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

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Is he the owner or the estate manager?’

  ‘He’s one of the owners. It’s a kind of consortium . . . they bought the property as an investment. I understand some of the partners live in London. Gregory Francis is a local businessman, quite a well-known antiques dealer, but even he doesn’t actually live in the house.’

  ‘So it isn’t really a family home?’ Melissa felt surprisingly disappointed. Talk of the Brent-Smiths and their commitment to the estate and to the village had conjured up a scenario that she would have enjoyed building into her novel.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Rector, ‘but I tell you what I could do . . . I could introduce you to the Vowdens over at Rillingford. They have a lovely old Queen Anne house . . . much smaller than Benbury Park, of course . . . no butler’s pantry or anything like that, haha, but I’m sure they’d be delighted to help you.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ said Melissa gratefully. ‘I do appreciate your interest.’

  ‘Any time, any time! And if you want to know anything about shooting parties, I suggest you have a word with Dick Woodman. He knows the gamekeeper and he helps out. I believe he tells some good yarns in the Woolpack on a Saturday night during the season. It sounds as if some of these wealthy gentlemen hardly know one end of a gun from the other!’

  ‘Tough on the beaters!’ commented Iris with a sniff.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ chuckled Mr Calloway. The encounter seemed to have cheered him enormously. He glanced at his watch. ‘I must be getting back,’ he declared. ‘Anthea will be wondering what has become of me. Please excuse me, ladies.’ With a wave, he strode off towards the village, leaving Iris and Melissa to follow more slowly.

  Bruce rang again shortly after Melissa returned home.

  ‘I spoke to Matron,’ he said. ‘A neurologist is coming to see Clive tomorrow. I’m to check again and if he gives the okay we can go along on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘How much have you told her?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘Nothing about the murder. Just about the phone calls. She already knew, of course, about his obsession with Babs and The Usual Place but hadn’t realised he’d been trying to contact her. She seems to think it might help him to talk to someone who knows Babs.’

  ‘Well, you’ve met her, I haven’t.’

  ‘True, but you’re the one who’s been getting the calls.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to play it by ear, won’t we?’

  ‘Right. Nothing to report your end?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve just been speaking to the Rector about Benbury Park.’ She passed on the little information the Rector had been able to give her. ‘It sounds as if the house becomes a sort of leisure centre for Hooray Henrys at weekends. Shooting parties, polo meetings . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘That could provide useful cover for a drugs operation, couldn’t it?’ said Bruce eagerly. Melissa burst out laughing. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘You are. Every kind of business from a North Sea oil rig to an ice-cream cart could be useful cover for something crooked according to you!’

  ‘I’ll make you take me seriously one of these days,’ he declared.

  ‘Good. Keep trying!’

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow then . . . ciao!’

  By a lucky chance she had an opportunity to speak to Dick Woodman the very next day. She had taken a break from her writing to work for a while in the garden when he passed Hawthorn Cottage with his dog at his heels. He was only too pleased to stop for a chat and when he realised that the writing lady from London was actually seeking his help for one of her story-books, his chest swelled with pride.

  ‘I’ve been hearing from the Rector about the shooting parties,’ Melissa said.

  This was sufficient to launch Dick into an enthusiastic account of the organisation of a shoot, which Melissa found vaguely repellent. Raising large numbers of living creatures merely to give the well-heeled something to shoot at was bad enough; to employ men to drive them out into the open so that they provided easy targets outraged her sense of fair play. Suspecting that Dick would find her views eccentric and possibly ludicrous, she kept them to herself and switched the conversation to the people who made up the shooting parties.

  ‘It’s mostly the local landowners and gentry, and sometimes people down from London,’ he explained. ‘The polo now, that brings in a different class of folk altogether.’

  ‘How do you mean . . . different?’

  ‘Richer,’ said Dick with a grin. ‘Loaded they are. Some of them come in their private choppers and aeroplanes.’

  Melissa was impressed.

  ‘Is there an airfield at Benbury Park?’

  ‘There’s a landing strip . . . just for little planes.’

  ‘And a polo ground?’

  ‘No, that’s in Cirencester. There’s polo there most Sundays during the season. Some of the visitors stay at the Park . . . some of them, the ones who’re actually playing, keep their ponies there.’

  ‘It sounds like a sort of hotel.’

  Dick seemed to find this immensely amusing. ‘It’s not open to the likes of you and me, if you get my meaning,’ he chuckled. ‘More like a posh sort of club for Mr Francis and his friends.’

  ‘I’m told that the village people aren’t made welcome at Benbury Park,’ said Melissa.

  Dick shrugged. ‘Ah well, you know how it is with rich folk. They like to keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘Do you help the gamekeeper with the pheasants? I’d love to see the chicks some time.’

  Dick shook his head with evident regret. ‘Ah, now that might be a problem. Mr Hepple doesn’t care for strangers round the place . . . it disturbs the birds, you see. I could ask him, though.’ He hesitated for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s your story about, then? Spies? The IRA?’

  Melissa shook her head, smiling. ‘Nothing like that . . . just a gang of art thieves.’

  ‘Ah!’ Dick nodded approval. ‘Well then, there’s the perfect set-up. The crooks come in pretending they’re here for the sport and bring the loot hidden under their tackle. You could hide a lot of pictures in a Range Rover, couldn’t you?’

  ‘What a clever idea!’ said Melissa. ‘Thank you very much!’

  ‘Tell you what!’ said Dick, whose imagination had obviously been set alight. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open, like. If I spot anything that might help . . . with ideas, I mean . . . I’ll drop in when I pass this way.’

  Melissa was taken aback by this show of enthusiasm. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ was all she could think of to say.

  He turned as if to go, then thought of something else.

  ‘We won’t say anything about this, eh?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she agreed. ‘It’s our secret.’

  He winked and set off down the valley with the dog trotting at his heels. Melissa went indoors to devise more clues to put Nathan Latimer on the trail of her fictitious band of crooked antiques dealers and some means for them to airlift their loot out of the country.

  Bruce rang after supper to confirm that Matron had agreed that they should visit Clive the following evening.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at five o’clock,’ he said. ‘We’re only going to be allowed a short visit so we can compare notes over a drink before dinner.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s the book coming on?’

  ‘It’s going through a rather turgid patch and I’m trying to think of a way to liven things up. My detective has just had a phone call from an informer and I thought of having a bizarre, off-beat sort of rendezvous for them to meet.’

  ‘Mmm . . . instead of the usual sleazy pub or bench in the park?’

  ‘That’s right. Any ideas?’

  There was a pause before Bruce said cautiously, ‘Your Chief Inspector . . . Latimer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nathan Latimer.’ She felt absurdly gratified that he really was familiar with her books.

  ‘Hasn’t he got a female side-kick?’
r />   ‘Yes . . . Sergeant Dilys Morgan.’

  ‘Yes indeed, boyo.’ He assumed a stage Welsh accent. ‘How about making the informer a male stripper, a sort of Gorgeous George? Nathan Latimer could send Dilys along to the strip club, and . . . ’ The last word was spoken with rising emphasis that indicated the most brilliant part was yet to come ‘ . . . you could go along to Gorgeous George’s show one afternoon, just to make sure you get the atmosphere right.’

  ‘Well, of all the . . . !’ It was no good trying to sound offended when she could hardly contain her laughter.

  ‘Come now, don’t pretend to be shocked. You hinted when we first met that you’d encountered some pretty dubious characters in the interests of research. I’ll bet those afternoon affairs at The Usual Place are pretty tame in comparison with . . . er . . . ’

  ‘In comparison with what? I hope you weren’t about to suggest that I’m in the habit of frequenting dens of vice?’

  ‘No, of course not . . . I meant the evening ones for the boys,’ he said hastily. ‘Well, do I get a Brownie point?’

  ‘It’s worth thinking about . . . but I wouldn’t want to be recognised.’

  ‘No problem. Give a false name, wear a wig and a pair of dark glasses . . . no, I’ve got a better idea!’ His voice rose in renewed excitement.

  Ears up, nose twitching, tail thumping, she thought with amusement. What was coming now?

  ‘Go and get yourself a new hairdo and make-up at Petronella’s in the morning . . . that way you can kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow you. Who or what is Petronella’s?’

  ‘The beauty shop I was telling you about . . . where Babs used to live.’

  ‘Oh, there.’ Accidentally or deliberately, Melissa had allowed his earlier proposition to slip her memory. ‘So what second stone do you have in mind?’

  ‘Sussing the place out for possible drugs dealing, of course.’

  ‘Of course . . . how stupid of me not to think of it! When the girl asks me what shampoo I’d like I’ll say “grass”, or “smack” maybe, or “today I feel like chasing the Dragon”.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he said, sounding offended. ‘I should naturally expect someone of your intelligence to be more subtle than that. A hairdo, a make-up and a manicure, say, would keep you there for . . . how long, a couple of hours? You’d have plenty of time to look around, get chatting to the staff and so on. What do you say? I did come up with a useful idea for your book. Persuasive syrup began to trickle down the wires.

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to use it,’ she said, rather feebly.

  ‘You said it was worth thinking about. How about a quid pro quo? Please?’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to find out from Gloria how one sets about getting into this dive . . . there may be some kind of membership scheme.’

  ‘Well, she works in the bar there, doesn’t she? She ought to be able to fix it for you.’

  ‘She may tell half the village about it, that’s what’s bothering me.’

  ‘Buy her silence with autographed copies of all your books.’

  ‘She doesn’t read crime novels . . . she only likes a nice love story.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade her to be discreet.’ There was a brisk finality in his tone that indicated the affair was settled. ‘See you tomorrow, then . . . five o’clock?’

  ‘All right. Goodbye.’

  Wondering what she had let herself in for, Melissa went back to her study to consider the possibility of arranging a rendezvous with a male stripper for her rather prudish Sergeant Dilys Morgan.

  Fourteen

  On Wednesday morning Gloria turned up even more exuberant, colourful and exotically perfumed than usual. She was in high spirits, having the previous day attended the final of a children’s beauty contest at which her youngest had been declared the winner. She produced photographs of a pretty little moppet with her mother’s enormous eyes and radiant smile and treated Melissa to a detailed account of the brilliance of the occasion and the impeccable performance of her offspring, ‘Just like a real model,’ declared the proud mother, limpid brown eyes aglow. All through their coffee-break she held forth about the charm of the judge (an actor from a popular soap opera, ‘ever so dishy, he was,’), the shortcomings of the other contestants, none of whom could hold a candle to her Charlene, and the latter’s prospects in the glittering world of television commercials.

  When at last she paused for breath, Melissa put in her request for an entree into the Tuesday afternoon diversions at The Usual Place. Despite her careful insistence that this was purely in the cause of research, the request caused astonishment and much hilarity on Gloria’s part.

  ‘Ooh my, fancy a lady like you wanting to see Gorgeous George!’ she hooted, clutching her plump stomach. ‘Wait till I tells my Stanley, he’ll wet his knickers!’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you didn’t tell anyone, not even your husband,’ said Melissa severely. Mentally, she was cursing Bruce for putting this ridiculous enterprise into her head. ‘If anyone at The Usual Place were to find out that I’m going there in order to write about it, I’d be thrown out. This is just between you and me. Promise!’

  Grudgingly Gloria promised. ‘All right, I won’t say nothing to no one.’ After a moment’s thought her regret at not being allowed to tell her Stanley changed to excitement at the notion of a secret shared with the author of a mystery novel. ‘It’ll be like one of they spy stories on the telly!’ she gloated. ‘I’ll fix it for you to join the U.P. Club. You has to pay a membership fee, five pound I think it is, okay?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Melissa, wondering if it would be tax deductible and trying to visualise her accountant’s reaction. ‘I’d like to go along next Tuesday if it can be arranged.’

  Gloria nodded. She had her facial muscles more or less under control but her eyes were rolling with mirth. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, when your book’s finished, can I tell folks I helped you with it?’

  ‘You can indeed, and you shall have a free autographed copy,’ Melissa promised.

  Gloria sighed with happiness. Her cup was full and she tackled the bathroom with even more gusto than usual.

  Cedar Lawns, an exclusive private clinic, occupied a large Victorian stone house with an additional modern wing, standing in extensive grounds on the outskirts of Bristol with a commanding view of the Downs. It was approached through iron gates mounted on stone pillars and along a drive flanked on either side by the graceful, spreading trees that had inspired the name.

  ‘It’s like a country hotel,’ Bruce remarked as he and Melissa walked from the car park to the front door. ‘I’ll bet it costs an arm and a leg to be treated here!’

  She nodded. ‘Looks as if there’s money in Clive’s family. Is that what Babs meant when she said he was a “good prospect”, I wonder?’

  The entrance hall was bright, cheerful and smelled of wax polish and pot pourri. At a small reception desk a girl with smooth fair hair and sea-blue eyes sat at a typewriter, a telephone at her elbow. Bruce strolled over, gave his name and asked to see the matron. The girl flashed him an admiring smile as she picked up the phone and pressed a button; she continued to smile while waiting for a reply. Bruce’s personality had that effect.

  Matron received them in her office, a comfortably furnished room overlooking a garden bright with daffodils and early tulips. She had a fresh, wholesome appearance with the clear eyes and tranquil expression of a nun. She was small and slight but her voice was strong and authoritative. Her staff, Melissa knew instinctively, would jump to do her bidding. She spoke of Clive Shepherd with affection and admiration.

  ‘He had enough serious injuries to kill him several times over,’ she informed her visitors. ‘The surgeons were amazed at the way he pulled through; he simply refused to give up. He was in intensive care for several weeks, you know, just hanging o
n by a thread.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Bruce. ‘Is he up and about yet?’

  ‘His right leg is in a cast and it is still a great effort for him to walk but otherwise his recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. Of course, he has good and bad days but on the whole he is progressing extraordinarily well. I understand that you know the young woman he calls Babs?’ she went on, her placid gaze settling on Bruce.

  ‘I’ve met her, but I haven’t seen her recently.’

  ‘And you,’ she turned to Melissa, ‘have been getting telephone calls from him?’

  ‘We’ve been assuming it’s him, although he’s never given a name,’ Melissa explained. ‘But I talked it over with Mr Ingram and it seems fairly certain. At first he sounded terribly confused but the last time he rang he spoke much more rationally and when I addressed him by name he accepted it quite naturally.’

  Matron nodded. ‘We’re hoping that contact with someone who actually knows this girl will help his memory to return,’ she said. ‘It seems to be coming back slowly although he has absolutely no recollection of events leading up to the accident, or of the accident itself.’ She pressed a bell-push on her desk. ‘I can only allow a short visit because he does get agitated rather easily. Still, the neurologist was pleased with his progress when he examined him yesterday.’

  ‘Incidentally,’ said Bruce, ‘do you, or Clive’s parents, know anything about his relationship with Babs?’

  Matron drew a sharp little breath through pursed lips. ‘Clive has no mother. I have never met his father although I have spoken to him on the telephone.’

  ‘You mean, he doesn’t come to see Clive?’ asked Melissa in astonishment.