Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6)

by Betty Rowlands

  A dark green notice board with white lettering informed her that she had arrived at the Uphanger Learning Centre. The gates stood open; she swung the wheel, bumped across the cattle-grid that protected the grounds against stray farm animals or wild deer and drove slowly up the gravelled drive.

  The prospect was a charming one. The house, facing almost due south, was an architectural gem of weathered stone with a gabled elevation, brick chimneys like sticks of barley-sugar and tall mullioned windows. The drive, lined on either side with chestnut trees, ended in a wide, semi-circular courtyard ringed with bright flower-beds. At the top, a sign painted in the same colours as the one at the entrance directed visitors to a car park tucked away behind a beech hedge which, like the trees, was already flecked with the gold of early autumn.

  Melissa parked her elderly Golf beside a line of other cars and returned to the front of the building, where yet another notice read ‘Reception. Please Enter’. She raised the massive iron latch, pushed open the studded oak door and found herself in a large, lofty hall. To her right was an open archway, through which she could see a wooden counter and a small general office.

  As she closed the door gently behind her she heard a man’s voice, muffled but raised in what sounded like anger. She hesitated, unwilling to cause embarrassment by appearing at a delicate moment. Then the shouting stopped and a door opened and closed. She waited another moment or two and then approached.

  Beyond the counter stood a man and a woman, one on either side of a desk. Their heads were turned towards a door in the far corner of the office; the woman held a plastic tray full of papers in one hand and her attitude suggested that she had just emerged from the room where the shouting had taken place. Both she and her companion seemed unaware of Melissa’s presence.

  ‘Well, well, we are in a mood this morning. It must be all these anonymous billets-doux we’re getting,’ the man was saying. His tone suggested that he was not displeased at the thought.

  ‘I can’t think why,’ the woman replied. ‘There’s nothing in the ones I’ve seen to cause that sort of reaction. There must be some hidden meaning, I suppose.’

  The man turned his head to look at her, showing his profile. He was tall and spare, with thinning grey hair; Melissa judged his age to be about sixty. Halfway down his pointed nose he wore glasses with heavy frames that looked disproportionately large for his sharp features. His mouth was twisted in a sardonic smile and he jerked his head towards the closed door in the corner.

  ‘We don’t know what it’s all about, but I suspect he does,’ he said, meaningly.

  The woman frowned. She was considerably younger than her colleague, on the plump side, with straight dark hair brushed back from a pale, Pre-Raphaelite face. ‘Come to think of it,’ she said slowly, ‘the latest one was different – it hinted at the death of someone, a woman.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘I chucked it in the bin. He never even read it.’

  ‘The death of a woman,’ the man mused. ‘Could it have been referring to the girl you told me about, the one who used to work here, the one who died … Kate somebody? You said how upset she used to get over his tantrums.’

  Melissa was beginning to feel uncomfortable. This conversation, carried on in clear but quiet voices, was not intended to be overheard. She ought to creep away and then return, making sufficient noise to alert them to her presence, but it seemed highly probable that what she was hearing was connected to the mysterious messages DCI Harris had told her about. Native curiosity did battle over the ethics of eavesdropping, but her dilemma was resolved by the sudden appearance behind her of a second woman carrying a tray of china mugs, a jug of milk and a pot of coffee. She wished Melissa a pleasant ‘Good morning’ and placed the tray on the counter before opening a hinged flap and walking round behind it. The others abruptly stopped talking and sat down at their desks.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the newcomer.

  ‘I’m here for a week’s “writer’s retreat”,’ Melissa explained. ‘I arranged it with Mr Haughan over the telephone last Monday and he sent me this letter of confirmation. My name’s Mel Craig.’

  The young woman glanced briefly at the letter Melissa held out and her smile lost its impersonal quality and became warm and friendly. ‘How nice to meet you, Ms Craig! I just love your books – in fact, we’re all fans of yours here, aren’t we, Peggy? My name’s Pam Sinclair, by the way, and this is Peggy Drage, Mr Haughan’s secretary …’

  ‘“Personal Assistant”,’ corrected the grey-haired man ‘That’s what she is, and that’s how he,’ – the speaker jerked his head in the direction of the door in the far corner – ‘refers to her when he wants to impress people. Like he talks about Pam as “my accountant”, but he treats her like a junior clerk.’ He fixed Melissa with a fierce stare that seemed to demand a response.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ she said, feeling somewhat at a loss. The atmosphere had an edge that made her ill at ease, despite the warmth of Pam’s greeting.

  The man gave a sniff. ‘Secretaries and clerks come cheaper than PAs and accountants,’ he said drily.

  ‘Oh, let it go, George,’ said Peggy tartly. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I’ll tell Mr Haughan you’re here, Ms Craig. He particularly asked to be told as soon as you arrived.’ She went over to the corner and tapped – a little timidly, it seemed to Melissa – on the door. A voice barked ‘Come in!’ and she opened it and disappeared inside. Moments later, it was flung open and Stewart Haughan emerged.

  His height and build were little more than average, but he gave the impression of a powerful, dominating personality, backed up by a latent aggressiveness, that made him appear larger than he was. He advanced towards Melissa, smiling broadly, and thrust his right hand across the counter. ‘Mel Craig – welcome to Uphanger! This is indeed a pleasure … and an honour!’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Haughan,’ she replied. His hand was cold and a trifle clammy. It might have been her imagination, but there seemed to be a lack of spontaneity in his manner, as if he had hyped himself up to give a performance. The flashing smile that revealed a set of very large, very even teeth, did not reach his round, greenish eyes.

  ‘Please, call me Stewart. We’re all on first name terms here, aren’t we?’ He glanced round for confirmation and the others smiled obediently and nodded. ‘You’ve met my staff, I take it? Right, come with me and I’ll show you round the place and then take you to the guest wing.’ He came out from behind the counter, letting the flap fall with a crash. Over his shoulder, Melissa saw Pam roll her eyes towards the ceiling.

  The ‘guest wing’, when they eventually reached it, proved to be a converted stable block, built originally in the days when horses had exceptionally spacious quarters while their grooms lived in more spartan conditions overhead. Four loose-boxes had been fitted out as studio-style apartments, each with a sitting-room and a small but well-equipped bathroom on the ground floor and a sleeping area, reached by an open-tread wooden staircase, on an entresol at the rear. Stewart Haughan, with a laboured attempt at humour, referred to the rooms as ‘cells’ to emphasise the monastic concept of a ‘Writer’s Retreat’.

  ‘You needn’t see another soul all day except at meal-times,’ he explained as he handed Melissa her key. ‘Total P and Q, that’s what I’m told you writers need, and here you have it. By the way,’ he added, almost as an afterthought on leaving, ‘you’ll normally be eating in the guests’ dining-room – you remember where that is, don’t you? – but as you’re on your own until tomorrow we, my wife and I that is, would like you to have dinner with us this evening.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Melissa politely.

  ‘Fine. I’ll leave you to settle in.’ He gave a jaunty wave and departed.

  Thankful to be on her own at last – Stewart had insisted on demonstrating every feature of the room as if he were an estate agent trying to make a sale and it had been hard work finding a suitable range of apprecia
tive comments – Melissa unpacked, set up her portable word processor on the desk, filled and plugged in the electric kettle (Stewart had stressed the tea-and coffee-making facilities, as if he personally had conceived the idea) and made a cup of coffee. Then she sat down and pondered her reasons for being here.

  Giving herself time to think over her relationship with Kenneth Harris was the main one, of course. A week on her own, without so much as a phone call from him, might prove something – although, she reflected, she was paying what she considered an inflated fee for the experiment. It would also be an advantage to work on her current book without any interruptions, despite being well ahead of schedule and not anticipating any serious problems.

  Then there was the intriguing matter of the anonymous haiku poems. The more she thought about them, the more she saw possibilities for a plot for a mystery novel. During her stay, she might uncover some details that would be useful in developing the story. Relaxing in an armchair as she drank her coffee, she was letting her mind run over some possibilities when she became aware of a movement outside the window. She looked up to see a man staring in at her, his hand cupped round his eyes and his face pressed against the glass.

  Six

  Melissa leapt to her feet and wrenched open the door.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

  He was a youngish man, bearded and tanned, wearing an open-necked shirt with a frayed collar and rolled-up sleeves, stained corduroy trousers and heavy boots. He looked startled and embarrassed at Melissa’s sudden appearance but did not, as she had half expected, make a bolt for it. Instead, he replied in a cultured voice, ‘I do beg your pardon. I noticed the blind had been moved … I’m sorry if I frightened you.’

  ‘You didn’t frighten me,’ said Melissa shortly. ‘I don’t like being spied on, that’s all.’

  ‘I assure you, I wasn’t spying. Some suspicious-looking characters have been seen in the neighbourhood lately and no one told me we had a guest.’

  ‘You should have knocked.’

  ‘You’re right, I should. Please forgive me.’

  ‘No harm done. Who are you, by the way?’

  ‘Martin Morris. I’m the gardener and handyman round here.’

  ‘Melissa Craig.’ Mollified, she held out a hand, but he gave a rueful smile and shook his head as he displayed his own grimy fingers.

  ‘Better not,’ he apologised. ‘I’ve been servicing the mower. You must be Mel Craig, the writer?’ Melissa smiled and nodded. Despite the dirt and the rough clothes, his speech and manner were more like those of a professional than a manual worker. ‘Ah, now I understand,’ he went on. ‘I heard you were coming, but I thought it was tomorrow.’

  ‘I believe someone else is coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He half turned away, hesitated, and swung round again. ‘You needn’t worry about being disturbed. I’ve been told to keep away from here while there are “writers in retreat”.’

  Melissa thought she detected a trace of irony in the way he pronounced the final words, but she merely said, ‘Don’t worry, you won’t disturb me,’ and was on the point of going back inside when he took a step towards her, looking her straight in the eye. She thought he looked tense and a little anxious.

  ‘That is what you’re here for, isn’t it? To write, I mean … in peace, without interruption … that sort of thing?’

  ‘Why else would I be here?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, no reason. I just wondered.’

  ‘Is there something odd going on?’

  This time he did not meet her eye. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, in a tone that sounded a little too casual to be natural.

  ‘I overheard a snatch of conversation when I arrived that suggested someone was receiving anonymous messages.’

  ‘Oh, that. Someone’s been playing tricks on Stewart Haughan, that’s all. He’s really riled about it.’ Martin gave an odd half-smile. ‘Not that it takes much to wind him up.’

  ‘Yes, I got the impression he’s a pretty volatile character.’

  ‘You can say that again. Well, I must get back to work.’ For the second time, he started to move away, but Melissa had one more question.

  ‘Do you happen to know anything about a girl named Kate who used to work here?’

  He stopped short, but did not turn his head.

  ‘I’ve heard of her. It was before my time here,’ he said, and strode away.

  At half-past seven, Melissa strolled across what had once been the stable yard but was now a neatly gravelled area dotted with beds of geraniums. At some time in the past, it appeared, an extra, L-shaped wing had been added to the rear of the main house, but in a less ornate style than the original, possibly to accommodate servants. It was here that the Haughans had their private quarters. The warm glow of the setting sun on the mellow stone gave the place a welcoming, homely appearance, in marked contrast to the magnificence of the main entrance. A climbing rose, still covered in fragrant pink blooms, was trained on the wall; mauve petunias and blue lobelia spilled from a hanging basket beside the white-painted door.

  Melissa pressed the brass bellpush. There was a brief pause before she heard the sound of footsteps and Stewart Haughan opened the door. He greeted her in the same hearty manner as before and ushered her along a passage and into a spacious kitchen-cum-living room where a slight, pale woman in a loose dress that matched her smoke-blue eyes, with straight blonde hair cut in a little-girl fringe, was stirring something on the stove.

  ‘My wife, Verity,’ said Stewart. ‘Verry, this is Mel Craig who writes those exciting murder mysteries.’

  Verity put down her wooden spoon and held out a hand. She had long, tapering fingers which felt cool to the touch, despite the warmth from the stove.

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ she said in a low, but clear and musical voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen – we live in here most of the time.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s very cosy … and what a lovely view of the garden. Mr Morris certainly knows his stuff.’

  ‘You’ve met Martin?’ said Stewart. Melissa explained and he nodded in approval. ‘Good man, keeps his eyes open. Lives in a caravan in the orchard – you’ll see him around. He should have been told you were coming, though. I must tell Peggy off about that in the morning.’

  ‘Why blame Peggy?’ said Verity. ‘You could have told him yourself – you have more contact with him than she does.’

  ‘It’s her job to see to details like that,’ Stewart said curtly. He went over to the dresser. ‘How about a drink, Melissa?’

  ‘Thank you. A dry sherry if you have one, please.’

  ‘Of course. You name it, we’ve got it.’ He poured two glasses and handed one to Melissa, his air of good humour restored. ‘Yours is on the table, Verry. Is the wine open?’ His wife, still busy at the stove, said ‘Yes’ without turning round. He gave himself a generous shot of Scotch and turned back to Melissa. ‘You like the room, then?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she replied warmly.

  It was a beautifully proportioned room, with exposed beams in the ceiling and mullioned windows on two sides. Modern kitchen equipment and units had been skilfully combined with some well-preserved antique pieces to produce a very satisfying blend of old and new. There were colourful rugs on the floor, a brick chimney-breast housing a modern cooker at one end and two comfortable-looking armchairs, upholstered to match the curtains, at the other. Between the chairs was a low table, on which stood a container of fresh flowers, expertly arranged.

  ‘You should have seen it when we first took the place over,’ Stewart said smugly. ‘A real pigsty, wasn’t it, Verry? I had it completely gutted and refitted to my own design. I’ll bet you thought it was done by an expert, eh?’

  ‘It looks very professional,’ Melissa declared, affecting not to notice the lack of response from her hostess, or the strange look she gave her husband as she put on a pair of pad
ded mitts to remove a dish from the oven.

  ‘I hope you like steak and kidney pie, Melissa,’ she said.

  ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ Melissa assured her, sniffing appreciatively. ‘That smells wonderful.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Stewart, pulling out a chair for his guest before seating himself at the head of the long wooden table, one end of which was laid with three places. While Verity brought plates and dishes of vegetables and served the food, he poured wine and drank copiously himself, all the while keeping up a running monologue about his business experience, the establishment of the Centre and the alterations and improvements he had carried out since taking over the property five years previously. ‘Of course, it’s been in the family for a couple of hundred years, but it got a bit run down towards the end of Uncle Joshua’s reign.’

  ‘Uncle Joshua was a very sick old man,’ said Verity. It was the first time she had spoken since serving the first course, and there was a wistful note in her voice as she added, ‘He kept it immaculate for many years – he loved the place.’