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

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘And your name is …?’ Melissa gave it, half expecting some sign of recognition, but there was none. ‘Are you a member of the family or a guest here?’

  ‘A paying guest, actually. Uphanger accommodates writers who want a few days’ peace and quiet to work on their books.’

  ‘You’re a writer, Madam?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again, the reaction was neutral. Melissa felt a momentary disappointment, followed by a sense of shame. A man lay dead, in all probability murdered, and she had the cheek to feel miffed because one police officer failed to recognise her name.

  ‘I understand it was a Mr Morris who made the 999 call,’ Powell continued. ‘That would be the gardener, I take it? Do you happen to know where he is now?’

  ‘I think he must be still in the house. He lives over there,’ she nodded in the direction of the caravan, ‘but I haven’t seen him come back.’

  ‘And Mr Haughan’s wife … widow?’

  ‘I presume she’s in the house as well. That’s where I left her.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’ He shut his notebook and put it in his pocket. ‘My colleague has radioed headquarters and a senior detective will be along shortly, together with Scene of Crime Officers … and an ambulance. Meanwhile, perhaps you will be kind enough to return to the house and wait there with the others for the time being.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Is there anyone else on the premises?’

  Melissa glanced at her watch. ‘Not yet, so far as I know. The office staff will be arriving some time after eight o’clock, I imagine. I can’t tell you much about them – I only arrived here yesterday – but the reception desk is off the hall, just inside the main door. That’s where you’ll find them.’

  He thanked her again and rejoined his colleague, while Melissa went to find Verity and put her in the picture. Finding the courtyard door ajar, she went in and made her way along the passage to the kitchen. That door was not completely closed either; Martin must have left both unlatched in his haste to reach the telephone. Melissa raised her hand to knock, then froze as she heard Martin say, in a low, urgent voice, ‘I know it looks bad, but I didn’t kill him, I swear it.’

  ‘They’re just as likely to suspect me.’ Now it was Verity speaking. ‘They’ll say I had a motive.’

  ‘They won’t know about that if you keep quiet.’

  ‘They’ll find out. They might even suspect the pair of us … think it’s some sort of conspiracy. Oh my God, what are we going to do?’

  There was a silence, during which Melissa had a furious tussle with her conscience. It was evident that the relationship between Verity and Martin was closer than that of employer and employee, but that did not necessarily mean they were having an affair. What she had witnessed the previous evening had revealed deep divisions between husband and wife, but the world, sadly, was full of unhappy marriages of which only a fraction led to murder. Besides, she had a strong feeling that Haughan had been felled with a blow to the head, and found it difficult to imagine a slightly built woman like Verity being capable of the necessary force.

  Martin was a horse of a different colour. Despite his air of shock on finding the body, his surprise at hearing of last night’s events and the protestation of innocence she had just overheard – all of which seemed absolutely genuine – it was clear that he and Verity each had something to hide. If she continued to listen she might hear more. On the other hand, the door might open at any moment and reveal her presence to those inside. If either of them was the killer, it might not be very clever to let them know that their incriminating remarks had been overheard. Discretion seemed to be the name of the game. She tiptoed back to the front door, stepped outside and rang the bell.

  Peggy Drage leaned her elbows on her desk, propped her face in her hands and for the umpteenth time muttered, ‘I can’t believe it.’ Every so often she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and sniffed.

  George Ballard, wrestling with the yards of plastic tape that secured a newly delivered parcel of books, gave her a sharp look. ‘You don’t have to pretend to be upset,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not pretending. It’s a dreadful thing to have happened.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let anyone see you crying over him if I were you. They might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say!’ It was not the first time that she had been shocked by his cynicism. ‘A man’s dead and you don’t seem to care in the slightest.’

  ‘Oh, I care all right. The chances are that I’ll lose my job. We’ll all lose our jobs.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Mrs Haughan may carry on with the Centre. I’m sure she’ll want to go on living at Uphanger – the house belongs to her.’

  George stopped in the act of checking the contents of the parcel. ‘It does? How do you know that?’

  ‘She inherited it from a relative. There was something about it in a letter from a solicitor. I wasn’t supposed to see it … Stewart passed it to me by mistake and then grabbed it back.’

  He gave a soft whistle. ‘You never said.’

  ‘I was his secretary, wasn’t I? That sort of thing’s confidential.’

  ‘And now the business will be hers as well. Very nice too.’

  Peggy rounded on him. ‘How can you talk like that when her husband’s just been brutally murdered?’ She gulped and dabbed again at her reddened eyes.

  ‘If he treated her the way he treated you … treated all of us … she’s probably glad to see the back of him.’

  Peggy looked at him in disgust. ‘You … you’re unbelievable! I’ve never heard anything so callous.’

  ‘Don’t be so mealy-mouthed. Everyone knows he was a prize bastard.’

  ‘Not all the time. He could be very charming.’ The tears began to flow again.

  ‘Oh yes, we know all about that, don’t we?’

  ‘Don’t …’ Peggy broke off at the sound of footsteps crossing the hall. Pam appeared with a tray of coffee and set it on the counter.

  ‘I wonder if that policeman waiting outside would like some,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and ask him.’ She went to the front door just as Sadie came bursting in.

  ‘Whatever’s going on?’ she demanded, her eyes wide and her smooth young cheeks bright pink. ‘That policeman outside wouldn’t tell me anything, but there’s lots of people crawling about in the orchard … and police cars everywhere …’

  ‘Stewart’s been topped,’ said George. He took out the last of the books, threw the empty box under the counter and picked up a mug of coffee. Sadie clapped a hand to her mouth and burst into tears.

  Pam put an arm round her and frowned at George. ‘You might put things a bit more gently,’ she reproached him, stroking Sadie’s hair and patting her on the shoulder. ‘We don’t know exactly what happened. All we’ve been told is that he was found dead in the orchard. He might have had a heart attack.’

  George gave a superior, knowing smirk. ‘The fuzz don’t turn out in force for someone who’s keeled over from natural causes.’

  Sadie dried her eyes, ducked under the counter and went over to her desk. ‘I suppose we’ll all have to answer questions,’ she speculated. The thought seemed to cheer her up. ‘It’ll be just like something on the telly.’

  Peggy put away her handkerchief and got up to fetch the pile of unopened letters that the postman had left on the counter. ‘I don’t think we should just sit around discussing it,’ she said. ‘And it’s hardly entertainment,’ she added, with a glance of reproof at Sadie.

  ‘Oh, I know … but it is exciting, isn’t it? Like a Mel Craig murder mystery.’ Sadie’s grief and shock were fading as suddenly as they had appeared. ‘I wonder if she’ll be helping the police with their enquiries.’

  ‘Not unless she’s a suspect,’ said George drily. The thought seemed to afford him considerable amusement. ‘That’s police and newspaper jargon for being detained for questioning,’ he explained, as Sadie looked blank.

  Peggy gave a sudden exclamation of ala
rm and fished a file from a drawer in her desk. ‘I’ve just remembered, our other writer in retreat is arriving this morning,’ she said agitatedly. ‘Do you think I ought to tell him not to come?’

  ‘He’s probably left home already,’ said Pam.

  ‘He might not, he’s only coming from Stowbridge. It’s worth a try.’ Peggy reached for the telephone, but at that moment they heard the front door open and close. Everyone looked round as a tall, grey-haired man in a raincoat, a canvas holdall in one hand, approached the counter.

  ‘Ben Strickland,’ he announced. ‘Remember me? I’ve been looking forward to this return visit, but it seems I’ve arrived at an awkward moment.’

  Eleven

  Martin came in response to Melissa’s ring. He looked anxious; when he saw who was there, his relief was visible.

  ‘I thought you were the police,’ he said, standing aside for her to enter.

  ‘They’ll be along presently.’ She paused in front of the kitchen door. ‘Is Verity in here?’

  As if for the moment he had taken charge, he said, ‘Yes, go right in.’

  Verity was sitting at the table, clasping a mug of coffee so tightly that the bones in her small hands stood out as if the flesh had been shrink-wrapped round them. She stared at the wall, her eyes blank, moving her lips like an actor silently repeating a part. Martin, one hand half extended, made a move towards her, then changed direction, went over to the window and stood there with his back to it, watching.

  ‘If there’s any more of that coffee, I’d appreciate a cup,’ said Melissa.

  The words roused Verity out of her lethargy. With a jerky movement she put down her own mug and stumbled to her feet, immediately the apologetic hostess.

  ‘How awful of me … you haven’t had any breakfast or anything … shall I make you some toast?’

  ‘Maybe later. Coffee will be fine for now.’

  Verity served Melissa with coffee and mimed with the cafetière an offer to refill Martin’s mug, but he shook his head. Melissa helped herself to milk from a carton on the table and swallowed several mouthfuls before saying carefully, ‘They don’t know yet how Stewart died, but there will be detectives here soon to make a routine examination of the scene. They’ll want to talk to us, so we’re to wait here until they arrive.’

  ‘The doctor must think it’s suspicious or he wouldn’t have called for the police,’ said Verity in a small, thin voice.

  ‘Any sudden, unexplained death is treated as suspicious. There’ll be a post-mortem to establish the cause.’

  ‘We can guess that. Somebody slugged him didn’t they?’ said Martin.

  ‘There’s no point in speculating,’ said Melissa guardedly. She looked from one to the other. ‘Tell me,’ she went on, speaking slowly, thinking on her feet, ‘with hindsight, can you remember if any of the haiku poems that Stewart received, apart from last night’s, contained anything at all that could be construed as a threat?’

  Martin gave her a sharp look and before Verity could speak, he asked, ‘What did you call them?’

  ‘The poem I saw’ – remembering that she had officially seen only one, she was careful not to say ‘poems’ – ‘was in a Japanese verse form called haiku. I had the impression that they were all in a similar form … I may be wrong, of course. It may not have any particular significance,’ she went on. ‘I don’t know enough about it.’ But I intend to find out more, she promised herself.

  ‘I didn’t see anything threatening about the ones Stewart showed me, not in the way you mean,’ Verity said unsteadily. ‘They were just … very sad.’

  Her voice all but disappeared on the final word.

  A new thought struck Melissa. ‘Has Stewart ever had dealings with a Japanese company that went sour? Or any Japanese students … one who might have some kind of grievance, for example?’

  Slowly, with puckered brow, Verity shook her head. ‘We have had several Japanese students, but Stewart never mentioned any problems. As you know, he had a theory that a competitor might be waging some kind of psychological warfare against him. That’s why he went to the police, but they didn’t see it his way.’

  ‘They’ll be having second thoughts about that now,’ said Martin grimly.

  Melissa nodded. Another question was burning to be asked, but she could not bring herself to probe an open wound in front of a third party, even one who, according to what she had overheard, might already know the answer. She finished her coffee and was suddenly aware of feeling empty. ‘I think I’d like that toast now, if it isn’t too much trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ Verity put slices of bread into a toaster and fetched butter and marmalade. ‘What about you, Martin?’

  ‘Yes, please … and you ought to try and eat something as well,’ he replied. Their eyes met in a glance so brief that Melissa could not have said with certainty that it held any significance.

  The three of them ate in silence and had almost finished when the telephone rang. It was Peggy, calling from the office, to say that the second ‘writer in retreat’ had arrived and been shown to his room, and also that a Detective Chief Inspector Harris would be along shortly to ask a few questions.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ demanded Harris in a low voice.

  Melissa, facing him across the table in the small dining-room where, had things been different, she would have taken a leisurely breakfast before settling down to write, pretended to look shocked.

  ‘Is that how you normally tackle a witness? No wonder people complain about police intimidation.’

  ‘I tried to call you last night and all I got was your answering machine. Why didn’t you say you were coming here? How long are you staying?’

  ‘I suppose anything I say will be taken down and may be used as evidence,’ mocked Melissa. ‘Ken, I don’t have to account for my movements to you or anyone else.’

  ‘I was worried about you. That cottage is so isolated.’

  ‘I have Iris next door.’

  ‘I know … I called her. She pretended not to know where you were, but I could tell she was covering up.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve. Anyone would think I was a suspect.’

  ‘Technically, I suppose you are at the moment.’ He grinned and she became aware – as always – of the charm of the man, despite the homely features and the tendency to fleshiness. Her irritation evaporated and she smiled back as she replied, ‘Then we’d better get on with the interview, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Right. Let’s begin with this morning.’ In response to his questions, she described how she had come upon Martin Morris in the orchard, standing over what had turned out to be Stewart’s body. He made notes, from time to time referring back to previous pages and nodding. When she had answered all his questions, he said, ‘Okay, that confirms what those two in there,’ – he jerked his pen over his shoulder – ‘have told me. Now, let’s go back to last night. I gather you spent yesterday evening with the Haughans. How did that come about?’

  ‘Haughan explained that “writers in retreat” normally have their meals in this room; a woman comes in from the village to do the cooking. As there was no one but me here last night, they invited me to have dinner with them. We ate in the kitchen.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I got here about seven thirty. We’d had our first course when there was a phone call. Stewart went to another room to take it. While he was out, Verity got upset over things he’d been saying earlier.’ Melissa recounted everything as accurately as she could. ‘She left the room in tears. When she came back, she was holding another message which she’d found in the hall by the front door.’

  ‘Did she come back before or after Haughan had finished on the phone?’

  Melissa thought for a moment. ‘He got back a moment or two before she did.’ As soon as she had spoken, she saw what Harris was leading up to.

  ‘Would he have had to cross the hall?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘But he never s
aw the message lying there?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘And no one heard or saw it being delivered?’

  ‘No, but … Ken, I can’t believe Verity only pretended to find it. Her shock and surprise were genuine – I could swear to it.’

  ‘And how did Haughan react?’

  ‘Very violently. He came out with a wild accusation that she’d written it herself. Then he started on about business competitors conducting psychological warfare. To be honest, I think he was a bit unbalanced … even in the short time I knew him, he had some very marked swings of mood.’

  ‘Any idea why it should occur to him that his wife had written the poems?’

  ‘Because they hint at the death of a very young female. While he was out of the room, Verity referred to “my Tammy” and said she should have been growing up here, which suggests that they lost a little girl.’

  Harris nodded. ‘That’s a possible explanation.’

  ‘Which she strenuously denies.’

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she? So what happened next?’

  Melissa went on to give a brief account of the rest of the evening, culminating in the discovery of the effigy hanging outside the front door. When Harris had finished making notes, she asked, ‘Has Verity – Mrs Haughan – any idea why her husband was out so early?’

  ‘She claims not to have been aware of him getting up to go out. She thinks he must have decided to look for traces of last night’s intruder. Morris says he found him soon after six and Doctor Brizewell examined him about half an hour later. He wouldn’t be pinned down, but he thought Haughan had been dead maybe a couple of hours.’

  ‘So we’re talking about some time before five o’clock,’ said Melissa. ‘Why would he go out before the sun was up?’

  ‘It gets light well before sunrise, especially on a clear morning like today.’

  ‘Even so, you’d think he’d have waited … unless he heard someone in the garden. Or maybe the killer lured him outside by ringing the doorbell … but then, Verity would have heard it as well.’