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

by Betty Rowlands

  He was calm now, unnaturally, unhealthily calm, speaking in a dead, toneless voice, his eyes fixed on infinity. Melissa had the impression that he was no longer aware of her presence and the notion set a prickling sensation running up her spine. To bring him back to reality, she stood up and reached for the empty cafétière. ‘Shall I make some fresh coffee?’

  The suggestion had the desired effect and he shook his head and stood up. ‘No, thank you. I must go home now, I’ve got some work to do—you know, preparing for next term.’

  ‘I do hope you’ll be happy in your new job,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for listening to me. I—’ He broke off in apparent embarrassment and fiddled with his latchkey. ‘You’re the only person here who knows …’

  ‘And that’s how it will stay so far as I’m concerned,’ she assured him and he gave a grateful smile that chased some of the weariness from his face.

  As she was seeing him out, a small white van bumped along the track and pulled up opposite her front door. A burly young man in a white jacket got out and sprinted through the rain to greet her with a cheery smile. ‘Glad I caught you in, Mrs Craig,’ he said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘I’ve some really tempting goodies for you today.’

  ‘Right, come in and tell me about them.’ As she stood aside for the newcomer to enter, she said, ‘Graham, meet Colin. Give him half a chance and he’ll sell you a couple of hundredweight of frozen kippers.’

  ‘Excellent quality frozen kippers,’ corrected Colin. ‘And plenty of other things besides.’ From his pocket he produced a slightly crumpled leaflet which he thrust into Graham’s reluctant hand. ‘Here’s our complete list. Would you like me to give you a call?’

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ said Graham over his shoulder as he hurried across to his own front door.

  ‘He’ll not survive to “another time” if he doesn’t look where he’s going,’ Colin remarked. ‘He nearly ran under my wheels last Saturday—dashed out in front of me as if Rob Roy and all his Highlanders were after him.’

  ‘Where was that?’ Melissa asked in surprise.

  ‘Just outside the village, by the bus stop at the bottom of the hill. I was on my way to make a special delivery to your village shop; I’d promised to be there before one o’clock and I was running a bit late—’

  Melissa frowned. ‘What time would that be, then?’ she asked uneasily.

  ‘About half past one, at a guess.’

  ‘You’re sure it was the same man?’

  ‘Positive. We ended up practically eyeball to eyeball. Mind, I don’t think he’d recognise me—he had a sort of glazed expression, but of course that could have been shock. Now, what can I interest you in today?’ He reeled off a list of special offers before dashing back to his van and returning with a stack of boxes. ‘There’s something new I’d really like you to try—we’re doing a special introductory price …’

  It was evident that he had heard nothing of the tragedy and Melissa decided not to mention it for the time being until she had a chance to organise her thoughts following this new and startling piece of information. She allowed him to talk her into buying boxes of individually frozen portions of marinaded chicken and salmon-en-croûte, responded to his enquiry about the progress of her current novel and offered him a cup of coffee, which he politely refused. When he had gone she went up to her study, but found it impossible to settle down to work.

  Her thoughts were in turmoil. Nothing Graham had told her—or, presumably, included in his statement to the police—suggested that he had been at the scene of Cissie’s death around the time it was presumed to have occurred. Matt Waters had guessed that he was hiding something and it was clear, from Graham’s own account, that he now knew of the Jazzie Dixon episode, doubtless via the Police National Computer. If he had also known of this latest revelation, Graham would almost certainly at this very moment be at the police station, ‘helping with enquiries’.

  Despite her instinctive sympathy with the man, she could not shut her eyes to the fact that aspects of his account disturbed her. He had shown no further sign of the latent fury he had betrayed as he began to tell his story, but it was surely still there, seething like steam in a pressure vessel, threatening to erupt whenever provocation became too great to bear. A precocious, sexually active teenager had ruined his life; the experience must have left terrible psychological wounds. For the second time her mind flew back to Becky Tanner and the blatantly coquettish efforts she had made to attract his attention. She asked herself what might have been going through his mind as he stood there, stony-faced and unresponsive. Had it been anger at memories the girl’s behaviour aroused? And then a more horrifying thought thrust itself forward: was it possible for a corrosive, uncontrollable rage at such memories to express itself in physical violence against anyone who reminded him of the girl who had brought about his downfall? What might his reaction have been, had there been no one else present?

  Melissa’s thoughts raced uncontrollably on. Could the sight of any nubile young girl, however innocent, trigger such a reaction? Cissie had undoubtedly been dead for some time when she saw her body moments after Graham claimed to have found it, but in the light of Colin’s evidence, he could have already known it was there because he himself had killed the girl and was waiting for someone to come along and witness his supposed ‘discovery.’ Yet what could quiet, modest little Cissie, innocently making her way home after delivering Tommy Judd’s eggs, have done to remind Graham of the scheming, vindictive Jazzie Dixon? Now if it had been that little hussy Becky Tanner …

  ‘Stop it!’ Melissa said aloud. ‘This is ridiculous—you’re letting your imagination go berserk. Go and see the man—give him a chance to explain.’ Resignedly abandoning all thought of getting any work done that morning, she went next door and rang the bell.

  It was several moments before he answered; for once, it seemed, he had not been watching out of the window. ‘I need to speak to you,’ she said and without a word he stood aside for her to enter. He ushered her into the sitting-room—the same room where she and Iris had spent many an evening cosily chatting after a delicious vegetarian supper—and invited her to sit down, but she declined with an impatient shake of the head and without preamble began, ‘You never told me you were near the brook a couple of hours before I saw you there.’

  He winced as though she had struck him in the face. ‘That Scottish fellow who brings the frozen food … was it his van that I nearly ran into?’ She nodded and he hammered his forehead with clenched fists. ‘God, what a fool I’ve been! I should have said … but it was so hard to explain, I felt sure no one would believe me … you won’t believe me—’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I … I was telling the truth when I said I was out bird-watching. I’d just started walking along that path when I saw this girl running towards me. I didn’t recognise her, but I could tell she was upset … distressed … and she was coming straight at me. I thought, if I wait for her … if she’s in some sort of trouble and I try to help her … and anyone comes along—’

  ‘So you turned and ran, and nearly got yourself run over,’ Melissa finished as he broke off with a gesture of despair. ‘Did you see anyone else—anyone she might have been running away from?’ He shook his head. ‘Or which way she went after that?’

  ‘No, of course not, how could I?’

  ‘You’re sure you never did anything, before you ran away, to make her frightened of you?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m just wondering why she should have changed course—as she apparently did—and gone charging into the woods and down that steep bank.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, I really haven’t.’ He moved restlessly to and fro in the small, low-ceilinged room. ‘It’s something I’ve asked myself a dozen times. I keep thinking, if only I hadn’t panicked and made off like that, maybe she’d still be alive.’

  ‘Is that why you came back later—to make s
ure she hadn’t come to any harm?’

  ‘Not really. I’d forgotten about it by then, told myself not to be so stupid. I just wanted to see if I could spot a kingfisher.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Can you believe that? A girl was lying there dead and all I could think of was some wretched dicky-bird.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ Melissa said, moved almost to tears by his look of utter, hopeless misery. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself—’

  ‘I swear I never touched her, but in a way I feel responsible for her death. What should I do?’ he asked, looking Melissa full in the face, his mouth working. ‘Must I tell the police?’

  ‘That’s up to you, but it’s obvious they aren’t completely satisfied about the cause of death, which means they’re still ferreting around. Sooner or later they’ll find out you’ve not been telling them everything you know—’

  ‘—and they’ll think the worst,’ he finished with a touch of bitterness in his voice. ‘You’re probably right, but … I must have time to think.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll leave you for now.’

  He had stopped pacing about and was standing at the window, staring out at the rain. He seemed to have forgotten her presence and she went home without another word, closing the door behind her as quietly as if there was a sleeper in the house.

  Twelve

  On returning home, Melissa made a determined effort to work, telling herself for the umpteenth time that Graham Shipley’s problems were no concern of hers. Two hours later she sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief, having reread yesterday’s output and found no serious fault with it. She made a few necessary corrections, set up the printer, spent a few minutes stretching and exercising cramped muscles, realised that she was hungry and went down to the kitchen in search of lunch.

  By the time she had consumed a bowl of soup and a cheese sandwich, checked the newly printed pages and filed them away, it was gone two o’clock. For the first time since hurrying back from Elder Cottage in the rain she looked out and saw to her surprise and pleasure that the sky had cleared, the rain had stopped and drifts of steam were rising from the stone paths, already drying in the steadily rising temperature. She opened the window and the sweet trill of a robin floated into the room on a breath of warm, moisture-laden air. Thankful for the opportunity to get out of doors, she went downstairs and into the garden.

  A movement on the other side of the low fence that separated her plot from that of her neighbour caught her eye. He was there, standing with his back to her, drinking beer from a glass tankard held in one hand while idly fingering the blooms on a scarlet rose bush with the other. He appeared to be deep in thought and she was trying to decide whether to speak to him or to move away, pretending she had not noticed him, when he turned and saw her. Unexpectedly, he smiled and came over to the fence.

  ‘Lovely to see the sun, isn’t it?’ he said conversationally. ‘And aren’t they just beautiful!’ His face was flushed and it crossed her mind that the drink in his hand might not be his first. Her suspicions were confirmed when he swayed slightly as he made a sweeping gesture towards the roses he had just been admiring.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she agreed. ‘Iris loved her flowers, she spent every spare moment out here. She grew all her own vegetables too, but her kitchen garden’s been grassed over. She had it all replanted when she left to make it easy to maintain and arranged for one of the village lads to look after it.’

  ‘Yes, that was all explained to me when I signed the lease.’ Graham took another swig from his glass, suppressed a belch and leaned an elbow on the fence. ‘Me, I don’t know a thing about gardening,’ he confided. ‘Sheila—my wife—used to do everything. Knew her stuff, too. Lady Greenfingers, I used to call her. Here’s to the disbelieving cow!’ He raised the glass in mock salute before draining it. ‘How about you? You like gardening?’

  ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until I moved here. Iris taught me all I know.’

  ‘You miss her, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. We became very close friends.’

  ‘Must be nice to have a close friend.’ His face took on a self-pitying expression and Melissa, feeling she had given him enough sympathy for one day, was trying to think of a polite way of breaking off the conversation when a voice called, ‘Excuse me!’ and they both looked round to see where it was coming from.

  Unobserved by either of them, a young man in jeans and a denim jacket had entered the garden of Elder Cottage through the side gate and was walking up the path towards them. Melissa noticed with a twinge of suspicion that he held a notebook in one hand. ‘Sorry to barge in,’ he said. ‘I tried the bell, but got no answer, and then I heard voices so I took the liberty …’

  Graham’s flush deepened and he glared at the newcomer. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he demanded.

  ‘My name’s Peter Blake and I’m doing a course in Media Studies at Stowbridge College. Are you Mr Graham Shipley?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  If Blake noticed the hostility in Graham’s tone, he gave no sign of it. ‘I’ve been given this practice assignment,’ he explained. ‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’

  Graham scowled. ‘Why should I waste my time answering your questions?’

  ‘I’m on a couple of weeks’ work experience on the Gloucester Gazette—’

  ‘You’re a journalist?’ Graham blushed again and he took a step forward, his grip tightening on the empty tankard.

  Melissa half-expected the young student to back down, but either he had not read the signals or had cast himself in the rôle of the hard-nosed newshound, determined not to be put off by a difficult interviewee. His manner became ingratiating. ‘I hope to be, sir, one day, and I’d really appreciate your help. I understand that it was you who found the body of—’

  He glanced briefly in his notebook to check the name of the victim, but before he could utter another word, Graham snatched it from his hand and flung it into the rose-bed with a snarl of ‘Get out!’

  Blake looked startled, but stood his ground. ‘I assure you, I meant no offence, sir,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. ‘This is only a practice interview, none of it will get published—’

  ‘GET … OUT!’ Graham bellowed, his face contorted with fury. Without warning he lunged at Blake and took a swing at his head with the heavy tankard, but staggered sideways as he did so, missing his target by several inches and almost losing his balance. Melissa, feeling obliged to intervene before things got completely out of hand, reached over the fence to put a restraining hand on his arm and with the other gestured towards the gate.

  ‘You heard what the gentleman said. Please go,’ she said sharply.

  Even then, Blake was reluctant to give up. ‘And you are …?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Never mind who I am. I know the editor of the Gazette and if you’re not off these premises in ten seconds flat I shall report you to her,’ she threatened, and the would-be ace reporter hurriedly retrieved his notebook and fled.

  ‘I told him, didn’t I?’ exulted Graham, waving his tankard aloft like a sportsman brandishing a trophy. He evidently believed that he had routed his enemy single handed. ‘That’ll give the cheeky young bugger something to report!’ Then a thought appeared to strike him and his air of triumph collapsed like a deflated balloon. ‘They’re on to me,’ he groaned. ‘They’ll send someone else … like they did before … my name will be plastered all over the paper and everyone will know what happened to me … oh God, what have I done?’ He slapped his forehead; his eyes were wild and he sent darting glances around as if he suspected reporters of lurking behind every bush.

  Melissa began to be seriously concerned about his state of mind. In an attempt to introduce a note of normality, she said, ‘Graham, when did you last have anything to eat?’

  ‘Eat?’ He looked bemused, as if the word was unfamiliar.

  ‘Yes, eat. Have you had any lunch?’ He shook his head. ‘Why not? You said yesterday you had food in the h
ouse.’

  ‘Wasn’t hungry,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t fancy anything. Thought I’d have a drink instead.’

  ‘It’s bad to drink on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He contemplated the bottom of the tankard with an abstracted air. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Reluctantly, because she had no wish to become further embroiled in his problems, but fearing that if she left him to his own devices he would probably ignore her advice and drink himself into a stupor, Melissa said, ‘Would you like me to make you a snack—a bacon sandwich, or maybe an omelette?’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Fifteen minutes later he was ensconced in her kitchen, wolfing down eggs, bacon and toast. When he had cleared the plate and accepted a second cup of tea, he put down his knife and fork and said, a little humbly, ‘I’m afraid I’m being a great nuisance to you.’

  ‘You are a bit,’ she admitted, adding with mock severity, ‘I hope it’s not going to become a habit.’

  ‘I used to have a counsellor and I do miss her.’

  ‘Have you registered with a doctor since moving here?’ He shook his head. ‘Then I think you should find one. I’ll give you the name of mine if you like.’

  He brightened at the suggestion. ‘I think I’ll do that. It would get me off your back, wouldn’t it?’ he added with a smile.

  Melissa smiled back. ‘Luckily for you, I had a successful couple of hours’ stint on my book after you left this morning and I was taking a breather anyway.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘What do you write?’

  ‘Until recently, crime fiction, but I’ve been trying my hand at something different lately. My last novel was a bit more serious—‘literary’, the critics called it.’