The Murder at Skellin Cottage Page 2

  Still holding her breath, Jo waited as she heard the officers' footsteps heading around the side of the house. As she waited, she spotted several empty red wine bottles on the opposite counter, each with dribbles of wax running down from the neck. Furrowing her brow, she noticed that there were more empty bottles on the floor, next to an unused vegetable rack. A moment later, she saw someone approaching one of the other windows, so she ducked down even further in an attempt to keep out of view, as she saw a shadow moving on the floor. One of the officers was peering through the window directly above the counter.

  Carefully, Jo pulled her feet closer, trying to make herself as small as possible so that she wouldn't be spotted.

  ***

  “So you've been out to Skellin Cottage already, have you?” Lord Chesleford asked as he poured whiskey from a decanter into a crystal tumbler. “That's very keen of you. I'm starting to think, Miss Mason, that you were the right woman for the job. Or, I'm sorry, is it Mrs Mason?”

  “You left all her belongings there,” Jo replied. “Her clothes, her papers. Everything the police didn't take. Even the empty wine bottles. Six months later, it's all still there.”

  “I have no contact details for her family, and I didn't have the heart to throw it all out. Perhaps I'm getting sentimental in my old age, but I just couldn't bring myself to shove all her things into a bunch of black sacks. By the way, have you eaten? I was just about to sit down for lunch.”

  “Did you go through any of it?”

  “Her things?” He hesitated. “No. The police checked for anything of interest. I believe they were concerned about her laptop computer, which was missing. Other than that, it has all remained where it was left, completely undisturbed.” He held the whiskey decanter up for her to see. “Can I interest you in a lunchtime tipple?”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, go on,” he continued, grabbing a second tumbler and then checking his watch. “I know it's a little early, but this is good stuff. It's twenty-year-old Scotch from -”

  “I really don't drink.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Not even a half?”

  “No, thank you. How well did you know Deborah Dean?”

  “I'll be blunt with you,” he said with a heavy sigh that seemed to rumble up from his extravagant belly. “Skellin Cottage has been in my family's possession for many generations. It came originally with the land when my great-grandfather purchased the farms in the valley, and I have always been very careful when it comes to renting Skellin Cottage out. In fact, there have been periods when it has remained vacant while I waited for a suitable tenant. But Deborah Dean seemed like a very nice young lady. A good person. If it were to turn out that she had some kind of secret, or that she was hiding something, well... Frankly, I would start to wonder whether I can still consider myself a good judge of character.”

  “She'd been renting the cottage for about half a year?”

  He nodded. “I ran advertisements in certain reputable publications. None of this internet lark. Every year, I'd receive solicitations from prospective tenants, but I usually turned them down. Then one day I received a phone call from a woman asking if the cottage was still available, and something about her voice made me decide to give her a chance. So I invited her here to the manor house and, well, she stood almost exactly where you're standing now and told me how much she'd like to rent the cottage from me. She seemed to appreciate the cottage for what it was.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, just...”

  He hesitated, struggling to find the right way to explain.

  “She had very pretty eyes,” he said finally. “Very deep. Soulful, I thought.”

  “So you rented the cottage to her because of her eyes?”

  “It's difficult to describe. She just seemed like the right person.”

  “Did you ask for references?”

  “No. I don't have time to go phoning people up. I've always relied on my own judgment.”

  “Did she pay a deposit?”

  He shook his head. “Just each month's rent. Upfront. She was very good about that. Very fastidious, never late.”

  “How did she pay?”

  “Cash.”

  “Didn't you find that a little odd?”

  “Why should I?”

  “How much was the rent?”

  He hesitated for a moment, watching Jo carefully and with a hint of concern.

  “Eight hundred and fifty pounds,” he said finally.

  “And Deborah Dean just showed up here at your door each month with eight hundred and fifty pounds in cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she do for a living?”

  “I'm not entirely sure. She -”

  “You didn't ask her?”

  Lord Chesleford hesitated, as if he was quite unaccustomed to being interrupted in such a manner.

  “She was a writer,” he continued finally. “I forget the finer details, but I was certainly satisfied by her explanation at the time. That was why she wanted to rent Skellin Cottage, you see. She was searching for somewhere a little off the beaten track, somewhere she could be left alone to work on her latest book. I suppose something about that idea rather appealed to me. You must admit, Skellin Cottage has a rather romantic feel about it, stuck out there all alone in the valley.” A faint smile flickered across his face. “She was a very fine writer. Very good.”

  “You read some of her work?”

  “No, I could just tell. It's difficult to describe.”

  “What kind of book was she writing?”

  “I don't recall.”

  “Fiction or non-fiction?”

  “I'm afraid I really -”

  “What about her other books?”

  “Other books?”

  “You said she wanted to work on her latest. That makes it sound as if there were others. Plus, if she could afford eight hundred and fifty pounds in cash each month, she must have been fairly successful.”

  “I don't recall her mentioning any details of her work.”

  “So let me get this clear,” Jo replied. “A stranger phone you up, a woman, and she asks to rent your cottage. And you agree, even though you're usually very picky about your tenants. You ask for no references and no deposit, and no guarantees that she has the resources to pay the rent, and you simply let her move in. And then once a month she shows up with a thick wad of cash, talking vaguely about books she's writing, and none of this strikes you as being a little odd?”

  He took another sip of whiskey, while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her.

  “Deborah Dean was a loner,” he continued finally. “If you ask me, the ability to keep oneself to oneself is very much undervalued in today's society. She lived in her mind. Now, that doesn't mean she lacked friends. I believe she was close to Susannah Marriott in Chelmsbury, and to Harry Morgan as well. You might want to ask them about her, although I did notice that neither of them appeared at her funeral.” He hesitated for a moment. “I telephoned you the other day, Miss Mason, because six months on from that awful night, the police are no closer to identifying whoever murdered Deborah. Justice must be done, her killer must face the music. My confidence in the police is at an all-time low, so I decided to hire a... Well, whatever you people call yourselves these days.”

  “I'm a private investigator, Lord Chesleford. I explained over the phone about my -”

  “Yes, yes, I remember all that.” He paused, as if he was having second thoughts. “And you will identify the scoundrel, won't you? I have to think of poor Deborah being murdered and nobody ever paying.”

  “I'll do my best,” she told him. “I can't promise anything, but I'm not the police. I do things differently, and that can be an advantage sometimes.”

  “I've already paid your retainer and your first batch of expenses,” he continued, “but if there's anything else you need, anything at all, you mustn't hesitate to ask. I consider this a matter
of great personal importance. All of my considerable resources are at your disposal until you get to the bottom of this.”

  “Actually,” she replied, “there was one -”

  Before she could finish, she heard a bumping sound from out in the hallway. Turning to look over at the open door, she was just in time to spot a shadow scurrying out of view, accompanied by the flutter of socked feet on the stairs.

  “Is it that damnable boy again?” Lord Chesleford muttered, storming to the door and leaning out. “Get back up to your room!” he roared. “I told you not to come down until dinner! Don't make me come up there and lock you in your room! Do you hear me?”

  He paused, and a moment later a door could be heard swinging shut in a far-off part of the house.

  A little red-faced and flustered now, Lord Chesleford turned to Jo.

  “I'm sorry, that was my son Phillip,” he explained. “He's not... I mean, he's harmless, but he's not all there, if you know what I mean. There was an accident several years ago. He was a very talent and intelligent boy, bound for Oxford or Cambridge I'm certain, but now...” He paused, before taking another, longer sip of whiskey and then wiping his mustache dry. “I took a very strong liking to Deborah,” he added finally. “Call me an old fool, but in idle moments I sometimes felt she was the daughter I never had. The child I never had. I mean, Phillip's next to useless, but Deborah was a remarkable, quietly impressive woman. Good to her core. I need to know that her killer has been brought to justice so, as I said earlier, my resources are all yours. You have only to ask.”

  “Actually,” Jo replied, “there is one thing I was going to mention. Skellin Cottage is empty at the moment, isn't it?”

  He nodded.

  “I was going to check into a B&B in town,” she continued, “but when I was at the cottage earlier, I realized that since I'm going to be there a lot anyway...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Oh,” Lord Chesleford said finally, “I see.”

  “I wouldn't ask usually,” she explained, “but it might help me to get a feel for the place. And to understand how Deborah spent her time. I mean, I can go to a B&B if you'd prefer, but I'll be at Skellin a lot anyway so it would make sense, in the circumstances, if I could just sleep there at night.”

  “Of course,” he replied after a moment's pause, “that's absolutely fine. I suppose so, anyway.” Still, he seemed a little shocked for a few seconds, before forcing a smile. “You already have the keys anyway, and as you point out, the place is empty. If you feel it would help you to stay there, then by all means be my guest. There's no heating, though, and I'm not sure I can get any wood delivered until tomorrow. There's water, but I'm afraid it'll be very cold.”

  “I'll be fine,” she told him. “I've got a sleeping bag in my car.”

  “It takes a special kind of person to live out at Skellin Cottage,” he continued. “It's not for everyone. It's so far from anywhere else, so remote. The nights especially can reach into one's mind and draw out fears, terrible fears, that one doesn't even know one possesses until one finds oneself alone in such a place. I don't know, Miss Mason, if you're used to being alone, but -”

  “I'll be fine,” she said again, checking her watch. “If you don't mind, I'd like to get into Chelmsbury before dark. There are a few people I want to track down.”

  “You're already showing more initiative than the police,” the old man replied as he guided her out into the hallway. “I never had much faith in them, right from the start. I felt I was always having to hurry them along and prod them, especially that foul Byron chap. They say the file on Deborah's murder is still open, of course, but I'm sure they've already moved on to other matters. Perhaps I'm something of a traditionalist, but I believe that no stone should be left un-turned in the pursuit of someone who commits a crime, especially when the victim is somebody as wonderful as Deborah. I believe in good old-fashioned justice, even if it's a little harsh.”

  By the time he opened the door, there were tears in his eyes.

  Jo turned to him. Before she could say anything, however, she spotted a faint hint of movement at the top of the stairs, as a figure darted back out of view.

  “Find this bastard,” Lord Chesleford said firmly. “Pardon my language, but find him and make sure he rots. It's scandalous that we have to take matters into our own hands and deliver the killer to the police like this, but the most important thing is that the killer, whoever he might be, is apprehended. I only wish we could hang him. Perhaps when we're finally out of Europe, some more of the old ways will return to the statute books. You won't hear any complaints from me on that account, I assure you.”

  Jo watched the top of the stairs for a moment, before turning to the old man.

  “I'll do everything I can,” she told him. “I can't guarantee anything, but there's no such thing as a perfect murder. There's no such thing as a perfect detective, either, but I've already got some leads to follow up. And like I said earlier, the police have a lot of restrictions and a lot of drains on their time. I don't. I already know where they've been focusing their investigation, so I know where to pick up the threads they've dropped. With any luck, one of those threads will lead to Deborah's killer.”

  A few minutes later, as she made her way to her car, Jo couldn't help but glance back at the large house and wonder how Lord Chesleford and his son could bear to live in such a place, with just the two of them rattling around. As she reached the car and began to unlock the driver's door, she spotted a face watching her from one of the higher upstairs windows, although the figure immediately pulled out of sight when he realized he'd been spotted. After waiting a moment in case he reappeared, Jo finally climbed into the car and started the engine.

  Chapter Two

  Six months ago

  “There you go, Merriwig,” Deborah said as she set a saucer of milk on the floor, just inside the cottage's front door. “Don't get used to it, though. I just had some left over and it seemed a shame to throw it away.”

  Stroking the cat's back, she watched as Merriwig drank from the saucer. After a moment, having licked up every drop, the cat turned and rubbed its face against Deborah's arm before letting out a brief meow.

  “You're very welcome,” Deborah replied, taking the saucer and getting to her feet, before turning to head back into the kitchen. “Now, have you thought any more about the chapter I'm working on? Come on, I'm getting desperate here. Remember what I told you? How can I make the chapter more -”

  Suddenly spotting a face at the back door, she let out a startled gasp and stepped back, only to sigh as soon as she saw the smiling features of her landlord. She quickly forced a polite smile, trying to mask the fact that a visitor was the last thing she wanted.

  “Sorry!” Lord Chesleford called out, before knocking gently on the door. “I wasn't watching you, I promise. I just dropped by and then I saw you down there with the cat, and I suppose I thought I should wait for an opportune moment to disturb.”

  Setting the saucer aside, Deborah headed over and unlocked the door, pulling it open and gesturing for him to enter.

  “Sorry,” she said, clearly still a little startled, “I didn't hear a car pull up outside.”

  “Oh, I'm on foot,” he replied, stepping into the hallway and looking around. After a moment, his gaze settled on the laptop that was resting on the coffee table. He squinted slightly, seeing that a word processor file was open. “Did I catch you in the middle of some work for your new book?”

  “I'm working on a chapter,” she said, hurrying around the sofa and closing the laptop's lid. “I was just typing out some ideas.”

  “Writer's block?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Are you suffering from a case of writer's block?” he asked. “If you are, I'd be happy to assist in any way that I can. Perhaps you'd like to let me read what you've done so far?”

  “Thank you, but that won't be necessary.”

  “It's no trouble.”

  “I pref
er to work on these things alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “So were you just out for a walk?” she asked, sidestepping any more discussion of the matter as she headed through to the kitchen. Glancing up toward the ceiling for a moment, she stopped at the counter and checked the kettle for water before switching it on. She turned just as Merriwig slunk into the room with Lord Chesleford close behind.

  “You know how it is,” the old man said, looking around the kitchen as if he was keen to inspect his property. “Some mornings, one just wakes up and decides that one wants to get out of the house. Besides, I haven't been up this way for quite some time, and I suppose I should keep an eye on things.”

  “You were here on Tuesday,” she pointed out.

  “Was I?” He furrowed his brow. “Well, it certainly feels like longer.”

  “I'll get the rent,” she replied, heading to the dresser in the corner.

  “Oh, there's no need for that right now. It's not due for another week.”

  Opening one of the drawers, she fumbled for a moment with a tightly-clipped wad of cash, before counting out some £50 and £10 notes and then sliding the drawer shut.

  “I can pop by for that next week,” he told her.

  “There's really no need,” she replied, heading over to him and holding the money out for him to take. “It makes sense to do it while you're here. That way, you won't need to go out of your way again.”

  “Oh, this is hardly out of my way,” he muttered, taking the money and slipping it uncounted into his blazer pocket. “Truth be told, I'm very interested to hear how living in my humble little cottage is helping with your work.” He watched as she headed back over to the kettle. “Does the isolation out here make it any easier for you to tap into your creative stream?”

  “Into my...” She hesitated, before turning to him as if she hadn't quite been paying attention. “I'm sorry, my what?”

  “Perhaps that was the wrong turn of phrase. I was just wondering whether Skellin Cottage is conducive to a writer's work. I most certainly hope so.”