Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6 - Frances Evesham - Страница 7

Libby brought Angela back to the cottage she shared with her apprentice, Mandy, and Fuzzy the marmalade cat. She couldn’t leave her friend alone to brood.

They settled in the living room of Hope Cottage with Bear guarding the door. Until recently, the room had been functional and reasonably comfortable, but unexciting. Libby’s priority had been her state-of-the-art kitchen, where she’d developed recipes and written the book that kick-started her new career in Exham on Sea.

At Christmas, her son had presented her with a book of Danish style called ‘Hygge.’ The idea of warmth, cosiness and a happy atmosphere had captivated Libby. She’d bought cushions and a fluffy rug, positioned candles in the empty fireplace and brought in stools made from tree trunks. She’d even considered investing in a solid fuel heater.

Bear approved of the changes and spent as much time as possible stretched across the rug, snoring. Even Fuzzy deigned to curl up on the soft, fleece cushions.

Perhaps the atmosphere would help Angela relax and speak freely. Since leaving the cathedral café, she’d been unusually quiet. Even now, she remained tense, gripping the arm of the sofa with rigid fingers and biting her lips.

Libby brought hot chocolate. Angela gave a wan smile and ran a finger round the rim of her mug. ‘It’s been such a shock. You don’t expect people you know to die like that – in a library, of all places.’

‘That’s true.’ Libby tried to sound non-committal. I’m not getting involved. Not this time. I’m too busy with Robert’s wedding and my business, and everything else…

She’d been setting up a private investigation service with Max Ramshore, who currently worked for one of the more secretive branches of government on financial business, but recently, she’d suffered an attack of second thoughts. Not long ago, she’d been a recently widowed newcomer in Exham, building a small but successful business. She hadn’t wanted a relationship with Max or anyone else. They’d worked together on a couple of mysterious murder cases and she’d discovered Max’s skills fitted well with her own.

Besides that, the man was undeniably attractive, with bright blue eyes, a sharp intellect and a huge fund of common sense. Somehow, their agreement to work together had led to a closer personal relationship.

She wondered if Max was expecting them to become an item – even to get married, and she was scared. Things were moving too fast.

Whenever Libby thought about Max her heart fluttered, but her head throbbed with questions. Would they tire of one another if they worked too closely together? Would a successful partnership mean she had to walk away from the cakes and chocolate business she’d struggled so hard to establish, just as it was taking off? What about Mandy? Libby couldn’t let her apprentice down.

She needed a breathing space, with time to think and no crime investigations, while Max finished his current assignment. Any inquiry into this most recent suspicious death was best left to the police.

Nevertheless, Libby’s curiosity continued to nag, insistent as an itch. Asking a few questions wouldn’t commit her to anything. It wasn’t real investigating, was it? Besides, judging from the way Angela gulped hot chocolate, she was deeply stressed and clearly needed to talk.

Libby gave in to the temptation to find out more. ‘Why was Giles in Wells? Does he have a family?’

‘His home’s in Birmingham. He’s – I mean, he was – married, with two children. They’re grown up, now. He’s been coming to Wells for a couple of days every week, working late into the night and travelling home as often as possible.’ Angela shot a glance at Libby. ‘He’s nothing to do with Wells Cathedral. He’s a history lecturer, studying texts from the sixteenth century and writing a book about old beliefs and superstitions…’

Her voice tailed away, but Libby hardly noticed. She’d stopped listening. The thought of Giles Temple’s wife had sent a shiver down her spine. The police, probably on the way to Birmingham right now, would have to break the news to Mrs Temple. Libby pictured a cheerful woman opening a neat front door, her smile freezing on her face as the officer asked permission to come inside.

How quickly would realisation dawn? When would Mrs Temple understand she’d become a widow? Her husband had gone forever. He would not return home for dinner, that day or any other. She’d have to tell their children.

What would she do? Collapse on the floor, scream and shout, or hide her feelings with a clenched jaw and stiff upper lip until the police left and she could grieve in peace?

Libby blinked and forced her focus back to her friend. ‘Giles was a lovely man,’ Angela was saying. ‘Gentle and kind. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him in such a horrid way; and in the cathedral, too.’

‘It’s certainly novel,’ Libby mused. ‘Strangled with a chain. That’s a nasty way to go.’

Angela fingered the pearls in her necklace. ‘Then, there’s the scarf.’

‘Now, that’s interesting. I wish I could see it. I suppose Giles Temple wasn’t a member of the Knitters' Guild?’

Her friend spluttered. ‘Not likely. He was too old school. You know, women cook and knit, men work and think.’ Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound kind at all. I don’t mean he was a bully. I’m sure he couldn’t have been. He was much too gentle.’

Her eyes met Libby’s in a moment of shared understanding. Both had endured bullying husbands who liked to keep a wife in her place. A guilty-twinge reminded Libby she’d felt nothing but relief when Trevor, her own husband, died. But then, he’d been secretly money-laundering, so Libby had no need to feel guilty. Unfortunately, the habit died hard.

Angela pulled out her phone. ‘How silly of me. I can show you a photo of Giles, taken in the library during a tour.’ She flicked through screens on her phone, using a forefinger to swipe awkwardly from one picture to another. ‘Here it is.’

She angled the phone towards Libby and the picture disappeared. Angela clicked her tongue. ‘I’ll never get used to this phone.’

Libby laughed, glad of the break in tension. ‘Mandy never goes anywhere without her mobile, but I can’t get the hang of mine at all. I think you have to be young – preferably under thirty-five.’ She crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside Angela, peering over her friend’s shoulder as the picture returned.

Libby took in the details; rows of heavy, leather-bound books, neatly arranged on wooden shelves, their heavy chains dangling. Nearby, a small group of visitors peered into a glass display case. The camera had caught Giles Temple, one of two men in the group, with his mouth open. His hair was sparse, a rim of grey-speckled brown tufts worn a shade too long for Libby’s taste. Round, tortoiseshell glasses hooked onto a pair of over-large ears.

‘I’m afraid I took him by surprise,’ Angela murmured.

‘Who are the other people? Oh, that’s the librarian.’

Angela pointed. ‘The lady in the middle of the picture, next to Giles, is the Dean’s wife, Amelia Weir. She works in the library once a week, as I do, but on different days. I don’t know her well.’

Mrs Weir, much younger than Libby or Angela, stood very close to Giles Temple. Angela’s voice had been sharp. Libby shot a glance at her face. Two angry furrows had appeared on her forehead. Could Amelia Weir and Angela both have had a soft spot for this Giles?

For now, Libby changed the subject. ‘I think I need to know more about the Guild’s yarnbombing.’

‘There’s a session this evening. Why don’t you come along and meet the members?’

‘I’ll be there. I can’t knit, but I’ll bring cake.’