Capable of Murder

by Brian Kavanagh

  Anger rose up in her as she raged at the monster that had desecrated her home and, she was certain, had butchered her aunt. She felt certain that the two events were connected.

  The morning sun shone brilliantly into the long room as Belinda began to clean up the mess and restack the books on the bookshelf. As she worked, Belinda deliberated on what her next move should be. It was possible that the intruders were just vandals who had heard that her aunt had died and took sadistic pleasure in destroying her property. Yet even as she thought it, Belinda rejected this premise. But if she went to the police now, without strong evidence, she would be met with the same cynical response that had greeted her suspicions about aunt Jane’s death. Somehow she had to find the connection between the violation of the cottage and her aunt’s murder. In her mind Belinda rejected the word “death”, convinced in her heart that it was not just a simple fall down the stairs.

  Mr Munro’s letter, which had awaited her arrival, confirmed that all the legal documents had been completed and Belinda was now the legal owner of the property. A further investigation of the house that morning had disclosed two more rooms in an attic area reached by a ladder that dropped from the ceiling of one of the spare bedrooms. The cramped dusty rooms were empty save for some old discarded trunks and packing cases.

  An early morning walk to the next village to buy some breakfast revealed that her land ran all the way downhill to the remains of the old railway station and according to the solicitor’s letter, covered a wider area than she had realised.

  Belinda had clambered down deteriorating garden steps beside a bulging retaining wall that towered some six feet above her and discovered a fountain covered by vines, as well as the remains of a tiny summerhouse that could not be seen from the cottage. The crumbling retaining wall looked decidedly dangerous and would have to be repaired.

  On her return she approached the front of the house and stopped to admire the facade. Her eye swept over the top floor windows and she was again struck by the irregularity associated with the window in her aunt’s bedroom.

  She continued up to the house. Climbing the stairs she walked to the window and looked down into the garden.

  What was it about the front of the house that bothered her? She leant back inside and against the wall on her left side.

  It was then that she realised what was wrong. She flung the window up and stretched far out, looking to her left.

  ‘That’s it!’ she cried triumphantly.

  Extending away from the window to her left was a further six feet of wall of the facade, yet when she stepped back into the room the left-hand wall was against her shoulder.

  ‘It’s a false wall.’

  Belinda glanced out the window once again to confirm her discovery.

  There must be a hidden room behind the wall at least five or six feet deep. She ran her hands over the portion of the wall not covered by the huge dominating Victorian wardrobe and tapped with her fingers.

  The hollow sound confirmed her discovery.

  Was this the secret her aunt wanted to reveal to her?

  If so – why?

  Belinda was scanning an antiquated timetable for buses to Bath, when there was a knock at the front door.

  Her first instinct upon opening it was to slam it shut, for Jacob stood on the steps, a sheepish expression on his handsome face and clutching an envelope in his powerful hand.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ he said quickly, before Belinda had a chance to close the door, ‘but before you do or say anything, I have a message from Rosemary.’

  He proffered the envelope and after a moment’s hesitation Belinda snatched it from his hand.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve turning up like this after last night.’

  Jacob shoved his hands into his pockets, stretching the denim tightly over his hips. He kicked idly at the ground with his foot and dug his chin deep into his chest.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He peered under his eyebrows at Belinda. ‘I behaved badly, I know. It was just that …’ He shrugged and let the words hang in the air.

  ‘Just what, Jacob? Just that I didn’t fall down at your feet and agree with you? Give into your masculine wishes?’

  Jacob flashed an angry look at her. ‘Don’t let’s turn this into a sexist argument, please.’ He swung away from her and looked out over the hills, his shoulders tight with suppressed animosity. ‘OK,’ he muttered grudgingly, ‘I apologise for last night. And I’m sorry if I upset you yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I accept your apology, but please don’t treat me that way again.’

  Jacob gave her a grateful smile but Belinda, unsure of her ability to withstand his appeal, busied herself with tearing open the envelope.

  Two keys fell onto the floor.

  ‘Rosie asked me to give you that,’ said Jacob hurriedly, picking up the keys and handing them to Belinda, ‘and she asked could you do her a favour and do her jobs for her today.’

  Belinda’s hands froze on the envelope. She shot a startled glance at Jacob.

  ‘What? Clean houses? Today?’

  ‘Yes. Our uncle who lives in Wells has taken poorly and Rosie had to go to him.’ He nodded at the letter. Belinda sighed heavily.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  She led the way through to the long room, scanning Rosemary’s letter as she did so.

  ‘She’s written all the instructions there,’ said Jacob.

  Belinda shrugged him off. She sensed that he was enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘But,’ she protested, ‘I won’t know what to do. And I’ve got my own house cleaning to do.’ She waved the letter towards the shambles in the long room. Jacob stopped at the door and drew in a deep breath.

  ‘Cripes. What have you been doing here?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ snapped Belinda as she sank down onto the sofa. ‘You should see upstairs. It’s a hundred times worse.’

  ‘But how …?’

  ‘Someone broke in and ransacked the place. Isn’t it obvious?’ A new thought struck her and she stared accusingly at Jacob. ‘I don’t suppose you heard or saw anything?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’

  Belinda pursed her lips. ‘No. I didn’t imagine you would have,’ she muttered sarcastically.

  Jacob bristled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well you didn’t see or hear anything when my aunt was attacked, so why should you start now?’ She turned away.

  ‘Attacked?’ Jacob grasped Belinda by her shoulders and spun her around roughly. ‘Haven’t you got it through your thick head that she fell down the stairs? The coroner said so. What more proof do you want?’

  Angrily, Belinda shook his hands off her shoulders.

  ‘Have you contacted the police?’ asked Jacob, his tone softened by the expression on Belinda’s face. ‘About this break-in, I mean.’

  She shook her head wearily. ‘No. What’s the point? The damage has been done. Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  Belinda shook her head again and waved his question away. She turned her attention to Rosemary’s letter once more, read it through and dropped it beside her on the sofa.

  ‘About this, Jacob. I don’t think I’m up to it.’

  Jacob squatted on his haunches in front of her.

  ‘It’s just that these are fairly new customers and if Rosie doesn’t turn up they’ll think that she’s unreliable and has let them down. It’s only for today,’ he grinned encouragingly. ‘And maybe tomorrow,’ he added softly.

  ‘Tomorrow as well?’ cried Belinda.

  Jacob took a deep breath. ‘You would be doing Rosie a great favour if you could.’ He rested his hand on Belinda’s arm. The warmth of his hand shot through her and she moved back from him.

  ‘Well,’ she said, rubbing her arm where he had touched her. ‘I suppose I can.’

  ‘Good. That’s that then.’ He turned to go. Belinda rose and followed him to the front door.

 
‘Just a moment, how am I supposed to get to …’ Belinda glanced at the names and addresses of two customers in Bath, ‘… to these places. I don’t have transport.’

  Jacob considered this for a moment. ‘Well, I could give you a lift in my truck.‘

  Belinda’s face hardened. ‘No thank you,’ she replied firmly. ‘After your efforts yesterday I’d rather walk.’

  Jacob chuckled. ‘You might have to. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you want to use Rosie’s bicycle.’

  Belinda laughed scornfully. ‘I haven’t ridden a bike in years.’

  ‘But it’s something you never forget,’ called Jacob encouragingly as he moved to the gate. ‘Anyway, if you want it, it’s parked behind our back door.’ With a smile he disappeared into his truck and with a roar of the engine and sardonic wave to Belinda, sped off down the hill.

  ‘Well, of all the nerve!’ cried Belinda, screwing up the letter in anger. She swallowed hard and realised that she could not let Rosemary down. After all, they were going to be neighbours and she had agreed to take on the job.

  It was just that she hadn’t thought it would happen so quickly. She spread the crumpled letter out and smoothed it with her hand. There were two addresses, both on the outskirts of the city, and with the aid of her aunt’s 1920s guidebook to Bath, Belinda located both streets.

  Pulling on jeans that had been designated as “work clothes” and covering her hair with a scarf that was more suited to Sloane Square than the rural surrounds of Somerset, Belinda locked the cottage door and climbed the hill to Rosemary and Jacob’s house.

  She mastered the bike easily and set off confidently along the pleasant country roads towards the city. After one or two stops along the way to consult the guidebook, Belinda finally arrived at the first address in Rosemary’s note. There was no name, just the address and Belinda felt like an intruder as she pushed the bike up the front path of a pretty house, which overlooked the city. A sparse garden lay before it and the house itself had an empty feel. She knocked tentatively even though Rosemary had indicated that no one would be home.

  The key slid smoothly into the lock and the door opened noiselessly. The silence of the house seemed almost solid and Belinda shivered as she removed her coat. She could have been a burglar as she made her way from room to room in the hushed house. The scent of a subtle but expensive after-shave lingered faintly in the cool air.

  Having located the kitchen she gathered the cleaning items from under the sink as indicated by Rosemary and with polish and dusters set off to locate the living room.

  It was a large, well-furnished room overlooking the garden. The furniture looked expensive and Belinda ran her hand enviously along a Chesterfield sofa. She sighed heavily and, rolling up her sleeves, began to polish the wooden mantelpiece.

  The next hour was taken up with polishing and vacuuming the downstairs rooms. Upstairs took less time as it consisted only of a bathroom, easily dealt with; a spare bedroom that required only a casual dusting; and the master bedroom. The double bed was lightly made and Belinda smoothed the covers and began to pick up some magazines scattered on the floor beside the bed.

  Weary after her exertions, she sat on the edge of the bed and idly flipped through the periodicals. They were mostly related to male pursuits, horses, cars, and one – well, she hurriedly put that aside.

  The last magazine was a copy of Country Life and she flipped through the pages of properties for sale, gloating over the fact that she herself now owned one. The pages fell open at a series of sketches that accompanied an article on eighteenth century gardens. It was a comparison between English and Italian gardens of the period and well-known landscape gardeners were represented.

  The last and biggest illustration was a design for an English garden at Stowe, all formal and regimented. Beside it was a matching plan where the lines had been softened and simplified. Belinda read the caption underneath.

  “The famous gardens at Stowe were transformed by Brown as illustrated in the comparison dated 1753.”

  The piercing ring of the telephone in the hall below made her jump and she packed the magazines neatly beside the bed, smoothed the cover once again and hurried to the stairs to answer the phone.

  As she reached the landing she heard the click of a key turning in the front door lock and the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Leaning over the balustrade she peered down.

  A man in a dark suit hurried to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hello,’ His deep voice rang out through the silent house.

  He stood with his back to Belinda and, feeling faintly ridiculous, as though she had been caught in some nefarious act, she strained to see who it was.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ continued the man, ‘I’m certain we can get it. In time. It’s not going to be that easy.’

  Belinda leant further forward. If only he would turn around.

  ‘Well of course I’ll do everything I can to make her change her mind,’ snapped the man angrily, ‘but if she gets wind of what the value …’

  The feather duster tucked under Belinda’s arm dropped over the railings and fell with a soft plop beside the man.

  He spun around in surprise and looked up into the staircase. Belinda’s heart leapt and she gave a gasp of astonishment.

  It was the real estate salesman, Mark Sallinger.

  He stared at Belinda with a startled expression but that aspect soon changed to one full of burning questions.

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ he said softly into the receiver and replaced it on its cradle.

  Belinda came diffidently down the stairs feeling like a naughty schoolgirl caught out of bounds. Mark gave a guilty glance back to the telephone and then to Belinda. She flinched as she saw a flash of intense animosity in his guarded eyes.

  He moved slowly towards her.

  ***

  Six

  Mr Leo’s dainty fingers massaged Belinda’s scalp as he shampooed her hair. He prattled on in sibilant tones about the new production at the Theatre Royal, to which he and his friend had been lucky enough to receive an invitation the previous night.

  Belinda felt drowsy with the warmth of the salon and the luxury of someone fussing over her hair. She smiled, not at Mr Leo’s gossip but at her chance encounter with Mark the previous day. He had been equally surprised at finding her in his home and had wasted no time in setting about offering a dinner invitation. Belinda had to admit that the possibility of further contact with Mark was a pleasing thought. She found that she was eager now for him to contact her, as he promised he would, and set a date. As she paid for her new shorter hairstyle and stepped out into Argyle Street, she felt more positive about her move to Bath and the prospect of a new life.

  Crossing Pulteney Bridge she caught sight of a sign hanging above a diminutive shop.

  HEIRLOOM ANTIQUES written in over-ornate scroll also announced that Hazel Whitby was the proprietor.

  Belinda stopped and peered in the dusty window. Mrs Whitby had left her card enquiring if aunt Jane wished to sell any of her possessions. She might also be able to supply Belinda with information regarding her aunt.

  Belinda stepped into the tiny shop to the accompaniment of an annoying bell that was attached to the door by a particularly buoyant spring. The resultant cacophony produced a flurry of activity behind a worn curtain strung across a doorway at the rear of the shop, and a formidable middle-aged woman with a cross expression on her patronising face stepped behind the counter. She was carrying a spectacularly ugly vase, which she was attempting to wrap in brown paper.

  ‘Mrs Whitby?’ asked Belinda, as she threaded her way through the overstuffed glass display cases.

  ‘Buying? Or browsing?’ Mrs Whitby demanded gruffly, in a voice redolent of gin and very little tonic. She brushed a strand of unnaturally coloured hair from her forehead.

  ‘Neither, I’m afraid,’ replied Belinda to this blunt query, ‘I thought you may be able to help m
e.’

  Mrs Whitby fought unsuccessfully with the vase and brown paper. ‘If you want to pick my brains about the value of your possessions, you’re wasting your time.’

  Belinda wondered how the woman ever made a sale.

  Admitting defeat, Mrs Whitby abandoned the vase to a worn cardboard box and began smoothing the brown paper to erase creases and ensure its use another day.

  ‘No,’ replied Belinda, ‘I believe that you may have known my aunt, Miss Lawrence. She lived nearby in Milford.’

  Mrs Whitby stopped fussing with the paper and looked Belinda up and down.

  ‘What’s it got to do with me? Or for that matter, what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘What’s what got to do with it?’

  Mrs Whitby snorted none too delicately. ‘Her murder, that’s what I mean.’

  Belinda gasped. ‘Murder? Why do you say that?’

  The woman rolled her eyes exasperatedly, as though dealing with a simpleton. ‘I read the papers, dear. Or rather I read between the lines. Fell down the stairs.’ She made a flatulent noise that indicated total disbelief. ‘That woman was as steady on her feet as you or me, even if she did use a stick. Independent old biddy,’ she concluded caustically.

  Belinda gave a quiet sigh. At last here was someone who had known her aunt.

  ‘So you knew her then?’

  Mrs Whitby’s eyes sharpened. ‘What makes you –’

  The clamorous doorbell interrupted her. A small man entered and began to browse around the silver display. The two women stood by in silence. Mrs Whitby tapped the counter irritably until, her patience wearing thin, she strode over to the customer, who asked some questions in a fusion of French and English.

  After some virulent bad French on her part and much gesticulation Mrs Whitby sent the bewildered client on his way. ‘I think it’s time for a drink,’ she barked at Belinda.

  As she waited for her refreshment, Mrs Whitby fidgeted with her makeup mirror and a lipstick of a particularly vigorous hue. Belinda watched as she layered the colour on her wiry lips. Despite herself, Belinda felt a wave of pity for this woman, past her prime and clinging violently to what remained of her borderline beauty. As though reading her thoughts, Mrs Whitby glanced at Belinda and with a self-deprecating smile gave a shrug.