Murder on a Winter Afternoon, page 3
part #5 of Melissa Craig Series
She went into the passage and found the kitchen. The back door was locked, but she quickly identified the key, opened it and stepped outside. The small back garden, like the front, was a delight, with more winter-flowering shrubs and a holly tree sparkling with berries. It was easy to picture the elderly writer working away at her desk in the alcove, looking up from time to time to rest her eyes and enjoy her small, secluded paradise.
Melissa stepped back inside and relocked the door, noticing as she did so that one pane of glass had been recently replaced. The putty was still soft and the glazier’s fingermarks had not been removed. So that was how the intruder had got in. The key had probably been in the lock at the time, easy to reach and turn.
Like the sitting-room, the kitchen held few luxuries, apart from a washing machine, a microwave oven and a small freezer – essential for anyone living in this isolated spot and liable to be cut off in bad weather for days on end. A single cupboard held basic groceries, a few items of crockery and a couple of saucepans; Leonora had spent little time on food preparation. Melissa took a peek into the freezer and saw a stack of ready-prepared meals. She had a momentary, but vivid, flash of insight into the dead woman’s lifestyle, her waking hours divided between the desk where she wrote her best-selling sagas and the garden she had tended with so much care.
The time was slipping past. Melissa returned to the chilly sitting-room, found a box of matches and lit the gas fire. She unlocked the cabinet; in the top drawer were a number of suspension files, neatly labelled and evidently containing correspondence. In the second drawer she found two bulky pocket folders marked ‘Deadly Legacy’. She took them to the desk, pushed aside the battered manual typewriter and settled down to read.
She had already studied the plot outline that Joe had faxed her. It was a Gothic mystery concerning a missing heiress, some old masters of dubious authenticity, a priceless stolen painting and a series of unexplained deaths, set in Victorian times – almost, she thought as she read on, a pastiche of a Wilkie Collins novel. She skimmed through the first two chapters, compared them with the outline and found they corresponded in all but a few unimportant details. Leonora Jewell had been a meticulous plotter. The style was colourful but straightforward and would, she decided, be fairly simple to imitate. She would have to do some background reading to get the period atmosphere right, but that presented no difficulty either, as the author had compiled a short bibliography and the books listed were on the shelf at her elbow. She calculated that the three unwritten chapters represented between fifteen and twenty thousand words. She would have her work cut out to finish the job within two months. Ken Harris would not be best pleased.
It was one o’clock and she was beginning to feel hungry. She relocked the filing cabinet and put the reference books and the folders containing the manuscript into a shopping bag she found in the kitchen. Then she turned off the gas fire and went out, locking the front door behind her.
Returning to her car, she noticed something she had not spotted on the way in: a low, circular stone structure covered by a heavy wooden lid, evidently an old well. There was nothing unusual about that; there were wells in the gardens of several cottages in Upper Benbury, most of them disused and capped with metal grilles for safety.
Melissa would never understand what prompted her, after stowing the bag behind the driver’s seat, to go back, remove the ancient wooden lid and peer inside. This was a well that had presumably run dry, for it had been filled with rocks and rubble to within a couple of feet of ground level.
Lying on top of the stones was a short length of angle iron. Without thinking, she reached down and retrieved it. One end bore traces of a dried, brown substance to which clung a tuft of white hair.
Five
The lounge bar of the Ploughman’s Arms was warm, crowded and buzzing with seasonal goodwill. As Melissa stood inside the swing door, her eyes seeking her three companions, her mind was still on her gruesome discovery. She had no doubt whatsoever that what she had held in her hand only a few minutes ago was the weapon that had killed Leonora Jewell.
Throughout the short drive from Quarry Cottage she had been trying to decide what to do. Her instinct was to find the nearest telephone and contact Ken Harris, to tell him she had stumbled upon proof – or at any rate, a strong indication – that his misgivings about the burglary were justified. Who would deliberately strike down a defenceless old woman for the sake of a few oddments of more interest to the organiser of a jumble sale than a professional thief?
She had a strong suspicion, however, that if she were to take the initiative and contact the police directly, the professional pride of certain individuals would be seriously ruffled. Perhaps the correct course would be to inform Leonora’s solicitor and executor, both of whom were present, and let them handle it. Or was it her duty to do something herself? Common sense told her that this shouldn’t be a problem, but somehow she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was still undecided as she approached the corner table where the three men sat, chatting over drinks and sandwiches.
They stood up when they saw her. Joe took his coat from a fourth chair and held it while she sat down. ‘How did it go?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Very interesting,’ she said guardedly. She turned to Mr Round. ‘The script was in two folders and I’ve brought them and some books away with me to work on at home. I hope you have no objection?’
She half expected him to demur, but he said quietly, ‘No, of course not. I really have no idea how you writers work, but Mr Martin has been telling me how professional you are.’
‘You mustn’t take too much notice of Joe,’ said Melissa facetiously, partly in an effort to hide her suppressed agitation.
Mr Semple cleared his throat and said, ‘I suggest that for the sake of order we ask Mrs Craig to sign a receipt for the items she has removed from the cottage.’
‘Would that be all right?’ asked Mr Round.
‘Of course, no problem,’ she assured them. She had a shrewd idea of the thought that lay behind Mr Semple’s slightly condescending smile. ‘I’ll teach that presumptuous puppy how things should be handled,’ it seemed to say.
Joe was still on his feet. ‘What will you have?’ he asked Melissa.
‘I could murder a cup of coffee. I’m feeling a bit cold.’ Despite the close atmosphere, she realised she was shivering.
‘Didn’t you light the gas fire?’ asked Mr Round. ‘I’m sorry, I should have done it for you …’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She wasn’t ready yet to speak about her discovery or explain that, although Leonora’s sitting-room had warmed up very quickly, she was unable to shake off the sensation of chill that had crept over her as she held the bloodstained weapon. She needed time to steady herself.
Mr Round’s eagerness to be conciliatory was quite touching and she made an effort to respond to his change of attitude. ‘Here are the keys – and I did remember to lock the front door,’ she said, and he gave an embarrassed grin. She thought how much pleasanter he looked when he smiled.
Joe was still hovering at her elbow. ‘What about something to eat?’ he said.
‘Oh, er, a sandwich will do.’
‘Ham, cheese, egg … ?’
‘Anything … whatever they have.’ The prospect of food held no attraction at the moment. Joe gave her a searching look before going to the bar to give the order. He knows I’ve got something on my mind, she thought. He’s going to ask questions … I’d like to tell him first, without the others listening and staring … In the hope of catching him on his own, she half rose to leave the table on the pretext of going to the toilet, but already he was swallowed up in the crowd round the bar. There would be no privacy there. So she sat and made small talk with the others until Joe returned with her coffee and sandwich. She drank half of the hot, stimulating drink, took a single bite from the sandwich and gagged on it.
‘Something’s upset you. What is it?’ Joe demanded.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat a thing.’ She pushed the plate away. The mental picture of Leonora Jewell lying fatally injured and bleeding on her own hearth, the victim of a vicious and cowardly attack, was too vivid; it had totally destroyed her appetite. The three men were looking at her with concern. ‘I came across something that makes me believe Leonora’s death wasn’t accidental,’ she said. She could hear the shakiness in her own voice.
In response to their shocked glances, she put down her cup and leaned forward over the table; the others did the same. In a low voice, making sure people at neighbouring tables could not overhear, she described her discovery.
‘There’s something odd about that break-in,’ she finished. ‘I’m not sure what it is, but … Leonora seemed such an unlikely target for a burglar.’
There was a brief silence. Mr Round looked perturbed, Joe merely intrigued. Mr Semple considered for several moments before saying gravely, ‘I doubt if it was done by a professional. The intruder was more likely to have been a young opportunist who panicked and beat her up when she disturbed him.’
‘She wasn’t exactly beaten up, she suffered a single blow to the head,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘I’ve not heard yet …’ She broke off, aware that she should not be revealing the extent of her knowledge of the case. What DCI Harris had told her was in confidence; it would do him no good if it became public knowledge that he indulged in indiscreet gossip. ‘I mean, the police haven’t released the result of the post-mortem, have they?’ she said hastily.
Mr Round shook his head, frowning. ‘I still can’t agree that this indicates anything but a burglary that went horribly wrong,’ he said emphatically.
‘But nothing of value was taken,’ she pointed out. ‘In fact, there was nothing of value.’
‘We can’t be sure of that, can we?’ Mr Semple pointed out. He glanced for confirmation at Mr Round, who merely shrugged and replied, ‘I’ve no idea what she kept there. But – no, I suppose not.’ Melissa’s brain was beginning to buzz with questions she had no right to ask.
‘We must leave everything in the hands of the police,’ said the solicitor firmly. ‘They must know of your discovery at once – it could be instrumental in tracking down this villain. May I assume you’re happy to leave it to me, as Miss Jewell’s legal adviser, to inform them?’ His gaze swivelled briefly between Round and Melissa and they both nodded agreement. ‘They will certainly wish to speak to you later, Mrs Craig, but I’ll explain that you are too upset to talk about it just yet.’
Melissa gave him a grateful smile. ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ What he had said wasn’t strictly true; she was feeling much steadier now that someone else had taken charge, and in any case she had on more than one occasion been interviewed while in a far greater state of shock. Still, there were times when it was nice to be treated in such a protective way. Joe Martin, please take note.
‘I’ll do it immediately from my cellphone.’ Mr Semple took the instrument from his overcoat pocket and stood up. ‘It’s too noisy in here, and in any case we don’t want the whole world to know. I’ll make the call from my car.’
‘You should try to eat something, Mrs Craig,’ said Mr Round solicitously, as Mr Semple made his way across the crowded lounge to the exit. ‘Would you like another cup of coffee, or a brandy, perhaps?’
Obediently, she took another bite from her sandwich. ‘No brandy, thank you,’ she said, ‘but I would like some more coffee.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He fairly leapt to his feet and made for the bar.
Joe glanced after him, grinning. ‘You seem to have got him eating out of your hand,’ he said.
‘You were scared I was going to louse up the whole exercise, weren’t you?’
‘I was at first, but we managed to get a few things sorted out while you were in the cottage. I pointed out the effect it would have on Leonora’s estate if the book wasn’t published as planned, and fortunately our “legal eagle” backed me up.’
‘Of course, Round is answerable to the beneficiaries, isn’t he? Incidentally,’ Melissa lowered her voice again after making sure that the gentleman in question was still at the bar, ‘have you any idea who they are? I was dying to ask Semple, but it didn’t seem quite proper.’
‘Huh! Since when has propriety cramped your style?’ retorted Joe with a grin. ‘It’s an interesting point, though. If poor old Leonora really was murdered and the burglary was a put-up job – as you seem to be suggesting – then it might have been for an inheritance which could be substantial.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘I’ve no idea who her estate goes to, although I presume Round, as her godson, will get something. As far as I know, she had very few relatives and never had much to do with them anyway. She gave a lot to charity while she was alive, so maybe she’s left …’
‘Shh, they’re coming back.’ The others had reappeared simultaneously from opposite directions, Mr Round bringing Melissa’s second cup of coffee.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Mr Semple. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not trying to rush anyone, but I do have another appointment shortly. I wonder, Mrs Craig, if you’d be kind enough to drive these gentlemen back to Cheltenham – if you feel up to it, of course?’
‘By all means. I’m fine now.’
‘Splendid. Remember to call in at my office, by the way. My secretary, Miss Gudgeon, is preparing a form of receipt for you to sign.’ He buttoned his overcoat, which he had slipped on before going outside to make his call, and put on his gloves. ‘Please excuse me if I hurry off now. No doubt you’ll be in touch if you need any advice or information from me.’ With a brisk salute, he left them to the remains of their lunch.
When they returned to the office of Rathbone and Semple, Miss Gudgeon, an aloof individual with a disdainful expression, noted the contents of Leonora’s shopping bag as Melissa called them out and showed them to Mr Round.
‘There you are,’ said Melissa as she signed and gave back the formal receipt. ‘I’ll leave you my card, just in case there are any queries.’ She handed it to the woman with a smile that was not returned. ‘Perhaps you’d like to have one as well, Mr Round?’ she added, taking another card from her purse. ‘You might like to check on progress.’
‘Thank you.’ He accepted the card, put it into his wallet and took out one of his own. ‘Here’s mine.’
In the street outside, she said, ‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ and offered him her hand.
He took it and held it for a moment. ‘I apologise if I seemed officious. I’m not used to this situation, and Semple does have a way of …’
‘Exercising his seniority?’ Melissa suggested, as he hesitated. He gave a rueful nod. ‘You mustn’t let him browbeat you. You’re the client, after all.’
‘That’s what Leonora told me when she said she was going to appoint me her executor. She warned me he could be overbearing at times, and I suppose I over-reacted.’
‘I wouldn’t let it worry you.’
‘I won’t.’ He hesitated a moment before saying, ‘I never actually finished any of Leonora’s books – between ourselves, I think they’re pretty awful – but I suppose I knew her as well as anyone did. I hope you’ll feel free to call on me if you need any help. Maybe I …’ Again, he seemed lost for words.
‘Thank you. I might just take you up on that. Can I give you a lift to the station, by the way?’
‘No thank you, I’ve a couple of hours before my train leaves so I think I’ll have a look round the art gallery.’ He raised a hand in farewell and walked away.
‘So you’ll do it?’ said Joe as they made their way back to the car.
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve read the script right through,’ said Melissa, determined not to be a pushover.
‘It’s a cracking plot, though, don’t you think?’ he persisted.
‘It is pretty good.’ Not for the world was she prepared to admit that not only was she keen to finish Leonora’s story, but that an idea for a plot of her own had come into her head on the drive back to Cheltenham. For some time she had been toying with the idea of pensioning off Nathan Latimer, the doughty sleuth of a dozen or more of her own novels. A character on the lines of the chief protagonist in Deadly Legacy, suitably modernised, seemed a promising alternative.
‘And you reckon you can do it in the time?’ Joe was saying.
‘It shouldn’t be difficult; I’ll let you know in a day or two. When does your train leave?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘In half an hour.’
‘Good, we’ve comfortable time.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t catch a later one. We could have had dinner.’
‘It’s all right … another time, perhaps.’
‘I’m taking Paul to the theatre.’ Joe’s son was in his final year at Oxford. ‘He’s spending the weekend with me.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes. Did I tell you, Georgina’s remarried and gone to live in South Africa?’ He turned to look at her with a searching expression in his deep-set eyes. She knew he cared for her more than she had ever allowed him to say, and was sad. For all her teasing, she was very fond of him, but not in the way she knew he wanted.
