‘A couple of months’ work! You promised you were going to take some time off,’ he grumbled as he put down his knife and fork. ‘I’m due for leave shortly and I thought we could go away for a few days.’ He got up, relieved her of the kettle she was about to fill for coffee and took her in his arms. ‘How about Christmas in a seventeenth century hotel?’ he murmured, his mouth moving against hers. ‘A suite with a four-poster bed and all the trimmings … think about it. We’d have a wonderful time.’ Very purposefully, he set about giving her a preview of what he had in mind.

  After a while, he said, ‘So, what about it?’

  ‘Not Christmas. I promised Iris I’d spend it here …’

  ‘New Year, then? Hogmanay in Scotland …’

  She snuggled against him. ‘It sounds heavenly. There is one problem, though.’ His embrace loosened and he held her at arm’s length. She looked up at him with a straight face, noting with inward glee the blend of doubt and anxiety clouding his expression. ‘It’s several weeks to New Year,’ she pointed out demurely. ‘Of course, Hawthorn Cottage doesn’t have a four-poster, but …’

  ‘Ah!’ His face cleared and he drew her close once more. ‘Point taken,’ he said.

  Seven

  The next day was Saturday. Over the entire weekend and throughout Monday and Tuesday, Melissa worked from dawn to dusk – thankfully without interruption – on her preparatory study of Deadly Legacy. Towards the end of Tuesday afternoon she received three telephone calls in quick succession.

  The first was from Joe. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, without preamble.

  ‘You were right, it’s a cracking plot,’ she replied.

  ‘Knew you’d like it.’ He sounded smugly confident. ‘D’you think you can meet the mid-January deadline?’

  ‘I think so.’ She had been about to prevaricate, but it seemed pointless. He would know that if she had been going to turn the job down she would have called to say so before now.

  ‘Good girl!’ Relief and a hint of triumph surged along the wire. ‘Have you got everything you need? I can put you in touch with Leonora’s editor if that’ll help.’

  ‘Maybe later on. I’ve only read half the script so far. I’m making detailed notes as I go along.’

  ‘Her writing’s a bit different from Mel Craig’s “crisp, dry style”, isn’t it?’ he said with a chuckle, quoting from a recent review of one of her books. ‘You can unloose all those adjectives and adverbs you’ve kept chained up for so long.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been guilty of the odd bit of purple prose on occasions, as you well know. Not on the same scale as Leonora, though. It’ll be quite a challenge.’

  ‘Good luck. I’ll leave you in peace for now,’ he said, and rang off.

  Her next caller was DCI Harris. ‘It’s me, don’t hang up,’ he said.

  ‘Ken, I thought I told you …’

  ‘I just wanted to check you’re okay …’

  ‘Of course I’m okay. Just frantically busy.’

  ‘… and to say I’ll be out of town for a few days.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ She felt put out, then told herself it was unreasonable to tell a man she had no time to see him and then expect him to stay within reach just in case she needed him. ‘Will you be away long?’

  ‘Till the weekend. The Super’s sending me to a seminar in Southampton.’

  ‘How very alliterative. Tell me, have you caught Leonora’s killer yet?’

  ‘No such luck. The trail, such as it was, has gone completely cold.’

  ‘No one’s come forward who saw anything?’

  ‘Nothing of any use. Her cleaning lady went in to tidy up as soon as we took our seal off the cottage, but that was the day before your visit and she hasn’t been there since. No one else seems to have been near the place except the postman. We interviewed them both, but …’

  ‘It’s a pity young Hollowhead didn’t get his finger out earlier,’ Melissa commented tartly.

  ‘Inspector Holloway is a very experienced officer,’ Harris retorted, ‘and it so happens …’

  ‘Experienced or not, he missed a chance to catch the killer red-handed,’ she broke in. It was stupid, but she still felt aggrieved at the put-down she had experienced at the hands of the young detective inspector.

  ‘A pretty slim chance. I think your original guess was probably right – he was hiding somewhere close by, waiting for everyone to leave. Once the coast was clear, it would have taken him less than a minute to nip in and grab the murder weapon – if that’s what it was you saw in the well.’

  ‘Oh, come on Ken, what else could it have been? I mean, why bother to retrieve it unless …’

  ‘I agree, there isn’t much doubt about that, but as I was trying to point out a moment ago, we can’t blame Des Holloway.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Semple didn’t call us until gone three that afternoon. He went to do it, as you said, but found his cellphone battery was flat. He used the payphone in the pub to call his secretary, but decided it was too public to speak to the police from there so he left it until he got back to his office. WPC Shelley went to see him to clear up the discrepancy and said he was most embarrassed and apologetic.’

  ‘I’ll bet he was. The thought of admitting a blooper like that in front of young Jonathan Round would have been too much for his professional dignity!’ Melissa gave a sympathetic chuckle. ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘We’re looking into Leonora’s financial affairs in case she had a lot of cash hidden away that someone might have known about, but so far we’ve drawn a blank there too. She had one current account and never drew out more than she needed to meet everyday expenses, and pretty modest ones at that.’

  ‘What about her will? She must have been worth quite a lot – her books have sold millions of copies in umpteen countries.’

  ‘She gave huge amounts to a dozen or more charities, and she’s made provision for them to continue receiving her royalties after her death. Her godson, Jonathan Round, inherits the cottage, but it’s not worth much as it stands – needs a fortune spending on it. Apart from small legacies to Mrs Finch – her domestic help – and one or two other people, that’s about it. It’s bloody frustrating, having so little to go on.’ There was a pause before Harris lowered his voice and said, ‘Never mind our problems, are you sure you’ll be all right while I’m away?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll miss you. Maybe you can spare an evening when I get back. Next Saturday, perhaps?’

  ‘Maybe. It depends how I get on with Deadly Legacy. If there are too many interruptions …’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it. At least, it’ll keep you out of mischief.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘While you’re busy ghosting for Leonora, you can’t be getting involved in any amateur sleuthing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it!’

  ‘Melissa!’

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist it. Only joking,’ she added, sensing official disapproval.

  ‘I should hope so,’ he said severely, then added in a softer tone that sent a glow through her system, ‘Take care of yourself, Mel. I’ll call you when I get back from Southampton.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She was still sitting with a dreamy smile on her face, her hand resting on the phone, when it rang for the third time.

  ‘Bruce Ingram here,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘Any luck with Iris?’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ She had totally forgotten her promise. ‘Bruce, I’m sorry, I haven’t set eyes on Iris since you rang. I’ve been working flat out … look, I’ll call her now, I know she’s at home. Why don’t you pop round for a drink – say about six? I’ll try and persuade her to join us.’ The moment the words were out, she wished she hadn’t spoken them, but having inadvertently broken her promise to Bruce she felt obliged to make up for it. In any case, it would be a relief to get away from her desk for an hour.

  ‘I’d like that – thanks,’ he was saying. ‘See you later.’

  Melissa pushed the phone away and stood up, flexing her cramped muscles. This would not do. She must pace herself, go back to her normal routine of starting work early in the morning and taking a break after a few hours. She put away the first half of Deadly Legacy and then, more to assess the quantity of reading involved than with the intention of doing further work that day, reached for the second half. As she drew the script from its folder, something fell to the floor. She stooped and picked up a paper-covered exercise book bearing a type-written label with ‘Research Notes’ printed on it.

  ‘That looks interesting,’ she said to herself. ‘Must have a read of that presently.’

  Iris had agreed, somewhat grumpily, to be interviewed on the subject of the Asser Foundation, about which she at first claimed to know very little. However, under the twin influences of a glass of cream sherry and Bruce’s winning manner, she turned out to have considerable knowledge of the history of both the Foundation and Abraham Asser himself.

  ‘Great collector,’ she said. ‘Quite old now, of course. Very generous to my college years ago. Others too, no doubt. Donated prizes. Once opened his private collection for us.’

  ‘Was this when you were a student? Did you actually meet him?’ asked Bruce eagerly.

  ‘Yes … no,’ replied Iris. ‘Saw him once. Endowed a new wing. Came to declare it officially open.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Been operational for half a term, but we had to pretend we’d never set foot in it.’

  ‘That’s fascinating.’ Bruce was scribbling in his notebook. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him? When did he set up this Art for the Earth’s Resources scheme?’

  Iris shrugged and drained her sherry glass. Melissa quietly topped it up again. ‘Can’t be sure. Five, six years ago. Bought a place near Gloucester. Can’t recall the name.’

  ‘Blackwater Hall,’ said Bruce, referring to his notes. ‘A couple of miles off the A417.’ Iris acknowledged the information with a twitch of one eyebrow above the rim of her glass. ‘Have you been approached for a contribution?’

  ‘Gave them a water-colour a couple of years back. Never heard what became of it. Still there, maybe.’

  ‘I’m sure it was sold very quickly,’ Bruce said gallantly, and received a sardonic grunt in reply. ‘I assume you were never advised how much it raised?’

  Iris shook her head. ‘Got a letter of thanks and a free pass to visit the exhibition. Haven’t been since. Too busy.’

  ‘Did you take it to Blackwater Hall yourself?’

  ‘Of course. Wanted to look at the place.’

  ‘What were your impressions?’

  ‘Quite favourable. Except the curator. Young know-it-all.’ Iris gave a disdainful sniff.

  ‘I don’t suppose Abraham Asser would employ an unqualified person to run his show,’ said Bruce diplomatically.

  Iris shrugged. ‘Chap knows his stuff. Just didn’t like his style. Why d’you want to know all this?’

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that you’ve never been advised that your picture was sold, or to whom, or how much it fetched?’

  Iris considered, her thin fingers fiddling with one of the tortoiseshell slides that kept her short, mouse-brown hair in some sort of order. Melissa recognised the symptoms; she was getting tired of being questioned.

  ‘Not really,’ she said at last. ‘Theirs to do as they like with, once I handed it over. Suppose I could find out, if I cared to enquire.’ She put down her glass and stood up. ‘Must be going. Hope I’ve been some help. Thanks for the drink, Mel.’ As Melissa was letting her out of the front door, she said under her breath, ‘What’s he after?’

  ‘He thinks there’s something shady about “Art for the Earth’s Resources”,’ Melissa whispered back. ‘He’s planning a great exposé!’

  ‘Wasting his time. Abraham Asser wouldn’t touch anything dodgy,’ asserted Iris.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Melissa agreed. It was not the first mistaken assumption made that afternoon.

  After Bruce’s departure, Melissa prepared a quick supper for herself and ate it in the kitchen while studying Leonora’s notes. They were written in diary form with the first entry dated early in September, and consisted of information systematically extracted from the books Melissa had brought with her from Quarry Cottage.

  When she had finished her supper, she returned to her study and began checking the references in detail, a task made easy by Leonora’s meticulous system of annotation. All the books had been published at least a hundred years before; there was a scholarly treatise entitled ‘NOTORIOUS ART FORGERIES’, a book of Victorian costume, beautifully illustrated with coloured engravings, and two romantic novels by long-forgotten Victorian writers. Melissa found herself increasingly warming to Leonora. The snobbish literati might consider her beneath their attention, but she had given pleasure to millions – and no one could say she didn’t do her homework.

  She wrote fast, too. At the end of several closely-written pages was an entry dated 20th September. ‘Today I began writing Deadly Legacy.’ In a little under two months, the elderly writer had hammered out nearly two hundred thousand words on that antiquated manual typewriter. Melissa shook her head in mingled admiration and amazement.

  ‘Phew!’ she said aloud. ‘That’s some going.’ She reached for one of the novels that Joe had brought her and studied the photograph on the back of the dust jacket. She saw a strong face with regular features and bright eyes full of warmth and intelligence, the face of a woman who carried her years with dignity. Without warning, her own eyes filled with tears.

  ‘I’ll do my best for you, love,’ she whispered. ‘I only wish I could get my hands on the brute that attacked you.’

  It was getting late and she had been hard at work since dawn. She closed the exercise book, put everything neatly away and went to bed. She fell almost immediately into a deep sleep, but woke with a start, conscious of having had a vivid, disturbing dream. She had been working at her desk, her hands busy at the word processor and her eyes on the screen. The text blurred and re-formed into Leonora’s photograph, but instead of looking at the camera, the eyes were directed downwards and sideways, out of the picture, as if focused on something lying on the desk. In her dream Melissa found herself reaching out in the direction of the sitter’s gaze, blindly groping because she was unable to take her own eyes from that compelling face. A voice seemed to come from inside her head.

  ‘In there,’ it said. ‘It’s all in there.’

  Eight

  Melissa opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. It was still dark; the illuminated figures on the bedroom clock showed a quarter to six. At this time of year she seldom got up before seven, but with the dream voice echoing in her head as clearly as if it had spoken in the room, she found it impossible to go back to sleep. She put on her dressing-gown and slippers, fetched Leonora’s notebook from her study and carried it down to the kitchen. Huddled beside the Aga with a mug of tea in one hand and the notebook in the other, she began re-reading the closely written pages in the faint hope of picking up some apparently insignificant detail that might suggest a motive for murder. Could Leonora, perhaps unwittingly, have stumbled on a piece of information which made her a threat to someone … someone who had not hesitated to kill rather than risk that knowledge being passed on?

  As Melissa read through page after page of book references, each followed by a brief but precise note of its relevance to the plot of Deadly Legacy, her enthusiasm began to ebb. There was nothing here that could have any bearing on the author’s death. She felt a little foolish at having entertained the notion on the strength of a dream. It was about as rational as putting one’s faith in horoscopes.

  Her tea had grown cold. As she got up to brew a fresh pot, the notebook slid from her lap. She picked it up and a small white card fell out into her hand. On it was printed in elaborate copperplate lettering:

  WATERWAY COLOURINGS

  Proprietor: Samuel Deacon

  Prints and Original Works of Art

  All Artists’ Materials

  Expert Framing

  The address was in Gloucester Docks. Melissa turned the card over; on the back was written, in pencil, an eleven-digit telephone number and the word ‘after’ in block capitals.

  An initial thrill of excitement was swiftly dispelled by cold reason. Leonora had been writing a book in which forged oil paintings played a key rôle. Possibly – Melissa had read only the first half of the story – she had needed technical information about paints and other materials used by artists that she had not found in any of her reference books. Someone like Samuel Deacon would be an obvious person to approach for assistance.

  The handwritten telephone number on the back of the card was not the same as the printed one on the face. Perhaps it was the proprietor’s home number? Maybe he had been unable to tell her then and there what she wanted to know and had offered to look it up. In Melissa’s experience, people were extraordinarily helpful when asked to share their expertise with writers. He might have said something like, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you off the top of my head, but I’ve got a book at home that might have the information you want. Tell you what, this is my private number, give me a call later, say after …’ After when? For some reason, there was no note of the time. It was a strange omission. Leonora had by all accounts been a stickler for detail.

  It was gone seven o’clock and the sun would soon be up. Already there were bright outlines round the curtains; Melissa got up and pulled them apart to reveal a clear, frosty morning. A blackbird, alighting with a flick of its tail on the rim of the birdbath, attempted to drink but flew off chattering in disgust after its beak encountered solid ice. Some hot water would soon put that to rights. The tits and greenfinches had emptied the bird feeder of nuts … and it was time to think about her own breakfast. Telling herself there was no point in further idle speculation, she hurried upstairs to shower, dress and get on with the day.

 

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