Yet, if that was the case, why not say so? Why the shiftiness and the lies? The more she thought about it, the more uneasy Melissa became. She recalled that only a couple of days ago Becky had described how her father had ‘had a go at her’ and wondered if there was any connection. Perhaps she should have a word with Jake? But what could she say that would not give offence to a man notorious for his protective attitude towards his daughter? On second thoughts, it would be better to leave well alone; it was really no concern of hers and she had more pressing matters on her mind.
She went back to her car and set off for home feeling deflated and depressed. All the buoyancy, optimism and interest in a possible new Nathan Latimer mystery that her discussion with Edith Ingram had aroused were swept away, leaving her with the problem of what to do with her new-found knowledge of Gideon Lane’s past. She toyed with the idea of talking it over with Bruce and had decided to call him as soon as she reached home when, as she turned off the main road, she spotted the brake lights of another car in the lane a short distance ahead. It pulled up and a slight figure jumped out, slammed the door and scurried away without a backward glance.
The other car moved forward a few yards, braked again and turned right, heading for Benbury Manor. Acting on impulse for the second time in twenty-four hours, Melissa followed.
‘Gideon’s late for tea,’ said Esther with a frown as she surveyed the table laid, as usual, with china cups, saucers and plates and a selection of home-made cakes. ‘He knows we have it at half past four and here it is almost ten to five.’
‘Perhaps he met a friend in Stowbridge and they got talking,’ Judith suggested. ‘You know how Giddy loves to chat—and he’s got the car today so he’s not dependent on the bus.’
‘He’s hardly had time to make any friends there. He’s certainly never mentioned anyone particular.’
‘Do we really have a right to know about everyone he meets?’ Judith fiddled with the silver teaspoons that she had placed in each of the three saucers before adding, ‘He is a grown man, after all. He’s entitled to choose his own friends.’
‘Of course he is, provided they’re suitable,’ said Esther pointedly.
Judith was quick to take her meaning. ‘Oh Essie, you don’t really think … I mean, he gave us his word—’
‘I know he did, but to be honest, I’m not sure we can trust him. You know how he lied to us about being in the woods the day young Cissie drowned. We had quite a job to get the truth out of him.’
‘It was only because he was frightened …’
‘Frightened of what?’
‘Of being questioned by the police and getting his name in the papers, of course. You were just as worried, and so was I.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And we were both satisfied with his explanation, weren’t we?’
‘At the time—yes.’
‘What do you mean by “at the time”?’ Judith’s mild features puckered in a frown. ‘What’s happened to change your mind?’
Esther took a teapot from a cupboard above her head and poured hot water into it before saying, with apparent reluctance, ‘It’s that nosey Mrs Craig and her questions. Suppose she finds someone who actually saw Gideon there that day? Colin, the frozen food man, for example. Gideon said the van passed him in the lane.’
‘If Colin had reported seeing him, we’d surely have heard by now.’
‘I suppose so. Just the same, that woman had no right to come here and poke her nose in.’
‘I suppose it was rather impertinent of her,’ Judith agreed, ‘but I’m sure her intentions were of the best. She was only trying to help poor Mr Shipley, after all.’
‘She should mind her own business.’ Esther tipped out the hot water and spooned tea into the pot. ‘Just because she’s had a few trumpery crime books published I suppose she thinks she’s some kind of a detective.’
‘Oh, her novels aren’t trumpery,’ said Judith earnestly. ‘They’ve been on television,’ she added, as if that conferred some kind of classic status on any book so treated.
‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ said Esther grumpily. ‘And I’m not going to wait for Gideon any longer. We’ll have our tea. If it’s stewed by the time he comes in it’ll be his own fault.’
‘I think I hear him now.’ Judith opened the kitchen door and popped her head out. ‘Yes, that’s his key in the lock. There you are at last, Giddy!’ she called, ‘we’ve been quite worried about you … oh dear!’ She hastily closed the door and turned to her sister with a look of dismay.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Esther demanded.
‘It’s that Mrs Craig … she’s here again.’ Judith’s voice sank to a shaky whisper. ‘Whatever can she want this time?’
Melissa’s second visit to Benbury Manor was in several respects a retake of the first. She was escorted—with a similar degree of reluctance, but by Gideon this time instead of Esther—into the large, lavishly-equipped kitchen where once again the table was laid for tea. Here the resemblance ended; there were no cordial smiles of welcome or an invitation to sit down. Instead, the three siblings drew together in a silent group on the opposite side of the table, one sister on either side of Gideon with an arm linked with his, their gaze not merely defensive but—at least in Esther’s case—actively malevolent. Melissa had been prepared for anger and bitter resentment, had been steeling herself for it from the moment when she recognised the Lanes’ car and decided to have it out with them there and then, but the force of their combined hostility was like an electric shock.
‘I’ll be completely honest, this isn’t a social visit,’ she informed them. ‘I called in to tell you that I have had a long conversation today with a lady who has a friend in Warefield. She remembers you very well, Mr Lane. Very well indeed,’ she added for an extra touch of dramatic effect.
For a moment, no one spoke. Judith let out a little sigh that was almost a moan and put her hand to her mouth. Gideon shuffled his feet and stared down at the table, his face scarlet. Esther was the first to respond. ‘I suppose you think you’re very clever,’ she snarled. ‘A man sins, repents and tries to build a new life, and you take it upon yourself to expose and punish him—’
‘Please, don’t misunderstand me,’ Melissa cut in hastily. It occurred to her that Esther’s words could apply equally to Graham’s own situation. ‘I’m not concerned with retribution. All I want is to get at the truth.’
‘And what gives you the right to come here questioning us?’ Esther’s eyes blazed and her attitude became for a moment so threatening that Melissa was relieved that the heavy table stood between them. ‘Did you expect us to betray our brother, have everyone pointing the finger at him, at all of us?’
‘No, of course not, and there would have been no need for his past, er, indiscretion to come out if only he had been a little more forthcoming about what happened the day that Cissie died.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Esther snapped.
‘When I asked him if he had seen anything or anyone unusual around the time of the tragedy, he refused to answer and you backed him up, but you see I happen to know,’—here she took a wild, unpremeditated gamble—‘that he was in the neighbourhood of Brookside Cottage the day that poor girl died.’
‘Who told you that?’ Judith blurted out. From the looks of alarm that passed between the three, Melissa knew her random shot had hit the target.
‘Colin,’ Gideon muttered. ‘I told you he drove past me. He must have recognised me after all.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been better if you’d said so at the time?’ said Melissa gently. In spite of herself, she felt a twinge of pity for him. ‘The police tend to be suspicious of people who withhold information.’
‘You’re not going to tell the police? But that’s not fair!’ Judith turned wide, beseeching eyes on Melissa and clutched her brother’s arm more tightly. ‘Giddy had nothing to do with Cissie’s death.’
‘I’m not suggesting
that he had, but don’t you see, he might have noticed something that could help with their enquiries. Surely, your duty as citizens should have told you that, yet he—all three of you in fact—said nothing about his being there around the crucial time. I couldn’t help wondering why.’
‘So you began poking and prying into things that are none of your business. You meddling bitch! Get out of this house!’ Esther released her brother’s arm and took a step forward as if to move round the table. For a moment, Melissa thought she was going to be physically attacked, but Gideon restrained her.
‘Please go, Mrs Craig,’ he pleaded.
‘Of course. I’ll leave you to think things over,’ she said, backing towards the door. ‘If it’s any comfort,’ she added with her hand on the doorknob, ‘the police won’t release your name to the press if you specifically ask them not to.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind,’ said Gideon. Suddenly, he appeared to remember his manners. ‘I’ll see you out,’ he added with a pathetic flash of gallantry.
At the front door, Melissa said in a low voice, ‘If you take my advice, you’ll keep away from Becky Tanner. Her father has a very nasty temper.’ She went back to her car without waiting for a response.
If her mind had been in a whirl after her visit to Edith Ingram, it was almost in a frenzy by the time she arrived home. Once indoors she sat down with her notebook and scribbled furiously for half an hour before reaching for the telephone and calling Bruce’s office number. A couple of minutes later she put the phone down in frustration; a colleague at the Gazette had informed her that he had gone out earlier and not returned, his mobile number was unavailable and he was not at home. She left messages that she had something interesting to report before taking off her jacket, kicking off her shoes and brewing the cup of tea for which she had been thirsting ever since leaving Stowbridge and which her unwilling hosts had—not unnaturally in the circumstances—failed to offer. She smiled a shade grimly at the thought of the consternation she had caused, especially to Gideon, whose expression when he realised who had followed him down the lane had been an almost comical study of guilty dismay. ‘Well,’ she said aloud as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I’ve certainly set the cat among the pigeons there. I wonder what their next move will be.’
She went back into the hall and picked up the morning’s post, which she had barely glanced at in her haste to put on paper an account of her second visit to the Manor. At the bottom of the half-dozen or so items was an envelope addressed simply ‘Melissa’. The note inside was from Graham Shipley and read, ‘They’ve let me go and I desperately need someone to talk to. Please can you spare me a little time?’
Twenty-One
‘I’m on police bail. You know what that means? It means,’ Graham went on without waiting for a reply, ‘that I have to report to them every day as if I was a criminal. It’s monstrous, I’ve done nothing wrong and they can’t prove that I have. I told them the truth and I wouldn’t let them bully me into changing it …’ His agitation increased visibly and his voice became progressively more querulous as he spoke.
‘And that’s why they’ve had to let you go,’ said Melissa. ‘It must have been a dreadful ordeal for you—I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you got home.’
‘It was worse this time than last,’ Graham went on as if she had not spoken. ‘At least, I wasn’t arrested then, just subjected to endless questions—’
‘The difference is that this time a girl is dead,’ Melissa pointed out gently. ‘And you have to admit that you didn’t tell them the whole truth straight away.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I kept saying, over and over, that I’d help if I could, how much I wished I hadn’t run away instead of stopping to see if she needed help … I even admitted I felt some moral responsibility for what happened to her … my solicitor wasn’t very pleased about that,’ he finished with an ironic twist of the lips that was meant to be a smile.
‘No, I don’t suppose he was.’ Melissa smiled back, but inwardly she was appalled at the change in the man’s appearance. His features were drawn and haggard, his skin had a greyish tinge and his eyes were dull and staring like those of a sleepwalker. He lapsed into a moody silence while she waited for him to speak again, sensing that there was more behind his urgent invitation than the need for sympathetic company.
They were sitting in the kitchen of Elder Cottage where, in the old days, Melissa had enjoyed many a chat with Iris over cups of herbal tea or glasses of home-made wine. Although, as caretaker and keyholder, she regularly entered the cottage between lets to check on the condition of the place, she had never been there as the guest of the current tenant. Almost for the first time since her friend moved out she became aware of the absence of the personal touches that had given the room so much character: the herbs growing in hand-thrown pots on the window-sill: the collection of santons, traditional pottery figures from Provence, ranged alongside the vegetarian cookery books on the shelves: the wicker basket by the Aga where Binkie, Iris’s beloved cat, used to sleep.
‘And just to make my day,’ Graham said suddenly, I come home to this.’ He pulled an envelope from his pocket and put it on the table between them, rather, it seemed to Melissa, in the manner of an investigating officer showing an exhibit to a witness. ‘Read it,’ he said. His voice was almost a growl. ‘Here,’ he picked up the envelope, took out the single sheet of paper, unfolded it and almost thrust it into her hand.
The letter, dated the previous day, was handwritten on good-quality watermarked paper headed ‘St Monica’s Preparatory School for Boys and Girls’. It read:
Dear Mr Shipley
In view of your involvement in the ongoing police enquiry into the recent death of a young girl, apparently in suspicious circumstances, I felt it prudent to make some further enquiries into your background. What I have learned has brought me, regretfully, to the conclusion that I have no choice but to withdraw my offer of a teaching post at this school.
Yours truly
Millicent Monroe, Principal
‘How cruel.’ Melissa handed back the letter and watched with a lump in her throat as Graham pushed it back into the envelope and tossed it aside. She could think of nothing else to say; the despair in his eyes very nearly brought tears to her own.
‘But inevitable. You can see her point of view, can’t you? It’s the Jazzy Dixon affair all over again. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing, but the doubt will always be there because I can’t prove it.’ He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. ‘Who said lightning never strikes in the same place twice?’ He got up and began prowling around the little kitchen, adjusting lids on saucepans and fiddling with the controls on the cooker with an almost feverish intensity. Then, without warning, he swung round to face her, smiling as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘I do apologise, I’m being very inhospitable,’ he said. ‘May I offer you a drink? I’ve got the usual things … sherry, gin—’
‘A small dry sherry would be nice,’ she said, not sure whether to be relieved or disturbed at his sudden change of mood.
He fetched a decanter and glasses, poured the drinks, opened a packet of crisps and shook them into one of Iris’s ceramic dishes. ‘Cheers!’ he said as he sat down opposite Melissa and raised his glass. As she took the first sip from hers, he tossed down his own drink in one gulp, reached for the bottle and poured another. ‘First drink in two days,’ he explained with a touch of bravado. ‘Have to start making up for lost time.’
‘I hope you’ve had something to eat.’
‘Had a cheese sandwich for lunch. Couldn’t be bothered to cook.’
‘But you’ll have something more substantial this evening?’
‘Probably.’
‘You have to look after yourself.’
‘What for?’ His temporary, unnatural cheerfulness waned as suddenly as it had dawned; he sat hunched over the refilled glass but made no further move to drink from it. ‘What have I got to look forward to now? I’ve got no job, no fut
ure, no contact with my child …’
The deadness in his expression, the hopelessness in his voice, sent a chill through Melissa—a chill that swiftly gave way to a surge of anger at the injustice of it all. On impulse, she put out a hand and touched his; it was as cold as ice. ‘You mustn’t give up hope,’ she said. ‘The truth will come out soon, I’m sure of it.’
‘What truth? I’ve told the truth. Someone else pulled that poor child from the water and then left her lying there, but no one’s making the slightest effort to find him because—’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Melissa interrupted. ‘I’ve been doing a little sleuthing on your account.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ His look of gratitude was almost childlike, but there was little hope or expectation in his voice as he asked, ‘What have you found out?’
The minute she had spoken, Melissa wondered whether she had been wise. Although her efforts during the day had uncovered some interesting information and suggested further lines of enquiry, she was quick to recognise that none of it amounted to anything concrete. She would have to tread very carefully and not raise false hopes. Aware of Graham’s eyes on her, she said, ‘All I can tell you at the moment is that I have identified someone who might have information which could help the police to discover the truth about Cissie’s death, but who has a very strong personal motive for remaining silent.’
‘Who is it? Give me his name and I’ll shake it out of him!’ A feverish light flared in Graham’s eyes. He tossed back his second sherry and slammed the glass down on the table with such force that the stem broke. At the sight of a thin line of blood trickling from his finger, the momentary spasm of rage evaporated. He gathered up the broken pieces and put them in a bin under the sink before running cold water over the cut. ‘You were saying?’ he prompted over his shoulder.
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 17