Capable of Murder

by Brian Kavanagh

  ‘Mutton dressed as lamb, eh?’

  She dropped her lipstick into her handbag and anxiously sought the waiter who was approaching the table with their drinks. Her enthusiastic fingers grasped the glass, which would have served as a fish bowl for any fastidious goldfish. With a sigh she took a robust gulp of the gin and, as it coursed its way downward, she relaxed visibly and sank back into the cushioned alcove, her head resting against the flock wallpaper. At this hour, the lunch crowd was just beginning to emerge to seek refreshment but so far Belinda and Mrs Whitby had the small bar to themselves.

  ‘Mother’s ruin it may be, but it’s mother’s milk to me,’ smiled Mrs Whitby, casting a disparaging glance at Belinda’s orange juice.

  ‘Mrs Whitby –’ began Belinda

  ‘Hazel, dear. Call me Hazel. All my friends do.’ She gulped a formidable mouthful of gin.

  ‘Right,’ nodded Belinda. ‘Hazel … Did you know my aunt Jane very well?’

  ‘Didn’t know her at all.’ Hazel’s eyes slid to the door where two young businessmen entered and headed to the bar.

  ‘But you left your business card with her.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that.’ Hazel pulled her gaze reluctantly back to Belinda. ‘I leave my card at all the cottages in the local villages, that is, places that look as though they have something of value tucked away. Mind you, you can never judge a cottage by its exterior. I’ve known some absolute dumps to have real gems used as everyday kitchen items.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Some people have no idea of the value of things.’

  ‘Did my aunt have any “gems” tucked away?’

  Belinda sipped her orange juice. Mrs Whitby’s eyes had strayed back to the younger of the two men at the bar. He had just noticed her.

  Mrs Whitby gave a slight coy smile.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ She flicked her eyes back to Belinda. ‘No. Or perhaps I should say I never found out.’

  ‘But you did know her, didn’t you?’ asked Belinda, beginning to feel that she was on a wild goose chase.

  Mrs Whitby shrugged. ‘Met her a couple of times,’ she said dismissively. She suddenly leant over the table in a conspiratorial manner.

  ‘I left my card under the door one day about three or four months ago. Just on spec. To tell the truth I didn’t really expect to hear from her. She wrote to me about a week later, said she might have something for me. Only got as far as the living room and most of the furniture was ugly Victorian and not my sort of thing at all. I kept hoping she had a decent feather-pattern silver setting under the bed, but if she did she wasn’t parting with it.’ She leant back and swilled the last of the gin.

  ‘But if she said she had something for you,’ began Belinda.

  ‘Oh, a few bits of bric-a-brac, I grant you, but she seemed more interested in talking about the garden and did I know anything about old maps. Of course, I don’t. My ex-husband did but I haven’t heard from him in years since he ran off with that young slut from the travel agency. Said he’d take me on a second honeymoon, went in to book the tickets and decided that the booking clerk was a better proposition.’

  Her attention drifted back to the young man at the bar and her smile to him was warmer this time.

  ‘Hazel,’ said Belinda, trying to draw attention back to the subject under discussion, ‘you said you thought my aunt was murdered. Have you any proof?’

  Hazel looked at her sharply. ‘Proof? Of course I don’t have proof. But as I told you, your aunt was as strong as a horse. Someone did her in, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Maybe she had something someone wanted.’ Mrs Whitby eyed Belinda speculatively. ‘You did inherit the cottage and possessions didn’t you?’

  Belinda nodded.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs Whitby in honeyed tones, as she reached into her handbag and slipped her red business card across the table to Belinda, ‘if you do find anything that you wish to sell, anything of consequence that is, I’d appreciate it if you would see me first. You’ll find I give good value.’

  Belinda thanked her and slipped the card into her pocket. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the young man on his way towards their table with a fresh gin in his hand. Not wanting to get involved in Mrs Whitby’s private life, Belinda made her excuses and left. By the time she had reached the door, Hazel was on first name terms with the young man and, Belinda had no doubt, was about to give good value.

  So someone else thought it was murder. Making her way to catch the bus home, Belinda wondered if she should go to the police.

  With what evidence?

  ‘Proof, that’s what I need,’ she muttered to herself as she turned into Pierrepont Street and headed towards the bus station. Coming towards her was Mr Munro. She was about to wave to him when the old man faltered in his step, cast a quick glance to left and right and with downcast eyes disappeared into a small bookshop. Belinda was bewildered by his action. In past meetings Mr Munro had been the soul of courtesy, so this obvious avoidance of her was curious. Belinda slowed as she past the bookshop and peered into the dingy interior. But the old solicitor was nowhere in sight.

  Knowing she had half an hour to wait before her bus departed, Belinda decided to follow Mr Munro and she slipped into the shop. Perhaps she simply could not see him from the street or he might be hidden by bookshelves or in a back room.

  The front of the shop was given over to secondhand paperbacks and popular detective novels. Making her way further into the shop and past a disinterested, corpulent bookseller installed behind a pile of romance novels, Belinda became aware that the volumes on the crowded bookcases were first editions and heavy leather-bound tomes dating from previous centuries.

  As she moved further towards the back of the dusty, dishevelled shop the light grew dimmer and she could just make out a narrow door set between two overflowing shelves. Belinda glanced back at the bookseller who sat hunched over his desk. He’d barely glanced at her when she’d entered and the soggy cigarette wedged between his moist lips had discharged a spray of grey ash down the front of his greasy waistcoat. A derogatory wave of his nicotine stained fingers only succeeded in grinding the ash firmly into the stained garment. With a snort that indicated severe sinus congestion, the rotund man, who could have been anywhere between forty and senility, turned his attention back to the well-worn Barbara Cartland novel.

  Certain that his attention was elsewhere, Belinda tried the handle on the inner door. It was only with great effort that she was able to turn it. Once the latch was released the door swung open freely and with a glance back at the bookseller, Belinda stepped into a musty smelling back room.

  Belinda found herself standing on a small platform that overlooked row upon row of bookshelves and piles of decrepit and worn books of all shapes and sizes. The only light came from a grubby window that overlooked a narrow side lane. The air was damp and smelt of ingrained mould. In the faint light Belinda shuffled towards the edge of the platform and down the steps to the ground level. If Mr Munro was here he must have been cringing in a corner, for there was nowhere that he could hide, except in the fundamental toilet; and even there, with the door half off its hinges and wide open, concealment would have been impossible.

  And indeed, why should he hide?

  ‘Perhaps he was still in the shop and I didn’t see him,’ thought Belinda as she turned to go back up the stairs, but even as she thought it she knew that was wrong and that the solicitor had somehow avoided her.

  It was then that she noticed, at the back of the room and leading into the lane way, a small door.

  ‘So that’s where he went,’ she muttered, ‘he was taking a short cut.’

  Perhaps she was reading far more into this than there was. Mr Munro, being shortsighted, might simply have failed to recognise her and, knowing the bookseller, had used this short cut to get back to his office.

  Except that his office was in the other direction.

  Belinda stepped over volumes of verse and
made her way to the door. It gave easily, but came to a sudden halt with just enough space for a thin person to squeeze through. The alleyway was littered with papers and broken bottles. Belinda was about to close the door, satisfied that she had found Mr Munro’s escape route, when a door in the building opposite opened and Mr Munro himself emerged. With a quick glance about him the old solicitor hurried away down the alley, pulling his coat tightly around him to ward off the chill wind.

  Belinda was about to call to him when a hairy hand grasped her shoulder.

  With a faint scream of fear, Belinda turned to face her assailant.

  ***

  Seven

  ‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ growled the obese bookseller, his fingers tightening on Belinda’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ Belinda gasped, trying to free herself from the man’s grip. Up close, Belinda thought he resembled Charles Laughton in one of his seedier roles, possibly the Hunchback of Notre Dame. ‘I was just looking for a book.’

  The man ran his eye down Belinda’s form and loosened his grasp. ‘Oh yeah? What sort of book?’

  Over his shoulder Belinda glimpsed a row of gardening books, decayed to the point where they would be mulch themselves before long.

  ‘A gardening book.’

  The man gave her a small shove as he released her. The cigarette quivered on his lip.

  ‘Don’t sell any.’ He waved the pink covered romance novel as if to prove the fact.

  Belinda thought the man needed all the romance he could get. Her eyes flicked to the books behind him.

  ‘But you have a shelf full just there.’

  She pointed over his shoulder. The man half turned and glanced at the shelves.

  ‘Like I said, we don’t sell gardening books.’

  The fool must be vision-impaired as well as gross, Belinda reflected. By now she was beginning to get nervous. There was something detestable about this man and she just wanted to get away from him.

  ‘Who told you about this place?’

  Who indeed? Belinda gave the first name that came into her head.

  ‘Mr Munro.’

  The man paused as he began to blow his nose on a particularly revolting handkerchief. ‘You know old Munro?’

  ‘Yes, he’s my solicitor. He said you might be able to help me with gardening books.’

  The foul handkerchief found its way into the man’s equally malodorous pocket. ‘Got some gardening to do?’ he enquired suspiciously.

  Belinda nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve just come into some property and the garden is a mess.’

  The man grunted. ‘So you’re the niece, are you?’ He eyed Belinda speculatively.

  ‘Do you mean you know about my aunt?’ Belinda was astounded.

  The bookseller nodded slowly as though considering something of great value. ‘Heard she snuffed it recently. Fell down the stairs, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. It was dreadful. But how did you know?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Word gets around. Heard that a relative had inherited the place when she died.’ He eyed Belinda thoughtfully as though disillusioned. ‘Thought it was an American.’

  ‘Did you know her? My aunt?’

  ‘Only as a customer,’ he replied, wiping his nose on the back of his hirsute hand.

  ‘A customer?’ Belinda could not imagine her aunt frequenting this shabby establishment. ‘Was she selling some of her books?’

  ‘Buying, actually.’

  ‘What did she buy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But you said she was buying.’

  ‘She was looking for something.’

  Belinda waited for the man to continue but his attention seemed to wander to the book in his hand as though eager to immerse himself in nefarious amorous entanglements.

  ‘What was she looking for?’

  ‘Can’t remember now …’

  He searched the cobweb-covered roof as though expecting to find the answer there.

  ‘Well,’ prompted Belinda acidly, ‘perhaps she wanted a book.’

  The man shook head. ‘No … not a book … a map.’

  ‘A map? A map of what?’

  ‘Not sure really. She seemed rather vague.’

  ‘Just like you,’ thought Belinda. Out loud she asked: ‘Was it a map of Bath? Or maybe London?’

  ‘No … I remember now. It was a map of the area around Milford. Near where she lived.’

  ‘Did you sell her one?’

  ‘Couldn’t. I don’t sell maps.’ Suddenly he stood erect, or as erect as it was possible for him to do. ‘Like I said, we have no gardening books. Now you’d better be on your bike. It’s closing time.’ He turned and, taking hold of Belinda’s arm, led the way back over the disintegrating books that lay scattered about the floor.

  Without a further word from the bookseller, Belinda found herself expelled from the bookshop and heard the door slam behind her. As she leant against the window and took a deep breath, she glimpsed a hairy hand as it spun the card bearing the inscription “CLOSED” towards an indifferent passing public.

  So aunt Jane had wanted a map of Milford. Why would she want that? What on earth was it all about?

  Belinda shook her head in bewilderment. She glanced at her watch and realised that she would need to hurry if she were to catch her bus.

  As she left the shop she glanced down the side alleyway. What business had taken Mr Munro into that dingy thoroughfare? As she watched, the same door Mr Munro had emerged from opened and Belinda saw a familiar figure step hurriedly into the lane.

  It was Jacob.

  With a glance back into the doorway he farewelled a hidden partner and began to run away down the alley.

  Curiosity got the better of Belinda. Consumed with a passion to discover what lay in the building that attracted both Jacob and Mr Munro, she slipped into the lane and approached the door.

  Just as she reached it the door opened and Belinda found herself face to face with a cheerful young man whose arms were full of cut flowers.

  ‘Whoops, sorry, lady. Almost ran you down. Need any help? I’m just about to shut up shop. Got some deliveries to make.’

  Belinda was at a loss for words.

  ‘Oh, excuse me. It’s just that I wondered what was in this building.’

  The young man looked at her quizzically.

  Belinda blushed. ‘I mean, I just saw someone I know leave here and I wondered what …’ Her explanation petered out feebly. She was beginning to feel rather stupid.

  The man smiled. ‘I expect you mean Jacob. He’s just left. He buys some supplies here.’

  ‘Supplies?’

  ‘Yeah, garden supplies. And flowers, seeds, all that sort of garden stuff. Do you need anything?’

  Belinda took a step backwards. ‘Oh, no, not really.’

  ‘’Cause if you do,’ the young man continued, ‘I’ll be back in half an hour. As soon as I get rid of these.’

  He indicated the flowers in his arms with a nod of his head. Feeling foolish, Belinda assured him that she was not in need of anything for her garden and thanked him for his help. With his eyes burning into her back she made her way up the alley until she reached the street and the bookshop. She turned and looked over her shoulder. The young man had vanished.

  Suddenly she felt the sensation that she was being watched and with a start she saw the bookseller eyeing her from the window. His beady, joyless eyes were fixed upon her and she watched in disgust as a drop of saliva dribbled from his fleshy lips.

  Belinda began to run towards the bus station.

  All the way back to the village Belinda mulled over these latest developments. Unable to come up with an answer, she convinced herself that Mr Munro had some eccentric habits and his avoidance of her was probably just one of many. And as for both Jacob and Mr Munro visiting the garden centre, they both had legitimate cause to do so. There was no mystery there.

  But there was the question of aunt Jane and her search for a map. The old la
dy had sought help from Hazel Whitby and the odious bookseller.

  Why would she want a map of the village?

  Brewing a pot of tea in the kitchen, Belinda decided that clues to confirm her aunt’s murder were of greater importance than Mr Munro’s peculiarities and, sipping her tea, she once more inspected the staircase. Again it offered no lead and Belinda climbed up to her aunt’s bedroom. Something Mr Munro said the day of her aunt’s funeral popped into her head.

  He had said that her aunt made use of the long room downstairs as a bedroom. That she found the stairs difficult.

  Belinda sank down onto the bed and took a sip of tea.

  ‘Well, she certainly used the sofa as a bed, but she also used this room, because she wrote her letter to me here. The waste bin proved that.’

  She rose and slowly walked from the room to the top of the stairs.

  ‘If she did use this room, and she was up here and heard a noise downstairs, she would have walked to the stairs to investigate.’

  Belinda hesitated on the first step.

  ‘But that’s not right, because if someone pushed her down the stairs, they would have had to be up here behind her.’

  She sank down to sit on the top stair and finished her tea.

  ‘So, if they were up here and she came up to investigate a noise …?’ Belinda shook her head. ‘No, that doesn’t work either, because how would they get into the house and past her without her knowing. Unless …’ Belinda sat upright. ‘Unless it was someone she knew. And she let them in. But who? She was a recluse.’

  Belinda returned to the bedroom and, taking her aunt’s pen, she made a list of people who could have legitimately gained entrance to the cottage. The list read:

  Mrs Whitby

  Mr Munro

  Jacob

  Rosemary

  ‘Well, certainly Mrs Whitby was permitted in, even if it was only the living room, or so she says. Mr Munro probably called about the will, but there is no evidence that he did. Jacob and Rosemary say they have never been in the cottage, but again, what proof is there that they haven’t?’