Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 14

Mrs Thomson's long, low sitting room looked out over the dunes. The windows were small and wooden, long overdue an update to double glazing. Libby shivered. The wind from the sea must blow straight through the crumbling wood. She could smell the salt from here.

Mrs Thomson shook her head at Libby's bawled offer of help in the kitchen, pointed to the sofa and went out. Libby tried to remove dog hairs from the tapestry cushions decorating the sofa, changed her mind about sitting down, and stepped over to the window. It took an effort of will to make herself look to the right, along the beach to the lighthouse.

The view encompassed the whole beach, from the pier to the lighthouse and beyond. The tide was out again, leaving the building's stumpy legs exposed in the mud. Libby released her breath in a relieved sigh. There was no body in sight, today.

Mrs Thomson returned, balancing a tray painted with cats. China cups and jugs rattled as she lowered it to one of the side tables. Vases, silver framed photos and dog-shaped ornaments teetered on the piano. Pictures of Bear standing alongside a bent, aging man hung on the walls. Mr Thomson?

His widow poured coffee and brought a cup to Libby at the window. ‘We've got three lighthouses in Exham, you know.’

‘Three?’ Libby sipped the hot coffee.’ It seemed the three lighthouses were a source of pride to local people.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Thomson stretched knobbly, arthritic fingers. ‘There's one on the beach, up there,’ she nodded to the right. ‘That's where they found Suzanne, the other day.’ Libby set her cup and saucer down on the table nearest to the hairy sofa and sat. She could brush her jeans later.

Mrs Thomson took a brownie. ‘These are nice, dear. Did you make them yourself?’

Libby smiled. ‘You've heard about Susie Bennett, then, Mrs Thomson?’

Her companion shook her head, her brow folded into a criss-cross of lines. She looked about to burst into tears. ‘Oh, yes. Such a shame, a lovely girl like Suzanne.’

Libby bit her lip. Mrs Thomson was old and widowed. Maybe asking questions, getting her to relive the past, would be cruel.

Before she could decide, Mrs Thomson was talking. ‘I knew her before she was famous, when she was a little girl, singing at the Christmas parties the vicar used to put on over there.’

She pointed through the window to a small, squat church that lay almost on the dunes. ‘Suzanne, we called her. I don't hold with shortening names that were given at a proper Christian baptism. The young people do it all the time, these days. You never know who's who. My name's Marjorie, and I never let anyone call me anything different, not even my Eric.’

‘Did you know Suzanne well?’ Libby steered the conversation back to the past.

‘My Eric used to play the piano while Suzanne sang. Such a pretty little thing, she was, all curls and a big smile.’ There were tears in the old lady's eyes.

What had she thought when Susie grew up and developed a taste for boys and fast living? ‘Did other children go to the parties, too?’

‘All the boys and girls were there. There'd be dancing and games, Suzanne would sing, and Maxwell would play the saxophone. You know Maxwell, don't you? Calls himself Max, nowadays. Of course you know him. What am I thinking? It's Maxwell sent you round to walk Bear.’ She leaned on the arm of the chair, pushing down for support and staggering to her feet. ‘I'm getting forgetful, that's my trouble. Where did I put Bear's lead, now?’

Libby cut in. ‘Please tell me more about Suzanne.’

Mrs Thomson narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you want to know about her? From the press, are you?’ She pursed thin lips. ‘I know the girls from the local paper. You're not one of them. Are you from the Western Daily Press?’ Her voice rose. ‘Nosey people, those reporters. That Jeremy Abbott from Weston super Mare barges his way in without so much as a by-your-leave. He came yesterday evening, but I didn't open the door to him. Never do, after six o'clock, not at my age. I like to settle down in front of my telly.’

She gave Libby a hard look, as though trying to remember who she was. ‘Anyway, I've nothing to say to you, so you'd better be getting off.’