The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTERS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ONE

  Bromersley, South Yorkshire. Summer 2010

  Helen was forty years of age. Her first marriage had been a disaster.

  Single again at thirty-eight, she had assumed that the best men on the market would have already been snapped up and that she was going to have to settle for what was available – which, on looking around, didn’t seem to be very much. She had thought she may even have to live with a man on a trial basis, which she was not entirely averse to. She hoped her judgement a second time might be less driven by sex and more concerned with long-time love and trust, and the possibility of becoming a mother, even at her age. She had always wanted children but her ex had not shown any desire to be a father. In fact, he had always insisted on her taking the pill, which had been a bone of contention between them.

  After moving back in with her loving but straight-laced elderly parents for two years, which wasn’t easy after running her own household, she had left and rented a flat. Shortly afterwards, her father died. It was naturally distressing for mother and daughter, and Helen considered the inevitability of having to return to the family house.

  Then she had met Paul Rose. He was a kind man. He had also been married before; his wife had left him unexpectedly. Paul was backward at coming forward but they formed a gentle relationship that quietly flourished until each understood the other and they slowly fell in love. He was a handsome man of thirty-nine, who worked at a local garage, servicing cars. They had a holiday together which bonded them even more. Then, unexpectedly, her mother died. Helen was on the floor again, but Paul Rose lifted her up.

  Helen inherited quite an estate from her mother, so they wasted no more time. They seemed to be right for each other. On 10 August 2013, they married quietly in St Mary’s Church, Bromersley.

  In November, an old stone house on Creesforth Road called The Brambles came on to the market at a very reasonable price. It had been the home of an elderly widower, Hubert Grant, who had owned an antiques and second-hand shop in Bromersley called Aladdin’s Cave. He had died recently and his estate was being wound up by a local solicitor on behalf of the man’s family.

  One of the advantages of the old house was that included in the sale were some old pieces of furniture including all the entrance hall furniture and fittings and a wardrobe and a large bed in the master bedroom. The house was rather big for Paul and Helen Rose, but as they both lived in hope of having children, they snapped it up and moved in. They engaged a ‘daily’, Cora Blenkinsop, a pleasant, willing, talkative young woman, to come for a few hours a day to clean the place as it had been neglected during the latter period of the previous owner’s lifetime.

  One day, as Cora was scrubbing the terracotta tiles on the kitchen floor, she said, ‘Of course, Mrs Rose, much as I like you and Mr Rose and I love working for you here, and I wouldn’t mind working evenings here now and again, if ever you wanted me to, I wouldn’t like to live here permanently. I mean, I wouldn’t want to spend the night here.’

  Helen Rose blinked, turned away from the cupboard where she was reaching for the salt to season the soup she was making, and said, ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Well, you must have heard the stories… ?’

  ‘No. No. I haven’t heard anything, Cora.’

  ‘Well, the appearances … the er … apparitions, I think they call them.’

  Helen Rose smiled. ‘No. I’ve not seen anything. What of?’

  Cora Blenkinsop shuddered. ‘Oh. The whole family of them has been seen … at different times … usually in the bedroom. Mrs Cudlipp comes in a long white dress. She was the wife of Amos Cudlipp. Now, he was a bad lot. He was a big man who wore a big top hat. He was a dentist and cattle slaughterer. They don’t really go together. do they? Apparently he liked the bottle, was an alcoholic. And they had two children, a boy and a girl. Then there was another young girl, about fourteen, she was supposed to be a servant, a housemaid. Now Amos Cudlipp married when he was forty but his wife, poor soul, was only seventeen. They had two children pretty quickly, one after the other. Then his wife ran off, but Amos found her, dragged her back and kept her under lock and key for some time in that little bedroom at the back with the tiny window. They say it didn’t have a window then. It’s had one put in since but it’s only very small.’

  Helen Rose nodded. She had noticed that it was not like the other windows when she and her husband had looked round the house.

  ‘Anyway,’ Cora said, ‘Amos’s attentions then turned to the housemaid. He soon got her up the duff. When she gave him the news, something inside his head must have snapped. He got very drunk, got one of the knives he used for slaughtering cattle and murdered his wife, the two kids and the housemaid. After that he disappeared. A week later his body was found floating in the River Don … it was thought that he had drunk himself stupid and then drowned himself. The church wouldn’t bury him in sacred ground. His body is here somewhere … in a grave … in the garden.’

  Helen Rose’s eyes narrowed. ‘In the garden?’

  It was unsettling to hear that Amos Cudlipp’s body was anywhere near the house; it disturbed her more than she was prepared to admit but she wasn’t going to let Cora see that the story had made any impression on her.

  ‘Whereabouts in the garden?’ she said.

  ‘Eee, I don’t know, Mrs Rose. There’s supposed to be a cross over it.’

  ‘What sort of a cross?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never looked for it.’

  ‘Where are the family and the housemaid buried then?’

  ‘Oh, in the churchyard of St Mary’s, I think. And that’s all I know about it, Mrs Rose. It makes me go cold thinking about it. Look, I’ve got gooseflesh all up my arm.’

  Helen Rose looked down at her. ‘It’s probably just a story, Cora. Don’t think about it,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, they say it’s true,’ Cora said. ‘I can’t help but think about it, when I’m here, sometimes.’

  Cora left at four o’clock and as the front door closed her provocative chattering was replaced with an echoing silence. All that could be heard was the hall clock ticking, and Helen Rose couldn’t stop thinking about it either. When she tried to dismiss it, she couldn’t. It dominated her thoughts; she was unnerved when she realized that she would be alone in the house for another hour and a half until Paul returned from the garage. She couldn’t wait to tell him the story about Amos Cudlipp.

  In the meantime, as she stirred the soup, and her pulse could be heard drumming in her ears, she silently listened out for any sound that indicated that she was not alone.

  Zenith Television & Film Studios, Leeds, Yorkshire. Sunday 10 November 2013, 9.30 p.m.

  A thirty-year-old man in an immaculately pressed suit stood in front of the bank of cameras and teleprompters. He flashed a sparklingly white smile at the studio audience.

  ‘Well, friends, as we come to the end of this exciting contest, here are the scores. I have managed to give away one hundred pounds to Marie from Chesterfield …’

  There was applause from the studio audience.

  ‘Thirteen thousand pounds to Joss from Dartmouth …’

  More applause from the audience.

  ‘But tonight’s outstanding winner of Wanna Be Rich?, t
aking home sixty-two thousand pounds, is Josephine Huxley from Birmingham. Give her a big hand.’

  There was even more deafening applause, whistles and stamping of feet.

  ‘Will you come back next week, Josephine?’

  She looked down and smiled nervously. ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘What a great sport you are, Josephine,’ he said to her, then turned to the audience. ‘Isn’t she, ladies and gentlemen?’ He clapped enthusiastically. ‘And we’ll look forward to seeing her, won’t we, everybody? See you at the same time next week. This is Alan de Souza saying be good to each other and goodbye.’ He bowed, flashed the teeth and waved.

  There was more deafening applause, whistles and stamping of feet.

  De Souza continued to wave and smile until he could see through the corner of his eye a monitor that showed that his picture was no longer being transmitted and the screen was now filled with a rolling list of the crew. Then the smile left him, and he ambled off the set.

  As the racket lessened, the continuity announcer, a man in a glass cubicle said, ‘That was another edition of Wanna Be Rich? with Britain’s most popular quiz master, Alan de Souza, direct and live from Leeds. Tune in at the same time next week and see what happens when Alan de Souza asks the ordinary man or woman in the street, “Wanna be rich?”’ Recorded music swelled up and there was more deafening applause, whistles and stamping of feet encouraged by a smiling man in a red suit holding up a big card with the word ‘Applause’ printed on it. The noise faded out and the live transmission was over. Up came an advertisement for corn plasters.

  A young woman was standing by a small trolley waiting for de Souza in the wings. She smiled and said, ‘Great show, Alan.’ Then she quickly unclipped a microphone from the presenter’s jacket, took a battery and wire from his pocket, removed his earpiece and put them all on the trolley.

  ‘Thank you,’ de Souza said with a smile. ‘It did seem to go rather well.’

  She then passed him a glass of water with ice and a slice of lemon. He took a sip and handed it back.

  ‘You get better each show, Alan. I’m sure you do,’ she said as she handed him a small aerosol inhaler. De Souza put it up to his mouth, pressed the button and inhaled the vapour for a couple of seconds.

  ‘You’re very kind, Marie,’ de Souza said as he returned the inhaler.

  She fluttered her eyelids a couple of times and passed him a towel. ‘No, it’s true,’ she said. ‘You do.’

  De Souza took the towel, wiped his mouth and hands, tossed the towel back across the woman’s arm, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Marie.’

  She smiled warmly.

  Then de Souza quickly made his way along the narrow corridor towards the steps to the gallery from where the show’s director had been controlling operations. He passed the floor manager, a big, smiling young man called Jed Morrison, who said, ‘Another great show, Mr de Souza.’

  De Souza smiled back at him.

  ‘Sorry about the girls being a bit late with the flowers,’ Morrison said. ‘They were in position but they weren’t watching me. They were busy watching you and the contestant.’

  ‘I don’t think anybody noticed, Jed. It was only a second or so.’

  ‘I hear a few seconds out there seems like hours,’ Morrison said, then pulled a face. ‘I was balled out by Dennis Grant.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ de Souza said. ‘Excuse me, Jed. Must dash.’

  He reached the steps up to the gallery and took them two at a time.

  Five young men and women were still at their desks in headphones in front of banks of switches and controls. They were closing down the cameras, autocues, microphones, recorder and lights. The programme director, Dennis Grant, stood up, took his coat from behind his chair and put it on.

  ‘Thank you, everybody,’ Grant said. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Night, Dennis,’ they said.

  As Grant made for the door, de Souza came in.

  Grant looked at him and said, ‘Oh. I was trying to get away before you showed up.’

  ‘Great show,’ de Souza said.

  ‘You thought so? It wasn’t from where I was sitting,’ he said. ‘It was a slack, slovenly performance from start to finish. Every single cue was late. The girls still haven’t learned to get on fast, hand over the flowers and get off as quickly as possible. I tell you, it hasn’t got the zing … the punch that American shows have.’

  ‘Everything was fine, Dennis. Believe me. I didn’t notice a thing. It was a great show. You worry too much.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Alan,’ he said, ‘considering you are at the sharp end. If it’s good, you get all the credit, and if anything goes wrong, you’ve got to stand there with egg on your face and take it. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if you don’t get an offer from the other side of the pond. In fact, you may already have had one.’

  Dennis Grant stared closely at him. Alan de Souza smiled confidently back.

  Grant said, ‘You’re not going to accept it, are you, Alan?’

  De Souza continued to smile.

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ Grant said. ‘After all Viktor has done for you?’

  ‘Huh. He is only filling his wallet, Dennis. I mean nothing to him.’

  ‘It was Viktor Berezin who gave you your first break.’

  ‘He didn’t do me any favours. There were many reasons why I got the job. Mostly luck. I was in the right place at the right time with the right amount of experience, having just finished that other series, and on contract, at the time, to Zenith Television. It was convenient, that’s all. Nobody thought the show would be a hit like this, did they?’

  Jed Morrison came up to them.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, then he looked at de Souza and said, ‘Josephine Huxley is outside your dressing room waiting to see you.’

  Grant waved his hand as if he was dismissing a slave. ‘Mr de Souza is talking to me,’ he said. ‘She’ll wait. She’ll wait.’

  ‘Thank you, Jed,’ de Souza said. ‘Please tell her I’ll be along in a minute or so.’

  ‘Right, Mr de Souza, thank you,’ Morrison said, then he glared at Grant, turned and dashed off.

  De Souza wasn’t pleased. ‘What is the matter with you, Dennis? You don’t have to be so damned rude. Jed Morrison is a decent enough lad. He tries. He isn’t a scrounger. And the contestant, Josephine Huxley, is a nice enough soul. And she performs well in front of the cameras, with a bit of encouragement, which I try to supply.’

  ‘She doesn’t need you to feed her ego,’ Grant said. ‘And we needn’t worry about enrolling her sort of talent. There are thousands of stage-struck amateurs out there with photographic memories who can recall everything they read, and would do just about anything to get in front of a TV camera.’

  ‘I daresay, Dennis, but it wouldn’t do any harm to be encouraging.’

  Grant breathed in slowly, his eyes like bilberries on stalks. When his chest was fully expanded, he said, ‘You don’t understand the priorities of this business. There’s not a bloody professional among the lot of you.’

  He went out and slammed the door.

  Detective Inspector Michael Angel’s office,

  Bromersley Police Station, South Yorkshire.

  Monday 11 November 2013, 8.28 a.m.

  As he came past the cells on the way to his office, Angel could hear a phone in the distance ringing insistently. It was not until he was walking down the corridor that he realized that it was his phone. He increased his speed, pushed open the office door, reached over the desk and snatched up the handpiece.

  ‘Yes? Angel,’ he said.

  It was Sergeant Clifton from the control office. ‘An anonymous triple nine has just come in from a call box out at the bottom of Dog’s Leg Hill, sir. Car gone through a stone wall halfway down. Caller said the driver looked in a bad way. I’ve sent an ambulance.’

  Angel nodded and said, ‘I’ll go, Bernie. Put a call out for DS Carter to join me when she arrives.�
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  He replaced the phone and dashed out into the corridor. He met Flora Carter as she was making her way into the CID room.

  ‘Flora, come with me. There’s a triple nine. We’ll go in my car.’

  In five minutes, they arrived at the top of the hill where stood Abercrombie Hall, an imposing stone-built house with large grounds and an envious view towards the Pennines. They turned there on to Dog’s Leg Hill and found themselves behind an ambulance that clearly was making for the same destination. Angel did not choose to overtake it. There were no pedestrians or traffic about but the ambulance had its lights flashing and its siren blaring. It managed to scare a couple of magpies away. It took the hill at a steady fifteen to twenty miles an hour and stopped at the hole in the wall.

  The two men rushed out of the ambulance carrying bags. Angel and Flora Carter followed quickly, picking their way carefully over what was left standing of the stone wall.

  They saw the car, buckled up against the tree. The driver’s door was wide open but there was nobody inside. They looked round.

  Angel spotted a light brown coat, a pair of legs, feet and women’s shoes about twenty yards from the car wreck. It was the figure of a slim woman near some brambles, half hidden by long grass. She was in a foetal position, her slim hands palm downward across her stomach. There were no rings on her fingers or watch on her wrist.

  ‘Over here,’ he said. ‘Looks as if she managed to climb out of the car and get here before collapsing.’

  The ambulance men dropped on to their knees and began the examination. One of them put a stethoscope on to her chest. The other touched her neck, looked up at Angel and said, ‘She’s very cold.’

  After a few seconds, the other pulled the stethoscope off his ears and said, ‘There’s nothing there. She’s gone.’

  Then there was that inevitable moment of silence, like a spell, as the three men and the woman absorbed the enormity of the loss of a life, as one would do at the birth of a new life.

  The ambulance men were the first to move.

  Angel said, ‘Is she beyond the possibility of being revived?’