Murder on a Winter Afternoon, page 6
part #5 of Melissa Craig Series
By teatime she had reached an episode in the script of Deadly Legacy – here her interest in Samuel Deacon’s business card was suddenly and sharply rekindled – where an argument was in progress between two art experts about the technique used to restore a suspect canvas. Was it in order to research this point that Leonora had been in touch with Deacon? Another question, far more thought-provoking, quickly followed. Supposing he was involved in a scam similar to the one Leonora had concocted for her novel, and had mistaken her for a private enquiry agent who was using the persona of a mystery writer as a cover? Melissa switched her mind back to her one meeting with Leonora Jewell, recalling the direct gaze and brisk, no-nonsense manner. Where a trained detective would have used a more casual approach to avoid arousing suspicion, she would have put her questions in a straightforward way, checked each detail and made careful notes. A person with something to hide might well have feared exposure, panicked … committed murder? The more she thought about it, the more Melissa convinced herself that Samuel Deacon should be investigated.
It occurred to her that Iris, a professional artist, might know of him. She slipped on a coat and knocked at the door of Elder Cottage.
‘Thought you were hibernating,’ Iris remarked. She stood aside for Melissa to enter, looking her up and down with an appraising expression. ‘Shouldn’t spend so much time indoors. Losing your colour.’
‘I know. I’ve made a resolution to start walking again. Beginning tomorrow morning,’ she added hastily, seeing a gleam in Iris’s sharp grey eyes. ‘It’s too late now, it’s nearly dark.’
‘Tomorrow morning it is.’ Iris led the way into the kitchen. ‘Want a cuppa?’
‘Love one.’
Iris brewed herbal tea and set carob and apricot cookies – one of her specialities, much in demand at social events in the village – on a plate. Binkie, ensconced beside the Aga, sat up, yawned, stretched and stepped daintily out of his basket to demand his share of attention. ‘Who’s a thirsty boy then?’ Iris crooned, crouching down to offer him a saucer of milk. She straightened up and sat opposite Melissa at the table. ‘How goes the Leonora Jewell saga?’ she asked.
‘Not bad at all. A change from her usual style, by all accounts, but there are plenty of dodgy old masters being passed off as genuine. That’s what I came to ask you about.’
Iris cocked an eyebrow. ‘Thought it was for the pleasure of my company,’ she said, pretending to sound huffy.
‘That too, naturally.’ Melissa took the WATERWAY COLOURINGS card from her pocket and pushed it across the table. ‘Do you know anything about this outfit?’
Iris scanned the card and shook her head. ‘Samuel Deacon … never heard of him. Always buy my stuff from Dodson in Stowbridge. Why?’
Melissa explained. Iris frowned and shook her head. ‘You think he might be a crook?’ she said. ‘Suppose it’s possible. Ask your pet cop if he’s known.’
‘I would if he was here, but he’s in Southampton for the rest of the week.’
‘Ask his oppo then,’ Iris suggested, her sly grin an oblique reference to Melissa’s indignant account of her interview with DI Holloway.
‘Are you kidding? He’d shoot the idea down in flames on principle. No, if it doesn’t become clear by the time I’ve read the whole script, I think I’ll go and have a chat with Mr Deacon myself.’
Iris looked uneasy. ‘You aren’t going to say what it’s about? If he is up to no good, he’ll suspect you as well and then …’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take plenty of proof that I’m making a bona fide enquiry. If he’s on the level, he’ll talk quite freely; if he seems at all evasive I’ll know what to think and contact the fuzz right away.’ Her mind made up, Melissa finished her tea and went home, determined to read the rest of Deadly Legacy in one sitting, even if it took all night. And tomorrow she would call on Samuel Deacon.
At the period in which Leonora Jewell’s last novel was set, Gloucester was a thriving commercial port, linked by canal to Sharpness and the open waters of the Bristol Channel. As ships grew larger and their draught deeper, fewer and fewer could use the narrow waterway; trade dwindled and the handsome Victorian warehouses lining the waterfront became derelict, until people of vision and enterprise began an ambitious programme of restoration. New and practical uses for the buildings and appurtenances were devised, leading to the creation of a busy waterside complex where commerce, history and leisure each had a place.
It was also popular with film-makers for location shots. As Melissa parked her car, she noticed a cluster of people gathered along the wharf, close to where a tall, square-rigged ship was tied up, its graceful lines reflected in the smooth water. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead or perched on the spars; men in old-fashioned working clothes stood around in groups or leaned on sacking-covered bales, awaiting instructions. Some of the crowd were wearing Victorian costume; others, in anoraks and jeans, were manipulating equipment or scurrying to and fro among a serpentine tangle of cables; still more were spectators. The latter were an evident source of irritation to a man in a duffel coat and woollen ski cap who was walking up and down haranguing them through a loudhailer. Reluctantly, they shuffled backwards as he passed and then edged stealthily forward again, necks craning, autograph books at the ready, eyes searching eagerly for a glimpse of a star or two.
Melissa studied the plan she had picked up in the information centre and located Samuel Deacon’s premises in one of the converted warehouses. Resisting the temptation to watch the filming, she made her way over a pontoon bridge spanning the dock basin and, after several false turns in a maze of passages and small boutiques, found herself outside a Victorian-style frontage beneath a sign reading WATERWAY COLOURINGS.
Through the glass door she saw a square, well-lit area with a desk at the back, facing outwards. The walls were hung with pictures; in the far left-hand corner there was an open spiral staircase, while a sign in elegant lettering announced more exhibits on the first and second floors. The business must be doing pretty well, she thought, to occupy so much space.
Two men stood beside the desk, engaged in conversation. One was in his thirties, good-looking, well-groomed and snappily dressed in a grey suit, striped shirt with a white collar and bow tie, and highly polished shoes. The other was older, casually dressed in a black high-necked sweater, corduroy trousers and sandals, with brown hair drawn back from a high forehead into a long pony-tail. While she was trying to decide which was the gallery owner and which the customer, the question was settled by the younger man handing over what looked like a cheque and receiving in return a cylindrical package wrapped in brown paper. After a brief exchange of farewells, he headed for the door just as Melissa was entering; she politely held it open for him and he strode past her without a glance or word of acknowledgement. One of Nature’s gentlemen, she said to herself.
‘Good morning, Madam,’ said the man with the pony-tail. He had a serious, almost solemn expression, but his eyes were candid and not unfriendly.
‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘Are you Mr Deacon?’
‘That’s right.’
‘My name’s Mel Craig, I’m a writer.’ He showed no sign of recognition, only – by a slight tilt of the head and a twitch of an eyebrow – a mild curiosity.
‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Craig,’ he said. ‘Do you want to look at some pictures? Feel free to wander round …’ His voice was mellow, with an attractive huskiness. Despite her pre-formed suspicions, she found herself liking him.
‘Actually, I’m here to ask for your help. Another writer who died recently has left an unfinished novel and her publisher has commissioned me to complete it. I don’t suppose you’ve read any of her books – they appeal chiefly to women – but you may have heard of her: Leonora Jewell.’
She had been watching him closely as she spoke; he showed no reaction until she mentioned Leonora’s name, when his expression altered from polite interest to one of surprise and concern.
‘I remember Miss Jewell – she came to see me not long ago. She wanted some information about restoration techniques.’ Deacon pursed his lips and fiddled with the gold ring in his left ear. ‘Dead, you say? Poor lady. She was quite elderly, of course, but she seemed very hale and hearty. What did she die of?’
‘She was attacked in her cottage. The police think she disturbed an intruder.’
‘How dreadful!’ His shocked reaction appeared spontaneous and genuine.
‘You didn’t read the reports in the press?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I seldom read the newspapers, other than the arts pages.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘You asked for my help. Is it something to do with what Miss Jewell was enquiring about?’
‘Yes. I’ve read the script of Deadly Legacy as far as it goes. She left a very detailed plot outline, but it seems that she either intended to introduce a new twist – it’s a mystery novel, by the way – or that she made some further notes that I haven’t been able to locate.’
Deacon gave Melissa a keen glance from rather prominent eyes the same colour as his hair as he said, ‘I assume you already knew before I mentioned it that she came to me?’
‘Yes. I found your card slipped into her notebook.’ Melissa took it from her handbag and showed it to him. ‘Were you able to tell her what she wanted to know?’
‘Not personally. As a matter of fact, I referred her to the chap who left just as you arrived, Gerard Hood. He does a bit of restoration work himself, so I understand. I gave the lady his number – I think you’ll find it on the back of that card. He’s … excuse me.’ He broke off to answer the telephone, which had been ringing for several seconds. ‘Waterway Colourings, Sam Deacon speaking.’
From the tone in which he greeted the caller, it was evidently someone he expected to hear from. He sat down and rummaged with both hands in a drawer in his desk, the receiver clamped between ear and shoulder. He drew out a bulky file and began turning over papers, then said, ‘Will you hold on just a minute, Dave?’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Melissa. ‘Sorry, this’ll take a bit of time. I suggest you call Gerard Hood … I’m sure he’ll be able to help … yes, Dave, I’m still here.’
‘Oh, just a moment, please,’ said Melissa.
‘What is it?’ He was beginning to sound impatient.
‘It’s just … there’s a note here that says “after” but it doesn’t mention a time.’
Samuel Deacon looked as if he was trying to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘Nothing to do with time,’ he said and added, with the air of one imparting knowledge which a well-informed person should already possess, ‘it’s an acronym. It stands for “Art for the Earth’s Resources”.’
Nine
The cameramen had begun filming by the time Melissa emerged from the gallery and it took her a while to edge past the crowd of onlookers, who had finally retreated to an acceptable distance. She waited for a few minutes to watch the popular actor who was playing the hero bidding farewell to a doe-eyed waif – better known as the star of a TV shampoo commercial – and leaving her in tears on the quayside as he mounted the gangway. There had, it seemed, already been several takes and from the energetic arm-waving and colourful expressions of the dissatisfaction on the part of an angry-looking individual in a leather coat and dark glasses, there were going to be a great many more. Thanking her stars that she had chosen writing rather than acting as a profession, Melissa regained her car and headed for home. Her thoughts were a jumble and, as she so often did when wrestling with a problem, she spoke aloud to herself as she drove along.
Don’t get carried away. It’s probably just a coincidence. Bruce Ingram has had one of his famous hunches and convinced himself there’s something dodgy about AFTER. Sam Deacon recommended Leonora to approach Gerard Hood for some information she wanted for her novel. Gerard Hood can be contacted by telephone at AFTER. There doesn’t have to be a sinister connection. But there might be. What does Gerard Hood do there? Is he the curator, the young ‘know-it-all’ whose manner upset Iris? Deacon didn’t say. Exactly what information did Leonora want? Never had a chance to ask. Is Deacon on the level? He certainly seems to be. Did Leonora get in touch with Hood? Probably not, since there’s no mention of it in her notes. Why not? Maybe she didn’t have time. Maybe she was killed before she got around to it. Only one way to find out …
By the time she got to this point in her soliloquy, Melissa had reached the outskirts of Upper Benbury. Remembering that there were a few things she needed in the village shop, she parked outside and entered just as Iris, carrying a bulging shopping bag, was emerging. She fixed Melissa with an accusatory stare.
‘Thought we were walking this morning,’ she grumbled. ‘Suppose you’ve been off sleuthing again.’
‘I’ve been to see Samuel Deacon, yes. Look, I need a few things in the shop and I’m going straight home afterwards. We can walk then and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Had my walk, coming the long way round to the shop.’
‘You’re not planning to carry that lot home? It’s too heavy§ – I’ll give you a lift.’
‘You take the shopping. See you later.’ Iris stalked the few yards to Melissa’s car, dumped her load on the passenger seat and slammed the door. ‘See you later,’ she repeated and set off for home. With a shrug, Melissa turned and entered the shop just as Major Ford, one of the least popular residents of Upper Benbury, came puffing up the road with Sinbad, his overweight King Charles spaniel. Something had evidently happened; his greeting, normally accompanied by an ostentatious raising of the hat and some pretence of a bow, was confined to a breathless, ‘Good morning’ as he tied the dog’s leash to an iron post. He fairly rushed into the shop behind Melissa, exclaiming, ‘Ladies! Have you heard the news?’
Mrs Foster, the proprietress, was rebuilding her display of oranges which someone – probably Iris, determined to make sure she was buying sound fruit – had disarranged. Like everyone else in the neighbourhood, she was familiar with Major Ford’s habit of treating the smallest ripple on the surface of village life as if it warranted banner headlines, and her round, pink face registered only a mild flicker of interest as she returned to her usual place behind the counter, casting a sidelong glance at Melissa as she passed.
‘If it’s about Shire Cottage being sold …’ she began, but the Major made an impatient gesture with his walking stick, narrowly missing the oranges.
‘No, no, not Shire Cottage, we all know about that,’ he interrupted. ‘This is much bigger news. There’s been a robbery at Rillingford Manor. Huge amount of stuff stolen. Silverware, paintings, goodness knows what else besides! It was given out on the local news just now. Couldn’t wait to let you know. Warn everyone to keep their eyes open.’
Mrs Foster’s air of detachment vanished in an instant. ‘Well, goodness me! That’s the third big house in the county to be burgled lately,’ she exclaimed, her pale eyelashes fluttering with excitement. ‘Have the police any notion who did it?’
‘Oh, er, international gang, no doubt,’ said Major Ford, transparently drawing on his fertile imagination from this point onwards. ‘Stealing to order for some drugs baron or other, shouldn’t wonder. Money-laundering and all that. Thought you should know. Make sure your Old Masters are safely locked up, haahaahaa! Well, I must be on my way. Good day to you, ladies!’
‘Er, wasn’t there something you wanted?’ Mrs Foster asked hopefully.
‘What? Oh, er, no, just dropped in with the news.’
‘I won’t get rich serving the likes of him,’ sniffed Mrs Foster as the door slammed. ‘Still, it is dreadful, all these robberies. You’d think a place like Rillingford Manor would have burglar alarms, wouldn’t you?’
‘I expect it has. Some of the villains know how to get round them,’ said Melissa. She pulled her shopping list from her pocket. ‘Now, I want a wholemeal loaf, cheese, half a pound of sausages and some cooking apples.’
‘We won’t mention these to Miss Ash,’ giggled Mrs Foster as she took the sausages from the chiller cabinet. It was her standard joke about Iris’s vegetarianism, to which Melissa responded with her customary polite smile. She paid for her purchases and drove home.
When she emerged from the garage with her own and Iris’s shopping, the door of Elder Cottage opened and Iris popped her head out. ‘Coffee’s ready,’ she announced, and popped back in again.
‘Good, I’m forgiven,’ said Melissa to herself as she obeyed the summons.
‘Get anything interesting from Deacon?’ asked Iris as she dispensed coffee and home-made cookies in her kitchen.
‘Before I answer that, will you tell me why you’re so grumpy this morning?’ countered Melissa. ‘We didn’t agree a particular time to go walking, as far as I remember.’
Iris grunted, returned the coffee jug to its hotplate and sat down. ‘Been lumbered,’ she complained.
‘What with?’
‘Designing scenery for the Benbury Barnstormers’ Christmas show. Cheeky lot. Stay home for Christmas to get on with some urgent work and get lumbered!’ Iris snatched a cookie, which broke in her grasp and sent a shower of crumbs down the front of her voluminous knitted sweater. She brushed them away with a paint-streaked hand. ‘Good mind to tell them I can’t do it.’
‘Oh, don’t be a spoilsport! The Christmas show is great fun – everyone’s so keen. I get the job of writing the script, but the scenery has tended to be a bit amateurish up to now, so we thought …’
‘You knew about this?’ A second cookie snapped in half and narrowly missed landing on the floor. ‘Might have warned me.’
‘Sorry, it slipped my mind. I’ve been pretty busy lately.’
‘So tell me about Deacon.’
‘There isn’t much to tell.’ Melissa described her visit to the gallery and her subsequent thoughts on the matter.
