Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9)

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Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 2

by Betty Rowlands


  Now their attention was really caught. ‘Maybe under the floor in front of the fire,’ suggested Gary. ‘Like that old git in the book.’

  ‘Yeah, you could be right,’ said Billy eagerly. The boys were reading Silas Marner at school and Becky had heard them talking about it, but it had never entered their heads that old Tommy might be hoarding treasure like George Eliot’s solitary weaver.

  ‘Maybe he gets it out and counts it every day,’ said Dave, his pale eyes glistening at the thought. ‘I vote we go and look.’

  ‘I think that’s a daft idea,’ said Becky. ‘You won’t find no money hidden there.’

  The lads stared at her; for the moment they had forgotten she was with them. ‘How would you know?’ Gary jeered. ‘You been there first and nicked it yourself?’ The others joined in his scornful laughter.

  ‘’Course not.’ Becky flushed under their mockery, but she stood her ground. ‘If you’re thinkin’ of breakin’ into Tommy’s cottage, forget it.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  She scowled at her brother like an angry kitten. ‘Use yer brains, Gary Tanner. If you get caught our Dad’ll leather you, and then you’ll never get to the rounders match, leave alone the barbie ‘n’ disco after.’

  ‘We won’t get there anyway if we don’t have the money.’

  ‘That’s your problem,’ said Becky with a smug smile. ‘I got my ticket.’

  ‘You what?’ Gary eyed her suspiciously. ‘Where d’you get the cash?’

  ‘Dad gives me pocket-money, same as you. You spend yours, I’ve bin savin’ mine.’

  ‘So what did you use this afternoon? You bin shoppin’, ain’t you? What you got in there?’ He made a sudden grab at the bright pink plastic bag she had been concealing under the denim jacket she carried over her arm.

  ‘Give that here!’ Becky shrieked, but he yanked it away from her and pulled out its contents. The other two lads whistled in derision at the sight of the scarlet mini-skirt and the scanty knitted top, but Gary looked at his sister aghast.

  ‘You’re never goin’ to wear these!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘That’s what you keep saying, but I’m nearly grown up, I’d have you know.’ Becky tilted her head at a provocative angle, pouted and waggled her hips. Under the close-fitting T-shirt her young breasts made two soft mounds. Billy and Dave looked at her with new eyes. Ever since she was a toddler they had thought of her as merely Gary’s kid sister who insisted on tagging along and making a nuisance of herself when they wanted to be alone to do boys’ things. All of a sudden she had developed a strange new quality that found echoes in their own adolescent sexuality.

  ‘You’re still too young to wear this kind of stuff,’ Gary repeated.

  ‘Who says?’ Becky reclaimed the garments and stuffed them back into the bag. ‘I’m tall for my age—I could pass for sixteen with a bit of make-up.’

  ‘You reckon our Dad’ll let you wear make-up?’

  ‘Oh, leave it!’ said Dave impatiently. ‘We got more important things to talk about, remember?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Gary glanced at his wristwatch and gave his sister a shove. ‘It’s time you went home and got ready for your lesson with Mrs Craig.’

  Reluctantly, Becky went up the lane, dragging her feet, while the three lads settled down to some serious plotting.

  ‘I see you’re wearing the French tricolore,’ Melissa teased as Becky, her good humour completely restored, came bouncing into the kitchen, dumped her bag of books on the table and settled on a chair. ‘Did you buy that gear in Paris?’

  ‘Nah, got it in Stowbridge this afternoon. Cool, innit?’ Becky got to her feet again and did a little pirouette to show off her outfit before sitting down again with her long, slim legs stretched out in front of her.

  ‘Very cool,’ Melissa agreed. ‘What does your Dad think of it?’

  Becky chuckled. ‘He ain’t seen it yet. He’ll carry on a bit, I guess, but I can get round him.’

  ‘So, how was Paris?’ Melissa asked the question in French, but Becky, after a few stumbling phrases and finding her command of the language inadequate to cope with her enthusiasm, quickly lapsed into English. ‘One of the French teachers was, like, really cool… he had this dreamy little black beard and black eyes and he spoke English with this fabulous accent—’

  ‘I thought everyone was supposed to speak French all the time,’ Melissa interposed.

  ‘Yeah, well, we were, but now and again, when we went on the metro and things, like, to make sure we all understood … anyway, his name’s Marcel and I asked him for his address so’s I could write to him and I gave him mine so’s he could write back, like, to correct my mistakes—’

  ‘Then I expect to see a great improvement in your French,’ Melissa declared in her best schoolmarmish manner.

  This made no impression whatsoever on Becky, who assumed a knowing look and wiggled her body suggestively as she insisted that her French was loads better. ‘I think older men are loads more interesting than boys,’ she confided. Her brown eyes sparkled roguishly and her prettily curved mouth twitched so engagingly that Melissa could only smile in response. ‘That reminds me,’ Becky went on. ‘Who’s the guy in the cottage next door?’

  ‘That’s Mr Shipley. He’s rented it for six months. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was up at the window when I got here, looking out. I caught his eye and he gave me ever such a funny look …’

  ‘What do you mean, funny?’

  Becky considered, her head tilted to one side. ‘Sort of mysterious,’ she said after a moment. ‘I think he looks really cool. What’s he do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve hardly spoken to him, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh well, I expect I’ll see him around.’

  ‘Never mind him now,’ Melissa said and added in French, ‘Let’s get on with our lesson, shall we?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘In French, please.’

  ‘French people say okay,’ Becky pointed out, but all she got in reply to that was, ‘Okay, explique-moi ça en Français,’ and from then on the lesson proceeded smoothly.

  At the end of it Melissa was pleased to be able to compliment the girl on her improvement. ‘I hope you’ll keep it up,’ she said. ‘If you need any help with your letters to Marcel—you’ll be writing in French, of course—don’t be afraid to ask.’

  Becky giggled. ‘Not sure I’d want you to see what I write,’ she said archly.

  ‘I hope neither of you will write anything your Dad wouldn’t approve of,’ Melissa said severely. ‘He’s sure to ask to see the letters.’

  ‘Won’t understand them, will he?’ Becky glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Is that the time? Dad’ll be cross if I’m late for tea. What d’you want me to do for next week?’

  They agreed on a topic to be discussed at the next lesson and Becky departed. Melissa saw her to the door and stood there for a moment, watching her strutting along the track on her platform soles, swinging her bag of books and flicking back the glossy hair that tumbled round her shoulders. As she passed Elder Cottage she glanced up. Evidently Graham Shipley was at one of the windows, for she gave a dazzling smile and a jaunty wave of her hand as she passed.

  Melissa went indoors with a sense of disquiet. She had never met the girl’s mother, but she had heard from those who had known the family for years that Becky had inherited both her looks and her personality. She had also heard it said that the consensus in the village, when Jake Tanner brought home his bride, was that the daughter of a wealthy landowner accustomed to a glittering social life would never settle down to being a farmer’s wife—a judgement that was confirmed when she abandoned her husband and children, then aged five and seven, and eloped with a South American polo player. Her family had offered to adopt Becky and Gary, but Jake Tanner had steadfastly refused to give them up or accept any form of help other than that provided by the State. He was hard-working, his farm was well run and moderately successful, and it
was generally acknowledged that he had done a good job of bringing up the youngsters. All the same, his neighbours found it curious that he should be particularly strict with his son, a steady lad who took after his father, while being over-indulgent towards his pretty, precocious daughter. Melissa suspected that, rather than blame the wife he had by all accounts idolised, he had held the foreign interloper entirely responsible for the break-up of his marriage and now persuaded himself that the girl was as innocent and virtuous as he had believed her mother to be.

  She went back indoors and sat down to write to Iris and Jack. Having responded to a few questions and commented on the news in Iris’s latest letter, she brought her friends up to date with recent events in the village.

  Mr Shipley moved in while I was up in town for a few days. I met him for the first time this afternoon and from the way he froze me out when I began telling him what a jolly nice lot we Benburyites are, I don’t think we’re going to develop much of a relationship. He seems civilised and he’s certainly quiet, which is a blessing after the last lot. There were times when I really thought they must be throwing the furniture at each other—Gloria and I expected the place to be wrecked after they left, but apart from enough empties to fill a bottle bank everything was surprisingly normal.

  The weather has been hot and sunny for several days now after a week of heavy rain and the farmers are at last getting on well with the harvest. The barbecue and rounders match that had to be cancelled because the field was a quagmire has been rescheduled for next Friday. I wonder if I’ll be able to coax Mr Shipley to join in the fun—I think it’s unlikely but I’ll give it a try.

  Becky Tanner has learned a lot of French during her school trip—not all of it the sort of thing her teacher would approve, I’m afraid! She’s fallen in love with one of the French teachers and the little monkey has persuaded him to write to her—to help with her French, of course! I doubt if that will last long—I’ve never found written work to be her strong point.

  She says she thinks older men are ‘cool’ and she soon spotted my new neighbour, said he was at the window when she arrived and gave her a ‘mysterious’ (her description) look. Needless to say, he’s cool as well! I’m afraid that girl is her mother’s daughter—poor old Jake is going to have trouble with her before long, but as we all know, he won’t hear a word against her.

  Do you remember the formidable duo at Benbury Manor, Mrs Waghorne and Miss Lane? They have suddenly produced a brother, Gideon, who has retired early, on the grounds of ill-health they say, and come to live with them. He was in the shop with them the other day and they introduced me. He seems very charming and I can’t say he looks particularly delicate—on the contrary, he’s quite chubby, with rosy cheeks and an angelic smile, rather like an elderly choirboy. He also has a mischievous twinkle in his eye which makes me wonder whether he has an interesting past. Perhaps his sisters have decided they have to keep an eye on him.

  Watch this space!

  Melissa closed her letter with the usual messages, sealed it and strolled into the village to catch the evening post. On her return, she happened to glance at the upstairs windows of Elder Cottage. For a second, she thought she saw a faint movement, then told herself that it must have been her imagination. Nevertheless, she had an uncanny feeling that Graham Shipley was up there, watching.

  Three

  Feeling the need for fresh air, Graham set off for a walk along the valley. The woman who had introduced herself as Mel Craig was working in the garden of Hawthorn Cottage as he passed; she smiled and waved and he forced himself to nod and smile in return. He wanted to ask her about the girl, who she was, whether she would be coming again and when and how often, but felt it unwise. He hurried by without a word.

  The air was still and the late afternoon sun had a warm, comforting glow. The footpath ran for a while beside a brook that reflected the cloud-dappled blue of the sky and gurgled softly as it tumbled over loose stones. A male pheasant startled him by rising from the ground almost under his feet with a harsh cackle and a violent whirring of wings. From the woods on either side came other, less familiar calls and tantalising glimpses of smaller birds darting to and fro. He felt frustrated by being unable to identify them; tomorrow he would buy the bird book he had promised himself.

  He returned to the cottage, refreshed and ready for his supper. He put some potatoes on to cook and was just starting to fry the sausages and bacon he had brought home from the supermarket when the telephone rang. He felt uneasy; so far as he knew, the only person who had his number was Miss Monroe and he could not imagine her calling him at this time of day. But it was a man’s voice that greeted him.

  ‘Graham Shipley? My name’s Sam Rogers—I’m the Deputy Head of St Monica’s. Milly Monroe gave me your number and I thought I’d call to say, ‘Welcome aboard’!’

  The voice had a warm, cheerful quality and Graham was conscious that his somewhat hesitant response of, ‘That’s very kind of you,’ must have sounded stiff and formal. This did not, however, appear to offend the caller, who continued in the same breezy manner, ‘When I’m not doing the paperwork, I take PE and sport. I believe your subject’s history?’

  ‘It’s my special interest, but I take general subjects as well.’

  ‘Oh, understood, we’re all into them. What about games?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Pity. I was hoping I could rope you in to help me with this rounders match next Friday.’

  ‘Rounders match—before the start of term?’

  ‘Oh, nothing to do with the school, dear boy. It’s a fund-raiser for the village hall—there’s to be a barbecue and a disco later on. Haven’t you seen the posters?’

  ‘Yes of course, but I wasn’t planning to—’ Graham began, but Sam broke in. ‘But you must come,’ he insisted. ‘It’ll be a great opportunity for you to get to know people. I’m trying to persuade a few of our parents to bring their little darlings along, although most of the kids in the village go to the local primary or Stowbridge Comprehensive. Besides, I’m relying on you to captain one of the teams. Boys against girls … which would you prefer? Grown-ups as well, no age limit so long as they can stand up and hold a bat.’

  ‘But I haven’t played rounders since I was a kid, I can’t even remember the rules …’

  ‘There aren’t that many and I’ll be explaining them on the night. Just come along and join in the fun.’

  Graham longed to decline to have anything to do with the event. The last thing he wanted was ‘to get to know’ anyone in the village, but apart from having a persuasive manner, Sam Rogers was a senior member of staff at St Monica’s and he sensed that, despite his ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ telephone manner, he would not take kindly to being crossed. There was no way out; he heard himself agreeing to captain the boys’ team, acknowledged the warm words of thanks, entered the details in his diary and went back to cooking his supper. As he sat down to eat it, he found himself wondering whether the girl whose name he did not know, but who had waved so provocatively as she passed beneath his window, would also be ‘joining in the fun’ on Friday evening.

  ‘Mum, I’ve told everyone I’m going and I’ve paid for my ticket. It’s my own money and you can’t stop me.’

  Jean Wilcox felt her hold over her daughter draining away as she faced the challenge from the other side of the breakfast table. She told herself that it had been a mistake to let Cissie take on that Saturday job in Mrs Foster’s shop in Upper Benbury. She was getting too big for her boots altogether, picking up fancy ideas from people she hardly knew and—what in Jean’s eyes was even worse—getting to know lads from the comprehensive who sometimes hung around waiting for her outside the shop. Jean was convinced that her daughter had learned from them things no decently-brought-up fifteen-year-old girl should know, much less speak about. She believed this because of something Cissie had asked her the other day—and she had roundly ticked her off for indulging in ‘dirty talk’.

  Jean had good cause to
know what hob-nobbing with boys that age could lead to. As it happened, most of the kids here in Lower Benbury were too young to be a danger, although you read some terrible things in the paper nowadays about even twelve-year-olds having it off with little girls barely out of nappies. At least Cissie had so far been safe during term-time, having won an assisted place at one of the few girls only schools left in the county. But the holidays had become an increasing cause of anxiety … and soon she would be going on to sixth form college and who knew what undesirable types were lying in wait for her there?

  ‘I mean it, Mum.’ Cissie’s voice was steely; she was holding her ground in a way that filled Jean with dread. ‘All the other kids in the village are going, and a lot of their parents too. Come with me, why don’t you?’

  ‘Pay five pounds for a bit of burnt sausage and a half-cooked chicken leg that’ll give me guts-ache as like as not? No thanks. And I don’t want you going neither.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about the food. Mrs Foster’s in charge of the barbecue and I know she’ll make sure everything’s cooked proper. You ought to see how fussy she is in the shop, checking nothing’s past its sell-by—’

  ‘Just the same, five pounds is still a rip-off.’

  ‘It’s to raise funds for the village hall. It needs a new kitchen.’

  Recognising that she had lost that argument, Jean changed tactics. ‘And what’s all this about a disco? If you think you’re staying out till midnight—’

  ‘Oh Mum, it won’t go on that late. Anyway, you’d enjoy the disco, wouldn’t you? You said the other day how you used to go to clubs and dances—’

  ‘Yes, and look where it got me. In the family way when I wasn’t much older than you are now.’ A wave of bitterness swept over Jean as she recalled the night when Cissie was conceived, against her will although she had fought and screamed and done her best to struggle free. She had been too ashamed to tell her own mother about it at the time and when she found herself pregnant and they went to the police she was told she had left it too late for them to be able to do anything. She knew hardly anything about the young man except that he’d told her his mother was English and his father Chinese. She met him at a night-club and found the faintly oriental look that gave him an air of mystery so devastatingly attractive that she stayed with him for the entire evening, completely forgetting her promise to her mother that she would stick with her friends and come home with them. He had offered to walk her to the bus station and on the way dragged her into a dark alley. She was reminded of him every time she looked at Cissie’s almond-shaped eyes and saw the slight upward twist to the corner of her mouth which gave her the appearance of smiling at some highly pleasurable secret.

 

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