Her normal bedtime drink was a cup of tea, but tonight, feeling in need of something stronger, she polished off what was left of the Chianti. One way and another, it had been quite an evening.

  Twenty

  Melissa awoke early the next morning after a deep but troubled sleep, during which her dreams had been haunted by the eyes of Leonora Jewell. They were in the otherwise featureless faces of passers-by as she hurried through crowded streets and in and out of shops, looking for something she could not find because she did not know what it was; she glimpsed them among the passengers on a train which was taking her to an unknown destination; they stared up at her from the pages of books whose covers bore no titles.

  Dawn had not yet broken. Through her bedroom window she looked out on a landscape coated with silver by the moonlight. The wind had died, leaving the trees motionless against a sky ablaze with stars that sparkled like chips of ice. She put on her dressing-gown and slippers, went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. Binkie, curled up in his usual corner, raised his head and blinked at her, yawning, before getting up and making purposefully for the back door. She unlocked it and held it open for him, shivering in the tide of frosty air that rolled into the room.

  ‘Get a move on!’ she commanded as the cat hesitated before stepping reluctantly outside. She closed the door behind him, filled a mug with tea and took it upstairs. After drinking it she showered, put on a warm jersey and leggings and went to her study to begin her working day.

  The first thing she noticed as she sat down at her desk was the copy of Leonora’s novel that she had been reading earlier. It lay on the desk beside the word processor, face down. ‘I could have sworn I put you back on the shelf,’ she muttered as she caught the eye of the author looking up at her from the dust jacket. Previously its expression had seemed reproachful; this morning, there appeared to be a trace of disappointment in its mute gaze.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, leave me alone!’ Melissa exclaimed. ‘I nearly broke my neck yesterday evening, trying to turn up a clue to your killer. What else do you expect me to do?’

  Without realising it, she had snatched up the book and addressed the portrait aloud. The paper eyes had an intense, compelling expression that conveyed something of the strength and vigour of the living woman. For a moment, Melissa had the uncanny, irrational, but powerful impression that the picture wanted to speak; she found herself saying, ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Then, reproaching herself for a fanciful idiot, she thrust the book back on the shelf with the others and determinedly switched her thoughts to the next chapter of Deadly Legacy.

  It came easily. The words streamed out of her head, through her fingertips and on to the screen as if driven by a force outside her control. At this rate, she would soon be approaching the dénouement, where the amateur art-lover hero – who had spent several hundred pages and tackled countless hair-raising situations in his pursuit of a missing painting, bequeathed to the heroine and seemingly the target of every crook in Europe – would at last be in a position to expose the arch-villain and retrieve the priceless masterpiece that had travelled halfway round the world concealed in the false bottom of a cabin trunk.

  ‘I must say,’ said Melissa to herself as she re-read the plot outline to make sure she had included all the essential details, ‘that seems a pretty mundane sort of hiding place. Couldn’t you have thought of something more original than that, Leonora?’

  She did think of something more original, said a voice in her head. She invented the mulberry sandwich. Only that crook Gerard Hood said it wasn’t feasible.

  ‘But it is feasible, Iris said so! And Bruce and I have all but proved it.’

  The words, spoken forcefully and aloud, rang round the room. Melissa sat back in her chair and clapped her hands to her face in sheer exasperation. There must be a connection between the Blackwater scam and Leonora’s murder. If only the dead author had made a written record of her idea and of her visits to Sam Deacon and Gerard Hood. She was such a stickler for detail in other matters; why omit something so significant?

  ‘Perhaps she did make notes, and then destroyed them after Gerard scotched the idea,’ Melissa muttered disconsolately.

  She checked the clock on her desk. It was half-past nine; she had been writing for almost three hours and daylight had arrived unnoticed. She switched off the electric lamp and opened the curtains, aware that her back and shoulders were stiff and her stomach empty. She went downstairs to prepare some breakfast.

  While she was eating, the telephone rang.

  ‘Mrs Craig?’ said a man’s voice. It sounded familiar, but she could not put a name to it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Jonathan Round here. I hope I’m not interrupting your work … I wasn’t sure when would be the best time to call you.’

  ‘It’s all right, you’ve caught me taking a break. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Er, nothing really, that is, I just wondered how you were getting on with Leonora’s book.’

  ‘Quite well, as a matter of fact. I’ve drafted one chapter and sent it to her editor for comments, and I’m working on the next.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  There was a pause, neither immediately able to think of anything to say, before Melissa had a moment of inspiration. With hindsight, she wondered why on earth it had not occurred to her before.

  ‘Mr Round, did your godmother by any chance keep a diary? A personal diary, I mean, not research notes for individual books.’

  ‘She did indeed. She didn’t call it a diary, though, she called it something else … a commentary … no, that doesn’t sound right …’

  ‘A commonplace book?’

  ‘That’s it! It wasn’t just a record of her daily doings – it was that as well, of course – but she used to include all sorts of odds and ends in it: recipes, notes of work she’d done in the garden, ideas for plots and so on.’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I never gave it a thought. The shock and upset of her death … I still haven’t decided what to do about her things or whether to sell the cottage …’ His voice trailed jerkily away.

  It was plain that he had been very attached to his eccentric godmother. Melissa felt a rush of sympathy for him and gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, ‘Do you happen to know where she kept it?’

  ‘In a little compartment at the back of the top drawer of her desk. I imagine it’s still there – unless the police found it and took it away. I can’t imagine what interest it would have had for them, though. Why do you ask?’

  Melissa decided that a bowdlerised version of the truth would be sufficient. ‘I came across a passing reference in her research notes to a possible change she was considering to the ending of Deadly Legacy,’ she said carefully. ‘I thought it might be worth investigating, and I know for a fact that she asked one or two people whether her idea would work, but I can’t find any other mention of it and it occurred to me …’

  Jonathan Round took up the suggestion immediately.

  ‘… that she might have recorded it in her diary!’ He sounded quite excited. ‘I think it’s more than likely. Why don’t you have a word with old Semple? He’d know if it was with the things the police took from Quarry Cottage. If it wasn’t, it must still be there.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I went to look for it?’

  ‘Of course. Semple still has the keys. Tell him you’ve spoken to me and I’ve agreed.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Not at all. Let me know if you turn up anything useful, won’t you?’

  Melissa’s heart was racing with excitement as she put the phone down. If she could lay her hands on that book … if it was up to date … if Leonora had written up her visit to Blackwater Hall and her interview with Gerard Hood … possibly recorded her encounter with Arnie and the gift of the picture … maybe even made a note of attempts to reclaim it … a dizzying sequence, leading to irrefutable evidence connecting Hood with Leonora’s death, formed in her head like a trail laid for runners in a cross-country race. She flew back upstairs, checked the telephone number of Rathbone and Semple, called it and asked to speak to the senior partner.

  She was put straight through to Miss Gudgeon. It crossed her mind, as she made her request, that this rather daunting woman, with her self-confident manner and fashionable, well-cut clothes, was the type one might expect to come across in advertising or public relations rather than in the office of a rather old-fashioned solicitor. There was no warmth in her manner as she explained that Mr Semple was in court and would not be in the office until midday. On learning the reason for Melissa’s call, she adopted a dismissive, almost hostile tone.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly take the responsibility for handing over the keys without proper authority,’ she said flatly.

  ‘But I have permission from Miss Jewell’s executor,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘Surely that’s sufficient authority for you?’

  ‘Without wishing to give offence, I only have your word for that.’

  ‘Then why don’t you give Mr Round a call and check with him?’

  ‘I think it would be better if you waited and spoke to Mr Semple.’

  ‘But you just told me he may not be in until after lunch. That diary may contain important information to help me with Miss Jewell’s book. I am working to a deadline, you know, and if it means making changes I need to know right away.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until you can clear it with Mr Semple. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you as soon as he comes in.’

  There was no point in arguing. Melissa gave her number and put down the phone, grinding her teeth in frustration. Thoroughly disgruntled and in no mood to continue working, she put on her outdoor clothes and went for a walk, wishing that Iris was there to keep her company and to sympathise while she held forth on the subject of over-zealous secretaries.

  When she returned an hour later there was a message on her answering machine, asking her to call Mr Semple. A moment later she was speaking to him.

  ‘I understood you wouldn’t be in until this afternoon,’ she began.

  ‘My client’s case had to be adjourned; a key witness has been taken ill,’ he explained. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Craig?’

  ‘Didn’t your secretary explain?’

  ‘She told me you wish to go to Quarry Cottage, but she didn’t say why.’

  For the second time, Melissa explained about the diary. He listened without interruption; when she had finished he said, ‘How interesting. I had no idea that Miss Jewell kept such a record. Of course, she was a very private person. I wonder how much it will reveal about her? I daresay it would be of considerable interest to a future biographer.’

  ‘It might even be of interest to the police,’ said Melissa impulsively. It occurred to her at that moment that Mr Semple could be a useful ally if the diary revealed anything she felt worth reporting. If she could get him on her side, DI Holloway might treat her with a little more respect.

  ‘The police?’ The solicitor sounded puzzled. ‘What are you expecting to find?’

  ‘I have a hunch – I’d rather not go into details now, it’s all too vague and too involved – but I don’t believe Leonora was killed by a casual intruder. I think she was killed because she had accidentally come by something extremely valuable.’

  ‘You’re suggesting she was deliberately murdered?’ Mr Semple was clearly appalled at the idea. ‘Have you any evidence … do you know what that something was?’

  ‘A picture.’

  ‘What picture?’

  ‘I don’t know that. I don’t know anything for certain, but I think her diary may contain something to confirm what I’m saying.’

  ‘So what you told Miss Gudgeon about a change to her plot wasn’t the real reason …’

  ‘Oh yes, it was, truly.’ Melissa had the feeling that she had lost Brownie points for not telling the whole truth at the outset. ‘I’ve been trying to find out just what Leonora was planning … it wasn’t in her original plot outline … and I’ve come across something … it’s very complicated, but I believe her research led her into something illegal that’s going on at Blackwater Hall, quite innocently, of course, I don’t think for a moment that she realised … if I could just get a look at her diary, there may be something in it that ties the whole thing together.’ The words tumbled out in a rush and she experienced an enormous sense of relief at unburdening herself to someone of Mr Semple’s standing. She was on the point of going on to confess her escapade with Bruce the previous evening, but decided not to. He could hardly approve, and it would only cloud the issue.

  ‘This sounds quite unbelievable,’ the solicitor was saying. ‘I cannot conceive of Miss Jewell having anything to do with illegal activities. And where is this Blackwater Hall?’

  ‘It’s an art centre near Gloucester. I’m sure Leonora … Miss Jewell … had absolutely no idea … look, may I please have the keys and go and look for the diary? It may give us some of the answers.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He sounded abstracted, as if he was trying to gather his thoughts and make sense of what she had been saying. ‘When do you want to pick them up?’

  ‘I can come right away, if that’s all right with you. Say, in half an hour?’

  ‘Very well. Have you any idea where to look?’

  ‘Mr Round said she kept it in her desk, at the back of one of the drawers.’

  ‘Does Mr Round know of your suspicions, by the way?’

  ‘No. Do you think I should have told him?’

  ‘Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, I think it’s better he knows nothing of this. He was very fond of his godmother and we don’t want to distress him.’

  ‘I quite agree. I’ll see you shortly, then.’

  Melissa’s skin was tingling with anticipation as she drove along the track leading to Quarry Cottage. When she pulled up outside, she sat for a moment in contemplation. Her first sight of the place had been in mild autumn sunshine; today the sky was covered with leaden clouds that hinted at snow and gave it a desolate, almost sinister appearance. Already the garden was starting to look neglected. The trim lawns had ragged edges. Someone delivering junk mail had failed to push it through the letter-box, leaving loose sheets of gaudily-coloured paper to blow into the bushes, where they hung like tattered washing on a line. The coconut shell dangled empty from the apple tree, and the birdbath contained nothing but a few sodden leaves. More leaves were scattered on the flower beds, where thousands of weeds had germinated in defiance of the cold.

  ‘Poor Leonora,’ said Melissa sadly. ‘It’d break your heart to see it looking like this.’

  Recalling that backing the Golf on to the narrow track on leaving had not been easy, she took the precaution of reversing through the rickety gate to enable her to drive straight out. She sat in the car for several moments after switching off the engine. Despite her eagerness to get her hands on Leonora’s diary, she felt an unexpected reluctance to enter the cottage. She had never experienced any supernatural manifestations, and certainly there had been nothing spooky about the atmosphere on her previous visit, but on that occasion she had been in the company of three stalwart men. It crossed her mind that it would have been a good idea to invite Bruce to accompany her. Then she told herself not to be a fool.

  ‘Come on, girl, get on with it. You don’t imagine Leonora’s haunting the place, do you?’

  Just the same, her heart was thumping as she got out of the car, walked up to the front door of the cottage, opened it with the key that an unsmiling Miss Gudgeon had, with apparent reluctance, handed over, and stepped inside.

  Twenty-One

  It was cold in Quarry Cottage, much colder than Melissa remembered. It was only natural, of course; the place had been standing empty for a further two weeks, during which the weather had, in the way of things in England in autumn, see-sawed between rain, a few hours of sunshine tempered with chilly winds, and sharp overnight frosts. Any warmth from the sunny spells had failed to penetrate the thick stone walls, and the air inside had a dankness which made her shiver as she made her way along the passage to the room which had served Leonora as both sitting-room and study.

  Everything looked the same: the small windows divided by wooden bars into even smaller panes, the faded curtains, the shabby furniture, the alcove overlooking the garden where Leonora had worked, the stone hearth where she had died, the brown stain where her blood had trickled on to the carpet … Melissa swallowed hard to stave off a spasm of nausea and her knees began to tremble. She felt an urgent desire to do what she had come for and get away as soon as possible.

  The desk was a plain wooden affair with three drawers to one side. Melissa pulled the top one open; it appeared to contain nothing but a quantity of plain typing paper, but by groping at the back she found the narrow compartment of which Jonathan Round had spoken, separated from the rest by a thin partition. Her heart began to thump again, this time with excitement and anticipation, as her exploring hand brought out a thick notebook with a hard, blue cover. She opened it and began turning over pages covered in a flowing handwriting that was surprisingly firm for a woman turned eighty.

  On September the second, Leonora had written:

  Jonathan telephoned to say he’s off to Greece tomorrow and will I be all right while he’s away. I know he means it kindly but I do wish he wouldn’t fuss. I may be old but I’m not decrepit yet. Mrs Finch is the same. She keeps saying I should think about going into what she calls ‘sheltered housing’. The very idea! How could I work with other people around me all the time? And how could I live without my garden?

  ‘How typical – but what a pity you didn’t take Mrs Finch’s advice,’ Melissa murmured sadly. ‘You might still be alive today. But you’re right, you’d have hated it,’ she added, glancing out of the window in time to see two male blackbirds engaged in a fierce mid-air squabble. ‘This was your entire world.’

 

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