Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6 - Frances Evesham - Страница 20

Libby woke late to find a rare beam of light flooding the room between the curtains. She rolled over and a mild pain behind her eyes intensified until her entire head throbbed. She scrubbed at her face, eyes squeezed shut, desperate to erase the memory of last night’s fire.

She sat up, pulse racing, as she remembered Mandy’s fury. Could her apprentice possibly have anything to do with the fire? Libby shuddered. Mandy would never, ever do such a thing. Of course, she wouldn’t.

Libby paused to think. Yesterday was Mandy’s day off. She’d muttered something about visiting friends before going to The Dark Side, the club frequented by Somerset’s small Goth community, for the evening. Libby could easily check on her movements. All she had to do was talk to Mandy’s friends.

She chewed her lip. Go behind her apprentice’s back? What was she thinking? She must ask Mandy herself. She swung her legs out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, grabbed her phone and looked at the time. Too late. Mandy must have left the house by now.

Libby fought down a stab of panic. Think logically. She took a deep breath and sank on to the bed. There were plenty of other possible causes of the fire. A kitchen fire? The organised Samantha would have a fire blanket in the house. Candles, or a spark from an open hearth? Possibly. What about cigarettes? Samantha did not smoke, but maybe someone else had been with her earlier, dropping a lighted cigarette end behind a chair, or near a curtain, where it could smoulder, unnoticed, before bursting into flame. A single half extinguished cigarette could burn down a house.

Libby sighed. This was all hopeful nonsense. Controlling, superior Samantha would never let anyone smoke in her home, and the fire officers had only found one body.

Two suspicious deaths within a week was too much of a coincidence. They could be connected, and Libby wouldn’t find the link by sitting upstairs all morning.

She sniffed as a tantalising smell crept into the room. Bacon. Max was making breakfast. How could she have forgotten Max that had stayed overnight in the third bedroom? Her heart suddenly light, she ran downstairs.

He waved her to a stool, set down a plate of bacon and eggs and clattered cutlery. ‘How are you, this morning?’

Libby, ravenously hungry, smiled. ‘Much better. You’re turning into quite a chef. Has Mandy gone to work?’

‘Haven’t seen her. I don’t think she was here last night.’

Without another word, Libby turned, ran upstairs, and threw open Mandy’s door. The room was empty. Either Mandy had left so quietly no one heard her go, or she hadn’t slept here last night.

Libby’s appetite vanished. She played with breakfast, struggling to force down the food, making light of Mandy’s absence. ‘She sometimes stays with her friends overnight.’

She sent Max home, pleading a long list of cake commissions. She needed to be alone to phone Mandy. She couldn’t share her suspicions with Max at this stage. Not yet.

Max argued, but Libby was adamant. She had work to do. He swallowed the last of the bacon. ‘If you’re sure you feel OK.’

‘Of course. I’m fine.’ As he left, Libby’s fears returned. She must speak to Mandy before she could relax. She fumbled in the diary with nervous fingers.

She ran a finger down the appointments. Mandy planned to visit Jumbles in Bath, today, discussing orders for Mrs Forest’s Chocolates. Libby tried her apprentice’s mobile, but it went to voice mail. She swore and tried again. Nothing. Mandy must be in the meeting already. Libby left a text message.

Ring me when you can. Need to talk. Urgent!

Near to tears, she threw the phone down, leaned on a table and buried her face in her hands.

A few long, slow breaths slowed her heart rate. Calm once more, she retrieved the phone and rang Angela’s number. She could explain why she’d missed the meeting last night and talk over the horrible business of Samantha and the fire.

Angela let the call go to voice mail. Surely, the police couldn’t have arrested her? But, that news would already have been around the town. Libby left a message. ‘Sorry I missed the Knitters' Guild. Can we meet, later today?’

Libby’s grabbed her phone as it pinged. Was it Mandy?

No, Angela. Libby read the message.

Can’t talk just now. Meet later?

Libby would have to be patient. She drummed her hands on the table, frustrated, desperate for action – any action.

She showered once more, dressed in her oldest clothes, and drove out to Wells. She’d check on Mrs Marchant, to see if the cat had come home, letting Libby off the hook. She’d done almost nothing to find it, so far.

She rang the bell three times, but no one came to the door. Defeated, Libby shrugged and walked back to the car. Today was going from bad to worse.

‘Libby Forest?’ The hearty voice made her jump. Ruby, one of the knitters, appeared at her shoulder. ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ she beamed. ‘I’m all alone this morning. How about a cup of coffee? Mrs Marchant’s out. Taken one of her moggies to the vet, I expect. She loves those animals, bless her. Didn’t know you knew her?’

Libby’s spirits revived at the prospect of a dose of Ruby’s cheerful gossip. ‘You live near here?’

‘Just over there. Vivian Marchant and I are old friends.’

She led Libby across the narrow road, flung open a red painted door and bustled inside, waving for Libby to follow.

The house, though similar in style to Mrs Marchant’s, looked completely different. Floor to ceiling windows flooded the rooms with light, highlighting cushions, curtains and rugs in vibrant shades of purple and green. Libby admired a display of exotic indoor plants. ‘Is that a bird of paradise plant?’ Her knowledge of plants was worse than patchy, but the display was beautiful.

‘My babies,’ Ruby laughed. ‘In winter, I can’t work in the garden, so I keep plants in the house. My husband has his shed outside, to do his little bits of woodwork, but this room is mine.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t wait to get back to my vegetable patch.’

‘Your garden’s very striking.’ Libby joined Ruby at the window, to gaze across a space filled with a riot of bananas, palms and olive trees.

‘I never want to go on holiday,’ Ruby laughed. ‘It’s like a tropical island here. You couldn’t grow these plants anywhere else in England, you know.’ She laughed a good deal, and with every burst of merriment, her chins wobbled and bounced.

A pond near the house looked new. ‘We dug that last summer, and we’re letting it settle. In spring, we’ll be adding the fish. Carp. You know, the fat ones?’

Libby nodded. ‘I’d love a pond, but the ground’s so heavy in my garden. I tried to dig but I got stuck a few inches down.’

‘Oh, the clay! Yes, it took a few weeks to dig my pond. Practise, that’s what you need. Take it slowly and build up a few muscles. It’s worth it. My garden means everything to me, now my son’s grown up.’ Ruby’s smile was sad. ‘I miss him terribly. He left a gap in my life when he moved away, but he’s always in my heart. I’d do anything for him. Do you have children?’

Libby told her about Ali, her daughter, saving the south American rain forest. ‘My son’s getting married soon,’ she added, trying not to sound smug. ‘In the cathedral.’

Ruby clasped her hands. ‘Lucky, lucky you. I hardly see my son, these days. Just two or three times a year. I wish he’d bring a nice young lady home. Women have such a settling effect, don’t you think?’

She sighed, her chest heaving. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble. I have all I want here, and he comes at Christmas. Now, let me get you some cake. Oh.’ She collapsed in a chuckling heap on a chair. ‘I suppose offering you cake is taking coals to Newcastle, as my mother used to say. Your cakes are famous. Look, I have your book.’

She sorted through a pile on a coffee table, repositioning illustrated gardening books and solid tomes on interior decorating, finally digging out Baking at the Beach. ‘Would you sign it for me?’

Libby signed, in her usual untidy scribble, as Ruby wiped her eyes and heaved herself up. She disappeared into the kitchen, chuckling, and returned with a tray, still talking. ‘Those cats, you know, over the way. Child substitutes. Did I mention that? Old Vivian Marchant drove her family away with her bad temper. The son never visits, not even at Christmas. She’s on her own. Of course, Walter and I invited her here. There’s always space for another neighbour beside a warm fire at Christmas, don’t you agree? Our son was here, on one of his visits, but we could have squeezed a little one like Viv Marchant in. But she wouldn’t have it.’ Ruby fussed with plates, knives and paper napkins. ‘Can’t help some people, you know.’

She turned up the gas fire and the temperature rose. Sweating, Libby shrugged off her gilet. ‘And another thing…’ Libby longed to make notes of Ruby’s unending chat, but fearing it might stem the flow of good-natured gossip, she tried to memorise every word instead. Her hostess, uninhibited, had a hint, an insinuation or a piece of downright scandal about everyone.

Ruby filled in the life and habits of every one of her neighbours and the regulars at the cathedral. ‘I take flowers there, in the spring and summer. I always say, you can’t have too many flowers in God’s house. The Dean’s wife tells me not to bother, I do too much already for the community, but I believe in giving, don’t you? I can always spare time to help folk out.’

‘The Dean’s wife?’ Libby prompted.

‘Oh, yes, she’s a special friend of mine, you know. “Ruby,” she says. “We can always rely on you.” Amelia’s rather young for a Dean’s wife, you know. Sometimes, she just needs a little hint.’

Libby nodded, schooling her face into seriousness, wondering whether the Dean’s wife found Ruby overwhelming.

‘I suspect there’s been trouble in that house.’ Ruby took a bite of cake, smudging a little cream on her upper lip. Libby tried not to stare. ‘I’m afraid dear Amelia is just a little too welcoming to newcomers, if you get my drift. Especially gentlemen.’

She favoured Libby with a warm, conspiratorial grin. ‘A very nice lady, of course. Very nice indeed. I’ve got a lovely anthurium I promised to give her. She adores the plants in this room, you see, and she wants to have something similar. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, don’t they?’

She laughed gaily. Libby, glad of the perfect excuse to talk to Amelia Weir, offered to help. ‘Would you like me to deliver the plant for you? I’m going over that way.’

Ruby beamed, swooped on a plant nearby and pushed it into Libby’s arms.

Libby, arms full of plant, took that as a signal to leave, but before she could move, the door opened. A bald head slid into view, whispering, ‘Anything you want from the shops, dear?’ A wiry body followed the head into the room.

‘Walter,’ Ruby cried. ‘Where have you been all morning? In that poky old shed, I suppose, up to your usual nonsense.’

Walter shuffled closer and halted, one foot poised for escape. He shot a longing glance at the door. ‘Just finishing that cloche you wanted, dear.’ The gentle voice had a soft, Welsh lilt.

‘This is Mrs Forest, the Baking at the Beach author. She’s signed my book.’

He squinted at Libby. ‘The famous Mrs Forest, is it? I’ve heard about your exploits. On the track of a mystery, are you? The killer at the cathedral?’

‘I’m looking for a missing cat. It belongs to Mrs Marchant.’

‘Not here, I’m afraid. Not allowed in the garden. Lion droppings, that’s the answer. Get ’em from the internet, sprinkle on the flower beds. Works a treat.’ He rubbed strong hands together. ‘Not looking into this affair at the cathedral, then?’

‘Sad business, isn’t it?’

‘So it is. Ah well, no peace for the wicked. Back to the grindstone.’ Walter headed for the door and Libby grasped the opportunity to follow.

Ruby lurched to her feet, still chattering. ‘We’ll be on the lookout for stray cats, Walter and I. Always keen to help our neighbours. Isn’t that right, Walter?’

He disappeared, the musical voice floating behind. ‘Yes, dear.’