‘Okay, I’ll tell you how I got on at the Manor, shall I?—en Français, naturellement,’ she added and, her self-possession now completely restored, launched into a surprisingly humorous, if halting, account of her morning’s work under the fussy supervision of Mrs Judith Waghorne.
The lesson was practically over when there was a ring at the bell. Leaving Becky to write down some new vocabulary, Melissa went to answer. To her surprise, Gideon Lane was at the door.
‘I just thought you’d like to know that Tommy—’ he began, breaking off as Melissa, glancing over her shoulder, put a finger to her lips.
‘I’ve got Becky Tanner here—she’s in the kitchen,’ she whispered. ‘How is he? Did you manage to get him to the doctor?’
Gideon shook his head. He appeared taken aback at the news of Becky’s presence, but quickly grasped the implications and dropped his own voice as he replied, ‘I’ve had a look at him and I don’t think he’s seriously hurt. That’s really why I’m here, as it happens. Tommy is most anxious for this, er, unpleasantness not to go any further.’
Melissa was about to object that ‘unpleasantness’ was hardly an appropriate way to refer to a violent attack on an old man, but at that moment Becky emerged from the kitchen. ‘I’ve written down all what I’ve to do for next time …’ she began, then broke off as she realised who was standing in the doorway. ‘Ooh, Mr Lane, fancy seeing you again!’ she exclaimed coyly. ‘Did Mrs Waghorne tell you, she was so pleased with what I did this morning, she asked me to come again next Wednesday if Cissie’s Mum still can’t make it?’
Gideon beamed. ‘I’m not at all surprised—I had no doubt that you’d do a splendid job for us,’ he said with his customary hint of gallantry.
Becky treated him to a roguish smile as she slipped past him, hitching the strap of her bag over her shoulder and managing as she did so to expose a strip of tender young flesh between her jeans and her scanty T-shirt. ‘Bye-bye, Mrs Craig,’ she said, ‘see you next week. Bye-bye, Mr Lane!’ She set off at a brisk, purposeful walk, but Melissa noticed that she glanced with what seemed to be more than casual interest at Elder Cottage as she passed, as if she was hoping for a glimpse of Graham Shipley at one of the windows. The last thing he needs is attention from that little baggage, she thought to herself as she turned back to Gideon Lane and found that he too had his eyes on Becky’s retreating form.
‘Would you care to come in?’ she suggested. ‘I’m really very concerned about Tommy—are you sure it’s right to leave things like this? I mean, don’t you think the police should be informed? Anyone capable of doing that to an old man should be caught as soon as possible. He might easily do it again.’
Having declined the invitation with a shake of his head and a wave of one carefully manicured hand, Gideon gave every sign of being anxious to be gone. ‘I think we have to leave that up to him,’ he said.
‘But he should at least see a doctor,’ Melissa persisted. ‘Suppose there are internal injuries? It could be very serious.’
‘He’s quite determined not to, and we can’t force him against his will, can we? He made it very clear that he wants the whole thing forgotten. I for one will respect his wishes and I know he is hoping you will do the same. Now, I really must be going.’ Without giving her a chance to say anything further, he swung round and hurried away, almost colliding with Gemma, the one female member of the Woodbridge brood, who had recently taken over delivery of the Gloucester Gazette from the youngest of her numerous elder brothers.
‘Nearly ’ad me off me bike,’ she said indignantly as she skidded to a halt. She handed over Melissa’s paper, pulled out a second copy and then returned it to the bag suspended from her handlebars. ‘Not much point in leaving this, is there?’ she said with a meaningful glance towards Elder Cottage. ‘See the front page?’
Melissa unfolded the paper and stared in consternation at the sight of the stark black capitals proclaiming: MAN HELD OVER GIRL’S DEATH. She scanned the report in growing dismay; although no name was mentioned, it was obvious—even if Gloria had for once managed to keep her mouth shut—that local residents would have no hesitation in identifying Graham Shipley as the person referred to. It would be common gossip in no time.
‘You reckon he did Cissie in?’ Gemma asked.
‘I don’t think it’s at all certain that anyone “did her in” as you call it,’ said Melissa reproachfully, thinking as she did so that she was wasting her breath, that despite the carefully non-committal wording of the report, few local people would now doubt that Cissie’s death had not been accidental. ‘But if anyone did, I don’t think for a moment it was Mr Shipley,’ she added in a decided voice and Gemma, looking disappointed, turned her wheel and cycled away.
Back indoors, Melissa studied the piece more closely. Nowhere was the word ‘murder’ used; in fact, the writer had been careful to avoid stating categorically that the police were treating Cissie’s death as suspicious. Instead, he had quoted one of their spokeswomen as saying that there were ‘certain aspects of the case for which satisfactory explanations had not yet been found’—an obvious reference, Melissa felt, to the fact that Cissie’s body had apparently been removed from the water by a person or persons unknown. All in all, she thought as she turned to the next page, it added nothing of any significance to what she already knew.
She threw the paper aside and turned her mind to the problem of what she should cook for her evening meal. She was not particularly hungry; the disturbing events of the day had blunted her appetite and she settled for a couple of poached eggs on toast. When she had eaten them she put her plate and cutlery in the sink, ate an apple, brewed some coffee and tried to settle down with a book, but all the time the questions she had been asking herself ever since learning of Graham’s arrest were fretting away at the back of her mind. Several new ones had now been added to the list: Who attacked Tommy Judd, and Why? Had he been robbed or not? Why was he so anxious to keep the episode secret? The thought of him alone in his desecrated cottage, possibly more seriously hurt than he would admit and almost certainly in pain, was disturbing. She could not help feeling that Gideon Lane might have done more to persuade him to have his injuries seen to, then told herself that she herself had done her best and had no right to interfere further. It occurred to her to wonder what had prompted Gideon to call on Tommy. On the face of it, they seemed to have little in common, but one never knew.
She put the book aside and turned on the television, surfed all the channels without finding a single programme to interest her and finally, realising that she was dog-tired, had a long soak in the bath and was in bed before ten o’clock. As she snuggled down under her duvet, the memory of a snatch of overheard conversation slipped into her mind. She spent several minutes trying to recall the details, then abandoned the effort, telling herself it could well be totally irrelevant anyway. On the other hand, it might just be worth following up. She would do it tomorrow. To make sure she remembered, she made a note on the pad she kept on her bedside table. Moments later she was fast asleep.
Seventeen
For Melissa, early to bed on Wednesday night meant early to rise on Thursday morning. By six o’clock she was showered, dressed and seated at her desk with a cup of coffee and a plate of buttered toast, preparing to begin work on the final chapter of her second attempt at so-called ‘literary’ fiction. Almost twenty years had passed since the publication of her first crime novel. It had enjoyed immediate success and was followed by a steady stream of titles featuring Nathan Latimer, a senior police detective who had caught the imagination of the mystery-reading public and featured in a long-running television series that had brought her fame and a comfortable income. A year ago, somewhat to the consternation of Joe Martin, her agent, she had announced her intention to change direction and within a matter of weeks produced a comparatively short but what one critic had described as ‘an enthralling, by turns intensely moving, stimulating and slyly humorous tale of a woman’s fight to establish an identi
ty in the face of parental possessiveness and marital failure’. She was still somewhat bemused by the fact that, less than a month after publication, it had entered the bestseller list and her editor—who, until she read the script of Driving Force, had been highly sceptical about her decision—was now eagerly awaiting its successor.
It was an effort at first for Melissa to concentrate; her thoughts on waking had been of anxiety over the possible psychological damage his arrest and questioning by the police, followed by a night in custody, might be doing to Graham Shipley. This was swiftly followed by unease over the injuries suffered by Tommy Judd and a persistent feeling of guilt that she had not insisted that he at least have medical attention. It had taken a determined effort to thrust concern for the two victims to the back of her mind, but as her fingers moved over the keys of her word processor, at first slowly and with several false starts and then with increasing confidence, the climax of the drama she had created began to gather pace and within minutes she was completely absorbed in her imaginary world. When at length she sat back and waited for the first draft to emerge from the printer, she was astonished to realise that it was almost eleven o’clock, that the last slice of buttered toast had congealed on the plate and that she was both hungry and thirsty. She gathered up the printed sheets, took them downstairs and had just settled down with a fresh instalment of coffee and toast when the telephone rang.
‘Mel, it’s Joe. Thought I’d give you a call to find out how things are going as I haven’t heard from you lately.’
‘Joe! It’s good to hear from you—but I thought it was editors who worry about missed deadlines and disruption to publication schedules, not agents.’
‘Agents like to feel everything’s under control as well.’
‘I know—and to be reassured that they won’t have to wait too long for their share of the advance.’ Melissa was fond of teasing Joe about his supposed preoccupation with money matters.
‘That’s not nice,’ he protested, but there was no rancour in his tone. It was a private joke that they had shared ever since her books had been the subject of the lucrative television contract.
‘Just kidding,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be pleased to know that the first draft of the last chapter is even now lying on the table before me, hot from the press … and covered with marmalade,’ she added as a blob fell on to the first page from the slice of toast she was holding in her free hand.
‘Are you pleased with it?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘When can I come and collect it?’
‘Give me a couple of weeks—there’s a bit of revision to do to some of the early chapters.’
‘Right. Give me a date as soon as you can. I’ll book in at the Queen’s and we’ll have a celebratory dinner.’
‘That would be lovely.’ The invitation conjured up a pleasant image of luxurious relaxation, in sharp contrast to the painful stiffness in her neck and shoulders. She became suddenly conscious that the stress of the past week and the intensity she had brought to the morning’s work had combined to produce a feeling of utter weariness. To her consternation, she had to choke back tears. ‘It’ll be good to have something pleasant to look forward to,’ she said shakily.
He must have detected the suppressed emotion in her voice, for his immediate response was, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Several things are very wrong … not with me personally,’ she added hastily as the sound of a sharply drawn breath sped along the wire. ‘The one note of comfort is that so far the story hasn’t hit the national press.’
‘That sounds serious. Tell me.’ He listened intently and without interruption as, with an uncharacteristic lack of conciseness, she recounted the events surrounding the horrifying discovery of Cissie Wilcox’s body. When she had finished, he said quietly, ‘Who is this Shipley character?’
‘I told you, he’s a schoolteacher who’s rented Iris’s cottage.’
‘And you’ve known him just a couple of weeks?’
‘That’s right. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Only that you seem to have become quite involved with him in a very short time.’
‘Oh Joe, I’m not involved with him—’
‘You seem very exercised over his problems.’
‘He’s a human being, and a neighbour, and he’s badly in need of help.’
‘It doesn’t have to be your help.’
‘Joe, what are you suggesting?’
‘You know what happens when you start poking your nose into other people’s affairs. It’s led to one or two quite narrow squeaks.’
‘You’ve never objected in the past,’ she pointed out. ‘Au contraire, when news has broken about “Cotswold crime writer helps solve real-life mystery” you’ve rejoiced in the way my sales have shot up. I’ve been a nice little earner for you over the years.’
‘Mel, I wish you wouldn’t keep saying things like that. You know you’re more to me than just a brilliantly successful writer. I really care about you.’
‘I know, I was only kidding,’ she said, with a pang of remorse. It wasn’t fair to tease him like this. He was a dear friend who would, she knew, like to be a great deal more; she would not hurt his feelings for the world. ‘But I can assure you that Graham doesn’t pose any kind of threat, to me or anyone else,’ she insisted. ‘He’s a gentle soul and a dedicated teacher who’s been landed in an appalling situation through no fault of his own.’
‘How can you be sure of that? You’ve only known him five minutes.’
‘I’m convinced he’s been telling me the truth—’
‘Are you sure there isn’t more to it than that?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ It suddenly dawned on Melissa that it was more than simple concern for her welfare that lay behind the probing. ‘You aren’t suggesting I’ve taken a shine to the bloke, are you? For goodness’ sake, Joe, I’m not an impressionable teenager.’
‘No, but you’re a very attractive woman in a vulnerable situation.’
‘Are you saying I can’t take care of myself?’
‘No, of course I’m not. I’m sorry, Mel, I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘None taken. Look, I apologise for having burdened you with all this, but it’s been on my mind and there hasn’t been anyone else to talk it over with except young Bruce Ingram and Sergeant Waters. Bruce tends to see everything in terms of its news potential and to Matt it’s a routine police enquiry, whereas to me it’s a human tragedy in the making.’
‘That’s one of the things I love about you Mel—your humanity.’ There was a tender note in his voice which brought an unexpected feeling of comfort. ‘All I ask is that you don’t allow yourself to become too deeply involved in other folks’ troubles.’
‘I’ll do my best. It’s been a great help talking to you, Joe, and I’m really looking forward to our date at the Queen’s.’
‘Likewise. See you soon. Take care.’ And he was gone.
She put down the phone and went back to rereading her draft, but the conversation had stirred into life all the unanswered questions that she had been wrestling with over the past few days. And with them came the recollection of the reminder that she had written for herself shortly before falling asleep the previous night. She hurried up to her bedroom and checked the scribbled note, wrinkling her brow and reflecting that she must have been almost asleep when she wrote it. Only three words were legible: ‘barbecue’, ‘tickets’ and ‘boys’.
Well, there had been boys in plenty at the barbecue; she had helped any number of them to salad, rolls, tomato sauce and mustard. She sat down on the edge of her bed, puzzling over the reference to tickets. Gradually, it came back: Becky Tanner wanting to know where her brother and his friends got the money for their tickets and being told in no uncertain terms to ‘forget it’. But it wasn’t just a simple matter of an older brother telling his kid sister to mind her own business; Becky had seemed to suspect that the ticket money might not have been come by strictly hones
tly and Gary had taken a strong, almost violent exception to her words. What exactly were those words? Try as she would, she could not recall them fully.
Something else came back to her. One of the boys had commented on Tommy Judd’s absence and the others had seemed to find this amusing. That rang a bell. Boys short of money, suddenly able to find five pounds each for a ticket to the barbecue, and a joking reference to Tommy Judd, who yesterday had been violently attacked. Her mind went racing on. If the boys had, for whatever reason, been near Tommy’s cottage around the time of the barbecue, they might have noticed something unusual, a stranger perhaps, not necessarily acting suspiciously, just someone who, if traced, could provide a new lead in the enquiry into Cissie’s death. Despite Joe’s misgivings, she believed Graham Shipley when he swore that he had had nothing to do with that. If she could only convince the police … It was worth a try. She dialled their number and asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Matt Waters. By good fortune, he was at his desk; he greeted her warmly enough, but his manner changed to one of patient resignation when she explained her idea.
‘Do you suppose we hadn’t thought of that?’ he said, a trifle wearily. ‘We know from our house-to-house enquiries that those three lads are in the habit of congregating near that spot, but none of them could remember seeing anything or anyone unusual, either on or shortly before the day of Cissie’s death.’
‘That’s not what I meant. Were they asked if any of them had actually been inside Tommy’s cottage? Or whether he ever gave them any money?’
‘No—why should they? And what difference would it have made if he had? Maybe they did odd jobs for him, fetched his shopping or something like that.’
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 13