Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6 - Frances Evesham - Страница 8

‘What should I wear to a Knitters’ Guild meeting?’ Libby asked Bear. ‘A knitted jumper’s required, I suppose. Anyway, it’s bound to be cold.’ She’d been to history society meetings in the area before and learned to take warm clothes.

The dog gazed into her face; his eyes mournful. Libby frowned. ‘Stop looking at me like that. You can’t come.’

Three sweaters lay on the bed. The Arran cable tempted her, for the evening was chilly, but it made Libby look fat. ‘I’ve been sampling too many chocolates, Bear. Time to take myself in hand. Tomorrow, maybe.’

She put the sweater back in the drawer. Fast losing patience, she grabbed a cheerful red and yellow striped jersey and shrugged it over her head. ‘Will they know I didn’t knit it myself?’

Bear lay on his back, inviting Libby to scratch his stomach, hoping to dissuade her from leaving him. ‘Oh, very well. You can come as my guard dog. Just behave yourself and don’t deposit dog hair all over the knitting.’ Bear clattered towards the front door. Fuzzy the cat watched, envy glittering in her green eyes.

Fuzzy adored Bear. ‘Sorry, you can’t come with us, Fuzz, but I’ve left the door of the airing cupboard open. It’s as warm as toast.’ The airing cupboard was one of Fuzzy’s cherished spots.

Libby emptied a can of the best wild red salmon into the cat’s dish. Fuzzy pretended not to notice, but as soon as Libby closed the door, she’d gobble every scrap. Libby pulled on a woolly hat. ‘Come on, Bear. Let’s go.’

She felt a twinge of guilt. She spent so much time with Bear and Fuzzy these days that she’d given little thought to the dog she’d taken under her wing when she first arrived in Exham on Sea.

She’d been walking with Shipley, a friendly, excitable springer spaniel, when she came across a dead rock singer under Exham’s unique, wooden legged lighthouse.

That encounter had begun her adventures in crime solving.

Poor Shipley had been abandoned when his owner, Marina, left the area, and currently lived with the vet. Maybe Libby could offer to walk him from time to time, as she used to.

Not tonight, though. The thought of the energetic Shipley at a Knitters’ Guild meeting made her shudder. The wool would be chewed to pieces or tied in knots in no time.

The street was dark tonight. To make financial savings and reduce light pollution, Exham’s town council had dimmed the streetlamps. As a result, stars glittered across a clear sky. The moon hung low, a shimmering crescent in crisp air. Libby inhaled the unmistakable scent of the ocean. The beach lay out of sight of her cottage, but it filled the air with the sharp smell of ozone.

She brushed gloved hands through a rosemary bush outside and inhaled. Few plants survived the salty winds that speckled and corroded every shiny brass number on Libby’s front door, but rosemary and lavender flourished. They were her favourite herbs. She remembered a recipe she’d been developing; tea bread flavoured with rosemary. She’d planned to work on it tonight, but she was too intrigued by the Knitters’ Guild to stay at home. Tea loaves could wait.

She shivered and loaded Bear into her purple Citroen, the car so small he overflowed across the whole back seat. If she hadn’t quarrelled with Max before his current trip to London, she’d have borrowed the Land Rover.

They’d been arguing for weeks over silly things like Bear’s tendency to dig up Libby’s lawn, or whether Libby was unreasonable to beg her daughter to return home from her working holiday in South America for Christmas. Max advised leaving well alone, for Ali would come home when she was ready, but Libby wanted her family together. In the end, Robert and Sarah had stayed at Hope Cottage, Max had dropped in on Christmas Day and Libby had spent a tearful half-hour on the phone to Ali.

Max had been away for a few days, now, and Libby could see with clearer eyes. She suspected they were finding excuses for keeping their distance from each other, because both had endured unsuccessful marriages in the past.

Thinking of Max today, an ache of longing caught Libby by surprise. She missed him.

Determined not to be needy, she drove on through the darkness, meeting few other cars on such a chilly winter night. Anyone with good sense was at home, warm and cosy.

As she braked outside the tiny village hall where the knitters gathered, the door flew open and light, laughter and coffee smells spilled out.

Angela led her inside. ‘Look, everyone, Libby’s brought treats.’

‘You’ll soon get used to us,’ bellowed a big-boned, hearty woman with a beaky nose, as she tucked into a slice of Dundee cake. Her voice boomed, deep and mannish. A single streak of bright green ran through a shock of wild grey hair. ‘I’m June. Like the song: busting out all over.’ She cackled.

Libby settled Bear in a corner with a huge chew, knowing he’d finish it in less than half an hour. The room was small and faintly oppressive. An electric fire hung awkwardly from the ceiling, throwing heat on the top of Libby’s head while her feet remained chilled. ‘How does this yarnbombing work, exactly?’

June hooted. ‘It’s art, you know. At any rate, it’s a grand excuse to creep out in the middle of the night and tie things to lamp posts without being arrested. That’s the truth of it. The fun starts the next day when folk see what we’ve done. Can't wait to see their faces. Tried it in Trivington a year ago. Just what Wells needs to liven it up.’

‘Not that it needs livening up, of course.’ Angela was always alert in case someone should be offended.

‘Manner of speech, that’s all. Livvy’ll soon get used to me.’

‘It’s Libby, actually.’

June roared with laughter.

A plump, motherly woman poured tea from an old brown teapot. ‘I don't do the bombing for fun, you know. I knit useful things, like hats and scarves. I'm Ruby, by the way. I shall hang my work on benches and people who need them can take them home. It helps the less fortunate. I call it ‘giving back to society.’’

Another voice intervened. ‘Do you remember that time we hung knitted underwear from the tower on Glastonbury Tor? The National Trust people were furious.’

Ruby glared but the other woman ignored her. Tiny and thin, she radiated energy. ‘I’m Vera, by the way. Welcome to our group. You knit, of course?’

‘I’m afraid not. Well, my mother taught me when I was small, but I haven’t knitted for years.’

June swooped, green hair awry. ‘Now’s your chance to take it up again, then. Size ten needles and double knitting wool. That'll do the trick. You’ll finish a square in no time.’

Plied with balls of every colour, Libby avoided orange and yellow, choosing instead the quietest colour available, royal blue. She settled on a wooden chair and allowed the plump mother figure, Ruby, to elbow June aside, cast on a row of stitches and hand them over.

Struggling with wool that stuck to her unpractised, fumbling fingers, Libby listened as the women talked. Silently, she repeated her vow not to investigate, although the knitters’ unguarded thoughts would be fascinating. They were all connected with the cathedral, as volunteers, worshippers or friends of the clergy. As they chattered, needles flashed and balls of wool turned, like magic, into socks, scarves and hats.

News of the murder had spread like wildfire and everyone had a theory. June ran both hands through her hair until the green stripe stood on end, like an exotic parrot perched on top of her head. ‘I reckon the Dean did it. Never liked the man. Always after money. Funds for clock renovation, contributions for new vestments. Can’t say good morning without begging.’

‘Poor man, it’s his job, you know,’ Angela soothed. ‘He was very kind to me when my husband died.’

June grunted, bit the end off a strand of wool, threw a yellow square onto the table and cast on a fresh row of orange stitches.

Vera giggled. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but that Mr Temple was a right one for the ladies.’

Libby felt Angela stiffen. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

Vera glanced round, nostrils flared, checking all eyes were on her. ‘I saw him in The Swan with the Dean’s wife.’ She stopped knitting and hissed, in a loud stage whisper, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Dean did it. You know―a crime of passion.’