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

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Mum, I’ll be all right, honest.’ Cissie dropped the defiant attitude and became sweetly reasonable. ‘There’s lots of people going that you know … Mrs Waghorne and Miss Lane and their brother … and Mr Rogers who teaches at that fancy private school near Carston. He’s really nice, not a bit stuck-up. I’ve promised him I’ll go and play rounders and I’m not going to back out now.’

  Cissie had very craftily given her mother a reason to capitulate without losing face. This was a watershed and Jean knew it. For years she had cherished and protected her daughter, directing her, making every decision for her, closing her mind to the thought that this could not go on for ever, that one day she would slip the leash for the first time.

  ‘Well, if they’re all going to be there, I suppose it’ll be all right,’ she said reluctantly and the battle—for it had been a battle, although no tempers had been lost or voices raised—was over.

  ‘I’m not at all convinced that it’s wise of us to allow Gideon to attend this barbecue affair on Friday,’ said Esther Lane to her widowed sister Judith Waghorne as they cleared away the supper things. Their brother had disappeared into the sitting-room and turned on the television to watch a football match so there was no risk of their conversation being overheard. Just the same, Esther made sure the kitchen door was properly closed before adding in a lower voice, ‘Some of the village girls are very, well, forward—’ Her colourless mouth pursed in disapproval.

  ‘I don’t see how we can prevent him, short of locking him in his room and we can’t very well do that,’ Judith said mildly. ‘He was telling everyone after church on Sunday that we’re all going to be there. He’s even promised Mr Rogers to join in the rounders match if he can be allowed a runner.’

  ‘He’s sure to pick on some pretty girl to do the running and—’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Rogers won’t allow that—the match is going to be boys against girls, he said. Try not to worry, dear—it’s only a bit of harmless amusement. It’s in a good cause and we’ll be there to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it now.’ Esther gave a resigned shake of the head. She opened the dishwasher and began loading the plates and cutlery as Judith passed them to her. ‘I must say, though, I’m beginning to wonder whether we did the right thing, inviting him to live with us. A house of retreat might have been more suitable, out of the reach of temptation—’

  ‘We talked it over very carefully at the time,’ Judith reminded her. ‘And he assured us that he’s learned his lesson. He made us a solemn promise—’

  Esther frowned. ‘That’s as may be,’ she interrupted. ‘I was in the shop with him last Saturday and the way he was looking at that Tanner girl—’

  ‘Young Becky? Well, it’s no wonder is it, the way she goes around in skirts that barely cover her knickers? It’s enough to make anyone stare. I’m surprised her father allows it, especially after the way her mother carried on.’

  ‘Well, you know what Jake Tanner’s like,’ Esther pointed out. ‘Becky’s the apple of his eye and he won’t hear a word against her. Not that anyone would dare say such a word, with that temper of his—’

  ‘Yes, and you can imagine what he’d do to anyone who laid a finger on her. Gideon knows that as well as any of us.’

  ‘But Becky Tanner isn’t the only girl in the village and we know that Gideon has this terrible weakness—’

  ‘—and it’s our duty, as his sisters, to help him overcome that weakness,’ said Judith earnestly. ‘That’s why we’re going to this affair next Friday, isn’t it? We won’t let him out of our sight.’

  ‘We can’t control his thoughts. There’s temptation everywhere.’

  Judith laid a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘I know dear, but we must give him the chance of proving himself strong enough to resist it. We must watch over him and pray for him. Why don’t we offer a prayer for him now?’ Without waiting for a response, she folded her hands and closed her eyes and Esther, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same. ‘Dear Lord,’ said Judith softly, ‘Watch over our brother and lead him not into temptation, Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ Esther repeated in a harsh whisper.

  ‘Come now,’ said Judith in her normal voice. ‘Let’s make some coffee and take a cup in to him. Perhaps we should stay and watch the football. You never know, it might be entertaining.’ She reached for the kettle, affecting not to notice the slightly contemptuous expression that flitted across her sister’s thin features.

  Four

  ‘That Mr Shipley’s a strange one,’ Mrs Foster remarked as with a large two-pronged fork she prodded and turned the sausages, burgers and chicken portions sizzling on the barbecue set up outside the village hall in Upper Benbury. From a nearby field, lent for the occasion by farmer Jake Tanner, came the occasional thwack of stick against ball, shouted instructions, cries of encouragement or derision, the odd protest—promptly settled by Sam Rogers, whose authoritative baritone rang out above the clamour—and the occasional round of applause.

  Melissa Craig, who had volunteered to help with the food and was struggling in the mild but lively breeze with a large roll of white paper with which she was covering a pair of wooden trestle-tables, acknowledged that Graham Shipley did seem to be a bit of a loner. ‘I thought about suggesting he came along to the barbecue this evening, but I never got around to it,’ she continued, when she at last managed to secure the paper with drawing pins. She began setting out paper plates, napkins, baskets of bread rolls, bowls of salad and squashy containers of mustard, mayonnaise and tomato sauce. ‘I was surprised when I heard he’d agreed to help with the rounders match.’

  ‘Ah, that was Mr Rogers’s doing,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘Mr Shipley starts at his school in September.’

  ‘Really? Is he a teacher?’

  ‘Been living next door to you for a week and you never knew that!’ Mrs Foster’s plump features, pink from the heat of the barbecue, registered mild astonishment. The minutiae of other people’s lives were meat and drink to her and it was difficult for her to accept that there were those who found them less than enthralling.

  ‘I’ve only set eyes on him a couple of times,’ Melissa explained. ‘I was away when he moved in and since I got back I’ve been too busy with a new book to take much notice of him.’

  ‘Ah, well …’ Mrs Foster gave a little toss of her snowy head as if to imply that such eccentricities had to be accepted, if not fully understood, by ordinary folk. As proprietress of the only shop serving Upper and Lower Benbury, and having a talent worthy of a gossip columnist for extracting information, she acted as a clearing-house for the dissemination of news about the inhabitants of the twin villages: their state of health, where they were going for their holidays, whose varicose veins were currently being treated, which house was being extended, who was getting married, baptised or buried and even—although such nuggets were shared ‘in the strictest confidence, mind you’ with only the favoured few—who was ‘carrying on’ with whom. From the mechanics at the garage who regularly popped into the shop to buy snacks and drinks she knew whose car had failed its MoT and who might shortly be expected to appear in the village in a new one. So it came as no surprise to Melissa that she had already picked up a few titbits about the new tenant of Elder Cottage. The temptation to try to extract more was irresistible.

  ‘I don’t think he’s a local man …’ she said tentatively and Mrs Foster took the bait with glee.

  ‘Comes from somewhere near Birmingham,’ she said. ‘Used to teach in a comprehensive, so Mr Rogers told me. Tough lot up there,’ she went on, implying by intonation that the city was in a far-off, barbaric land instead of a neighbouring county. ‘Too much of a strain for him, perhaps—he looks a sensitive sort of gentleman. He’ll find it quieter down here.’

  A rousing cheer and prolonged clapping put an end to further speculation and Mrs Foster began wielding her fork with renewed energy. ‘Sounds like they’ve done playing,’ she remarke
d as she shifted the cooked items to one side to make room for a further batch. ‘They’ll be as hungry as bears.’

  ‘And thirsty,’ commented the rector, the Reverend John Hamley, who had hurried away from the field of play in advance of the rest to take charge of the drinks table.

  ‘So who won, then?’ asked Mrs Foster.

  ‘It was a draw.’ He began pouring beer and fruit juice into plastic tumblers. ‘Sam Rogers is talking about a play-off after supper, but I doubt if it’ll happen. The youngsters will be keen to get the disco started and I don’t suppose the older ones will feel inclined to do any more running around—and anyway, it’ll soon be too dark. Ah, here come the five thousand.’

  A cheerful crowd came surging up the lane in waves, making a bee-line for the food and drink. For a while, Melissa’s attention was focused entirely on doling out helpings of salad before the chattering queue moved on to receive their allocation from the barbecue.

  ‘Only one of each to start with,’ said Mrs Foster firmly when Gary Tanner and his friends pleaded for extra sausages. ‘Come back later for seconds when everyone else has been served.’

  ‘You can give Gary my sausage,’ called Becky Tanner, who was a couple of places behind her brother in the queue. ‘I have to watch my figure,’ she explained, flipping her hair back from her face and shooting a pert glance up at Graham Shipley, at whom the remark was apparently directed. She was standing immediately in front of him and it seemed to Melissa that she kept unnecessarily close to him as the queue shuffled along. He paid no attention to her, but kept his eyes focused on Alice Hamley, who had been next in line to him until Becky, with a cheeky ‘’Scuse me!’ slithered in between them. Alice was praising his performance as captain of the boys’ team and he was listening politely enough, but it seemed to Melissa that he was far from comfortable.

  ‘Was it a good match?’ asked Mrs Foster as she served him with a chicken leg and invited him to help himself to bread and seasonings.

  ‘I think so. Everyone seemed to enjoy it,’ he replied woodenly and Melissa mentally added, Everyone but you, by the look of it, as he took a glass of fruit juice from the drinks table. Becky, evidently piqued at being ignored, accepted her food without a word and glared after him before flouncing off to join her brother and his friends.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Graham wandered over to where a few of the younger children were sitting on rugs to eat their supper. He squatted down beside them and Melissa noticed with interest how eagerly they greeted him; one freckle-faced lad whom she recognised as Wayne, the ten-year-old son of her cleaning lady Gloria Parkin, moved up and urged him to ‘Sit down ’ere, sir,’ while his elder brother Darren offered a sausage—politely declined—from his own plate. It was the first time she had seen him smile, and the effect was heart-warming.

  ‘He’s well at home with kids of that age,’ said a voice at her elbow. ‘Handles them just right. I reckon he’s going to be a real asset at St Monica’s.’ Sam Rogers, tucking into a burger generously laced with mustard, nodded towards the little group.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him looking relaxed,’ she replied. ‘I’ve tried the usual neighbourly approaches, but he gives the impression he just wants to be left alone. I didn’t even know he was a teacher until Mrs Foster told me.’

  Sam took another bite from his burger before replying. When he was free to speak again he said with a chuckle, ‘I think he’s scared of women. Young Becky Tanner was trying to chat him up during the match and he froze like a rabbit caught in a searchlight.’

  ‘I know what you mean. She was giving him the come-hither while they were queuing for their food a few moments ago and he tried to pretend she wasn’t there.’

  ‘He’ll have to watch his step.’ Sam’s round, good-humoured face became serious. ‘Girls that age can be a real menace and that one looks a natural trouble-maker. Is it true the mother took off with some playboy or other?’

  ‘A wealthy polo player, so I’m told. I don’t know the full story—it all happened before I came to the village. I once heard Mrs Foster say she was a ‘poor little rich girl’ who got tired of playing at being a farmer’s wife. Jake never speaks about it, but I can imagine he was pretty cut up at the time.’

  ‘Understandable. And from the look of her, the girl is her mother’s daughter. He should keep an eye on her.’

  ‘That’s part of the trouble—he idolises her and in his eyes she can do no wrong, yet he’s really strict where young Gary’s concerned.’ Melissa was about to float her theory on the reasons for the apparent inconsistency, but at this point Sam was buttonholed by a couple with a young child who, Melissa gathered, was a pupil at his school. She glanced around; everyone seemed to have been served and had either settled in the chairs set out for them on the little patch of lawn beside the hall or, feeling the chill of the evening breeze, taken their food and drink inside.

  ‘Time we had a bite ourselves,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘Help yourself, Mrs Craig. Rector, what can I give you?’

  ‘Oh, a little of everything please. I’m just looking for Alice and the children—ah, there they are.’ He located his little family, already seated a short distance away, and waved to them. ‘Do come and join us, ladies.’

  Mrs Foster declined the invitation on the grounds that she had to keep an eye on the barbecue, but Melissa accepted and sat down beside Alice. For a while the grown-ups ate in a companionable silence while the children, happily free from the restrictions of family meals at table, ran around kicking a ball while munching their sausages and chicken legs. In the adjoining field, Jake Tanner’s tractor clattered up and down ploughing up the cut stubble, followed by screaming flocks of gulls and rooks. Overhead, swallows and martins rushed past in their endless pursuit of insects. On the western horizon, the sun was sinking into banks of fluffy golden clouds.

  ‘Been lucky with the weather, haven’t we?’ John Hamley remarked and there were murmurs of agreement. Alice expressed the hope that the evening would prove a financial success and the conversation drifted thence to other parish matters. Melissa found her attention wandering; presently she became aware of another set of voices, younger ones this time. She glanced round and saw Becky Tanner with her brother Gary and his friends Dave and Billy tucking into their food a short distance away.

  ‘You still ain’t told me where you got the money for the tickets,’ Becky was saying.

  ‘None of your business,’ her brother retorted.

  ‘You was all skint a couple of days ago.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ snapped Billy. ‘We ain’t askin’ where you got yours.’

  ‘I told yer, I saved me pocket-money.’

  ‘Oh yeah, we believe yer.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Okay, have it your way. Who cares anyhow?’

  There was a pause, then Becky remarked, ‘Good turn-out, innit? Bet the rector’s pleased—looks like everyone in the village is here.’

  ‘All except Tommy Judd,’ said Dave. The three lads sniggered and exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Becky demanded. No one answered. Melissa, who by this time was giving her full attention to these exchanges, saw the girl’s expression alter. She gave a little gasp and clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Gary,’ she said, ‘You never—?’

  ‘Shut yer face!’ Gary snapped. He leaned forward, grabbed his sister by the arm and gave it a shake. ‘Just forget it, will you?’

  ‘Don’t you bully me or I’ll tell our Dad,’ Becky threatened. She jerked her arm away, scowling, but held her tongue. The lads paid no further heed to her and began talking about football.

  ‘Might as well pack this lot up and take it indoors,’ Mrs Foster called from behind the barbecue, indicating the remaining food and bringing Melissa’s attention back to the job in hand. Around them, people were beginning to drift away. ‘Getting too chilly to sit out here,’ Mrs Foster continued. ‘Anyway, the music’ll be starting soon—if that’s what they call it,’ she
added sourly as the disc jockey hired for the occasion began testing his equipment with a track from the latest Oasis album. ‘Can’t think what anyone sees in that noise, it’s enough to wake the dead.’

  ‘It’s all to do with what’s known as the generation gap, I believe,’ Gideon Lane remarked as he placed three paper plates, three crumpled paper napkins and a little heap of plastic cutlery carefully on the table. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Foster, that was delicious.’ He glanced round for confirmation from his sisters, standing just behind him.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Judith Waghorne as she handed over three plastic cups.

  ‘A most successful evening all round,’ Esther Lane agreed. ‘We’ll just say good night to the rector and then we’ll be going home.’

  ‘My dear, we can’t go yet,’ Gideon protested. ‘The dancing has only just begun, and I’m so looking forward to watching the young people enjoying themselves. Besides,’ he added, nodding in the direction of Jean and Cissie Wilcox who were hovering behind them, ‘I know these two young ladies would like to stay on for a while and I’ve promised we’ll see them safely home. It’s on our way.’