Page 45 of Pressure Head
“Tough. It’s the witness we need to keep sweet, not you. And don’t forget to do your stuff,” he added in a lower voice.
“Fine,” I huffed. While he sat down in one of those comfy-looking chairs, I wandered around the room, listening for vibes. It was odd—there was definitely nothing in the room, but I was picking up a faint trail from somewhere. Every time I grabbed for it, though, it trickled away.
“Found something?” Phil murmured.
“Not sure. I—” I broke off as Lionel came back into the room, bearing what looked like a solid silver tea tray with a matching teapot, sugar bowl, and milk jug, plus some dinky little tea cups with saucers. There was even a plate with homemade shortbread fingers on it. My opinion of Lionel went up a notch.
We all sat down, and Lionel poured the tea like we were at a Women’s Institute meeting, about to discuss the jam-making rota. I took a piece of shortbread and tried not to groan obscenely in pleasure at the way it melted in my mouth, an explosion of butter and sugar. The tea, afterwards, was a disappointment—nothing wrong with it, but it wasn’t anything special, either, and those bone-china cups were way too fiddly.
“I have to say,” Lionel began, “I’m a little surprised you’re investigating poor Melanie’s death. Isn’t this sort of thing best left to the police?”
He seemed to have a lot of faith in Dave and his boys. I wondered how they were getting on. Seemed to me if they’d come up with anything, we’d have heard about it.
“I’m sure they’re doing an excellent job,” Phil said smoothly. “But it never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes looking out for things. A fresh perspective.”
“I shouldn’t have thought any fresh perspective were necessary. There’s no doubt in my mind who’s responsible for this dreadful business. I told Melanie she was making a mistake, tying herself to that drug-addled layabout, but poor girl, I’m afraid she refused to listen to the voice of experience.”
I bristled, but Phil carried on with an even tone. “My information is that Graham had been off drugs for over a year at the time of Melanie’s death.”
“There’s no such thing as an ex-addict,” Lionel said, shaking his head. “It’s an old saying, but a true one.”
“What, likegive a dog a bad name and hang him?” I asked, deciding that tasty shortbread fingers notwithstanding, I wasn’t a huge fan of Lionel Treadgood.
Phil gave me a look like he wished we were sitting around a table so he could kick me in the shins. Hard. “I imagine you worked quite closely with Melanie on church matters,” he said, losing the glare as he turned pointedly to Lionel.
“Oh—well, to some extent, yes. Of course, a lot of it gets accomplished without face-to-face contact, of course. I’d drop off things for her attention at the vestry, and she’d do the same for me.”
“But you had regular meetings?”
“If you mean the PCC meetings, then yes. But there would be between ten and twenty of us at those, depending on other commitments.”
“And the vicar, I assume, would attend?”
“Meredith? Oh, yes.” Lionel’s mouth twisted a little as he said the Rev’s name. I got the feeling he didn’t have all that high an opinion of poor old Merry.
On the other hand, it could just be that utterly crap name he hated. Seriously, what had the Rev’s parents been thinking? Had they secretly wanted a hobbit?
Phil leaned forward. “How well did Meredith and Melanie get on?”
“Oh, Melanie got on well with everyone, poor girl. She was such a lovely young lady—always willing to help out. And never had a bad word for anyone.” He sighed. “She’s a sad loss to the parish. But then I always did question the wisdom of her . . . personal choices.”
“You mean Graham?” I asked sharply.
Lionel spread his hands in a smugly eloquent gesture. I had half a mind to give him an eloquent gesture of my own. “Even his best friends could hardly claim he was any great catch. And now—well, it seems he’s shown his true colours.”
“Graham Carter hasn’t actually been charged with murdering Melanie,” Phil put in mildly.
“No, but really, who on earth could it have been, if not him? Nine times out of ten—more, I’ve no doubt—itisthe lover.” Lionel shook his head. “I feel sorry for him, actually—he was bound to suffer from an inferiority complex, with a fiancée like Melanie.”
The fact that I’d been wondering myself what on earth she’d seen in him didn’t make me hate Lionel any less. I drew in a breath.
“Want another?” Phil asked pointedly, thrusting the plate of shortbread in my face.
I blinked, startled. It brought me back to myself. I had a job to do here. “Oh—no, thanks. Actually, Lionel, do you mind if I use your loo? ’Fraid that tea’s gone right through me.”
“Of course. In the hall, next to the front door.”
“Thanks.”
I didn’t, of course, follow his directions. I tiptoed upstairs as quietly as I could, wishing I’d thought to change into trainers. At least the stairs were carpeted, with a thick crimson runner. I couldn’t work out why it made me feel vaguely uneasy until I realised it was exactly the colour of blood, as if a river of the stuff was pouring down the stairs like in some cheap horror-schlock film. I shuddered, then told myself not to be so daft. Blood’s actually quite a nice colour, as they go, and it went well with the William Morris Thistle wallpaper.
There was an oak sideboard on the landing between the two flights of stairs, with a massive dried flower arrangement on it, presumably in case you got bored halfway up and wanted something to look at. The window behind it was made of that antique glass that looks like old bottles, and you couldn’t see through it. The whole place smelled of wild roses. Once at the top of the stairs, I listened carefully. Again, all I got was a faint trail that slipped away from me teasingly every time I tried to get a fix on it.
All the doors on this floor were either shut or just barely ajar. Hoping like hell there’d be no one in there, I opened the door to the nearest bedroom and peered inside. It was a good-sized room but very clearly not used for sleeping in—there was a sewing machine set up on a table by the window, a dressmaker’s dummy, and bits of fabric everywhere. It looked like the current project was curtains, in a pale floral fabric that probably cost more per yard than all the ready-made curtains in my house put together.
There was nothing in there. I closed the door.
Then a soft, musical voice asked, “Can I help you?”
