She certainly knew how to make food look attractive. On the table were dishes of salads and a selection of cheeses laid out on a tray, all garnished as if prepared for a cookery feature in a magazine. A simmering casserole on the Aga was releasing a spicy, appetising aroma. It was all very promising.
Iris took a heavy green bottle from the refrigerator and released a wired-in cork. There was a loud explosion and an eruption of white froth.
‘Elderflower champagne!’ said Iris proudly, filling two glasses. ‘Last season’s brew — should have quite a kick. If you’re too squiffy to stagger home you can sleep on the couch. Cheers!’ She quaffed deeply and reached for a knife and chopping-board.
Melissa sipped cautiously at first, then with relish.
‘It’s nectar!’ she declared. ‘Did you make it yourself?’
‘Of course. Make all sorts of wine. And jelly. Blackberry, rowan, rosehip. Live from the garden and the hedgerows. Hungry?’
‘I am rather.’ If the food was as good as the wine, there would be no hankering after steak. Iris chopped her herbs and scattered them thickly over the salads. Their sharpness mingled tantalisingly with the steam from the cooking-pot. Melissa inhaled with enthusiasm. ‘It smells divine!’ she declared.
‘Good. Ready to eat, then?’ Iris lifted the bubbling casserole from the hotplate and led the way out of the kitchen. ‘Give me a hand with the other stuff,’ she commanded over her shoulder.
In the dining-room she ladled a steaming concoction of spiced vegetables into earthenware bowls of brown rice and handed one to Melissa.
‘Help yourself to bread.’ She waved a hand at a plaited basket full of what looked like fossilised gastropods. ‘Bake my own,’ she added. It was a simple act of information, without vanity.
‘Thanks.’ Wondering if her teeth were strong enough, Melissa broke open one of the rolls. It was crisp and delicious and she felt ashamed of her misgivings. Iris might be eccentric but she was a superb cook.
‘You from London?’ asked her hostess between forkfuls.
‘Yes.’ Iris had obviously made her deduction from the name and address on the removal van and was curious about her new neighbour. Melissa suspected that she was about to be quizzed. It might have been the elderflower champagne that prompted her to respond with unusual candour. ‘I’ve always had a yen to live in the country but somehow I’ve been stuck in towns,’ she explained. ‘This is the first chance I’ve had to break away.’
‘Hope you’ll like it here.’
‘I’m sure I shall. I had a feeling about this cottage the moment I saw it.’
‘A feeling it was about to fall down?’ Iris gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘Me too. Used to be afraid it’d take this one with it. Great relief to see it done up.’
‘You must have felt rather isolated while it was standing empty,’ commented Melissa. ‘That reminds me, who lived in my cottage before me? Was it a woman called Babs?’
Iris shook her head. ‘Old man, near-recluse. Died about nine months ago. Cottage a pigsty, no woman’d live in it. Why?’
‘A man phoned this morning and thought I was Babs.’ Melissa repeated the conversation. ‘He’s probably been hanging about waiting for her all evening. He sounded quite distracted and didn’t give me a chance to explain his mistake.’
‘Poor chap!’ Iris considered for a moment with furrowed brow. ‘Jacko was there for years. Never had a phone. More rice?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Salad? Help yourself.’ Iris shuffled dishes around on the battered gate-legged table and brought more from the kitchen. Her keen eyes took in Melissa’s left hand. ‘You a widow, then?’
‘Yes.’ As she normally did with strangers, Melissa left it at that. It was no one’s business but her own that Guy had been killed before he’d had time to make an honest woman of her — always supposing that he would have wanted to, knowing that she was pregnant. She had never really known Guy except through his son. Simon’s intensity, his ruthless search for perfection in everything he did, his bouts of irritability that alternated with an irresistible charm, were all inherited from his father. This she knew from Guy’s parents, who had cared for her and Simon when her own mother and father had rejected them both. Their only condition had been that she take their name for herself and their grandson, and put on a wedding-ring for the sake of appearances.
Iris persevered with her interrogation.
‘Children?’
‘One son.’ Maternal pride took over. ‘He’s twenty-five, he’s an engineer, working for an oil company in Texas and doing very well indeed.’
‘So you’re on your own?’
‘At the moment.’
Once again, Melissa could feel the elderflower champagne dissolving her shell of reticence. She began to tell Iris about Aubrey.
‘He was becoming just too protective!’ she complained. ‘Not possessive . . . he’s never tried to organise my life or been jealous of my friends or anything like that . . . he’s just convinced himself I can’t get along without him to take care of me. It was lovely at first . . . and I suppose I sound unappreciative . . . but lately I’ve been feeling absolutely stifled. If he had his way I’d never so much as change a light bulb, let alone mend a fuse. Anyway, he’s married and his wife wants him back although he keeps insisting he loves me and not her.’
‘So he’s not too pleased at your move?’ Iris observed.
‘Not particularly, although one of the last things he said before I left London was that it’d soon teach me how much he meant to me and how much I needed him.’
‘Conceited creatures, men,’ observed Iris. ‘More rhubarb yoghurt?’
‘It was absolutely delicious but I couldn’t manage another morsel!’ declared Melissa with genuine regret. ‘You’ve probably heard this before, but I had no idea vegetarian food could be so good.’
Iris accepted the compliment with a matter-of-fact nod. ‘Healthiest way to eat!’ she asserted. ‘No need for it to be boring.’
‘Did you grow all those vegetables yourself?’
‘Most of ’em. Spend a lot of time in the garden. Freeze a lot.’
‘When do you find time to do your painting?’
‘Who said I painted?’ Iris looked both amused and irritated.
‘The estate agent said you were an artist and that you spent the winter abroad,’ Melissa explained. ‘I apologise if I misunderstood.’
Iris shrugged and pulled a face. ‘He said “artist” and you thought “painter,”’ she mocked. ‘There are other art forms, you know!’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Melissa, a shade pettishly. There was no reason for the woman to be so superior — the mistake had been a natural one. She finished her elderflower champagne and tried to think of a way to break the edgy silence. Iris picked up the bottle and reached across to refill the glasses. Melissa shook her head. ‘No more for me, thanks — tomorrow’s going to be a heavy day.’
‘Just as you like. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Decaffeinated beans. Tried dandelion root but didn’t like it.’ Iris vanished into the kitchen. Melissa began clearing the table but was checked by the command: ‘Leave those. Go through to the sitting-room.’
As in Melissa’s own cottage, the sitting-room and the dining-room were interconnected. Originally, they had been the living-rooms of two adjacent dwellings and there was a fireplace in each, back-to-back with a common chimney. Melissa guessed that, when on her own, Iris ate her meals in the kitchen. The dining-room, with its bare walls and minimal furniture, had an air of being seldom used. There were few ornaments or pictures and the plain curtains and dull, faded carpet were not what one would expect in the home of an artist, of whatever sort.
To her surprise, the sitting-room was equally plain and sparsely furnished. A green glass jug of daffodils and a few patchwork cushions provided the only splashes of colour. Beige curtains, a dowdy brown carpet and a couch covered with what seemed to be a regulation army blanket gave a som
bre, depressing effect only partially relieved by the log fire glowing in the grate. When Melissa entered, Binkie raised his head from a prime position on the hearth-rug, blinking at her with topaz eyes half-buried in fur.
‘Fabric design,’ said Iris unexpectedly, appearing with pottery mugs of coffee on a tray.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m a fabric designer.’ She pulled up a low table with a stained top and set the tray down. ‘Seat?’ She indicated a fireside chair covered in khaki linen and handed Melissa a mug. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Er . . . no, thank you.’ Melissa stared around her, trying to reconcile what she heard with what she saw. She sipped at her coffee, which was far too hot, and watched in fascination as her hostess, mug in hand, sank with surprising ease into a cross-legged position in front of the fire.
‘Don’t like chairs. Always sit on the floor,’ she commented. She reached out to fondle the cat which sat erect, yawned, and after several seconds of careful consideration stepped into her lap. Iris put down her mug and encircled the animal with both arms, scooping it into the well between her thighs and leaning forward to lay her cheek against its head. Her features blurred into a doting expression and the cat purred in a throbbing crescendo, its eyes half-closed as if in ecstasy. The effect bordered on the erotic. Feeling unaccountably embarrassed, Melissa played with her too-hot coffee, stared into the fire and wondered how soon she could decently go home.
‘My studio’s upstairs,’ Iris remarked suddenly, the light of intelligence returning to her face. ‘Show you some time if you like.’ She glanced around the room while Melissa made polite murmurs of interest. ‘My background.’ She made a circular gesture with her mug and a splash of coffee landed on the carpet. ‘Never mind. Doesn’t show.’ She fished a paper handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed at the spot and threw the paper on the fire. ‘Always keep a neutral background. Helps with new ideas. No distractions. What do you do?’
‘I write.’
‘What?’
‘Novels, mostly.’
‘What sort?’
‘Crime, detection, that sort of thing.’
‘Not much material among the folks round here. Deadly dull, most of them. Shouldn’t let it get around though.’
‘Sorry, let what get around?’
‘That you write, of course. They’ll have you contributing to the parish magazine and the Garden Society newsletter before you can turn round. Tried to get me designing new curtains for the village hall before I’d been here six months, cheeky lot!’
‘Have you lived here long?’ Melissa felt reassured by Iris’s switch to a near-normal style of speech but it proved to be a flash in the pan.
‘About ten years. Eleven next August. Only here March to October. Cotswold winters too cold and damp.’
‘Do you have someone to look after the house while you’re away?’
‘Village girl comes in every day. Checks the boiler and feeds Binkie. You want help in the house? Gloria might do you. Little tart, thick as a board but a good worker.’ She had been caressing the cat with increasingly vigorous strokes as she spoke. On the final words he ejected from her lap as if his threshold of tolerance had been finally overstepped. He settled at the far end of the hearth-rug where he sat staring icily at his mistress, tail twitching, front paws marking time.
‘Binkie boy!’ pleaded Iris inanely. ‘Did Mummie upset him then?’
Melissa got to her feet, murmuring that it was time to be getting along.
‘I’m really grateful to you for inviting me, and the meal was lovely,’ she said as they moved towards the door. ‘And I could do with some help once or twice a week. If you’d mention it to Gloria I’d be grateful.’
‘Will do. Enjoyed your company. Come again,’ said Iris. She was back to normal and obviously meant what she said.
‘I hope you’ll come and have a meal with me when I’m settled,’ said Melissa.
‘Love to,’ said Iris. ‘No meat though, remember!’
‘I’ll remember,’ promised Melissa, wondering if macaroni cheese would do.
Three
As Melissa reached her front door and put her key in the lock, Iris called out ‘Goodnight’ and turned off her porch light.
There was no moon, no glow of streetlamps or lighted windows, not even a sparkling of stars to relieve the awesome blackness. Melissa, a lifelong city-dweller, was unaccustomed to the enveloping darkness and silence of the country at night. Disoriented and confused, she slammed the door and scrabbled along the living-room wall in search of the light switch. She had no idea where it was; her mind was a blank. She should have brought a torch. How ridiculous to be lost in one’s own home! Not home, not yet. This place, immured in inky isolation at the end of a nameless track, was unknown territory. She was an intruder in a strange house where an old man named Jacko had lived and died in solitude.
Aubrey would have thought of the torch. Aubrey thought of everything. But Aubrey was a hundred miles away and that distance between them was of her own making. Oh, God, she thought, where is that bloody switch!
At last she found it. In the harsh glare of a single bulb her furniture looked unfamiliar, almost hostile in this alien setting. Still, any room would look ghastly under a naked light. First thing tomorrow she would unpack the box of lampshades. The place needed ventilating too, to get rid of the smell of paint and new plaster.
It was chilly as well as cheerless. An urgent telephone call had brought a delivery of oil during the afternoon but the service engineer who would light the boiler and commission the heating could not attend until tomorrow. The carpets, she had been assured, would arrive by the end of the week and the fitters — all being well — the following Monday. There was a two-page list of defects noted during the day that the builder must be made to deal with. The settling-in period unrolled into the future like a road disappearing over the brow of a hill.
The blackness outside pressed against the uncurtained windows like fog, threatening to seep in through any available crack. Melissa had checked all the windows before going out but now she checked them again. The glass panes gave back a distorted reflection of her oval face, white under the sickly light, dark brown hair drawn back so that nothing but a skull-like head stared in at her with huge glittering eyes. Aubrey had wanted her to have safety catches fitted before moving in but she hadn’t bothered. She should have listened to Aubrey instead of dismissing all his advice and suggestions as ‘fussing’. She should have found the time to hang all the curtains before going out. Curtains would have been a comforting barrier against the night. Pursued by the echo of her own footsteps she made for the kitchen. She had almost reached it when the telephone rang.
If it was him again, demanding why she hadn’t turned up, it would be the last straw. Perhaps if she let it ring he’d give up. But the sound continued, crescendo, fortissimo, as if someone was turning up the volume. Reluctantly, she went back and snatched up the receiver.
‘Hello!’
‘Lissie? Is that you?’
‘Oh, Aubrey!’
‘I thought you’d like me to call!’ She could picture him looking self-satisfied, no doubt reading pleasure at hearing from him into the relief that her voice had betrayed.
‘How did you get my number? I didn’t know it myself until today.’
‘I rang directory enquiries, of course. Darling girl, are you all right? You sounded strange when you answered.’
She gritted her teeth at the endearment that had recently begun to irritate her beyond words but she kept her voice even. ‘I was afraid for a moment it was someone else.’
‘Who did you expect it to be?’
‘I had a strange phone call earlier in the day and I thought . . .’
‘Oh, God, not one of those perverts who . . .’
‘No, nothing like that. It was some man who thought he was talking to his girlfriend. He was very agitated and didn’t seem to understand when I told him he’d got the wrong number.’
‘What hav
e you done about it?’ Aubrey’s voice had become clipped and urgent, as if he were back in the army and had just been informed that the enemy was about to attack. ‘You should report it if you think . . .’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Aubrey, stop making such a fuss! I told you, it was a wrong number.’
‘You can’t be too careful. It’s obviously upset you.’
Oh, God, give me patience. ‘It didn’t upset me, I just didn’t want to be bothered a second time. I’m tired and I was just going to bed.’ Take the hint, can’t you? I’m not in the mood for any more. But Aubrey hadn’t finished yet.
‘You’re sure everything’s all right? I’ve been trying to get you all evening!’ he complained.
‘Of course it’s all right. I’ve been out to supper with my next-door neighbour and I’ve only just got in.’
‘You’re sure?’ At least he wasn’t quizzing her about the neighbour but no doubt he would, sooner or later.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, mind you lock up everywhere before you go to bed.’
‘I already have. Thanks for calling.’
‘Darling girl, I miss you.’
‘Aubrey, I’ve asked you before not to call me that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Goodnight.’ She put the phone down while he was still saying his farewells. It was ungracious of her; he was kind and considerate and he cared for her. That was the trouble; he cared too much. He enveloped her in his caring and kindness until she felt like a fly in the web of a well-meaning spider. That was one of the reasons why she was here. But she hadn’t entirely escaped; the telephone wires had become part of the web. She toyed briefly with the idea of changing her number and going ex-directory as she went into the kitchen.
At least that wore a welcoming aspect. The refrigerator was gently humming and the digital clock on the cooker winked at her like a friendly eye. It was warmer in here than in the living-room and behind its diffuser the fluorescent light had a softer glow. Melissa drew her new curtains, made a cup of tea and drank it from one of her new yellow mugs, sitting at her new pine kitchen table. It made her feel a lot better. She was dog-tired though. A good night’s sleep was what she needed.
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 2