1 A Motive for Murder (3 page)

"Doctor Spence."

The receptionist's tone changed from official to perplexed. "Did you say Spence?"

"Yes, that's right."

"There's no Doctor Spence here; could it have been Doctor Singleton?"

"Is he around sixty, um, not thick hair, and not thin?" I was trying to think of a polite way to say he was balding with a comb over and had a huge belly.

"No, Doctor Singleton is a woman. Please hold; I'll check."

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Cassandra. "Cassandra, did you know the name of Aunt Beth's doctor?"

"No dear, I only used to drive her there and back."

"To Flowermead Medical Clinic?"

Cassandra nodded. "Yes, that's the one."

The voice returned and said, "No one here seems to know anything about it, although her doctor, Dr. Cooper, isn't here at the moment."

"Could my aunt have gone to a different doctor?"

"It's unlikely; she was a patient here for years and we hold her medical records. What did you say his name was again?"

"Oh hang on," I interrupted, "his name and phone number are stuck to the wall." I looked up at the notice board but to my disbelief, the paper was gone.

"Cassandra, you by any chance didn't take a note off the notice board, did you?"

"When, today?"

I nodded.

"No, I didn't. What's happened?"

I pointed to the phone, and spoke into it again. "I can't find the note now, but I'm sure he said his name was Dr. Spence. Anyway, he filed the,
err
, death report, and the Funeral Directors have already picked up the,
err
, body." I still had trouble coming to grips with the fact that Aunt Beth had died. Of course, I didn’t really know her at all, but finding any body is quite a shock.

"That's good; it all seems in order then. I'm sorry about Mrs. Banks. Goodbye." The receptionist hung up.

I walked back down to the kitchen in daze and sat back down at the table. I felt I was going quite mad. The note had been there, and a doctor had come. This was getting weirder and weirder. I was in a total head spin.

“I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals."

(Winston S. Churchill)

Chapter 4
.

After Cassandra left, I explored the house. On the surface it was fairly ordinary. There were two bedrooms upstairs, both fully furnished and painted in dismal shades of pale blue and baby-diaper yellow. Old peeling wallpaper covered most of the walls, livened up by a spot of mold at intervals. There was a small upstairs bathroom. The third bedroom - I assumed it was a bedroom - was locked.

The smaller bedroom at the back of the house had a nice view over football fields. Aunt Beth had clearly chosen that room for me; for one thing it wasn't locked, and unlike the main bedroom, it had been dusted, and had two towels sitting on the end of the bed.

Hanging from a small nail above my bed was a little packet of Five Finger Grass, with the label still on it. This was another protective measure. Aunt Beth sure hadn't been taking any chances, not that it had done her any good in the end.

I grabbed one towel from the bed and headed for the bathroom. The bathroom was tiny and the shower was over the bath. The enamel was wearing off the bath. It was all a bit depressing not to mention dusty. I rinsed the bath out with warm water then ran a nice hot bath. I fished the vanilla bubble bath out of my luggage and poured a generous amount into the running water.

Water always makes me feel good. I lay in the water so long that I was afraid I would fall asleep.

After the bath, I dried myself on the scratchy towel and heaped on copious amounts of Japanese Cherry body butter. The room was full of steam so I opened the bathroom window. My skin felt dry after the long flight. I was thirsty, but didn't want to go downstairs to get a drink of water so slurped some water out of the faucet.

Despite the soothing, hot bath and my sleeplessness, I tossed and turned. Well, I tried to toss and turn, but Diva appeared and planted herself firmly on my legs. She purred loudly, and every time I tried to roll over, she hissed and scratched my legs. Worse still, I felt frightened of the dark for the first time since my childhood.

Misty, where is the page?
The disembodied voice crawled from the dark, like fingers clasping for my throat. I must be dreaming.

Misty, tell me.

I felt I was slipping; a darkness was pressing on me and I struggled against it. "I don't know!" I squeaked. I must have fallen into a deeper sleep, for next I dreamed that there was a man standing at the end of my bed. He was tall and thin and appeared to be dressed in old fashioned clothes. His bony fingers extended and stretched towards me, clutching at my throat.

I awoke from my nightmare in a cold sweat, and shaking. This was the first dream I'd had about ghosts. I've had those dreams where you think you're awake and it feels as if a heavy weight is pressing you down, and various other scary dreams, but never a realistic dream about a ghost.

I was too scared to get out bed. Diva was no longer lying on my legs; there was no sign of her. The room was dark, apart from the moonlight streaming in. Rather than being a comfort, the light made ghastly, scary shapes on the walls. I felt like a child again.

My heart was pounding in my ears and I did my best to talk myself into getting out of bed. My iPhone was lying on the bedside table, so I turned it on and shone it under the bed. No monsters there.

I leaped out of bed and ran for the light switch. As soon as the light was on, everything looked so much less scary, so normal.

I decided to have a shower and then make a sugary cup of hot tea to calm my nerves. One of the pale lemon scratchy towels left for me by Aunt Beth was still sitting on the end of my bed. As I snatched it up, a piece of paper fell to the carpet. I thought it just trash, and picked it up to put it on the desk on the corner of the room, but as I did, I saw the words scrawled in capitals,

AMY DANGER DASHWOOD TRUST

The writing, badly scrawled as it was, worsened to the end of the note and it looked as if Aunt Beth had been interrupted when writing it.

What did it mean? Was it to be taken seriously? I was too jet lagged to think clearly.

I headed to the bathroom, and shut the sash window which afforded a view of the neighbors' bedroom and in turn afforded the neighbors a view of the bathroom.

The shower took away the fuzzy feeling in my stomach, and the hot tea cleared my head. For good measure, I heaped another two spoons of sugar into my cup. I didn't want to be paranoid, but it was getting a little weird.

I thought it all through. My Aunt passed away the day before I arrived from a heart condition, or so I was told. A man collided with me as I arrived. No one had heard of the doctor who attended. The paper with the doctor's name and number went missing from the wall. I found a mysterious note with my name on it.

What did it all mean? Was Aunt Beth's note about to tell me to trust a certain person? Or was Aunt Beth going all X-Files and advising me to
Trust No One
? There may be logical explanations for all these happenings, but the twisting churning feeling in my gut suggested otherwise.

It became clear to me that Aunt Beth had been murdered, and someone was trying to cover it up. I remembered the Miss Marple episode I had seen only the month before, "Murder Is Easy." Murder is easy if no one knows it was murder.

But who would try to cover up the murder of an elderly woman? For that matter, who would want to murder an elderly woman in the first place?

The rest of the night passed uneventfully and I awoke the next morning with the sun streaming in the window. I felt groggy and headachy. The lemon towel I had used last night was now sitting folded and unused at the end of my bed; surely I hadn't dreamed of having a shower last night?

Worse still, a check of my iPhone revealed the time was 10.03 a.m. Horrors, I'd slept past my caffeine time. At home, if I did not get my two cups of strong coffee before 9 a.m., I would get a dreadful headache that nothing would shift, no amount of headache tablets or even more caffeine. I didn't know what impact changing time zones and even hemispheres would have on my caffeine timing. Yes, I'm an addict.

Clearly Aunt Beth had prepared for my visit as the cupboards were well stocked, except for one thing. My thorough search revealed only a large jar of instant coffee. I had heard that the English were into hot tea and not too good on the coffee, but it would be a cold day in hell before I would resort to instant coffee. I mean, the stuff should be illegal. I fetched the front door key and headed out the door, hoping to find a corner store with the real thing.

I took off down the roads that looked more like main roads, and only about four streets away found a small store in between the houses. In amongst all the varieties of instant coffee, I did find one brand of ground coffee. I bought all five packets. My survival instinct had kicked in.

When I got back to Aunt Beth's, I charged into the kitchen. The jar of instant coffee was sitting on the kitchen table. I was sure I hadn't taken it out of the cupboard.

Then it hit me. There was no coffee machine: no Nespresso, no cappuccino maker, no drip filter, not even a plunger. I had to get the coffee into me somehow, so I put a pot of water on the stove, and added two heaped dessertspoons of coffee. The smell of boiling coffee was heavenly, but looked like a torrid lava pool. I found two strainers, and picked the one with larger holes. After about three strainings, the liquid looked more or less acceptable. It tasted okay, although quite gritty and a bit weak.

While drinking it, I conducted a thorough yet fruitless search for garlic to go with my morning eggs. I figured that Aunt Beth must have consumed garlic by the bucket load judging by the overpowering smell when I'd found her, but not a clove of garlic was to be found.

I'd only just given up looking and was getting to the end of my second coffee when the doorbell rang. It was so loud and startling that I jerked forward and nearly spilled the remains of my coffee, coffee grits and all.

England was looking up! I opened the door to the most handsome man I had ever seen. He looked like Jimmy Thomas, the model on the cover of over fifteen hundred romance novels, except with short hair. He was tall, with broad shoulders, dark eyes which were almost black, and he looked like he had spent most of his life in the gym.

I became that conscious I was staring, and realized to my embarrassment that he had noticed it too.

He extended his large hand and grasped mine, and covered my hand with his other. "I am so sorry to hear about Beth. She was a dear friend of mine. You must be Misty; she was excited about your visit."

I nodded. I was puzzled by his accent. It seemed a mixture of Oxbridge English and Australian, with other notes I could not guess. He also looked familiar but I surely would have remembered anyone who looked like him.

"My name is Douglas," he continued. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

I just stood there looking at him and finally said, "Thanks."

He looked at me expectantly, still holding my hand. Was I supposed to invite him in? I supposed so. "Would you like to come in?" I felt quite foolish.

He dropped my hand, walked past me then turned left into the living room. Clearly he knew his way around Aunt Beth's house. No sooner had he sat down than Diva appeared from nowhere. She ran at Douglas, swiped at the bottom of his jeans, hissed loudly, and then turned around and ran off.

"Im so, so sorry," I gushed. "She's my aunt's cat."

Douglas simply said, "That's okay."

"Would you like coffee? Tea?"

"Yes, black tea, no sugar, please."

I was relieved that he didn't want coffee; my saucepan brew would only be appreciated by the worst of caffeine addicts.

When I returned with the tea and cookies, Douglas was looking quite at home, sitting back in a huge comfy chair albeit one covered in a beige floral pattern. It clashed hideously with the faded Axminster floral blue carpet.

I opened the heavy drapes and the whole room was suddenly flooded with sunlight. I was absently thinking that the room probably hadn't seen much sunlight over the years, when a thought occurred to me. "How well did you say you knew my aunt? The funeral is tomorrow."

Douglas fidgeted in his seat. "Oh, so sorry. I have a prior engagement that I won't be able to miss. I did know your aunt well. I'm an antique book collector, and your aunt had a wonderful collection of rare books."

I noted he said "collector" not "dealer" and wondered what he did for a living, but figured he may be a Lord or an Earl or something else expensive and privileged, judging by his designer clothes. I tried to collect my thoughts, which the coffee was starting to clear despite the jet lag. "Did my aunt have a heart condition?"

My handsome guest nodded solemnly. "Yes, quite a serious one. Didn't you know?"

I shook my head and asked another question. "Did my aunt have many rare books?"

Douglas rubbed his chin, and looked around the room before answering. "Yes, indeed. With her failing health and age, she recently decided to donate several rare books to museums."

I nodded. "I saw the newspaper clipping about the rare book she donated to some library in Cambridge, I think it was."

"Oh yes, the Cambridge University Library. They have a wonderful collection of rare and antiquarian books. Such a shame about that book. Beth told me she thought she had given it to them intact, but then they called her and said it was missing a page. She was most upset about that. Beth searched through her husband's notes, everywhere, but couldn't find the page."

Douglas stood and walked over to the window. "Old Edgar was eccentric," he continued, "and Beth was worried that he may have taken out the page for further study. He used to read up on Arthur Edward Waite according to Beth, and had a collection of notes on arcane symbols. She told me that he would've put the page somewhere safe, but she couldn't think where. I think that contributed to her death, as she was more worried about it day by day. If you find it, please contact the Library immediately."

I stood up and walked over to the window to see what Douglas had been staring at. The street was full of cars, but I couldn't make out anything interesting. I turned to Douglas. "Oh yes, I will, but if Aunt Beth couldn't find it, I doubt I will be able to."

Douglas walked back to his seat and sat down. "Your aunt's eyesight was failing, and often she would tell me she couldn't find something when it was on the table right in front of her." His manner was dismissive.

I felt a little uneasy by his manner. Although he acted relaxed, there was clearly an underlying tension. Something didn't quite add up. "I can have a look around at nights as I'll be out most days working."

"You're working?" He raised one black eyebrow and focused his entire attention on me.

"Yes, but not officially - don't tell the British government!" I smiled. "I'm a journalist and have to do lot of stories while I'm here."

"What kind of stories?"

I was hoping he wouldn't ask. I always dreaded that question at parties. People generally have a low opinion of the level of journalism in paranormal magazines. "I have to do articles on the Hellfire Caves, and," I hesitated, "other paranormal spots in the area."