‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. I was a bit nervous, it being my first day, but I’m sure I’m going to enjoy it.’ Angy turned on one of her breathtaking smiles. ‘Wasn’t it a bit of luck, Mrs Levy being taken ill like that!’
‘I’m not sure Mrs Levy would see it in quite that light,’ said Melissa drily, at which Angy gave a little purring laugh.
Well, it wasn’t a bad start to the term, thought Melissa as she drove homewards. Everyone seems happy, the book’s going well and all’s right with the world!
And so it seemed at the time.
Iris readily promised to try to think of a possible market for Sybil’s work. Accordingly, one Wednesday afternoon about three weeks later, she invited her to tea.
Accompanied by Melissa, who had undertaken to introduce her, Sybil approached the door of Elder Cottage as if she were treading on hallowed ground, her face pink with excitement.
‘I can’t tell you what a thrill this is,’ she began breathlessly when the door opened. Iris, who hated being treated like a celebrity, made a dismissive gesture.
‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘You going to join us?’ she added, with a glance at Melissa.
‘Later, if I may. I’m just off to the post office.’
There was a small white car parked outside the little general stores. Snappy, sitting in the back behind a metal grille, recognised Melissa and set up a furious whining and yapping, leaping up and down and scrabbling at the window as she passed. Inside the shop, Eleanor was at the counter, rummaging in her purse with the agitated movements of someone afraid of missing a train, while Mrs Foster, the proprietress, stood by with one plump, pink hand extended.
‘Hullo, Eleanor,’ said Melissa breezily. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Eleanor, counting coins into Mrs Foster’s palm.
‘One of my writers’ workshop ladies is having tea with Iris this afternoon and I was wondering if you’d like to meet her? She goes to Angy Caroli’s art class as well,’ she added, as Eleanor gave her a blank stare. ‘She says she’s really a very good teacher and I thought . . . ’
‘Oh no, no!’ Eleanor shook her head distractedly. ‘It’s kind of you but I’d rather not. In any case, I have to hurry back. Rodney isn’t at all well.’
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry.’
‘He came home early, saying he’d been sick. He must have caught something . . . he said Mr Willard was off-colour yesterday and Miss Caroli didn’t come in at all this morning.’
‘Sounds nasty,’ Melissa murmured. ‘Could it be something they ate in the college refectory, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. Rodney hasn’t been himself for several weeks. I’ve been putting it down to overwork but he’s never been like this. I’m really worried.’ She looked it; her movements as she gathered up her shopping were uncoordinated, she had an unhealthy colour and her cheeks sagged.
‘Shouldn’t he see a doctor?’ Melissa suggested.
‘I want him to but he won’t. He can be very obst—’ she checked herself and substituted ‘determined’, as if afraid of sounding disloyal. ‘Please excuse me, I must get back.’
‘Of course. I do hope he’ll be better by tomorrow.’
‘She doesn’t look too well herself,’ commented Melissa as Mrs Foster entered the cage that served as a post office.
‘That’s what I told her this morning, when she came in for her paper,’ said Mrs Foster, eager as always for a gossip. With her round, babyish face and snub nose, she reminded Melissa of a small pink piglet. ‘She wouldn’t have it though. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” she says. “I’m perfectly well so don’t you go telling anyone I’m not.” Quite shirty, she was.’ Mrs Foster gave a little toss of the head as she handed over stamps and counted out change, clearly offended by the rebuff.
Back in Elder Cottage, Melissa joined Iris and Sybil for tea and wholemeal scones.
‘Well, how did you get on?’ she asked.
Immediately, Sybil began a paean to Iris’s brilliance when compared with her own mediocre talent and went on to extol her kindness, her encouragement and her helpful advice.
‘She suggests that I paint my flowers on greeting cards with one of my verses inside. She knows someone who would print them for me, isn’t that a good idea? So much more practical than trying to get a book published. I must tell Angelica, she’ll be so interested. She’s such a sweet girl and so encouraging to everyone in the class. Really I feel quite inspired!’ She rattled on, every sentence peppered with italics, her tea-cup in one hand and a half-eaten scone in the other, the wings of hair flipping across her face as she turned from Iris to Melissa and back again.
‘Angy seems to be a great success,’ commented Iris, pouring second cups of tea.
‘Oh, rather!’ The schoolgirlish expression made Sybil seem extraordinarily young. ‘Mrs Levy was good, of course . . . I mustn’t criticise. She taught us a great deal, but Angelica has such enthusiasm!’
‘Barney Willard must be delighted,’ Melissa observed when Sybil paused to recharge her energies with tea and another scone. ‘He thinks of Angy as his protégée.’
‘Is Mr Willard the tall man with the beard? He’s rather strange, isn’t he?’
‘Strange?’ Melissa frowned. ‘I’ve always found him very pleasant.’ She spoke with a warmth that caused Iris to cock an eyebrow and Sybil to colour in confusion, as if she had taken the words as a reproof.
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s a very nice person really,’ she said hastily, ‘only he does seem a little possessive towards Angelica . . . or perhaps “protective” would be a better word. He came into her class on her first day . . . but then, it was only natural I suppose, when she’s so new . . . only he came again last week when she was showing young Godfrey, the disabled lad, he’s in a wheelchair, such a shame, he’s so gifted and a really nice boy although why he should want to shave his hair off and wear earrings I can’t imagine . . . anyway, Angelica was leaning across him, helping him with the highlights on his vase and her hair . . . such a lovely colour, isn’t it . . . her hair was brushing his face and I think he was rather enjoying it but when Mr Willard saw he told her quite sharply to come and help me . . . and I didn’t need any help at all, not just then . . . anyway, she did what he said and didn’t seem at all cross . . . she’s got such a sweet nature, hasn’t she? No sign of artistic temperament . . . oh, I do beg your pardon, Miss Ash!’ Sybil’s face was a comical study of dismay and embarrassment.
‘No offence.’ Iris’s eyes sparkled with fun.
Sybil put down her empty cup and looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear, is that the time? I must be going.’ She stood up and made for the door, expressing voluble thanks which Iris received with a set smile and a minimum of words.
After Sybil had left, Melissa told Iris about her encounter with Eleanor Shergold and the story of her husband’s indisposition. ‘It’s probably a bug,’ she said. ‘I hope it doesn’t go round the department.’
As it turned out, it was no bug . . . but by the next day the entire department was afflicted.
Seven
The following day, when Melissa arrived at the college to take her writers’ workshop, there were two police cars outside.
‘Oh no, not another bomb scare!’ she muttered as she manoeuvred the Golf into a parking space. Shops and offices in Stowbridge had suffered a spate of them lately; only last week, classes had been disrupted for over an hour because of a false alarm.
On second thoughts, she reflected that a bomb scare would have brought out all the emergency services. During last week’s incident the campus had been alive with fire engines and ambulances as well as police cars, all arriving at high speed with sirens howling and blue lights going like party poppers. There had been clusters of gaping sightseers as well, and the staff and students had been herded across the road to the tennis courts, where they stood being counted, shivering and grumbling in the cool breeze. Today everything was quiet. There must be some other r
eason for the police presence. Some property stolen perhaps, or another outbreak of vandalism.
A young uniformed constable intercepted her in the hall.
‘Are you a member of staff, madam?’
‘That’s right. I tutor the writers’ workshop. What’s going on?’
‘May I have your name?’
‘Mrs Craig, but what—?’
‘Do you spell that C R A I G?’ he asked, writing in his notebook.
‘Yes. Do you mind telling me—?’
‘And which room do you use for your writers’ workshop, Mrs Craig?’ His eyes were smoky brown, like trouser-buttons and about as expressive.
‘Room C3,’ said Melissa impatiently.
‘What floor would that be?’
‘Second.’
‘What time does your class begin?’
‘Two o’clock.’ Melissa glanced at her watch. It was just after half-past one and she had arrived in comfortable time to do some photocopying before her students arrived.
‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to go into the office,’ said the policeman with smooth, impassive courtesy. ‘Detective Sergeant Waters would like a word with you.’
‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about?’ Melissa demanded.
There was not so much as a flicker in the trouser-button eyes. ‘We’ll try not to make you late for your class, Mrs Craig. The office is that door in the corner.’
‘I know very well where the office is, thank you,’ said Melissa through her teeth. She stalked across the hall, knocked and entered.
Rodney Shergold sat at his desk, staring down at his blotter. He glanced up as Melissa came in but he did not speak. He looked ghastly; his drawn features had a greenish tinge as if he had still not recovered from his upset stomach. Doug Wilson was peering out of the window through the slats in the Venetian blind, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. When he heard the door open he swung round, nodded to Melissa and swung back again without a word.
Angy was not present; one of the other Thursday afternoon lecturers was standing beside her desk and a second was sitting in her chair. Melissa recognised the latter from casual chats over cups of tea in the staff common room: Miss Knott, a thin, stringy-haired woman of uncertain age who taught dressmaking.
The other woman was a stranger to Melissa but from the green plastic bucket of flowers and foliage on the floor beside her, she deduced that this was Mrs Pearce who taught floral art.
When Melissa entered, both women turned their heads towards the door and then hastily looked away. Miss Knott took out a packet of cigarettes and mimed a request for permission to smoke but wilted under Shergold’s look of distaste. Mrs Pearce, her face partly concealed by a shawl of silky brown hair, stooped and fiddled aimlessly with her flowers, lifting them a few inches and then letting them fall. The movement released a sweet, cloying fragrance that hung in the edgy silence like vapour. The place had the atmosphere of a funeral parlour, thought Melissa uneasily. And still nobody spoke.
‘Could someone please tell me what’s going on?’ she pleaded. ‘That policeman in the hall is suffering from selective deafness.’
Mrs Pearce and Miss Knott glanced across at Rodney Shergold, evidently considering that as head of department it was up to him to respond, but he did not appear to have heard the question. They then held a consultation, wordlessly, with pursed lips, raised eyebrows and shakes of the head. It was Doug who finally turned from the window and said:
‘It’s Angy. She’s dead.’ A faint sigh went round the room, like air escaping from a balloon.
Melissa stared at Doug with her mouth open. ‘Dead?’ she repeated. ‘How? What happened?’ It couldn’t be true, she must have misheard . . . but from the glazed look on Doug’s face she knew there was no mistake. She glanced round the room, searching for someone else who should have been there. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘We’re not sure but we think he’s still at the police station,’ said Doug. His voice was an unsteady monotone. ‘He found her body, you see.’ He swallowed and inhaled, jerkily. ‘She was murdered.’
‘Murdered? Angy murdered?’ It was unthinkable, impossible. Bemused with shock, Melissa switched her gaze away from Doug and her eye fell on Miss Knott, who was fiddling with her packet of cigarettes and her lighter and looking peevish at not being allowed to smoke. Melissa felt a sharp spurt of anger. That was Angy’s desk. Angy the beautiful, with her Titian hair and amber eyes, her soft, lilting voice and her kittenish smile. Friendly, charming, complaisant Angy, the ‘sweet little pussy-cat who purred for everyone’. Someone had killed her and there was this stupid, nondescript creature with nicotine-stained fingers sitting in her place.
As if she read hostility in Melissa’s stare, Miss Knott got up and edged towards the door. ‘Just going outside for a fag,’ she muttered. At that moment there was a tread of feet in the hall. The constable popped his head into the room and asked if Miss Knott could spare Detective Sergeant Waters a few minutes. She followed him, her eyes glazed in terror.
‘I suppose they want to know when we last saw Angy and what we were doing at the time of death,’ speculated Doug, breaking the heavy silence.
‘They can’t possibly suspect one of us!’ declared Mrs Pearce. She spoke with the confidence of one who has nothing to hide.
‘At this stage of an investigation they don’t rule out anyone,’ said Melissa.
Mrs Pearce looked at her with curiosity in her large eyes. She was a graceful young woman whose slender white hands might have been created to arrange flowers. ‘Have you some . . . er . . . knowledge of how they work?’ she enquired.
‘Some,’ Melissa replied.
‘She writes about crime,’ said Doug Wilson. Now that a conversation had started, he seemed more relaxed and some of his natural flippancy began to show. ‘She’s the MIDCCAT celebrity, didn’t you know? Mel Craig, creator of that infallible sleuth, Nathan Latimer!’
‘Oh, of course! I’ve seen the films on the telly!’ exclaimed Mrs Pearce.
‘Ah, but have you read the books?’ pursued Doug. ‘Have you made your contribution to the author’s royalties?’
Mrs Pearce pushed back the shawl of hair that had fallen across her cheek and shook her head, smiling an apology. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘I keep promising myself . . . ’ She took a notebook from her handbag. ‘Do give me the titles!’
For a few moments, the three of them kept up a pretence of having forgotten that they were in the office of their head of department, waiting to be questioned about the murder of a colleague.
A strangled sound from the other end of the room made everyone jump. Rodney Shergold was on his feet, a handkerchief held to his mouth. He lurched to the door and wrenched it open; they could hear him gagging as he hurried across the hall.
‘Anyone would think he’d found the body,’ said Doug with a sneer.
The policeman returned and requested a few minutes of Mrs Pearce’s time. Miss Knott scuttled in after him and scooped up her possessions. She laid a hand on her colleague’s arm. ‘Don’t worry dear, they don’t bully you,’ she murmured comfortingly, ‘but they do take your fingerprints!’ She sounded quite excited, as if she had just had a memorable experience, and for a second Melissa saw the ghost of a smile on the constable’s lips.
‘I must get along to my classroom,’ said Miss Knott and followed him out, leaving Doug and Melissa alone in the room.
‘Do you know what happened?’ she asked. ‘How did she . . . ?’
‘Stabbed,’ said Doug laconically. ‘Couldn’t get any details out of him.’ He jerked his head towards Shergold’s empty desk. ‘He’s been rushing out to puke ever since I got in.’ His pursed lips suggested that this could be significant.
‘He’s not been well lately,’ said Melissa. ‘A tummy bug or something.’ She had no particular affection for their head of department but one had to be fair. ‘I met his wife in the village yesterday and she seemed quite worried about
him.’
‘Tummy bug – huh! Uneasy conscience, more like!’ said Doug.
‘Whatever do you mean? You aren’t suggesting . . . ?’
‘That Randy Rodders killed Angy? I doubt if he’d have the guts. No, what he’s worried about is that his little bit on the side will be made public.’
‘Do you really believe there was anything between them? He may have fancied her but I don’t suppose he was the only one.’ Melissa shot Doug a meaning glance, at which he gave an impudent grin. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘whatever could a girl like her see in him?’
‘Services rendered, maybe. What was it worth to her to get some teaching experience? Or maybe,’ Doug added with a leer in response to Melissa’s frown of disapproval, ‘she saw him as a challenge!’
She was silent, remembering the scene in the staff room on her first day. She went over to Angy’s desk, straightened the chair and adjusted the cover on the typewriter. Anything to avoid doing nothing.
Her thoughts turned to Barney. He was the one who had found Angy’s body. The shock must have been appalling. Was he still at the police station? Was he a suspect? His protective attitude towards Angy amounted almost to an obsession. Supposing there had been something between Rodney Shergold and Angy, and Barney had found out, and in a fit of rage . . . but no. Barney was far too kindly, too gentlemanly. And yet, such things had been known. It was a relief when Mrs Pearce returned and the constable called her name.
He directed her to an empty classroom opposite the office. Detective Sergeant Waters was seated at the teacher’s table and a second uniformed constable sat at a desk at the back. When Melissa entered, Waters stood up and waved her to a chair facing him. She saw a middle-aged, grey-haired man with keen eyes. A soft Gloucestershire burr accentuated his disarmingly pleasant manner as he ran through his list of prepared questions.
‘When was the last time you saw Miss Caroli?’
‘Last Thursday afternoon, when I’d finished my class.’
Murder in the Morning Page 5