Death at Dearley Manor Read online

  Death at Dearley Manor

  A completely gripping cozy mystery

  Betty Rowlands

  Books by Betty Rowlands

  THE SUKEY REYNOLDS SERIES

  Death at Hazel House

  Death at Dearley Manor

  Death at Beacon Cottage

  Death at Burwell Farm

  THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Murder on a Winter Afternoon

  Murder in the Orchard

  Murder at Larkfield Barn

  Murder in Langley Woods

  Murder at Benbury Brook

  Murder at the Old House

  Murder in the Dining Room

  Murder in a Country Garden

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder in the Morning (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder on the Clifftops (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder at the Manor Hotel (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder on a Winter Afternoon (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder in the Orchard (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder at Larkfield Barn (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder in Langley Woods (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder at Benbury Brook (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder at the Old House (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder in the Dining Room (available in the UK and the US)

  Murder in a Country Garden (available in the UK and the US)

  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

  Death at Hazel House

  Hear More from Betty

  Books by Betty Rowlands

  A Letter from Betty

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  One

  Paul Reynolds approached the front door of Dearley Manor with his latchkey at the ready, although he knew he would have no need of it. Sure enough, he had barely reached the top step when the door swung open and the housekeeper stood there with a smile of welcome on her face.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said in her warm, Gloucestershire accent. She stood aside while he entered, then closed the door behind him with her inevitable question, ‘Have you had a good day?’

  He forced himself to return her smile and her greeting. ‘Not too bad, thank you, Mrs Little,’ he replied, also as usual. At least she enquired, even if she wasn’t really interested – something his wife no longer troubled to do. And he had nothing against the woman personally; on the contrary. She was no oil painting, but he found her unfailingly pleasant and obliging. He had more than once mentioned that it was unnecessary for her to be so punctilious about listening out for the car so that she could spare him the necessity of opening the door for himself, but she had merely replied, ‘Madam’s instructions, sir’, with the slightly deferential smile that always accompanied any reference to the mistress of the house. And what Madam says, goes, had been his resentful, unspoken retort.

  Mrs Little took his coat, which she would later brush and hang up in his wardrobe, saying, ‘Madam is in her boudoir.’ This time he had to turn his head away to conceal his exasperation. Why did Myrna have to insist on such a bloody arty-farty name for what was to all intents and purposes an office?

  ‘Thank you,’ he called over his shoulder as he made his way upstairs. He went to the bathroom, en suite with the room where he had slept alone ever since Myrna made it clear that she no longer required him to share her bed. It had taken him some time to realise that there were just two reasons why she had married him: sex, plus an exceptional financial acumen which had been instrumental in expanding and developing Maxford Domestic Fittings Limited, the business she had inherited from her father, to the point where it had recently attracted a substantial takeover bid. Five years on, she was no longer interested in sex – not with him, at any rate – but his accountant’s brain would continue to be useful to her until she found someone else who fulfilled both functions. After that – what? A demand for a divorce, consigning him to the scrapheap along with his two predecessors? His thoughts were bitter as he washed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt before making his way along the landing to the private sanctum where his wife kept as tight a rein over the affairs of the company as she did over the running of her household.

  Dearley Manor, dating from the early part of the eighteenth century, lay in a wooded valley in the Cotswolds. In the early days of his marriage to Myrna, the days when he believed without question her passionate declarations of love for him, this room had been one of Paul’s favourite places. It was centrally placed at the back of the house, overlooking the garden, and the view from the tall casement windows had a special appeal to his love of symmetry and order. The classical, lichen-covered stone balustrade along the paved terrace was surmounted by a series of regularly spaced Grecian urns and centrally pierced by a flight of stone steps leading down to the lawn, where a flagged path led to a lily pond with a fountain in the middle. A perfectly balanced arrangement of flower beds made a brilliant show during the summer and a careful planting of trees and shrubs gave colour and interest during the winter.

  Myrna had very soon made it clear to Paul that his role in the running of the company would be strictly advisory and she steadfastly refused to make him a shareholder. Nevertheless, to enter her domain, to be consulted and made party to the most confidential aspects of its affairs, still gave him a certain satisfaction. At least he continued to wield influence, if not power. He derived pleasure from the understated opulence of the decor and the expensive electronic gadgetry which gave its owner instant access to every part of her small but immensely lucrative empire. Most of the furniture was custom-made and strictly functional, but the term ‘boudoir’ upon which Myrna insisted, was justified by an arrangement of armchairs, a couch, a cocktail cabinet and a music centre at the far end. In the early days of their tempestuous marriage the two of them often sat there with a drink, discussing some aspect of company business. Later, when he had dealt with all the points she raised and answered all her questions, she would dim the lights and switch on some soft, sensuous music while they made love on the couch. But that was a long time ago…

  When he entered, Myrna was sitting at her reproduction regency desk with an open file in front of her. Without looking up she said, ‘There you are. The draft annual accounts came today. I’d like you to go over them as soon as possible.’ She reached for the half-smoked cigarette burning on a heavy onyx ashtray and continued to study the file for several moments before tapping the top sheet with a poppy-red fingernail and saying, ‘According to this, our pre-tax profits are only marginally above last year’s level. It isn’t good enough; if we want to extend the factory, we’ll have to raise more capital.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Surely, that’s no longer a problem. Once the Headwaters takeover goes through—’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Myrna’s tone was dismissive, as though the offer for her company by the country’s leading speci
alist in domestic plumbing supplies was of little consequence. ‘I’ve decided to vote against acceptance.’

  ‘You what?’ Paul could hardly believe his ears. ‘I thought it was as good as settled.’

  ‘So did my fellow directors.’ Her eyes sparkled with a glee that was almost malevolent. ‘Brad and Sam have already planned how they’re going to spend their hand-outs – or rather, their wives have. I can’t wait to see their faces when I tell them the deal’s off.’

  ‘But why?’

  She assumed a self-righteous expression. ‘I don’t think Father would have approved of my handing over control to outsiders.’

  Some of Paul’s pent-up frustration exploded at this display of hypocrisy and double standards. ‘Why don’t you admit it’s got nothing to do with what your father would have wanted?’ he demanded. ‘The truth is, you don’t want to give up playing God, do you? You enjoy running the show – it gives you the chance to manipulate people’s lives, gives you power over them—’ He broke off, almost choking on the raw emotion that threatened to swamp him. As if she had not heard, Myrna drew on her cigarette, her attention once more on the file. He fought the urge to snatch it up and trample it underfoot. After a few moments of uneasy silence he said, ‘Well, if you’ve made up your mind—’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘—and you want to extend the factory, of course there are other ways of raising the money. The company came through the recession on a pretty sound footing and the potential for growth is obviously there or Headwaters wouldn’t be interested. We can approach a finance company, or maybe the bank—’

  ‘I’m not thinking of a loan, not with interest rates the way they are.’

  ‘So what do you have in mind?’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and for the first time turned to face him. ‘I’m going to sell Dearley’s Acres,’ she said. ‘Land prices are beginning to rise and I’ve had a good offer from some developers that should more than cover the extension, even allowing for an increase in costs between now and the millennium.’

  Paul stared at her in disbelief. ‘You can’t sell that land… your father insisted it had to remain part of the estate… you gave an undertaking—’

  ‘There was never anything in writing.’

  ‘Only because he died before he had time to make it a condition in his will. There’s such a thing as a moral obligation—’

  ‘Moral obligation my foot! Father had absolutely no concept of the problems of running a business – or an estate – in the nineties. His ideas were positively feudal.’

  ‘He made enough money to build up a flourishing company—’ Paul began, but his wife made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘It was Grandfather who founded the company and built it up,’ she interrupted, ‘and it was Grandfather who insisted on appointing me to the Board and giving me control before he died because he could see that his talent for business had skipped a generation. That’s one thing poor Father did not inherit.’

  ‘He inherited your grandfather’s humanity and sense of fair play, and he cared about his employees.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Myrna assumed a sanctimonious expression. ‘The takeover would almost certainly mean redundancies.’

  ‘Oh, I see, what you’re really concerned about is the welfare of the workforce.’ Recalling some ruthless decisions she had taken in the past, Paul was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘But you’re prepared to sell your estate workers’ cottages over their heads. Where are they going to find other jobs? And what about poor old Pussy Willow, for example? She’s lived in Holly Cottage ever since she married Albert. It’ll break her heart to move out.’

  ‘That dotty old thing… she can go into a home or something. That’s the least of the problems.’

  ‘For God’s sake, she’s not dotty, just a bit eccentric. And she’s barely sixty and still active – why should she go into a home?’

  ‘Well, she can’t stay in the cottage if it’s going to be demolished, that’s for sure. She’ll find somewhere… anyway, she should be thankful I didn’t give her notice when her husband died.’

  ‘You would have done if it hadn’t needed so much spending on it before anyone else would agree to live in it.’

  ‘I don’t remember hearing any complaints.’

  ‘Probably because she was scared of losing her pension.’

  Myrna’s carefully lipsticked mouth turned down at the corners. ‘She needn’t have worried about that… I looked into it, but Father made sure it was secure.’

  ‘You mean, you’d have stopped it if you could – a few measly quid a week out of what you’re worth?’

  ‘The state pension would have been quite enough for her needs.’

  ‘You really are a hard-nosed bitch.’

  ‘And you’re a soft, sentimental fool.’

  Paul swallowed, fighting a second outburst. He tried another line of attack. ‘Have you given any thought to how local people will feel about the sale? There’s a bridle path across one of the fields and ramblers use it all the time. It’s green belt land we’re talking about – there’s bound to be opposition.’

  ‘So what? Footpaths can be diverted or accommodated somehow – they’ll have to get used to it.’

  ‘What about planning consent?’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers? The County Council has got to find space to build thousands of new houses and this land is ideally situated. It’s near the motorway and there’s already development less than two miles away. I’ve been assured there’ll be no difficulty.’

  ‘Assured by whom?’

  Myrna gave an impatient shake of her reddish-gold head. ‘Never you mind. Just stick to what you’re best at and leave the big decisions to me. And by the way, you are not to mention a word of this to anyone until I’ve made a formal announcement.’ Her jaw was set in a hard line and the eyes he had once found so enchanting were like sea-green marbles. ‘Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’ He turned away and stared out of the window, but the view had lost its appeal. The rage and resentment that had been fermenting within him over the past few months burned in his stomach and brought the sour taste of bile to his mouth. There were times when she provoked him almost beyond endurance. In the early days of their marriage the rows had always ended in passionate reconciliation, when he could thrust to the back of his mind the creeping suspicion that he had made a ghastly mistake. Now, suspicion had become a reality; it stared him in the face, mocked him whenever he tried to stand up to her and saw the sardonic curve of her mouth as she taunted him with his dependence on her. Well, darling, she would say, if you don’t like living here with me you can always go back to your ex and that gangling oaf of a son you think so highly of.

  And of course, he couldn’t – and she knew it. Even if Susan would have him back, which seemed highly unlikely now that she was involved with that policeman, his pride wouldn’t let him. And it wasn’t only pride; he was reluctant even to consider exchanging his present luxurious lifestyle for the humdrum domesticity and the problems of balancing the household budget that had been a constant feature of his first marriage. It had been all right at first, when they were both working, but after Fergus was born and Susan had insisted on giving up her job to be a full-time mother…

  Myrna brought him back to the present by standing up and thrusting the file into his reluctant hands. ‘By the way,’ she added over her shoulder as she went back to the desk and began stowing papers in a filing cabinet disguised as a regency tallboy, ‘Leonie will be here for dinner this evening. I know she’s not exactly your cup of tea—’

  ‘She’s hardly any man’s cup of tea, is she?’

  ‘There’s no need to be offensive.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be. I’ve nothing against the girl personally, but men don’t go for lesbians any more than lesbians go for men. I wouldn’t have thought she was your type, either,’ he added, this time with studied irony.

  Myrna looked down her nose at him. ‘We have bu
siness matters to discuss,’ she said coldly.

  ‘What’s wrong with the office?’

  ‘Confidential business matters.’ Her implication was obvious, even before she added, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d leave us on our own after dinner.’

  This time, he made no attempt to conceal his anger.

  ‘If you want to talk secrets with Leonie or anyone else, you can either do it during office hours or when I choose not to be around. I’m your husband, not a bloody lodger!’

  ‘You’re quite right, darling – we mustn’t tell the world about our differences, must we? Of course you’re still my husband.’ Her voice had become silky, almost conciliatory, as if she realised that she had pushed him too far. All the same, her tone and the look in her eyes said, Just remember who pays the bills, won’t you? so unmistakably that the words might have been spoken aloud.

  Paul looked down at the file in his hands. Without realising, he had gripped it so hard that the manila folder was buckled at the edges. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be here to cramp your style over the weekend,’ he muttered. ‘I’m taking Fergus to watch a cricket match on Saturday and Sunday.’

  ‘How nice,’ Myrna purred. She glanced at her watch. ‘Drinks at seven thirty; that leaves you almost an hour to start going through those figures.’

  Two

  When Fergus arrived home on Sunday night, Susan Reynolds – known to her family, friends and colleagues as Sukey – was sitting on the couch in the front room with her feet up, watching the late television news. She’d had an ear cocked for him since ten o’clock and was beginning to feel faintly uneasy. It was ridiculous, really; he had been spending the weekend with his father, so he could hardly have come to any harm. It was always like this when he was out at night; he was sixteen, sensible and mature for his age, yet her mother-hen instinct kept her on the alert until her one chick was safely back in the nest. And Paul was usually so meticulous about sticking to the agreed time.