A Season for Murder

by Ann Granger

  For the first time she showed some sign of unhappiness. ‘I feel a sneak.’

  ‘If he’s got nothing to do with it, it won’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it will. You’ll go and badger him and upset him. He’s a nice man and he’s easily upset.’

  ‘Who, Frances?’ he almost yelled at her.

  ‘Well – Jack, Jack Pringle – he wanted to marry her once but she turned him down.’

  ‘What?’ Markby sat and glared at her. ‘I wish you’d told me before.’

  ‘Why? Anyway, he could have told you if he’d wanted to.’ The green eyes pleaded with him. ‘Don’t go and accuse poor old Jack of things, will you?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘How should I know? Anything.’ She thrust out a pearly-pink lipsticked lower lip. ‘Wish I hadn’t told you now.’

  ‘Your mother should have told you about men,’ he said heartlessly.

  ‘Oh, she did – lots of good advice. Wish I could remember some of it.’ She put up both hands to push back the spun halo of hair. ‘I’m serious about you finding out who doped Harry. But it wasn’t poor old Jack, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘If anyone doped her.’

  ‘Yes – ’ Suddenly she was obstinate and as hard as nails. ‘Yes, someone bloody well did!’

  ‘If someone did, I hope to find him. But the chances are slim. The inquest is tomorrow. I’ve nothing I can put before a coroner. I need evidence if I’m to ask for an adjournment.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, your coroner!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you will. Don’t send his blood pressure up too high while you’re doing it, will you?’

  She lowered her arms. ‘Don’t you fancy me at all, Alan?’

  ‘Now what on earth do you expect me to say to that?’

  ‘Yes or no, would do nicely.’

  ‘Any man would probably fancy you. I, however, am a servant of the public, an arm of the law – and I’ve got a prior commitment.’

  ‘She doesn’t appreciate you.’

  ‘Well, we’ll let her sort that one out, shall we?’ he said gently.

  ‘Okay – I stand corrected. I will not criticise Meredith. I think she’s nuts.’ She put out a hand. ‘Pax.’

  ‘All right,’ he took the hand she held out. ‘We’ll call it quits and leave it at that.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘My mid-morning coffee,’ said Fran. ‘It tastes like stewed seaweed. The Crossed Keys is looking after me! I think they’re trying to finish off what our pal last night started. But they’ve offered to make a reduction on my bill! Come in!’

  The door opened. Markby turned towards it, still absently holding on to Fran’s hand.

  ‘Oh,’ said Meredith in the doorway. ‘Good morning. Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘You aren’t, are you, imagining secret passions?’ Fran asked Meredith when Markby had taken himself off in something of a hurry. ‘The man is sea-green incorruptible and I’ve tried! I’ve got nowhere. He’s utterly true to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to know!’ Meredith said starchily.

  ‘Why not? I would. Anyway, you do know. I’ve told you.’

  ‘I came,’ Meredith said determinedly, ‘to see how you were this morning, Fran. Not to discuss my private life.’

  Fran sighed and spread out turquoise-silk-clad arms to either side. ‘I am treading on toes this morning. Metaphorically, that is. Stuck in this bed I can actually do damn all – on my own, anyway.’

  ‘You’re impossible!’ Meredith said, exasperated and trying not to smile.

  ‘But you’ve cheered up!’ Fran said triumphantly. ‘Thank God for that. I thought I had you on my conscience there for a bit. Thanks for coming along. I’m really okay. I’m bedridden because of Jack Pringle’s instructions. But I’ll be up tomorrow. Well, I’ve every intention of getting up this evening, actually.’

  ‘Oh, Jack Pringle . . .’ Meredith paused. ‘He used to be a hunt subscriber, didn’t he? Why did he give it up?’

  ‘Oh,’ Fran looked vague. ‘He kept falling off, I think, and couldn’t see his patients because he was in plaster. Either that or he couldn’t afford to keep a horse and other outgoings. He hasn’t got any money, Jack. Nice chap.’ She twisted on to her side and began to delve in the shoulderbag on the bedside table. ‘Listen, Meredith, you did offer to help if you could with clearing out Ivy Cottage. Is the offer still on?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Because I’d like you to have the spare set of keys.’ Fran dragged a bunch out of the bag and handed them to her. ‘I’m laid up here today, tomorrow is the inquest and on Monday I have to go back to London. I’ll be back for the funeral which I hope to fix for the end of next week if the coroner tomorrow will give clearance for it to take place. They’re letting me bury Harry at Westerfield after all, in the Markby plot. Will you be able to come?’

  ‘I’d certainly like to. But I start work in London on Monday and I’ll have to ask for a day off, straight away. They might be difficult.’

  ‘Do try. And if you’d keep an eye on Ivy Cottage of an evening – I realise you won’t be there during the day. And there is one little job you could do if you’ve a spare moment, no rush. I’ve taken the couple of Harriet’s books I’d like to keep and the rest can go to the League of Friends of the Cottage Hospital. So if you could go over and pack all the books you can find into a box or something and just drop them in at the medical centre – Jack Pringle will deal with it.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Fran leaned forward and stretched out her arms. ‘This bed is utterly diabolical. Blow Jack Pringle. I’m getting up. Do stay and have a Crossed Keys lunch with me, Meredith. They’re so afraid I’m going to sue them that they’re giving me a reduction on everything and I’m jolly well going to take advantage of it. Serve them right – letting me get bashed on the head!’

  When she left Fran after lunch, Meredith walked slowly back into the town’s main shopping area. For all her determination to quit her sickbed, Fran had begun to look distinctly wan by the end of their meal and had several times put her hand to her forehead. Meredith had managed to persuade her to go back upstairs and take a rest during the afternoon. It was a measure of how poorly Fran was feeling that she agreed without too much fuss. Although, thought Meredith, as soon as the headache passed off, she’d jump up and start dashing round again.

  It was no use denying that the moment when she had opened Fran’s door and beheld Alan Markby holding Fran’s hand had been a nasty one. The jolt had been severe, much more than she would have imagined. Of course, she had only to expect it. She herself had told him bluntly the evening before that he had nothing to hope from their relationship. All the same, he hadn’t delayed setting about finding a replacement! None of this was doing her self-esteem any good. But she couldn’t grumble if the man took her at her word. She paused. She didn’t mind really, did she? Did she? Yes, she did. The truth hit her like a palpable blow. Yes, she did mind. She minded like hell. She was suffering from a severe bout of good, old-fashioned jealousy!

  She had drawn level with a bookshop and stopped, as was her habit with bookshops, to study the display in the window. It appeared a serious book store with a range of topics in stock from novels to non-fiction. Attracted by the reassuring warmth of the interior, she gave way to the impulse to push open the door and go in.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the very nice young man at the cash desk, moving out from behind it to greet her.

  A thought occurred to her. ‘I was wondering if you stocked the most recent book by Colin Deanes. I believe it’s called Revolutionary Youth.’ Alan had told her that. It would be interesting to know more about Deanes’ theories.

  ‘Oh, Mr Deanes!’ said the young man enthusiastically. ‘He wrote that book while living very near Bamford, did you know? He does come in here from time to time. But you can’t buy the book yet, I’m afraid. It’s not due for release until February. I’ve been on to the publishers because Mr Deanes was
keen to set up some kind of publicity morning here in the shop: Mr Deanes talking about his work and perhaps signing a few books. But we won’t get copies of the book until later this month. I’ll reserve you one, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ She gave him her name and address.

  ‘We’ll send you a postcard, Miss Mitchell, just as soon as we get our copies in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Meredith turned round to leave and bumped straight into Lucy Haynes. ‘Oh, good afternoon, Mrs Haynes! Do you remember me?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Miss Mitchell, isn’t it? How nice. . ..’ Lucy peered up at her nervously. ‘How are you? I was thinking about you and really I’m quite pleased to see you and know you are all right. It must be very unpleasant living out at Pook’s Common now, especially directly opposite poor Miss Needham’s cottage. I know I couldn’t. To be frank, I don’t like Pook’s Common and I never did. It was all Geoffrey – well, he’s always fancied being somewhere uncluttered, not crowded with other people. But I never wanted to buy that cottage. I’d like to move to Bournemouth. The climate is nice and I do love the seaside. The shops are lovely there and our daughter lives nearby. Pook’s Common always seems to me such an eerie sort of place! Perhaps it’s just my imagination.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Meredith confessed. ‘I find it a little creepy, too.’

  ‘Do you?’ Lucy was pathetically pleased to have confirmation of her own impressions. ‘Geoffrey says I talk nonsense. But since poor Miss Needham met with her accident, so dreadful, somehow the idea of going and living out there seems worse than ever.’

  ‘It is lonely, to be sure.’

  Lucy moved closer confidingly and whispered, ‘It’s the common itself. It’s so sinister and our cottage is right at the end of the row of buildings and so there’s nothing between us and the common but those stables. Sometimes at night – ’

  ‘Yes – ’ Meredith prompted.

  ‘My imagination again, as Geoffrey says, I’m sure. But when we’ve weekended there I’ve hardly been able to sleep a wink. I just lie awake and listen and sometimes I could swear I’ve heard footsteps.’

  ‘At night? You haven’t heard the horses, down at the stables, stamping in their stalls? They did get out one night recently, too.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Footsteps, walking footsteps. Geoffrey says what nonsense, because there’s nowhere for anyone to walk to down there. Unless that fellow from the stables has walked up to visit Miss Needham. He was a friend of hers. Yes – ’ Lucy considered. ‘I suppose it could have been him. Or just the wind bowling some leaves along the lane. I do imagine things. Geoffrey’s always telling me off about it.’

  Meredith took leave of her thoughtfully and walked on along the pavement. Parked by the kerb a little way further on from the bookshop was a large, shiny black Granada. She drew level with it and stopped. The first time she had seen a car parked outside Harriet’s she had had the impression it might have been a Granada. But in the darkness it had been difficult to be sure. All the same, here was one, standing out in this country-town high street by its city-smartness. It was certainly the first she recalled seeing in Bamford. How many were there around? Could it be more than coincidence? Meredith moved towards the window of a butcher’s shop and turned ostensibly to study the array of pork chops and best mince, but actually to keep a surreptitious watch on the car. A fixed notice on a metal pole announced that waiting time for vehicles here was limited to twenty minutes in any hour. The driver had to come back soon.

  However, she had almost given up and the butcher within was directing some unfriendly glances her way through the plate glass, when a man appeared, striding briskly along. He stopped by the Granada and put a key in the door. There was a limit to coincidences and it had just been reached.

  Meredith stepped out and faced him across the car roof. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Green.’

  Rupert Green stopped in mid-action. His dark eyes studied her suspiciously, trying to place her and failing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said coldly, ‘you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘My name is Meredith Mitchell. I’ve rented a cottage at Pook’s Common.’

  Something flickered in the depths of those dark eyes. His wariness increased. But Meredith felt a thrill of approaching triumph. She’d hit the mark here. She knew it and was emboldened to gamble.

  ‘I believe you were a friend of Harriet Needham’s!’ she declared with jaunty assurance.

  It flummoxed him. ‘What makes you say that?’ He was too clever to deny it before he found out more about her.

  ‘I’ve seen your car – parked outside Ivy Cottage.’

  Green slowly withdrew the key he had put in the doorlock. ‘I’d rather not talk on a public pavement, shouting across the top of a car. There’s a café behind us. Perhaps we can go there?’

  Meredith preceded him into the Cosy Corner Coffee Shop. Green glanced round the interior and pointed silently to a discreet table behind a pillar. When the waitress came up he ordered brusquely, ‘Two coffees!’ without asking Meredith what she preferred. The waitress departed and he put his forearms on the table, clasping his hands loosely. They were broad hands with spatulate fingers, coarse hands. Though a good-looking man, his handsomeness was a florid one, impressive but making Meredith think of a canvas to which the artist had applied the paint with a knife. ‘What do you want?’ he asked coldly.

  Meredith felt herself flush. ‘I don’t want anything except to have a word about Harriet. I’m sure you must be upset about her death and I don’t want to distress you unnecessarily, of course.’

  Green thought out his answer to that one, his eyes unfriendly and his manner tense. He’d like to bolt, she thought. He couldn’t so he’d talk his way out. ‘That’s very considerate of you,’ he said coolly at last. ‘Naturally I am upset at her death and particularly at the manner of it. It was a great shock and a disgraceful piece of hooliganism on the part of the youth involved. However, I have been assuming that the relevant authorities have everything well in hand regarding any future proceedings. Are you about to tell me they have not?’

  ‘Yes, they have. But it’s all turning out to be a little more complicated than it appeared.’ Green’s eyes narrowed. He tightened the clasp of his hands on the table-cloth, lowered his head and watched her from beneath thickly marked brows. Board-room manners, she thought. She pressed on. ‘As you may know, the post mortem on Harriet found traces of tranquilliser in her blood.’

  ‘So?’ he raised the thick eyebrows. He was either a very good actor or he really didn’t know what she was driving at.

  ‘No one I’ve spoken to who knew Harriet can understand that. She didn’t take those pills. She didn’t take any pills. She was not, as far as anyone knew, depressed. We can’t find any empty boxes or the rest of the pills anywhere.’

  ‘Who,’ enquired Green, watching her closely, ‘are we?’

  ‘Myself, her family – the police.’ Meredith tossed in the last word after a perceptible pause.

  ‘And this has something to do with me?’

  ‘You might be able to help explain it. Did she talk to you of being depressed or taking pills? Did you see any pills of that kind in the cottage?’

  ‘The answer to all those questions is no.’

  The waitress brought their coffee. Green dropped two pound coins on the tablecloth and waved the surprised and delighted girl away. He’s giving his feelings away, thought Meredith, highly satisfied. He was the sort who normally checked his change if he bought a box of matches. He’s rattled.

  ‘I can tell you, Miss – ah – Mitchell, that I don’t much like the way you’re asking me these questions. You had better have some convincing reason.’ The voice and manner were designed to make lesser mortals quail and probably had been very effective on past occasions. But not now.

  Oh, don’t try that one on me! thought Meredith almost joyfully. She was not the office junior. She’d dealt with much worse than him! He wouldn’t bully her.

  ‘I thoug
ht,’ she said demurely, ‘you’d like to know exactly how Harriet died, since you were such good friends.’

  ‘Perhaps I thought it was already obvious how she died, and perhaps you exaggerate that friendship.’

  ‘You were with her on Christmas Day, weren’t you? You were there in the evening, at any rate. I think that indicates closeness.’ Meredith sipped at her coffee in order to show him her hand wasn’t shaking.

  ‘Other than a neighbour of Harriet’s, who are you?’ he asked abruptly.

  Meredith told him and Green’s gaze grew more cautious. He raised his clasped hands to rest his chin on them, his elbows on the table. A skin had formed over his untouched coffee. He wasn’t prepared to take the same test she had. ‘Listen to me,’ he said quietly. ‘I will tell you exactly what that friendship was. Then, perhaps, you’ll leave me alone. If you don’t, I shall take legal steps to stop you harassing me. I’ve no intention of discussing details of my private life and business affairs with a stranger, but I’ll tell you this much. My wife and I have a civilised agreement to go our separate ways. She is a partner in several of my business ventures and her father also has a considerable holding in my various business concerns. It is in the interest of neither Felicity nor myself to divorce.’

  Meredith put down the coffee cup abruptly. She had completely misunderstood Aunt Lou. Not green politics, but Green, the surname. That green man. That Green man.

  ‘But if there were to be a scandal . . . and this accident of Harriet’s has unfortunately a lurid aspect to it as I’m sure you appreciate. If the national press got hold of it – and I’m now talking of the more sensational tabloid newspapers – if they found out my friendship with Harriet, you can imagine the kind of news story they’d make of it. “Top city man’s mistress in dramatic death fall from plunging horse!” and who knows what else? Felicity wouldn’t stand for that, nor would her father. She’d sue for divorce and the old man would pull out all his investments in my companies. Felicity would want and make sure she got half of everything. I might even be forced into bankruptcy, ruined, I can’t let that happen, naturally. There is nothing I can tell you or the police which would throw any light on Harriet’s death. And as I am aware that the popular press pays for such titbits as I’ve told you, I should advise you not to be tempted to contact them. I doubt your superiors at the Foreign Office would approve of your actions, anyway. Gloat over what you’ve learned for your own delectation if you will.’