Capable of Murder

by Brian Kavanagh

The puzzling name teased her until it brought on the beginnings of a headache.

  The squeal of the garden gate claimed her attention and she saw Jacob stepping onto the terrace. He waved a sheaf of papers in Belinda’s face as she opened the door to his knock.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked as she grasped the pages. She was still cross with Jacob after their last meeting and his irritating manner.

  ‘The quote,’ he retorted, surprised that she appeared to have forgotten.

  ‘What quote?’ She glanced at the figures and the detailed writing.

  Jacob grunted and slapped his thigh irritably. ‘You have forgotten!’

  Their agreement came flooding back to Belinda. She flushed and attempted to hide her embarrassment. ‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ she snapped defensively. ‘We agreed that you would do my garden for me.’ She looked again at the total of the figures in the hand-written quote.

  ‘You’ll pardon me, Belinda. We agreed that I would quote on clearing the garden. Then a decision would be reached as to the next stage of development.’

  Belinda recollected their conversation. He was right, as usual. She gave him a sour look and walked to the balustrade overlooking the rambling garden.

  Jacob stepped up beside her and Belinda edged away uncomfortably. She glanced at him and saw that he was looking down at her with the self-assured smirk that had exasperated her in the past.

  ‘Lancelot Brown.’

  The name burst from Belinda’s lips involuntarily.

  The change of expression that swept over Jacob’s face startled her. His smirk vanished suddenly. He was instantly alert, his blue eyes darkening while searching Belinda’s features as though seeking a hidden explanation. The intensity of his look chilled Belinda. It was the same expression she had seen in Mark’s eyes when she mentioned the landscape plan. She looked away to hide her bewilderment.

  ‘You must think me mad,’ she said through a forced laugh. She glanced back at Jacob. His expression had softened to an imperceptible smile, yet his eyes held her in the way a cat watches its prey just before the attack. ‘It’s only that I’ve read his name recently and I can’t place where I’ve heard it before.’

  She busied herself with the quote, feeling his eyes burning into her, then sensed him relax as he cleared his throat.

  ‘I imagine you mean Capability Brown?’ Jacob said softly.

  The name suddenly illuminated Belinda’s mind.

  ‘Of course. He was a famous landscape gardener. No wonder I couldn’t identify the name. I only knew him as “Capability”.’ She turned to face Jacob. ‘We learnt about him in English History at school. He was active early last century, wasn’t he?’

  Jacob dragged himself up onto the balustrade and sat with one leg drawn up, the other dangling against the moss covered stone.

  ‘You obviously didn’t pay attention in class. He was working in the eighteenth century. From about 1735 or thereabouts.’

  Belinda snorted mockingly. ‘I might have known you’d be a fountain of knowledge about him.’

  Jacob ignored her interruption. ‘He was regarded as a genius in designing gardens, gardens that he would never live to see in their maturity. He had an insight that allowed him to predict the way that his work would mature.’

  ‘But surely the owners who wanted formal gardens wouldn’t wait until –’

  ‘Not formal gardens,’ Jacob broke in impatiently. ‘He did away with stuffy old-fashioned concepts of gardening. Knot gardens, gravel walks, all that strict pretentious thinking went out the window.’

  He jumped down to the terrace, landing lightly on his feet and with his fists pushed firmly into his pockets strode backwards and forwards across the terrace, his excitement building as he described Capability Brown’s philosophies. Belinda found herself drawn into his enthusiasm.

  ‘He took hold of the fashionable gardens, softened the accepted lines, threw out geometric patterns and substituted walks that meandered by streams and lakes with views over gentle rolling hills.’

  Jacob stood in front of Belinda, so close that his thigh brushed hers.

  ‘His gardens express an ideal. The native English landscape.’ He paused, his breathing deep and powerful. In the brief silence Belinda found herself excited by Jacob’s own stimulation. She recalled her second night in the cottage and her awareness of his obvious love of the country and its heritage.

  Suddenly he kissed her. Belinda responded, a response that startled her by its swiftness. The solid touch of his lips stifled any objection from her and his hand slid around her shoulder to cradle her head. They separated; both a little stunned by their sudden intimacy. Jacob grinned.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m a grouch and if I get carried away with things.’

  Belinda took a deep breath to steady herself. Once again she had to admit to herself the attraction she felt for Jacob. She gave a slight shrug and smile.

  ‘No harm done.’

  Jacob leant on the balustrade and looked out into the garden.

  ‘Poor old Capability.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, poor bugger, many of his gardens have been destroyed. How heart breaking that must be. To put all that effort into creating beautiful landscapes, then have future generations turn them into golf courses or gravel pits.’

  ‘Is that what happened?’

  Jacob glanced at her and gave a resigned grin. ‘In some cases. There are others that have been kept in good condition or at least restored to something like he planned.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Belinda softly, ‘I’d like to see one of his landscapes.’

  Jacob stood erect. ‘That’s easily fixed.’

  ‘How?’

  Jacob pointed over the hill and nodded. ‘Just over yonder in the next village, Combe Down.’

  He walked to the edge of the terrace, his gaze fixed on the sloping hills. Belinda followed slowly.

  ‘At Prior Park,’ Jacob continued. ‘He created a landscape there in 1760.’

  ‘Could we see it?’

  ‘The old house is a school now, but we can get permission to view the grounds. Just tell me when.’

  Belinda felt that her own garden was top priority. Ignoring the fact that she now had enough money to do the garden several times over, she haggled with Jacob over his quote for clearing the garden. She knew that a bigger and more seriously fought argument would take place when it came to deciding just what to do with the proposed new garden. Together they walked into the grounds and Jacob indicated where the most damage has been done not only by time but also by previous generations. All of this he carefully recorded in his notebook.

  He paused beside the bulging retaining wall that towered above them. The swelling in the stone surface seemed more pronounced than ever.

  ‘This will have to go,’ he said. He slapped his hand against the moss-coated rocks. Damp soil trickled from an ominous crack in the swelling wall and some small stones tumbled down the mossy incline. ‘Apart from obviously being in poor condition and likely to give away at any time, it’s spoiling the natural flow of the land.’

  Belinda hid a smile.

  ‘The deal is, we clear the ground first. I don’t want a lecture on what is artistically correct.’

  As Jacob began a fiery defence, Belinda’s smile became a laugh and Jacob, realising that he was being baited, gave her a friendly shove and continued on with his assessment of work to be carried out.

  It was agreed that Jacob would begin the task immediately and over the next few days, Belinda awoke each morning to a cheerful whistle as Jacob, happy in his work, dug out dead shrubs and trees, pruned others and gradually cleared the dense foliage away from the front of the cottage. Thick mud replaced the weeds and Belinda was forced to leave her shoes at the door. But each of those days saw progress, and Belinda felt a sense of achievement, a sensation that at last it was her cottage and she was making her impression upon it.

  Hazel Whitby sat in the back of the taxicab and ran
an appreciative eye over the potent shoulders and neck of the driver.

  Perhaps she should take a taxi more often, she mused as the car sped away from Bath. Normally she would be driving herself in her sporty Mercedes but a recent mishap had temporarily required that vehicle to submit to the subtleties of the panel beater.

  ‘No, Officer, I wasn’t speeding.’ Well, maybe a little.

  ‘No, Officer, I haven’t been drinking.’ Well, maybe a little.

  The Judge thought so too and the fine had been substantial.

  Hazel gave a snort of derision as she recalled this inequitable treatment and pulled the fur collar of her coat tighter around her throat. Her snort caught the driver’s attention and his dark eyes flicked to the rear vision mirror. Hazel met his reflected look and for a moment there was a shared responsive frisson, a pleasant tantalising promise that suggested brutish couplings in semi-public places.

  The driver cleared his throat noisily. ‘Haven’t seen you around much lately, Mrs Whitby.’

  ‘Nor me you,’ she replied huskily, slipping easily into her habitual temptress role.

  ‘I’ve been away in London these past six years. My mum tells me you’re divorced?’

  Six years.

  With a sickening thud Hazel came down to earth. She remembered the driver now – a spotty red-haired urchin whose mother had taken in laundry, how many years ago? Twelve years? He’d been about ten then. Twelve years had made him a young man, whereas it had made her … Better not to think about that!

  ‘Just keep driving,’ she snapped, all trace of huskiness gone.

  The driver shrugged. ‘Silly old cow,’ he thought. He remembered other things his mother had told him about Mrs Whitby – the high and mighty Mrs Whitby – who thought herself above others. How she liked more than a drink or two. How she had an eye for young trade and had been caught with an adolescent farm hand literally making hay. No wonder her husband dumped her. A few years ago he might have considered a casual orgy with her; played the innocent teenager willing to be taught by the mature woman. She was a good-looker in those days. Now? Now she reminded him of his mum. Their eyes avoided each other instantly, he content to drive, she to ruminate on the ferocity of passing years.

  The taxi pulled up at the Milford address and Hazel emerged, flinging the fare at the driver and wishing him to hell. With a smirk he accelerated away and left Hazel standing at the garden gate.

  She opened it and stepped into a pool of glutinous sludge.

  Her cry brought a young woman to the door of the cottage and Hazel recognised her quarry, the heir to the property, the old lady’s niece, Miss Belinda Lawrence.

  Belinda watched the woman struggling out of the mud and identified her as the antique dealer, Mrs Whitby. Hilda? No … Hazel.

  Taking Hazel by the hand she guided her gently towards the house.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the mud, Hazel. I’m having the garden repaired, but I hadn’t counted on it creating such a mess.’

  Hazel remained silent, her rage literally making her speechless. In fact, the only word she uttered in the next five minutes was “Double” when Belinda offered her a gin and tonic.

  Seated in the long room, her black fur coat draped over her shoulders, gin in hand, Hazel watched as Belinda wiped the mud from her shoes.

  The soothing gin swiftly loosened her tongue.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, dear, I’m on the scrounge. You may remember that I was keen to inspect your aunt’s belongings to see what treasures she had closeted away?’

  Belinda nodded, wiping the last of the mud from the expensive leather. She placed the shoes by Hazel’s feet and sat opposite her.

  ‘Hideous Victorian tat, I think you described it as?’

  Hazel shrugged in agreement. ‘Sounds like me. What can I tell you? Corpulent Victoriana does nothing for me and frankly, ain’t worth the effort in trying to sell it off.’ She leant forward earnestly. ‘Now if you were to allow me to look over the place, and if I found something of merit that you felt you could dispense with, then perhaps we could come to some arrangement?’

  ‘Arrangement?’

  ‘I could sell on commission. You’ll find that I’m very reasonable.’

  Belinda looked at her visitor. Reasonable? Belinda felt that Hazel’s priority would be to look after number one. However, she agreed to show her around the cottage, if only to keep the woman talking, for she sensed that Hazel’s interest was not limited to appropriating antiques.

  They climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, Hazel having already dismissed the dining room furniture and shown only a mild interest in a small cabinet in the long room and a Chippendale chair in the living room.

  ‘You said my aunt was interested in old maps?’ Belinda asked as they climbed the stairs. Hazel was suddenly aware of her arthritic knee.

  ‘Yes. Seemed a curious thing for the old woman to be interested in.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of map?’

  ‘Oddly enough, she wanted old maps of this area,’ replied Hazel, running an expert eye over the offerings in the main bedroom.

  ‘Yes. I’d heard that,’ said Belinda, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Oh? From whom?’ Hazel replaced a small Wedgwood dish on the mantelpiece.

  With a shiver of distaste Belinda recalled the fleshy bookseller.

  ‘It seems my aunt had been asking around Bath for old maps. She even called personally at a bookshop and specified that she wanted a map that showed this village.’

  Hazel walked to the window and looked down into the derelict garden. ‘Which book shop?’

  ‘Can’t remember the name, but it’s in Pierrepont Street, near the bus station. A strange place and an even stranger owner.’

  Hazel turned back into the room. ‘You mean Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘Do I?’ Belinda looked at Hazel in alarm.

  Hazel resumed her inspections of the trinkets on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘That’s what he’s known as. Frightful creature. Up on a charge of selling pornography a few years ago. Why would your aunt go searching for a map in that appalling dump?’

  ‘I wondered the same thing. Perhaps she didn’t know where to start looking and thought a bookshop would be a good place to begin?

  ‘Perhaps.’ Hazel inspected the hallmark on a silver crochet hook.

  Belinda rose from the bed and straightened the lace cover.

  ‘I suppose it actually was a map she was looking for?’ she proposed hesitantly.

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Belinda, watching Hazel intently. She felt sure the older woman knew more about her aunt than she admitted. Why after all had she approached aunt Jane on the pretext of searching for antiques? Could she have been looking for something else?

  The landscape garden design for example?

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t really a map. Perhaps it was the blueprint for a house or something like that,’ Belinda suggested.

  She waited for the woman’s response.

  Hazel put down a water jug and turned to Belinda.

  ‘If she said a map, I’m sure she meant a map. Your aunt was mentally alert. No sign of dementia in that old bird.’

  The two women stood face to face. Belinda steeled herself. ‘You said, when I called at your shop, that my aunt had been murdered. Have you any proof?’

  Hazel sighed irritably and picked up an ornate silver hand mirror.

  ‘As I indicated then, no. It is just a feeling. Call it a woman’s intuition if you like.’

  Their eyes met in the mirror.

  ‘I’m convinced it was murder.’ Belinda blurted the words out.

  Hazel lowered the mirror and looked questioningly at her. ‘Have you any proof?’

  Belinda arched her eyebrows. ‘Call it a woman’s intuition.’

  Hazel smiled. She hugged her coat to her body.

  ‘You’re an intelligent girl. You must have picked up the vibes about this place.’ She r
an her gaze around the room. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t sensed people’s interest in it, an interest that on the surface would seem …’ she searched for the term ‘… Unwarranted.’

  Choosing her words carefully, Belinda replied: ‘I put it down to the availability of such an old building. People are interested in its history.’

  Hazel gave her a disdainful look as though she expected better than that.

  ‘All right,’ snapped Belinda, beginning to lose her temper, ‘you tell me what’s so fascinating about the cottage.’

  Hazel gave a frustrated snort. ‘If only I knew. You’re right about the historical aspect, of course, but there is something else, some mystery that I can’t put my finger on.’

  She turned her gaze directly onto Belinda. ‘But I tell you this. The old lady knew something … and was done in as a result.’

  They nodded in mutual agreement.

  Descending the stairs to the hall below, Hazel pulled a mobile phone from her coat pocket and ordered a taxi. Clicking off the machine, she stood firmly in the doorway, feet apart, hands fixed firmly on her hips, her black fur coat flowing like giant bat wings from her shoulder. She fixed Belinda with an unyielding eye.

  ‘Look, I’ll be honest. No point beating about the bush. I’ve a business proposition to put to you.’

  Belinda looked at her in amazement. Hazel continued, ‘I’m looking to expand into antique furniture. Up until now I’ve confined my interest to silver, china, and bits and bobs. It’s been interesting and I still have a passion for silver, but I want something challenging. So I’m looking to buy furniture up until the Georgian period. When I do, I want to be able to display it properly, not just in some dingy shop front, but somewhere where the buyer can see it in a setting that is complementary. Now, I could go out and buy a house, but until I’m certain that my plans will work, I don’t want that expenditure. I’m proposing that I display the furniture here in your cottage.’

  Belinda blinked in surprise. ‘Here? But why?’

  Hazel glanced about her. ‘You already know that this is one of the oldest cottages in the district and so it has a certain distinctiveness, a definite éclat, darling. That’s a further selling point and would make an ideal background to show the furniture to its best advantage. I could dress the rooms with bric-a-brac and make the objects that much more desirable. Of course I would make it worth your while. You wouldn’t be out of pocket and I would make viewing only by appointment so you wouldn’t be inconvenienced.’