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

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘End of this month.’

  ‘Will you make it?’

  ‘Provided there aren’t any more traumas.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The past few days have been a bit upsetting.’ Skipping over her part in the discovery of Cissie’s body, she gave him a brief outline of events since the previous Saturday, culminating in Graham Shipley’s arrest.

  ‘I do wish you’d try and keep clear of other people’s problems.’ His voice took on the familiar concerned tone that he had used in the past after learning—after the event—of previous brushes with murder and mayhem. ‘It’s terribly sad about the poor girl being drowned, but I don’t like the sound of this Shipley guy. If they release him, do watch your step. Psychotics can turn nasty without warning—’

  ‘Oh Simon, he’s not psychotic, he’s just desperately unhappy and under the most terrible stress. He’s been teetering on the verge of a breakdown ever since it happened.’

  ‘He’s not your problem. Just keep out of it and get on with your book, okay? And when you’ve finished it, book yourself on a flight to New York and stay here for at least two weeks,’ he went on, with the touch of bossiness that occasionally irritated her but which today she found reassuring. ‘Think of it as an incentive to meet your deadline.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘I’ll really look forward to it. Is everything all right with you?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ They spent a few more minutes chatting about things in general before hanging up. Feeling comforted, Melissa cleared away the remains of her lunch. She looked out of the window. It was another beautiful day; an hour or two in the open air would continue the calming process that the phone call to Simon had set in motion. She remembered the apples from yesterday’s picking and considered the problem of how to dispose of them. Mrs Foster could probably sell a few in the shop … and perhaps old Tommy Judd would appreciate some. She found a cardboard carton and filled it with apples, put a few more in a plastic bag for Tommy, loaded up the car and set off.

  ‘I don’t want anything for these—just charge what you think and put the money in the charity box,’ she said as she entered the shop with the carton of apples in her arms. ‘After you’ve taken something for yourself, of course,’ she added unnecessarily as she set it on the floor beside the carefully arranged display of other fruit and vegetables. Mrs Foster was an obliging soul in many ways, but she was not renowned for doing anything for nothing. Normally, she would have made some remark to drive home this point, but today there was something more important on her mind.

  ‘Did you hear the Cotswold Sound news at one o’clock?’ she asked, wildly fluttering eyelashes betraying her excitement. ‘They’ve got the man who murdered Cissie—I’ll bet it’s that Mr Shipley!’ she went on before Melissa had a chance to challenge the word ‘murdered’. ‘I always did think there was something dodgy about that man.’

  ‘I don’t think we should be assuming anything of the kind,’ said Melissa, doing her best to conceal her annoyance at this blatant distortion of the facts. ‘All it said was that a man is being questioned—’

  ‘—and we know what that means, don’t we? I wonder how soon they’ll charge him.’

  ‘So far as I know, there is no evidence at all that Cissie’s death wasn’t an accident,’ Melissa pointed out.

  ‘Then why don’t they come out and say so?’

  It was a question to which Melissa could think of no answer that would shake the woman’s faith in her own opinion. All she could say was, ‘I don’t think it’s fair to Mr Shipley to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said a gentle voice from behind Melissa. Alice Hamley had entered the shop unnoticed. ‘It is upsetting, though. Poor Jean Wilcox is so distressed—she’s not allowed to make the arrangements for Cissie’s funeral until the police release her body—’

  ‘Which they won’t do until they’ve cleared things up,’ Mrs Foster interposed. ‘And isn’t that exactly what I’ve been saying?’ She shot a triumphant glance in Melissa’s direction before asking Alice what it was she was wanting. ‘And what news of Dr Thackray?’ she asked as she cut and weighed a wedge of Double Gloucester cheese. ‘Is his tummy-ache any better?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you hear? He’s had emergency surgery for appendicitis. Mrs Thackray phoned John just before I came out. He’s getting on all right, but he’ll be in hospital for several days.’

  ‘Dear oh dear!’ Mrs Foster shook her head in concern. ‘Who’s going to play the organ for the service on Sunday?’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem, thank goodness. Mr Lane says he’ll be pleased to do it.’

  ‘Do you mean Mr Gideon Lane from Benbury Manor?’ said Melissa in surprise. ‘I didn’t know he was a musician.’

  ‘Oh yes, he was organist and choirmaster at a church in Somerset before he retired. He’s promised to help out whenever there’s a problem.’

  ‘Well, that is fortunate.’ Mrs Foster wrapped up the cheese and put it on the counter. ‘Will there be anything else? How about some apples from Mrs Craig’s garden. Only picked yesterday, so she tells me—’

  ‘—and organically grown,’ Melissa added. ‘Do have some, Alice. The children will love them—and every pound sold puts something in the charity box,’ she added with a mischievous glance in Mrs Foster’s direction. ‘Well, I must be on my way, I’m taking a few apples to Tommy Judd. Alice, do ask John to give my best wishes to Dr Thackray if he goes to visit him.’

  The official postal address of the tumbledown dwelling where the old man had lived for as long as anyone could remember was Brookside Cottage, although it was never known locally as anything but Tommy Judd’s. It was possible to reach it by car, but the ground was rutted, stony and inclined to be muddy in places in all but the driest weather. Melissa pulled off the road and parked the Golf on the verge, took out the bag of apples and set off to walk the half mile or so along the track. The air beneath the trees was close and humid after the previous day’s rain; the overhanging branches cast a heavy shade for most of the way so that the pallid, spindly brambles that grew in profusion on either side bore only a meagre amount of fruit, too small to be worth the picking. Melissa, accustomed to the open aspect of her own home, found it slightly oppressive and she felt a sense of relief when she emerged into the clearing surrounding the cottage, which was bathed in dazzling sunlight.

  She half expected to see Tommy working in his little vegetable plot which, despite his age and his arthritis, he tended regularly and kept in immaculate condition, raising crops of onions, potatoes, beans and carrots which would undoubtedly have won prizes at the annual horticultural show if he could have been persuaded to enter them. There was no sign of him outside, but the cottage door was ajar. Melissa tapped on it and called his name, but there was no reply. Remembering his deafness, she rapped more sharply and called again; this time, she heard a faint noise that sounded like someone stirring in their sleep. Thinking that he was probably having a nap and being reluctant to disturb him, she pushed the door open a fraction further and was in the act of putting the bag of apples on the floor when the sound came again, louder this time and sounding disturbingly like a groan. Raising her voice, she called, ‘Mr Judd, are you all right?’ before stepping inside.

  The front door led straight into the kitchen. It took her eyes a couple of seconds to adjust from the brightness outside to the dim light within … and then she saw him, curled up in a foetal position under the window. He was clutching at his groin, his eyes were closed and his face was contorted in pain. There was blood running from his nose, one side of his mouth was split and bruised and there was an ugly gash on his forehead.

  ‘Mr Judd, whatever’s happened?’ Melissa exclaimed in alarm. ‘Have you been attacked—are you badly hurt?’

  At the sound of her voice, the old man opened his eyes and hastily removed his hands from the region of his genitals. ‘Beat me up … kicked me,’ he mumbled through swollen lips.

  ‘Who did?
’ He did not answer, but let out another groan and rolled on to one elbow. ‘I don’t think you should try to move just yet,’ she warned, but he took no notice. Seeing that he was determined, she dragged a heavy, dilapidated armchair across the room and when he had managed to struggle to a half-sitting position she propped him against it. As she did so, her eye fell on a gaping hole in front of the fireplace from which the square section of floorboards that lay to one side had evidently been cut. A hiding place for the old man’s secret treasure board? was the question that flashed into her head. She had often heard it remarked, mostly in jest, that Tommy Judd might have wealth hidden away. She stepped forward and glanced into the hole; it was empty. It looked as if robbery was the motive for the attack and the police would have to be informed, but first she must get medical help. In the meantime, he needed to be kept warm; she found an old army blanket draped over the back of a shabby couch and spread it over him.

  ‘I’ve left my mobile phone in my car,’ she told him. ‘Just stay there and don’t try to move while I call an ambulance.’

  ‘No!’ A gnarled hand shot out from under the blanket and grabbed at her wrist. ‘I don’t want no ambulance. Just leave me be, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘But you need to be examined by a doctor. Those cuts on your face need seeing to, and you may have other injuries—’

  ‘I don’t want no ambulance and I don’t want no doctor,’ he insisted.

  ‘But you’ve been beaten up … and robbed.’

  ‘Robbed?’ Seeing her gaze deflected towards the hearth, he turned his head and saw for himself. His face contorted again, but this time the cause appeared to be anger rather than pain. ‘The bastard … the bleeding bastard!’ he muttered through clenched teeth.

  ‘Do you want me to inform the police?’

  ‘No!’ he shouted, even more emphatically than when he refused medical help. A strange, almost crafty expression crept over his damaged features. ‘There weren’t nothin’ in there,’ he said. ‘Thank ’ee for your kindness, but I don’t want no doctor nor no police. Just leave me here to rest for a while and I’ll be all right.’

  ‘At least let me bathe those cuts on your face,’ urged Melissa, reluctant to leave the old man alone, but unwilling to go against his wishes. She noticed with relief that his breathing was more regular and his colour, apart from his injuries, appeared more normal. ‘And perhaps you’d like a cup of tea,’ she added.

  Almost vehemently, Tommy shook his head. ‘’Tis kindly meant, I know, but I’m best left alone,’ he insisted, and as there seemed to be nothing else she could do she put a cushion behind his shoulders, adjusted the blanket and got up to go. ‘What brings you here, anyway?’ he asked suddenly. She thought she detected a note of suspicion in his voice.

  ‘I brought you a few apples from my garden.’

  He grunted and closed his eyes. She took this as a sign of dismissal, and left. She was almost back to her car when she met Gideon Lane heading towards the cottage. He was carrying something in a plastic carrier and appeared slightly disconcerted on seeing her, but quickly recovered and greeted her with his usual charm, which changed to concern as she said, ‘Oh, Mr Lane, I’m so glad to see you. Poor old Tommy Judd’s been beaten up in his own cottage.’

  ‘Good heavens! When?’

  ‘Not long ago by the looks of it. I found him curled up on the floor in terrible pain.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. He said he’d been kicked and his face is in a mess, but he wouldn’t let me call an ambulance or inform the police. He even refused to let me clean up some of the blood.’

  ‘Dear, dear!’ Gideon winced at the mention of blood and his cherubic countenance registered acute anxiety. ‘Have you any idea who did it?’

  Melissa shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t say. I wonder if you could call in as you’re going that way?’ she suggested. ‘He might be more willing to tell another man what happened.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re probably right. I was just on my way to see him, as it happens.’ Gideon fiddled nervously with the handle of the plastic bag and cleared his throat. ‘Was anything taken, do you know?’

  ‘He says not, but there’s a big hole in the floor in front of the hearth and as far as I could see it’s empty.’

  Gideon sucked air through pursed lips. ‘Dear, dear!’ he repeated. ‘You’re right. I’ll see what I can do. At least, I’m forewarned, thank you.’

  As he was about to walk on, Melissa said, ‘Perhaps you can persuade him to see a doctor … and the police should be informed. It was a nasty, vicious attack, and even if nothing’s missing—’

  ‘Yes, yes, just leave it to me.’ He raised the plastic carrier in a vague gesture of farewell and hurried away.

  Sixteen

  It was gone half past three when Melissa reached home. There was no sign of life at Elder Cottage; she tried the doorbell without success, went indoors and called Graham’s number, and when there was no reply put down the phone with a sense of foreboding. The attack on Tommy Judd, following so soon after Cissie’s death, seemed to intensify the cloud that was hanging over the village. On the face of it, there was no reason to suppose that there was a connection between the two, yet she could not avoid a sense of impending evil, as if some malignant force had set in train a monstrous domino effect that was heading unstoppably towards final disaster. Then she told herself that this was hysterical nonsense, that her imagination was running away with her. ‘Pull yourself together, Mel Craig!’ she told herself severely, and reached for the kettle. There was just time for a restorative cup of tea before Becky Tanner arrived for her weekly French lesson.

  She could not help wondering, as she drank her tea, why Tommy had been so adamant in refusing both medical attention and a police investigation. She was quite sure that he knew his attacker and she was equally certain, despite his emphatic denial, that he had been robbed. Robbed of what? The obvious answer was money. Although he gave every appearance of having an income only marginally above subsistence level it was possible that—in common with other eccentric characters with similar life-styles whose stories featured from time to time in the newspapers—he had a considerable amount of cash hidden away. In most cases, such wealth came to light only after death, but perhaps in Tommy’s case someone had already stumbled on his secret. It was one possible theory; he had lived and worked in the village for a long time and when he was younger and fitter he had doubtless done plenty of odd jobs around the village, in addition to his regular work for Benbury Estates, for which he would have been paid in cash. Over the years he might well have accumulated a considerable sum. Had he sustained his injuries while trying to defend it? If he recovered quickly it was unlikely that the question would ever be answered. But if he did not recover … Melissa’s gloom deepened at the prospect of the village becoming the focus of what might then turn out to be a second murder enquiry.

  She was diverted from further speculation by the arrival—several minutes after four o’clock—of an unusually subdued Becky Tanner. Her hair hung loose about her face and she kept her head half-turned away as she entered the cottage, trailing behind Melissa instead of making straight for the kitchen in her usual jaunty fashion and deliberately taking a seat with her back to the window. Even so, the make-up she was wearing—applied no doubt after she had left the house and was out of her father’s sight—could not disguise the unnatural redness round her eyes.

  Melissa gave her a keen glance. She could not remember the last time she had seen Becky otherwise than bursting with self-confidence and she felt a twinge of concern. Despite her precocious ways she was still a child, and motherless. Jake was a devoted father, but there must be times when, with the best will in the world, he failed to recognise his daughter’s emotional needs.

  ‘Becky,’ she said gently, ‘is anything wrong?’

  The girl affected an air of defiance. ‘No!’ she declared, but she kept her face averted. ‘Got shampoo in me eyes, didn’t I?’


  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else?’ Becky shook her head vigorously and dived floorwards to drag books and papers from her schoolbag. When she straightened up Melissa saw fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘There is something,’ Melissa insisted as Becky sniffed and brushed them away with the back of her hand. She pushed a box of tissues across the table. ‘Here, have one of these—and try not to smudge your mascara,’ she said with a smile of encouragement.

  Becky glanced up in surprise. ‘You reckon it’s okay for me to wear make-up?’ she asked unexpectedly.

  ‘I’d say you were old enough to wear a little—out of school of course, and so long as you don’t overdo it.’

  ‘You reckon I overdo it?’ For the first time, Becky looked directly at Melissa.

  ‘I think maybe you went OTT with the eye-shadow this time, but I guess that was to hide the redness.’ Having, she felt, won the girl’s confidence, she went on, ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t help to talk about what’s upset you?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. There was a bit of a run-in at home—Gary told tales and then me Dad had a go at me.’ Becky blew her nose, stuffed the used tissue into the pocket of her jeans and flipped back her hair. ‘You know I’ve been helpin’ out at the Manor?’

  Melissa shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. How did that come about?’

  ‘I knew they’d be looking for someone to fill in until Cissie’s Mum got over things a bit and I thought, if they found someone that suited, Mrs Wilcox might lose her job.’ Becky assumed an aggrieved expression. ‘I explained to me Dad that it’s only for a week or so, but he kicked up no end of a fuss.’

  ‘Why did he object?’

  Becky shrugged. ‘Search me. Anyway, in the end he said it was okay, but the minute I got home he picked on me. An’ all I was doin’ was try to help out Cissie’s Mum,’ she added virtuously.

  ‘I think it was very kind of you, but I can see your Dad’s point of view,’ said Melissa diplomatically. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to school very soon and you’ll have homework to do—he probably doesn’t want you to get over-tired.’ Gathering from the curl of Becky’s lip that she did not accept this explanation, Melissa decided to let the matter drop. ‘It’s time we got on with your lesson,’ she said.