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  Murder in the Morning

  An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel

  Betty Rowlands

  Also by Betty Rowlands

  THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Hear More from Betty

  Also by Betty Rowlands

  A Letter From Betty

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  To my husband, with love and gratitude

  One

  If a certain eminent art historian had not been so absent-minded as to double book a certain date in July, thus throwing the Principal of the Ravenswood College of Art and Design into a state of near panic, Melissa Craig would never have witnessed the prelude to a drama that would shortly unfold on her doorstep, inexorably drawing her into its tragic and violent embrace.

  The action began quietly enough with a somewhat fulsome letter from the aforesaid Principal, addressed to Melissa’s friend and neighbour Iris Ash. Beginning with a personal tribute to ‘one of the college’s most outstanding and successful graduates’, it continued with an elaborately-worded invitation to present the prizes at the annual exhibition of students’ work. ‘I should be greatly honoured, dear Miss Ash,’ it concluded, ‘to have the favour of your kind acceptance of my request at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ commented Melissa as she handed the letter back to Iris. ‘He’s left it a bit late to ask you, though.’

  ‘His first choice must have let him down.’ There was a cynical gleam in Iris’s grey eyes. ‘“Find a sucker to do it at short notice!” says Doctor Mortimer. “That old bird in the Cotswolds who designs curtains and wallpaper . . . let’s con her into coming.”’

  ‘You underestimate your reputation,’ said Melissa. ‘Since you won that competition, the glossy magazines are full of your designs and your garden water-colours are all the rage. “Another Helen Allingham”, someone wrote the other day.’

  Iris scowled. ‘Don’t like being “another” anyone,’ she grumbled.

  Melissa nodded in sympathy. ‘I know how you feel. People used to refer to me as “the new Agatha Christie”. All very flattering, of course . . . ’

  ‘Hate flattery!’ Iris slammed mugs of coffee on to a tray and added a plate of home-made biscuits. ‘Want this outside?’ She marched into the garden with Melissa following her, smiling at the show of irritation.

  They settled on a rustic seat among the climbing roses that grew in a scented, multicoloured jumble on the wall of Iris’s cottage. On this mid-June morning, the garden vibrated with activity. Blackbirds rummaged in the carefully mulched flower-beds and flung showers of grass clippings on to the path. From an elder tree, a chaffinch poured out his exuberant song while bumble-bees hummed a contented counterpoint as they blundered past, laden with pollen. Binkie, Iris’s cherished half-Persian cat, lay sprawled on the warm flagstones, too indolent to play at stalking the birds.

  Melissa finished her coffee, put down her empty mug, leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘Are you going to do it?’ she asked languidly.

  Iris grunted. ‘Haven’t decided. Don’t like London. Hate making speeches.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a long speech. Just a few words, telling ’em all how lucky they are to be at this wonderful college where you spent some of your happiest days . . . ’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Iris. ‘Never learned a thing worth knowing.’

  Melissa ignored the interruption. ‘And then,’ she continued, ‘you say “Well done!” or “Congratulations!” to the talented winners and hand over their medals or diplomas or whatever. Piece of cake, and good publicity too.’

  Iris fidgeted and sent darting glances in all directions. ‘Got nothing to wear,’ she muttered. ‘Have to buy something.’

  ‘So that’s what’s bothering you!’ Melissa turned to smile at the lanky figure in the faded cotton dress – one of three that, with her gardening trousers, the linen suit that she wore to church and a huge woollen wrap for cool days, constituted her entire summer wardrobe. Iris pulled a face and ran thin brown fingers through her springy mouse-brown hair.

  ‘Hate dressing up. Help me choose something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come to Ravenswood with me?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Love your company if you aren’t too busy.’

  That settled, they agreed on a date for Iris to buy a dress and have her hair done – a suggestion by Melissa to which she agreed with considerable reluctance. They then spent a few enjoyable minutes discussing the relative qualities of farm manure and garden compost before going indoors, Iris to her studio and Melissa to her study to add another twist to the case that was currently baffling her celebrated detective, Nathan Latimer of Scotland Yard.

  ‘I am sure, Miss Ash,’ said Doctor Mortimer, looking anything but sure, ‘that you would like to see some of our students’ work before the formal proceedings.’

  His eyelids flickered, his pallid features twitched and his thin hands moved on their bony wrists like pale fluttering birds about to take flight. Observing him, Melissa wondered how on earth such an indecisive character came to be made Principal of the Ravenswood College of Art and Design. Probably because he was everyone’s second choice, she thought cynically as Iris rose from her seat.

  ‘Might as well. Coming, Melissa?’ The lift of an eyebrow and a twitch of the lips betrayed impressions of the man very similar to Melissa’s own. It would be fun to compare notes later.

  They left the Principal’s office and set off on their tour of inspection. Doctor Mortimer pointed out the winning exhibits in the various classes and expressed what seemed to Melissa a certain over-optimism as to the future prospects of his students. Iris said very little in response but her eyes missed nothing. Melissa, standing apart and observing both, noted with satisfaction how well her friend looked in the blue and white dress and jacket and wondered how long the new hairstyle would stay in place.

  ‘And finally,’ the Principal announced, pausing before a painting of a young woman, ‘we have the winner of the Lionel Prendergast Memorial Prize for Portraiture. A most promising young fellow – I do hope you agree with our adjudication, Miss Ash! It would not do,’ he gave a cough, followed by a nervous giggle, ‘to ask you to present awards to creators of works you considered unworthy!’ His restless hands implored a favourable response.

  Iris, her head tilted back and her eyes half closed, was taking her time in assessing the portrait. Melissa had no doubt that she knew full well that her interlocutor was on tenterhooks, and was deliberately teasing him.

  ‘Hmm,’ she murmured and the hands paused in mid-flight. She took a step back and cocked her head on one side. ‘Interesting,’ she said at last. ‘Idealised, no doubt. I suppose he’s in love with her?’

  The Principal appeared mildly surprised at the notion. ‘I’ve really no idea but it would be only natural, wouldn’t it? A lovely girl like that . . . �
��

  A faint hiss sounded a yard from Melissa’s ear. Half-turning, she saw a denim-clad girl with cropped black hair and enormous steel spirals dangling from her ears. Her scowl suggested that she did not share the Principal’s opinion of the sitter.

  ‘Yes, not at all bad. Better than most of the other stuff here,’ Iris said at last and the Principal’s smile came and went like a guttering candle. ‘Not a good year,’ she continued and Melissa could tell that in her mischievous, perverse way, she was enjoying herself. ‘Not much originality. A few promising works, the rest of it run-of-the-mill. You’ve sorted out the pick of the bunch.’

  There was a respectful silence while Iris continued her scrutiny of the portrait and studied the signature. ‘Ricardo Lorenzo – Italian, I suppose. So’s she by the looks of her.’ She gave the portrait a final nod of approval. ‘Quite good, he’ll go a long way,’ she pronounced. The Principal’s smile glowed more steadily.

  ‘Yes, we have great hopes for him,’ he said and for the first time his hands became still and hung limply at his sides. ‘Well, Miss Ash, perhaps you’d care for a cup of tea before we begin the proceedings?’ His eyes included Melissa in the invitation.

  ‘Love one,’ said Iris.

  Melissa shook her head. ‘Not for me thanks. I’m sure you want to talk shop. I’ll have another look round and meet you afterwards.’

  Iris and the Principal moved away and Melissa turned to take a closer look at the portrait. The subject was undoubtedly beautiful. A swathe of rich Titian hair fell on either side of a perfectly proportioned and delicately chiselled oval face. The complexion was pale olive except for a faint flush on the cheeks; the crimson mouth had a curve that was at once gentle and sensual; the parted lips gave a glimpse of white, even teeth. The eyes held a hint of a smile, as if the sitter had been looking in a mirror and was well pleased at what she saw.

  The denim-clad girl had stayed behind as well and was hovering at Melissa’s elbow. Recognising a need for human contact, Melissa tilted her head sideways and commented: ‘She looks like a contented pussy-cat! Do you know who she is?’

  The girl’s face, chalk-white with black-rimmed eyes and a scarlet mouth, hardened into a malevolent glare. ‘“Pussycat” is right!’ she muttered. ‘Cats take what they want and then walk away, don’t they?’

  ‘So you do know her?’

  ‘Angelica Caroli. Just finished her final year.’

  ‘What about Ricardo Lorenzo?’

  The girl gave a little snort of contempt. ‘Plain Rick Lawrence was good enough for him until he met her. His great-grandfather came from Naples so they had so much in common, didn’t they?’

  ‘I gather you don’t like her very much?’

  ‘I’d like to wring her neck!’ The girl’s thin hands tugged at the strap of her shoulder bag as if she were tightening it round Angelica’s beautiful throat. ‘I knew Rick’d get hurt when he took up with her but he wouldn’t listen to me.’ The small, sharp features crumpled under their veneer of make-up and the voice faltered and died away. Melissa thought how frail and underweight the girl seemed. Poor kid, she was at such a vulnerable age.

  A few people standing nearby turned their heads. ‘Keep your voice down, people are looking at you,’ whispered Melissa but the girl seemed not to care.

  ‘She never even . . . ’ she burst out, but before she could reveal what it was that Angelica had failed to do, a voice over the public address system announced that the presentation of awards would commence in five minutes.

  The girl looked at Melissa with a beseeching expression. ‘Are you going? May I sit with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. You lead the way.’

  Most of the visitors had already detached themselves from the various exhibits staged around the college and were converging on the main hall. Melissa’s companion found two seats at the end of a row near the front and they sat down. The girl seemed restless and uneasy, craning her head from side to side.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘Rick. I’m so afraid he won’t turn up. I told him he’s got to come and collect his award. He shouldn’t let her do him out of that!’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Melissa, somewhat at sea but anxious to boost morale. ‘He’ll be here, don’t you worry. Professional pride and all that!’

  ‘You reckon?’ The girl appeared reassured and even managed a weak smile. ‘My name’s Lou Stacey, by the way. What’s yours?’

  ‘Melissa Craig.’

  ‘Are you an artist?’

  ‘No, a writer. I came here with Iris Ash. She’s presenting the prizes, you know.’

  It was obvious that Melissa’s name meant nothing to Lou but at the mention of Iris she became almost animated. ‘Her fabric designs are brilliant!’ she said. ‘So are her garden paintings. They say she’s another Helen Allingham.’

  ‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ said Melissa with a grin, but Lou paid no attention. Her eyes had lit up like stars. ‘He’s here, I can see him!’

  ‘There, what did I tell you?’ said Melissa, greatly relieved.

  All but one of the winning exhibits had already been arranged on the platform and while the members of the audience were settling into their seats, the final item, the portrait of Angelica, was carried in and put on an easel in the place of honour. The Bursar waited beside the table bearing the trophies, ready to hand them to Iris for presentation to the winners.

  The Principal plodded through a prolix and platitudinous summary of the college year and followed it with a flowery eulogy to Iris and her achievements which she acknowledged with a glassy smile, her normally healthy colour deepening to a dull brick red.

  ‘She’s hating this,’ Melissa whispered to Lou. ‘She can’t stand people going on about her work.’

  ‘Lots of celebrated artists shun the limelight,’ Lou whispered back with an air of great wisdom.

  Iris stumbled through the short speech that Melissa had helped her to compose and at last the distribution of the cups, medals and certificates began. It gave Melissa considerable pleasure to see Lou receive the Ravenswood Shield for Fashion Design from Iris’s hands. How touching, she thought, that the girl had never mentioned her own success, being totally preoccupied with her concern for Rick Lawrence. It was to be hoped that he was worthy of so much loyalty and devotion.

  As Lou left the platform, only the Lionel Prendergast Memorial Prize for Portraiture remained on the table. In response to the Principal’s final announcement, a young man strode forward, brushing past Lou without appearing to see her, and mounted the stage. He received the silver cup from Iris, kissed her hand with a flourish that brought another blush to her cheeks and sent a frisson round the hall, and turned to face the audience.

  That Lou should be so much in love with him was not, Melissa thought, to be wondered at. With his curly black hair, flashing dark eyes, patrician features and proud bearing, he stood like a figure from a Renaissance canvas, his trophy cradled in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Doctor Mortimer,’ he began, bowing towards the Principal, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. I am proud to accept this prize and in return I should like to donate to the college the portrait for which it was awarded.’ He paused, like an orator waiting for his lines to take effect. The Principal bobbed his head in gratified acknowledgement and there was a ripple of applause from the audience. ‘You may not have realised, however,’ Rick continued, ‘that it is not quite complete.’

  The final words were uttered slowly, with a measured interval between them and an underlying note of menace in the tone. The Principal’s smile wavered and the clapping died away. Melissa was aware that Lou, who had slipped back into the seat beside her, had grown tense. There was a hush as the artist reached out towards the face on the canvas and ran caressing fingers over the smooth brow, the sculptured cheekbones and the curved lips, lingering for a moment on the rounded perfection of the neck.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ he murmured. His voice had droppe
d to a stage whisper; there was something theatrical in his stance and a brooding expression in his dark eyes.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Lou. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘Just one small finishing touch, that’s all my portrait needs,’ said Rick, and this time his voice was harsh and loud. By now thoroughly alarmed, the Principal leapt from his seat but he was too late to restrain the hand that plunged a knife into Angelica’s throat and dragged it viciously downwards. There was a chorus of gasps and several people screamed as if expecting blood to spurt from the wound in the painted flesh. Bearing the cup aloft like an Olympic torch, Rick descended from the platform, marched to the nearest door and vanished.

  Two

  The stunned silence that followed was shattered by an anguished shriek of ‘Rick, wait!’ as Lou raced in pursuit, the Ravenswood Shield clasped to her chest and her grotesque earrings swinging out from either side of her face. In a brave attempt to restore normality, Doctor Mortimer got up to make his closing address but nobody paid the slightest heed. The proceedings were palpably at an end and everyone was too exercised over the drama they had just witnessed to waste time listening to more platitudes.

  Melissa made her way through the crossfire of indignation, astonishment and speculation towards the platform, where Iris was offering practical advice to their distraught host.

  ‘Quite a clean slash, easy to repair,’ she assured him after inspecting the damage. ‘Don’t lose any sleep. Never be an old master anyway,’ she added with an impish grin.