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

by Betty Rowlands

  Judith’s normally placid face distorted in a spasm of uncharacteristic anger.

  ‘Use your imagination, you fool!’ she almost screamed at him. ‘Who do you think has the most right to know what you’ve been up to?’

  ‘She said she wasn’t going to the police.’

  ‘Think a bit nearer home.’

  His face turned ashen and he started to his feet. ‘I must get out of here,’ he muttered. ‘That Mrs Craig … she warned me …’ He rushed out of the room, then rushed back saying, ‘Phone for a taxi! Say it’s urgent!’

  ‘But why—?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  Blinded with tears, she obeyed. Then she went upstairs, following the sound of drawers and cupboards being violently opened and shut. She stood in the doorway of her brother’s room, helplessly wringing her hands while tears dribbled down her cheeks as she watched him flinging clothes into a suitcase. ‘I’ve got everything I need for the moment,’ he muttered as he checked the contents of his wallet and stuffed it into his back pocket. ‘I’ll send for the rest of my stuff later.’

  ‘Giddy, don’t run away,’ Judith pleaded. ‘Stay here with us, we’ll look after you—’

  ‘Sorry, got to go.’ He dropped a kiss on his sister’s forehead, then rushed to the window at the sound of an approaching car. ‘Here’s my taxi. So long, Judy.’ And he was gone, leaving her sobbing hysterically on her knees beside his bed.

  Twenty-Four

  Melissa had acquired the habit of glancing up at the windows of Elder Cottage every time she passed and she automatically did so on returning from her call at the Daniels’ home. In the absence of any movement, plus the fact that an upstairs window that had been half-open first thing was closed, she concluded that he must have gone out. That appeared promising; at least, it was better than sitting around moping. Making a mental resolve to contact him again later in the day, she put away her car and went indoors to write up her notes.

  One fact which the information elicited from Billy had established beyond reasonable doubt was that what Tommy Judd and Gideon Lane had in common was an unhealthy interest in young girls. That would account for the latter’s visits to Brookside Cottage. It did not, of course, explain how they had discovered their shared weakness—that was something the police would have to investigate—but one possible explanation was that they obtained their supplies of pornographic material from the same source. That should be a very useful lead for the Vice Squad.

  It seemed likely that it was from Tommy Judd that Dave Potter had obtained the magazines he had been caught trying to sell, especially in the light of the robbery which the old man had been at such pains to deny. But there seemed no reason for the violence; Dave could easily have used blackmail to obtain further supplies by repeating the threat to expose him. Had he perhaps become greedy, broken into the cottage yet again with the intention of stealing the entire stock of magazines, been caught in the act and turned on the old man in a panic? The latter scenario was difficult to visualise as Dave was a somewhat puny specimen and Judd, although elderly, was by no means frail. Potter senior, however, was a very different animal; he was built like a tank and had a reputation for keeping his brains in his fists. Had he muscled in on his son’s sordid little scam?

  There remained the over-riding question of exactly how Cissie Wilcox had died. It seemed reasonably certain that something or someone had frightened her, causing her to leave the track, plunge down the bank and fall into the brook. But had she drowned as a result of that fall, or was there a more sinister explanation? She had been sent on an errand to deliver eggs to Tommy Judd and since the eggs were found in his cottage she had evidently carried it out, but according to the old man’s testimony it had been without his knowledge; he claimed not to have realised that he had not brought them home himself. That would indicate that he had not seen her bring them. But had he been telling the truth? Or had he, perhaps, been otherwise engaged? Had Cissie witnessed him in the act of masturbating, possibly with the aid of one of his sex magazines, and fled from the cottage in disgust? And had Tommy, realising that the girl would almost certainly run home and tell her mother, and being terrified of the shame of having his secret revealed, pursued her with the intention of persuading or—should that attempt fail—of forcing her to keep silent? In either event it would not have been long before he realised he had no chance of catching her, and since Graham Shipley had not seen him it was reasonable to assume that he had very quickly given up the chase. That made it unlikely that he had caused or witnessed her fall.

  There remained the possibility of Gideon Lane’s involvement. He had denied being anywhere near the scene until forced by the testimony of a witness to change his story. She tried to visualise the probable sequence of events: Gideon on his way to visit Tommy and being spotted by—presumably—Colin somewhere between the point where the turning from Benbury Manor joined the road to Upper Benbury and the end of the track leading to Brookside Cottage. It could have taken him up to ten minutes to reach the cottage from the junction, in which case he would not have seen Tommy chasing Cissie—if indeed the old man had done so. But perhaps he had found Tommy in a state of agitation and had learned from him what had happened. In that case, the pair of them would almost certainly have been ready to lie through their teeth rather than risk the true reason for their association becoming known.

  With Tommy in hospital and known to be unwilling to testify even if he was fit to do so—Melissa made a note to enquire about him later on—Gideon’s evidence could prove vital. She experienced a grim satisfaction at the thought of his receiving yet another visit from the police, possibly the Vice Squad. This time, they would be asking some very searching questions indeed. ‘Looks like you’re going to get your comeuppance at last, you old humbug!’ she said gleefully to herself as she put down her pencil and read over what she had written.

  Her momentary satisfaction was short-lived as she reminded herself that Graham Shipley was still under suspicion of having brought about Cissie’s death and subsequently, out of sheer horror at what he had done, dragging her from the water—perhaps in the desperate hope that he had not killed her after all—before fleeing the scene, only to return later and claim to have discovered the girl’s body. She had uncovered nothing in the way of evidence to support Graham’s version of what had happened. Nothing to point at any alternative to the police theory. Nothing. Unless … supposing …?

  At this point there was a ring at her doorbell, accompanied by a thunderous knocking as if someone was trying to break in. Somewhat alarmed, she went to her bedroom window and saw Sam Rogers’s Jeep parked outside Elder Cottage and Sam himself in her front porch, pounding on the door. With a premonition that something was seriously amiss, she hurried downstairs.

  ‘Can you help? Something’s wrong next door,’ said Sam. He was plainly alarmed; his voice was hoarse with apprehension. ‘Shipley isn’t answering his bell and there’s a car in the garage with the engine running … it’s locked … have you got a chopper, or a crowbar or something—?’

  ‘I’ve got a key—hang on!’ She dashed to fetch it.

  ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t bolted the door from inside!’ Sam muttered as he shoved it into the lock and turned it.

  Graham had not bolted the door, neither had he thought it necessary to lock himself in his car. Coughing and choking in the fumes that filled the small garage, Sam wrenched open the driver’s door and switched off the ignition, then reached across the unconscious man and released the handbrake. He staggered back outside, fighting for breath. ‘Help … me … pull … the … car … out!’ he gasped, but Melissa had already grabbed the rear bumper and was tugging for all she was worth.

  Between them they got the car outside and Sam took Graham by the shoulders and dragged the upper part of his body clear. ‘There’s a rug on the back seat,’ he said. ‘Get it out and spread it on the ground, and then give me a hand lifting him out.’

  Thankful that Sam was there to take charge, Meli
ssa helped him to lower Graham onto the rug. His mouth hung open and his face was a bright cherry red. ‘Dear God!’ she prayed silently as they worked. ‘Don’t let it be too late! Help us to save him!’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sam crisply. ‘Leave him to me while you call for an ambulance.’

  ‘Right.’ Once again she hurried to obey. When she returned from making the call she found Sam squatting over Graham, arranging him in the recovery position with the calm competence of one who knew exactly what he was doing. ‘He’s still breathing and there’s a slow pulse,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I think we got to him in time. Find another rug to put over him, will you?’

  The fifteen minutes that it took the ambulance to arrive were some of the slowest that Melissa had ever known. For the sake of something to do, she brewed some strong coffee and they drank it standing in the open beside the still form at their feet. From time to time Sam handed his mug to Melissa while he checked Graham’s pulse against his wristwatch. Each time she held her breath as she waited for him to report, mutely repeating her prayer, Help us to save him!

  ‘It’s picking up,’ he said at last, ‘and I think the colour’s beginning to improve.’

  ‘Thank God!’ she said fervently. ‘I didn’t even hear the engine running, and I’d never have been able to get him out by myself. It was providential that you arrived when you did.’ At that moment they heard the ambulance approaching and she sprinted to the end of the track to wave it down. Within minutes it was on its way to Stowbridge hospital with life-giving oxygen driving the poison from the patient’s lungs. The two rescuers listened in silence as the wail of the siren faded into the distance.

  ‘Shall I make some fresh coffee?’ said Melissa after a moment. ‘You’ve hardly drunk any of yours and it must be cold.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be nice.’

  ‘I daresay you’d like to clean up as well.’

  ‘When I’ve put the car away.’ He started the engine, drove into the garage and relocked the door.

  They both felt too on edge to sit down and they drank their coffee standing at the kitchen window. ‘Millie Monroe will be devastated when she hears about this,’ Sam remarked. ‘She’ll blame herself for writing that letter.’

  ‘That was probably what tipped him over the edge,’ Melissa said sombrely, ‘but it’s only part of the story.’ She gave him a brief outline of Graham’s tragic history. ‘Finding Cissie’s body was bad enough, but to be arrested on suspicion of her murder must have been a nightmare. I don’t know … I feel I should have done more to help him … in fact, I told him yesterday that I’ve been doing a bit of sleuthing on his behalf in the hope of cheering him up. It doesn’t seem to have worked, does it?’

  ‘You’ve been sleuthing?’ Sam’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘Have you made any progress?’

  ‘Until this morning, not very much, but now I think I might have come up with something significant. I was just figuring it out when you came banging on the door. Ironic, isn’t it? If you hadn’t turned up it might have been all for nothing.’

  ‘Well, that was partly your doing—my coming to call on him, I mean. You asked me to, remember?’

  ‘So I did.’

  Sam went over to the sink and rinsed out his mug. ‘I must be going. I’ve got some business in Stowbridge so I’ll call at the hospital and find out how he is.’

  ‘That’s good of you. If you see him, tell him from me not to give up hope and say I’ll try and visit him later on.’

  ‘Will do.’

  After Sam had driven away, Melissa took her scribbled notes up to her study, transferred them to the word processor and ran off a copy. She put the sheets into an envelope, addressed it to Detective Sergeant Waters and marked it ‘Urgent’. She glanced at her watch, saw that it was twelve o’clock and decided to have an early lunch before taking her report to the police station. With luck, she would be able to hand it to Matt personally.

  ‘What a morning!’ she said aloud as she prepared her scrambled eggs. ‘Let’s hope the rest of the day will be quieter.’

  Melissa set off for Stowbridge in brilliant weather, but the small valley town which in bygone times had been the centre of a flourishing wool trade lay smothered in a downy white mist which soon blotted out the sun. She found a space in a car park and walked the short distance to the police station, where she managed to catch a word with Matt Waters as he was on the point of leaving with a colleague.

  ‘Can you spare five minutes?’ she asked. ‘I really think I’ve hit on something significant. I’ve made these notes—’

  ‘Leave them with reception, will you? I’ll read them when I come back.’

  ‘We’re talking paedophile porn at Stowbridge Comprehensive,’ she said and was gratified to see an abrupt change of demeanour.

  ‘Okay, five minutes.’ Instructing his colleague to wait for him in the car. Matt opened the door of an interview room and beckoned her inside. ‘Right, let’s have it,’ he said briskly without offering her a chair.

  She had rehearsed what she was going to say on the drive into town and was able to give a rapid, clear and concise account of the results of her morning’s investigations and of the startling theory concerning the association between Gideon Lane and Tommy Judd that had occurred to her just before Sam Rogers had come banging on her door for help. Matt listened attentively without comment until she ended with a brief reference to Graham Shipley’s abortive suicide attempt.

  ‘Poor chap!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d no idea he’d come to that.’

  ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but we never realised he was that desperate. Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Sam Rogers seemed to think so, and I had the impression he knew what he was on about. I’ll call at the hospital to inquire after I leave here.’

  ‘Good. Now about this information you’ve just given me … I’m really grateful. It should provide us with a very useful lead.’

  ‘I suppose it would be unfair to remind you that if you’d given those three lads a more thorough questioning …’

  He gave a rueful grin. ‘Not unfair at all, except that we were looking for a possible murderer, not a peddler in porn.’ His face became serious again. ‘You may well be right in your theory on that count as well,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a pity old Judd is still too ill to be questioned. He might not be such a glib liar as our friend Gideon Lane.’

  ‘Been telling more porkies, has he?’

  ‘Only by pretending he misunderstood our earlier questions. Mr Holloway wasn’t fooled, of course, but even he couldn’t trip him up.’

  ‘He must have had plenty of practice,’ she said wryly. ‘Thanks for your time, Matt.’

  ‘Thank you for your efforts, Mel. You ought to enrol as a Special. We could use your analytical mind.’

  ‘Bruce Ingram thinks my mind is devious, but I much prefer analytical,’ she chuckled. ‘Cheers, Matt. Keep me posted, won’t you?’

  The hospital was some ten minutes’ walk from the police station. It took almost another ten to track Graham Shipley down, but eventually she found herself looking at him through the open door of a side ward. He was lying back on a mountain of pillows with his eyes closed and his colour reassuringly normal.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked a nurse who was checking his pulse.

  ‘He’s doing all right. We’re keeping him in overnight for observation, but he should be able to go home tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it all right if I have a word with him?’

  ‘Of course. See if you can cheer him up a bit.’

  Melissa walked to the bedside and said, ‘Hullo, Graham. How are you feeling?’

  His eyelids fluttered for a second, then lifted. He stared at her, at first blankly, then with a faint smile of recognition. ‘Nice of you to call,’ he said weakly. ‘Sorry I’ve been such a trouble.’

  ‘We’ll let you off if you promise not to do it again.’ She fished in her handbag and brought out a letter. ‘The postman
came late today and he brought this for you. It looks as if it might be important.’

  He took the envelope she handed him and turned it over. Suddenly animated, he ripped it open. ‘It’s from my solicitor,’ he said. She watched as he unfolded the letter and read it with growing delight. ‘It’s wonderful news!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’ve tracked down my ex-wife to an address in Swindon and they’re taking steps to arrange for me to have access to Patsy.’

  ‘How lovely! I’m so happy for you. It could hardly be more convenient—Swindon’s only twenty miles from Upper Benbury.’

  ‘So long as the court doesn’t hear about all this.’ His face clouded and he made a vague gesture with one hand. ‘It could all fall apart if it comes out that I’ve been involved in another case with a teenage girl—’

  ‘Now stop thinking all those negative thoughts. I’m really hopeful that you’ll soon be cleared of suspicion and then you can start planning your future. Patsy might even be able to come and stay with you for a weekend, or during the holidays.’

  ‘I doubt if Sheila would agree to that. And I haven’t even got a job now.’ He shook his head sadly, then lifted his chin as if in response to Melissa’s encouraging words. ‘Still, it has to be one step at a time, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s exactly right!’ she said warmly. ‘You hang on to that thought and let’s have no more melodrama—promise?’

  ‘I promise. Thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘No problem. See you tomorrow, then.’ She gave him a cheerful wave as she left, thinking how nice it was to have some really good news for a change. Perhaps, once DCI Holloway had followed up the information she had passed to Matt Waters, there would be more to come.

  She was about to leave the hospital when she remembered her intention of asking after Tommy Judd. Matt had indicated that he was too ill to be interviewed, but there might have been some overnight improvement. She turned and went back to the reception desk.