Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 23

‘Dairy's over there.’ He pointed through the window. To be sure, behind the run-down farmhouse nestled a contrasting complex of neat brick buildings, doors and windows smart with red paint, enclosing a small yard lined with pristine paving stones. In the distance, a herd of goats tugged up mouthfuls of grass in a paddock, as though on a mission. ‘Jack runs the business now.’

The unexpected burst of information brought Libby back to the filthy kitchen. Could that be pride in the farmer's voice?

‘Jack?’ She guessed. ‘Your son?’

‘Ah. Lives over yonder with that fancy wife of his.’ Sutcliffe's ruddy face had calmed. Social relations had somehow been restored. The farmer gestured towards a battered brown kettle. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes, please. Let me get the cups.’ Many more of these visits and she'd float away on a tide of tea and coffee. She pulled mugs from the wobbling pile on the draining board and seized the opportunity to inspect them for grime. She'd seen worse.

Sutcliffe fiddled with kettle and tea caddy. Libby coughed. ‘Susie Bennett. You were in the band, with her and Guy, isn't that right?’

‘Ah.’ Sutcliffe kept his back turned.

‘I found her body.’

He stopped, kettle poised inches above an ancient, cracked teapot. His words were almost inaudible. ‘Did you now? All alone on the beach?’

The bluster drained away from the red face, leaving it crumpled, like a crushed eggshell. Libby took the kettle, pouring hot water into the pot, giving the farmer time to blow a loud nasal blast on a grubby handkerchief. ‘Little Susie. Who'd have thought it?’

The door opened and a younger, taller, cleaner version of James Sutcliffe strode in. Any hope the son would prove more welcoming than his father evaporated. He threw a cursory glance at Libby. ‘What's going on, here, Dad?’

Sutcliffe wiped his eyes. Libby assessed the distance to the door, wishing she could just leave, annoyed to have misread James Sutcliffe. The gruff exterior hid deep feelings.

‘I – I'm sorry.’ Lost for adequate words, she sniffed a nearby bottle of milk, decided there was life left in it, and poured three cups of tea. ‘I came to find out more about Susie Bennett.’

‘You've picked a bad time.’ The son pulled out a wooden chair and his father sank into it. ‘Dad's wife died a month ago. The news about Susie just about finished him off.’

Libby gulped. No wonder the place was such a mess. James Sutcliffe had been running on empty, trying to keep going after the tragedy.

A thought struck. Jack Sutcliffe had said, ‘Dad's wife.’ She wasn't his own mother then.

He folded his arms. ‘What's it all to do with you, anyway?’

‘I found Susie's body. On the beach, under the lighthouse. I just wanted to find out more about her. The police aren't interested, but she'd been away for so long…’

‘The lighthouse?’ James Sutcliffe interrupted. ‘That's where we used to do our courting, back along when we were lads. Bonfires on the beach, hanky-panky in the dunes.’ Libby studied the rugged face, searching for a likeness to the youth in the photograph. Life had been hard for Susie's old friend.

Jack opened a series of tins, peered into one and offered it to Libby. ‘Rich tea?’

She took one, dunking it in her mug. ‘I just wanted to find out why Susie was back in England. I thought her old band mates might know.’

The older Sutcliffe stuffed his handkerchief in a pocket, packed a biscuit into his mouth and mumbled. ‘Came to see my Mary.’

His son translated. ‘Susie wanted to see my stepmother before she died. It was cancer. It took a long time for her to go.’

Libby sat back. The answer to Susie's presence in the area was as simple as that: no mystery, after all. Susie had come back to visit old friends in trouble. ‘I'm very sorry for your loss.’

Sutcliffe's son filled in the details. James married his first wife in the United States before the band broke up. The marriage didn't last long: the first Mrs Sutcliffe had a sharper eye for business than for romance and left her husband and young son for a wrinkled but rich American tycoon. Susie stayed in touch when the newly divorced James brought his son, Jack, home to the UK and turned to farming.

‘She used to write, now and then.’ Jack smiled. ‘Even sent me presents from America. T-shirts and sneakers: things you couldn't get in England, then. Like an aunt, really.’

‘Do you have any letters?’

Sutcliffe shrugged. ‘Threw them away. Anyway, they were private.’ Libby held up a hand. ‘I'm not being nosy, Mr Sutcliffe. You see, no one knows exactly what happened. How Susie died, I mean. It seemed like she'd been drinking and got caught in the high tide.’

Sutcliffe snorted. ‘Susie wouldn't get caught. She grew up in Exham. Knew every inch of the beach. She'd never let the tide catch her like one of those summer visitors. She drank like a fish, mind you, that's true enough.’

Libby smiled. ‘You must have known her daughter?’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘I heard Annie Rose drowned.’

Sutcliffe clenched his fists and hammered them on the table, rattling the mugs. ‘If I could get my hands on that man…’ He pointed a finger at Libby. ‘Neglect. That's what killed Susie's little girl. Mickey Garston let her die because he was too lazy to look after her.’

‘Dad.’ Jack intervened, one hand on his father's arm. ‘No one really knows what happened. Anyway, that was years ago. It's Susie's death we're talking about. You're saying it might have been an accident?’

Libby shrugged. ‘No. Murder.’ She let that thought sink in.

Sutcliffe clattered the mugs together and threw them in the sink. ‘Mickey Garston. That's who's behind it, you mark my words. Susie cursed the day she met that man. Just let me get at him…’ Jack laid a hand on his father's shoulder, but the older man shrugged it off. ‘Should have dealt with him myself, years ago.’

‘Mickey was in America when she died,’ Libby said. ‘Besides, why would he want her dead after so many years?’

‘I'll show you.’ Sutcliffe left the room. Libby heard drawers opening, papers being shuffled. ‘Here it is.’ He held out two pages of writing paper. He hadn't thrown all her letters away then.

Libby glanced at the signature. Love, Susie, xxx. She read through the childish script.

Dear Jamie and Mary,

Thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent, and for remembering the anniversary of Annie Rose's death. She would have been ten years old. I still can't believe she's gone.

I miss England very much, but I won't come back. I have friends out here and the sun always shines. Most important, though, is I can visit Annie Rose's grave to talk to her.

You probably heard Mickey and I split up. It's been all over the news programmes. He's going to divorce me. I'd stop it, if I could, but Californian law won't let me. It makes me angry. Why should I set him free to marry someone else, after all he's done? My mistake was marrying him in the first place.

I want him to be miserable…

Libby re-read the letter. ‘Divorce?’ She let the idea take root in her brain. ‘So, Mickey was her ex-husband. And now, Mickey's married to another woman.’

She thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if Susie named Mickey in her will, or if she made another after the divorce?’

Sutcliffe rocked his chair back. ‘Susie wouldn't let Mickey know how much money she had. I bet she put it somewhere out of his reach.’

Libby was still thinking it through. ‘I don't blame her. She wouldn't want to rely on Mickey for alimony.’

Sutcliffe laughed; the sound sharp as a whip crack. ‘You have to understand Susie, you see. Most people don't. At school, she was a bit of an outcast, because her parents were travellers. Her mother came from an old gypsy family. As for her dad, he was long gone when she was just a bairn.’

‘Susie's parents never bothered to get married. No one knows what happened to her old man: he'll have died, long ago. Travellers live free as air, but they don't live long. Her Ma died while we were in the States.’

‘Our Susie was more of a gypsy than anyone I've ever met. She didn't care about money. She did things the traveller's way: with a handshake. I'd be willing to bet my farm she died without leaving a will. Probably didn't even have a solicitor.’

‘That means Susie's money…’

Sutcliffe slapped the table with one hand. ‘It means Mickey might think he can get his hands on Susie’s fortune – but he can’t. It’ll go to her family, no matter how distantly they’re related.’