Stone Dead Read online

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment, and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and print-on-demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  Contents

  Jennie Melville

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jennie Melville

  Stone Dead

  Jennie Melville, a pseudonym for Gwendoline Butler, was born and brought up in south London, and was one of the most universally praised of English mystery authors. She wrote over fifty novels under both names. Educated at Haberdashers, she read history at Oxford, and later married Dr Lionel Butler, Principal of Royal Holloway College. She had one daughter, who survives her.

  Gwendoline Butler’s crime novels are hugely popular in both Britain and the United States, and her many awards included the Crime Writers’ Association’s Silver Dagger. She was also selected as being one of the top two hundred crime writers in the world by The Times.

  Chapter One

  Nothing would ever remedy the smell in the house at the bottom of Gallows Hill, it would never go away.

  The women at present settling into it as a bookshop had not noticed it yet. Or if they did then they attributed the dry, musty, obstinate smell to the books they were settling on the shelves.

  The interesting thing was that some people never noticed the smell. Winifred Eagle never did and never would. Or would never admit it: the most she allowed was that some days the smell of the old fish market did linger on or go out into the garden and say how strong the smell of the river was today. Thus far and no further. Insensitive, her friend Birdie said. She was sensitive, herself.

  Detective Sergeant Tiger Yardley, who knew the street well and was to get to know it better, never noticed more than a faint whiff of the smell himself, which he put down to his imagination or the fact that as an ex-boxer he had a damaged nose. His friend the police pathologist Dr Lily noticed the smell even less.

  Winifred Eagle and Birdie Peacock had sold their house in Maid of Honour Row on the other side of Windsor, quarrelled fiercely but probably not irredeemably with their friend Charmian Daniels, top policewoman who was opposed to the operation, and bought the ancient shop which had been new when Oliver Cromwell was alive. ‘Stick to what you do best. You are marvellous white witches, you cured my migraine,’ Charmian had said. They had contributed to her having it, of course, but it would be ungracious to say so when you considered the spells, meditations, and silent vigils before the big oak tree in the Great Park they had undergone on her behalf. She was certainly better.

  Now they were easing themselves into their new life, helped by friends from the WWW. White Witches of Windsor, a small, select group, not always on the best of terms, sometimes split by rivalry, but always, in the end, there to help another witch. As a group they understood the value of quiet suitable publicity, nothing strident, and had booked themselves a good spot on the e-net with a page called WITCHWORLD. Winifred and Birdie had put money into WITCHWORLD and expected a modest return on their investment, although Winifred had been hinting that in this direction she would not mind immodesty.

  Now they were preparing a tea party for friends and supporters who had helped them get the shop ready.

  ‘Win darling, tell me, has the cat eaten the cake Frostie made for us, the fruit cake with cherries on the top?’ One witch was examining a large cake which certainly had a frayed or chewed look at the edges.

  ‘I don’t think so, have you, precious one?’ Winifred looked fondly at the large, sleek black cat sitting on the window ledge, eye to eye with her. He had recently adopted them. The cat lashed his tail in reply. Clearly, it was a ‘No, not on any account, wouldn’t touch the stuff.’ ‘You must remember he doesn’t like nuts.’

  ‘You can’t believe a word that cat says,’ Birdie Peacock called from across the room where she was sorting books.

  ‘Since he cannot speak a word,’ declared Winifred Eagle with her usual asperity, ‘ that is not surprising.’

  Frostie, a tall, elegant young woman, was the electronic expert who had set up their computer with all its allied equipment and instructed Birdie and Winifred how to use the e-mail and its network.

  She was also a cook, but not as good at fruit cakes as with a computer. Her fruit cake was crumbly, but was still there, slightly chewed looking around the edges, in a place of honour on the big round table in the middle of the shop, where piles of new books would rest when the shop was opened soon.

  ‘I think the place looks good,’ said Birdie, turning around to take in the shining wooden floor, the neat shelves of brightly coloured books: Crime (pride of place here), The Best of Modern Writing, Science Fiction (couldn’t leave it out, Windsor Great Park was reputed to be the landing place for other planets’ space vehicles … Come to see the Queen – Windsor thought, being used to fame as a tourist centre – arid if Japan why not Outer Space), Romance, and then Cookery and Health. Not too many titles here, for they were well covered elsewhere in other shops, whereas Birdie and Winifred were going to concentrate on crime, past and present, fictional and true. In the secondhand area at the back of the shop they had a near perfect set of Notable British Trials, several volumes of William Roughead’s famous trials, with some good Americana, notably Lizzie Borden, whom Birdie believed innocent while Winifred equally fiercely did not. One corner of the shop was devoted to a small display of books by and about witches ancient and modern. They had tarot cards, charms and a selection of wands. They were discreet about how well the wands worked. ‘People vary so in their electrical impulses,’ was what they said. This was true of the dowsing rods of which there were several, all said to be useful, but there was no guarantee, and Winifred was far too sensible to offer one.

  Frostie Fisher pushed her way through the front door into the shop. ‘You’ll have to get that door fixed, Birdie, it sticks. You’ll have customers going away without getting in.’

  ‘I’ll oil the hinges.’ Birdie was more practical than Winifred, who was the ideas witch. Indeed, a Bronze Age Greek witch or an Anglo-Saxon Good Woman would have been surprised at some of the ideas that Winifred, witch of her time, came up with.

  Frostie was working in one of the local hospitals, fitting in where required on the administrative side. What she was really doing was research for a novel set in a hospital, so the fact that she was paid very little was not important. In any case she was well provided for by family money. All white witches attend to their own material welfare; poverty is not a witchly virtue. Why be poor when you can manage not to be?

  She looked at her fruit cake. ‘ What’s happened to the edges?’

  ‘A little accident, all my fault,’ said Birdie smoothly, pushing the black cat out of sight. She gave Win a quick look to say keep quiet, and returned her attention to Frostie, who was still talking.

  ‘This tea party is all right, as a beginning. Who have you got coming?’

  ‘Just helpers and friends. Charmian Daniels is asked, and says she will come although she was hesitant at first. She takes crime seriously, you see, she’s quite a power, you kno
w, and such a nice woman. We have helped her with her animals. In fact, they are with us most of the time now.’ The White Witches, with Winifred and Birdie prominent amongst them, ran a retirement home for pet animals; it paid well, and the well-pensioned animals lived to a good age, sometimes outliving their owners. ‘And a few local editors are coming.’

  ‘I don’t like that Daniels woman,’ said Frostie. ‘She brings the smell of death with her.’

  Birdie could not deny it, she had seen Charmian work on several messy murders. ‘ It’s a job,’ she said, in defence.

  ‘But she chose it.’

  ‘She’s a very nice woman, you can tell it from her animals, you can see that they have always been respected.’

  Frostie moved back from the tea table and changed her form of attack. She was in a waspish mood today, thought Birdie, as alas she often was lately. Trouble somewhere.

  ‘Anyway, Charmian isn’t just a policewoman now, you know, she heads some tremendously important committee.’

  ‘It’s still police work.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ admitted Birdie. ‘I admire her very much, though.’

  ‘I’d kill you if you didn’t,’ said Winifred, who was one of Charmian’s great supporters. ‘As it happens, what she is doing is chairing a committee on women victims. She will probably write the report herself. It’s very important work and she has talked to me about it.’ White witches did not like women to be victims, although they recognized that they often were. ‘ Women who are attacked, murdered, raped. Women who sometimes do very violent things because of ill treatment in their own past … that makes them victims. Women who go missing … that’s a problem in itself.’

  ‘Two women missing from around here,’ said Frostie.

  ‘I know,’ said Winifred. Of course, she knew, and had mentioned missing women on purpose, because Frostie knew one of the missing women and might know both for all Winifred knew. She caught Birdie’s eye. All right, Birdie, she thought, you know I don’t like this woman, and she doesn’t like me, but perhaps I am wrong in thinking she is collecting bodies.

  After all, they didn’t have to be dead, these missing women. Although they probably were.

  Frostie looked round the shop appraisingly. Yes, it looked good, but it needed customers. She had not invested any money in it herself but she meant to keep her eye on the shop: she guessed that there might be some interesting customers.

  ‘You will have to push the boat out when you open for real.’

  ‘Champagne,’ said Birdie. ‘And plenty of it.’ She liked champagne. ‘We are lucky enough to have a sponsor for that.’ One of the white witches owned a wine shop chain, and was a newcomer, still feeling her way and anxious to be accepted as one of ‘them’.

  ‘A friend of mine,’ put in Winifred. ‘I think we can rely on the champagne being good.’

  ‘There’s that bloody cat,’ said Frostie.

  The black cat had emerged from hiding and was staring at Frostie with a look of downright ill will.

  If I were Frostie, thought Birdie, observing the black cat, I’d be positively nervous. Everyone knows you don’t insult a black cat.

  But there, Frostie was a white witch, reformed, nouveau style, and too modern in some of her views for Birdie, who was unregenerately unreformed.

  ‘A good publicity gimmick is what you need,’ went on Frostie. She sniffed the air doubtfully. ‘You might get in some air freshener.’

  Birdie nodded but said nothing. Everyone knew that old houses always smelled.

  The shop quarters covered the whole ground floor with an outer and inner room. The house rose above, two more solid floors: Three rooms a floor, one very small. It had never been a handsome house, but was well built and strong, so the years of neglect with its last owner who had not lived in it but used it for storage of dry goods had done it no harm.

  Birdie and Winifred had put in a new kitchen and a new bathroom. There had been no money or time for redecoration but Winifred had ordered everything white, doors and walls.

  ‘To match us, I suppose,’ Birdie had muttered. ‘ White witches, white walls.’ She liked colour herself and sported red hair at the moment, but its colour had been known to change. Sometimes auburn and sometimes a deep rich colour which had caused a friend to say sarcastically: ‘How nice to see real Titian.’

  The long thin garden at the back, flanked by high brick walls and much overgrown with old shrubs and two weeping willows, was not beautiful. There was a shed at the bottom which the builders had used while they were doing the house alterations. You could see the yellow and black scorch marks on the grass where they had burnt their rubbish.

  ‘What are you going to do with the garden?’ Frostie continued her inquisition.

  ‘Tidy it up, and build a garage at the bottom where there is a gate on to Pope Street. We need a garage and above it there will be storage room.’

  ‘What are you going to store?’

  ‘Bodies,’ said Birdie. ‘Dead, of course. And the odd skeleton.’ She stalked away.

  The tea party guests began to assemble: the Staines witches came first, not many in number but a powerful, dedicated, charming trio, bursting with excitement and good humour. They had lately had a great success, there had come a manifestation.

  Into Mrs Macbeth’s garden had come a swarm of bees. A symbol of fertility, as you know. And they were wild bees too, my gardener told me, which made them the more powerful.’

  Winifred caught Birdie’s eye and knew that both of them were wondering what good a symbol of fertility would be to Mrs Macbeth, who was a lady of some age.

  But they were wrong. Her daughter, long childless, was pregnant. ‘Twins,’ Mrs Macbeth whispered.

  Nor was that all the blessing the bees had brought to the household. Mrs Macbeth’s King Charles spaniel, who had been spayed, was in pup.

  Winifred thought that this was overdoing it, while Birdie thought she would have a word with the vet who had performed the operation, but the Staines witches were as proud as could be.

  After the contingent from Staines, the local witches from Old Windsor and Merrywick arrived, bringing with them the sole witch from Slough. She always complained that being so close to Heathrow was a great hindrance to meditation. Sometimes she caught the bus and walked in the Great Park in Windsor, finding a willing tree to stand before and collect energy from. Not all trees were willing.

  Birdie made the tea, a big pot, while Winifred handed round sandwiches and drew attention to the buttered scones and the cakes. She did not say Avoid the Fruit Cake, but on the whole, they did, because the black cat had not improved its appearance. He attended the tea party and was given a saucer of milk.

  Winifred made a short speech. ‘ Thank you, ladies, thank you. All of you did something helpful: the Merrywick ladies cleaned all the shelves which Birdie and I put up ourselves. We hope they will bear the weight of all the books piled on them.’ Polite laughter. ‘Our friends from Staines helped with the painting, lovely ladies, and our colleague from Slough …’ she paused, what had the bloody woman done? ‘ She brought a spray of willow for us … Birdie and Frostie prepared the tea, and I poured it out.’ Pause for a laugh again, which came when the assembled witches realized what was required of them.

  ‘Dull lot,’ said Winifred, as they all departed. ‘They need shaking up a bit.’

  The tea party over, Winifred and Birdie tidied up.

  ‘Just like Frostie not to help with the clearing away.’

  ‘She ate plenty,’ said Birdie. ‘So I suppose that was her contribution.’ It was Winifred who locked the doors before they went up the

  stairs to the living quarters.

  A card had been slipped through the letter box. She picked it

  up.

  It was thick, good quality and beautifully printed.

  VICTORIA JANUS. PC

  Promotion and Messenger Services.

  Vine House, Oakley Road, Slough.

  And underneath, one handwritten word:


  Tendresse.

  Winifred turned the card over: it was addressed to her at the bookshop.

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  Birdie considered. ‘ That’s not her real name.’

  ‘I agree. And what about “tendresse”?’

  Birdie considered again, and then looked at her friend. ‘She fancies you.’

  Winifred drew herself up. ‘There can be nothing of that sort.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Birdie, a trace of sadness in her voice.

  ‘That means she’s seen me. Watched me.’

  Birdie nodded. ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘And what is PC?’

  ‘Privy Councillor, Procuress?’

  ‘Birdie! Your jokes sometimes go too far.’

  ‘Was I joking?’

  Winifred was getting very proper as she got older, reflected Birdie. What had happened to the woman who had danced naked under a tree in the Great Park, and had invited the irate park warden to disrobe and dance with her? And, damn it, he nearly did, thought Birdie, I was there and I saw. She had been dancing herself.

  Birdie had been studying the card. ‘There’s something you missed … a … pencilled message on the back. I’ve hinted for ages that you ought to wear your specs more often. It’s age, Win. Happens to us all.’

  It was at moments like these that Winifred felt like killing her beloved friend. She stretched out a hand. ‘Of course I can see it, I just didn’t look.’

  ‘It says: I will be at your opening, look out for me,’ chanted Birdie quickly.

  ‘I won’t know her.’

  ‘She’ll make herself known, I bet,’ said Birdie. ‘I’m quite interested. Not a totally friendly person, I’d say. Messenger? That’s interesting now, isn’t it?’

  Winifred placed the card on the shining round table. It was soon obscured by a pile of new crime books which had just been delivered. She selected one to read in bed: the latest True Crimes, volume three. Gruesome sometimes but gripping. She had contributed one story herself about a ring of seventeenth-century witches.