Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_An absolutely gripping cozy mystery

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘I . . . don’t know what to say.’ Matron sat very still for a few moments with her head bent and her eyes closed as if she was seeking guidance. When she opened them she had regained her composure. ‘I think, if he asks, you should tell him what you know. I’m sure you will break the news gently.’

  ‘I will,’ Melissa promised. ‘May I go and see him now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You remember the way?’

  When Melissa entered his room, Clive was leaning on the sill of the open window. He was fully dressed in shirt, pullover and slacks, with only the walking-stick propped against his armchair to show that he was not fully recovered from his injuries. He turned and his face lit up. Once more, she was struck by the charm of his smile.

  ‘How nice of you to come! Isn’t it a lovely day! Are we going to have a good summer, do you think?’ The conventional phrases reminded Melissa of a hostess welcoming a guest to a formal luncheon party, polite but impersonal. Perhaps he was not quite at ease with her.

  ‘You’re looking loads better,’ she told him, as indeed he was. He had filled out, there was colour in his cheeks and the livid scar on his face had begun to fade. ‘Are you able to get out and enjoy the sunshine?’

  ‘I’ve been out in the garden this morning.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful garden, isn’t it? How far can you walk?’

  ‘Not very far. A little further each day.’ He sounded neither enthusiastic nor downhearted, merely detached, as if his progress or lack of it was of no consequence to him. ‘Won’t you sit down? Perhaps you’d like to bring that chair and sit here in the sunshine — I’m sorry I can’t offer to move it for you.’

  ‘I expect you’re looking forward to going home?’ said Melissa breezily as she settled herself opposite Clive.

  ‘Home? Where is home?’ He smiled again, a sad, slow smile of martyrdom. It was a depressing start.

  ‘But surely . . .’ Melissa fumbled for words. ‘I mean, where did you live before your accident? Haven’t you any family?’

  The smile faded and his deep-set eyes seemed to turn almost black.

  ‘My mother is dead. I have no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles and no cousins. I am alone in the world.’

  Melissa felt the force of his hatred of the father whom he would not even mention, and shivered. She tried again.

  ‘Will you go back to your old job, do you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. Does it matter?’

  ‘But of course it matters.’ Melissa became brisk, practical, the way she used to be with Simon in his fits of adolescent depression. ‘You are young and strong. You’ve made a marvellous recovery from some terrible injuries. Now you must begin to plan for your future!’

  ‘I have no future,’ he said in a calm, flat voice.

  ‘Of course you have . . .’ she began, but her voice trailed off as she recognised the look of resignation that Matron had described, the look of a man who has withdrawn from the business of living. His next words came as a shock.

  ‘Not any more, not now Babs is dead.’ He dropped his voice and glanced round as if afraid of being overheard. ‘I haven’t told them here. They didn’t know her, you see. But you knew her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who told you she was dead?’ asked Melissa quietly, hoping he wouldn’t press her on this point. So long as he believed she had known Babs, he might talk more freely and possibly reveal something that would lead to her murderer.

  ‘No one told me. I know it . . . here!’ He tapped his forehead. Still he spoke in the same flat tone, looking towards Melissa but somehow through her and wearing an expression of weary patience.

  Keeping her own voice cool and casual and choosing her words with care, she began probing.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Two days before my accident. We had an argument.’

  ‘Was she very upset?’

  The question seemed almost to amuse him. ‘Babs? No . . . I was the one who was upset. I was distraught. She laughed at me and I wanted to shake her. That frightened me . . . I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so angry.’ He gave one of his swift, illuminating smiles. It was easy to see why Dawn found him so attractive. ‘We’re taught that anger is a deadly sin, aren’t we?’ he said with a strange blend of sadness and humour.

  ‘What was the argument about?’ Melissa asked.

  He spread his hands in a pathetic gesture. Like his face, they had fleshed out since her last visit although even then, as she remembered with an uneasy twinge, they had been strong enough to leave marks on Bruce’s arm that had lasted for several hours.

  ‘She thought only of money,’ he told her. ‘She reminded me for a moment of . . . my father.’ He seemed reluctant to speak the word. ‘I told her that love was more important. She said love was all right but only when there was money to go with it. She said she knew how to get some.’

  ‘Did she say how?’

  ‘Blackmail.’ There was a haunted look in his eyes, as though he was reliving a painful memory. ‘She was planning to blackmail someone.’

  ‘She told you that?’ Excitement made it difficult for Melissa to remain calm. ‘Did she say who?’

  ‘No. She didn’t use the word blackmail but I’m certain that was what she had in mind. I told her it was dangerous and stupid . . . and wicked. I said that people get hurt when they try that sort of game. I told her God would punish her . . . but she only laughed. And I was right, wasn’t I? She’s dead . . . dead!’ The last words came in a jerky gasp. His fingers clenched and his mouth worked as he struggled to control himself.

  ‘What makes you so sure she’s dead?’ Melissa asked when he became calmer.

  He did not seem to have heard the question but sat staring at her with blank, unfocused eyes. Her hopes began to ebb.

  ‘You said Babs ran away after a quarrel,’ she prompted in a slow, clear voice, praying that his scarred mind had not already clouded over again in an effort to shield itself from memories too painful to face. ‘Do you know where she went? Did something happen to her?’

  He looked down at his hands, lying relaxed now in his lap. His lips moved silently as if he was repeating the questions and trying to make some sense from them.

  She held her breath. When he looked up, her hopes rushed ahead. He had become keen and alert, outwardly normal, almost animated.

  ‘I phoned Petronella’s the next day, or the day after — I’m not sure which,’ he said. ‘I was worried, desperate to see her and beg her not to go through with her wicked plan.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘No. They said she had gone. I couldn’t believe it. We’d quarrelled before and made it up. Why should she just leave without a word? I went round to see that old woman and her son . . . they showed me a note but I still couldn’t accept it.’ His face was bleak. ‘She didn’t tell you she was going away, did she?’

  It was a dangerous moment. Melissa knew instinctively that if she said the wrong thing, the fragile link with reality might snap.

  ‘She never said a word to me about it,’ she said, after a second’s hesitation. He gave a deep sigh and dropped his eyes again. ‘What did you do then?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I went to The Usual Place. It’s a restaurant with a nightclub attached to it. She . . . worked there. I wanted her to leave but she wouldn’t. I wanted to marry her, take care of her. We wouldn’t have been rich but I could have given her a real home. She used to jeer at me, called me names . . . she could be very cruel sometimes.’ He put a hand to his head, overcome by despair.

  Tears blurred Melissa’s eyes. He was so young, barely Simon’s age, and so alone. In a spontaneous wish to give him some comfort, she reached out to him. He snatched at her hand as if it were a lifeline, gripped it so tightly that she gave a little gasp of pain, then released her with a murmur of apology.

  ‘What happened at The Usual Place?’ she prompted.

  ‘The manager — I think his name’s Pete — told me the same story, that she’d left
without notice. I was sure he was lying. He was sneering, implying she’d gone off with another man. I lost my temper and banged on the counter. I could have smashed his stupid face in but it wouldn’t have done any good.’ His breath quickened and his face flushed.

  Melissa took his hand again. ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ she said soothingly. ‘Just tell me what you did.’

  ‘What could I do? I left . . . I went and had a glass of beer in a pub somewhere. I’m not used to drink and it made me feel peculiar. I was frantic, worrying about what had become of Babs. I went back to my car. I think I sat there for a while, wondering what to do. I remember driving out towards the by-pass . . .’

  ‘Was there much traffic about?’ Melissa was thinking of Bruce’s assertion that the accident had been deliberately contrived. ‘Was anyone driving dangerously or trying to cut you up?’

  He half-closed his eyes, trying to remember.

  ‘It was very late. The road was almost empty. At some point there was a car behind me . . . I saw its lights in my mirror. Then they weren’t there any more. I suppose I was going too fast . . . that’s all I remember.’

  It neither confirmed nor contradicted Bruce’s theory. Clive’s accident could have been of his own making. According to Rowena, there had been no suspicious enquiries to suggest that there might be a threat to his safety but if the police knew of his quarrel with Babs he would be in danger just the same, of a very different kind. The afternoon sun streamed in, casting the shadow of a branch on the wall behind his chair. It hung and swayed above his head like an outstretched, menacing hand.

  ‘Forgive me for saying this,’ said Melissa. ‘You and Babs . . . you came from such different backgrounds . . . what did you have in common?’

  ‘We had one outstanding thing in common,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You mean, you were in love?’

  He gave a half-smile and a slight shake of the head. ‘I loved her, yes . . . and she might have grown to love me one day, if only she had trusted me. She’d been so badly hurt, you see. No, what we had in common was that we had both lost our fathers.’ So she had told her story to Clive, as well as to Henry Calloway.

  ‘That isn’t quite true in your case, is it?’ she said. ‘I know Babs was an orphan but your father is still alive and he . . .’ She was about to say, ‘cares enough about you to shell out a fortune for your treatment even though you refuse to see him’, but he gave her no chance.

  ‘Worships Mammon!’ he burst out. ‘The only kind of love he can feel is love of money and he’s not too fussy how he makes it!’ He clenched his fists, his nostrils flaring.

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself,’ Melissa urged. ‘I only wanted to say that . . . everyone has some feelings, some good qualities. You believe in God . . . you must believe that!’

  He shrugged. ‘I doubt it in his case. He’s got a heart of stone. That’s why I left after Mother died.’ A sudden bitterness twisted his mouth, anger hardened his eyes. ‘He killed her with his selfish greed . . . broke her heart. I couldn’t live under his roof after that.’ He moved restlessly in his chair.

  Melissa began to get alarmed. ‘Please, let’s talk about something else,’ she begged. ‘It’s bad for you to get excited. Shall I ring for some tea?’

  ‘What a good idea! You must think me a shocking host.’ He reached for the telephone. For no apparent reason his agitation vanished and the peaceful, resigned look returned, settling almost visibly, like a shroud, around his head and shoulders. The sun went in and the temperature fell sharply. Melissa suppressed a shiver.

  ‘You’re cold. Shall I close the window?’ Once again the considerate host, he struggled out of his chair and limped across the room, leaning on his stick.

  A maid brought tea and Melissa poured it out. Clive’s hand was steady as he took his cup and saucer.

  ‘They seem to look after you pretty well,’ she remarked.

  ‘Oh yes, they’re very good.’ He scrutinised a slice of fruit-cake before eating it. ‘The food’s quite good too.’

  ‘I believe Dawn came to see you,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it kind!’ His tone was bright and conversational, his smile spontaneous and natural. A seed of hope began to germinate in Melissa’s mind. She must see Dawn again, tell her that her visit had done some good. No doubt she would need little encouragement to repeat it.

  When they had finished their tea, Melissa got up to go. He insisted on walking with her along the corridor as far as the staircase. He moved slowly, leaning heavily on his stick.

  ‘It was very kind of you to call,’ he said.

  ‘Shall I come again?’

  He gave a faint, sad smile. ‘I may not be here much longer.’

  ‘I’ll check on the telephone beforehand. If you’ve left, they can tell me where to find you.’

  ‘Yes, that would be best.’ He propped himself against the wall, released his stick and held out his right hand. ‘Goodbye, and thank you. Oh, by the way, did I tell you? Babs is dead.’ It was as if a shutter had come down. His voice was as matter-of-fact as if he were commenting on the weather but his eyes looked through Melissa into somewhere beyond her reach. She watched him limp back to his room and then went slowly downstairs.

  In the hall, Rowena glanced up from her desk and beckoned.

  ‘Matron says, could you spare her five minutes before you leave?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Matron looked up eagerly when Melissa entered her office.

  ‘How did you find him?’ she asked.

  ‘Much improved, as you said,’ Melissa replied. ‘Part of the time he speaks quite normally but every so often he sort of switches off . . . it’s as if he moves into another world.’

  Matron nodded. ‘It’s not unusual for the memory to be erratic at this stage. We hope the lapses will become less and less frequent. Did you tell him the news about Babs?’

  ‘I didn’t have to.’ Melissa gave a brief account of her visit.

  ‘He knew, or strongly suspected, that she was planning to extort money from someone. He says he warned her that she was playing a dangerous game. When she disappeared, he must have been afraid that something had happened to her. Now he seems certain, and it will take time for him to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Have the police any idea who killed her?’

  ‘I believe they have one or two leads, but nothing definite.’

  ‘I’m surprised Clive didn’t go to the police himself if he was so sure something had happened to the girl.’ Matron passed a hand over her forehead and shook her head as if she too was having difficulty in accepting the sordid truth.

  ‘I guess he knew that Babs associated with some pretty dubious characters,’ said Melissa. ‘He’d been trying to protect her and was probably afraid of getting her into worse trouble. It must have been a terrible predicament for him.’

  ‘Why a decent young man like Clive should get mixed up with that sort of girl is beyond me!’ sighed Matron. ‘At least, this could help to account for his odd changes of mood. I shall have to report to the neurologist.’

  ‘Will he recover completely, do you think?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘I don’t think I’m competent to answer that question,’ said Matron. ‘We must hope for the best . . . but it may take a long time. A lot will depend on how supportive his friends are when he leaves here . . .’

  ‘Bruce Ingram and I will certainly keep in close touch with him,’ said Melissa, responding swiftly to the appeal in the blue eyes that had temporarily lost some of their serenity. ‘And if my guess is right, Dawn will as well.’

  ‘That’s very encouraging . . . thank you.’

  Melissa stood up. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ she promised. ‘Goodbye.’

  Back in reception, she stopped for a word with Rowena.

  ‘Clive seems to be making progress,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it good news!’ The girl’s manner was bright and intelligent. So her apparently guileless acceptance of Bruce’
s absurd subterfuge had been an excuse to further their acquaintance. Again she felt a stab of jealousy. Bruce was a good-looking man with a winsome personality, Rowena was young and pretty . . . and she, Melissa, was ‘a fine-looking woman’, but one well past her prime.

  ‘I suppose he’ll be leaving soon,’ Rowena observed. ‘He’s been costing his dad a fortune.’

  ‘But he never comes to see him?’

  Rowena shook her head. ‘I believe they had a row. They daren’t mention him to Clive, he gets so screwed up. If he realised who was paying the bills he’d probably hit the ceiling.’

  ‘I can imagine. I . . . don’t suppose you could give me his father’s phone number?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really . . .’

  ‘Please . . . I only want to help Clive.’

  ‘All right. Don’t tell Matron, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  The girl reached for her notebook just as the phone on her desk began ringing. She was evidently accustomed to doing several things at once, for she quickly ran her thumb along the index and jotted down a number with one hand while taking the call with the other. Someone was evidently asking after a patient and Rowena, a model of brisk efficiency, simultaneously balanced the instrument under her chin, began referring to a register and held out a scrap of paper. Melissa took it, nodded her thanks and mimed a farewell.

  Instead of taking the motorway, Melissa drove homewards along the A38. There was very little traffic and with any luck she would be round Gloucester before the evening rush got under way. Her thoughts were tumbling round in her head like milk in a churn, every so often congealing into what seemed like a lead, then dissolving into a formless mass of vague possibilities. There were so few hard facts, so much pure conjecture.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Think . . . imagine Nathan Latimer confronted with all this. Begin at the beginning.’

  Clive knew Babs was planning to blackmail someone . . . ah, but did he? What exactly had she said to give that impression? Could she just have been pretending, knowing how strait-laced he was and taking a perverse pleasure in upsetting him? Worse, could he have invented the story as cover after a quarrel had got out of hand? Loath as she was to believe him capable of violence, least of all against the girl he loved, he had admitted to almost uncontrollable feelings of anger, and his hands were very strong . . .