Melissa realised with a start that she had not given her appearance a thought, or so much as combed her hair, since the attack. ‘Goodness, I must look an absolute fright!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve had a rather nasty experience … a man grabbed me as I was leaving the cottage, but I’m all right now …’

  ‘Grabbed you? How awful! Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, just a bit shocked. I’ve reported it to the police and they’re investigating. May I use your loo to tidy myself up?’

  ‘Of course. It’s along there.’ Miss Gudgeon half turned to indicate a passage behind her. ‘Can I get you anything? Some tea or coffee perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you. I just came in to return the key.’

  In the ladies’ room, Melissa washed her face and hands and ran a comb through her ruffled hair. She studied her pale, drawn features in the mirror; she did indeed look awful. Thank goodness Ken can’t see me now, she thought. What I need more than anything is a good rest … and time to think.

  When she got back to reception, Miss Gudgeon was on the telephone. As Melissa approached, she ended her call and put the instrument down. ‘I was trying to contact Mr Semple, but he’s not available,’ she explained. ‘He’ll be so upset to hear of your dreadful experience.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be in touch later,’ said Melissa. ‘I’ll leave these with you.’ She handed over the keys, politely declined a further offer of tea or coffee, and left. She had had enough of solicitude; all she wanted was to go home.

  Back in Hawthorn Cottage, she downed a stiff gin and tonic, ate a cheese sandwich and began to feel better. She called Bruce’s office, but he was out. She wished Iris wasn’t away. If Iris knew what had happened to her that morning, she would insist on putting her through a routine of calming yoga exercises. A very good idea, Melissa thought. She changed into leggings and a sweatshirt and spent an hour in what Iris called ‘deep relaxation’, flat on her back on the sitting-room floor.

  When she got up she felt almost restored, apart from the discomfort in her neck and throat. The collar of her anorak had afforded some protection, but even so there were livid marks on her neck. She examined them in the bathroom mirror and the horror of the experience returned to set her stomach churning. She thought of Simon, who had so nearly become an orphan, and then of Ken Harris, lying in his hospital bed, confident that her work on Leonora’s unfinished book would ‘keep her out of mischief’. At least, she thought, this particular adventure could have happened to anyone. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But was that really the case? Back came the nagging feeling that something had been overlooked. With her hand still gently massaging her neck, she remembered what Bruce had told her in confidence about the investigation into Carole’s murder. There had been discrepancies between the marks on her throat and those on the previous victims of the so-called Sex Strangler. They had not died, and the signs were that murder had never been the motive for the attacks on them. The pressure on the throat had been calculated to render unconscious, not to kill.

  Iris had spoken of having ‘a funny feeling’ about the death of Carole Prescot. Supposing it was Carole’s killer who had carried out the attack on Melissa as well? She was already convinced that the objective had not been indecent assault, but murder. It might, of course, have been the work of some copy-cat pervert with homicidal leanings, who had been prowling in the neighbourhood and spotted her as an easy target. That seemed to be the line the police were taking. But supposing she had been the intended victim all along? Had the motive been to stop her revealing the contents of the diary? In that case, her attacker must have been aware of its existence and importance – and of the fact that she was going to Quarry Cottage that morning to collect it. Someone had told him, but who besides herself knew?

  There was Jonathan Round. After an initial reluctance to cooperate, he had been reasonably helpful – but that might have been a blind. Her telephone call about the diary might have caught him off guard, leaving him with no way of refusing her request to hunt for his godmother’s diary without arousing suspicion.

  Mr Semple, of course, knew of her proposed visit to Quarry Cottage because he had given Miss Gudgeon permission to hand over the keys. Finally, there was Miss Gudgeon herself. She had made every possible excuse not to part with the keys. Perhaps that had been a delaying tactic. Realising that she was dealing with someone not easily put off, and that she would certainly be instructed to hand them over, she could have alerted the unknown assailant and let him know when and where to find Melissa. It could explain why she had looked so shaken when Melissa appeared, dishevelled but alive and unharmed, in the office.

  Carole had spoken of a discovery that ‘might be important’. Perhaps she had already mentioned it to her colleague, not realising that she had unwittingly stumbled on some irregularity which, if brought to their employer’s notice, might lead to unwelcome enquiries. If Miss Gudgeon was in some way involved, and had overheard Carole’s telephone call to Melissa, she might have feared exposure.

  Exposure of what? The goings-on at Blackwater Hall? Surely not. What connection could there be between Miss Gudgeon and a ring of art thieves? It did not take long for a name to bob up in Melissa’s head: Gerard Hood, the man at the centre of the scam, the womaniser whose affairs were said to be the cause of disagreements between him and his regular partner, Eloise Dampier. As secretary to one of Cheltenham’s most prominent solicitors, Miss Gudgeon could well have access to information about valuable art treasures owned by some of his wealthy clients – information that could be of great interest to Hood. But was she involved with him? Melissa had no means of finding out. In any case, would she have been prepared to act as his informant, even if it made her an accessory to murder?

  At this point in her reasoning, Melissa, who had been prowling from room to room in her agitation, stopped short, feeling as if a lump of lead had landed in the pit of her stomach. One way or the other, there was a strong probability that Gerard Hood knew she had the diary and might at this very moment be studying it. Miss Gudgeon claimed to have been trying to contact Mr Semple while Melissa was in the ladies’ room, but it could just as easily have been Hood. Bruce suspected him of being Leonora’s killer … but it was certainly not Hood who had tried to throttle Melissa. The situation was becoming more complex by the minute.

  Next came a far more chilling thought. What if the assassin were to track her down here, to finish what he had failed to do at the first attempt? Her address was on the business card she had given to Miss Gudgeon. Close to panic, she rushed round the cottage, checking that the doors and windows were secure, peering nervously outside into the gathering dusk before drawing the curtains. She felt like an animal that had gone to ground and was waiting, trembling, for a ruthless pursuer.

  The sound of the telephone made her jump. But the voice of the caller brought immediate reassurance.

  ‘Oh, Mr Semple!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m so glad to hear from you!’

  ‘My dear Mrs Craig, Miss Gudgeon has told me of your ordeal. You sound terribly shaken, and no wonder.’ His friendly concern, so different from his dignified professional manner, almost brought tears to Melissa’s eyes.

  ‘It was pretty awful,’ she replied. ‘I was feeling a whole lot better, but now …’ She broke off, uncertain what to say next, hesitating to blurt out there and then her suspicion that his secretary might be involved in a serious crime.

  ‘Has something else happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly, but I’ve been reading Leonora’s diary.’

  ‘You’ve discovered something about that matter you were speaking of earlier?’

  ‘Yes … no, that is, it’s more than that … Oh dear, I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘I take it you’ve told the police about it?’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone yet … at least, I told the police everything I could remember about the attack, of course, but something else has just occurred to me, something I think you should know first.’

  Suddenly, her course became clear. She would tell him the whole story from start to finish including the adventure at Blackwater Hall. If she ever found herself on a charge of breaking and entering, she would need legal advice anyway. With his long experience of appraising a situation from an objective standpoint, he was exactly the person to turn to. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of it before?

  She heard him saying, ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ and she replied earnestly, ‘That’s exactly what I want, but not on the telephone. It’s very complicated … and a bit delicate … someone may be listening in.’

  If he found the idea surprising, he betrayed no sign, merely saying, ‘Would you like to come to my office? I have no further appointments this afternoon – we can talk in complete privacy.’

  ‘Yes, please … no, I can’t, I daren’t leave the house.’ At the thought of who might be lurking outside, all her terrors returned.

  ‘I quite understand,’ he said earnestly. ‘In that case, I’ll call on you, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would. I’m on my own here and my neighbour’s away …’

  He tut-tutted sympathetically. ‘Not the best situation after your ordeal,’ he said kindly. ‘I have one or two matters to attend to here and then I’ll come straight to your house.’

  ‘It’s very good of you.’

  ‘Not at all. In a way, I feel responsible for what has happened. After all, Miss Jewell was my client, and if you hadn’t been so conscientious about completing her work, you would never have had such a terrible experience.’

  ‘I really do appreciate it.’ She gave him directions to Hawthorn Cottage and put down the phone, almost dizzy with relief. Catching sight of herself in the hall mirror, she decided that her exercise gear was too casual for receiving a visit from a solicitor, and went upstairs to change into something more suitable.

  Twenty-Three

  Mr Semple seemed to be a very long time arriving. Unable to settle, constantly listening for his car, Melissa found herself drawing aside the curtains every few minutes to look out, imagining she had heard a sound. The porch light illuminated the front drive, but left in darkness the approach by the valley footpath. From that direction anyone could sneak up unobserved. How many times had Ken Harris expressed reservations about her living in such an isolated spot? She had always dismissed his fears; now she was sharing them a thousandfold. Was there someone lurking out there even now, preparing to smash his way in and finish off what he had failed to do earlier? ‘Oh, Mr Semple, where are you?’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘Please, please get here soon.’

  When she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel, she flew to the sitting-room window to make sure it was him. Her relief at the sight of him getting out of the car was indescribable. She hurried to the door and opened it before he had time to ring the bell.

  ‘I’m so thankful you’re here,’ she said shakily as she led the way to the sitting-room. ‘I’ve been getting really jumpy, thinking that awful man might come bursting in at any moment.’

  He gave a sympathetic nod. ‘I quite understand your feeling nervous, but I understood the attack on you was purely a random one. What makes you suppose …?’

  ‘I don’t believe it was random,’ she broke in. ‘I believe I was singled out, because of what I’ve discovered. That’s why I’m feeling so scared, but at least he won’t try anything while you’re here.’

  But he may, after you’ve gone. The unspoken fear made her turn cold again. Her thoughts ran on: I’ll have to go to a hotel for the night, I can’t stay here alone, I’ll leave when Mr Semple goes …

  ‘Well now, aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’ The solicitor’s friendly voice brought her back from the edge of hysteria.

  ‘Of course, please forgive me.’

  ‘How very cosy this is,’ he commented as he settled into the armchair opposite hers. His approving glance took in the low ceiling with its exposed beams, the bookshelves on either side of the chimney-breast, the log fire on the stone hearth. ‘This place is quite a gem, Mrs Craig. How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Getting on for four years.’

  ‘And these are all your books?’ He glanced up at the array of similar bindings that filled two of the shelves, then turned back to Melissa. ‘Quite a prodigious output,’ he said, evidently impressed. ‘Not quite equal to poor Miss Jewell’s, of course, but …’

  ‘Well, I am quite a big younger,’ she pointed out, ‘so I’ve got plenty of time to catch up.’

  ‘Quite so.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Before we begin, Mrs Craig, would you mind telling me which member of my staff you suspected might be listening to our conversation on the telephone?’

  Melissa hesitated, then said, ‘Miss Gudgeon. It may sound ridiculous,’ she added, as his initial expression of astonishment gave way to a shake of the head and an incredulous smile, ‘but I really believe she’s involved with some very dangerous people. I’ll come to that later, if you don’t mind. There’s a great deal more to tell you first. I’ll begin with this.’ She picked up Leonora’s diary, which lay on a side table at her elbow, opened it at the final entry and handed it to him.

  He studied the page for several seconds, frowning and gnawing his lower lip. ‘This reference to a picture – is this strange young man Miss Jewell refers to a famous artist, then?’

  ‘Oh no, but I believe that particular picture was very valuable. So valuable that someone was prepared to commit murder to recover it.’

  ‘I don’t follow you …’

  ‘I think you will when you’ve heard the whole story. That entry confirms what I’ve suspected all along. I’ll try and tell you everything in the order it happened, but please forgive me if things get a bit out of sequence.’

  ‘Just take your time.’ He crossed his legs, folded his hands against his stomach and cocked his head a little to one side.

  ‘It all began when a business card from an art gallery in Gloucester Docks fell out of Leonora’s research notes,’ she began. ‘I had the feeling that she’d intended to make some changes to the ending of Deadly Legacy, but I couldn’t find any details. So I went to see a man called Sam Deacon, whose name was on the card, and made some enquiries. He confirmed that Leonora had been to see him, and referred me to Gerard Hood, the curator of the Asser Foundation collection at Blackwater Hall.’

  As concisely as possible, she recounted the story from the beginning: her first visit to Blackwater Hall with Bruce and Iris, the bizarre encounter with Arnie Barron, Iris’s suspicions about the blank prepared canvas that had so agitated Eloise Dampier and the discovery that Gerard Hood purchased mulberry tissue for purposes other than the restoration of old paintings. Mr Semple listened without interrupting, his eyes fixed on the glowing logs.

  ‘It was Iris who twigged what he was using it for,’ Melissa explained, ‘but of course, it was only guesswork. We wanted to find out whether she was right. If she was, it seemed to point to Leonora’s death being murder, not an accident. I think I mentioned this to you on the telephone.’

  ‘You did. You also hinted that that’ – he pointed to the diary – ‘might contain something to confirm your suspicions. You’ve said nothing to the police?’

  ‘I tried several times to contact Detective Chief Inspector Harris, but he wasn’t answering his phone. I left a message, asking him to call back, but he didn’t. And then we – Iris and I – heard about Carole Prescot being murdered.’

  ‘Ah, yes, poor Carole. A dreadful business.’ Mr Semple shook his head in sorrow at the recollection. Then he gave Melissa a keen look. ‘Are you suggesting there’s a connection?’

  ‘I believe there is, but I didn’t suspect it at the time, none of us did. Perhaps I could leave that for the moment?’

  He raised a hand in a gesture of agreement. ‘Forgive the interruption. Please continue.’

  ‘Carole phoned me a day or two before her death, wanting to meet me,’ Melissa continued. ‘She never said what it was about, but when I saw the news of the murder on television, I went to the police to report it, just in case it might be important. That was when I learned that DCI Harris was seriously ill.’

  ‘And you still omitted to tell the police about the … what did you call it? Mulberry tissue?’

  ‘Yes, but not intentionally, it genuinely slipped my mind. Ken Harris is a friend of mine and I was upset to know how ill he was. And later, when I thought about it, I realised I’d have to deal with Inspector Holloway again, and I was sure he wouldn’t take me seriously. I’d had a brush with him already about that piece of angle iron that I found. Did you hear, by the way, that it disappeared before the police got to it?’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’ Mr Semple gave an odd little smile and she wondered if he too might have had some contact with the self-opinionated DI Holloway during his dealings with the police. ‘Please go on with your story, Mrs Craig.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not going to approve of the next bit.’

  ‘Allow me to be the judge of that.’

  Melissa took a deep breath before explaining how she had confided Iris’s theory to Bruce, the subsequent escapade at Blackwater Hall the previous evening and the discovery of the Boudin painting in Gerard Hood’s flat. As her narrative proceeded she saw a series of changes in the solicitor’s expression. Apprehension was followed in rapid succession by astonishment, disbelief and alarm. When she had finished, he slapped the arms of his chair in a gesture of outrage and then sat for several minutes, staring into the fire with his mouth set in a hard line, saying nothing. When, finally, he turned to look her full in the face, she quailed before the anger in his eyes.

  ‘Please, don’t be too cross with me,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t expect a pat on the back for what we did, but at least give me your advice. It will all have to come out, of course – Bruce will have been to the police by now …’

 

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