‘I thought it would be a good idea to arrive extra early on my first day,’ said Melissa, ignoring the unsmiling manner that robbed his words of any hint of welcome or approval. ‘I don’t even know where my classroom is and I wanted to ask you about registers and so on. I haven’t done this sort of thing before, remember.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ He put down his pen and glanced across at the empty desk in the corner. ‘My secretary hasn’t arrived yet. I suppose I’d better take you to the staff room myself. There’ll be someone there to show you the ropes.’
He rose, rather grudgingly it seemed to Melissa. He was only a fraction taller than she was but by holding himself rigidly erect with his neck stretched and his chin tucked in, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down at her. He was no shabbily-dressed, out-at-elbows academic; his jacket was well-cut, his white shirt immaculate and the crease in his trousers razor sharp. Melissa had a swift vision of a flushed and anxious Eleanor bent over a steamy ironing board.
‘This way.’ Shergold led her up two flights of stairs and opened a door marked ‘Staff Room’ to reveal an untidy arrangement of battered desks littered with books and papers, rows of shelves and cupboards and a photocopier in a corner. A man sat at one of the desks, reading the Guardian and eating sandwiches from a yellow plastic container.
‘Mr Willard, this is Mrs Craig,’ Shergold announced in his abrupt monotone. ‘She’s running my new writers’ workshop. Just tell her where everything is, will you. My secretary has made out a register for her but perhaps you’d explain how to fill it in. Your room is C3,’ he added to Melissa and went out.
‘Certainly, Doctor Shergold.’ Willard put down his paper, returned a half-eaten sandwich to his lunchbox and stood up, brushing crumbs from his paint-smeared jeans. ‘Pompous ass!’ he muttered as the door closed. ‘“Mrs Craig”, “Mister Willard”, “my secretary” – thinks he’s living in the nineteenth century.’ He was about fifty, tall and spare with a high forehead, a trim grey beard, receding grey hair and round eyes the colour of milk chocolate. His cheeks were hollow and his fingers long and tapering. An artistic type, Melissa guessed as they shook hands. ‘I’m Barney,’ he added with a smile. ‘Do I have to call you “Mrs Craig”?’
‘No of course not, I’m Melissa. Glad to meet you Barney.’
‘Melissa Craig . . . would you be Mel Craig, the crime writer?’
‘That’s right. What’s your subject?’
‘Senior Tutor in the Faculty of Fine Arts – that’s the second hut on the left behind the bike sheds!’ His smile had a gentle, aesthetic quality. He began wandering round the room. ‘The registers are kept in these pigeonholes. Yours should be under Thursday afternoon – yes, here we are.’ He flipped open a folder. ‘You’ve got twenty students and they’ve all paid. Room C3 is upstairs, immediately overhead. Staff toilet next door but one. Leave your register on Angy’s desk at the end of the afternoon. Angy is his secretary, by the way,’ he added with a grin and a jerk of his head towards the door. ‘You’ll find her very helpful. Anything else you need to know?’
‘I think that’s all, thanks. Do go on with your lunch.’
‘I will, if you don’t mind.’ He bent down to switch on an electric kettle half-hidden among heaps of books on the dusty floor before polishing off his sandwich and sinking his teeth into an apple. ‘Care for a coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
Barney spooned instant coffee into a mug. Melissa was about to go in search of her classroom when the door burst open to admit a heavily-built young man with an untidy mop of fair hair. He was clutching an armful of books which he let fall in a slithering heap on a chair.
‘Hi,’ he said to Barney and cocked an eyebrow at Melissa.
‘Meet Doug Wilson, the Campus Casanova,’ said Barney. ‘This is Melissa, alias Mel Craig, crime writer extraordinaire.’
Doug beamed. He had large, spaced-out teeth and an air of pugnacious sensuality. Far from showing any sign of resentment at Barney’s introduction, he appeared quite proud of it.
‘Welcome to the sex maniacs’ department!’ he said, enthusiastically pumping Melissa’s hand. His grin broadened at her look of perplexity. ‘Rumour has it that the County Education Officer and his staff are still trying to think up an innocuous acronym for a School of Extra-Mural and Non-Vocational Studies,’ he explained. ‘Meanwhile we use our own but it doesn’t seem to have caught on at Shire Hall.’
‘Nor with the Head of Department, I imagine,’ said Melissa, remembering with amusement the humourless response that gentleman had made to some harmlessly flippant remark at the Fords’ party.
‘Rodney has engaged Melissa to instruct the citizens of Stowbridge in the art of writing blood-and-thunder fiction,’ Barney explained.
‘Not just blood and thunder,’ she corrected him. ‘They can write what they like. My brief from Rodney is, and I quote, “to assist them in the improvement of their basic writing skills and the development of their latent creativity”!’
‘Always supposing they have any,’ said Doug cheerfully.
‘How did you come to know him, by the way?’ asked Barney. ‘I thought he only moved in learned antiquarian circles.’
‘He and his wife moved into my village a short while ago. I met them at a party.’
Doug’s eyebrows vanished under the overhanging thatch. ‘Randy Rodders at a party? The mind boggles!’
Melissa stared at him with raised eyebrows.
‘If his name was Sidney we’d call him the Sizzler,’ explained Doug obscurely. ‘We like to spice our good-humoured raillery with alliteration,’ he continued as Melissa still looked blank, ‘so we call him Randy Rodders because he’s humourless, sexless and most probably bloodless. If he cut himself he’d ooze mineral water. I’m surprised to hear he’s married. What’s his wife like?’
‘Pleasant but very quiet,’ said Melissa, recollecting the dumpy woman of about her own age, neatly turned out in a style of some twenty years ago, with remarkable sea-green eyes that continually strayed in admiration to her husband. ‘She seems to dote on him,’ she added.
‘How any woman could dote on Rodders is beyond me,’ said Doug. ‘I wonder how she’d react if she knew what a dish his secretary is!’ His eyes glowed with undisguised lust. ‘Have you met our delicious Angy yet?’
‘I spoke on the telephone to a girl with a very alluring voice.’
‘That’s Angy!’ Doug made whinnying noises and his hands described an imaginary female form. Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa noticed Barney’s jaw set in disapproval but Doug went rattling on as if unaware of the fall in temperature.
‘Every red-blooded male on the campus would like to bed her but I’ll bet old Rodders hasn’t so much as cast a prurient eye over her cleavage. It must be sad to be so coldblooded,’ he reflected, busy spilling papers from a briefcase on to an already over-loaded table. ‘Someone should try and arouse his interest in the joys of the flesh. I think I’ll suggest it to Angy. It’d be quite a challenge for her!’
Barney rammed the lid on his lunch-box and began jerking drawers open and slamming them shut. He grabbed a portfolio, picked up his mug of coffee and strode to the door. ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind!’ he snapped. ‘And I’ll thank you to show a little more respect!’
‘Okay, okay, only kidding!’ Doug turned and winked at Melissa as the door banged. ‘He gets like this from time to time,’ he explained. ‘Clings to the old Victorian values and all that. He was once heard to refer to “the sanctity of womanhood”!’ One corner of his mouth lifted in a kind of indulgent contempt.
‘It’s quite a refreshing change to meet someone like that,’ said Melissa pointedly.
‘Ah, yes, well, I suppose . . . ’ He had no need to finish the remark – his condescending smirk said it for him: I suppose at your age you appreciate that sort of crap! Aloud, he said flippantly, ‘Do I detect disapproval in your bright eyes?’
‘No comment,’ she replied, trying not to s
ound curt.
He shrugged, took some papers from a folder, went over to the photocopier and switched it on. He stood with his back to her, watching the machine ejecting copies into a tray.
‘What do you teach?’ she asked.
‘English to foreigners,’ he replied over his shoulder.
‘That must be very rewarding,’ she said politely.
He shrugged. ‘More often than not it’s bloody frustrating.’
Melissa moved towards the door. ‘I think I’ll go and find my classroom.’
Doug fed more paper into the machine. ‘Best of luck!’ he said.
She reached room C3 ten minutes before her class was due to begin but already nearly all the students had arrived. When she entered, heads were raised and eyes swivelled silently in her direction. She read appraisal in their gaze, and an almost tangible hope that she had the power to unlock for them the door to the fulfilment of their literary dreams. It was a daunting moment.
She took a deep breath, introduced herself, outlined her plans for the course and marked her register. ‘Now,’ she said with what she hoped was a sympathetic, encouraging smile, ‘has anyone brought something they’d like to read to us today?’ A few tentative hands were raised, one was chosen at random and the writers’ workshop was under way.
At the end of the session, as instructed by Barney, Melissa went back to the office with her register. Rodney Shergold was not there but the secretary’s desk was occupied by a young woman wearing a cream silk shirt that fell open just far enough to invite adverse comment from the prudish, while a gold pendant lay at exactly the right point to focus the attention of a lascivious eye. Titian-red hair framed a perfect, oval face. As the girl looked up, Melissa found herself looking at the original of Rick Lawrence’s portrait.
‘Can I help you?’ The half-smile that the young artist had caught with such accuracy lifted the corners of the mouth and gave a slight tilt to the amber eyes.
‘Is your name Angelica Caroli, by any chance?’ asked Melissa.
‘That’s right. Most people call me Angy – except Doctor Shergold, of course.’ A hint of mischief crept into the smile.
‘Didn’t you do an art course at Ravenswood College?’ Angy’s eyes grew larger.
‘That’s right, I did. How did you know?’
‘I was at last year’s prize-giving and I saw your portrait. I can see now just how good it is.’
‘Thank you.’ The voice was low and a trifle husky, like a young cat purring with pleasure. ‘I suppose you saw Ricardo’s knife-throwing act, then?’ She spoke the name with a perfect Italian pronunciation.
‘You heard about that? It must have been a shock!’
‘It was rather, but so typical of him. He loves a bit of drama.’ She held out a hand for Melissa’s register. ‘You must be Mrs Craig. Was it a good class? Did all the students turn up?’
‘Yes, they all turned up and they seemed to enjoy it.’ Melissa handed over the folder and Angy dropped it on to a stack of similar ones on her desk. She drew a sheet of paper from a drawer and fed it into her typewriter. A garnet ring accentuated the ivory whiteness of her hands, the fingers tipped with pearl like a kitten’s velvet paws.
‘Forgive me if I sound inquisitive,’ said Melissa, ‘but how did you know about the portrait being slashed? I was told you’d gone away.’
‘My aunt wrote to me. Who told you I’d left?’
‘Lou Stacey.’
‘You know Lou? How is she? She never writes to me.’ The concern in Angy’s voice and expression seemed genuine.
‘I’ve only met her once, at the prize-giving. She was very upset by what happened.’
Angy sighed. ‘I suppose she’s still angry with me for breaking with Ricardo.’ Again the musical, Italian lilt, accompanied by a sad shake of the head. ‘And we used to be such friends. I thought she’d be glad to have him to herself again but . . . ’ The quick lift of the hands and the movement of the shoulders were not quite English either. ‘What else did she tell you about me?’
‘That you broke off your engagement and left home without saying anything to anyone, that’s all.’
Angy spent several seconds fiddling with the sheet of paper. Melissa had the impression that she was trying to make up her mind to what extent, if any, she should confide in her.
‘Did she tell you about Ricardo’s grandiose gesture?’ she said at length. Melissa nodded and Angy leaned forward, planting her elbows on her machine. ‘It was so embarrassing!’ she declared. ‘And so . . . so medieval! Worse than medieval. At least, in a proper arranged marriage, the bride knows what’s going on. His parents and my family knew what he was planning and they never said a word to me. I ask you, in this day and age! I simply didn’t know what to do.’
‘So you decided to disappear?’
Angy’s gestures became wider and more dramatic. ‘I had to. Everyone was over the moon about the engagement – everyone but me, that is – and I knew how upset they’d be when I broke it off. I do so hate seeing people unhappy.’ A sorrowful shake of the head proclaimed infinite compassion for the suffering of the world. ‘But it wasn’t my fault. Ricardo had no business to take it for granted that I’d marry him, just because I . . . we . . . well, you know how it is!’ Her hands, her shoulders, her smouldering eyes, all registered despair at the unreasonableness of men. ‘Even that was a disaster – for me at any rate,’ she added, half to herself. Then she looked straight at Melissa. ‘What else could I do but go away?’ she pleaded.
‘I suppose you could have told Rick . . . Ricardo, privately after the party, that you didn’t want to marry him,’ said Melissa.
‘I couldn’t possibly!’ Angy looked appalled at the prospect. ‘He’d have made a terrible scene and he’d never have let me break it off. He’s got this furious Italian temper and he can be quite terrifying at times. I thought, if I just disappear for a while, they’ll all get over it. I knew I could get a job; I did a business course before going to Ravenswood. I had some money Aunt Rosina gave me . . . ’
‘For your wedding dress!’ Melissa could not resist pointing out.
Angy showed no sign of contrition. ‘I never asked for it, did I? Any more than I asked to be engaged. I was going to write to Ricardo and send his ring back but I was so afraid he’d come looking for me.’
‘What made you choose Stowbridge as a bolt-hole?’
Angy gave a faint, slightly contemptuous smile. ‘Ricardo and I once agreed that the Cotswolds were a refuge for folksy artists to come and paint their birthday card pictures. I figured I was unlikely to run into him down here.’ She wrinkled her forehead and pursed her lips. ‘I suppose,’ she reflected, ‘I could send Aunt Rosina’s money back now. Eddie doesn’t charge me much rent for my flat.’
At that point the door opened and Rodney Shergold entered, leaving Melissa to speculate on the motive behind Eddie’s generosity. He strode over to his desk without glancing at either of the women and stood there reading a paper he had brought in with him.
‘Have you finished that report yet, Miss Caroli?’ he asked, his eyes still on the paper.
‘Just one more page, Doctor Shergold,’ said Angy. She winked at Melissa and began to type.
‘See you next Thursday,’ said Melissa, eager now to get home and tell Iris about this extraordinary coincidence. She decided, however, to say nothing about the reference to ‘folksy artists’.
Angy smiled and nodded. There was no response from their Head of Department.
Five
In mid-December, Melissa drove down to Sussex to spend Christmas and the New Year with the couple whom she always thought and spoke of as her in-laws. They were a lively, generous-hearted pair who doted on their grandson and had no difficulty in overlooking the fact that his mother had never been married to the son they had lost.
The festivities passed pleasantly enough and Melissa returned home refreshed and ready to start work again. She had plenty to occupy her days but the evenings often seemed long and there
were moments when she reflected wistfully on Iris’s invitation to join her in the South of France, whither she had departed according to custom early in November and whence she would not return until the end of March. The high spot of her week was Thursday afternoon when she could look forward to a stimulating chat with Barney followed by a rewarding hour and a half with the members of her writers’ workshop.
The telephone was a lifeline. Her son Simon called once a week from Texas, where he worked for an oil company; Joe Martin, her agent, rang from time to time, ostensibly to enquire about the new book. At first she was able to report encouraging progress but now she had run into a snag and, after a few attempts at prevarication, felt bound to admit it.
‘The plot simply won’t jell,’ she complained during one of his calls. ‘I’m going to leave it for a while and do some short stories.’ Joe was sympathetic.
‘Would it help if I came down for the day and we had a brain-storming session?’
‘It’s a lovely idea but there’s more snow forecast. You might not be able to get back.’
‘I can imagine worse fates,’ he said with unmistakable meaning.
‘You might be able to!’ she retorted with equally unmistakable levity.
A plaintive sigh echoed in her receiver. Since his divorce from Georgina, Joe had sent out strong signals that he would like his relationship with Melissa to be more than that of author and agent.
‘Cruelty, thy name is Melissa!’ he lamented. ‘So tell me, how are things at college? What news of the lovely Angelica?’ Joe had heard all about the slashed portrait and how the subject had taken refuge from the avenging artist in a small Gloucestershire town.
‘She’s a sweet little pussy-cat who purrs for everyone,’ said Melissa, ‘and there’s going to be mayhem in the staff room before long.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s all quite ridiculous. I think I’ve told you, Barney Willard sees her as the embodiment of all that’s chaste and pure.’
Murder in the Morning Page 3