Murder in the Morning

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘And is she?’

  ‘She has this air of childlike innocence. I’m sure that if men fought and died over her, she’d sit there shaking her head and wondering quite sincerely why they couldn’t all have been friends.’

  ‘And you think there might be a fight to the death?’

  ‘Nothing quite so drastic as that but Barney does get very tetchy when Doug Wilson throws out hints about how Angy distributes her favours. I’m sure it’s only aggro but Barney’s sense of humour doesn’t extend to jokes about her virtue.’

  ‘Well, maybe there’s a plot in there . . . but make sure you keep out of range when the fists start to fly!’ advised Joe. ‘I’ll be in touch again soon.’

  The year advanced and the days began to lengthen. On the bank behind the cottages, clumps of primroses glowed like pale miniature suns and the winds that came roistering along the valley carried with them the high-pitched, staccato protests of new-born lambs. Melissa’s daily walk became once more a pleasure instead of a self-imposed discipline and she tramped the lanes and footpaths with a light heart, feeling the fresh sweet air wash over her face and rejoicing at the prospect of another Cotswold spring.

  From time to time on these outings she met Eleanor Shergold exercising Snappy, her aptly named Border terrier, and the two took their walk together. Eleanor, invariably band-box neat in clothes that were years out of date, trotted beside Melissa, picking her way round puddles and patches of mud, tugged along by the straining dog and punctuating her remarks with little puffing breaths.

  Towards the end of March, she invited Melissa to tea.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time,’ she said in her soft, rather precise voice, ‘only Rodney wouldn’t let me invite anyone until everything in the house was the way he . . . the way we wanted it. We’ve had so much trouble with the builders, you know, and the decorations weren’t right, and then we had to wait ages for the lounge curtains . . . ’

  ‘I’d love to have tea with you,’ Melissa interposed gently, having heard it all before. ‘But really, you needn’t have worried about the curtains!’

  ‘Well, I wanted to ask you long ago. I said to Rodney, I’m sure Mrs . . . Melissa I mean, must be lonely with her friend away, but he said I had to . . . ’ She stopped for a moment to allow Snappy to place his territorial mark on a gatepost. ‘How about tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Melissa.

  The Shergolds had called their house Cotswold View and the name was carved on a varnished slice of wood with the bark retained to give a rustic appearance. Already the new houses, although built to the same design, had begun to take on a measure of individuality: a carriage lantern in a porch, a tub of daffodils about to break into flower beside a front door, a flagged path and a planting of trees and shrubs alongside a lawn painstakingly laid the previous autumn. Two of the owners had hung slatted blinds in their downstairs windows, another had crowded the sills with potted plants and antique glassware. Only the Shergolds had chosen to veil themselves in looping folds of lace.

  ‘It’s so nice to be able to have visitors!’ said Eleanor, as she and Melissa sat drinking tea from china cups patterned with violets. ‘Everyone has been so kind and hospitable, and I’ve felt really guilty . . . ’

  ‘These scones are delicious. Do you think I could have another?’ said Melissa, anxious to forestall a further outburst of apologetics.

  ‘But of course! Would you like the recipe? I’ll write it out for you!’ Delight illuminated the homely features. ‘What about some more tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’m sure you must miss . . . Iris, isn’t it?’ Eleanor was still not entirely at ease with first names but, like a child reciting a difficult lesson, she showed a determination to persevere.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Melissa admitted. ‘I’ll be glad when she comes home at the end of the month. I have Binkie, of course, her cat. The minute she goes away he moves in with me and really he’s quite companionable.’

  ‘Animals are company, aren’t they?’ Eleanor agreed. ‘I wouldn’t be without Snappy. Rodney didn’t want me to have a dog; he says they make the place smell if you’re not careful and they spoil the carpets so he’s not allowed in here . . . Snappy I mean of course, not Rodney, khikhikhi!’ She gave one of her throaty giggles. ‘I don’t often argue with Rodney but I told him, if we’re going to live in the country I must have a dog, so in the end he agreed.’

  ‘Good for you!’ said Melissa heartily, greatly encouraged by the note of determination that underlay this speech.

  ‘Rodney tells me that your writers’ workshop is a great success,’ Eleanor went on.

  The remark took Melissa by surprise. Not once had he made any enquiry or shown the slightest interest in her classes, but since she could hardly say as much to his wife she merely replied, ‘I’m glad he’s pleased with it.’

  ‘Oh yes, he says the numbers have kept up very well. He has to keep an eye on numbers, you know, because of the cuts. As soon as the numbers fall below a certain level, the class has to go.’

  ‘Ah yes, the cuts,’ agreed Melissa.

  ‘I do so envy people who can write,’ said Eleanor with a sigh. ‘Rodney writes books you know. I sometimes wonder . . . khikhikhi . . . why someone as clever as him married someone as ordinary as me! I should have been clever,’ she continued in response to Melissa’s encouraging noises. ‘My father was brilliant . . . he was the Principal of Brigston University you know . . . but you don’t want to hear about me. Do have some more cake!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Melissa, thinking how awful it was to be so inhibited. If ever anyone needed a boost for their ego, it was Eleanor Shergold. Well, she’d see what she could do. ‘If you’re interested in writing,’ she said casually, ‘why don’t you come to my workshop?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that! Rodney wouldn’t like it at all!’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be very good and he’d hate other people to know how stupid I am . . . khikhikhi!’

  The giggle was becoming wearisome and Melissa felt herself growing impatient. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure you’re not stupid. Do think about it.’

  ‘He might see me at the college.’ The prospect appeared to cause Eleanor great alarm. ‘And my name would be on the register.’

  ‘Give a false name!’ said Melissa cheekily. ‘Put on a wig . . . go in disguise!’

  The attempt at humour was greeted with an uncomprehending stare. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly!’ Eleanor repeated obstinately.

  Exasperated, Melissa knew a brick wall when she saw one and tried another topic. ‘What about your painting?’ she asked. ‘Have you done anything lately?’

  ‘How kind of you to ask!’ Eleanor’s cheeks grew pink and she seemed to come alive, like a drooping flower refreshed by the rain. ‘As it happens, I’ve been working on a little picture. I’ll show you if you don’t mind coming into the kitchen. I work there because the light’s good . . . ’

  She got to her feet as she spoke and led the way. Snappy, curled up in his basket in a corner, lifted his head and growled softly at the sight of Melissa.

  ‘Silly boy, Snappy!’ chided his mistress. ‘Mrs Craig’s a friend!’

  ‘But this is good!’ said Melissa, as Eleanor shyly pointed to an unfinished water-colour of the church. ‘Have you shown any of your work to Iris?’

  ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t like to bother her.’

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be a bother,’ said Melissa. She was still examining the little painting. ‘Iris would like this, I know she would. Have you had lessons?’

  ‘Not since I left school but I study a bit from books and go to art exhibitions when there’s one locally. Do you really think it’s any good?’ A mixture of pleasure and disbelief transformed Eleanor’s features. With those extraordinary eyes, she could be quite attractive, Melissa thought, if she’d only get a new hairstyle, bu
y some fashionable clothes and polish up her abysmally low self-image.

  ‘I like it very much. They do painting classes at MIDCCAT, you know. Why don’t you enrol for a course?’

  Eleanor’s face slumped like an unset blancmange. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.’

  Because your flaming husband wouldn’t like it, I suppose, thought Melissa, mentally grinding her teeth. ‘I must be going,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you want to start getting Rodney’s supper.’

  ‘Oh yes, I expect he’ll be hungry after his day out. Did you know he’s been asked to organise a summer course in local history for a party of Americans? He and Miss Caroli – his secretary, you know – were planning to drive to some of the places he wants them to visit, just to see how long the journey will take and where they can have lunch, and so on.’ Eleanor’s tone grew wistful, as if she would have enjoyed being included in such an expedition. ‘Do you know Miss Caroli?’ she asked. ‘Rodney says she’s very efficient.’

  ‘Oh, she is – very efficient,’ said Melissa guardedly. ‘Haven’t you met her?’

  ‘Oh no, I never visit Rodney in his office . . . he wouldn’t like it at all.’ Eleanor seemed to find the notion almost shocking. ‘I’m so relieved that he has a good secretary. It’s made so much difference to his work, you know, to have someone reliable, and his new book’s coming on very well, he says.’

  ‘I’m glad about that,’ murmured Melissa. ‘Thank you so much for the tea. You must come to me soon.’

  What a pity, she thought as she made her way home, that Iris was still away. There was no one else to whom she could express her indignation. What gave a pip-squeak, third-rate academic like Rodney Shergold the right to make his wife feel so inadequate, and how could Eleanor be so spineless as to submit to his petty tyranny? She had real talent that should be encouraged.

  On second thoughts, she must have some backbone. Snappy’s presence proved that.

  Six

  Iris returned at the end of March from Provence where a few years previously she had bought a renovated cottage in a small town a few kilometres from Avignon. She looked happy and healthy; her fine skin was tanned and her eyes bright. The climate down there suited her, she said, and she had evidently made a number of friends. In her usual laconic style she told of mild winter days spent out of doors sketching and evenings at local restaurants with parties of neighbours. There were also intriguing references to a certain Monsieur Bonard, who ran a small private ‘centre culturel’ and who might possibly, Melissa guessed, have something to do with the general air of well-being that Iris had brought home with her. In due time, perhaps, she would reveal more.

  Meanwhile, she demanded to be brought up to date with the village news.

  ‘There isn’t a great deal that I haven’t told you in my letters,’ said Melissa.

  ‘No disasters or scandals?’

  ‘Nothing to rock the headlines.’

  They were settled in front of Iris’s log fire after supper on her first full day at home, Melissa in an armchair and Iris in her favourite place on the hearthrug with Binkie on her lap.

  ‘Tell me about your class. Any budding Shakespeares yet?’

  ‘Hardly. One or two have had odd bits published and several others show quite a lot of promise. There’s one called Sybil Bliss who writes poems about flowers. She had one accepted last month by Madame magazine and she was positively euphoric!’

  ‘And who’s this Barney character your letters are so full of?’

  Melissa, feeling she was being interrogated, made her reply deliberately casual.

  ‘Oh, he’s the chap in charge of the art department.’

  ‘You haven’t got a thing about him, by any chance?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Melissa avoided Iris’s penetrating eye. ‘He’s got a thing about Angy though. He seems to regard himself as her minder.’ She could hear a hint of asperity in her own voice, and was annoyed by it.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, that girl can look after herself,’ commented Iris with a sly look which Melissa ignored.

  ‘I think so too, but Barney is almost fanatically protective towards her. I went into Rodney Shergold’s office once to find him lecturing her on the innate wickedness of men, like a Victorian papa.’

  ‘Surprised she puts up with it.’

  ‘Oh, she just smiles and agrees with everything he says.’

  ‘And then goes her own sweet way!’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Barney sounds an oddball.’

  ‘No more than any other artist!’ countered Melissa. ‘He can be aggressive, though,’ she added reflectively. ‘I thought he was going to clobber Doug the other day after one of his lewd wisecracks. Oh, and he suspects Rodney Shergold of dishonourable intentions.’

  Iris cackled in disbelief. ‘That pretentious twit? Only interested in himself and ancient history, in that order.’

  ‘Mmm . . . maybe.’ Melissa became thoughtful, remembering the day the office door had been left ajar and she had entered without knocking. Rodney Shergold had been standing behind Angy, who was seated at her desk and seemed to be drawing his attention to something on the sheet of paper in her typewriter. Nothing remarkable about that, except that he was leaning forward with a hand resting on her shoulder, his thumb caressing her neck, looking at her rather than at the paper and wearing the same fatuous expression that came over Iris’s face when she was talking to Binkie. When he saw Melissa he had snatched his hand away and jerked upright like a clumsily handled marionette, the hint of a blush spreading over his thin cheeks.

  Iris’s eyes were gleaming in the firelight, her interest aroused by Melissa’s non-committal response. ‘You’ve noticed something? Do tell!’

  Melissa recounted the episode. ‘I don’t suppose it means anything,’ she said, thinking of Eleanor and hoping it was true. ‘But he did look guilty when he saw me. It was quite comic really. Angy of course didn’t bat an eyelid.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. I wonder if she’s discovered what it is Eleanor sees in him!’ speculated Iris wickedly.

  ‘Or he’s heard about his nickname and is trying to live up to it,’ said Melissa. ‘There’s something about that girl . . . everyone eats out of her hand. It’s not surprising really. She just oozes charm, and she’s so incredibly beautiful. By the way, talking of the Shergolds, I’ve been trying to persuade Eleanor to enrol for a painting class, but no luck. Maybe you could make her change her mind? I’ve seen some of her work, and I think it’s quite good.’

  ‘I’ll have a go next time I see her. Hate to think of talent wasted.’

  ‘It might give her morale a boost. That dreadful little man has brainwashed her into believing she’s no good at anything.’ Melissa stood up and yawned. ‘Let me help you with the dishes and then I’m going home.’

  ‘Never mind the dishes. Gloria comes in the morning.’

  Easter came and went. During the short break Melissa, alternately bullied and blandished by Iris, spent the greater part of each day in the garden, cultivating her vegetable plot. She dug and hoed, weeded and sowed for hours on end. Her back ached but the hours in the fresh air seemed to revive her creativity and the plot of her book began at last to knit together. Almost before she realised it, the holidays were over and the college reopened.

  It was gratifying to find all last term’s names, and several new ones, on the writers’ workshop register. Everyone seemed to have returned refreshed and stimulated. Sybil Bliss, who had spent Easter in the Scilly Isles, brought a new collection of floral poems and at the end of the class she lingered after the others had left and hesitantly laid a folder on Melissa’s table.

  ‘I wonder if you’d care to see these,’ she said, and spread out half a dozen or so water-colour paintings of flowers. Melissa had learned enough from Iris to know that they were competent, if not outstanding, and she praised them warmly.

  Sybil’s response was rapturous. She was a slender creature of about forty, with bright blue eyes and straight g
rey hair falling like soft wings on either side of an expressive little face. Her voice was carefully modulated, her manner a shade theatrical and, despite her wedding ring, there was something gauche and spinsterish about her.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you like them!’ she breathed. ‘I was thinking of putting together a little book of my poems and illustrating them myself. Do you suppose there’s any chance of getting it published?’

  Melissa felt a little out of her depth. ‘I’m not sure,’ she murmured. ‘This sort of thing’s outside my field. Why not ask your art teacher?’

  Sybil looked dubious. ‘I thought you’d be more likely to know about publishing, but I could ask Miss Caroli, I suppose.’

  ‘Miss Caroli? You mean Angy – Doctor Shergold’s secretary?’

  ‘That’s right. Our regular teacher was taken ill during the holidays and won’t be back until next term. Miss Caroli is only part-time with Doctor Shergold and was free on Tuesday afternoon so she’s standing in for her.’

  ‘Really? I knew she’d had an art training, but . . . ’

  ‘She’s going to be an absolutely splendid teacher!’ Sybil, like everyone else, had evidently fallen under Angy’s spell. Her voice rose and fell as if every other word was in italics. ‘So talented! And so beautiful too!’ She clasped her hands together and widened her eyes, like a drama student asked to mime delight and astonishment.

  ‘Well, that sounds a very handy arrangement,’ said Melissa. ‘Would you let me take these home?’ she added, indicating the paintings. ‘I live next door to Iris Ash. I’ll ask her if she’s got any ideas.’

  The prospect of her work being examined by the celebrated Miss Ash sent Sybil into fresh transports. ‘Oh, how wonderful! I’d be thrilled to let her see them!’ She placed the folder in Melissa’s hands and departed, stammering thanks.

  In the office, Angy was looking stunning in tangerine silk. Rodney Shergold was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I gather your first painting class was a great success,’ Melissa remarked as she handed over her register. ‘Sybil Bliss is singing your praises!’