‘If it’s too much trouble—’ Jean began, but Gideon waved her anticipated objection aside.
‘No trouble at all, it’ll be a pleasure,’ he said firmly and turned back to his sisters. ‘If you girls don’t want to stay, I’ll drive you home and come back for … Cissie, isn’t it, and Jean … later on. About ten o’clock, shall we say? Or shall we make it half past?’
The two older women exchanged glances, then Esther said, ‘There’s no need for you to make two trips, Gideon. Judith and I will help Mrs Foster and Mrs Craig clear up, then we’ll watch the dancing for a while and all go home together.’
‘Splendid!’ Gideon beamed at them all. Bright lights and loud pop music were streaming from the open doors of the hall and he took Jean and Cissie each by an arm and led them in, leaving his sisters outside. They exchanged a brief, uneasy glance before Judith began stacking chairs while Esther accepted a black plastic bag from Mrs Foster and began gathering up the evening’s debris. It was clear to Melissa, who was piling the remaining food on to dishes and covering them with aluminium foil, that they were far from happy about the arrangement.
‘Mr Lane’s a nice gentleman, isn’t he?’ remarked Jean Wilcox as she and Cissie were drinking a cup of tea in their kitchen after the disco. Gideon had insisted on allowing them to stay almost until the end, despite the obvious disapproval of Judith and Esther.
Cissie shrugged. ‘You reckon? Bit of a dirty old man, if you ask me.’
‘Cissie! Whatever makes you say that?’
‘Dunno. Just think he is.’ It might have been her imagination, Cissie told herself; after all, there had been three of them in the back of the car, but he had seemed to be sitting closer to her than was strictly necessary with his leg pressed against her thigh. And why, having earlier offered to take his sisters home and then come back for Cissie and her mother, had he later insisted that Judith drive while he sat in the back between the two of them? It was true he’d said something about being ‘perhaps a teeny bit over the odds’, but she could have sworn he’d been drinking orange juice most of the time.
‘I can’t believe that of him, he’s never been anything but a perfect gentleman to me,’ her mother declared. Although there was some criticism of the sisters in the village from time to time, principally on account of their autocratic ways, she always leapt to their defence, saying that they were real ladies, she should know, she’d been doing a regular cleaning job for them ever since Cissie was a baby and they’d always been very good to them both. When Gideon moved in with them a few weeks ago, she had automatically extended her loyalty to him.
‘It was really kind of them all to put themselves out for us like that,’ she went on. ‘I wouldn’t have had you coming home on your own, or with any of those boys you were dancing with. Wouldn’t trust any one of them as far as I could spit.’
‘You reckon?’ Cissie repeated. She rinsed her cup and yawned. ‘I’m going to bed, I have to be at the shop by eight o’clock tomorrow.’
Five
It was gone eleven o’clock when Melissa reached home. It had been an enjoyable evening, during which she had taken particular pleasure at seeing Graham Shipley take part in his first village event. It had been encouraging to see how well he responded to the younger children and how relaxed he appeared in their company. Although he was a complete stranger he was after all a neighbour, someone with whom she hoped to be on good—although certainly not intimate—terms during his tenancy of Elder Cottage. That should, she told herself, have been the extent of her interest, yet there was something about him that puzzled and at the same time intrigued her. She sensed an underlying unease and sadness in his demeanour, and as she drove the short distance home her imagination set to work, devising possible causes.
Elder Cottage was in darkness when she turned out of the lane; thinking that he was probably asleep she left the car outside rather than cause a disturbance by opening and closing the garage doors. Although it was getting late, her brain was still active and before going to bed she made a pot of tea and spent some time reading over what she had written earlier in the day. She quickly became absorbed and it was nearly two o’clock before she turned in.
It was gone ten when she awoke to a typical late August day of glowing sunshine that, despite its warmth, held hints of autumn in the ripening berries in the hedgerow and the dew-drenched grass under the laden apple tree in her garden. She got dressed, prepared a light breakfast, carried it outside on a tray and settled in a secluded corner, conveniently screened by tall rose bushes from observation by a neighbour who seemed to spend quite a lot of time looking out of the window. It was Iris who had suggested planting this little arbour, not so much for its privacy—there had been no need at the time for such considerations—but for its protection from the chilly breezes that even on a fine day had a habit of sneaking up the valley from the north. In her early months at Hawthorn Cottage Melissa’s knowledge of gardening had been zero; it was Iris who had taken charge, practically ordering her to plant vegetables, helping her to plan her little plot and insisting that she establish a compost heap and cultivate it on strictly organic lines. It had all seemed a chore at first, but gradually she had taken to the task and in the end found it not only satisfying but therapeutic. She reflected, as she sipped her coffee and nibbled her toast, on some of the knotty problems faced by her fictitious detective, Nathan Latimer, that had been resolved over an afternoon’s pruning or digging.
The click of the front door of Elder Cottage brought her back to the present. She caught a glimpse of Graham Shipley’s car as it reversed out of his garage and listened idly to the familiar sounds of the double wooden doors closing. His footsteps crunched on the gravel, the car door slammed and the engine revved as he drove off, leaving a tiny curl of exhaust hanging for a few moments in the air outside her own gate. She glanced at her watch; it was gone eleven and she had promised herself a shopping trip to Cheltenham. With some reluctance, for it had been so pleasant sitting in the sunshine, she went indoors.
On her way out she stopped at the village shop to collect her morning paper. Cissie Wilcox was there, bright as a button in a knitted top that hugged her softly rounded figure and appeared, from his twinkling glance as she weighed out tomatoes for him, to meet with Gideon Lane’s unqualified approval. He offered her a five-pound note in payment; she took it and counted the change into his hand without meeting his eye, merely saying ‘Thank you, sir,’ in a cool voice before turning to greet Melissa with a warm smile and a friendly ‘Good Morning, Mrs Craig’. Lane appeared faintly embarrassed as he turned to leave, acknowledging Melissa with an old-fashioned little bow as he went.
‘Good morning, Cissie, did you enjoy yourself last night?’ Melissa said as she received her copy of The Times.
‘Oh, yes thank you, Mrs Craig, it was lovely.’
‘And we were so lucky with the weather, weren’t we?’ Melissa went on. She was studying Cissie curiously as she spoke; there was something different about the girl and she suddenly realised what it was. ‘Cissie, am I dreaming or have you grown six inches overnight?’
Cissie giggled. ‘Four, actually. It’s me new platforms.’ Ignoring Mrs Foster’s disapproving eye, she skipped out from behind the counter and showed off what seemed to Melissa the ultimate in ungainly footwear. ‘I wanted to wear ’em last night, but they weren’t right for rounders so I was going to change for the disco, but I forgot and left ’em at home. D’you like ’em?’
‘They’re very, er, trendy, and that yellow’s a lovely bright colour,’ Melissa said tactfully. ‘Are they comfortable?’
Cissie looked vaguely surprised, as if comfort had not been a consideration in her choice. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said dismissively.
‘They say wearing shoes like that can damage your back after a while,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘If you don’t fall off them and break your neck, that is,’ she added darkly. Her eye fell on a small cardboard carton lying on the counter and she tutted in annoyance. ‘There, Mr Judd’s gone without his egg
s.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll drop them in to him on the way home,’ said Cissie. She retreated behind the counter and put the carton on a shelf.
‘Well, bye-bye, mind you don’t scuff your lovely shoes going through the wood,’ said Melissa, and Cissie gave her a bright smile and a wave as she turned to serve the next customer.
At one o’clock Mrs Foster locked up the shop, turned the cardboard notice hanging on a string behind the glass door from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ and drew down the blind. She took some cash from the till and put it into an envelope, which she placed in Cissie’s eagerly outstretched hand.
‘Now put that safely in your bag and mind no one sees it,’ she admonished as Cissie attempted to stuff the envelope into a jeans pocket barely deep enough to hold a bus ticket.
‘Yes, Mrs Foster,’ the girl said meekly. ‘Thank you, see you next Saturday.’
She made for the door, only to be called back with the reminder, ‘What about Mr Judd’s eggs then?’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ Cissie scuttled back and retrieved the carton. Mrs Foster unlocked the door and held it open just far enough for her to slip through before relocking and bolting it behind her.
Normally Cissie walked home along the lane to Lower Benbury, which for half a mile or so followed the route taken by the twice-weekly bus before branching off to the left a little way before it reached the main road. Today, however, she took a short cut through a patch of woodland which brought her to the path leading from the lane to Tommy Judd’s cottage. It ran along the top of a steep bank above the brook which flowed under the bridge where, a day or two earlier, Becky Tanner had rounded on Billy Daniels for throwing stones at ducks and been in turn scolded by her brother Gary. Cissie knew nothing of that little altercation, but Gary was in her thoughts just the same although for different reasons. Last night, at the disco that followed the barbecue, he had asked her to dance and later if he could walk her home, but of course she had to say no and be driven instead with that horrid old man in the back of the car. Gary had offered to take her to the pictures one Saturday. ‘Not tomorrow, I’m playing in a football match, maybe next week,’ he had said and she had answered, ‘Yeah, maybe,’ knowing full well that her mother would never allow it, but unwilling to admit how restricted she was compared to Becky and the other girls of her age, who seemed to do pretty much as they liked. Still, she wouldn’t be sixteen for ever.
Remembering Mrs Craig’s remark about not scuffing her shoes, she picked her way carefully, avoiding the stones protruding through the layer of beech masts and leaf compost built up over countless seasons and tamped down by numberless feet. It had rained within the last week; the ground was still soft without being muddy and the brook was running full, gurgling quietly over its rocky bed. The air was fresh and full of birdsong, but Cissie hardly noticed either. Part of her mind was reliving the disco; the other part told her she was hungry. Her main thought now was to complete her errand and go home.
The cottage stood in a clearing behind a tangle of old elder trees. It was reached by a brick path, laid generations ago and now, like the stone tiles on the roof, covered with moss. Cissie trod carefully to avoid slipping on the damp surface. There was no knocker on the ancient wooden door and she tapped with her knuckles and called, ‘Mr Judd, I’ve brought your eggs, you forgot them.’
There was no response and she tapped again; still receiving no reply she lifted the rusty latch and pushed. The door swung open and she found herself in a dimly-lit, stale-smelling room with dingy net curtains drawn over the windows. Hearing a faint moaning sound as if someone was in pain she stepped inside in alarm and called, ‘Mr Judd, are you there? Are you ill or …’
At that moment, as her eyes became used to the poor light, she caught sight of him. He was kneeling by the empty fireplace; his eyes had a glazed expression and he was gazing at the floor. His face was flushed, his mouth hung slackly open and he was breathing heavily; the moaning noises were getting louder and more frequent. For a second, Cissie stood there bewildered and uncertain, wondering whether he was having some sort of fit, whether she should run for help. Then she caught sight of what lay between his splayed knees while the gnarled fingers manipulated something she had only heard about in biology lessons. At the sound of her involuntary scream of disgust the old man started and turned his head towards the door, his eyes bulging at the sight of her. The moans ceased abruptly and he began to fumble with his clothing, muttering something incoherent. For a second Cissie stood there petrified; then, as he began getting awkwardly to his feet, she dropped the box of eggs on a nearby chair and fled. Twice she lost her footing on the slippery path and fell on her hands and knees, then scrambled to her feet and ran blindly on, heedless of the mud and scratches on her new shoes, half-choking on the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of what she had seen. She barely heard the old man’s distant shout of, ‘I meant no ’arm, don’ ee tell no one,’ heard only the memory of those hideous moans. All her life, ever since she was old enough to distinguish between the sexes, her mother had been warning her against boys and young men, hinting darkly at ‘horrible things’ that, given half a chance, they would do to girls. In her own limited experience boys had posed no threat; it was old men one had to guard against. First there was Gideon Lane, slimily rubbing himself against her in the car last night and ogling her in the shop this morning, and now Tommy Judd, whom she had known all her life and never had cause to fear, caught doing something unspeakable, something that he wanted no one to know about, might do anything, go to any length to keep secret.
She ran till her chest hurt, then paused for breath and glanced fearfully over her shoulder. Through the trees that lined the winding track she caught a glimpse of him a short distance away, still pursuing her but at a slow, shambling trot. She could easily outrun him to the lane where she would be safe, where cars would be passing, other people walking; he wouldn’t dare touch her where someone might see. She ran on again, then stopped abruptly as, rounding a bend, she caught sight of another figure approaching, a figure which, in her shock and confusion, appeared to have huge, blank, gleaming eyes like an alien from a science fiction film. The realisation that the oversized ‘eyes’ were merely dark glasses reflecting the sun did little to reassure her because the wearer was also a man, potentially as dangerous as the filthy animal panting at her heels. She was trapped between the two of them, there was no escape that way. In a fresh wave of terror she left the track and plunged into the wood.
Six
Melissa was in a contented, relaxed frame of mind as she drove home from her shopping trip to Cheltenham. She had met a friend for lunch and together they had wandered round the shops, tried on some clothes, made a few purchases and had tea in the Everyman Theatre café before going their separate ways, agreeing that they had spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and would repeat it in the not too far distant future. The weather had been fine and mild, but as she turned off the main road and headed for Upper Benbury she noticed heavy clouds piling up in the south-west, threatening rain.
She caught up with the bus bringing its load of Saturday shoppers back from Stowbridge and was forced to crawl behind it as it trundled tortoise-like along the lane, scattering a cluster of young pheasants pecking at the roadside, before stopping at the bottom of the hill. While she was waiting, Alice Hamley approached from the opposite direction in her elderly Cavalier and crept past the bus with inches to spare; when she saw Melissa she pulled up alongside and wound down her window to chat about the previous evening’s event and tell her that it had raised a substantial sum for the village hall kitchen. Meanwhile, half a dozen or so people left the bus, among them Jean Wilcox who waved, smiled and informed them triumphantly that she had ‘managed to get some fresh herrings for Cissie’s tea, they’re her favourite’.
Alice said goodbye and went on her way as the bus moved off. Melissa was about to follow it, then decided to wait a few more minutes to give it time to drag itself to the top of the final
steep climb into Upper Benbury. As she idly watched its ponderous progress, her attention was attracted by a disturbance in the woodland to her left, not far from the track leading to Tommy Judd’s cottage. The next minute a man came crashing through the undergrowth as if pursued by a bull. He scrambled up the bank, reaching the track close to the point where it joined the road, ran forward a few paces and then stopped, looking wildly from left to right as if uncertain which direction to take. It was Graham Shipley and it was clear, even from a distance, that he was extremely agitated. Thinking that he might be ill, Melissa pulled off the road, got out of the car and hurried towards him, calling his name.
The sound of her voice seemed to disturb him even further; he swung round and broke into a stumbling run back the way he had come. She called again and he stopped short, hesitated and then slowly turned towards her. His features were contorted and his eyes wide with terror; he stared at her like a half-wild creature uncertain whether to stand its ground or flee. She went slowly up to him and put a hand on his arm; he was trembling violently and appeared to be trying to speak, but only incoherent mumblings came from his mouth.
Keeping her voice as quiet and soothing as possible, she said, ‘Mr Shipley … Graham … are you ill?’ He did not answer and she said, ‘Is something wrong?’
His reaction alarmed her. He grabbed at her arm, swaying slightly. For a second she wondered if he might be drunk or even drugged, but he took a deep breath and gasped, ‘By the water … a girl … I think she’s dead!’
‘Good heavens! Where? Show me!’
‘That way.’ He pointed and together they hurried towards the brook, scrambling as fast as possible down the steep, overgrown bank. Even before she reached the bottom and found herself gazing down in horror at the girl’s face with the muddied strands of blonde hair half concealing the ugly bruise on the forehead, the one bright yellow shoe still clinging to the left foot had caught Melissa’s eye and identified the victim. She dropped to her knees beside Cissie’s body, mechanically feeling for a pulse, knowing there would be none, yet praying for a miracle. She had encountered a case of drowning once before; the cold clammy feel of the flesh under her fingers and the froth of bubbles round the mouth, still curved in the same mysterious suggestion of a smile that it had worn in life, put an end to all hope. For an instant she could neither move nor speak; her throat tightened at the thought of Jean at home, at this very moment happily preparing her daughter’s favourite meal, and she was temporarily blinded by a gush of tears.
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 4