She awoke to a world brimming over with sunlight and birdsong. Last night’s fears seemed childish and absurd and she thought of how Aubrey would laugh if he knew. Not unkindly — she had never known him to be unkind — but with indulgence, as if such an endearing weakness was only natural. Also, and she had to admit this was true, he would fondly claim that in his protective presence it would not have occurred to her to be afraid. He had, in an oddly perverse way, rallied her spirits; the irritation aroused by his call had settled her jumpy nerves so that she had gone calmly to bed, dropped off almost immediately and slept through the night like a child. Of course, Iris’s elderflower champagne might have helped as well.
She ate her breakfast looking out of the kitchen window. Beyond the hedge that enclosed her garden, the valley stretched away to the north, its flanks scored with narrow sheep-tracks along their grassy slopes. The brook, catching the morning sun, crooked a glistening finger into the distance. Just where it curved out of sight behind a steep, projecting bank, Melissa could make out the roof of the shepherd’s hut. At the moment it was in shadow; presently, when the sun rose higher, it would stand out more clearly.
Melissa nibbled her toast, turning over in her head some details of the plot of her next novel. The postscript to her letter to her agent had been written in jest but from it had grown an idea that had been steadily taking shape over recent weeks, despite her preoccupation with the move. She took a pad out of a drawer and made a few notes before bringing her mind back to the business of the day.
The first job was to call the builder.
‘Morning, Mrs Craig!’ he said breezily. ‘Lovely morning!’
‘Lovely,’ agreed Melissa.
‘Nice to move house in good weather,’ he continued. ‘Makes settling in much easier.’
‘It does indeed.’
‘You’ll soon be able to make a start on the garden.’
‘There are a few other things to see to first.’
‘Yes, of course. Takes a day or two to get straight.’ Plainly, he was in no hurry to know the reason for her call.
‘Quite a few other things, in fact.’ Melissa read from her list. ‘Cracked cistern cover in downstairs toilet. Taps in bathroom hand-basin not as specified. Only one thin coat of emulsion on living-room walls. Dining-room window . . .’
‘Hang on a minute,’ protested the builder. ‘The foreman told me he’d checked everything personally.’
‘Then he’s either talking about another property or he needs glasses!’ said Melissa in what she hoped was the right mixture of firmness and jocularity. ‘If you can spare the time to come and have a look for yourself I’d be most grateful. My carpets are due to be laid any day and I don’t want workmen in after they’re down.’
‘No . . . er . . . no, of course not,’ said the builder, waking up at last to the fact that she meant business. ‘I’ll pop round later on this morning, okay?’
‘Not too much later, please,’ said Melissa. ‘I have to do some shopping.’
‘Right-ho,’ said the builder. ‘About half past ten?’
‘That’ll be fine.’ Feeling that she had handled that rather well, Melissa put the phone down. Almost immediately, it started to ring. It was the carpet fitter.
‘Mrs Craig? Have your carpets been delivered yet?’
‘No . . . they said they’d be here by the end of the week.’
‘We’ve had a cancellation. We could come to you on Friday if that’s convenient.’
‘That would be wonderful, but suppose the carpets haven’t come?’
‘We’ll do what we can this end to chase them up. We’ll call you back if there’s a problem.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Things were looking up. The sun was shining, she had slept well and felt full of energy to tackle the tasks ahead. Maybe by the weekend she’d be something like straight.
The telephone rang again.
‘Hello!’
She knew it was him, even before he spoke. There were the same sounds as if someone was fumbling with the instrument, the same hoarse, urgent voice.
‘Babs, we must talk — please!’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong . . .’
‘This evening, Babs. I’ll be at the usual place!’
‘But this isn’t Babs!’ Melissa almost shrieked into the telephone. ‘Please listen . . . you’ve got . . .’
But already the caller had hung up and there was nothing but dialling tone coming from the receiver. Angrily, she put it down. Drat the man, why couldn’t he listen? He sounded distraught, almost hysterical. She returned to the kitchen, torn between pity and exasperation.
The postman brought cards, some comic, some artistic, all hoping she’d be happy in her new home. Aubrey, she noted wryly, had not expressed any such hope. There was also a long letter from Simon that she put aside to read presently. The milkman, jolly-faced and whistling, appeared shortly afterwards, his boots crunching on the gravel and his bottles jingling. While he was explaining that he could supply eggs, yoghurt and cream as well as milk, that he only delivered three times a week and called for his money on Saturdays, a man from the oil company arrived to commission the boiler. Just as he was leaving, the builder’s bright red BMW came tearing along the track and nose-dived to a halt in a fusillade of loose stones.
Mr Allenby was a big, heavy-jowled man who looked as if he had been pumped up to fill his bulky sheepskin coat. He wore a tweed hat which he kept on as he stepped inside the cottage, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
‘Lovely smell of coffee!’ he commented breezily.
‘Is there?’ Melissa looked blank. ‘That must be from breakfast.’ The man’s face fell and she glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness, is that the time? Would you like some coffee?’
‘That’s very kind of you!’ He managed to sound surprised, as if it was the last thing he expected.
‘I’ll make some as soon as we’ve gone through this list,’ promised Melissa, making a great effort to sound businesslike. ‘We’ll start in this room. Look at the emulsion on these walls — you can see through to the plaster!’
Mr Allenby pushed back his hat and scrutinised the offending paintwork, blowing softly through pursed lips.
‘Mm, yes, there are one or two holidays,’ he admitted. ‘Easily done in a bad light.’ He wrote on a pad. ‘Can’t get anyone along until next week — got an outside job to finish while the weather holds.’
‘But I want it done before Friday!’ pleaded Melissa. ‘The carpets are being laid then.’
‘Sorry, no can do. Anything else in here?’
Melissa felt herself losing ground. If I were a man, she thought, this is where I’d start putting my foot down. She made an effort.
‘It was supposed to be done properly before I took possession,’ she pointed out, trying to iron out the tremolo in her voice. ‘I don’t want paint stains on my new carpets.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Allenby with a patronising smile. ‘They’ll put down dustsheets.’
Melissa saw red. ‘Did they put down dustsheets while they painted the kitchen?’ she demanded.
The builder stretched his eyebrows. ‘Sorry — don’t follow you!’
Melissa turned over the pages of her list. ‘Kitchen floor tiles spattered with paint,’ she read out. ‘There are several other things to see to in the kitchen but we’ll come to them later. We haven’t finished in here yet.’
‘What else is there?’ Into his swagger had crept a hint of the defensive that made him appear a shade smaller. Melissa stood up straight, making the most of her five feet five inches.
‘Cracked cover on electric power point, plain instead of rising hinges on doors, windows covered with paint and putty marks,’ she read.
He made more notes, his eyes moving warily to and fro between his pad and Melissa’s face. ‘That all?’
‘That’s all in here. We’ll do the dining-room next.’ She marched ahead of him, pointing out the window that stuck
, the loose floorboard and the unpainted radiator.
‘Just wait till I get my hands on that bloody foreman!’ muttered Mr Allenby, scribbling furiously.
Melissa left the kitchen until last. She filled the kettle for coffee and pointed out defects while waiting for it to boil. Mr Allenby, stony-faced, started a third page on his pad. He brightened up at the sight of a steaming mug and a plate of fruit-cake.
‘Now, when are we going to get all this done?’ Melissa demanded.
He swigged his coffee and munched his way through a large slice of cake before consulting his Filofax.
‘I’ll send Mrs Parkin round first thing tomorrow to clean up. Charlie can come on Friday morning to attend to the carpentry jobs,’ he said at length. ‘I’ll get everything else seen to as soon as I can.’ He stuffed the Filofax inside his sheepskin and stood up. ‘Thanks for the coffee and cake. Must go now — I’m supposed to be in Gloucester in fifteen minutes.’ The multiple chins compressed beneath a jaunty smile as he began edging towards the door.
‘Just a minute,’ said Melissa. ‘What about the painting?’
The smile faded and the chins quivered defensively. Out came the Filofax again. ‘Monday or Tuesday be all right?’
‘No, it will not.’ She was quaking inside but she wasn’t going to let herself be outmanoeuvred. ‘The painting jobs must be done before the carpets are laid.’
Mr Allenby gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Oh, very well — I’ll send Pete round this afternoon about half past four,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You realise I’ll have to pay him overtime?’
‘If he’s the one who did it in the first place, you should jolly well make him do it in his own time,’ said Melissa, smiling to show that there were no hard feelings now that she had won the day.
The builder gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘I could do with a tough lady like you in my office!’ he told her. ‘Let me know if you want a job!’
They parted the best of friends and Melissa closed the door behind him in the knowledge that she had called up reserves of which she had been unaware. Aubrey, she thought, you’d have been proud of me! On second thoughts, she felt that Aubrey might have been not entirely pleased at her display of assertiveness. It was an agreeable notion.
Four
At nine o’clock on Thursday morning a sturdy, moonfaced young woman appeared on Melissa’s doorstep. She had a spiky halo of bright yellow hair and large eyes the colour of treacle toffee. She was like a sunflower on an abnormally short thick stem.
‘Mrs Craig? Mr Allenby sent me to clean up after his men.’
‘Oh, yes, do come in! You must be Mrs Parkin.’
‘You can call me Gloria,’ said the newcomer, unzipping her anorak and releasing a generous gust of perfume. She cast an appraising eye around her as she followed Melissa to the kitchen. ‘My, they makes a fine old mess, doesn’t they?’ she remarked, her tone suggesting that this was no bad thing since it made employment for the likes of herself.
‘Are you the same Gloria who works . . . er, helps my neighbour?’ asked Melissa.
The yellow spikes nodded assent. ‘Miss Ash? That’s right.
I goes to her every Tuesday morning after I takes the kids to school.’
‘She said you might be willing to come to me,’ said Melissa.
The spikes danced with enthusiasm. ‘I’d be glad to. Would Wednesday morning be all right, nine till twelve? I goes to the Rectory on Monday and I likes to keep Thursday and Friday free.’
‘Wednesday morning would be fine,’ said Melissa warmly. She was fascinated by Gloria’s speech patterns and couldn’t wait to note them for future use.
‘Wednesday it is. Now, let’s get started on this little lot.’
Gloria hung her anorak over the back of a chair, produced a plastic apron and rubber gloves from a shopping-bag, rolled up the sleeves of her flowered polyester blouse and fell to work with an energy and efficiency that left Melissa gasping. Windows sparkled and paint stains vanished before her assault.
At eleven o’clock Melissa made coffee. Gloria clamped her mug in two plump hands that were heavy with rings and wandered over to the kitchen window.
‘Why, you can see old Daniel’s hut,’ she remarked.
‘You mean that old shepherd’s hut?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why do you call it Daniel’s hut?’
‘An old man called Daniel died there, didn’t he?’ Gloria sucked noisily at her mug. ‘A long time ago it were. He were going home to Lower Benbury from the Woolpack one January night in the snow. They reckon he stopped by for a pee and just passed out and died of cold. It were several days before they found him, lying flat on his back with his flies still undone!’
Her burst of uninhibited laughter set the sunflower head rocking on its stem. She was outrageous, yet there was warmth and good-humour in her vulgarity. The swell of her breasts inside the polyester blouse, the broad hips and curving stomach crammed into tight red slacks, all clamoured for attention. She had a compelling, earthy sexuality that many men would find irresistible.
‘Poor man, how dreadful!’ murmured Melissa. She felt obliged to show concern for the fate of the unfortunate Daniel but it took all her will-power to keep a straight face.
‘They all thinks it’s haunted,’ Gloria went on with a jerk of her head in the direction of the village. ‘They says that on winter nights you can hear old Daniel hollerin’. There’s some that won’t walk that way in the dark! Chicken, that’s what they are!’
‘That will be the wind howling through the holes in the roof, I suppose,’ said Melissa.
Gloria shrugged, her mug upended as she swallowed the last mouthful. Her throat was creamy white and voluptuously rounded; between the buttons, the front of her blouse strained open in a series of little half-moons.
‘I reckon,’ she said carelessly. She drew the back of her hand across her mouth, took the two mugs to the sink and washed them. Her eyes flicked over to the clock. ‘I’ve got just over half an hour. What else is there to do?’
‘We could have a go at the spare bedroom.’ Melissa led the way upstairs. ‘I haven’t even had time to sweep up and all sorts of stuff was just dumped in here.’
‘Coo, look at all they books!’ There was a note of awe in Gloria’s voice. She picked up one that lay on top of a bulging cardboard box and examined it. ‘Death with a Doornail by Mel Craig.’ She read slowly, brows puckered like a child’s. Her toffee-brown eyes rolled in Melissa’s direction. ‘Relation of yours?’
‘N . . . no . . .’ Remembering Iris’s warning, Melissa was reluctant to admit that the book in question was one of her own. It had been her agent’s idea to shorten Melissa to Mel because he felt it would have more appeal on the American market. She didn’t really like it and had no idea whether it made any difference. There were times when she failed to follow the logic of Joe’s arguments but in this case, as in so many things, she had allowed herself to be overruled.
Gloria was rummaging eagerly among the piles of books. She pounced on another which had Melissa’s photograph on its dust-jacket and her eyes saucered in wonderment. ‘This is you?’ she breathed.
Melissa nodded resignedly.
Gloria’s eyes moved to and fro, comparing the picture with the original. ‘I likes the hairstyle you’ve got now better than that one.’
‘Ah . . . that was taken some time ago.’
Gloria put the book down almost reverently. ‘The Rector, he likes a good meaty thriller — when his wife’s not looking!’ She gave a hoarse chuckle that set her bosom bouncing. ‘I likes a nice love story myself. You write any of they?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Gloria’s face fell.
‘But I’ve got a stack of them somewhere.’ At one time Melissa had thought of trying her hand at romantic fiction and researched the genre at some length before turning to crime. ‘I’ll find them once I get all this lot unpacked. You can borrow them if you like.’
‘Ooh, my, thank
s ever so!’ The moon face shone with anticipation, totally won over. Melissa felt she had made a friend.
At five minutes to midday, Gloria switched off the vacuum cleaner and carried it downstairs. She put everything tidily away in the broom cupboard and removed her apron and gloves.
‘I has to leave at twelve o’clock sharp to get the kids from school,’ she explained. ‘They won’t eat school dinners so I has to get them something at home.’ She had three children and with very little prompting recited their names and ages: Wayne, Darren and Charlene, all under eight years old.
‘Quite a handful,’ remarked Melissa. ‘Does your husband work in the village?’
The sunflower executed an emphatic and slightly indignant denial. ‘He’s got his own business in Gloucester!’ Gloria zipped up her anorak and thrust her apron and gloves into the shopping-bag. Melissa let her out and watched her climb into a red Ford Escort with the driver’s seat pulled well forward to accommodate her short legs, an arrangement which brought the steering wheel dangerously close to her chest. She rolled down the window, called out, ‘See you next Wednesday, then!’, executed a hesitant three-point turn and drove off.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ called a voice. Iris was clambering over the stile from the field, a plastic bucket swinging from one hand. ‘That Gloria’s car just gone?’
‘Yes, the builder sent her to clean up. It was supposed to have been done before I moved in.’
Iris grunted. ‘Inefficient lot, builders!’ she commented.
‘She’s coming to me on Wednesday mornings. I told her what you said. She’s quite a character, isn’t she?’
Iris sniffed. ‘No better than she should be!’
‘She told me her husband has his own business. Do you know what he does?’
‘Second-hand car dealer. All crooks, one jump ahead of the law. Get caught one day. So will she. Serve ’em right!’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 3