Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel Page 9

  Fourteen

  ‘I wonder what Mrs Haughan’s going to talk to us about,’ said Pam, her eyes on the computer monitor. ‘If she wants to know about the bookings, I can tell her they’re pretty healthy and so are the finances. I’m just running off a summary.’ She pressed a key and the printer began chattering and disgorging paper covered in figures.

  ‘Maybe she’ll start by giving us all a wage increase, to encourage us to carry on in the face of adversity,’ said George. ‘I don’t think,’ he added with a sneer.

  ‘I hardly think her first concern will be money,’ said Pam reproachfully.

  ‘Why not?’ George, seated at his desk in an alcove surrounded on three sides by shelves stacked with books and audio cassettes, swung round in his swivel chair. ‘His usually was.’ He jerked his head in the direction of their late employer’s office door, just as Peggy emerged with an armful of manila folders. ‘Hullo, what’ve you been up to? Looking for the last will and testament? I don’t suppose there’ll be anything in it for you!’ He gave a sardonic chuckle as he swung back, uncovered an elderly typewriter and inserted an index card.

  ‘It’s the stuff from his pending tray,’ explained Peggy, with a weary glance at the back of his head. There were times when she found his waspish sense of humour hard to take. ‘Contracts and things he’s been negotiating. I thought I’d see where everything’s got to before this afternoon’s meeting, so that I can put Verity in the picture.’ She sat down at her desk and opened the first folder.

  Sadie, who had been quietly putting papers into a filing cabinet, came across to Peggy’s desk, her young face alight with curiosity.

  ‘Do you want any help?’ she asked hopefully.

  Peggy shook her head. ‘Not with these, thank you. They’re all highly confidential.’

  ‘I daresay the police will want to go through all his private stuff,’ said Pam.

  ‘Oh dear, do you think so?’ Peggy clasped the folder to her chest as if protecting it from prying eyes.

  ‘Sure to.’ George glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with malice behind his glasses. ‘They’ll be looking for evidence of some jiggery-pokery that might suggest a motive for killing him. It’ll be like the Robert Maxwell investigation – no stone will be left unturned!’ He whipped the card from the machine and flourished it like a banner. ‘Well, they’re welcome to rummage through this lot. There’s nothing suspicious here – unless you count the CRALLS crap. That’s a con from start to finish, but the fools turn up and pay for it, so who am I to knock it?’

  ‘It’s a very clever system,’ insisted Peggy. ‘He was very proud of it.’ Her throat tightened as she spoke and she gave the file in her hands an angry shake, as if it was somehow responsible for the emotion that threatened to spill out. She swallowed hard and said, unconsciously quoting from the brochure that Stewart himself had written, ‘It’s the cornerstone of the business.’

  ‘Someone told me that the original idea was Mrs Haughan’s,’ said a new voice. Ben Strickland was standing on the other side of the counter. ‘Sorry, couldn’t help overhearing that last bit,’ he apologised.

  ‘Who says so?’ asked Pam curiously.

  ‘I picked it up on the grapevine.’

  ‘No, you’re mistaken,’ said Peggy earnestly. ‘Verity’s craft lessons are an important part of the programme, of course, and she helped him in the development stages, but Stewart …’ She broke off and bit her lip, conscious that her eyes were smarting, terrified of making a fool of herself.

  ‘I was wondering if anyone could let me have some change for the telephone,’ Ben held out a couple of one pound coins. ‘I’ve got several calls to make.’

  ‘There’ll be some in the petty cash,’ said Peggy. ‘George, would you mind …’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy,’ said George without turning round. ‘Sadie can do it.’

  Sadie was only too willing to oblige. She came skipping across the office, her blonde curls bouncing. She bent down behind the counter and came up with a cash box, took Ben’s money and replaced it with a handful of small change, counting each piece aloud in a chirpy, nasal voice. ‘The payphone’s over there,’ she said, pointing with a raspberry-pink-tipped finger.

  ‘I know, I’ve been here before.’ Ben gave an ingratiating smile. ‘But you weren’t here when I gave my creative writing course, were you? I’m sure I’d have remembered you.’

  Sadie beamed in response to the implied compliment. She had wide blue eyes, pearly teeth and dimples like the young Shirley Temple. ‘No, I wasn’t,’ she replied coyly. ‘I started at the same time as George – a couple of months ago. But he’s only part-time – I’m full-time, same as Peggy and Pam,’ she added proudly, glancing towards the alcove, where George sat hunched over his card index. ‘I got the job through Youth Opportunities,’ she went on. She was evidently a compulsive giver of confidences to strangers. An ideal subject for an investigator, in fact.

  ‘This must have been a dreadful shock to all of you,’ Ben remarked conversationally, leaning an elbow on the counter like one settling down for a chat. ‘The sort of thing you read about in the papers, only happening to other people, eh? I don’t suppose you heard or saw anything suspicious?’

  ‘There was those funny poems,’ Sadie began, only too ready to take the bait, but before she could say another word Peggy called out, with a reproving glare at Ben, ‘Hurry up and finish that filing, Sadie, I’m going to need your help with the post.’

  ‘Forgive me. Mustn’t hold up the good work.’ Ben straightened up, gave a mock salute and ambled away, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, George leaned back in his chair and muttered, without turning his head, ‘Better be careful what you say in front of him. He’s the press, don’t forget, even if he is off duty. A lot of sensational publicity won’t do the place any good.’

  In the small dining-room where DCI Harris had carried out his interviews, Mrs Lucas, a slight, grey-haired woman in a flower-printed overall, served Melissa and Ben with bowls of home-made soup and crusty bread warm from the oven. They sat opposite one another at the circular table which, like the dresser on the wall facing the window, was an antique piece of dark, solid-oak with a patina that reflected many years of regular waxing. On the floor was a rich Turkey carpet and the dresser shelves carried an assortment of old china plates and ornaments that the most up-market dealer would not have been ashamed to display in his showroom. Melissa reflected that the room had been furnished by someone with money and taste. Verity’s family’s money and her taste? This was her inheritance. Was that why Stewart had married her? And was she, perhaps, not entirely sorry to be free of him?

  ‘Penny for ’em,’ said Ben between spoonfuls of soup.

  ‘I was just admiring the decor.’ She did not want to think the thoughts that had come into her mind, much less share them with Ben.

  ‘Yeah. Mrs H isn’t hard up for a bob or two – unless this place is mortgaged up to the hilt, of course. In which case, there’d most likely be life insurance to cover it.’

  Mrs Lucas spared Melissa the need to reply by coming in to collect the soup plates and put a slab of Double Gloucester cheese and a bowl of salad on the table.

  ‘How is Mrs Haughan?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘Bearing up very well, all things considered,’ the woman replied in her warm Gloucestershire accent. ‘Mind you,’ she went on, lowering her voice. ‘I don’t like to speak out of turn, but it isn’t as if he’s been the best of husbands. Just the same, it’s been a great shock, of course. We’re all very upset.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Did you make that soup?’ asked Ben, with apparent carelessness.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I guessed as much. Best I’ve ever tasted.’

  Mrs Lucas beamed. ‘I made the bread as well,’ she said. Ben saluted her with the slice that he had been spreading with butter before sinking his teeth into it. ‘Superb!�
� he said, chewing with gusto. ‘I reckon Mrs Haughan’s very lucky to have your help.’

  ‘I do what I can. She needs all the help she can get, poor love. I’ll just go and make you some coffee.’ Still smiling, Mrs Lucas withdrew, then popped her head round the door to say, ‘Grilled lamb steaks for dinner.’

  ‘Yum!’ Ben smacked his lips, then, as the door closed, lowered his voice and said to Melissa, ‘I must have a chat with Mrs L presently. I’ll get more out of her than the office staff. The only one willing to gossip is the youngster, and she’s only been here five minutes. So’s the old grouch who skulks in the corner. The secretary seems to be running the show for the time being. Bit of a dragon, that one. Upset at the boss’s sudden departure though, kept on sniffing.’

  ‘I heard she had a hysterectomy recently. That would tend to make her a bit emotional.’

  ‘How did that come up?’ he asked. Melissa reported Gloria’s hospital visit. ‘And that’s all you’ve got to show for a morning’s sleuthing?’ His grin held gentle mockery, but no malice.

  ‘I’ve got hold of a book on haiku. I’m going to study it after lunch.’

  ‘Big deal. We’re halfway to cracking the case already.’

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm. What have you come up with?’

  ‘Not a lot, but there’s one thing I want to follow up. That gardener chap – incidentally, he’s comparatively new as well – I’ve seen him somewhere before. I’ll try and have a chat with him during the afternoon.’

  ‘He’s an architect by profession, if that’s any help. I imagine he’s working here because he couldn’t get anything else.’

  ‘I don’t recall interviewing any architects lately.’ Ben ruminated over the last crust from Mrs Lucas’s wholemeal loaf. ‘I’ll bet Haughan got him on the cheap, like his part-time pensioner and his trainee office girl. He must have been a real tightwad.’ Ben pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘See you at dinner.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to stay for coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. I brew my own, remember?’

  He went out, whistling the chorus of a number from ‘Kiss Me Kate’. What a great show that was, thought Melissa, then sat bolt upright in her chair. Kate! The memory bounced up in her mind like a jack-in-the-box. In all the excitement, the snatch of conversation she had overheard on her arrival at Uphanger had slipped from her memory.

  She was on the point of calling Ben back to tell him about it, then remembered his good-natured teasing and decided not to. She’d show him he wasn’t the only one capable of turning up a clue or so. For what it was worth, she’d follow this one up herself.

  Fifteen

  It was almost four o’clock when Melissa, absorbed in her study of The Joys of Haiku, heard a tap at her door. She opened it, expecting to see Ben; instead it was DCI Kenneth Harris who stood outside, hands raised in mock defence.

  ‘I haven’t come to hassle you, I just came to thank you for handing over the latest bit of evidence,’ he said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he added, with his eyes on the kettle.

  ‘Come in and I’ll make you one.’ She filled the kettle and switched it on, while Harris lowered his bulky frame on to a chair. ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘It’s gone to forensics for comparison with the others.’

  ‘The message itself, I mean.’

  ‘It looks like the culmination of a sort of war of attrition the killer’s been waging against Haughan. We’ve got a psychiatrist at work, building up a profile of the killer – he’s been given the text of all the poems. We’re waiting to see what he makes of them. Have you managed to pick up anything else?’

  ‘Not a lot. Stewart Haughan used to work for a firm called Headwaters that makes bathroom fittings – but I expect you know that already.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Ben Strickland – I believe you’ve already met my fellow “writer in retreat” – gave a creative writing course here back in the summer. He says that from what he saw then, Haughan was the bluff and hearty type to anyone useful to him and a prize bully to his underlings.’

  ‘Yes, I knew all that too. I also know Ben from way back. Could have made a name for himself as a political journalist if he’d kept off the booze.’

  ‘I’ve noticed he likes a tipple, but I didn’t realise he had a serious problem.’

  ‘Took to the bottle after Ann – his wife – died in a car accident some years ago. Not a complete alcoholic … just the occasional bender that made him unreliable. He’s made something of a comeback lately though, doing special enquiries, uncovering malpractice and corruption.’ Harris gave a gravelly chuckle. ‘He’s been a bit of a thorn in our flesh from time to time.’

  ‘So I gather. He seems quite proud of it. Here’s your tea.’

  ‘Ah, thanks!’ Harris took the mug that Melissa handed him and drank thirstily.

  ‘Don’t gulp it down when it’s hot, it’s not good for you,’ she reproved him.

  His eyes met hers over the rim of the mug. ‘How nice to know you care!’ he said, with mock intensity.

  ‘Speaking of Ben,’ she said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Did you know he was a substitute for me? I was invited to give that course, but Haughan wouldn’t pay a decent fee. It would be interesting to know what he did fork out,’ she added reflectively. ‘Quite a bit less than Ben was worth, I expect – and he made him wait for it.’

  ‘I understand they agreed on a modest fee plus four days here to work on his book,’ said Harris. ‘Poor old Ben – it was the best he could squeeze out of the old tightwad, as he called him. Everything I’ve heard about the deceased so far points to a man universally – and justifiably – disliked. Apart from the secretary, who seems an emotional type who’d boohoo over the death of a mouse, no one seems particularly cut up, not even his wife.’

  ‘He treated her pretty badly. Did you find out if they had a child, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, they did – a little girl who died about seven years ago. The gardener – Morris – knew that, by the way, although he didn’t know any details. So he says. Reading between the lines, the widow seems to have confided in him quite a bit. Cosy little chats over the compost heap, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ken, what are you suggesting?’

  ‘We – Sergeant Waters and I – have a strong hunch there’s something cooking between the artistic Mrs Haughan and her handsome gardener. Nothing definite as yet – in fact, the received wisdom in the office is that he fancies the girl who does the accounts. We think that’s an impression he’s given deliberately, to hide his real feelings. And we also believe Morris is an assumed name.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘He didn’t produce any documents or a national insurance number when he started work here and the local DSS have no record of him. He’s supposed to be an architect, but the name doesn’t appear in the Institute records, not even as a student member. According to the secretary, Haughan engaged him on a casual basis – accommodation in the caravan in exchange for a few hours’ gardening a week and a few pounds to keep him in food. Morris, as he calls himself, said he wanted P and Q to work on a thesis for his doctorate. I gather Haughan didn’t bother to ask too many questions – just got his wife to make the caravan habitable.’

  ‘The fact that he was getting his services on the cheap was enough for him, no doubt,’ said Melissa bitterly. ‘It must have suited him down to the ground. What about the machine used to type the poems, by the way? Any progress on that front?’

  ‘We’ve taken specimens from two machines in the office. Both are quite old and both have elite type, but without a detailed comparison we can’t say for certain whether either was the one used. We’ll have to wait and see. What about you?’ Harris picked up The Joys of Haiku. ‘Found any poetic clues yet?’

  ‘You’ll probably pooh-pooh this, but I think I may have stumbled on something.’ She picked up the sheets of paper on which she had written the text of all the messages that she had seen. ‘Loo
k, there’s a very definite change of style in the latest ones. They stick to the five-seven-five syllable count, but in other respects they don’t seem to conform to the … the universal spirit of haiku. There, I knew you’d sneer,’ she added, seeing his indulgent smile.

  ‘I’m not sneering,’ he assured her. ‘What’s your theory?’

  ‘I think they may have been written by two different people, one who understands haiku and one who knows only the basic structure. The later ones break several traditions, like not using the same word more than once, for example. And the underlying menace – haiku is all about nature and the seasons, beauty, sorrow, things of the soul …’ Melissa broke off, aware that she was beginning to sound sentimental.

  ‘Which points to what?’ Harris prompted gently.

  ‘It was common knowledge that Haughan had been getting those messages over a period of several weeks. Suppose the killer decided to send a few of his own? Suppose he’s familiar enough with haiku to get the form right, but hasn’t grasped the philosophy. He’d bank on the supposition that the police would assume they all came from one source and concentrate on tracking down the original writer.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Harris appeared to consider. ‘It’s an interesting thought, but pretty far-fetched. It’s more likely that he simply decided to begin on a low note and then step up the psychological pressure. It could be someone with a long-standing score to settle who wanted to have a bit of fun with the victim before moving in for the kill.’

  ‘That suggests a pretty sick mind,’ said Melissa with a shudder.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Harris put the book back on the desk and stood up. ‘And there’s another thing you should take on board, for your own safety.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I know you and your passion for poking your nose into mysteries and I don’t want you getting it bloodied or worse. This isn’t for publication at the moment, but the post-mortem showed that Haughan wasn’t killed by that blow on the back of the neck.’