Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Page 14

  ‘Ken, it’s Melissa. I’ve just found out … no, please, listen,’ she said in an urgent whisper, sensing rather than hearing his sigh of exasperation. ‘Do you remember how the last two or three messages Haughan received made a lot of references to hope, and the death of hope?’

  ‘So what?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘It’s only just dawned on me. Haughan and the German word for hope, they’re homophones.’

  ‘So the killer knew some basic German and was having a little fun with words. Is that all you want to tell me?’

  ‘No, there’s more. Peggy Drage speaks German.’

  ‘So do a lot of people. You, for example.’

  ‘Peggy was born in Germany because her father was stationed there while he was in the army.’ The dramatic stress she placed on the final words had no noticeable effect. All Harris said, with a hint of irony in his voice, was, ‘And you reckon Peggy Drage got her father to teach her a few commando tricks so’s she could bump off her ex-lover?’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ Melissa retorted. ‘Peggy still loved Haughan, even though he treated her badly. But that’s the point; he did treat her abominably.’ She repeated the story of Peggy’s pregnancy and the pressure Haughan had put on her to have a termination. ‘Later, possibly as a result of that operation, she had to have a hysterectomy. You know what that means: no more children, in her case, no children at all. Gloria saw her in hospital and said she reckoned some man had let her down. She said how upset she was, and so was her father. I remember Gloria saying, “her Dad should sort him out”.’ There was silence at the other end and Melissa, desperate to get her message across, but anxious not to be overheard, hissed at him, ‘Don’t you see what I’m getting at? Maybe her father did “sort him out”.’

  ‘All right, you’ve hit on a possible motive why someone close to Peggy should attack Haughan on her behalf. Now explain why that same person should murder a complete stranger strolling home from the pub.’

  ‘Suppose he recognised Ben and believed Ben had recognised him? They’d both done army service – their paths might have crossed at some time. Suppose he’d been in the same pub that evening and followed him?’

  ‘We’ve interviewed the barman in the Fleece and he was positive no stranger other than Ben himself was in there. He’s sure to have noticed if there had been; Tuesday evenings are always quiet. We’ve traced everyone else and eliminated them; they were all local people. And no one’s seen any strangers in the village recently.’

  ‘Was Maurice Dunmow there?’

  ‘No, but he could have watched from a distance until Ben left the pub, and then followed him.’

  Melissa was still not prepared to give up. ‘Peggy’s father visited her in hospital. He must come and stay with her sometimes,’ she persisted. ‘Can’t you find out where he lives and if he’s been here recently?’

  ‘I could, if I thought there was any point.’ Harris was beginning to sound impatient. ‘What about the messages you’re suggesting he sent? Does he happen to have an identical machine to the one we found in Dunmow’s van … identical down to a defective capital “H”?’

  ‘If the caravan was left unlocked, he could have …’

  ‘Melissa,’ said Harris wearily, ‘I know you mean well, but you’re flogging a dead horse. We’re pretty sure we’ve got our man, so drop it and go home, will you?’

  ‘All right, ask your man if he knows the German for “hope”,’ she snarled, with as much feeling as she could inject into a stage whisper. ‘If he doesn’t, you’ve got the wrong one.’ And I, she said to herself as she slammed the phone onto its cradle and flounced out of the room, am going to see if I can track down the right one.

  When she calmed down, she had to admit that Harris had shrewdly put his finger on some serious weaknesses in her theory. Over the fluffy mushroom omelette that Mrs Lucas cooked for her, she considered them.

  The first thing she had to figure out was how her suspect had cottoned on to the business of the anonymous messages. Perhaps Peggy had spotted Maurice Dunmow concealing one of his haiku poems among Haughan’s papers, but decided to say nothing. She was a compassionate woman; she had been the one to intercede with Haughan over his treatment of Kate. She might have kept quiet rather than expose Maurice – Martin, as she then knew him – knowing that it would mean the loss of his job. After all, the early poems had been innocuous enough, even if they did rile Haughan to an unreasonable extent. Maybe, despite her devotion to him, Peggy had derived a certain satisfaction at seeing him subjected to what must have seemed like a little harmless aggravation. Or – here an altogether more sinister element crept into Melissa’s musings – supposing she had seen an opportunity for a scheme of her own?

  She might have told her father what was going on. Had the pair of them plotted together to avenge the damage that Haughan had done to both their lives, calculating that once the enquiry into his murder started, the trail would swiftly lead to the gardener-handyman? It was possible that they had known all along that he was really Maurice Dunmow, brother of Kate and former Territorial officer. It might have occurred to them that someone with a grievance against the man who had, indirectly, caused his sister’s death, would be a natural suspect. Someone who had already expressed his anguish in the form of those sad little poems.

  It did not, on the face of it, fit in with Melissa’s own assessment of Peggy’s nature … but perhaps she had not realised that the ultimate goal was murder. Or it might simply be another case – and there were plenty on record – of a rejected and humiliated woman finally turning on the man she loved. Peggy would have known about the portable typewriter in the caravan and guessed that Martin had used it to type his poems. If the van was left unlocked when unattended, she could easily have found an opportunity to slip into it unobserved. One visit would have been enough to type several short, prepared messages, to be used at will.

  It was feasible. Melissa felt her excitement mounting by the minute. Still, there were a lot of things she needed to know. Sadie had been on the point of telling her something about Peggy’s father; it was vital to find out what it was. It could be tricky, getting her on her own in the office. Almost impossible, since Peggy had overheard her final remarks and, if Melissa’s reasoning was correct, would be anxious, very anxious indeed … at this point, an even more frightening notion began taking shape in her head.

  Mrs Lucas interrupted her train of thought by coming in with a pot of coffee. While she was pouring, Melissa said casually, ‘I suppose everyone who works here lives in the village?’

  ‘Not everyone. Young Sadie does … in Tinker’s Cottage, a couple of doors away from me, in fact. Pam lives a bit further out. Her parents have a farm a mile or so away on the Stowbridge Road.’

  ‘What about Peggy Drage? Does she live locally?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. Weatherton, I think … or is it Westerton? I once heard her say it’s about five miles away. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No special reason. I just thought … getting to Uphanger must be quite difficult in winter, if it snows.’

  ‘It can be very difficult. In a bad year, this place can be cut off until they get the snow ploughs out to clear the lanes.’ Mrs Lucas began gathering the used plates and cutlery. ‘Will you be wanting dinner this evening?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I might go home – I really don’t want to be here by myself tonight.’

  ‘Suppose Mrs Haughan comes back? She’ll be glad of company,’ said Mrs Lucas. She managed to convey a suggestion of disapproval, as though she considered Melissa’s point of view a selfish one.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll wait around for a while.’

  ‘I’ll make a casserole. That’s easy to reheat.’ The woman bustled out of the room.

  Back in her own quarters, Melissa decided that the only practical thing to do for the time being was to keep a look-out for Sadie, follow her home and talk to her there. She might leave at any time after five, depending on whether or
not she had to catch the post. It was barely half-past one; it was going to be a long and boring afternoon.

  At about half-past four, Melissa slipped back into the house through the private wing and upstairs to the room the police had been using, which was on the first floor, at the front of the house. From a window seat she had a perfect view of the drive; no one could leave without her spotting them. As soon as she saw Sadie pedalling towards the gate on her bicycle, she would go straight to her car.

  Pam left soon after five o’clock and drove off in her red Metro. Shortly after, Sadie and Peggy appeared together; surprisingly, they were arm in arm. Or rather, Peggy had Sadie by the arm and appeared to be talking to her in a persuasive manner. They disappeared in the direction of the car park; moments later an engine started up and a white Ford Escort sped away down the drive and turned out of the gate, heading away from the village.

  Melissa hurried downstairs and out of the front door, waiting for Sadie to appear, but there was no sign of her. After a couple of minutes she went round to the car park. Except for her own car, and Sadie’s bicycle propped against a tree, it was empty.

  Apprehension clutched at her stomach. She had had only a glimpse of Peggy at the wheel of the Escort and it had not occurred to her that she might have a passenger. Telling herself not to jump to conclusions, Melissa waited for a few more minutes. There was still no sign of Sadie. She checked the bicycle. Perhaps it had a puncture or some other defect, making it unsafe to ride. That was probably it; Peggy was giving Sadie a lift home. But no, the tyres were sound and the brakes functioning perfectly.

  By now convinced that something sinister was going on, Melissa hurried back towards the house. As she reached the front door, a taxi drew up and Verity Haughan stepped out.

  Twenty-One

  Verity sat in the kitchen with her palms pressed against her temples as if she was trying to prevent her skull from splitting apart. The room was warm, but her teeth were chattering and her eyes unfocused.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ said Melissa. Verity nodded. ‘Brandy?’ Another nod. There was a half-full decanter on the dresser; Melissa poured a generous tot and put it on the table. Verity groped rather than reached for the glass, took a sip, swallowed, coughed and took another.

  Melissa stood by, fuming with impatience. There were things she needed to know, questions to which Verity might know the answers, but this shaken and trembling woman was in no state to cope with anything that smacked of cross-examination. She felt a spurt of anger at whoever had left her to make her way home alone. She sat down beside her and put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Do you feel like talking?’ she asked. ‘What did the police say to you?’

  ‘They asked me where he was and I told them I didn’t know,’ Verity replied jerkily. ‘They asked me so many times I lost count. Then they went away. When they came back, they said I could go. I asked them if they’d arrested him, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘“He” being Maurice Dunmow?’

  ‘Who else?’ Still staring blankly ahead, her mouth working, Verity said, ‘Melissa, will you stay with me in the house tonight? I couldn’t face being on my own.’

  ‘Yes, of course I will, but there’s something I have to find out first. It could be terribly important, and it might help Maurice. Perhaps you know the answer.’

  ‘What is it?’ Verity’s head had been drooping; now she raised it and straightened her bowed shoulders. For the first time, she looked directly at Melissa.

  ‘It’s a long shot, and there may be nothing in it, but if I’m right, Sadie’s in danger.’

  ‘Sadie?’ Verity looked bemused. ‘What has she …?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain everything now, but I think she’s discovered something about Peggy’s father that Peggy desperately wants to keep a secret. She’s taken Sadie home with her and I’m very concerned about it.’

  ‘Sadie’s in danger from Peggy?’

  ‘Not Peggy, her father.’

  ‘What’s her father got to do with it?’ Verity looked more bewildered than ever. ‘What have you found out? Have you told the police?’

  ‘I spoke to Chief Inspector Harris, but I don’t think he took me seriously.’

  ‘How can I help?’ Colour had returned to Verity’s cheeks and her hands had stopped trembling.

  ‘First of all, do you know anything about Peggy’s father? Has he been staying with her recently?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I know nothing about her family.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘In Weatherton, I think. I expect her address’ll be in the staff file.’

  Melissa was on her feet. ‘Can we go and check?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure where to find it. It’ll be just as quick to look in here.’ Verity had already picked up the telephone directory and was flipping through it. She found the page and ran a finger down the names ‘Peggy’s short for Margaret so it’ll be under Drage, M. – here we are. Bryony Cottage, Weatherton.’

  ‘Which direction is that from here?’

  ‘It’s on the Cirencester Road.’

  The opposite direction to Uphanger village. So Peggy wasn’t giving Sadie a lift home, she was taking her to her own place. It was becoming more serious with every second. ‘Verity, do you know the village? Could you find the cottage easily?’

  Verity shook her head. ‘I’ve got a feeling it isn’t in the village itself – I once heard Peggy say her place was rather isolated. Why? Are you going there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Melissa jumped from her chair. At the door, another thought struck her. ‘Did you notice if there are any other Drages in the book?’

  ‘There’s only one – the Honourable Mrs K.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Look for yourself. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered if Peggy’s father lives in the county.’

  ‘Even if he does, his name won’t be Drage.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Peggy got divorced while she was working at Headwaters, but she kept her married name.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what her maiden name was?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hm. Not much mileage in that direction.’

  ‘Before you go haring off to Weatherton,’ said Verity, ‘Why don’t I check whether Sadie’s reached home yet, or left a message?’

  ‘Good idea. You do that while I go and get my car keys.’

  ‘She’s not on the phone at home, but Mrs Lucas lives a couple of doors away. I’ll ask her to pop round.’

  ‘Don’t say anything to frighten anyone. We still don’t know for certain …’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Presented with something practical to do, Verity had thrown off her lethargy and despair.

  Melissa hurried across the courtyard and fetched her coat, gloves and handbag. When she returned to the kitchen, Verity was just putting down the telephone. Her expression was serious as she said, ‘Sadie isn’t home yet, but no one seems especially concerned. Her mother told Mrs Lucas she often takes her time.’

  ‘That settles it. I’m going to Weatherton. Verity, will you call Chief Inspector Harris right away on this number and ask him to send someone to meet me at Bryony Cottage. Tell him I said it’s urgent … very urgent.’ Before she was out of the door, Verity was tapping out the number Melissa had scribbled on an envelope.

  Thank God for someone who’s quick on the uptake and doesn’t ask too many questions, thought Melissa. She hurried back to the car park and set off in the direction Peggy had taken. A short distance along the Cirencester road, she spotted a sign indicating that Weatherton was five miles away.

  When she got there, the village shop was just closing and she had to rap on the glass door to attract the attention of the proprietor, a cheerful-looking, rosy-cheeked dumpling of a woman. Precious minutes were lost as – following advice handed out by the Neighbourhood Watch Committee, she explained several times and at considerable length – the woman asked
who she was and who she was looking for, and then came out of the shop and took a close look at her car before giving directions to Bryony Cottage.

  It was only a short distance, but the lane was narrow and twisty; several times Melissa had to pull in close to the bank to edge past a car coming in the opposite direction. The cottage turned out to be a bungalow, set back behind a tall, close-clipped hedge of false cypress. The name was carved on a slab of lichen-covered stone propped against the gatepost; the gate itself stood open. Melissa drove on a few yards, found a convenient place where the grass verge was flat and wide, and parked.

  There had been no sign of Peggy’s white car on the gravelled drive. Perhaps she was not yet home. Perhaps she had taken Sadie somewhere else. But where? To a restaurant for supper, perhaps? For a moment, Melissa’s sense of purpose became blurred under a fog of confusion and doubt. Was she, after all, making a complete fool of herself, adding a charge of wasting police time to that of withholding information?

  Now she was here, she might as well check. Having thought up what she hoped was a plausible excuse for calling, she walked back and rang Peggy’s doorbell. There was no answer. She rang again and rattled the letter-box. Still no sound. Determined to do the job properly, she followed the narrow flagged path that led behind the bungalow and knocked on the back door. She peered through all the windows, uncertain what she expected to see but determined to make sure. There was no doubt; the place was empty.

  If her message had got through, the police should be here by now, but there was no sign of them. Maybe they hadn’t been able to contact Ken Harris and no one else had considered it worth following up. She was on her own, without a clue what to do or where to go next. She stood in the driveway to the cottage, her hands in her pockets, and racked her brains. Just what could Sadie have discovered that Peggy would be anxious to conceal?

  And then her brain made a quantum leap. Why on earth hadn’t it occurred to her before? She hared back to the car, started it up, slammed it into reverse, backed up to the open gateway of Bryony Cottage and turned round. She remembered seeing a public call-box in the village. ‘Please, God,’ she muttered as she drove back – much too fast, but mercifully she met nothing on the way – ‘don’t let it be occupied, don’t let it be vandalised, please!’