‘Come for supper – about seven?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I was going to call you,’ she said, as if by way of an apology.

  ‘Okay, you’re forgiven.’

  His expression told her that he very much wanted to kiss her, but she knew he would not. Not now, not here, not in public. In his way, he too was a private person. And there was the whole evening to look forward to.

  Three

  The following morning, Melissa had a call from Joe Martin.

  ‘Thanks for the script,’ he said. ‘I’m looking forward to reading it.’

  ‘I’m glad it arrived safely – I’m so thankful to be shot of it. I’m not going to write another line for the rest of this year.’

  ‘Er … that’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Joe, I have a feeling you’re going to spring something unwelcome on me.’

  ‘It’s nothing too onerous … I mean, it shouldn’t take long,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It’s just well … there’s this editor making urgently persuasive noises and if I could just come up with what she wants … quickly …’

  ‘Do stop waffling and get to the point,’ said Melissa impatiently. ‘But before you do,’ she added, ‘I’d like to make it clear that I’m doing no signings this side of the holiday, nor am I judging Christmas story competitions for the kiddie-winkies.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s about Leonora Jewell.’ There was a short silence; she sensed that he was searching for the right approach. Or was he doing it to arouse her curiosity? She waited.

  ‘You know she was murdered by an intruder?’ he said at last.

  ‘Who said it was murder?’

  ‘Unlawfully killed, then – what’s the difference?’

  ‘About twenty years, I think. And there’s been no inquest yet, so …’

  ‘Let’s not bother with technicalities. The point is, she’s shuffled off this mortal coil leaving an unfinished script and a deadline only a couple of months away.’

  ‘Do I understand you’re trying to get me to ghost a Leonora Jewell saga?’ Melissa exclaimed. Really, she thought, the cheek of the man!

  ‘It’s a departure from her usual style … more of a mystery novel really … nearer your kind of thing … and I believe it’s only missing the last three chapters. I’ve got her plot outline … it wouldn’t take long … not to a professional like you.’ His voice became progressively more oleaginous.

  ‘Spare me the flannel. You said you believe it’s only missing the last three chapters. Is that what she told you?’

  ‘We spoke on the phone a few days before she was mur … before she died. She was confident she’d have the thing finished in good time.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’m not too keen on the idea. I really was looking forward to a rest.’

  ‘Please.’ Now he was trying cajolery. ‘We’re promised quite a hefty share in the advance and a percentage of the royalties.’

  ‘You mean you’ve already been discussing the details? You might have consulted me first.’

  ‘I was approached by Leonora’s publisher. It’s her hundredth book and they’ve been planning a big launch, with national media coverage and all that. They’ll lose heavily if the script isn’t ready on time.’

  ‘And you agreed, just like that?’

  ‘I was pretty sure I could count on you.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. It didn’t occur to you I might be planning to take off for the Caribbean tomorrow?’

  ‘Good Lord, you’re not, are you?’ He sounded so alarmed that Melissa almost laughed aloud. ‘Don’t let me down, Mel,’ he pleaded. ‘There’s big money in it … Leonora’s sales are astronomical … they’ll shoot up more than ever now, of course …’

  ‘And you don’t want to lose out on your commission.’ Joe’s preoccupation with the bottom line was a regular target for Melissa’s sarcasm. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ve arranged a meeting tomorrow with Leonora’s executor, who’s her godson, by the way. I’ve already spoken to her solicitor, who sees no reason why he should object to our visiting the cottage and collecting the script …’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Melissa broke in. ‘Did you say our visiting the cottage?’

  ‘Well, I naturally thought you’d want to see where she worked … get the atmosphere and all that … and of course you’ll have to check what research material you’ll need and so on.’

  The switch from conditional to simple future did not escape her. ‘You take one hell of a lot for granted, Joe Martin.’

  ‘But you’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not …’

  ‘My appointment to meet the executor at the solicitor’s office is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m sure I can change the time if it doesn’t suit you, and meanwhile, I’ll fax you the Deadly Legacy plot outline. The office is in Imperial Square, Cheltenham.’

  Mechanically, Melissa jotted down the address. She could not help being intrigued by the assignment, but irritation at the arbitrary way she had virtually been committed without prior consultation made her decide to keep Joe dangling a little longer.

  ‘All right,’ she said at length, ‘If I decide to take it on, I’ll meet you there. But I’m not promising,’ she added, and put down the telephone before he could argue further.

  Mr Semple, senior partner in the old established firm of Rathbone and Semple, Solicitors, was a little below average height, slim and wiry-looking, clean shaven with thinning iron-grey hair. His demeanour as he welcomed Melissa and Joe to the mahogany-and-dark-leather gloom of his office, with its high ceilings, narrow windows and walls lined with legal tomes, was courteous but brisk. Melissa had the impression that here was a man who knew his job and did not suffer fools gladly.

  Joe Martin was already there when she arrived, together with a tall, spare individual with bloodless features and hollow cheeks who was introduced as Jonathan Round, godson and executor to the late Leonora Jewell. He extended a bony hand with an expression of studied solemnity which aroused in Melissa – still a shade resentful at being manoeuvred into this situation – a perverse desire to shock him. Observing his lean frame, she was almost tempted into making a wisecrack about the inappropriateness of his name, but refrained out of consideration for Joe, who was shooting nervous glances in her direction like a parent fearing his offspring was about to say or do something outrageous.

  ‘Mr Semple is going to accompany us to Miss Jewell’s cottage,’ announced Mr Round, without noticeable enthusiasm. ‘I’ve travelled from Cardiff by train, so he has offered his services as chauffeur.’

  ‘It seems we’re putting you to a great deal of trouble, Mr Round,’ said Joe, rather unctuously, Melissa thought.

  ‘Not at all. As my godmother’s executor I am, you will appreciate, responsible for the disposal of her property in accordance with her wishes, once probate of her will has been granted. Until then, I’m personally responsible for its safety,’ he explained.

  ‘You needn’t worry, we’re not planning to pinch the spoons,’ said Melissa, before she could stop herself. ‘Are we Joe?’

  Joe winced, Mr Round looked pained and Mr Semple’s mouth twitched at the corners. Melissa could not be sure, but she thought she detected a passing twinkle in his bright blue eyes. It was gone in a flash – he was, after all, receiving them in his professional capacity – but she sensed that, to a certain extent at any rate, he shared her feelings about his client.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you will do anything of the kind,’ said Mr Round stiffly. ‘I’m merely making my position clear. My godmother has bequeathed her manuscripts to the Faculty of English at the University of New England.’

  ‘But until probate has been granted,’ Mr Semple interposed, ‘they will remain where she arranged for them to be kept before her death, namely in my firm’s strongroom. Her instructions on this point are made clear in the will. I have the formalities in hand, of course, but it will be some weeks before they are complete.’

  ‘I am sure you will do your best to expedite matters, Mr Semple,’ said Mr Round.

  ‘Naturally, Mr Round,’ said Mr Semple.

  That there was latent animosity between the two men was plain. Melissa decided to take the initiative before it broke the surface.

  ‘Well, Mr Semple,’ she said briskly. ‘Are there any legal matters we have to discuss before we go to Miss Jewell’s cottage? I take it Mr Martin has, er, declared our interest?’

  ‘Oh yes, we discussed the publisher’s proposal in some detail before you arrived and Mr Round is prepared to allow you reasonable access to Miss Jewell’s, er, work in progress.’ Semple’s glance swivelled briefly towards Round, who gave a dignified nod. ‘I must say,’ he went on, ‘as an admirer of your books, Mrs Craig, I can think of no one better fitted to undertake this sad task.’

  ‘You’re very kind, thank you,’ said Melissa sincerely. ‘I take it nothing has been removed from Miss Jewell’s files?’

  ‘Indeed, no. In fact, permission to enter the premises was granted by the police only two days ago …’

  ‘I immediately authorised the cleaning woman to go in and tidy things up,’ interrupted Mr Round, as if determined not to have his authority undermined. ‘The police left the place in a terrible mess.’

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ said Melissa.

  ‘By all means,’ said Mr Semple. ‘There’s just one thing before we leave, Mrs Craig. Would you do one of my staff a favour?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘She’s an admirer of yours and she was most excited when she heard you were coming here. She has a number of your books – would you mind signing them for her?’

  ‘It’d be a pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He pressed a button on his desk and when a woman’s voice answered he said, ‘Tell Carole she may come in now.’

  A moment later there was a gentle knock on the door and a slight, fair-haired young woman with solemn eyes behind round spectacles came in with several well-thumbed paperbacks in her hands. She was flushed with embarrassment and her ‘How do you do, Ms Craig?’ as Mr Semple introduced her was a shy whisper. She watched with shining eyes as Melissa dedicated and signed each book.

  ‘Thank you so much, it’s really kind of you,’ she said, and backed out of the office as if from the presence of royalty.

  ‘You’ve really made her day,’ said Mr Semple. ‘She’s seen every televised episode of your books as well.’

  ‘She’s probably got a crush on Gareth Huntingdon,’ said Melissa with a chuckle. ‘The actor who plays my detective, Nathan Latimer,’ she explained, as he looked blank.

  ‘Ah, yes, quite so. Well, let us be on our way.’ He got to his feet, put on his hat and coat and led the way out of his office. ‘I’ll go and get my car.’

  ‘Mine’s parked just up the road. I’ll follow you along,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Very well. I’ll meet you gentlemen outside.’ He disappeared along a passage, leaving the others to make their way to the front door.

  Mr Round hung back to speak to the receptionist and Joe seized the opportunity to hiss in Melissa’s ear, ‘Stop giving him aggro or he might change his mind about letting you work on Leonora’s script.’

  ‘Aggro?’ Melissa assumed an innocent expression. ‘All I did was make a harmless jest …’

  ‘Can’t you see, the man has no sense of humour?’

  ‘You’re right. He’s a pompous jackass.’

  ‘Never mind that. He’s got the power to deny us access to her papers if he’s so minded.’

  ‘And that would lose us lots of lovely money, right?’

  ‘It isn’t just the money …’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s a matter of not disappointing the fans …’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  ‘Shh, here he comes. Please, Mel.’

  At the sight of his anguished expression, she relented. ‘All right, I promise I’ll be good.’

  Four

  Quarry Cottage lay at the end of a narrow track that snaked downhill from the main road into Stowbridge, half a mile or so from the village of Lower Southcote. The road continued straight on for a short distance before doubling back on itself to hide below a steep bank, which prevented passers-by – even those on horseback – from catching a glimpse of the small stone dwelling in the valley. The village was scarcely more than a hamlet, perched on a hilltop like something out of a child’s picture-book, its tiny church one of the smallest in the county.

  The cottage was shabby, almost decrepit in appearance, with paint peeling from the door and window frames, gaps in the fence and broken tiles on the roof. As she walked with the three men along a mossy path to the front door, Melissa reflected that very little of the substantial sums reputedly earned by Leonora Jewell’s ninety-nine novels had been spent on the upkeep of her property. The garden, however, was in perfect order, having been planted and tended with knowledge and love. Evergreen shrubs made a foil for the soft pastels of wintersweet, jasmine and laurestinus; bright ruby, white and amethyst heathers lined the path on either side. There was a stone bird-bath on a pedestal in the middle of the front lawn and half a coconut swung from an apple tree, where two bluetits, greedily feasting, darted away at the visitors’ approach.

  ‘It’s perfect – like something out of a gardening magazine,’ Melissa exclaimed.

  ‘A picture, isn’t it?’ agreed Mr Semple. ‘Except for the heavy jobs like tree pruning, she did it all herself.’

  The temperature indoors was lower than outside and the place smelt of disinfectant. It was, Melissa thought, almost like entering a mortuary; instinctively, she hung back to let the others go first as, with a brisk command of ‘This way, please,’ Mr Round led them along the narrow hallway, opened a door and ushered them into an oak-beamed, low-ceilinged room with windows at either end.

  ‘Miss Jewell used this as a combined sitting-room and study,’ he informed them. ‘The working area is over there.’ He waved a hand towards an alcove overlooking the rear garden, containing a plain wooden desk, some bookshelves and a battered metal filing cabinet. ‘All her books and papers are exactly as she left them. Here’s the key to the cabinet, where you’ll find the script of her current novel.’

  ‘I expect you’d like to spend a little time browsing, Melissa,’ said Joe. ‘Why don’t we’ – he glanced from one to the other of their companions – ‘leave you in peace for a while? I noticed a pub in the village – we could have a drink and find out if they can do us some lunch later on.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mr Semple.

  ‘You go by all means,’ said Mr Round. ‘I’ll stay here in case Mrs Craig wishes to ask any questions.’ Without waiting for confirmation, he sat down in an armchair and lit a cigarette.

  Melissa glared at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a look of apprehension on Joe’s face, but ignored it. ‘You’re familiar with Miss Jewell’s work, I take it, Mr Round?’ she said icily.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I seldom read novels.’ He sounded offended, as if he had been accused of studying pornography. ‘I’m here in my capacity as her executor.’

  ‘And I’m here in my capacity as a writer who has been invited to complete her unfinished novel,’ Melissa informed him, ‘and when I’m working I find it impossible to concentrate with anyone else in the room. If I’m going to take on this job, I must insist on being left alone for a while. You needn’t worry, I’m not in the business of plagiarism.’

  Mr Round appeared taken aback, Mr Semple was seized with a fit of coughing and Joe, looking more anguished by the second, said nervously, ‘I assure you, Mr Round, I can vouch for Mrs Craig’s utter integrity.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone to vouch for me, thank you very much,’ Melissa said coolly. ‘But if Mr Round insists on a character reference, he can contact Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris of the county CID.’ If she was blowing the whole thing, she didn’t care. She didn’t really want the job anyway.

  Mr Round was looking increasingly uncomfortable and it dawned on her that he was much younger than she had at first thought. She had mentally put him down as approaching forty; now she realised that it was his air of solemn superiority that had misled her. It could have been a façade, to conceal a lack of experience, to maintain his self-esteem before a professional man many years his senior. In the face of her attack, he had lost much of his confidence and appeared chastened and ill at ease. She began to feel sorry for him.

  He heaved his lanky frame out of the chair. ‘I assure you, I had no intention … I didn’t mean … I’m sorry if I seemed to imply …’ he stammered. ‘Of course, if you want us to leave, Mrs Craig …’ His voice trailed away and he made a great show of looking for somewhere to deposit the ash from his cigarette, finally tapping it into his cupped hand.

  Melissa rewarded his capitulation with a gracious smile. ‘Why don’t you leave the key, to save you the trouble of coming back to lock up?’ she purred.

  Meekly, he took a small leather case from his pocket and handed it over. Behind him, Melissa spotted Mr Semple smirking and Joe looking so aghast at what he doubtless saw as her effrontery that she had difficulty in keeping a straight face. The three men moved towards the door; she undertook to join them for lunch at the Ploughman’s Arms and they departed, leaving her in temporary possession of the field.

  She did not immediately settle down to work, but spent several minutes studying her surroundings. The interior of the cottage, although perfectly neat and tidy, gave no more indication of the owner’s undoubted wealth than the exterior. The heavy velvet curtains were faded, the furniture comfortable but shabby. The focal point of the room was a Cotswold stone chimney-piece of the type found in hundreds of cottages in the area, often featuring – surrounded by horse-brasses and copper kettles, with gun-dogs dozing in front of log fires – in glossy magazines dedicated to country living. In this simple dwelling there were few ornaments – none of any apparent value – and no trace of an open fire; instead, a portable gas heater stood on the cold hearth, which was made of several stone slabs a good two inches thick. Melissa’s stomach twitched uneasily at the sight of a stain on the edge of the carpet. Was that the spot where Leonora Jewell had crashed to the floor, shattering her skull? Had she foolishly grappled with the intruder, or suffered a heart-attack from shock at coming face to face with him? Was it possible the fall had been unconnected with the burglary and merely the result of a sudden loss of balance? And what exactly had the intruder been after? Judging from the state of her home, Leonora had accumulated very few material possessions. Melissa found herself echoing Ken Harris’s question: Why had the thief picked on her?

 

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