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

by Betty Rowlands

  Together they walked across to the visitors’ car park.

  ‘You okay to drive?’ said Bruce. ‘That was your second grilling of the day . . . you look pretty washed out.’

  ‘My head feels like a heap of bones in the desert . . . picked clean,’ said Melissa wearily.

  ‘How about going somewhere for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not for me. I’m marinaded in tea and coffee already, thanks all the same.’ She unlocked the door of her dark green Golf and he held it open while she slid into the driver’s seat. ‘Has your weekend been a complete write-off?’

  There was a twinkle in Bruce’s eye as he shook his head and replied, ‘I told you the other day, that girl is a jewel!’

  So it was Rowena. ‘Has she found out yet that your yarn about collecting for the Intensive Therapy Unit was a load of codswallop?’

  He chuckled, totally unabashed. ‘She never did swallow it. Tore me off quite a strip the first time she rang me. I had to take her out to . . . well, to put things right. It sort of went on from there.’

  ‘So she has some inkling of what we’ve been up to?’

  ‘Oh yes . . . but she’s very discreet.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ said Melissa drily. ‘Were there ever any suspicious enquiries about Clive?’

  ‘No. We seem to have been barking up the wrong tree there.’ The merriment faded from his eyes. ‘I’m very much afraid Clive is in big trouble.’

  ‘That reminds me. I was thinking of getting in touch with his father and maybe going to see him. Perhaps I’ll do that later on today. Now the other business is out of our hands . . .’

  ‘Won’t know what to do with yourself, will you?’ said Bruce wickedly. ‘No more Sultry Sam and Gorgeous George . . . life will be very dull!’

  Melissa shot him a withering look. ‘There is a small matter of a novel I’m supposed to be writing.’

  ‘Of course . . . well, cheer up, the past few days have given you plenty of material for it!’

  ‘The trouble is, what has been going on is too close to my plot . . . no one will believe I invented it.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. I can just imagine some fork-tongued reviewer silkily suggesting that Mel Craig seems to be losing her flair for originality. Do you realise, even my villain is an antiques dealer, like one of the partners in the Benbury Park consortium!’

  Bruce chuckled. ‘I remember . . . Gregory something or other. No problem! Make him a bishop!’

  ‘Oh, brilliant! I suppose he smuggles stolen church art treasures out of the country in the helicopters that bring his fellow clerics to the Palace garden party!’

  ‘Right! He needs the money because a country rector is blackmailing him on account of his illicit relationship with a stripper — see how easy it is!’

  ‘You are an idiot!’ Melissa laughed at the nonsense and felt better. ‘Well, I’ll have to get down to it. As soon as this lot breaks I’ll have my agent breathing down my neck.’ She fastened her seat-belt and turned the key in the ignition. The engine responded instantly and Bruce gave a nod of approval at its smooth tickover.

  ‘Nice motor. GTI, isn’t it? Lively little beast, so I’m told!’

  ‘It was Simon’s actually — my son’s. He was getting rid of it when he went to the States so I bought it from him.’

  Mild surprise flickered across Bruce’s face. It was the first time she had mentioned Simon.

  ‘I didn’t realise you . . .’ He checked himself and for a moment seemed embarrassed. His eyes went back to the car. ‘Can it do the ton?’

  ‘I dare say it can but I’ve never tried. I suppose it’s a bit ridiculous for a middle-aged woman but it’s fun to drive. Well, enjoy the rest of your weekend. My regards to Rowena.’

  ‘Sure. Be seeing you.’ In the mirror, she saw that he was watching her as she drove out. Perhaps he too had come within an ace of making a fool of himself.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Mr Shepherd?’

  ‘Who is that?’ The voice was high-pitched, patrician, slightly imperious. Melissa pictured silver hair, an upright carriage and aesthetic features.

  ‘My name’s Melissa Craig. You won’t know me . . . I’m a friend of your son’s.’

  There was a pause, barely perceptible, before the man said, ‘I presume you are aware that my son is at present recovering from a serious motor accident, Miss Craig?’

  ‘Mrs Craig, actually.’ The correction was mechanical, part of a defence system built long ago. ‘Yes, I do know. As a matter of fact, I went to see him yesterday. I’m afraid he’s in rather serious trouble.’

  ‘Indeed?’ It seemed that a touch of frost had crept into the carefully modulated voice. ‘I find that difficult to believe in the circumstances.’

  ‘I . . .’ She had known it was going to be difficult. How does one break it to a complete stranger, particularly one so obviously unfriendly, that his only son is liable to be accused of murder? ‘I know that you and Clive aren’t very close . . .’

  ‘Please come to the point.’

  ‘It’s very difficult to explain over the telephone. Could I possibly come and see you? I won’t take up too much of your time,’ she added, fearing that he was about to refuse. There was the suspicion of a sigh of exasperation at the other end of the line and she could have sworn she heard the sound of impatient fingers drumming on a table.

  ‘Very well,’ the man said grudgingly, ‘if you consider it necessary.’

  ‘Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?’

  ‘I suppose so. I can spare you a few minutes at three o’clock.’ It was plain that he considered her request both inconvenient and impertinent but she could hardly back out now.

  ‘Thank you very much. Please, can you tell me how to find you?’ His tone, as he gave directions to a house on the outskirts of Stow-on-the-Wold, was curt to the point of rudeness and he cut short her thanks by putting down his receiver. It was plain that her reception would not be cordial.

  Oaklands Park was an impressive house of grey stone set about a hundred yards back from a quiet country road. The entrance reminded Melissa of Cedar Lawns, with tall pillars flanking the entrance to a tree-lined drive which ended in a circular gravelled forecourt. Yet it lacked something of the hospital’s welcoming aspect. In bright sunshine it would doubtless be a picture straight out of a glossy magazine but today, under a chilly drizzle from clouds the colour of old army blankets, it had a depressing, faintly hostile air.

  Melissa backed the Golf against a low hedge to the right of the entrance. On the opposite side, in front of a row of outbuildings which had evidently once been a stable block, an elderly man was polishing a white Rolls-Royce. When Melissa got out of her car he came across the courtyard to meet her, a grave and rather dignified figure who wore his dark green overalls like a livery. Evidently he had been told to expect her.

  ‘Mrs Craig? Please come this way.’ She followed him to the front door, which had been left on the latch. He held it open for her, his head bent in the deferential yet dignified manner of an old-fashioned family retainer. She felt he would be more at home in a black coat and carrying a silver tray of wine-glasses, an impression which was confirmed as he said, ‘Mr Francis is in the library.’

  He was delightful, a period piece, pure Agatha Christie. Melissa would have been prepared to bet that he still referred to his employer’s son as ‘Master Clive’. The depressing nature of her errand had not suppressed her writer’s capacity to observe characters and surroundings, and as she followed the man across a large square hall with suits of armour in the corners and huge, gilt-framed pictures on the walls, it became clear that the place belonged to someone with a discriminating eye backed by substantial means. If, as Clive had bitterly claimed, his father worshipped Mammon, then it was obvious that Mammon had not been ungenerous in return. The paintings were originals and there was nothing mass-produced or modern among the carefully arranged pieces of porcelain and bronze. It was almost lik
e visiting a stately home.

  The manservant led her round a corner, tapped on a door leading off a passage and opened it without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Mrs Craig,’ he announced, ushering Melissa inside.

  The thin, grey-haired man who rose from behind a large mahogany desk had the same high forehead and prominent cheekbones as his son but he was not so tall and there was nothing friendly in his demeanour. His well-fitting flannel suit, silk shirt and tie were, like his surroundings, expensive and in perfect taste. There was no warmth in his pale eyes and his mouth had a downward twist. Whatever his worldly success, Clive’s father was not a happy man. He took Melissa’s proffered hand with evident reluctance, brushing it briefly with chilly fingers before waving her to a chair facing him.

  ‘Thank you, Preston. When you have finished cleaning the car, kindly drive into Stow and fill it up. I may need it later.’

  Preston’s respectful nod was almost a bow. ‘Yes, Mr Francis.’ He went out and closed the door.

  ‘Now, Mrs Craig, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me why you are here.’ Without actually glancing at his watch, her host managed to make it clear that the interview was to be brief.

  ‘It’s . . . not easy to explain,’ she began. She had spent most of the drive rehearsing what she would say without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. ‘As I said on the phone, I know that you and Clive are not on good terms, but . . .’

  ‘My relations with my son are no concern of yours.’

  It was an unpromising start. She tried again. ‘I expect you know about your son’s association with a girl called Babs Carter?’

  ‘I know nothing of my son’s associates. Who is this girl?’

  ‘She is, or rather was, a . . . that is, she worked at a nightclub called The Usual Place.’

  The pale eyes hardened and the thin lips registered distaste. ‘You led me to believe that my son was in some kind of trouble. Do I understand that this . . . person has something to do with it? Has she had a . . .’ He seemed unable to bring himself to utter the word and Melissa, thinking to save him embarrassment, said it for him.

  ‘A baby? Oh, no! I only wish it was as simple as that.’

  ‘Then kindly come to the point.’

  It was the moment Melissa had dreaded. She drew a deep breath.

  ‘Mr Shepherd,’ she said quietly, ‘Babs Carter is dead . . . strangled. There is a chance that Clive may be charged with her murder.’

  There was a long silence, accentuated rather than broken by the steady ticking of a long-case clock in a corner of the room. The man behind the desk stared at Melissa with an intensity that made her uneasy. She braced herself for an outburst of rage and a furious order to leave the house, but nothing came. Instead, he stood up, went to the window and stood for several moments staring out in silence at the rain. He held himself as straight as a guardsman but the hands that hung at his sides were clenching and unclenching as if he were keeping time with the clock.

  Melissa glanced round the room. The books that lined the walls were obviously valuable, the paintings above them were masterpieces, the carpet, furniture and ornaments must be worth thousands of pounds. The broad window gave on to a spacious, well-tended garden with an uninterrupted view across the rolling Cotswold Hills. It was the dwelling of a rich and successful man whose wealth had erected a barrier between him and his only son. No doubt the father had had dreams and ambitions for the boy and had grown bitter as he watched them fade over the years. Now they were in danger of being destroyed for ever.

  The silence became unbearable and Melissa said timidly, ‘I . . . I’d like you to know that I don’t believe that Clive is guilty.’ There was no reaction but she would not be discouraged. She was here and so long as she was not ordered to leave she would say what she had come to say. ‘But he’s in a strange state of mind and is saying some very odd things.’

  ‘What do you want of me?’ Still he did not turn his head.

  ‘I want nothing,’ said Melissa. ‘I thought you should know how things were so that if it became necessary you could arrange for Clive to have the best possible legal advice.’ Now the stance was less rigid than before, the iron-grey head less erect. He seemed somehow more approachable and Melissa got up, took a step forward and reached out a hand. ‘Mr Shepherd, I . . .’

  ‘Kindly don’t keep calling me that!’ He rounded on her and she backed away at the sight of his glittering eyes and flaring nostrils. Never in her life had she seen anyone look so angry.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ she said. She could feel her voice shaking. ‘You are Clive’s father, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ The voice dropped to a harsh growl. ‘I am his father and he is my only son. After his mother died, I dedicated my life and my fortune to him. He had the best of everything that money could buy. Nothing, nothing was too good for him. He rejected it all . . . his home, his father . . . even his name!’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘That was supreme insult, rejection of his father’s name. Clive Francis became Clive Shepherd.’ He spat out the final word as if it burned his lips. ‘But there was worse to follow!’

  Melissa shook her head in bewilderment. ‘So you are really Mr Francis? I’m sorry, I had no idea . . .’

  So much, she thought grimly, for her cosy image of the old family retainer using the style of address of a bygone age. She should never have come. Nothing would be achieved by her visit but the tearing open of a wound whose depth and pain were beyond her understanding. She would have given anything to be able to slip quietly away but Mr Francis went on speaking in a voice thickened by emotion.

  ‘He left his home with hardly a penny in his pocket. He left everything behind, everything I had given him . . . his car, his pictures, horses . . . even his books. He walked . . . yes, walked . . . out of this house with one suitcase and I never saw him again. And all this was to be his!’ Standing with the light behind him, his head thrown back and one hand extended in a symbolic gesture, he had the air of a medieval architect in a stained-glass window, proudly holding a model of his masterpiece. A lonely, disillusioned man, he inspired both pity for his suffering and despair at his blindness.

  ‘He lived like a pauper!’ The eyes were still directed at her but she had the uncanny feeling that they did not see her. Behind their rage was a kind of blankness. ‘He refused even the pittance I was prepared to allow him. And then, as if he had not humiliated and disappointed me enough, he became entangled with a whore!’

  ‘I can understand how upset you must be feeling,’ Melissa murmured, conscious of the triteness of the phrase, its total inadequacy in the light of the message she had brought. Sooner or later, of course, he had to know what kind of girl his son had loved. She only wished she had not been the one to tell him.

  ‘She was after money, of course! The young fool had let slip that he had a wealthy father. Everyone knows that women of that sort are not above a little blackmail!’ Slowly, he returned to his chair and sat down, his jaw set and his eyes glittering.

  Despite the warmth of the room, Melissa felt a chill at the back of her neck. There was something indecent about the way the man’s polished exterior was peeling away, layer by layer, like the veneer from a piece of cheap furniture, revealing the worm that was eating away at his soul. She didn’t want to hear any more. She had done what she set out to do and now it was time to leave. She half-rose but he continued speaking and she felt compelled to hear him out.

  ‘She telephoned me, asking for five thousand pounds to leave the county, go where he wouldn’t find her.’ His bark of laughter was like a howl of pain. ‘A miserable five thousand! I would have given ten, twenty thousand! Sums like that are small change to Gregory Francis! All I wanted from her was her undertaking never to see my son again. I had a document prepared for her to sign and I got Crane to bring her here. That was a mistake, I’m afraid.’ His voice became a frantic mumble, he seemed to be speaking to himself. ‘Once she saw what Cli
ve’s inheritance was to be, a few thousands were no longer enough. She wanted everything. The young fool had actually asked her to become his wife and she announced that she had changed her mind about leaving him. She had the effrontery to tell me she had decided to accept. That little slut would have been mistress of all this!’ His voice rose to a shriek and he gazed wildly round the room, flinging out both arms in an attitude of outraged dignity like an actor in a grotesquely over-played black comedy.

  Melissa listened, almost frozen with terror. In a far corner of her memory sounded an echo of the Rector’s voice as he spoke about the members of the consortium that owned Benbury Park. ‘Gregory Francis . . . a local businessman . . . an antiques dealer . . .’ Was this man so obsessed with the acquisition of wealth that he had turned to the more lucrative trade of drug trafficking? The contents of his house were worth a fortune, far more than the most successful dealer could normally amass by legitimate means. And the irony was that they had brought him no joy; he dwelt alone, eaten up with bitterness against the son who had turned from him, appalled at the thought of his treasures falling into the hands of a girl like Babs. The prospect seemed to have brought him to the very edge of reason.

  ‘I offered her fifty thousand pounds and she laughed at me. Imagine it — that common, painted little harlot, laughing at Gregory Francis! I ordered her to be quiet and she only laughed the more. I took her by the shoulders and she called me “Father” and invited me to kiss her. I took her by the throat . . . !’ Like a burned-out firework, the madness in his eyes died out and he leaned back in his chair with a calm, almost satisfied expression. He contemplated his hands as they lay on his desk, a little apart, the fingers curving gently upwards, fingers that would handle a precious piece of porcelain with reverence or fasten round a girl’s neck and snap it like the stem of a flower.