Murder in the Morning: An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2)

by Betty Rowlands

  Sitting on the edge of her bed and sipping her tea, she began jotting down notes of the day’s events, separating them into facts and possible explanations. It was rather like working out the details of one of her plots: circumstances capable of more than one interpretation; actions which might or might not be innocent; individuals who might or might not have a genuine motive, the means and opportunity to commit the crime. The difference was that when constructing a plot she was able to invent clues that would subtly direct her readers in the direction of the guilty person while strewing their path with red herrings. In this case, her thought processes were negative, seeking before all else to draw suspicion away from Barney but lacking the vital scene-of-crime evidence which, if Harris’s attitude was anything to go by, pointed strongly at his guilt.

  And he was innocent of murder; she felt it in her bones. Her talk with Eddie had convinced her that he was telling the truth about his relationship with Angy and that Rodney Shergold was the ‘poor sap’ who had fallen an eager and tiresome victim to her charms. Barney might experience flashes of impatience and anger, say and do things he would later regret, but she could not believe him capable of the blind, destructive hatred that had driven the knife into Angy’s throat.

  Of all that she had learned that afternoon, the only possible hope lay in trying to establish the real identity of the woman calling herself Delia Forbes. Yet even as one half of her mind speculated on its significance, the other half reminded her that if she had stumbled on this odd circumstance, then the police would almost certainly have done so in the course of their routine enquiries and, since Barney was still their prime suspect, found a satisfactory explanation. The more she thought about it, the more her confidence ebbed away until she was ready to believe that her efforts had turned up nothing of positive help.

  With a disconsolate sigh she stood up, slipped off the towelling robe and threw it over a chair. It was a soft rosy pink; looking at it she thought of Barney’s robe of saffron yellow and how he had admired its effect on her. She remembered his touch as he wrapped it around her shoulders and the slumbering animal within her stirred and stretched and unsheathed claws of desire. How had their conversation gone? ‘I’d like to paint you.’ ‘What, in this?’ ‘Yes . . . no, without it.’ And he’d appeared suddenly and endearingly shy, as if embarrassed at the memory of seeing her naked in his bed the night before.

  She went to the full-length mirror beside her dressing-table, pulling off the headband she had worn in the bath and releasing the glossy brown hair that tumbled almost to her shoulders. Narcissus-like she studied her reflection, running her fingertips over her flesh, breathing its perfume and recalling Barney’s enjoyment of its smoothness. She observed with satisfaction the firmness of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach and the trim roundness of her hips. She peered closely at her face; there were a few lines about the mouth and eyes but at forty-seven that was only to be expected. At least her skin was clear and her neck hadn’t started to sag.

  ‘You shall paint me like this if it would please you, Barney dear,’ she whispered aloud. ‘And love me again . . . please.’ Then, feeling foolish, blushing in the empty room like a self-conscious adolescent, she put on her nightdress, got into bed and switched out the light.

  She slept soundly and awoke just as the dawn was swelling in a luminous golden tide across the sky. It would be several hours before she could think of calling Harris and she reminded herself that there was a book waiting to be finished. She got up, brewed a pot of coffee, went to her study and started work.

  At half-past nine she rang the police station and was told that DCI Harris had just gone out and was not expected back until after lunch. She left a message asking him to contact her urgently, dialled Sybil’s number and found it engaged. Frustrated, she changed into her gardening clothes and went out to collect and spread her promised share of Iris’s manure heap – an activity which cleared her mind wonderfully so that when Harris rang at two o’clock she had at her fingertips every point she wanted to put to him.

  One by one he shot them down.

  ‘Yes, of course we know about Shergold’s affair with the girl but he didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Did you know about the spare jacket?’

  ‘Of course. We took it for forensic tests.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Hairs, perfume, make-up. No blood. As a matter of fact, we haven’t got around to returning it yet.’ Harris gave one of his rare chuckles. ‘Do him good to sweat a little. We suspect he found the girl’s body on the Wednesday afternoon but we can’t get him to admit it.’

  ‘That could be why he went home that day feeling groggy. I met his wife in the village shop and she was very concerned about him.’

  ‘She’d have been more than concerned if she’d known what he’d been up to over the previous few weeks!’ said Harris drily. ‘Lucky for him, his alibi is as watertight as it’s possible to be, unless the college Principal, half his staff and all his students are lying. We’ve checked his story in detail and it fits. What else have you got for me?’

  ‘I went to see Eddie Brady,’ began Melissa a little sharply, stung by the note of self-satisfaction in his voice. She was interrupted by another hoarse, gleeful chuckle.

  ‘Quite a character, isn’t she? First-class social worker too. I’ve got a lot of respect for Mizz Edwina.’

  ‘I think you might have warned me.’

  ‘Couldn’t do that. Prejudice and so on.’

  ‘I had a friend with me and she was quite upset.’

  ‘Too bad. So what did you get out of Eddie that my sergeant failed to spot?’

  ‘Is it totally impossible for her to have slipped home during the critical time?’

  ‘Totally. What the hell do you take us for, Melissa? Real policemen have brains as well as your know-it-all Nathan.’ Self-satisfaction had given way to an impatience that said, as clearly as the words, ‘If that’s the best you can do, stop wasting my time and let me get on with my work.’ Well, perhaps she could give him something to think about.

  ‘Eddie was very jealous of Angy, wasn’t she? You should have seen her reaction when I mentioned that Delia Forbes might have been round to see her the day she was killed.’

  ‘Who’s Delia Forbes?’

  ‘One of Angy’s art students. Don’t tell me your men haven’t checked her out?’

  ‘I’m a busy man, Melissa. If you’ve got something to tell me . . . ’

  Now she had his attention. As concisely as she could, Melissa told him about the missing sketch of Delia Forbes, her subsequent visit to the house in Regency Terrace and the possibility of a plot by one of Eddie’s discarded lovers to kill Angy. Even while she was speaking, the theory sounded bizarre and far-fetched, yet there were no more quips or chuckles from the other end of the line, only a series of grunts.

  When she had finished, he said quietly, ‘That is interesting, Melissa.’ She heard papers being shuffled. ‘I’m just looking at the report of the officer who called on Delia Forbes. A neighbour told him she’d gone off to see her daughter that morning – that would be the Thursday – and would be back in a couple of days.’

  ‘That must have been old Mrs Rogers. She lives in another world. Time means nothing to her.’

  ‘I’ll get Waters on to it right away. Anything else?’

  ‘I was wondering what Angy was wearing when she was found.’

  ‘A plain navy-blue skirt and a white blouse. She’d been wearing it to the office that morning and put on an overall for the art class in the afternoon. We found it, chucked on a chair.’

  ‘She was expecting Rick Lawrence about six o’clock. Lou seemed to think she’d have dolled herself up a bit before he came. That would narrow down the time a bit, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We had thought of that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ken . . . I’m just trying to—’

  ‘Don’t tell me. The earlier she was killed, the better it looks for Willard because he was in colle
ge till gone five, right?’

  ‘Just what evidence have you got against him? It can’t be all that strong or you’d have arrested him by now.’ There was silence. ‘Oh, come on, Ken, you’ve just admitted I’ve turned up something that might be useful. What about a quid pro quo? You can trust me, can’t you?’

  ‘It isn’t a question of not trusting you. Our investigations are at a delicate stage . . . ’

  ‘Waiting for forensic reports on Barney’s clothing?’

  ‘He told you about that? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t see him till this was over.’

  ‘We’re colleagues . . . we use the same staffroom.’ No point in admitting to the telephone call; that would mean even less chance of prising anything out of Harris. ‘I haven’t seen him outside college, honestly Ken.’ That at least was true.

  ‘Well . . . ’ He was beginning to weaken.

  ‘Just between ourselves . . . ’ she begged. The need to know what Barney was up against had become overwhelming.

  ‘There were traces of cotton fibre in the blood on the girl’s body that didn’t come from her own clothing. Willard owns a cotton sweat-shirt—’

  ‘So do lots of people.’

  ‘ . . . which he thought he might have been wearing that afternoon and then changed his mind and said he hadn’t,’ continued Harris, unperturbed by the interruption.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to go on?’

  ‘There’s the little matter of his fingerprints all over the flat—’

  ‘They would be. He often went there.’

  ‘As he keeps pointing out to us. However, one or two of those prints are highly significant. On the knife-block, for example.’

  ‘Perhaps he touched it while helping her in the kitchen . . . putting the knives away—’

  ‘His prints weren’t on any of the handles. From their position on the block, he’d been steadying it with his left hand while drawing out a knife with his right.’

  ‘So Angy asked him to pass her a knife while she was cooking something.’

  ‘That’s what he claims.’

  ‘What about the murder weapon? Aren’t there any prints on that?’

  ‘That’s our main problem. There was so much blood, and the girl left her own prints where she grabbed at the knife – probably trying to drag it out. Any prints left by the killer would have been completely obliterated. Young Lawrence left his, of course, on the knife and the telephone and the cabinet where the ring was kept, but from the state of the blood it was long enough after death to tally with his story.’

  ‘He could have gone back later and done all the things he claimed to have done . . . ’

  ‘He wouldn’t have had time. We found the taxi driver who took him and the girl to the station and witnesses who saw them get on the train. Lawrence didn’t kill Angy. We’ve checked his story against the girl’s account and it hangs together in every detail.’

  ‘And Barney’s doesn’t?’

  ‘There are holes in it. He had motive and he’s the right build. The angle at which the knife entered seems to indicate that the killer is fairly tall.’

  ‘But no one saw him near the flat that afternoon. His clothes would have been blood-stained. Surely, someone would have spotted him.’

  ‘We found traces of blood in the bathroom. We think the killer went in there to clean up immediately after striking the blow. He probably knew the house was empty and there was little chance of his being disturbed. And no one saw him in the street; that little turning is almost entirely occupied by people who are out at work all day.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me,’ Melissa began, on a low note that she could hear becoming steadily more shrill, ‘that after stabbing Angy, Barney locked himself in the bathroom and left her to die while he calmly washed away her blood? He couldn’t have done it . . . he’d have been frantic with remorse, stayed with her to comfort her, tried to get help. For God’s sake, Ken!’ She was almost hysterical. ‘What about this psychological offender-profiling you’re all supposed to be into nowadays? Think about it! It might save you making complete idiots of yourselves!’

  ‘Try not to get upset.’ Harris’s voice was unusually gentle. ‘I can understand how you feel.’

  ‘Never mind how I feel!’ Melissa raved. ‘You find Delia Forbes! She’ll lead you to the real killer!’ With a futile, melodramatic flourish, she banged down the receiver. While she stood staring at it, breathing heavily and conscious that if anyone had made a fool of herself during the past few minutes it was Melissa Craig, the phone began to ring again.

  Eighteen

  Sybil Bliss was almost incoherent with excitement, her voice rising and falling in a series of breathless peaks and troughs. ‘Oh, Melissa, there you are! I’ve been trying to get you for ages but your line’s been engaged.’ A hint of reproach hung round the final words.

  ‘Ages’, thought Melissa, meant fifteen minutes at the most. ‘I was talking to Chief Inspector Harris,’ she said, a little wearily. Her outburst had left her feeling deflated, almost disinterested. She had established the fact that the real Delia Forbes was in Australia and that for the past few weeks someone else had been using her name and address; because of her desperate desire to help Barney she had leapt to conclusions which could be hopelessly wide of the mark. There was probably a perfectly simple explanation, if only she could give her mind to it, but for the moment she seemed incapable of logical thought.

  Meanwhile, Sybil was twittering on. ‘Well, wait till he hears about this! I simply couldn’t believe it . . . it didn’t seem to make sense and I thought I must be mistaken but I’m sure I wasn’t . . . ’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Sybil, what are you on about?’ It wasn’t really fair to snap like that but Melissa’s nerves were still jangling.

  ‘Oh, sorry! You must think me very silly but it’s just that I’m so excited! I think I’ve found out . . . ’

  ‘Found out what?’ said Melissa testily, as Sybil broke off.

  ‘Just a moment . . . I can hear something.’

  There was a pause. Melissa pictured Sybil with her head cocked, the way she held it when she was listening to someone, gazing with exaggerated, wide-eyed intensity. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I must have left the garage door open. I think I heard it banging. Hold on, will you?’

  There was a clatter as the phone was put down, followed by the sound of footsteps scurrying down the stairs and fading into silence. Half listening, half occupied with looking out of the open window at a flock of rooks riding in circles on the breeze, Melissa was vaguely aware of a succession of faint bumping noises in the distance, followed by returning footsteps. The sounds mingled in her mind with the harsh cries of the birds as she waited for Sybil to pick up the phone again.

  Instead, there were rustlings, faint and unintelligible mutterings suggesting that she was looking for something, more footsteps going downstairs, a sharp, sound like the slamming of a door and then complete silence. Seconds ticked by and Melissa grew impatient. What on earth was Sybil doing? Surely she hadn’t gone out again, forgetting that she had left a friend waiting on the telephone? She strained her ears but could hear nothing. She jiggled the receiver rest, shouted ‘Hullo!’ several times and eventually, exasperated and irritable, put the phone down. If whatever Sybil had to say was so important, she could call again.

  Half an hour later, she had not done so. By this time, Melissa’s temper had calmed and her curiosity revived. She went back to the telephone, dialled Sybil’s number and waited for the ringing tone. Nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. She jiggled the receiver and realised that there was no dialling tone. Something must be wrong with the line. She put down the instrument and went next door.

  Not surprisingly on such a mild afternoon, Iris was in the garden. She had dug a trench and was busy shovelling manure into it from an antiquated wheelbarrow, her thin arms in the tightly fitting sleeves of her black sweater swinging to and fro like crankshafts. She straightened up a
s Melissa approached, pulled off one of her gardening gloves and combed back her hair with her fingers. Her cheeks were rosy from the exercise; with her pointed features and sparkling eyes she looked like an amiable, wholesome witch.

  ‘Getting ready for the runners,’ she explained.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early to be planting beans?’

  ‘Not planting yet. Just preparing the ground. Nearly done.’ She heaved up the handles of the barrow and the remaining contents slid neatly home. She picked up a fork and stirred the dark mass, grunting with satisfaction. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘My phone seems to be out of order. Mind if I report it from yours?’

  ‘Help yourself. Be in in a minute.’

  Iris stuck her fork in the earth and trundled off down the garden with her barrow while Melissa went indoors, reported her problem to the telephone engineers and wandered back to the kitchen. ‘I’ve given them this number and they’re going to test the line and call me back,’ she said when Iris came in from the garden.

  ‘Good.’ Iris washed her hands and filled the kettle. ‘Might as well have a cuppa while you’re waiting.’

  Melissa perched on the edge of the table and watched her as she bustled about with tea-things. ‘It would have to play up just as Sybil was going to tell me something important,’ she complained. ‘I can’t think what kept her so long. I hung on for ages.’

  ‘Probably got talking to a neighbour and forgot all about you. Struck me as a bit of a scatterbrain!’ commented Iris, arranging oatmeal cookies on a hand-painted plate.

  ‘Yes, she is rather.’ Melissa turned the plate to admire the delicate rose design. ‘She does some lovely flower paintings, though. She’d appreciate this.’

  ‘She ought to try her hand at decorating china some time.’

  ‘I’ll suggest it next time I speak to her.’ Melissa nibbled thoughtfully at a cookie. ‘I wish I knew what she wanted to tell me. She was bubbling with excitement. It might have had something to do with the murder because she seemed to think Ken Harris would be interested.’