Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 7

Recessed spotlights picked out the details of Libby's beautifully equipped kitchen as she made coffee, using the state-of-the-art, instant hot water dispenser, installed last week. She pulled out mixing bowls, sieves and scales, and settled down to a trial run of the perfect, elaborate, light-as-air cake she was developing. If it turned out as beautifully as she expected, it would make a wonderful cover picture for the follow up to her recent book, ‘Baking at the Beach.’

It was this room that had persuaded Libby to buy Hope Cottage. Facing south, always either sunny or cosy, perfect for a baking fanatic. Without a qualm, she'd sold her husband's treasured trainset, lavishing every last penny it fetched on her workplace.

Their son, Robert, had been horrified. ‘You can't sell that, Mum. It was Dad's pride and joy.’ It had filled a room in the London townhouse.

‘I know, but I'm moving to Somerset, to a cottage. There won't be room for everything – me, my professional kitchen, and a trainset. I have to earn my own living now your father's gone.’

Robert had sighed. ‘He didn't leave you that badly off, did he? You never said…’

Libby smiled. Robert was such a worrier, and he'd adored his father – she could never tell him the whole truth about the man. She'd never told anyone how Trevor had treated her, criticising her clothes, telling her she was fat, constantly making excuses to prevent her friends coming to the house. It had taken all her strength to keep his bullying from Robert and Ali.

She sometimes thought Ali, her daughter, suspected the truth. Ali had been keen to leave home for Bristol University, six months before Trevor died, and she'd not returned home during those months, although she'd telephoned Libby every week.

Now, at least, the money from Trevor's railway had been put to good use. From the KitchenAid mixer on the granite counter, to the gleaming rows of heavy bottomed pans that hung on the wall near the range cooker, Libby adored every inch of the room.

She'd once confided to Trevor the dream of setting up her own chocolate shop. Trevor had taken off his glasses and glared, his nose less than an inch away from her face.

‘Don't be so stupid.’ Libby had flinched as saliva hit her face.

‘Throwing good money after bad. Besides, I expect to find you at home when I come back after a hard day.’ He sneered, replaced the spectacles right on the end of his nose, poured a tumbler of whisky and settled down to read the newspaper's business section. Libby's new kitchen would have been enough to make him choke on his drink.

What a pity the bathroom didn't reach the standard of her kitchen. The orange made her feel sick every time she saw them. In a day or two, Ned, the builder, was coming to get rid of the horrid, 1970s bathroom.

The phone rang as she shaved fractions of an inch from the sponge cake. Robert was excited. ‘Mum, I've got news.’ Libby's heart leapt. He was getting engaged at last. There would be a wedding. She'd need a new dress, and a hat…

‘Are you listening? I've discovered a new great, great, great aunt, and what's more, she lived in Somerset.’ Libby sighed and cast a despairing glance at the meringue mixture she'd whipped to exactly the right consistency, as it collapsed, ruined.

When he was a studious, serious teenager, Robert preferred history to football and Latin to art. Libby had little interest in the Forest relations, Trevor's ancestors, but Robert worshipped his father. He never saw Trevor's dark side.

Now, Libby tried to be interested. ‘Do tell me about it, darling.’

‘You know Dad always said his family were landowners?’

‘Mm-hm.’ Did he? Libby swallowed a mouthful from a second cup of coffee. She added a slug of whisky to settle her nerves and licked her lips.

‘Well, I've found someone called Matilda Forest, who was a maid at a stately home.’ Libby almost wished Trevor were here now. An ancestor in service – how he'd hate that. So much for landowners.

Robert was still talking. ‘And the house is in Somerset, near you. A place called Mangotsfield Hall. It's open to the public. Maybe we can all visit? Sarah's keen and we can come down in a couple of weeks.’

Sarah was Robert's girlfriend, and her parents lived in the West Country. That had helped, when Libby insisted on selling the family home and moving to Somerset. ‘At least, Sarah and I can come and see you and her parents at the same time,’ Robert had admitted.

Her interest sparked by the mention of Mangotsfield Hall, Libby asked. ‘What did you find out about this Matilda?’

‘Well, she had to leave the Hall because she was pregnant – the family wouldn't have her in the house. She didn't go far, just to Wraxall. The baby kept her surname, but, get this, Mum, his Christian names were Stephen Arthur, and those were the names of the earl who lived in the house.’

Libby chuckled. ‘Are you telling me your father's ancestor was what they used to call, 'No better than she should be,' after hanky-panky with his lordship?’

‘Honestly, Mum, Dad would be mortified.’ Even Robert laughed at the thought.

‘So, he would,’ she agreed.

Libby said, ‘By the way, I had an adventure, yesterday.’

‘You did?’

‘No need to sound so surprised. I'm not that old, yet.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But I found a body on the beach.’

He sounded puzzled. ‘What sort of a body?’

Libby took a breath, enjoying the moment. ‘A dead one.’

‘What?’ His reaction was everything Libby had hoped for.

By the time Robert rang off, keen to pass on such interesting gossip to Sarah when she came home from work, he'd squeezed every detail from his mother.

The phone rang again. Still smiling, Libby picked it up. ‘Hello, darling, what did you forget?’

The deep voice on the other end of the phone brought her back to reality with a thud. ‘Is that Mrs Forest? It's Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore here.’

Libby let the silence draw on for a moment. She really didn't want to talk about the body under the lighthouse again. She was exhausted from answering Robert’s questions. She let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘Yes, it's me.’

‘Well, I'm ringing to thank you for your help today.’ Joe Ramshore was the young detective from the beach. The one with blue eyes and a superior expression. ‘We wanted to let you know we've identified the lady you found.’

‘Susie Bennett?’

‘Oh. You've heard, then.’ He sounded put out. ‘We think we know what happened, Mrs Forest. I thought you'd like to know that the deceased—’ He coughed. ‘I mean, Susie Bennett, seems to have been alone when she died. I didn't want you to worry. It was all an unfortunate accident, or at the worse, intentional.’

‘Intentional?’ Samantha had said it was suicide. Libby shivered. Setting out to drown yourself in the autumn gales was a strange way to take your own life. Why not swallow a few pills, or jump off Clifton Suspension Bridge?

The detective was still talking. ‘Well, I'm afraid she had an awful lot to drink. We think she-er-vomited and choked. The forensic examiner found traces. We couldn't see them on her clothes – the rain had washed them away. No one else involved. It must have happened the night before you found her, though it's hard to tell the time of death, what with the cold water, and so on.’

‘Oh.’ What an anti-climax: to die like that, so foolishly. ‘What about the ring?’

‘The ring?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Oh, yes, that bit of plastic on the sand. It was just a toy ring, nothing valuable. I expect it was in one of her pockets.’

‘But—’ Libby broke off. No need to confess to moving the body. She compromised. ‘I just wondered why she'd have a plastic ring in her pocket.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, we don't know.’ The police officer's tone was measured, pedantic. ‘She wouldn't have been wearing it, would she? It's a child's ring.’

Libby rolled her eyes. She could work that out without his help. ‘Yes, but—’

‘We had a look at it, but there wasn't anything we could use: no fingerprints or anything, I mean. The weather saw to that.’

Libby insisted. ‘I meant, did Susie Bennett have a family?’

‘Ah, I see what you're thinking. You're wondering if she has young children.’

Libby, exasperated, crossed her eyes and waggled her head. Good thing the police officer couldn't see her. ‘Yes.’

‘I can put your mind at rest on that, Mrs Forest. We don't know of any family. Of course, we're getting records over from the US, because her husband was American.’

‘Yes, yes I heard that. You know, from people in the town.’

‘Well, it's a small place. I'll let you know when the inquest comes up. The coroner will want to ask you some questions. Nothing you need worry about. It's not like going to a criminal court.’

‘No, well, thank you. Oh,’ Libby exclaimed.

Yes?’

‘I wondered how she got there. Did you find a car, or anything?’

The police officer sighed. ‘No, but there are buses, Mrs Forest. Exham's not that remote, you know. She was a local lady, probably came back to the place she grew up, if she wanted to end her life. That's not unusual, you know.’

His voice was warmer now. ‘Try to put it out of your mind, Mrs Forest. I know it's upsetting, but these things do happen, I'm afraid.’

Libby put the phone down. Too restless to go back to the spoiled meringue, she climbed the stairs to the bathroom. A hot bath might relax her.

She tried to unwind by reading a magazine, but her mind drifted away to the image of Susie Bennett, drenched and cold, slipping sideways under the lighthouse, in dreadful slow motion. The scene played over and over in her head, like a YouTube video on a never ending loop.

It didn't ring true. Surely, no one would choose such a place, on a stormy night, to drink alone.

It was no good. She stepped out of the bath. How could she leave it at that? The police might be satisfied there was no foul play, but Libby wasn't. If they weren't going to try to discover the truth, she would find out for herself. Was Susie's death really an accident, a deliberate suicide, or something much worse?