Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1)

by Betty Rowlands

  His smile of apology was disarming but behind it was a hint of sadness.

  ‘I’m sorry. I do get carried away, I know. But suddenly it seemed to hit me . . . what could lie behind Babs’s disappearance. She was no angel, God knows, but she was a pretty little thing and she didn’t deserve to die . . .’

  ‘You don’t know for certain that she did die,’ Melissa pointed out wearily.

  ‘All right, you win.’ Dejectedly, he began putting on his jacket. He was no longer an eager terrier; almost, she thought, she could see his ears droop. She felt herself relenting.

  ‘Give me a day or two to think about it,’ she said. ‘I’ve been up since the crack of dawn . . . and I’m too tired to think straight.’

  Bruce glanced at his watch and whistled. ‘And now it’s ten o’clock! You must be shattered. I’m so sorry, I’ll go at once. I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the day after . . . and thanks once more for the supper, it was really delicious.’ His spirits had risen visibly. With his swift changes of mood, he reminded her of Simon.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, meaning it.

  At the door she held out her hand and to her surprise he raised it to his lips.

  ‘It’s been a privilege to spend the evening with you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ she replied sincerely.

  He got into his car and she switched on the outside light so that he could see to turn round. As he drove slowly away, one hand waving from the rolled-down driver’s window, another car appeared, bumping hesitantly along the track. It pulled up at her door, the engine and the headlights were switched off, and Aubrey got out.

  He rushed at her, enfolding her in a huge and clumsy embrace.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl, thank God you’re all right!’ He was breathing heavily and his mouth was not at its freshest.

  ‘Whatever do you mean? Of course I’m all right.’ She did her best not to sound cross. ‘Why didn’t you phone?’

  Aubrey waved his large hands in agitation. ‘But I did . . . several times. There was no reply and I was nearly out of my mind with worry.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did hear it once or twice but I was working and I couldn’t be bothered to answer. You’d better come in.’ Once inside he grabbed her and kissed her again, greedily. His chin was bristly. Melissa disengaged and led the way into the kitchen.

  ‘I can’t think why you had to get in such a state. People don’t sit by their phones all day, you know.’ She filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘I was just going to get ready for bed. Do you want some tea?’ The mention of bed was a mistake. She knew from experience that the gleam in Aubrey’s eye was not inspired by the prospect of tea. Oh no! she thought, not tonight.

  ‘I thought of you, caught up in all this dreadful business with no one to look after you,’ he said, with genuine concern. ‘As soon as I heard “Upper Benbury” on the news I thought to myself, my darling girl needs me, I must go to her!’

  ‘That was very nice and thoughtful of you,’ said Melissa, telling herself that she was extremely fortunate to be the object of so much consideration. ‘But I’m really quite all right. It was my next-door neighbour who found the body, not me.’

  ‘Your next-door . . . I never realised it was as close as that! They just mentioned the name of the village on the news. Oh, my poor darling!’ He leapt to his feet, protective arms outstretched.

  She dodged him and made a grab for the teapot. ‘Careful, you’ll get scalded!’

  Reluctantly, he sat down again. ‘I suppose that fellow who just left was a reporter? Have they been pestering you? If any of them come round tomorrow I’ll send them packing.’

  ‘Bruce hasn’t been pestering me,’ said Melissa quickly, then remembered that in a way he had been doing just that although the word had never entered her head at the time. Aubrey’s pale brown eyes and full, slightly loose mouth registered suspicion.

  ‘You mean it was a social visit? Bit late to come calling, isn’t it?’

  ‘He’s just gone home. You’re the one making the late call,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘That’s different,’ he protested.

  ‘Is it?’ She turned away to get cups and saucers from the cupboard. I mustn’t get angry with him, she told herself, it isn’t fair. He really cares, he’s come tearing down here at half past ten at night just to make sure I’m all right. I haven’t seen him for three weeks and I was pretty rotten to him last time we met and I snubbed him on the phone . . .

  A sulky expression had settled on Aubrey’s pudgy face and she had to make a conscious effort to push aside the memory of Bruce’s clean-cut features and alert humorous eyes.

  ‘Look, Aubrey,’ she said, handing him a cup of tea and pushing the sugar-bowl across the table. ‘It’s very sweet of you to be so concerned for me and I do appreciate it, but I’m really quite capable of looking after myself. I’ve tried to make you understand and I just wish you’d accept . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ He took the tea and grabbed her hand. ‘My darling girl, I know exactly why you’re doing this and I love you all the more for it.’ His thumb massaged her palm, lust glowed in his eye.

  Melissa drew her hand away. ‘Why I’m doing what?’

  ‘Pretending you don’t care! It’s because of Denise, isn’t it?’

  ‘She is your wife,’ murmured Melissa. She was being a coward, hiding behind the fact that Denise wanted to patch up the marriage after a long estrangement.

  ‘She doesn’t love me, not the way you do.’

  Melissa felt her jaw tightening. She drank her tea and got up, rinsing her cup at the sink. Her hands were trembling. Any minute now she’d explode and there’d be a scene. And she was so very, very tired.

  ‘Aubrey,’ she said quietly. ‘I am very fond of you’ — that at least was true — ‘and you have been extremely good to me, but I’m not going to let you break up your marriage on my account.’ Chicken, her brain screamed at her, miserable bloody chicken! Why can’t you just tell him the truth? You don’t love him, you’ve never really loved him; any man with an ounce of perception would have sensed it without being told.

  He was behind her, his arms around her, turning her to face him. She felt his hard tumescence pressing against her body and his hand moving purposefully down her spine. Then the telephone rang.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Aubrey’s hand stopped in mid-grope but he kept Melissa firmly clamped against him. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  She gripped his shoulders and pushed him away, thankful for the respite. ‘I’ll go and find out.’ She hurried into the sitting-room and picked up the phone.

  ‘Babs?’ The voice was weak and hesitant but the note of hysteria had gone and he sounded rational. Her heart began to thump.

  ‘Hello, Clive.’ She concentrated on sounding calm and receptive, anxious to say nothing to upset him.

  ‘Is Babs there? I must speak to Babs!’

  ‘She’s not here at the moment.’

  ‘When . . . when will she be back?’

  Melissa sensed that he was on a knife-edge between amnesia and a return to normality. She would have to play this very carefully, not hustle him.

  ‘Can you ring again tomorrow?’ she asked.

  There was no answer, but a movement behind her made her turn around. Aubrey was standing in the doorway, unashamedly listening. He had taken off his jacket and was in the act of removing his tie. Aubrey believed in making good use of every minute of his time. She turned her back on him.

  ‘Clive? Are you still there?’

  ‘I have to talk to Babs! It’s important . . .’ The words came in jerks; he was beginning to get agitated.

  Aubrey had moved round in front of her and was mouthing enquiries and instructions. If only he wasn’t there she could think more clearly how to handle this. She flapped a hand at him in exasperation.

  ‘Listen, Clive, I can’t talk now. Ring again tomorrow . . . please. Will you do that?’

  There was a pause. Faint, inarticulate sounds came ov
er the wire. Sounds of distress, quickly controlled.

  ‘Tomorrow? Will Babs be there tomorrow?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  There was a sigh at the end of the wire and the phone was put down. Melissa sat for a moment staring at the receiver in her hand and muttering ‘Damn! Damn!’ under her breath before she too hung up. If she’d been on her own she might have found out something useful. There was no guarantee that Clive would remember to ring tomorrow and it might be days before she heard from him again. Then she remembered that Bruce had been monitoring his progress. He must know which hospital Clive was in. She would talk to Bruce tomorrow and perhaps together they would go to see him.

  ‘Who is Clive and why the hell is he ringing you at this ungodly hour?’ demanded Aubrey.

  Melissa gave him a savage glare. ‘It’s only just gone eleven.’ She pushed past him and went back to the kitchen. She had had enough of Aubrey. She wanted to think. Above all, she wanted to sleep. ‘What’s it got to do with you anyway?’

  She could have told him the truth, of course, but why should she? He’d only fuss and interfere, and it was none of his business. He switched off the light as he followed her from the room. Even in moments of agitation he never forgot life’s little economies.

  ‘You haven’t done badly in a couple of weeks, have you?’ he jeered at her. ‘One just leaving as I arrive, another phoning an hour later. Not bad going at all!’ His voice was harsh with frustration and jealousy.

  Melissa felt herself reaching flash-point. She drew a deep breath and began counting to ten. When she turned to face him she thought how stupid he looked with his flushed face, his narrowed eyes and his half-open mouth. For a moment, she hated him.

  ‘You dirty-minded sod!’ Her voice shook with rage and weariness. ‘Either apologise for that insinuation or get out of my house!’ Her knees began to buckle; she grabbed a stool and sat down.

  Aubrey’s expression of righteous wrath collapsed. ‘Darling girl, I didn’t mean it! Please forgive me!’ He was abject, squatting before her, holding her hands, love and devotion swimming in his pale eyes. He was a kind, good man and she wished she could love him but knew she never could. Gently, she freed her hands and got up.

  ‘All right, let’s forget it. Aubrey, I’ve had a gruelling day and I need sleep. Did you bring an overnight bag?’

  ‘In the car,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll run and fetch it.’

  ‘I’ll go and make up the spare bed for you.’

  For a second, she thought he was going to protest but he thought better of it and went to get his bag. A few minutes later, as they stood on the landing after she had locked up, shown him where he was to sleep and pointed out the bathroom, he attempted to kiss her. She offered him her cheek and he turned sullenly away.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he mumbled.

  The builder had not considered it necessary to provide locks on the bedroom doors. A pity, thought Melissa, propping a chair under the handle and hoping it would hold. It was a wise precaution. A little while later she heard scraping sounds as the handle was turned from outside. Later still — she could not be certain whether she had slept or not — the stairs creaked. A car started and drove quietly away. After that she slept soundly and peacefully.

  Twelve

  Melissa slept soundly until eight o’clock. Except during periods of extreme anxiety she tended to wake with an uncluttered mind that enabled her to make a slow, unhurried transition from slumber into full consciousness. Only then did she begin to run over events past and map out the day ahead. This morning was no exception. It was several minutes before she remembered what had happened the previous evening. She got up and drew back the curtains.

  Aubrey’s car had gone. The sky was still overcast but the clouds were gossamer-thin with hints of blue behind them. She pushed the window open and leaned out, taking deep draughts of the early-morning freshness, savouring it as if it were champagne. The air had a heightened clarity after the rain and as she watched, the sun burst through, sparkling on the wet grass and casting a sheet of pale gold across the valley.

  She put on a dressing-gown and went to the bathroom. The clean towel she had given Aubrey lay neatly folded over the edge of the wash-basin. She checked his room; his bed had not been slept in. She went downstairs. On the kitchen table was a sheet of paper torn from a notebook. ‘I shall not trouble you again,’ he had written.

  Her eyes began to sting. Poor Aubrey. She pictured him, lonely and rejected as he drove home through the night, and felt guilty. Then she felt angry. It wasn’t her fault if she didn’t love him. She had tried, knowing how much he cared for her, but it simply hadn’t happened. And whenever she sought to explain this to him he hadn’t wanted to know, preferring to believe — because it was what he wanted and because it was in his nature to hide from disagreeable realities by pretending they didn’t exist — that she was nobly denying her own feelings to give him a chance to mend his marriage. Well, he had accepted defeat at last and she was free. It was a good sensation. She went back upstairs and spent a blissful half-hour soaking in the bath and planning her day.

  By nine o’clock the sky was clear and wonderfully blue. The saturated earth lay steaming contentedly in the sun. In the garden, blackbirds tugged at reluctant worms and sparrows squabbled over tit-bits. The cuckoo’s monotonous call echoed and re-echoed up the valley, reminding Melissa of the scene by the woodland grave, of her half-promise to Bruce and thence to Clive’s latest phone call. They represented problems that would have to be faced but for the moment she put them out of her mind. She had a good hour and a half before it was time to leave for church and she put it to good use by going over yesterday’s output of The Shepherd’s Hut.

  When she came out of her front door at a quarter to eleven, Iris was waiting for her, clad in the tweed coat and skirt that seemed to be her regular church-going attire. She looked cheerful and alert.

  ‘Got rid of Aubrey, then!’

  ‘How did you know it was Aubrey?’ It was odd, she thought, that what she would have found an intolerable impertinence from someone like Mrs Calloway was perfectly acceptable from Iris.

  ‘Saw your face when he arrived. Heard him leave, too. Tell him to push off, did you?’ There was a trace of malevolent glee in Iris’s chuckle.

  ‘Not in so many words, but he got the message. By the way, in all the excitement I don’t think I told you I’ve cracked the mystery of the weird phone calls.’ As they turned into the lane and began the climb into the village, she ran briefly through her visit to The Usual Place, her meeting with Bruce and his account of Clive’s accident.

  ‘Bruce is convinced that the body in the woods is Babs’s,’ she finished. ‘He called round yesterday evening to talk about it. He was just leaving as Aubrey arrived. I expect you saw him. He’s got some theory . . .’ She gave her friend an anxious sideways glance, afraid that all this might be a distressing reminder of her ordeal, but Iris took it in her stride. Moreover, she had a theory of her own.

  ‘Sex-killing!’ she said flatly, as if there could be no doubt. ‘All tarts, those girls! Get their come-uppance sooner or later. He sees to that!’ she added with a solemn glance at the sky.

  They had reached the centre of the village where they soon fell in with a group of fellow-worshippers. The subject of Babs and the possibility of divine retribution was allowed to drop.

  During the service the Rector, pale and with a slightly exaggerated air of solemnity but otherwise perfectly composed, delivered a sermon on the twin themes of forgiveness and salvation, reminding his flock that none was without sin. Listening to his voice booming confidently round the little church, Melissa recalled his agitation as he stood by the grave. There had been something strange about him, she thought. Something he had said, perhaps? Whatever it was, it eluded her.

  After the service, the congregation stood outside in groups to exchange views on the sermon. A tweedy man with a brick-red face and a white moustache challenged the Rector in a parade-ground voice t
o consider how the victim’s family might feel about such damned wishy-washy attitudes towards violent crime.

  ‘Major Ford!’ Iris whispered to Melissa. ‘Leads the local hangers and floggers brigade!’

  While the Rector was doing his best to placate the irate major, a detachment of gloved and hatted ladies with handbags dangling from their arms buttonholed Melissa.

  ‘Fancy a thing like that in Benbury!’ said Mrs Foster, the dumpy little party who kept the village shop. She had a round, pink, rather childish face with matching voice, wispy hair and fluttery eyelids. ‘I expect you’ll be writing it into a story before long?’ There were excited and admiring murmurs from other members of the group.

  ‘I hope you’ll do no such thing!’ Mrs Calloway, who had been talking to an adjacent group, swung round to butt in before Melissa could open her mouth. ‘And I also hope,’ she added, giving her spectacles a vicious upward shove, ‘that your books don’t contain any nastiness!’

  Melissa pointed out that it was difficult to conceive a murder without nastiness but Mrs Calloway, a crimson tide riding up her neck, declared that wasn’t what she had in mind.

  Iris nudged Melissa in the ribs. ‘She means sex!’ she hissed in a gloating stage-whisper that was obviously meant to be heard.

  The edge of the blush travelled up Mrs Calloway’s face and disappeared under the brim of her hat. She shot a glance of pure hatred at Iris and turned away.

  ‘Poor old Henry,’ said Melissa as she and Iris set off for home. ‘I wonder he hasn’t wrung her neck long ago!’

  Iris’s face assumed the familiar expression of adoring imbecility. ‘Mr Calloway,’ she said, and her tone carried an implied reproof at Melissa’s use of his Christian name, ‘is a saint. He wouldn’t harm a fly.’ Preferring not to become embroiled in a discussion of the Rector’s sanctity, Melissa changed the subject.