Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6)

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘She says she took a sleeping pill and never heard a thing.’

  ‘That figures. It took me ages to rouse her, after we found Stewart.’

  Harris sat for a minute or two, apparently deep in thought, before saying in a brisker tone, ‘Now to the office staff. I’ve had a brief word with them, but it seems none of them was here before about eight-fifteen. Can you tell me anything about them?’

  ‘Not a lot. I overheard one or two remarks when I arrived that made me think the deceased wasn’t universally popular and that he didn’t exactly overpay them. There’s a man there – I understand he’s a part-timer in charge of book loans and things like that – who seems to think the women in particular were … undervalued, I think is the best word to describe it.’ She repeated George’s remarks as accurately as she could remember them.

  ‘From what I’m hearing about Haughan as an employer, I’m surprised any of them stayed,’ Harris remarked.

  ‘I don’t suppose they had much choice. They’re probably thankful to have a job at all nowadays.’

  He grunted. ‘You’re probably right. And if he was unpopular with his employees, he probably had enemies outside as well. That’s not going to make our job any easier. Well, I think that’s all for now until we have the result of the post-mortem.’

  ‘He was killed by a blow to the head, wasn’t he?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Ken, do you think those poems were sent by the killer?’

  ‘Officially, I have an open mind. Between ourselves, I’d say it’s a strong possibility. I’m turning them over to forensics to see what they make of them.’ He closed his notebook and stood up as if to go, then sat down again. ‘One other thing. What’s your impression of Morris – the gardener?’

  ‘Martin? He seems pleasant enough, well-educated, not the sort of person you’d expect to find doing that job, but maybe he can’t find work in his own profession – if he has one.’

  ‘That’s what he told me. He’s a qualified architect.’

  ‘Oh well, that explains it.’ Melissa gave a slightly contemptuous laugh. ‘Maybe that’s why Haughan employed him, rather than a qualified gardener – he wouldn’t have to pay him so much.’

  The next question was one she had hoped to avoid. ‘Would you say there was anything between him and Mrs Haughan?’

  Throughout the interview, the exchanges she had overheard in the kitchen had been in the back of her mind. On the rational level, she knew that it was her duty as a citizen to repeat them, but she honestly believed that Martin had been telling the truth when he swore to Verity that he was not Stewart’s killer. And despite Harris’s obvious suspicions, nothing would persuade her that Verity, no matter how bitter her feelings towards her husband, was capable of such a deed. Aware that she was hesitating and that the detective’s laser-keen eyes were searching hers, she said slowly, ‘He did give the impression, when I came back here to deliver Sergeant Powell’s message, that he had … sort of taken charge. His manner towards Verity seemed solicitous … a little protective even … but perfectly correct.’ Recovering her poise, she met Harris’s gaze steadily. ‘It was just an impression, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘You saw no open intimacy between them?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ That was true; she had seen nothing compromising.

  ‘Well, I’d best be going.’ He put away his notebook, stood up again and made for the door. ‘How long are you planning to stay here?’

  ‘Until Friday. I’m finishing a book and I only came to get away from the telephone … and possessive policemen.’

  He gave another grin. ‘Okay, I get the message. Let me know if you pick up anything that might be useful, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re asking for my help in your investigations,’ she said mischievously.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. You’re here on the spot – it’s just possible you might learn something useful.’

  ‘I shall be your eyes and ears,’ she promised him.

  It was a commitment that was to lead her into some deep and dangerous waters.

  Twelve

  With her head a jumble of conflicting ideas, Melissa left the house and crossed the courtyard to what Stewart had grandiosely referred to as the ‘guest wing’. A stiff breeze had sprung up with a chilly edge to it, a reminder that summer was over. Despite wearing a thick sweatshirt, she shivered as she fumbled in her pocket for her key. Before she had time to put it in her lock, a nearby door opened and a man came out.

  ‘Mel Craig, the crime writer, I believe,’ he said.

  She turned to look at him and liked what she saw. ‘That’s right,’ she said with a friendly smile. ‘You must be another “writer in retreat”.’

  ‘Ben Strickland. Delighted to meet you.’

  She held out a hand and he gave it a brisk shake. He had deep-set brown eyes, strong, regular features and a firm chin. She judged him to be about sixty. ‘Ben Strickland,’ she repeated ‘I know that name … you write for the Gazette, don’t you? Consumer reports, special investigations, that sort of thing.’

  ‘The same.’ He bobbed his head in acknowledgment, evidently pleased to be so recognised. ‘I gather there’s been some excitement. The place is swarming with fuzz and the office staff seem to be at sixes and sevens … all I could get out of the woman who brought me over here was, “there’s been an accident”.’

  ‘No accident. Someone killed Stewart Haughan in the orchard. He’s dead.’

  ‘Good God! When?’

  ‘Early this morning.’

  Ben ran nicotine-stained fingers through his grizzled hair. ‘Who’d have believed it?’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘Knew he wasn’t flavour of the month with quite a few people, but … are you sure he’s dead?’

  ‘Oh yes. I was the second person on the scene, and I was there when the doctor examined him.’

  ‘You were?’ Ben’s air of shocked bewilderment swiftly gave way to the inquisitorial manner of the professional journalist. ‘Come in, have a coffee and tell me all.’ She hesitated, but he took her by the arm and practically propelled her through his own door.

  The room was a replica of her own, except that it appeared to have been struck by a minor earthquake. Books, papers, clothes and toilet articles were scattered over every available surface. Ben scooped up the raincoat, anorak and tweed hat that had been dumped on the armchair and threw them on the floor. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘The kettle has boiled … I was just about to have mine when I spotted you going past.’ He spooned out granules and poured hot water.

  ‘I’ve already had coffee, thanks …’ she began.

  ‘Not this kind, I’ll bet!’ He brandished a silver hip flask that he took from his pocket, tipped a capful of its contents into each steaming mug and handed one to Melissa. ‘Caribbean rum … the real McCoy … only way to make this instant muck drinkable.’ He pulled the chair out from under the desk, lifted a stack of bulging files from the seat, slapped them on top of an already precarious-looking heap and sat down. ‘Quite well equipped, these cabins,’ he observed with a glance round. ‘Good working environment.’ He grinned and the furrows running from nose to chin made triangular brackets on either side of his mouth. Seeing Melissa’s eyes taking in the disorder, he gestured with his mug and said, ‘Can’t work if things are too tidy … makes me feel regimented. One of the reasons why I was glad to get out of the army.’

  Melissa sipped her coffee with a sigh of appreciation. ‘Mm, that’s good.’ She passed a hand across her eyes and combed her hair back from her face with her fingers. ‘I feel as if I’ve done a day’s work already, and I haven’t written a line.’

  ‘Never mind, you’ll catch up. Fill me in on what’s happened here. I see they’ve put Deadpan Harris on the case.’

  Melissa felt her eyebrows lift in surprise. Then came the thought that ‘Deadpan’ wasn’t an inappropriate nickname for a man who rarely smiled, although when he did … she hastily abandone
d that line of thought and did her best to convey detached amusement as she said, ‘Is that what he’s known as?’

  Ben’s eyes twinkled above the flame of the match he was using to light a cigarette. ‘Among other things. Suits him, doesn’t it?’

  Melissa shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Tell me, what prompted that remark about Stewart not being “flavour of the month”. Did you know him?’

  ‘I ran a creative writing course for him during the summer. He practically fawned on the students, was just about civil to the teachers and treated his staff – and his wife – like servants. And I had to wait over a month for my money. Not a nice man.’

  ‘That’s been my impression, and I only met him yesterday.’

  ‘And now he’s been topped. Was it premeditated, do you think?’

  ‘Almost certainly. There’s a scoop for you … I doubt if it’ll be included in today’s press briefing.’

  Ben thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘It’s tempting, but I’m supposed to be on a sabbatical. Writing my memoirs,’ he explained.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Melissa impulsively. A wild notion had come into her head and set her nerve ends twitching. Ben gave her an enquiring look. ‘I’ve just been interviewed by Ke … by DCI Harris,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty sure he suspects Mrs Haughan, possibly with the collusion of Martin Morris, the gardener-handyman who discovered the body, but I believe he’s barking up the wrong tree. I was thinking of doing a little quiet nosing around when he’s not looking. It occurred to me …’ Quite deliberately, she left the idea hanging in the air.

  Ben took several slow draws on his cigarette. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his head lowered, he reminded Melissa of an elderly dog cautiously sniffing the ground. ‘I take it you’d like me to join you in a bit of off-the-record sleuthing,’ he said at length.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘We’re agreed that Haughan was a nasty piece of work. There must be others with a motive for killing him.’

  ‘And how do you propose to set about finding them?’

  ‘That’s where I hoped you’d be able to help. Don’t you journalists have some sort of unofficial information network?’

  ‘We have contacts, yes,’ he said guardedly, ‘but we have to have something to go on. Tell me what you know so far, and I’ll see if there’s any way I can add to it.’

  Melissa repeated the account she had given Harris. Ben pulled a notebook from among the debris on the floor and began scribbling in shorthand, occasionally interrupting to clarify a point. When she had finished he closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he opened them and said softly, ‘Haughan was a prize bastard, wasn’t he? I’m almost tempted to say, “Good luck, hope you get away with it,” to whoever did it.’

  ‘I’m worried that the wrong person will be charged,’ said Melissa.

  He shot her a keen look. ‘Any particular reason?’

  She was silent for a moment, trying to decide whether to confide in him. At last she said, still uncertain whether she was doing the right thing, ‘There’s something I didn’t mention to DCI Harris. I suppose I should have done, but …’

  Ben listened with pursed lips while she told him about the fragment of conversation she had overheard and her instinctive reaction to it. ‘Well, I agree with you, they don’t seem to be in it together,’ he commented, ‘but that isn’t to say that neither of them did the killing. There must be strong reasons why they both see themselves as suspects.’

  ‘It wasn’t just what they said … there was something about Martin’s tone that made me sure he was telling the truth. As for Verity … I find it hard to picture her wielding enough force to hit her husband over the head.’

  ‘It doesn’t take a lot of strength, just accuracy,’ said Ben drily, ‘All the same, I’m inclined to agree with you, but as for Martin … he’s got to be number one suspect until we find someone else with motive. Let’s recap.’ He put down his pen, lit another cigarette and inhaled, his eyes half closed. ‘The wife has a deep-rooted grudge against the husband and she’s confided in the gardener. The two of them are sufficiently close for her to fear they might be suspected of a conspiracy. Maybe they’ve been having a bonk on the side.’ Ben gave a sudden, hoarse chuckle. ‘Shades of Lady Chatterley, eh?’ A lascivious gleam in his eye invited Melissa to share the joke but, remembering Verity’s distress, she managed only the faintest of smiles. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Morris has been up to something that makes it “look bad” for him.’

  ‘Not necessarily “up to something”,’ Melissa corrected him. ‘It’s safe to assume that he had a grudge against Stewart which might be construed as a motive for killing him, but not that he’s done anything about it.’

  ‘All right, point taken. But whatever it is, it’s enough to scare the pants off him … and he’s told Verity enough to scare her rigid as well.’

  ‘I’ve just had a thought,’ said Melissa suddenly. ‘Those messages … we’ve been thinking that all we have to do is find out who sent them and we’ve got our killer. Supposing they came from someone else?’

  Ben frowned. ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Someone – let’s suppose it was Martin – has been sending them to Stewart just to give him some aggro. He – or she, it could be a woman – finds opportunities to slip them in among the papers in the office. Word gets around. Someone else, someone who’s planning to murder Stewart, hears about it, realises that he’s not the only one with a motive and calculates that, when the body is found, the police will be hunting for the writer of the poems.’

  ‘A ready-made red herring, eh?’ mused Ben. He thought for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. ‘Possible, I suppose, but a bit far-fetched. Might do for one of your books, Mel, but …’

  ‘It’s worth considering,’ Melissa protested. There was a shade of condescension in his manner that nettled her.

  ‘Okay, we’ll bear it in mind. Let’s think about the messages themselves. How many people had the opportunity to plant them?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, pretty well everyone who works here and the students as well. People seem to wander in and out of the office at will.’

  Ben stubbed out his cigarette and set the ashtray down on a teetering pile of books, ‘I’d like to have a peek at them. You say you have copies?’

  ‘In my room. I’ll go and get them.’ Melissa got up and opened the door. Outside, the breeze was blowing even more strongly, sending dead leaves skittering across the gravel. Among them was a screwed-up scrap of paper. Instinctively, she picked it up and smoothed it out. Ben heard her exclamation and came to look at it over her shoulder. The three typewritten lines read:

  Despair drove out hope

  Hope’s death be on your conscience

  This day, hope shall die

  ‘Another one?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes. Stewart must have dropped it as he went out to try and catch whoever had left it.’ A sequence of pictures flashed into her mind: Stewart, disturbed by an unfamiliar sound, leaping out of bed, hastily pulling on some clothes and dashing downstairs, finding yet another missive, flinging open the door and rushing outside, screwing up the paper and dropping it as he ran. He must have gone charging out like a bull at a gate while his killer lurked in the shadows, awaiting his chance to strike. Was that how it had happened?

  She studied the scrap of paper again. ‘Notice the choice of words?’ she said. ‘‘Hope shall die’. Not will, shall. It’s not just a prediction, it’s an edict … almost the pronouncement of a sentence.’

  Ben gave a soft whistle. ‘Maybe your red herring will turn out to be a shark,’ he said thoughtfully.

  Thirteen

  ‘We’d better hand this over to the police,’ said Melissa. ‘There’s loads of them still here, doing a fingertip search in the orchard.’

  ‘No rush,’ said Ben, who was already copying the latest missive into his notebook. ‘Let’s
look at them all together and see if we can find a pattern.’ He picked up the sheet of paper on which Melissa had jotted down the earlier messages. ‘Is this the lot?’

  ‘As far as I know, these are the only survivors. There were several earlier ones that were destroyed.’

  ‘What about the one pinned to the effigy?’

  ‘That wasn’t a poem.’ Melissa thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure of the exact words … “The death of hope is nigh”, or something similar.’

  ‘Makes a change from the end of the world being nigh, I suppose. Any idea where it is now?’

  ‘I imagine the police have it. I never thought to take it – I was too busy calming Verity and theorising about the effigy itself.’

  ‘Pity. We could have made some comparisons. They were probably all done on the same machine, but no doubt the forensic boys will be checking that.’ Ben studied the one they had just found. ‘I’d say this was done on a portable. A fairly ancient one, by the looks of it. Is there one like that in the office?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘No problem, we can soon check.’

  Together, they studied the four short stanzas in silence for a few seconds. Then Melissa said, ‘There’s a definite change of mood in these last two, isn’t there? The references to hope … I wonder if that meant something to the victim that he didn’t mention to anyone else? And “Hope’s death be on your conscience” – that does suggest a revenge killing, doesn’t it?’

  ‘By someone who didn’t understand Stewart Haughan very well,’ said Ben drily. ‘From what you’ve told me, and what I’ve seen for myself, he had about as much conscience as Winnie the Pooh had brains.’

  ‘That might not have been apparent to everyone. He had charm as well and he could turn it on like instant sunshine,’ said Melissa, remembering the dazzling smile that had accompanied his outrageous denial that he had ever accused his wife of planting the messages. ‘I’d say he was capable of putting on any act and doing almost anything that suited his purpose. If anyone got hurt that was their hard luck – I doubt if he’d even notice.’