He grinned. ‘Of course. We got no pub, so we all come over to the Woolpack on a Friday. Stan Parkin was in there last night with Gloria. She was telling everyone about you!’
‘Oh dear!’ It was exactly what Iris had advised her to avoid. She should have extracted a promise of silence from Gloria in exchange for an unlimited supply of Mills and Boon. She felt a momentary nostalgia for the anonymity of London.
Her companion went outside and stood looking up at the sky. ‘Nearly stopped!’ he called back. ‘I’ll be off now.’
‘Oh, good!’ said Melissa. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mr . . .?’
‘Woodman,’ he said. ‘Dick Woodman.’ He raised a hand and strode off, his dog at his heels.
Melissa watched him for a few seconds as he made his way confidently down the steeply sloping bank, planting his feet sideways among the tussocks while the dog bounded surefootedly ahead. A fresh idea for the new novel germinated in her mind as she made her way home and she settled down to eat her casserole and jacket potato with a notebook at her elbow.
At eight o’clock her agent rang.
‘Mel?’
‘Joe! How nice to hear from you!’
‘Thought I’d see how you were getting on.’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’m fine, thanks. There’s still a lot to do but I’m gradually getting straight.’
‘Did the move go smoothly?’
‘Yes and no. The removal men were super but there were quite a few unfinished jobs on the cottage. I’ve had one or two battles with the builder.’
‘I hope you didn’t let him bully you!’
‘You mean, like you do?’
‘Touché. But my bullying is always done with your best interests at heart.’
‘So you say. Anyway, I handled this merchant so firmly that he ended up offering me a job, strictly on the strength of my being such a tough customer!’
‘Good for you! Time you learned to stand up for yourself!’
‘I shall bear that in mind in our future dealings. Incidentally, you’ll be interested to hear I’m already working on a new book.’ She hadn’t meant to say anything just yet but she knew he’d be pleased.
‘Really? Thought you were taking a couple of months’ break.’
‘So did I but . . . you remember that shepherd’s hut I mentioned in my last letter?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘It has rather a gruesome history.’ She recounted Gloria’s version of Daniel’s demise which, as she expected, appealed to his sense of humour.
‘You seem to be in fruitful territory,’ he chuckled.
‘Oh, I am. I’ve already met the model for my first corpse. He nearly frightened me to death when I took shelter in Daniel’s hut.’
‘Then he deserves to be bumped off. Tell me more.’
‘It’s only just beginning to gel but I’m getting the outline of the plot. A ring of antique dealers and art thieves. Local farmers and landowners . . . pillars of the establishment . . . maybe a JP . . . all putting up a great show of collaborating with the law and fooling everyone nicely until one of them gets greedy and goes into drugs and becomes a danger to the others . . .’
‘Sounds promising. Listen, Mel, I’ve got to be in your neck of the woods on Tuesday. Any chance of calling by?’
‘But of course! Come to lunch.’
‘Not lunch, I shan’t be finished soon enough. Say some time after three o’clock?’
‘Fine. I’ll look forward to it.’
It would be nice to see Joe. He’d be her first visitor, not counting the disapproving Mrs Calloway. She’d try and get a synopsis roughed out for him to look at. He’d been unusually patient, knowing how busy she was with the move, but he was always keen to know what she was working on next. She washed up her supper things and got down to work.
Six
‘I like it,’ said Joe when Melissa had shown him round the cottage. ‘Especially this room.’ He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out of the sitting-room window. ‘You’ve got a superb view. Of course,’ he added cheerfully, ‘you’ll probably be snowed up for weeks in winter, with no electricity and no way of getting out to the shops . . . but I expect you’ve thought of that.’
Melissa laughed. ‘I could hardly help but think of it when Aubrey harped on the same theme almost non-stop. He went further than you, he had me lying outside my own back door with a broken leg, my piteous cries for help borne away on the unheeding wind, undiscovered until the melting snow revealed my frozen corpse!’
Joe laughed with her but at the mention of Aubrey’s name he gave her a keen look.
‘What does Aubrey think of the cottage?’ he asked.
‘He hasn’t seen it.’ Joe’s deep-set eyes held a question which she could have ignored but did not. ‘Aubrey’s wife is pressuring him to go back to her,’ she said.
Joe’s eyebrows went up and the skin over his cheekbones seemed to tighten. He looked away, rattling the change in his pockets. ‘Do you suppose he will?’ he asked.
It occurred to Melissa that she had never before mentioned to Joe that Aubrey was married and that she had no particular reason for doing so now. Not that it mattered; it was merely that it was unlike her to have blurted it out like that. The other night, over supper with Iris, she had attributed her lack of reserve to the elderflower champagne. She had no such excuse now. Perhaps there was something in the Cotswold air, or the atmosphere of the cottage itself, that inspired openness.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I told him he should think seriously about it and he got very emotional and said I was trying to get rid of him.’
‘And were you?’
The question came swiftly and she could tell by his expression that he had spoken without thinking. He looked like someone at a dinner party who had a too-hot morsel of food in his mouth and was doing his best, out of politeness, to conceal his discomfort. The notion both amused and puzzled her. She knew him well enough to be certain that he was unlikely to be shocked at the notion of one of his authors having an affair with someone else’s partner.
‘Not consciously,’ she said, after a moment’s thought. ‘He’s been very good to me and I’m very fond of him, but he really is a bit of an old fuss-pot . . .’ She broke off, thinking that this just wouldn’t do. It would be an act of gross disloyalty to Aubrey to begin cataloguing his shortcomings to someone with whom she had nothing but a professional relationship.
‘I expect it’s because he cares for you,’ said Joe. He had moved back to the window and was staring out, drumming with two fingers on one of the small glass panes.
‘I’m sure he does.’ She had uneasy memories of her last meeting with Aubrey. It had ended with her screaming at him in a way of which she hardly knew herself capable, telling him to stop treating her as if she were a half-wit, that she had managed perfectly well before meeting him, that she’d had enough of being cossetted and pampered and plied with roses and chocolates as if she were a simpering starlet in a television commercial. He had taken it all without reproaching her, a patient, long-suffering expression on his rather pudgy, formless features, murmuring that he quite understood that she was feeling overwrought with all the hassle of the move, and generally making her feel guilty at hurting him.
‘And . . . do you care for him?’ asked Joe, still gently probing. This time he touched a raw nerve.
‘I think, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about Aubrey any more,’ she said.
‘Of course . . . I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been much too inquisitive.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. We’ve known one another long enough to exchange a few confidences now and again. Let me get you some tea. Have a look at this while I put the kettle on.’ She handed him a folder containing the synopsis of the new novel and pointed to an armchair. ‘Sit down . . . relax . . . tell me what you think.’
The phone rang while she was making tea.
‘Get that, will you?’ she called from the ki
tchen. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. It’s probably the builder.’
When she carried the tea-tray into the sitting-room, she found Joe holding the receiver and staring at it with a puzzled expression.
‘Who is it?’
‘Some nutter or other.’ He put the receiver down. ‘Wanted to speak to someone called Babs . . . wants to see her . . . wouldn’t listen when I said he’d got the wrong number.’
‘Oh Lord, not him again!’ Melissa put down the tray and began pouring the tea. ‘I hoped I’d heard the last of him. He’s becoming a bit of a pest.’
‘You mean he’s phoned before?’
‘Twice. Did he say he’d be at their usual place tonight?’
‘That’s right. No, not quite. Say it again.’
‘Say what again?’
‘Where did he say he’d be?’
‘At their usual place. He didn’t say where it was.’
‘Just a minute. Did he say “our usual place” or “the usual place”?’
‘Good heavens, I’ve no idea. Does it make a difference?’
‘It might. I’m sure when I spoke to him he said “the usual place” with the stress on “usual”.’
Melissa shook her head in bafflement. ‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re driving at. Have a piece of cake and help yourself to sugar.’
‘Thanks. Listen, if you want to meet a friend at someone else’s house or flat, you say “see you at Ken’s place”, or “Lulu’s place”, don’t you?’
‘Ye . . . es.’
‘But if you’ve got a regular rendezvous, you just say “our usual place”, with equal stress on both words.’
‘You might . . . yes, I suppose so. But I don’t see what . . .?’
‘Come on now, as the creator of Nathan Latimer the brilliant and resourceful detective, tell me what “The Usual Place” might be.’
Melissa shut her eyes and began mouthing the words under her breath.
‘You look like a nervous drama student rehearsing for an audition,’ Joe teased. ‘Well?’
‘Got it!’ she said, ignoring the taunt. ‘A night-club, or maybe a wine-bar or something like that.’
‘Take a Brownie point!’
‘So where does that get us?’ Melissa wrinkled her brows. ‘Ah, brainwave! I can make The Usual Place the name of some sleazy dive used by the crooks in my novel.’
‘There you are, your cranky caller has been of some use after all.’
‘Now why didn’t I spot that for myself? I must be slipping.’
‘Not you. Your mind was full of other things like plumbing and getting carpets laid.’
‘Too right. I didn’t pay any attention to the way he was speaking; I was irritated because he totally ignored what I was saying. It’s queer, the way he takes no notice when he’s told it’s a wrong number.’
‘Maybe something wrong with the line — you hear him but he can’t hear you . . .’
‘Or a taped message . . .?’
‘Why on earth would anyone tape a message like that?’
‘I’ve no idea, I was just brainstorming. Anyway, I seem to remember the words varied slightly. Was there a pause before he began speaking?’
‘Yes, I think there was. Perhaps he’s ill . . . or has a speech impediment . . .’
‘Or he’s not quite right in the head.’
‘It’s very odd.’
‘Anyway, let’s get back to how I can use it in The Shepherd’s Hut.’ Melissa nodded towards the folder lying on the arm of Joe’s chair.
‘Is that what you plan to call it?’ He sounded unimpressed.
‘It’ll do for a working title. Something better will occur to me later on. What’s your reaction?’
Joe sank his teeth into a slice of cake and spoke between mouthfuls. ‘Looks quite promising. How do you think you can work in your mystery caller?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? One of the gang will run a café or a restaurant, or maybe a club, called The Usual Place, as a front . . .’
‘Just a moment,’ said Joe, ‘you did say you’re setting this yarn locally, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then it might be as well to make certain there isn’t a genuine Usual Place. You don’t want to get sued for defamation!’
‘That’s a thought. I’ll try the Yellow Pages.’ She fetched the directory and opened it at the section headed ‘Restaurants’. ‘Well, would you believe it, look at this!’
He peered over her shoulder and read aloud where she was pointing. ‘“Meet your friends at The Usual Place. Fully licensed, first-class food, local produce delivered fresh daily. Rooms available for private functions.” That’s a pity. You’ll have to think of something else.’
‘Damn! No, wait . . . they can’t claim sole rights to the name, can they?’
Joe frowned. He was always inclined to take such questions seriously and to err on the side of caution. ‘Perhaps not, so long as there’s nothing in your book that they could claim was defamatory. You’ll have to make sure there’s no resemblance to your fictitious Usual Place. Go and suss it out, and then create something with an entirely different image. You see . . .’ He showed every sign of preparing to deliver one of his lectures.
Melissa slapped the book shut and pretended to threaten him with it. ‘Really, Joe, you’re as bad as Aubrey! He thinks I’m incapable of figuring out the obvious.’
‘Sorry! Just pointing out the pitfalls. Do go on with your plot, please, please!’ His exaggerated air of contrition was almost embarrassing in its boyishness. He had never shown her this side of himself before.
She picked up the folder and made a show of riffling through the sheets of her synopsis to avoid looking at him. ‘When the gang want to pass on the word about a shipment, one of them will make a coded phone call pretending to be someone trying to make a date with a girlfriend.’
Joe nodded. ‘In case someone overhears, or the line is bugged?’
‘Something like that. And I can bring in that business of stress that we were talking about just now. Nathan Latimer will overhear a call and pick it up the way you did . . .’
‘Of course, I always knew that you based your brilliant sleuth on me!’ Joe assumed an expression of fatuous conceit and Melissa laughed in spite of herself.
‘Perhaps,’ she said after a moment’s thought, ‘he didn’t say “The Usual Place” when I answered him. Perhaps he’d been told always to say “our usual place”, so that no one would guess he was referring to the pub, and he happened to slip up when you answered . . . but then, if he was pretending to call a girlfriend, he’d be expecting a prearranged response and . . .’
‘Hang on!’ said Joe. ‘Aren’t you getting fact and fiction tangled up? You aren’t seriously suggesting that your man really is a member of the local Mafia?’
‘No, of course I’m not.’ The absurdity of what she had been saying dawned on her. For the last few minutes, fantasy had indeed become interwoven with reality in her mind. It was a disturbing sensation. Joe was looking amused but she did not return his smile.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘If it happens again, I suggest you report it to the telephone people. You could request a change of number. That would put a stop to it.’
‘I could do that, I suppose.’
Joe stood up, looking at his watch.
‘I really must be going,’ he said.
‘It’s been lovely seeing you,’ said Melissa. ‘I wasn’t planning to start on a new book for at least a couple of months, but what with the history of the shepherd’s hut and Dick Woodman lurking in the shadows, and now this coded telephone call we’ve dreamed up, I can’t wait to get down to work.’
‘Good girl!’ There was an unaccustomed undertone of warmth in his voice. He moved a little closer so that she caught the tweedy smell of his jacket and the clean tang of his breath. ‘Keep me posted won’t you?’
‘I will.’
‘Fine.’ He slid a hand through her right arm and
gave it a little squeeze as they walked towards the car. The pressure was vaguely disturbing.
‘I may have to come down again in a couple of months or so,’ he said as he settled into the driving seat of his dark blue Audi. ‘I’ve just taken on a fearsome old agony aunt who’s retired to Cheltenham to write a novel based on some of her juicier correspondence. She’s a semi-invalid who doesn’t travel and she doesn’t trust the post, which is ironic when you think she spent most of her professional life receiving and answering letters!’
‘Let me know when you’re coming and drop in to see me again.’
‘I hoped you’d say that.’
‘How’s Georgina, by the way?’
‘She’s well.’ He was fumbling with his seat-belt, his head half-turned away.
‘And Paul? Is he enjoying life at Oxford?’
‘He’s fine, thank you, and loving every minute!’
‘I’m so glad.’
Melissa had met Joe’s wife once, at a book-launching party. Thin, with restless eyes and a drooping mouth, she had given the impression of being utterly bored. She seemed an unlikely mother to the eager-looking youngster whom Melissa, through a succession of portraits on Joe’s desk, had watched develop from a freckled thirteen-year-old into a handsome undergraduate with clean-cut features and an engaging smile. Whenever she visited Joe in his office there had been a new photograph of Paul for her to admire while his father looked on with quiet pride. There was never a picture of Georgina but it had not occurred to Melissa that there might be anything wrong with the marriage. Now, as she stood and watched the Audi turn into the lane, she remembered the flatness of Joe’s tone as he answered her enquiry about his wife and contrasted it with the warmth in his face and voice as he spoke of his son.
‘That Aubrey?’ Iris, in shapeless slacks, a baggy sweater and gardening gloves, came out of her garden through the side gate, her hoe balanced on her shoulder like a rifle.
‘Hello, Iris! No, that’s Joe Martin, my agent.’
‘Thought not. Looks too interesting. Heard from Aubrey lately?’
‘He rang the day I moved in, after I got home from your place. Haven’t heard a peep since.’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 5