Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6 - Frances Evesham - Страница 19

After a morning baking and an afternoon struggling with a pair of unruly knitting needles, Libby was ready for the next meeting of the Knitters' Guild. Ignoring the uneven edges of her squares, Libby stuffed them into a bag, pulled on her thickest woollen sweater, a pair of jeans and sheepskin lined boots, persuaded the engine of the Citroen to kick into action on the third attempt, and drove through the murk of a dark winter’s evening.

The car sped along deserted lanes, round twists and turns. Libby loved to drive in the dark, able to see the lights of an approaching car well before it arrived. Tonight, though, the darkness seemed less dense. It would be hours before dawn broke, but the sky grew brighter every moment. Libby slowed, puzzled.

She turned another corner. Between the naked arms of a leafless hedgerow a gleam of bright orange flickered. Libby drove closer and sniffed the air. An acrid, bitter smell filled the car. The smell of fire.

Smoke billowed, a patch of denser black against the sky. One more turn in the lane and Libby saw the fire straight ahead, bright against the night sky. With a shock of horror, she recognised the isolated eighteenth century thatched cottage where Samantha Watson lived.

She screeched to a halt, leapt from the car and ran through a gate in the white painted fence, towards the house. A light shone from one of the upstairs rooms. ‘No. oh no. Samantha must be in there.’ No face appeared at the window.

Searing heat beat her back. She gasped for breath; lungs full of smoke.

The fire brigade. Coughing, she grabbed the phone from her pocket and fumbled, fingers trembling, for the emergency button, bellowing the news, the roar of fire threatening to drown her voice.

Help was on its way, but the fire had taken hold and black smoke billowed from the front door. Where was Samantha? Was she inside? Why hadn’t she run out? Sick with fear, Libby ran round the cottage, searching for a way in, but the fire burned even more fiercely at the back.

She shrieked Samantha’s name, but all she heard in reply was the shatter of glass as a window exploded high above, driving Libby back. Glass showered like snow into the garden.

Water. She needed water to drown the flames. Desperately, she scanned the garden, the unnatural light of the fire delineating every detail. A tiny stream trickled along beside a wall, but she had no way of carrying the water. She needed a bucket. Where could she find one?

A shed stood halfway down the garden, out of range of the fire. Libby rattled the door, but it was locked. She kicked the lock once. It trembled but held. She took a run at the door and crashed painfully against the wood.

The wail of a fire engine sounded, ever closer. Libby took another hopeless run at the shed. Hands grabbed at her arms, pulling her back. ‘Leave it to us, now.’

‘Thank heaven, you're here.’ Howling with frustration, she screamed, ‘I think Samantha’s in there. It’s her house and the light was on. I couldn’t get in…’

She broke off, paralysed, as with a roar like a steam train, the thatched roof threw a volcano of fire into the air and collapsed, tumbling into the house.

Someone led Libby away. ‘There’s nothing you can do. We can’t get in until the fire’s under control. Keep back while the lads work.’

Sobbing, she sank to the ground as fire officers unrolled a heavy hose. A torrent of water flooded the house, until every inch was drenched. Slowly, the flames flickered and died.

For Libby, time seemed to stand still. The house was a shell, no more than four blackened walls, when at last two burly figures pushed their way through the space where the door used to stand.

Libby held her head in her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks, waiting and hoping, knowing it was impossible for Samantha to have survived the inferno, praying she’d been away from home.

The fire officers returned, shoulders drooping. An officer trudged across to Libby and removed a heavy helmet. Libby recognised a young woman who often came into the bakery. Libby didn’t know her name. Cheese and pickle baguette. That’s what she buys. Libby’s thoughts shied away from the truth she read in the woman’s face.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Forest.’ The officer wiped a sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You’re right. There’s someone in there.’

Libby shuddered, horror clutching her stomach. Voice trembling, she asked the question, knowing the answer already. ‘Is she dead?’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Anyone else?’ had Chief Inspector Arnold been there with her?

Libby closed her eyes and sank to the ground, hardly aware of the freezing water that puddled on the lawn, soaking her jeans. ‘If I’d been here sooner. If I hadn’t had that last cup of coffee…’

The officer crouched at her side. ‘You did all you could. Are you hurt?’

Libby shook her head, turned away and emptied the contents of her stomach on the muddy ground.

She threw her clothes into a black bin bag and dumped it in her spare room. She’d never wear them again. She showered, scrubbing every inch of her body under hot water, and shampooed her hair three times. The smell of burning lingered everywhere, in her chest and throat, in the pores of her skin. It filled the cottage.

She gargled with mouthwash and sprayed the house with Glade. All the while, a voice in her head whispered, ‘You never liked Samantha Watson.’ No matter how hard Libby tried, she couldn’t subdue that small, persistent voice of guilt.

Max helped her onto the sofa and handed over a glass of brandy. He’d found the bottle under the sink. It had belonged to her husband. Libby hated brandy, but tipped a big slug down her throat, anyway. Maybe it would banish the smell of smoke. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Max asked.

She tried to smile. ‘A little. My conscience is working overtime. Samantha said there’s been nothing but trouble since I came to Exham. I wonder if she was right?’

‘Nonsense. That’s delayed shock talking. Why should the fire be your fault? You had nothing to do with it. In fact, you nearly rescued Samantha.’

‘I’m afraid ‘nearly’ wasn’t enough.’ Libby shuddered. ‘That chocolate-box thatched roof looked cute, but wasn’t the house a disaster just waiting to happen?’

Max tucked a rug around her knees. ‘In fact, thatched roofs are no more combustible than other materials, but so many things can start a fire. Candles left burning, or gas, or a cigarette.’

‘Samantha didn’t smoke. I don’t understand why she didn’t get out when the fire started’

‘Who knows. Maybe she wanted an early night, perhaps had a couple of drinks that made her woozy. Once a fire takes hold, it’s amazing how fast it travels. It’s usually the smoke that chokes people, prevents them from escaping.’

Libby shuddered. ‘What a terrible way to die. I suppose the police and fire service will be on the case, and we’ll find out the full story.’

Max tried to refill her brandy glass, but she made a face and pushed it away.

He said. ‘For one thing, they’ll have the insurance company on their backs, trying to avoid a huge pay out. Samantha would have all the proper documentation. She was a solicitor, after all.’ He frowned. ‘Though any documents may have been destroyed in the fire.’

Libby struggled to sit up straight. ‘There are sure to be electronic copies online.’

Max poured another slug of brandy into her glass. ‘I’ll bet super-efficient Samantha had a fireproof filing cabinet. Or if not, she might have left paperwork at the solicitors’ office. Anyway, Chief Inspector Arnold will sort it out. Poor fellow.’

Libby shuddered. Those things she’d said about Samantha and the chief inspector in the past; if only she could take them back. ‘He’ll be devastated. They’ve been engaged for months.’

She yawned and her eyelids drooped. The brandy was doing its job. ‘I’m going to bed. I can’t think any more tonight. It’s been such a week, what with Giles Temple, and Angela, and that scene in the shop, and…’ She stopped, half way to the door, with a sharp intake of breath.

‘What is it?’ Max, gathering glasses, paused.

‘Nothing. I just remembered…’ Libby forced herself to breathe evenly. She tried a weary smile. ‘It’s nothing. I’m tired. Good night.’

She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Max, about the picture in her head: the fury on Mandy’s face and the venom in the words she’d hissed in Libby’s ear as the solicitor left the bakery. ‘She’ll be sorry.’