Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Read online

  ‘Well, of course it is. There’s quite a clever brain at work here,’ said Stewart.

  ‘I had the impression that you suspected Verity,’ said Melissa icily.

  Mindless of the fact that he had said something deeply offensive to his wife and guest, Stewart switched on a disarming smile that made him suddenly and devastatingly attractive. ‘Moi? It never entered my head,’ he said in a voice of honey, and before either of the women had a chance to challenge the blatant lie, he went on, ‘I reckon it’s one of my competitors trying to wind me up, put me off my stroke and upset my employees. Said as much the other day, didn’t I, Verry?’ The smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared and he banged a closed fist on the table. ‘These bloody stupid messages – and tonight’s bit of crap – are just a warm-up. I’ve got to nail the bugger before he does something to upset my clients and get my business a bad name.’ He turned to Melissa. ‘Just get on with it, Mel. The police don’t want to know, sod them.’

  Melissa was about to retort that she was a paying client herself, not an employee to be given orders, but she changed her mind and let it pass. With luck, there would be other opportunities to put him in his place; for the moment, her objective was to extract more information.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d been to the police,’ she said. It would be interesting to hear his version of the interview. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Some pompous underling gave me a load of bullshit about it not being a police matter unless I could show that I was being threatened. I consider I am being threatened if I’m targeted by some half-wit who should be locked away. I’m running a legitimate business here, I pay my taxes and those useless w – – – – – s say they can’t do a bloody thing about it. Too busy harassing motorists to protect law-abiding citizens.’

  Melissa had no intention of becoming involved in an argument over police responsibility. She tried another approach. ‘How have the previous messages been delivered?’ she asked.

  ‘Some by post, some I found among my papers.’

  ‘In your private office?’

  ‘Right – at least, that’s where they’ve mostly come to light. They’ve probably been put there in the general office.’

  ‘Who has access to that, apart from the people who work there?’

  ‘Pretty well everyone, it’s very free and easy here. Teachers go in and out to make photocopies, students call in to borrow books and tapes …’

  ‘They just walk in and help themselves?’

  ‘If George Ballard isn’t there – he’s only part-time – they go to his cupboard, take what they want and enter it in the book.’

  ‘So there are plenty of opportunities for someone to slip a message among your papers unobserved?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure none of your employees is involved?’

  Stewart let out an unexpected guffaw. ‘I reckon to keep them too busy to waste time on crappy poems,’ he declared. ‘I’ve questioned them all, of course – they claim to know nothing about it. No reason why any of them should bear a grudge – they know that if they’ve got a moan, they can come to me in person. I’m always ready to listen to a genuine complaint.’ His air of sweet reasonableness would have convinced the most sceptical.

  Remembering a comment by Ken Harris, Melissa said, ‘So you’ve no idea at all what these poems are referring to?’

  ‘Not the faintest.’

  ‘‘Hope’ is sometimes used as a girl’s name. You don’t happen to know a girl or a woman called that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not among your employees?’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘What about students – do you know them by the first names?’

  ‘Usually – but we haven’t had any Hopes.’ He made a gesture of impatience. ‘Look, I told you what I think’s behind this.’

  ‘You mean, you believe someone wants to damage your business? It seems an odd way to go about it, but … if no member of the staff is involved, could it be someone masquerading as a student?’

  ‘I suppose it could … but there haven’t been any students here today.’

  ‘That might explain why this person chose a different means of making this evening’s delivery.’

  His face lit up and he clapped his hands. ‘Mel, I do believe you’re on to something. Let’s think this through now.’ He planted his elbows on the table and leaned towards her. His expression was eager; he was obviously prepared to carry on with the discussion indefinitely, but Melissa decided she had done enough for one evening.

  ‘Look,’ she said, a little wearily, ‘it’s getting late and I’m really rather tired. I suggest that tomorrow you check the people who were enrolled on courses on the days when you received the other messages … find out if any of them gave false information about who they work for, that sort of thing.’ She drank the lukewarm tea that Verity had poured some minutes ago and got to her feet. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get some sleep. There’s no need to see me out,’ she added firmly and made for the door, leaving Stewart with the wind temporarily taken out of his sails.

  Before getting ready for bed, she made some notes about the day’s events, reflecting wryly that, had she not made a quick getaway, Stewart would probably have kept her up for half the night, raising more points, asking more questions and ending up accepting her suggestions and dumping responsibility for following them up in her own lap. He had come across as a wholly self-centred character who would say and do whatever seemed expedient at the moment, regardless of truth or the feelings or rights of others. Despite the apparently innocuous nature of the messages, she was becoming convinced that something sinister lay behind them. Someone, somewhere, was nursing a bitter animosity towards Stewart Haughan. To what lengths was that person prepared to go?

  There were other questions to be answered. What reason did Stewart have for accusing his wife of sending the messages – an accusation which he had subsequently denied? And how – if at all – did the former employee, whose name was not Hope but Kate and who had since died, fit into the picture?

  Nine

  Melissa slept fitfully in the unfamiliar surroundings and awoke soon after five. She showered, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, made a cup of tea and sat down at the desk where, on arrival, she had left the draft of her current novel. That, she reminded herself, was ostensibly why she was here, although curiosity about the source and purpose of the haiku messages had also played a part. And for the moment, it was those strange little poems, with their melancholy themes, that occupied her mind and made it impossible to concentrate on her writing.

  She had memorised the text of the previous evening’s poem and jotted it down as soon as she was on her own. She took out her copies of the two that Ken Harris had shown her, laid all three on the desk and sat for a long time studying them:

  Spring ended too soon

  With no summer to follow

  Winter is so cold

  Her blood became ice

  She sleeps in winter’s embrace

  Never to awake

  First, you gave her hope

  Then hope died within her soul

  Will hope die again?

  Some while ago, Iris had shown her a book on haiku. She remembered idly skimming through it, wondering – as she did with most odd scraps of knowledge that came her way – whether it contained anything that might come in handy for use in a mystery novel. Having reached the conclusion that it did not, she had returned it, hardly giving the subject another thought until now.

  ‘A moment of beauty, wonder, or sadness’, was the phrase that had stuck in her mind. There was sadness here, no doubt about that. There had also been a reference to the seasons, as there was in two of these poems … but not in the latest. Was that significant? There had been earlier ones, which Haughan claimed had been destroyed … they might have held further clues …

  ‘Damn!’ said Melissa, impatiently sweeping up the scraps of paper and shoving them back i
nto her folder. ‘How did I get myself involved in this nonsense? If I’d never read that stupid book … where did Iris get hold of it anyway? Oh yes, some man she’d met whose hobby was poetry. Maybe he could shed some light on the puzzle. It wouldn’t hurt to have a word with him, if Iris was still in touch.’

  Melissa checked the time; it was still only a little after six, much too early to call Iris. In any case, there was no phone in her room; she would have to wait until the office opened. Meanwhile, she would go for a walk before breakfast.

  It was a perfect September morning of cool, clean air and dew-spangled cobwebs. The eastern sky was a sheet of flame where the rising sun lit up the underside of a patch of broken cloud. Vapour trails left by aircraft heading for London became glittering golden threads where they were touched by the light. It was harvest time and a huge combine, parked in one corner of a half-cut field of ripe grain, waited to tackle another day’s work.

  To the west, beyond a small orchard, the land dropped away to form a shallow valley carpeted with white swirls of mist. From a branch laden with rosy fruit, a blackbird uttered an insistent warning call as a cat picked its stealthy way through the grass. A path led through the trees, away from the house, and Melissa followed it until something white caught her eye. It was a small caravan, doubtless the one occupied by Martin Morris. She decided to turn back, rather than invade his private domain.

  Then she saw the man himself, a short distance to her right. He had his back towards her and was bending down as if looking at something on the ground, but whatever had caught his attention was hidden from her view. After a moment, he straightened up, took a step backwards and remained for several seconds as if transfixed. Then, like someone simulating slow motion, he raised cupped hands to his face and covered his eyes:

  In half a dozen paces, Melissa was at his side, staring in alarm into the shallow ditch where a man, his head half covered by the hood of a cotton sweatshirt, lay face down and motionless.

  ‘Who is it?’ she whispered. ‘Is he dead?’

  Martin appeared paralysed with shock. ‘How does one tell?’ he asked dazedly.

  Melissa knelt in the damp grass and reached for one wrist. There was still some warmth there, but she could feel no pulse. She took the head, gently lifted it and turned the man’s face clear of the dried mud and grass at the bottom of the ditch.

  ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s Stewart Haughan!’

  His eyes were closed and his face had a bluish tinge, except for two pale patches on his nose and forehead where they had been in contact with the ground. Melissa had seen pictures of post-mortem lividity; what she saw now looked horribly like the real thing.

  She stood up. Her head swam a little from stooping and she clutched at Martin for support. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she muttered, ‘or if not, he’s in a bad way. We must call a doctor at once. And Verity will have to be told. Shall I go, or will you?’

  Martin was still gazing at the body as if in a dream. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing we can do for him?’ he said.

  ‘Better not touch him.’ His indecision in a crisis was beginning to irritate her. ‘You wait here; I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She turned and sped back to the house without giving him time to argue.

  The couple of minutes spent jabbing the bellpush seemed like an hour. At last she heard shuffling footsteps along the passage.

  ‘Who’s there?’ called Verity.

  ‘It’s Melissa. Let me in, quickly.’

  Verity had thrown on a blue candlewick dressing gown without bothering to fasten it and she clutched it round her slight body with one hand as she held the door open with the other. From her tousled hair, flushed face and puffy eyes, it was clear that she had been awakened from a deep sleep. ‘What is it?’ she asked in a husky voice.

  ‘It’s Stewart. We found him lying in the orchard. I’m afraid he’s … we must phone for a doctor.’

  Verity’s eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed as if she had difficulty in drawing breath. Then she said, almost in a whisper, ‘Has he had an accident?’

  ‘We don’t know what happened. He’s just lying there, not moving. Martin found him … please, Verity, call the doctor right away.’

  ‘You’d better do it. You’ll know what to tell him.’ Verity turned and led the way into the kitchen, handed Melissa the phone and indicated a number scribbled on a memo board. Shock had drained the colour from her face and she wore a dazed expression.

  Melissa punched out the number; a Doctor Brizewell answered and, to her relief, promised to attend immediately without asking too many detailed questions. When she put the phone down, Verity’s eyes had lost their glassy look and become focused.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said in a flat, tired voice.

  ‘I don’t know for certain, but it does look like it,’ Melissa replied gently. ‘Martin is with him. I’ll stay here until the doctor comes. Would you like me to make some tea or coffee?’

  ‘No … no thank you. I must have a wash and tidy up before Doctor Brizewell gets here.’ Verity put a hand to her hair and then pulled the dressing gown more closely round her, shivering slightly. ‘I’ll be all right … I’d rather be on my own, really … you go back and tell Martin the doctor’s on his way.’

  ‘You’re in shock … I don’t think I should leave you by yourself.’

  ‘I want to be alone. Please.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Martin was still standing in exactly the same spot, in exactly the same attitude, as when Melissa had left him.

  ‘The doctor said he’d be here in ten minutes,’ she said.

  He nodded without looking at her. ‘What do you think happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I’d say he was unconscious when he fell.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘From the position of his arms, it doesn’t look as if he made any attempt to break his fall. He might have had a heart attack, or some kind of fit, I suppose.’ A thought struck her and she continued, half to herself, ‘I wonder if he was out looking for traces of the person who left that poem here last evening. He said he’d come and search when it was light.’

  For the first time, Martin took his eyes from the still form and looked at her. There was bewilderment in his expression. ‘Someone left a poem last evening? Like the ones he’s been getting in the office?’

  ‘The same sort of thing. It was pushed through his letter-box. When I left – I’d been invited for dinner – we found an effigy of a woman hanging outside his door. He went rushing off to see if he could catch whoever had done it, but of course they’d long gone.’

  Martin put a hand to his forehead. ‘There’s something very strange here,’ he muttered. ‘What did the poem say?’

  ‘Something about hope dying in someone’s soul … and there was another message pinned to the dummy figure … not a poem this time, but still on about the end of hope.’

  ‘Very strange,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t understand … it doesn’t make sense.’ He seemed to be thinking aloud rather than speaking to her, as if trying to interpret what had happened in relation to something else. She was instantly curious.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, but before he could reply, the sound of a car driven at speed up the drive made them both turn round.

  ‘That’ll be the doctor,’ said Martin. She had the impression that he was relieved at not having to reply to her question. ‘I’ll go and meet him.’

  Doctor Brizewell was middle-aged and tired-looking, having been – as he was at pains to inform them – a mere half-hour from going off duty when Melissa’s call came through. He plodded wearily across to where Stewart was lying, put his case on the ground and squatted down to begin his examination.

  ‘Has he been moved?’ he asked.

  ‘His face was hidden, so I turned his head in case his nose and mouth were blocked,’ Melissa replied. ‘We were afraid to do anything else –
that’s why we called you straight away.’

  The doctor nodded and drew aside the hood of Stewart’s sweatshirt, which still partially covered the back of his head and neck. He ran a finger along the base of the skull and then spent several seconds examining the hood itself. Then he stood up and brushed grass seeds from his trousers.

  ‘He’s dead all right,’ he said. ‘I can’t give the cause of death without a post-mortem, but the police must be informed. Will one of you go back to the house and call them?’

  ‘Why the police?’ asked Martin. His voice sounded unsteady and Melissa noticed that a pasty tinge had replaced his normally ruddy colour.

  ‘It’s usual in the circumstances.’ Doctor Brizewell was giving nothing away, but Melissa had spotted the yellowish grains on the cotton hood and guessed that he had come to the same conclusion as herself. She was about to offer to make the call when Martin swung round in a jerky movement, like a puppet responding to a tug on its string.

  ‘I’ll call them,’ he said. As he hurried away, the combine harvester clattered into harsh, metallic life.

  Ten

  A police car raced up the drive and stopped by the main entrance to the house. Two uniformed officers got out and were greeted by Doctor Brizewell, who led them along the path to where the body lay.

  Had Melissa been on her own before they arrived, she would have been tempted to poke around to see if Stewart’s attacker – she was convinced that he had been attacked, almost certainly from behind – had left any clues, but with the doctor present it had been out of the question. As it was, watching him pointing and gesticulating but unable to catch a word of what he was saying, she felt frustrated and superfluous.

  She had been up since five o’clock, it was now half-past seven and she had nothing inside her but one cup of tea. The thought of food was uninviting, but she was beginning to feel cold and would have sold her soul for a cup of coffee.