope those old biddies are paying you for this,’ observed Jake. ‘I’m not having you do it for nothing—’

  ‘Sure they’re paying. Not the full rate, though.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jake paused momentarily in the act of filling his cup. ‘I’m sure you’ll do every bit as good a job as Jean.’ He put down the pot, added milk and sugar to his tea and stirred vigorously, then went over to his daughter with the cup in his hand and put his free arm round her shoulders. ‘I could tell them how handy you are with a dishcloth and duster—when you’re in the mood,’ he added teasingly, giving her a squeeze.

  She snuggled against him and looked up into his face with a winning smile. ‘I hoovered up the other day, and I do the ironing don’t I? And I keep my room tidy …’

  ‘Most of the time,’ he agreed fondly.

  ‘You only get the iron out when there’s something of your own that needs doing,’ said a voice behind them. Gary had entered the kitchen unnoticed and was inspecting the teapot. ‘What’s all this in aid of, then?’

  ‘All what?’ Becky demanded.

  ‘You being up so early, cooking breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, tell him, Dad.’ Becky’s sunny mood evaporated in the face of her brother’s surly attitude.

  ‘She’s helping out at the Manor until Jean Wilcox feels up to it again, and it’s a real kind act she’s doing,’ said Jake. ‘I haven’t noticed you doing much around the house lately.’

  ‘I give you a hand round the farm, don’t I?’

  ‘When you feel like it.’

  ‘Oh stop it, the pair of you. Here, help yourselves.’ Becky slammed a plate piled with bacon sandwiches on the table, sat down and grabbed one for herself.
Jake did the same, biting into it and masticating with appreciation. Gary ignored the food and sat in silence, his eyes on his sister’s face.

  ‘What you looking at me like that for?’ she demanded.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Glaring at me as if I’d done something wrong.’ He made no reply and Becky added slyly, ‘It wasn’t me that got in late last night.’

  Jake gave his son a sharp look. ‘You been up to something you shouldn’t?’

  Gary helped himself to a sandwich and inspected it closely before taking a bite. ‘No,’ he said defensively, with his mouth full.

  ‘Because if you have …’ Jake’s brow knotted menacingly.

  ‘Haven’t been up to anything. She’s just stirring it.’

  Becky finished her sandwich and stood up. ‘Take no notice of him, Dad, he’s just in a mood. I got to go.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of his head, picked up the shoulder bag she carried everywhere, gave her brother a mocking salute and went out of the back door.

  When she had gone, Gary put the half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, got up and turned to leave the room. Jake called him back. ‘Just you finish that up, my lad,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll not have you wasting good food.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘What’s up with you then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gary muttered. ‘Just leave me alone, will you?’ He was out of the room before his father had a chance to say another word. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the house as he bolted upstairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  In mounting anger, Jake finished his breakfast, cleared the table and put the used plates and cutlery in the sink. Then he too went storming upstairs and flung open the door to his son’s room. For a moment, it appeared empty. Then the lad’s head appeared above the bed; at the sight of his startled, guilty expression, Jake strode round and stood over him as he half-knelt on the floor. ‘What the hell are you up to?’ he demanded.

  ‘N … nothing … I was looking for my trainers—’ Gary stammered, his face scarlet.

  ‘You’re hiding something.’

  ‘No Dad, honest—’

  ‘Out of the way!’ Elbowing his son aside, Jake crouched down, groped under the bed and dragged out an envelope. ‘What’s this, then?’ Without waiting for a reply, he tore it open. For one dreadful moment they stared at one another before the father grabbed his son by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet. ‘Where in God’s name did you get hold of that?’ he demanded, almost choking with fury.

  ‘Please, Dad.’ The lad’s teeth were chattering and his face was contorted with distress. ‘I was going to get rid of it … burn it … I didn’t want you to find out—’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Jake said grimly. ‘Now, are you going to tell me where you got it, or do I have to shake it out of you?’

  To Jake’s consternation his son, whom he had not seen crying since he was about seven years old, burst into tears. It was several minutes before he was calm enough to be able to tell his father the whole, miserable, sordid story.

  Blissfully unaware of the drama about to be played out at home, Becky set off for Benbury Manor. She had been instructed to report for work at ten o’clock, but she had deliberately set off early because she wanted to be in the narrow lane linking the Manor with the main road into the village well before the half past nine bus to Stowbridge came along. She was well aware that Mr Gideon Lane often travelled on that bus because he had told her so when, the previous week, she had been on it herself and he had made a point of sitting next to her even though there were plenty of empty seats. Once or twice, as the bus swung round a corner, his hand had fallen—as if by accident, and he had been most apologetic—on to her lap. By the end of the journey she was in no doubt that he fancied her, and she was even more sure on the way back when he moved as close as he could and from time to time rubbed his thigh against hers. She hadn’t responded, but she hadn’t pulled away either.

  She had a shrewd idea—because that sniffy Mrs Waghorne and her soppy sister had been so definite that she could only come on a Wednesday, and then not till ten o’clock—that the idea was to make sure their brother was well out of the way before she appeared. They probably knew what he was like; she giggled gleefully to herself at the thought of how she was on to their little game. At that moment Gideon himself appeared round a bend in the lane. He beamed and raised his cap with a polite little bow that delighted her. He was such a gentleman, just the type she most admired.

  ‘My dear, what a charming surprise! You look very happy—where are you off to on this lovely sunny morning?’

  ‘To your house,’ Becky said, flashing him her most alluring smile. ‘And you’re off into town, so you won’t be there—what a shame.’

  ‘You mean you’re calling on my sisters?’ Gideon looked puzzled.

  ‘Didn’t they say?’ said Becky innocently, reasonably certain that they had not. ‘I’m standing in for Mrs Wilcox, till she feels better. Cissie’s mother,’ she added as he looked blank. ‘The lady who does your housework.’

  ‘Ah yes, you mean Jean,’ he said. His smile became an expression of serious concern. ‘Such a terrible tragedy. How is the poor lady bearing up?’

  ‘She’s taken it pretty hard. I thought someone should step in and hold the fort for her, keep her job open.’

  ‘What a lovely thought! You are a good girl.’ By way of expressing his appreciation at such a kindly deed Gideon moved closer, put an arm round Becky’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. His hand drifted downwards, slid beneath her arm and cupped her breast, his thumb and forefinger seeking—and finding—the erect nipple.

  She slapped his hand in mock indignation, but did not pull away. ‘Ooh, Mr Lane, you are naughty,’ she giggled. ‘Suppose someone comes along and sees?’

  His hand lingered a moment longer before he released her. ‘That would never do, would it?’ he murmured. His eyes devoured her and she shivered a little in anticipation; she had a shrewd notion of what was going on in his mind. His next words confirmed that she had read him accurately. ‘Suppose I asked you to meet me somewhere a little less public?’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper although there was no living thing within earshot but a black and white cow scratching its chin on the top of the stone wall that bordered the lane.

  Becky decided to play it cool, just for fun. She glanced at her wristwatch and said coyly, ‘It’s almost time for your bus. You don’t want to miss it, do you?’

  He leaned closer. ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said. He was breathing heavily and the flush had deepened in his already rosy face. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I might,’ she said, with a toss of the head that sent a few strands of her hair brushing across his cheek. ‘Now, I really got to go. Ta-ta!’

  She did not turn back to look as she continued on her way, but she was confident that he was watching her. She hoped he was enjoying the slinky, Marilyn Monroe wiggle that she had been practising lately.

  Fifteen

  Thoroughly unsettled by the latest developments, Melissa found it impossible to tackle any further work that morning. After Gloria had left she ate a light lunch and at one o’clock switched on the radio to listen to the local news. The first item confirmed her fears: ‘A man is being questioned in connection with the death of sixteen-year-old Cissie Wilcox, who was found drowned last Saturday in a stream running through a lonely patch of woodland near her home.’

  Barely two hours had passed since Gloria had come bursting into her study with the news. They haven’t wasted any time in releasing the information, she thought gloomily as she switched off the radio. She wondered how Graham was standing up to this new ordeal. From what she had seen of him he was in a highly volatile mental state and to be subjected to more police questioning could push him dangerously close to another breakdown. He should be seen by a doctor. She hoped Matt Waters was handling the interview; he had the experience to spot the danger signals, but—in company no doubt w
ith every other officer involved with the case—he also knew the circumstances of Graham’s previous encounter with the law. His job was to clear up the hideous doubt hanging over Cissie’s death.

  Melissa’s thoughts turned to Jean Wilcox. She wondered if the poor bereaved mother was aware of police suspicions. The loss of a child—especially an only child—from whatever cause must be terrible; to know that he or she had been deliberately killed would surely make it a hundred times harder to bear. Melissa found herself thinking of her own son Simon, now a successful businessman living and working in the United States, and reliving some of her own maternal anxieties over the years. She felt a sudden urge to hear his voice, to know that he was safe and well. It was almost eight o’clock in the morning by New York time; he had probably already left for his office but … on impulse, she grabbed the phone and called the number of his apartment. Her heart surged with relief as he came on the line.

  ‘Hi, Madre!’ His voice was thick with sleep. ‘Anything wrong? You don’t usually call this early.’ She heard faint grunts and rustlings and pictured him rolling over in bed, bleary-eyed, hair rumpled, heaving himself up on one elbow to squint at the clock.

  ‘It’s not that early. I was afraid you might already have gone to work.’

  ‘It’s Labor Day and I was having a lie in.’ He gave a mighty yawn. ‘It’s nice to hear from you though. Anything special?’

  ‘It just occurred to me that we haven’t spoken for a week or so. How are things?’

  ‘Fine. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you only yesterday. It’s time you came over for another visit. How about it? Come and do some early Christmas shopping.’

  ‘Christmas! We’re barely into September. Anyway, I’m struggling to finish a book.’

  ‘When’s your deadline?’