‘I wonder what he’d have made of the Learning Centre,’ said Stewart, with a careless laugh. ‘I’ll bet he’d have turned his nose up at my Creativity Assisted Language Learning System. You’ve read about CRALLS in the brochure, I expect?’ he said proudly, turning back to Melissa. ‘Absolute brainwave on my part. Of course, the traditionalists hate it … hate me too, some of them, for being too successful and pinching their customers!’ His rather fleshy face, set on a short bull neck, seemed to swell with self-satisfaction, reminding Melissa of a production of Toad of Toad Hall that she had seen as a child. Any minute now and he’ll go ‘Poop-poop!’ she thought as she struggled to keep a straight face.
‘It sounds most interesting,’ she said demurely. ‘What form does the creativity part take?’
‘Oh, that’s Verry’s department. She’s the arty-crafty one,’ he said dismissively. ‘More wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Melissa. She looked across the table at Verity and was about to repeat the question, but something in the other woman’s expression made her hesitate. Compressed lips and narrowed eyes told of a simmering resentment that might erupt at any moment.
The awkward silence was broken by the warble of the telephone on the dresser. Stewart got up to answer it, spoke a few words and then announced, ‘This might go on for a while – I’ll take it in the study. You two go ahead and have your dessert.’ Apparently oblivious to the tension in the atmosphere, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Verity brought a dish of fruit salad and a jug of cream to the table and sat down, but made no move to serve. Her mouth was set in a hard line and her hands were tightly intertwined.
Melissa waited for a few moments, uncertain what to do or say. At last, Verity took a deep breath and said, in a voice throbbing with barely controlled anger, ‘Let me tell you something, Melissa. I designed this room, not him. And CRALLS was my idea … and this house belongs in my family, not his. My little girl … my Tammy … should be growing up here.’
On the final words, her voice cracked; tears spilled from her eyes and her mouth began working. For a few seconds she fought for self control, while Melissa tried desperately to think of some words of comfort. Then she blurted out, ‘Help yourself to dessert, I’ll be back in a minute,’ covered her eyes with a handkerchief and stumbled out of the room.
Feeling utterly helpless, Melissa sat waiting and wishing that she had never accepted Stewart Haughan’s invitation. From being merely uncomfortable and embarrassing, the evening had turned into a total disaster.
It was shortly to become a nightmare.
Seven
While they ate, the sun had gone down and night closed in unobserved, like a stealthy enemy creeping up on its quarry. The curtains were still open and the darkened windows threw back an image of the brightly lit interior, accurate in every detail yet somehow drained of its intrinsic warmth and comfort and security. Huge moths, drawn to the light, thumped against the glass and settled there, furry wings outspread, antennae quivering, tiny eyes gleaming. Staring at her own reflection, Melissa had a momentary, irrational feeling that it was her actual self out there in unknown territory, exposed to and defenceless against some lurking, indefinable danger.
She thought uneasily of having to cross the yard to the unfamiliar ‘cell’ where she would be spending the night – and several nights to come – instead of her own bedroom in Hawthorn Cottage. Then she reminded herself that she had experienced similar feelings of disquiet on first moving to the country and told herself not to be a fool. It was no more dangerous here than at home; it was just the strangeness that made her apprehensive.
No … it was more than that. This was not a happy house, despite the hospitality and the cosiness and the flowers and the chintzy upholstery. There was tension here, a barely contained resentment and anger … possibly hatred. Such feelings, if allowed to smoulder and feed on themselves, could one day break free with terrible consequences. A sense of foreboding, illogical but overwhelming, made Melissa get to her feet and close the curtains, as if by so doing she could hold the unseen menace at bay.
She returned to her seat at the table and waited. After a few minutes she heard the sound of footsteps overhead, then coming downstairs. The door opened and Stewart Haughan reappeared. ‘Sorry about that, ladies,’ he said breezily, then frowned. ‘Where’s Verry?’
‘She just popped out for a moment, I don’t think she’ll be long,’ said Melissa, hoping it was true.
He eyed the table. ‘You haven’t had your dessert.’
‘It’s all right, we decided to wait for you after all. Ah, here she is.’
The door reopened and Verity entered. She had washed away her tears and tidied her hair, but her face was pale and her smoky eyes were wide with alarm. In her hand, she held a sheet of paper.
‘There’s another one,’ she faltered, holding it out.
Stewart snatched it and read what was written. His face turned turkey-red and his eyes bulged. ‘Where did you find it? When did it come?’ he shouted at her.
‘It was in the hall. Someone must have put it through the letter-box while we were having dinner.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
She gave a little gasp and took a step backward as if fearing he was going to strike her. ‘I’m not lying,’ she protested. ‘Why should I lie?’
He took her by the shoulders and thrust his face close to hers. ‘Because you wrote it, you cow, that’s why! How dare you!’ He began shaking her like a rag doll, mouthing obscenities.
Melissa leapt from her chair and grabbed at his arm. ‘Stop that! Leave her alone!’ she shouted.
It was plain from his shocked expression that he had totally forgotten her presence. Immediately, he let his hands fall to his sides and Verity, trembling but apparently unhurt, went back to her seat at the table.
‘Got carried away, didn’t I?’ he said. He was breathing heavily; whatever was written on the paper had evidently shaken him badly, but he managed a grin that held a touch of bravado as he said, ‘Might as well tell Melissa the full story, eh, Verry?’ He seemed anxious to make amends, to repair his image in the eyes of his guest. ‘Tell you what,’ he went on, refilling Melissa’s wine-glass without asking and signalling to his wife to serve the neglected dessert, ‘maybe you can help us, you being a detective story writer and all that.’
Melissa took the bowl of fruit salad that Verity handed her and helped herself to cream. ‘Being a crime writer and being a detective are two very different things,’ she pointed out. ‘Writers invent their own mysteries and plant their own clues.’
‘Granted, but you must have picked up a lot of ideas along the way …’
‘Ideas about what? People who send anonymous messages?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘You see, you guessed already what the problem is.’
‘That wasn’t difficult, seeing that I was here when that one arrived.’ Melissa wondered how he would react to the knowledge that she had been told of his visit to the police station and had overheard members of his staff discussing the affair. She kept her own counsel on both points. ‘How many have you had?’ she asked.
‘Dunno. Six or seven, maybe.’
She gestured at the paper, still lying where he had slammed it down on the table in his fury. ‘May I see that?’
‘Of course.’ He handed it over. ‘If you can make sense of it, you’re smarter than I,’ – he gave his wife a sidelong glance and corrected himself – ‘than we are.’
Melissa unfolded the paper and read the three typewritten lines:
First, you gave her hope
Then hope died within her soul
Will hope die again?
Melissa read it over slowly, aloud, counting off the syllables. ‘Did you keep the others?’ she asked.
‘No, I binned them.’ Obviously, he was not going to admit that he had made a fruitless call on the police.
‘Can you remember what they said?’
‘Not exactly. A lot of ro
t about winter coming too soon, and blood turning to ice … load of old cobblers really.’
Melissa glanced from one to the other. ‘And you’ve no idea what the writer might be referring to?’ she asked.
Verity, her eyes fixed on her untouched plate, said nothing, but Stewart shook his head almost defiantly. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said stoutly.
Melissa refolded the paper and handed it back to him. ‘I really don’t see what I can do to help …’ she began, but he cut in eagerly.
‘You could ask around a bit … you might pick up something I missed … you’d know the right questions …’
‘You mean, you want me to make enquiries among your staff? Won’t they think it rather odd for a complete outsider to poke her nose into your affairs?’
‘You could make out it’s for a story you’re writing. Yeah, that’s it!’ He became fired with enthusiasm. ‘I’ll tell them you’re working on a plot about some crank writing poison pen letters, and I showed you this, just to help you, of course … I mean, I don’t want you to run away with the idea that we’re seriously worried …’ He picked up his glass and leaned nonchalantly back in his chair, once more in control of the situation.
Melissa was tingling with inward excitement. It was almost too good to be true; here he was, giving her carte blanche to do openly what she had been hoping to do surreptitiously. However, she deliberately kept a note of reserve in her voice as she replied, ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind my appearing inquisitive to the people in your office … I can’t promise to be much help, but I’ll see what I can do …’
‘But, aren’t you here to be getting on with your own writing? I thought that was the whole idea of a “Writer’s Retreat”,’ Verity interposed.
For a moment, Stewart appeared nonplussed; then his entrepreneurial instincts came to the rescue. ‘Sure, sure,’ he agreed. ‘But I tell you what, Mel, you nail the joker who’s been playing silly buggers and I’ll give you another week here, absolutely free. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
‘It sounds a reasonable offer,’ Melissa agreed with a smile. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can ferret out.’ She glanced at her watch; it was ten o’clock. ‘I think, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to my “cell”.’
‘Make sure the little grey ones get plenty of beauty sleep, eh?’ said Stewart jovially. ‘Little grey cells … Hercule Poirot,’ he added, as if anxious to display his knowledge of classic crime fiction.
‘Quite.’ Melissa got up from the table. ‘Good night, and thank you for a delicious meal,’ she said to Verity.
Stewart brought her coat and escorted her to the door. He opened it, switched on the exterior light and stood aside for her to pass him. As she stepped outside, she saw something lying on the ground.
‘Oh dear, your lovely hanging basket’s fallen down,’ she said. She moved forward to inspect the damage and something touched her on the shoulder. She glanced up and gave an involuntary gasp of alarm. Suspended from the bracket that had held the basket was a crude dummy figure, dressed in a woman’s clothing. Pinned to the dress was a piece of paper on which was printed, in typewritten capitals, ‘THE END OF HOPE IS NIGH’.
Eight
‘What the hell …?’ Stewart gazed up at the effigy, goggle-eyed and open mouthed. The light from the electric lantern above the door showed the colour draining from his face, leaving a naevus of broken veins on either cheek. He put a hand to his mouth and for a moment Melissa thought he was going to throw up. Then he reached out and gingerly grasped the thing by one leg, as if to confirm that it was real and not some grotesque phantasm. One of the shoes fell off; he let go and jumped backwards like a man who has had an electric shock.
‘It’s sick!’ he said hoarsely. ‘Plain, bloody sick!’
‘What is it?’ Verity, hearing the disturbance, appeared in the doorway.
‘Another little jest by your husband’s unknown correspondent,’ said Melissa shakily.
Verity glanced up at the dangling figure and uttered a cry of disgust. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered. ‘Who would do such a horrible thing?’
‘Let’s have a look at it. Maybe we can find a clue.’ Stewart had pulled himself together and was tugging at the thin rope looped round the bracket. The dummy slumped to the ground and lay propped sideways against the wall with its white straw hat tilted over its face, giving it the appearance of a fallen drunk. Stewart bent over it, then appeared to change his mind. ‘Take it indoors, Verry,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to have a look round and see what I can find.’ He grabbed a flashlight from the hall table and marched off into the darkness.
‘I’m not having it in the house,’ said Verity in a thin but decided voice. ‘We’ll take it over to the garage.’
They carried it across the yard; Verity unlocked the garage door and switched on the light. There were two cars inside, but enough space between them to lay the thing on the floor. Together the two women inspected it.
The body was made from a broom handle, thickly padded with newspaper and rammed into a polystyrene head of the type used in stores to display women’s hats. A pair of nylon tights, stuffed with more paper, formed the legs; a second pair, pushed through the long sleeves of the flower-sprigged cotton dress and similarly filled, made the arms.
‘Now, what does it tell us?’ mused Melissa. ‘That dress isn’t new, but it’s in reasonable condition, too good to throw away. I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone round here wearing it?’
Verity shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but I don’t go into the office very often.’
‘What about one of the students?’
‘Not that I remember. No, I’m sure not – I’d have noticed that pattern.’
Melissa peered at the label inside the neck of the dress. ‘It’s a Laura Ashley design,’ she said. ‘It might have come from a charity shop.’
Verity gave a shrug. ‘There are dozens of those around.’
‘Mm. What else can we find out?’ Melissa looked at each item in turn. ‘The head’s the only really distinctive thing. If we enquired around, someone might have seen it – or one like it – on a junk stall. The shoes and hat might have come from the same place as the dress. The tights look brand new.’ She straightened up and thought for a moment. ‘Now that’s interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘If you were going to play a trick like this, you wouldn’t use your own old clothes – someone might recognise them – but there’d be no risk in using an old pair of your own tights, would there?’
Verity thought for a moment. ‘I suppose not, if you had any. I always wear stockings myself,’ she said absently. ‘You think it’s significant?’
‘It seems to point to your husband’s anonymous correspondent being a man. Tights are the one thing he wouldn’t pick up second-hand, and unless he’s a transvestite he wouldn’t have any of his own. And he’s probably not married, either, or he could pinch a pair his wife had thrown out.’
Verity’s tense features seemed to relax a little. ‘Oh, I’m glad you think it isn’t a woman,’ she said earnestly, without looking up. ‘Will you tell Stewart? You heard what he said …’
‘If you want me to.’ Melissa gave her a keen glance, hoping that she might volunteer some further information, but Verity merely continued looking down at the dummy, which had begun to disintegrate under their examination. ‘What are we going to do with this?’
‘Leave it to Stewart to decide.’ Verity dusted her hands and turned on her heel. ‘I’m getting cold. Let’s go indoors.’ She switched off the garage light and gestured to Melissa to move aside while she closed the door.
‘I was going back to my room,’ Melissa pointed out.
‘Oh, please stay with me until Stewart gets back,’ Verity begged. ‘I don’t fancy being on my own. I’ll make a cup of tea …’ She took Melissa by the arm. ‘Please!’
‘All right.’ They returned to the kitchen and Verity bustled about, filling the k
ettle and assembling cups and saucers. ‘I’m so relieved you think it’s not a woman,’ she said again. ‘I mean, you don’t like to think a woman could be so … well … nasty, do you?’
‘Oh, some women can be pretty nasty if they feel they have a grievance,’ Melissa replied. She walked round the table and stood in front of Verity as she waited by the stove for the water to boil, one hand resting on the handle of the kettle. ‘Why did Stewart accuse you of planting that note?’ she asked.
Verity gave a nervous half-smile and turned her head away. ‘It’s nothing really … just a gut reaction … he does lose his rag at times … gets quite unreasonable … speaks without thinking … it doesn’t last …’ The words trailed unconvincingly away, but before Melissa had time to question her further, there was the sound of footsteps outside. The outer door crashed open and then slammed shut; Stewart entered, dumped the flashlight on the dresser and began marching up and down the room, his hands in his pockets and his face set and angry. He seemed short of breath, as if he had been running.
‘Whoever it was must have got in over the back wall. There are footprints across the potato patch where Martin’s been digging,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a closer look tomorrow, in daylight.’ He stopped pacing and looked at Melissa. ‘Did you figure anything out?’
‘She’s pretty sure it’s a man doing all this,’ Verity interposed before Melissa had time to answer.
‘Well, of course it is. There’s quite a clever brain at work here,’ said Stewart.
‘I had the impression that you suspected Verity,’ said Melissa icily.
Mindless of the fact that he had said something deeply offensive to his wife and guest, Stewart switched on a disarming smile that made him suddenly and devastatingly attractive. ‘Moi? It never entered my head,’ he said in a voice of honey, and before either of the women had a chance to challenge the blatant lie, he went on, ‘I reckon it’s one of my competitors trying to wind me up, put me off my stroke and upset my employees. Said as much the other day, didn’t I, Verry?’ The smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and he banged a closed fist on the table. ‘These bloody stupid messages – and tonight’s bit of crap – are just a warm-up. I’ve got to nail the bugger before he does something to upset my clients and get my business a bad name.’ He turned to Melissa. ‘Just get on with it, Mel. The police don’t want to know, sod them.’
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6) Page 4
