‘Why do you say that?’
‘I went back to help with the washing up while Mrs H was giving her troops a pep talk. The old duck was only too ready to enlarge on her opinion of Haughan. You know how their little girl died?’ Melissa shook her head. ‘Meningitis. She was taken ill while they were on holiday in France. Tightwad hadn’t taken out medical insurance and wouldn’t shell out for a French doctor. By the time they got the kid back to England and into hospital, it was too late.’
‘So that’s what Verity meant when she implied that Stewart’s meanness caused Tammy’s death. Poor woman – she’ll never have forgiven him for that.’
‘Exactly. She’d better keep stumm or the prosecution will go to town on her.’
‘Suppose Mrs Lucas mentions it to the police?’
Ben gave a harsh laugh. ‘She won’t say anything that might lead the police to the killer. She says Haughan got what he deserved – except she thinks a short, sharp shock was too good for him. And let me tell you one thing,’ he went on, and for a moment his voice wavered. ‘She’s ab–so–lutely right. If anyone deserved boiling in oil, it was that bastard.’ There was a fierce intensity in his expression; his eyes seemed more deeply embedded than usual in their sockets. A shiver ran down Melissa’s spine.
‘Yes … well, I’ll be going now. Thanks for the drink,’ she said, and let herself out.
It was almost, she thought as she let herself into her own room, as if he too had had a score to settle with Stewart Haughan. On the other hand, of course, it might simply have been the effect of guzzling too much wine too quickly.
Seventeen
It would not have surprised Melissa if Ben had skipped dinner, but at half-past seven he tapped on her door to ask if she was ready. Apart from a slightly heightened colour, he showed no sign of his earlier carousing and his manner was perfectly normal.
‘I’ll leave your dessert and the coffee percolator on the sideboard for you to help yourselves,’ said Mrs Lucas as she ushered them into the dining-room. She brought a series of covered dishes from a heated trolley and set a carafe of red wine on the table. ‘I’ll be off in a minute to get supper for my family, but I’ve told Mrs Haughan I’ll be here first thing in the morning to give a hand.’
‘Those look absolutely superb!’ exclaimed Ben as she removed the lid from a dish of grilled lamb steaks. ‘Mrs Haughan has every reason to give thanks for your sterling qualities, both as a cook and as a friend,’ he went on, with a gallant little bow.
‘I’m sure I’m only too ready to do anything to help her,’ Mrs Lucas replied. ‘You can depend on it,’ she added with a conspiratorial air as she left the room.
Remembering the artless smiles that Ben’s lunchtime compliments had evoked, Melissa asked, ‘What was all that nudge-nudge, wink-wink about?’
‘I warned her against saying too much about how things were between Haughan and his wife,’ Ben explained. ‘Remembering your concern that Mrs H shouldn’t be involved,’ he added casually, ‘although I’m afraid there’s bound to be talk about her and Dunmow … come on, don’t let this get cold.’ He broke off to help himself to food. ‘Want some plonk?’ He picked up the carafe and sniffed at it cautiously. ‘This seems okay.’
Melissa held out her glass. ‘I’ll try some, thanks.’
He poured her drink, tilted the carafe over his own glass, then grimaced, put it down and picked up a jug of water.
‘Better stick to this for now,’ he said. ‘Going out presently for a drink with … someone.’ The hesitation was barely perceptible, but Melissa pricked up her ears.
‘Anything to do with our enquiries?’
‘What enquiries? I thought we had it sewn up.’ He picked up his knife and fork and began eating.
Melissa was tempted to raise the subject of his animosity towards Haughan, so forcefully expressed only a couple of hours ago, but decided not to. It might be prudent to pretend she had not noticed. He might not even remember what he had said. He had been pretty drunk at the time – but not that drunk, she reflected, or he wouldn’t be sitting here now, tucking into food. Just enough to make him momentarily careless.
He finished his dessert and stood up, glancing at his watch. ‘Got to leave you, I’ll skip the coffee,’ he said, and left without further explanation.
Perhaps he was going to meet DCI Harris, in which case, Maurice Dunmow’s days – probably hours – of freedom were numbered. Melissa’s spirits sank to a new low as she went to the sideboard to help herself from the percolator. She sat down again and moodily stirred cream into her cup, resting her chin on her free hand, her mind an uneasy jumble of conflicting facts and impressions.
Common sense pointed unwaveringly at Maurice Dunmow’s guilt. He had motive, opportunity and – if Ben’s throwaway remark about his service with the Territorial Army was correct – the know-how. Yet her intuition continued to plead otherwise. Which led her on to a very simple question: if not Dunmow, then who? From what she had heard, the people with a grudge against Haughan were legion.
On that basis, Ben was now a suspect. With the best part of a bottle of wine inside him, he had dropped his guard to reveal strong personal feelings against the murdered man. That in itself meant very little. He was, by all accounts, one among many, although the fact that he had appeared on the scene on the morning of the crime set him apart from the others … and he, too, had done service in the army. And why had he come to Uphanger in the first place? To support the business of a man whom he heartily disliked seemed illogical, to say the least.
There was a tap on the door and Verity entered. ‘Have you finished?’ she asked. ‘Was everything all right?’ Her loose blouse, worn over a full skirt, seemed to accentuate her air of fragility, but her manner was composed, brisk, almost businesslike.
‘It was fine, thank you,’ said Melissa. ‘Mrs Lucas is a wonderful cook. Let me help you clear away.’ She half expected the offer to be declined, but Verity took two trays from the sideboard and handed her one.
‘Would you care for a liqueur?’ she asked when they had carried everything into the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. ‘I’m going to have one,’ she went on, as Melissa hesitated.
‘All right, just a small one, thank you.’
Verity’s hand shook slightly as she poured two glasses of creme de menthe. She handed one to her guest, took a seat at the table and gestured at the chair facing her. ‘Do sit down.’
‘I understand from Peggy that you plan to carry on with the business,’ said Melissa.
Verity nodded and a spark of animation lit up her pale features. ‘It’s the only way I can afford to keep this place up, and I couldn’t bear to leave it. I’ll be able to use some of my own ideas, branch out in some new ways. Stewart would never let me have any say in policy.’
Melissa raised her glass in salute. ‘I wish you every success.’
‘Thank you.’ For a minute or two, Verity sat looking at her own glass, fiddling with the stem and making no attempt at conversation. Then she said abruptly, without raising her eyes, ‘The police think Martin killed Stewart, don’t they?’
‘I’m afraid he’s the chief suspect at the moment.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t do it,’ said Verity flatly. ‘He swears he didn’t, and I believe him.’
‘I think I do as well.’
Verity looked up in surprise. ‘You do? But why? You hardly know him. What is it to you?’
‘I can usually tell when someone is speaking the truth,’ said Melissa simply, and went on to recount what she had overheard. ‘I didn’t say anything to the police at the time, but I’ve since learned that he had a very strong motive,’ she added. ‘And I’m afraid that when the police discover his real identity …’
Verity’s eyes stretched and her mouth fell open. ‘You know about that?’ she whispered fearfully.
Melissa nodded. ‘And I know what happened to his sister.’
‘Are you going to tell the police?’
‘No, but Ben Str
ickland intends to. He seems quite convinced of Martin’s – or should I say, Maurice Dunmow’s guilt.’
‘How did you find out his real name? Did someone tell you? Does anyone else know?’ The staccato questions followed one another like a burst of rapid fire. In an attempt to damp down the rising panic, Melissa kept her manner deliberately matter-of-fact as she explained about finding the address and telephone number in the poetry book.
‘He hated Stewart, he said he’d been toying with the idea of killing him for what he did to his sister,’ Verity said miserably. ‘He told me everything … how he’d been planning to do it … and then someone else did it and he realises now that he wouldn’t … he could never actually kill anyone, not even Stewart… but he’s terrified no one will believe him.’ Her agitation was mounting; her hands, nervously fingering the glass, were never still, her voice was jerky and tremulous and her eyes flickered to and fro. ‘He’s had some sort of army training,’ she went on. ‘I suppose that’ll go against him too.’
‘He sent the haiku poems, didn’t he?’
‘The early ones. Not the last one, or the effigy. He was utterly shocked when he heard about that.’
‘I noticed he seemed startled when I mentioned it. And thinking about it after studying the book on haiku, I feel sure the poems were written by different people.’
‘That’s exactly what Martin said must have happened.’
‘I doubt if the police will take that view,’ said Melissa, remembering Harris’s reaction to that very theory. ‘If they consider it at all, they’ll probably argue that it was a deliberate ploy to put them off the scent – and goodness knows what a jury would make of it. What made him begin his campaign anyway? Looked at rationally, it does seem a bit futile.’
Verity made a resigned gesture with her free hand. ‘I agree, but he hasn’t really been in a normal state of mind since his sister’s death. It was a terrible blow to him. The two of them were pretty much alone in the world – both their parents were killed in a plane crash several years ago. He felt he couldn’t cope, his work suffered and he was living on tranquillisers. He started writing the poems as a kind of therapy and then had the idea of sending them to Stewart – hoping to prick his conscience, give him a sense of guilt, he said.’ She gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘He didn’t realise that Stewart doesn’t … didn’t know the meaning of guilt or conscience.’
‘What brought him here?’
‘He saw our advertisement for a gardener-cum-handyman and came after it. He admits that hounding Stewart was becoming an obsession and he wanted to be on the spot to see the effects of his ‘campaign’, as he calls it. He got his doctor to say he was suffering from nervous exhaustion and sign him off work for three months.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘About two months.’
‘When did you suspect that he was the one sending the poems to Stewart?’
‘You may find this hard to believe, but Stewart never said a word to me about the poems until last Friday. He hardly ever confided in me. And it was only this morning, after he found the … found Stewart’s body, that Martin admitted what he’d been doing. He was in such a state that he blurted out the whole story.’ Verity began fiddling nervously with her hair. ‘We each had a brandy to steady ourselves and agreed to say as little as possible to the police. I’d say I slept through the whole thing – which was true, by the way – and he’d simply tell it like it happened. We knew there’d be further questions later on, but we couldn’t see any further ahead then … and Martin was in deep shock. He needs help, you know.’ Her eyes pleaded for compassion and understanding.
‘If he’s charged, the magistrate will almost certainly call for psychiatric reports,’ said Melissa. ‘I’m more concerned about what he may tell the police about you. You’d confided in him, hadn’t you? Told him how you blamed Stewart for Tammy’s death?’
Verity’s composure, which had become increasingly fragile, suddenly disintegrated altogether. Her face crumpled and she gave a strangled sob. The stem of her glass snapped under her convulsive grip and she sat for a moment staring in stupefaction at the blood oozing from her finger.
‘Here, let me look at that,’ said Melissa.
‘It’s all right, it’s nothing.’ Verity jumped to her feet, went to the sink and held the wound under the cold tap. Her shoulders heaved and her breath came in uneven gasps as she fought for self-control. Melissa went to her and put an arm round her shoulders, amazed at how slight and insubstantial her body seemed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said gently. ‘I didn’t mean to distress you, but you have to face the fact that things don’t look good for you.’
‘I know.’ Verity buried her face on Melissa’s shoulder and sobbed for several minutes. At last she became quieter, dried her hand with a towel and wrapped a handkerchief round the cut. Her face was still working and her breathing spasmodic as she asked, ‘Who told you how Tammy died?’
‘You hinted at it yourself – remember? – and Mrs Lucas told Ben Strickland the full story!’
Mechanically, Verity put the broken glass in a waste bin, fetched a cloth and wiped the table. Then she sat down and put her face in her hands. ‘Oh God, what a mess!’ she groaned. ‘He’s a journalist – it’ll be in all the papers.’
‘Not through Ben. He’s even warned Mrs Lucas about repeating what she told him. He believes Martin – Maurice Dunmow – killed Stewart, but neither of us wants you to be involved.’
‘Thank you.’ Verity reached across the table and gave Melissa’s hand a squeeze.
‘I’ve been trying to figure out some other line of enquiry,’ said Melissa.
‘You sound like a police officer.’ Verity gave a wan smile.
‘I’ve had some experience of how they talk,’ Melissa admitted, with an irony that went over Verity’s head. ‘Obviously, someone else hated Stewart … Ben himself seems to have done, but I don’t know why.’
‘Him and God knows how many others,’ said Verity bitterly.
‘Would that include you?’ The question slipped out involuntarily; its effect was startling.
Verity took a deep breath and looked directly at Melissa. The change in her appearance was almost frightening; her smoke-blue eyes had become hard as marbles and her voice, normally low-pitched and melodious, took on a harsh note as she said, ‘My God, how I hated him! But I’ve had to hide it all these years, haven’t I? “Don’t rock the boat Verry”, “We must keep up appearances for the sake of the business, Verry”. And always penny-pinching, always doing things on the cheap …’ She clenched her fists until the knuckle-bones threatened to break through the flesh.
‘Why didn’t you leave him?’
‘And lose my interest in Uphanger? Uncle Joshua was totally taken in by Stewart, like I was, and he altered his will to leave it to us jointly. That’s why Stewart married me, of course – I didn’t realise it at the time. I thought he was in love with me, doing the honourable thing because I was pregnant.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘If it hadn’t been for the chance of getting his greedy paws on Uphanger, he’d probably have told me to have an abortion, like he did Peggy.’
‘Peggy?’ Melissa was thunderstruck. ‘He got her pregnant? When?’
‘It was while we were living in London and he was still at Headwaters. She was his secretary there and because she’s so efficient and speaks foreign languages he asked her to join us in this venture. She’d have done anything he wanted, she was so much in love with him – still is, I suppose, in a dog-like sort of way.’
‘Did their affair go on after you came down here?’
‘You must be kidding! That would have been too close to home – Stewart didn’t believe in fouling his own nest. I don’t know where he’s been doing his bonking these past few years – he didn’t often bother me, that was all I cared about. And I’m glad he’s dead, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it.’ It was as if a kind of Pandora’s box had opened, releasing the pent-up misery of years. ‘Whoever did
it deserves a medal, but it wasn’t me!’ She drummed her fists on the table like one possessed.
‘Shh, calm down. I believe you, but I’m not the one you have to convince,’ said Melissa. ‘You say Stewart made enemies, but can you think of anyone at all … never mind how long ago it was … who might bear that sort of grudge? Some woman he treated particularly badly, for example?’
Verity’s mouth curled. ‘He treated them all badly. He’d grow tired of them and drop them. I do remember one in particular, though … one who wouldn’t let go so easily. She even got hold of our phone number at home and rang him there. I took the call.’
‘Did she say who she was?’
‘She said her name was Ann. I thought it was someone from the office and called Stewart to the phone. Then I heard him shouting at her to stop pestering him. I don’t know what she was saying to him, but I heard him say something like, “All right, go ahead, see if I care”.’
‘Do you know if he heard from her again?’
‘Not at home, certainly. He was very grumpy for a day or two after that, but that was nothing new. He was quite mercurial in his moods. One minute he’d be a monster and the next he could be all sweetness and light.’
‘Did he ever discuss her with you?’
‘Not directly, but I do remember something else. I didn’t connect the two at the time … maybe there isn’t a connection … but a couple of weeks later he was reading one of the morning papers and he suddenly said, ‘Well I’m damned! The stupid cow meant it after all!’ and burst out laughing.’
‘Did he say what he was referring to?’
‘No. I asked him, and he said, “Oh, just a bit of unfinished business that’s been tidied up”, and went off to the office.’
‘You didn’t find what he’d been reading?’
‘He always took the paper to work with him. Anyway, I wasn’t that interested.’
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6) Page 11
