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

‘Is your friend ill?’ One of the women serving at the counter hurried across the room, sympathy in her eyes.

‘She's had a nasty shock.’ Libby avoided going into details. Soon enough, everyone working in the cathedral would know about Giles Temple’s death.

‘Well, she'd better have a cup of tea, that's my advice. It's the best remedy for shock. Poor Mrs Miles. I’ve seen her many time, working in the cathedral. Very kind, she is. Couldn’t be nicer. No airs and graces, like some folks working at the cathedral.’

The woman bustled about, bringing a pot and cups on a tray. Libby, with superhuman self-control, asked no questions of Angela as she poured tea, added milk and several spoons of sugar, and waited until her friend drank every drop.

As Angela settled the empty cup back in its saucer, hands still shaking, a touch of colour returned to her cheeks. The threat of a fainting fit gradually receded, and Libby gave way to curiosity. ‘Now, give me the facts. What happened?’

‘The librarian found Giles this morning when he opened the room. He’d been—’ Angela swallowed and finished in a rush, ‘He'd been strangled. With a chain.’

‘Strangled? You mean, accidentally?’ Not another suspicious death in Somerset, surely. ‘What do you mean by a chain? Some sort of necklace?’

Angela shook her head, as though trying to clear it. ‘No, it’s a chained library, you see. The chains are attached to valuable books and bolted to the shelves to prevent anyone wandering off with a priceless volume. So many books in the library are irreplaceable.’

Her high-pitched laugh sounded dangerously close to hysteria.

Libby concentrated, determined not to miss a single word as Angela explained. ‘There are keys, you see. One locks the gate to the library, and another attaches each chain to a book.’

Tears glittered in Angela’s eyes. Libby, horrified as she was, couldn’t help a familiar spasm of excitement in her stomach. She felt it at the beginning of each of her amateur investigations, and every time she’d succeeded in uncovering the criminal. ‘And one of the chains was used to strangle the victim?’ Libby winced as the shocking image took shape in her head.

‘Apparently. It happened last night. Giles was working late; he often did…’ Angela picked at a tissue, pulling it to shreds.

Libby sipped the dregs of cold tea left in her cup, trying to make sense of the information. ‘Are all the books chained?’

‘Only those from before the eighteenth century.’ Talking about the details of the library arrangements had a calming effect on Angela, so Libby let her talk. At least her teeth had stopped chattering. ‘You know, early copies of the King James version of the Bible, illuminated manuscripts from the sixteenth century, books of maps, translations of religious books into different languages. All that sort of thing…’

Angela screwed the remains of the tissue into a ball, looked around for somewhere to put it, opened her handbag and dropped it inside.

‘Which book did the chain in question come from?’

Angela blinked. ‘I’ve no idea. Does it matter? Giles was a historian, so I expect the book was part of his research.’

‘I bet Chief Inspector Arnold will be holding a press conference,’ Libby murmured. ‘Nothing he likes more than seeing his name in the papers and his face on the screen, and the national press will love this story. In fact, it’s probably on the internet already.’ Libby fell silent but her pulse raced. Another suspicious death in Somerset!

‘There’s more.’ Angela fiddled with the strap of her bag.

‘Go on.’

‘They found something else. An object at – at the scene.’

‘Come again?’

‘A knitted scarf.’

Libby puffed air through her lips. ‘Anything special about it?’

Angela’s gaze faltered. She avoided Libby’s face and focused on her own clenched hands, where the knuckles gleamed white. At last, she took a shaky breath and whispered, ‘Hand-knitted in orange wool.’

Libby opened her mouth but closed it again. Was a hand-knitted scarf significant? It was winter after all. Everyone wore scarves and hats. On the other hand, how often did a man willingly wear a hand-knitted garment, especially a bright orange one? Most males never learned to knit, though a few did, of course. Fishermen; they were famous for it. And hadn’t one Archbishop of Canterbury knitted jumpers? Still, he was the exception, rather than the rule. Most men wore hand-knitting only when the garment was made by a wife, girlfriend, or mother. In other words, a present, and one they felt duty bound to use.

Angela’s reaction struck Libby as odd. Still pale and distressed, she seemed suddenly embarrassed. Could it be that Giles Temple’s scarf was not a present from his wife? If her suspicion was right, it suggested a whole area of enquiry.

‘Come on,’ Libby said, keeping her tone gentle, for Angela was still pale and distressed. ‘You can tell me. You know something about this scarf, don’t you? Where did it come from?’

Angela looked Libby in the eye, suddenly defiant. ‘We’ve been making scarves at the Knitters' Guild. Scarves, hats and gloves, but mostly, knitted squares. We’re planning to yarnbomb Wells, but it’s a secret. We don’t want everyone in town to know about it. It would spoil the surprise.’

‘Yarnbombing? What on earth…’ Libby tapped a finger against her teeth, struggling to recall an article she’d read. ‘Yarnbombing. Wait. Don’t tell me. I know I’ve heard of it.’ Angela managed a weak smile while Libby pondered.

The penny dropped. ‘Got it.’ Libby said. ‘You drape lamp-posts and trees with knitted things.’

‘Brightly coloured knitting, yes. It’s supposed to cheer everyone up, so we thought this was a good time of year to try it, before spring arrives. Folk feel miserable in February, and it feels as though it will never be warm again.

‘And the Wells event is also meant to celebrate the completion of renovations at the cathedral.’ Scaffolding had obscured the West Front of Wells Cathedral for many months.

‘Had Giles Temple heard about your plans?’

‘Oh, yes; as have most of the staff at the cathedral, but they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Even the Dean’s given it his blessing. Orange is one of the main colours we’re using because it’s bright.’

‘It’s not the only explanation,’ Libby murmured, thinking aloud, ‘but quite possibly, someone in the Guild knows Giles well and knitted a scarf for him.’ She shot a sharp look at Angela, but her friend made no reply.

Angela, restored to calm, pronounced herself ready to leave the café, so the two friends and Bear clattered downstairs, the dog panting and waving his tail, already scenting exciting smells from the outside world.

Too late, Libby spotted a pile of books making its way up the stairs, apparently under its own steam. She tugged on the dog’s lead. Bear skidded to a halt, but the man underneath the books panicked, tried to back away, lost his footing and grabbed at the handrail. The stack of books, magazines and documents exploded from his flailing arms and rocketed high in the air.

Libby watched, knuckles jammed against her mouth, as leather covered books thudded on the floor. A storm of loose papers followed, fluttering in ghastly slow motion to blanket the flagstones. Bear barked, delighted by the new game.

Angela shrieked. ‘Dr Phillips, I’m so sorry…’ She bent to retrieve a book, smoothing its Moroccan leather spine. Libby, mortified, shot a look at Bear that sent the animal’s tail between his legs, and stooped to help.

‘My books, my books,’ the man stammered, breathlessly. ‘What a day. Oh, my goodness me, what a terrible day.’

Angela examined the one in her hands. ‘I don’t think this one’s damaged.’

The man stopped collecting paper long enough to glare at Libby through pebble spectacles. ‘That dog of yours…’

‘I know.’ She was contrite. ‘I’m sorry. He’s a bit excited…’ She stopped talking. Really, there was no excuse.

Angela intervened. ‘Libby, this is Dr Phillips, the librarian.’ Libby, far too flustered to listen properly, barely registered the words.

‘We won’t shake hands.’ Dr Phillips drew bushy brows together, raising himself to his full height, the shiny top of a bald head barely reaching Libby’s shoulder.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ Libby stammered. Bear wagged an enthusiastic tail, trying to attract this new friend’s attention.

‘Just move that animal out of the way and let me pass.’

The significance of the pile of books and Angela’s introduction finally filtered into Libby’s brain. ‘You’re the librarian?’ One of the first people Libby would want to talk to, for Giles had died in Dr Phillips’ domain.

‘Of course. Who might you be? Wait…’ He juggled books and pointed with a bony finger. ‘I recognise that dog. Biggest in Somerset, I bet. It belongs to Max Ramshore, doesn’t it? That makes you Mrs Forest, the lady who solves mysteries.’

‘Call me Libby.’

He ignored that. ‘Today is a very bad day.’ His wagged a gloomy head. ‘We’ve had a serious incident.’

‘The verger told us about it.’

‘It’s a most dreadful business. Nothing like it has ever happened before. You can’t go inside, you know. The police have removed the – er – body, but access to the cathedral is strictly limited. The whole area’s smothered in ‘Crime Scene Do Not Enter’ tape. No doubt I’ll find fingerprint chemicals on the books and they’ll all be ruined.’ The librarian’s face crinkled with worry.

Bear, disappointed to find this new friend refused to play, whined and stared hopefully at the exit. Libby ignored him, keeping a tight hold on the lead. ‘You found the body, I think, Dr Phillips?’

He nodded. ‘Lying on the floor, he was. Face all purple, tongue hanging out. Oh, my, that tongue. What a sight…’

Libby shook her head to rid it of the image. ‘Could it be an accident?’

The librarian pursed his lips. ‘Planning to investigate, are you? Good idea. The police spend too much time giving out speeding tickets these days. It could be months before they find the murderer. You get on to it; speed things up, Mrs Forest, so we can get back to normal.’

He balanced books on the stair rail, scratching his head with one hand. ‘Now, what did you ask? Oh, yes, was it an accident? Hmm. Funny sort of accident, strangled by a chain round the neck.’ He chortled. ‘Someone did him in, and that’s a fact.’

‘What about suicide?’

‘You mean, could he have made a noose from the chain and hung himself?’ The librarian’s face wrinkled in thought. ‘No, that wouldn’t work. The ceiling’s too high. He wouldn’t be able to get up there, even if he climbed on the benches…’

‘Was the chain attached to anything?’

‘No. Just round his neck.’ The man seemed to warm to his topic. ‘I'll tell you a funny thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘The knitted scarf was wrapped round on top of the chain. Strange. D’you see? On top of the chain, not underneath.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Couldn’t kill himself first, then wrap a scarf round his neck, could he?’

His expression brightened. ‘At least there wasn’t any blood. Don’t want blood on that old oak floor; seventeenth century, you know. You’d never get the stain out…’