Murder on a Winter Afternoon, page 1
part #5 of Melissa Craig Series
Murder on a Winter Afternoon
A completely addictive cozy mystery novel
Betty Rowlands
Also by Betty Rowlands
THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
Murder at the Manor Hotel
Murder on a Winter Afternoon
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Hear More from Betty
Also by Betty Rowlands
A Letter From Betty
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
Murder at the Manor Hotel
One
Shortly before dawn, a light shower of snow fell on the Cotswold Hills. It formed an icy coating on leafless branches and the tops of dry-stone walls, and lay on ploughed fields like a scattering of sugar on chocolate cake. The day advanced, but still the snow remained, sparkling defiance at the late November sun.
On the roof of a pair of stone cottages snuggling against a bank on the outskirts of the village of Upper Benbury, circles bare of snow at the base of each chimney proclaimed that log fires within had succeeded where the sun had failed. Twin plumes of smoke rose into the frosty air, blue on blue against the winter sky.
Two women, returning with reddened cheeks and nipped toes and fingers from their walk along the valley footpath, scrambled over the wooden stile that bridged a gap in a hawthorn hedge and paused for a few moments to admire their homes: Hawthorn Cottage and Elder Cottage, owned respectively by Melissa Craig, successful crime writer, and Iris Ash, internationally acclaimed water-colourist and fabric designer.
A blackbird, foraging among a pile of dead leaves in Melissa’s garden, appeared undisturbed by their arrival, but a flock of chaffinches burst in a whirring mass from an apple tree and went dipping and darting up the bank ahead of them. The birds’ departure was watched with close attention by a half-Persian cat crouching under the hedge, ears cocked, fluffy tail twitching.
‘Binkie-boy, come to Muvver!’ called Iris and the cat yawned, rose, stretched and condescended to approach. ‘Wozzee a cold boy in the snow, then?’
‘The cottages look so pretty in this light, don’t they? You ought to paint them,’ said Melissa, doing her best not to show her irritation. Fond as she was of Iris, this habit of baby-talking to the cat set her teeth on edge.
Iris sniffed, partly in disdain, partly because the cold made her nose run. She took out a handkerchief and plied it vigorously before replying dismissively, ‘Been done to death. Christmas card designs not my scene.’
‘It’d be nice to keep as a reminder. You don’t often see the place at this time of year.’
Iris shivered. ‘Thank goodness. Not that it’s been that mild in the Midi the past couple of years. Think I’ll winter in the Algarve if it goes on.’
‘Well, I’m really glad you’re going to be at home this Christmas. My in-laws are going to a hotel for a change and they invited me to join them, but I wasn’t keen. As you’re not going to France, it gave me a good excuse to say “No”.’
Iris’s expression softened and she gave Melissa an affectionate pat on the shoulder before scooping Binkie into her arms and heading for her own front door. ‘I’m going in. Getting cold, standing here gawping.’
‘Me too, and I’m ready for some lunch. Come and have a bowl of soup with me?’
‘What sort?’ Iris, a passionate vegetarian, looked dubious.
‘Carrot, lentil and tomato. No meat stock in it, I promise you.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
In the porch of Hawthorn Cottage the two discarded their boots, scarves, gloves and anoraks before heading for the warm kitchen. Binkie made a beeline for his favourite spot beside the Aga; Iris perched on a stool and scanned the previous day’s edition of the local paper while Melissa put a pan of soup to warm through and set bread, cheese and pickles on the table.
‘Nasty business, this,’ commented Iris, holding up the Gazette and pointing to the front page, which bore the headline ‘STOWBRIDGE SEX STRANGLER’S LATEST VICTIM’.
‘Very nasty,’ Melissa agreed with a shudder. ‘One always thinks of Stowbridge as a quiet, sleepy little place.’ She sighed. ‘Nowhere’s quiet and sleepy these days.’
‘Not even Upper Benbury,’ Iris agreed. She scanned the report, which ran to several columns. ‘Three victims to date, all with the same story – a masked man grabs them by the throat and they pass out. Next thing they know, they’re being indecently assaulted.’ She pulled a face. ‘Filthy pervert. Has your PC Plod got any leads?’
‘If you mean DCI Harris …’ Melissa began in mild exasperation, then caught the provocative gleam in her friend’s eye and bit back an indignant retort. ‘Not so far as I know. The attacker is always dressed entirely in black, wears a balaclava and never speaks, so there isn’t even a voice description. They think it must be someone with medical knowledge because he knows where to apply pressure to make the victims lose consciousness almost immediately – but so does almost anyone who’s done a first aid course. So far he hasn’t seriously injured any of them, but it must be a ghastly experience to wake up and find yourself bound and gagged and …’ Melissa shuddered at the picture she had conjured up.
‘Quite ghastly,’ Iris agreed.
‘What worries the police most of all is that one day this creature will get it wrong and kill someone. They’re desperate to catch him.’
‘Hope they do.’ Iris turned to the inside pages of the paper. ‘I see Bruce Ingram is back with the Gazette,’ she remarked.
‘Really?’ Melissa glanced up from the loaf she was slicing. ‘Last I heard of him, he was in the police force.’
‘Must have quit. Still waging war on corruption, though. Seen this piece about dodgy planning decisions?’
‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t opened a newspaper for the past three days. I’ve been working flat out on my new novel.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Finished, except for the final read-through. The soup’s nearly ready – anything else of interest before we eat?’
‘Not much – charity fun-runs and pub brawls.’ Iris turned another page, ran her eyes over the headlines and exclaimed, ‘Oh, no!’
‘Now what?’
‘You met Leonora Jewell, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, at a book signing a few months ago. What about her?’
‘Been found dead. Here.’ Iris held out the paper and pointed. Mechanically continuing to stir her soup, Melissa read aloud the brief report, which was headed:
WRITER’S BODY FOUND IN ISOLATED COTTAGE.
The body of Miss Leonora Jewell, the best-selling novelist, was found yesterday morning in the living room of her cottage on the outskirts of Lower Southcote. Detective Inspector Holloway of Stowbridge CID stated that there were signs of forced entry and it is thought Miss Jewell may have disturbed an intruder. ‘The cause of death is not yet known,’ said DI Holloway. ‘Our enquiries are continuing.’
‘Poor old Leonora,’ said Melissa with a frown and a sympathetic shake of the head.
‘Was she old?’
‘She must have been pushing eighty, but you’d never have thought it. She was only a little thing, but she had a very authoritative manner and a voice like a games mistress. She was the sort to go for a burglar with a poker if she caught one in her house.’
‘Maybe she did, and he had a go back.’
‘Maybe. It’s the sort of thing Ken Harris is forever warning me against.’
‘Don’t take much notice, do you?’ said Iris with a wry grin. Melissa grinned back at the oblique reference to the narrow squeaks she had experienced when dabbling in amateur sleuthing, despite the efforts of Detective Chief Inspector Harris to discourage such adventures.
‘I’ve never attacked anyone,’ she protested. ‘And I don’t mean to get into dodgy situations, it just happens. It sure does help with plots, though,’ she added as she ladled the thick, spicy broth into bowls. ‘Help yourself to bread.’
For a few minutes they ate in silence. Then Melissa said, ‘I wonder if Joe Martin’s heard about Leonora.’
‘Your agent? Does he know her?’
‘She’s one of his authors. He’ll miss her like hell … her books make mega-bucks for him.’
‘Make even more now,’ Iris remarked, reaching for another piece of bread. ‘Nothing like violent death for boosting sales.’
‘You old cynic!’
‘Realist,’ Iris corrected. ‘What sort of books did she write?’
‘Family sagas, I believe. I’ve never read any of them, but quite a few have been filmed. Her fans will be shocked to hear about her death.’
The tragedy, coupled with the series of unpleasant sex attacks on young women, had a sobering effect on the two
It did not occur to either of them that this was no ordinary burglary.
Two
A couple of days later, Melissa was strolling along the Promenade in Cheltenham, gazing into shop-windows dressed for the festive season and telling herself that it was time she gave some serious thought to Christmas shopping. She was in a buoyant mood, having just despatched her completed manuscript to Joe Martin, and was for the first time in a month under no pressure to go home and settle down to work. So she dawdled among the hurrying crowds, enjoying the winter sunshine, pausing for a few minutes to listen to a young violinist who had set up a music stand beside the main entrance to the town’s largest store and was giving a creditable rendering of Bach’s ‘Air on the G String’. When the piece was finished, Melissa dropped a coin in the open violin case lying on the ground; the girl smiled and thanked her as she re-tuned her instrument and flipped over the pages of her score.
Melissa sauntered on. She bought freshly-roasted coffee beans in a shop on the corner opposite the Town Hall, crossed the road and came to the Imperial Gardens, neat and tidy as always, although the summer displays of flowers had long since been cleared away and replaced by wallflowers and polyanthus not yet in bloom. The café was closed, its tables and chairs stored away for the winter, but one or two shoppers, thankful no doubt for the opportunity to set down their burdens, sat on wooden benches and basked in the unseasonal warmth. It was hard to believe that, only a day or two previously, the trees and lawns had been encrusted with frost.
Melissa had parked her car on the far side of the square. She had just reached it and was unlocking the driver’s door when she became aware of another car pulling up a short distance behind her. Someone waiting for her to drive off so that he or she could take the vacated space, no doubt. She put her bag on the back seat and was about to get in when someone grabbed her elbow. She let out a gasp of alarm.
‘You’re nicked!’ said a familiar voice. ‘Better come quietly.’
‘Ken! You scared the life out of me!’ she scolded, trying to sound annoyed, but unable to hide her pleasure at seeing him.
‘Sorry.’ The lumpy features of Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris of Gloucestershire CID crumpled like a relief map of the Cotswolds as he grinned down at her. ‘Consider it a punishment for the anxiety you’ve been causing me for the past few days. What have you been doing, Mel? I’ve been worried about you.’
‘Working. I told you, I was finishing a book.’
‘You could have answered the phone. I’ve been calling and calling …’
‘I unplugged it. Every time it rings, it upsets my train of thought.’
‘That’s not fair. You might at least have left the answering machine switched on.’
‘It still disturbs me. It was only for a few days, while I did my final revision.’
‘Well, at least I’ve found you again. Have you had lunch?’
‘Not yet. I was just on my way home.’
‘Then let’s go and grab a bite. Wait here – I’ll tell Waters to pick me up in an hour.’ The big detective strode off to speak to his sergeant, who was still waiting with his engine running. Returning in a couple of minutes, he took Melissa firmly by the arm as if afraid she would make a break for it.
‘I feel as if I’m being arrested,’ she protested, trying not to reveal how much she was enjoying the sensation.
‘You are,’ he assured her. ‘You’re going down for a stiff sentence.’ She stopped in her tracks and hooted with mirth at the unintended double entendre. ‘Woman, you have a disgusting mind,’ he said. ‘I’ve a good mind to take you home and bed you without any lunch.’
Melissa feigned dismay. ‘No, please, I’m starving,’ she pleaded.
‘All right. A stay of execution is granted. How about a pizza?’
‘Great.’
It was early and the pizzeria was almost empty. They found a corner table and Harris gave their order. While they were waiting, he leaned forward and laid a large, reddish hand over one of Melissa’s. ‘You know, Mel, I was concerned about you,’ he said earnestly. ‘In fact, I rang Iris to check you were okay.’
‘Really? She never said.’
‘I asked her not to. I knew you’d get tetchy.’
‘I don’t get tetchy,’ she said indignantly, then giggled as she caught his eye. ‘All right, now and again, but only when I’m under pressure.’
‘It’s because of what happened to Leonora Jewell that I got anxious,’ he explained. ‘She lived in the same sort of out-of-the-way place as you and Iris.’
‘Yes, I know.’ The thought sobered them both. ‘Have you got anyone for that?’
He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘It’s not going to be easy. The old lady was a very private person … lived alone, rarely had visitors, no close relatives or friends except her godson, who lives in Cardiff and only visited occasionally. We don’t even know for certain what’s been stolen, apart from a carriage clock, a portable radio and whatever cash was in her handbag. There’s a help who’s been coming in a couple of days a week – she’s the one who found the body – but she’s not been able to tell us much.’
‘Was there a struggle?’
‘We think there may have been. She died of a fractured skull, probably sustained when she fell and hit her head on the stone hearth, but we aren’t sure exactly what happened or what caused the fall. She might have had a heart attack – the pathologist is carrying out further tests.’
‘And, presumably, there were no witnesses?’
‘We haven’t found any so far. The cottage is tucked away, out of sight from the road. We’ve appealed for anyone who was in the area at the time to come forward, but there’s been no useful response to date.’
‘Anything new on the “Sex Strangler”?’
‘We’re piecing something together, but clues are thin on the ground there as well. We picked up a suspect who answered the description – such as it is, he doesn’t give much away – but we had to let him go for lack of evidence. We’ll get him in the end, but it could take time and meanwhile the women in Stowbridge are terrified to go out alone at night.’
He broke off as a young waiter approached with their food. For a few minutes they ate without speaking. Then Harris said in a lower tone than before, ‘There’s something about Leonora Jewell’s death that’s bugging me.’
‘What?’
He chewed thoughtfully on a forkful of pizza before replying, ‘On the face of it, it’s just another break-in, probably by some unemployed kids. We get similar cases every week; they target an area, do several houses in quick succession and then move on. I think that’s what seems odd about this one; there haven’t been any other incidents reported in Lower Southcote for several months, and nothing since. Why pick on her? Although she must have made a fortune from her books, she lived very simply, and so far as we’ve been able to make out, the cottage contained very little of value to a petty thief. No TV, no video or CD player – that’s what those characters are mainly after.’
‘But it is isolated, and presumably easy to break into?’
‘Yes, but others in the village are equally vulnerable and offer much richer pickings. A lot of the people are out all day and security’s low – there’s not even a Neighbourhood Watch there.’
They finished their meal. Harris checked the time.
‘Sorry, I have to go now. Duty calls and all that.’ He paid the bill and they walked back to where Melissa had left her car. He took her key, unlocked the door and held it open. ‘This evening?’ he said, his eyes locked onto hers.
