‘Mrs Craig!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is an unexpected treat. You will join us for a cup of tea, won’t you—and one of Judith’s delicious scones with home-made jam?’
‘No, really,’ Melissa protested in some embarrassment. ‘I don’t want to intrude, I only popped in to—’
‘Oh, please do stay!’ Judith too was on her feet and reaching into a cupboard for an additional cup, saucer and plate. The next minute, Melissa found herself seated next to Gideon with a buttered scone on her plate, cream and jam in silver dishes placed conveniently to hand and a cup of fragrant Lapsang Souchong tea steaming invitingly at her elbow.
‘This is really very kind of you,’ she said.
‘It’s our pleasure,’ Gideon assured her. ‘We don’t receive many visitors.’ He raised his cup in salute and Judith, her round pink face alight with pleasure, did the same. Only Esther, sitting erect and unsmiling between her brother and sister, made it clear by her body-language that she disassociated herself from their expressions of welcome.
After she had eaten her scone, drunk some of her tea and praised the quality of the plum jam—‘made with fruit from our own tree,’ Judith was at pains to assure her—Melissa said casually, ‘The reason I dropped in was to say that I called on Tommy Judd this afternoon, but he was out so presumably he’s feeling better.’
At the mention of Tommy Judd’s name, Gideon gave her a sharp, anxious glance which turned to relief on the final words. ‘I’m so glad to hear it,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know Mr Judd had been unwell,’ said Judith. ‘Has he seen a doctor?’
‘I tried to persuade him, but he’s a stubborn old fellow,’ said Gideon. ‘Mrs Craig, do have another scone. They’re at their best when they’re eaten fresh.’ He pushed the dish towards her and she had the impression that it was an attempt to switch the conversation away from Tommy before any details emerged. ‘And how about some more tea?’
‘No more, thank you. It was all absolutely delicious.’
Esther, who had hardly uttered a word since Melissa’s arrival, suddenly said, ‘Gideon, I can’t understand why you take such an interest in that odious old man.’
‘Oh Essie!’ Judith turned to her sister, her mobile features registering gentle reproach. ‘Giddy’s told us several times—he’s trying to reach out to Mr Judd, get him back into the church …’
‘That’s a job for the rector—not that I’ve noticed him making any pastoral visits,’ Esther sniffed.
‘He’s terribly busy looking after four parishes,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘And I hardly think he’d get much of a welcome from Tommy if he did call. By the way, I expect you know that Graham Shipley is being questioned by the police about Cissie Wilcox’s death?’
‘We do indeed.’ Esther’s face registered grim disapproval. ‘We also know that various unsavoury stories are circulating about the gentleman’s previous behaviour.’
‘They’re unsubstantiated rumours,’ said Melissa hotly. ‘I have it from Graham himself that whatever happened before he came here was due to a terrible misunderstanding—’
‘That’s what he would say, isn’t it?’ Esther inspected the teapot, found it empty and stood up. ‘I assume you’ve all had enough …?’ The unfinished question was a clear hint that so far as she was concerned, their guest had outstayed her welcome.
Melissa, who had noticed Gideon looking distinctly uncomfortable at the mention of Cissie, had no intention of leaving until she had probed a little more deeply. ‘I was wondering,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye, ‘knowing that you call on Tommy from time to time, whether you have ever seen anyone else—either someone from the village or even a total stranger—hanging around near his cottage. You see,’ she went on as Gideon opened his mouth with, she was sure, the intention of issuing an immediate denial, ‘Somehow I find it hard to believe it was Graham Shipley who pulled that poor child’s body from the water and then walked away without getting help, but so far there’s absolutely nothing to indicate who else it might have been.’
‘And what gives you the authority to go round asking that sort of question?’ Esther said angrily. ‘The police called on us, as I imagine they did everyone else in the village. We answered their questions fully and frankly, and so far as we’re concerned it’s the end of the matter.’
‘I’m sure you did.’ Melissa did her best to sound conciliatory. ‘It’s only that I imagine their questions were all about what any of you saw on the actual day Cissie died?’
‘Of course—what else?’
‘But that’s just the point I’m trying to make. There may have been someone hanging around at some time beforehand. Not many people use that path and it’s possible that no one noticed anything unusual. I just thought that as Mr Lane—’
‘I’m sure if my brother had noticed anything like that, he would have informed the police at the time,’ said Esther in a tone of finality. She went over to the sink, turned on the cold tap and rinsed out the teapot.
It was unmistakably a dismissal. Judith, looking extremely ill at ease, got to her feet and began clearing the table while Gideon made a great show of helping Melissa on with her jacket, which she had slipped off and hung over the back of her chair. As the three of them escorted her to the front door, with Esther bringing up the rear—almost, as she recalled it later, like a shepherd driving a flock of sheep—her attention was caught by a framed photograph hanging on the wall of the passage and she paused to take a closer look. It was of Gideon surrounded by a mixed choir, all fully robed, assembled outside the door of an ancient church. Under the photo was printed, ‘Gideon Lane, MA, Organist and Director of Music, with the members of the choir after the service to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the dedication of the church of St Laurence, Warefield, Somerset’. It was dated 31 May 1998.
‘How interesting,’ Melissa commented. She turned to Gideon. ‘You must have retired very shortly after that was taken.’
‘He was already unwell, but he stayed until the celebrations ended,’ Judith said. ‘He’d worked so hard to make them a success.’ She put out a hand and caressed the picture with trembling fingers. To Melissa’s astonishment, the old woman’s eyes were full of tears.
‘Had you been there long?’
Melissa’s question was addressed to Gideon, but it was Esther who answered with an abrupt, ‘Long enough.’
‘Well, Warefield’s loss is our gain,’ said Melissa as Gideon opened the door for her. ‘I hear you’re standing in for Dr Thackray until he’s recovered from his operation.’
‘It will be a pleasure and a privilege,’ he said with an ingratiating smile. ‘Goodbye Mrs Craig, and thank you so much for calling.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Judith. Esther said nothing at all.
Later on that evening, Melissa called Bruce at home and told him about her visit. ‘I used my call on Tommy Judd and finding he wasn’t at home as an excuse. Gideon looked very nervous when I mentioned his name, and then relaxed visibly when I gave the good news.’ She went on to describe the rest of the visit, ending by saying, ‘There’s no doubt they all became quite uncomfortable the moment I mentioned Cissie. Esther—she’s the unmarried sister, Judith’s a widow—got quite snotty and more or less told me to mind my own business. She couldn’t edge me out of the house quickly enough.’
‘It does sound as if they know more than they’re admitting,’ Bruce agreed, ‘but—’
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Melissa broke in. ‘I still haven’t learned anything concrete.’
‘It doesn’t seem like it, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, one thing I did find out—not that it’s in the least relevant but your auntie might be interested. Gideon was organist at St Laurence’s church, Warefield.’
‘That’s not far from Clevedon,’ said Bruce. For the first time during the conversation, his voice showed positive interest. ‘She might know him, she knows lots of church people. I’ll tell her when I call her this evening to thank her for K
irsty’s birthday present. Ciao!’
An hour later he rang back. Even before he gave his reason, Melissa could tell from his up-beat tone of voice that he had something interesting to tell her.
‘I spoke to Auntie Edie,’ he said. ‘I asked her if she knew Gideon Lane and she said, rather guardedly, “I know of a Gideon Lane—why do you ask?” I explained that he was now living in the Cotswolds and that I’d learned through a friend of mine that he used to be director of music at a church near where she lives.’
‘And?’
‘She confirmed that it must be the Gideon Lane that she knew, but when I asked if she could tell me anything about him, she became quite mysterious. “I could tell you quite a lot,” she said, “but not on the phone. You never know who might be listening”.’
‘That sounds intriguing, but it’s a pity she wouldn’t be more specific.’
‘It gets better. She wanted to know what my interest was, of course, and I said a friend of mine was writing a book in which a church organist was murdered. This friend—that’s you, of course, although I didn’t mention your name at first—had asked him for help with background information, but had been given the brush-off by both Lane and his family. I told Auntie Edie that this had aroused my professional curiosity and I wondered if she could suggest a reason for their being so cagey.’
‘Clever old you! What did she say?’
‘For a good Christian woman, her comments were somewhat surprising. She said that if your church organist is anything like Lane he deserves to be bumped off and that in her opinion people like him should be locked up and the key thrown down a well. She ended up by saying, “A friend of mine who lives in the parish told me that it was all hushed up to avoid scandal, but a lot of people thought he should have been charged”.’
‘Good heavens!’ Melissa exclaimed. For the first time since she began her probing, she sensed that she was getting somewhere. ‘You know, I had a feeling Gideon might have what is generally known as “a past” but it never entered my head that it might be anything criminal.’ Her brain was working furiously. ‘Bruce is there any chance that if I went to see your Auntie Edie, she’d be willing to tell me what it’s all about?’
‘I thought of that. I asked her that very question and she was a bit hesitant at first, and then I mentioned your name and guess what, she’s one of your biggest fans and she’ll be absolutely thrilled to talk to you. She sang in her own church choir for years, by the way, so she’ll be able to give you all the dirt about what goes on behind the scenes.’
‘It’s dirt about Gideon Lane that I’m interested in.’
‘Yes, I know, but remember not to blow the cover I’ve set up for you.’
‘I won’t. Bruce, that’s marvellous. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Glad to help.’
‘How did your investigation into the porno market go, by the way?’ she asked as she jotted down Auntie Edie’s address.
‘Very interesting. The police have suspected for some time that there’s a distribution network in the county, but so far they haven’t been able to pinpoint any of the suppliers. This is the first time the stuff has turned up on the street and they feel it’s a breakthrough, although all the lad they caught trying to flog it to some other kids would say is that he got it from a man hanging around outside the school gates. The description he’s given is pretty vague. He lives near you, by the way. Name of Dave Potter.’
Melissa’s pulse, which had been gradually accelerating during the conversation, suddenly went into overdrive. ‘Dave Potter is one of the kids I told you about—the ones I overheard at the barbecue,’ she said excitedly.
‘There you are then, two brand-new leads to follow up,’ said Bruce with an air of great magnanimity. ‘Who says I never give you any help?’
Nineteen
Melissa spent the remainder of Thursday evening concocting the outlines of a plot which would convince Bruce’s aunt that a new Nathan Latimer mystery was in the making and at the same time give her a valid excuse to touch on the reasons for the departure of Gideon Lane from his post as musical director of St Laurence’s church in the village of Warefield in the county of Somerset. That there had been more behind his early retirement than the glib phrase ‘on the grounds of ill-health’ suggested seemed reasonably certain. Whether a knowledge of the full circumstances would shed any light on the death of Cissie Wilcox was much less so. She could find herself up another blind alley, but it was worth a try.
She lay awake for some time that night pondering the other lead that Bruce had so fortuitously given her. Dave Potter, one of the group of youngsters she had overheard talking at the barbecue, had been caught with a pornographic magazine. Knowing the attitude of the Potters to the police, his explanation of where it had come from could quite well have been deliberately misleading. Members of the family featured regularly in accounts of court proceedings in the Gloucester Gazette, but their offences were generally limited to the run-of-the-mill variety such as burglary, shoplifting or sundry breaches of the peace. Handling stolen property had also been known to feature in the list of charges, but somehow dealing in pornography did not sound like their style. Melissa was sorely tempted to try to have a quiet word with Dave, mention the conversation she had overheard and see if she could get more out of him than he had told the police. To do that without seeking his parents’ permission, however, was not without risk. If it reached their ears, she might easily become the target of angry accusations of trying to stitch up their son, or possibly of actual threats. A mental picture of Charlie Potter, a man with a temper as ugly as his face, made her dismiss the idea out of hand. While she was trying to think of some other approach to the problem she fell asleep.
She awoke on Friday to a fine day with a hint of autumn in the air—ideal conditions for a drive to the coast. At nine o’clock she called the number that Bruce had given her. It was immediately obvious, from the cordial way Miss Edith Ingram received a request to be allowed to ‘pick her brains’ on the subject of church music and musicians, that she had been keenly anticipating the opportunity of meeting one of her favourite writers. ‘I shall be delighted and honoured to help you in any way I can,’ she said, adding with obvious sincerity, ‘and I hope there may be time to talk about your other books. I do so enjoy them.’
By half past nine Melissa was backing the car out of the garage. As she drove passed Elder Cottage she scanned the front windows for signs of movement, but yet again found none. For a moment, it crossed her mind that she might have been wrong about Graham Shipley all along. Perhaps he had finally cracked under the strain of relentless police probing and confessed to Cissie’s murder. If so, cold reason told her she was embarking on a pointless journey. She dismissed the thought; she had made up her mind that Graham was innocent and cold reason was no match for that inner conviction.
The traffic on the M5 was moving freely and shortly before eleven o’clock Melissa pulled up outside a neat brick-built bungalow standing at the top of a rise in a quiet road overlooking the sea on the outskirts of Clevedon. The small, symmetrically laid out front garden had a tiny patch of lawn on either side of the concrete path, each with a rose tree in the middle and bordered by carefully tended beds bright with dahlias and geraniums. Edith Ingram had evidently been watching out for her; as she opened the gate and approached the front door it opened to reveal a short, rather stout figure with cropped grey hair that looked as if it had been cut with blunt scissors. Keen blue eyes sparkled behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses and a stubby-fingered hand took hers in a strong, welcoming clasp.
‘Mrs Craig, I am so happy to meet you,’ she said. Her voice was low-pitched with a warm, vibrant quality that made Melissa take to her on sight.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ she replied, ‘and please, do call me Melissa.’
‘Thank you, Melissa, and of course you must call me Edith. Do come in.’ She led the way along the narrow hall and showed her visitor into a snug sitting-room with a pictur
e window looking out over the sea. ‘I expect you’d like a cup of coffee and I thought perhaps we’d have it out on the patio. As you can see, it’s quite a little sun-trap at this time of day.’
‘That would be lovely—and what a gorgeous view!’ Melissa exclaimed as she stepped outside and sat down in one of two garden chairs placed at a table spread with a floral cloth to match the cushions.
‘It is nice, isn’t it? I never tire of looking out at the sea, no matter what the weather. Excuse me one moment while I fetch the coffee.’ Edith disappeared indoors, returning within minutes carrying a laden tray. ‘I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you,’ she said as she poured coffee and offered biscuits before sitting down. ‘When my nephew mentioned that you wanted some help in researching your new novel, I told him I’d be delighted, but somehow I wondered whether it would actually happen.’ She beamed at Melissa as she raised her cup in salute, displaying a set of beautifully white, even teeth.
‘It’s very kind of you to offer to help. I do appreciate this kind of opportunity to talk to people about their jobs and experiences. It enables me to create an authentic background to my books.’
‘It shows.’ Edith drank some of her coffee and put down her cup. She fumbled in the pocket of her faded cotton skirt, worn with a baggy T-shirt and canvas slippers that had seen better days, and pulled out a small notebook. ‘I’ve jotted down a few things that I think would be of interest, and also one or two points I’d like to talk to you about—if there’s time after I’ve answered your questions, of course.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be time,’ Melissa assured her.
‘So, your next Nathan Latimer mystery concerns the death of a choirmaster and you want a bit of local colour, is that right?’
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 15
