Читать книгу Murder at the Gorge - Frances Evesham - Страница 6

Libby stood in the empty space that would be, if she had anything to do with it, Exham on Sea’s favourite café. She tugged her coat closer, and shivered.

Angela Miles laughed. ‘Freezing, isn’t it? I’ve learned to wear my warmest thermals when I visit. I suppose the heating will be one of the last things to work.’

The shopfitters had packed up for the day, leaving ladders and shelving leaning against the walls. ‘We should be open for business on time. It’s just a couple of weeks, now. Owen’s been here most of today, cracking the whip. The workmen speed up every time he appears and he’s terrifyingly fierce with them. You’d never think that, would you?’

Angela, a widow for many years, and Libby’s best friend in Exham, had met Owen Harris a couple of months ago. A good few years older than Angela and Libby, and undeniably stout, he’d seemed at first to be an unlikely match for the elegant Angela, but his needle-sharp business head concealed a warm and generous nature. He owned a string of restaurants and coffee houses across the country, had paid a generous price for Browns’ Bakery, delighting the retirement-ready Frank, and was behind the expansion of the bakery into the new café. Recognising Angela’s organisational abilities, he’d put her in charge as the manager.

Libby almost burst with excitement as she told Angela her news. ‘Ali’s coming home, after all…’

Angela’s reception was all she could have wished. She threw her arms around Libby in a warm hug. ‘At last. She’s been away for such a long time.’

‘But she can’t get here until after the fifteenth.’

‘She’ll be too late for your wedding day? What a shame. Why not get here in time, if she’s coming anyway?’

‘Something about flights being full.’ Libby tried not to notice her friend’s raised eyebrows.

‘Will you delay the wedding, so she can be there? I know you’d love to have her with you. What does Max think?’

‘He’s fine with it. He knew how disappointed I was at first, when Ali said she didn’t think she’d get home at all. I don’t think she realised how much I wanted her there.’

Angela smiled. ‘I think your son might have given her a hint or two.’

‘Do you?’ Libby stopped and thought. That sounded like Robert. He’d always been the quieter of her two children, even a bit boring, but he would never let his family down. ‘It’s going to be a small affair, and I rang the registrar this morning. She said it’s fine to move it back a week. It’s just as well we weren’t planning a full-scale affair, like Robert and Sarah’s in Wells Cathedral.’

Angela raised an eyebrow. ‘And, Max agreed without an argument? That’s very understanding. You’ll have to make it up to him.’

‘He said that. Anyway, he’s gone off again, to some work meeting. I’ve no idea what it’s about – but, you know Max.’

Angela sighed. ‘He’s not exactly forthcoming about his affairs, is he?’

Secretly, Libby agreed, but she wasn’t ready to confess, even to herself, that she was tiring of Max’s absences. With hindsight, she almost wished he’d complained more about the change of wedding date. He was always calm, and she loved that about him, but she sometimes felt he hadn’t let her fully into his world. He was self-contained. He loved a good argument, but Libby had never seen him lose his temper. That was good, wasn’t it?

‘Hmm.’ Angela walked across to the door at the end of the room. ‘Come and see the kitchen. Tell me if it’s going to meet your needs.’

Libby had the feeling her friend was tactfully changing the subject, and had a moment of doubt. Had she made a mistake, putting Ali before Max?

The two friends spent an hour together, admiring the gleaming stainless steel, the extensive run of cupboards, the huge cooker and, especially, the hot water dispenser.

Libby said, ‘I never dared have one of those in my kitchen at home. It’s a hangover from having brought up two children, I think. If there’s any dangerous implement around, they’ll hurt themselves. Robert had his first penknife for his ninth birthday and immediately chopped a lump off the tip of his little finger.’

Angela ran her hands along one of the worktops. ‘Look at this – it’s your area for tempering chocolate. Is it what you wanted?’

‘Perfect. And there’s room for Mandy to work alongside me. She’s going to take over most of the day-to-day baking, now she’s passed her exams, and I’ll oversee the chocolates. I’m hoping to split my time fifty-fifty between cooking and investigating, depending on the cases that come our way.’

‘You mean, on how many more murders Somerset can provide.’

‘We’ve had more than our fair share, it’s true, but I’m not going to neglect the café. I still love baking and chocolates. My life’s a weird mixture of jobs, I know, but I love it.’ Libby walked along the stretch of cupboards, opening and closing doors. ‘Frank’s looking forward to his retirement.’

‘I think his wife is more excited than he is. She’ll have him at home all day.’ Angela’s grin held a hint of wickedness. ‘Under her feet. I think she has a shock coming. He’s been at the bakery from dawn to dusk all his working life, and she’s used to having the house to herself. At least he won’t overwhelm her with chatter. Frank only talks when he has something to say.’

‘Unlike the rest of Exham on Sea and its thriving grapevine.’

Angela looked at her watch and gasped. ‘Talking of which, if we don’t go now, we’ll be late for this evening’s History Society meeting, and it’s my first as chair.’

Libby held up a warning hand. ‘Don’t tell people about Ali or the wedding. We’re trying to keep it quiet. Just family, plus you and Mandy, of course.’

‘Good luck with that in Exham,’ Angela chuckled. ‘But they won’t hear it from me.’

Libby followed her friend’s car the short distance from the site of the soon-to-open café to Angela’s tastefully furnished, double-fronted Georgian house on the edge of Exham on Sea, overlooking the golf course.

Slightly breathless, they switched on a kettle and transferred Libby’s cake from the boot of her car to a silver Wedgwood cake stand.

Founder members Margery and William Halfstead were the first to arrive.

William greeted Angela with a resounding kiss. ‘So kind of you to let us meet here.’

Margery, his wife of forty years, beamed lovingly. ‘Now, William, you leave poor Angela alone.’

Angela ushered the next arrival, Annabel Pearson, into the room. Libby watched with interest. Were they in for fireworks this evening? There was history between the Halfsteads and Annabel.

Sure enough, as the newcomer sank into the comfortable, cushioned window seat built into the solid walls of the house, Margery stiffened. She’d suspected her husband of an affair with Annabel, soon after the younger woman’s recent arrival in Exham. Margery had seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that William was twice Annabel’s age. In any case, he had never been the most handsome or dynamic man in Somerset. Love, Libby had concluded, could indeed be blind.

At least Margery had discovered her mistake in time, and Annabel never knew she’d been the grain of sand in the oyster of the Halfsteads’ newly revitalised marriage.

As the room filled with people, Libby sliced cake, passing it round to coos of delight.

‘Please, please, give me the recipe,’ Annabel begged.

The doctor’s wife, Joanna Sheffield, interrupted. ‘You won’t believe what my daughter did today,’ she announced,

Seven-year-old Susan, apparently top of the class at school, had starred that very morning in a presentation to parents: ‘Exciting ways of recycling plastic milk bottles.’

‘How nice.’ Ice crackled in Annabel’s voice. There was no love lost between those two women.

A double ring on the doorbell saved the society members from further examples of Susan’s brilliance. Angela welcomed retired teacher, Jemima Bakewell, into the room, introducing her to the newer members as an expert on local history. She avoided mention of Jemima’s role in the murder on Glastonbury Tor, as a result of which one of the teacher’s old colleagues was safely incarcerated in HM Prison Exeter.

Dr Phillips, the librarian from Wells Cathedral, followed her in. ‘Good evening, everyone.’ He unwound several metres of scarf from around his neck, nodded vaguely around the room and settled himself beside Jemima on one of Angela’s sofas, cracking his knuckles with glee at the sight of Libby’s cake.

Angela picked up a tray of glasses from her marble-topped console table and called the meeting to order. ‘Thank you all for coming. This evening, Dr Phillips—’

‘Do call me Archie.’

Angela didn’t miss a beat. ‘Archie has very kindly agreed to talk to us about the history of Wells Cathedral Library.’

‘Excellent idea, mulled wine,’ Archie Phillips enthused, downing his drink in one gulp and waving the empty glass hopefully at his host. ‘Soon be Christmas. So glad to be here,’ he added. ‘Must be one of the most eventful history societies in England.’

Was that shiver down Libby’s spine caused by the ghost of poor, dead Beryl Nightingale, long a stalwart of the society, who’d died before delivering the talk she’d longed to deliver? Her ancestor’s claim to fame as a pioneer in the post office remained uncelebrated. Libby might ask Robert, a keen student of genealogy, to do a little research on the topic. Draw up Beryl’s family tree, perhaps.

While Archie Phillips distributed photocopies of illuminated pages from the oldest book in the cathedral library, Annabel said, ‘Have you heard about Gladys Evans’ younger sister, Carys?’

Every head swung round at the hint of gossip. A touch of pink glowed on Annabel’s cheeks.

‘A rumour about Carys? I’ve heard several,’ Joanna said. ‘Did you know she’s on her fourth husband?’

Annabel’s glare would have stopped an angry rhino in its tracks, but Joanna noticed nothing. She brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her green jumper – Libby was almost certain it was cashmere – and went on talking. ‘I’ve heard husband number three –they divorced some time ago – is halfway through a couple of years at Her Majesty’s pleasure after breaking into a vaping shop in Weston-super-Mare. I heard she met the next man at number three’s hearing in Taunton Crown Court. He was a witness in some other case.’

A stunned silence fell.

Margery Halfstead cleared her throat. ‘Could I possibly have another slice of your cake, Libby dear?’

Annabel raised her voice. ‘Actually, I was going to tell you about Carys Evans’ poison-pen letter. Well, I say letter, but actually, it’s an email. She had an email from someone she doesn’t know, containing a ridiculous nursery rhyme.’ She dropped her voice to a husky murmur. ‘I saw Gladys at the florist shop this morning, and she told me all about it. She was copied in, I suppose to embarrass her sister.’ She looked from one face to another, finally resting her gaze on Joanna. ‘Shall I tell you more?’

Joanna shrugged.

Annabel raised both hands to shoulder height, flexing her fingers in the air-quotes gesture Libby especially disliked.

‘Lucy Locket lost her pocket,

Kitty Fisher found it;

Not a penny was there in it,

Only ribbon round it.’

Annabel’s eyes checked that everyone was listening, but she need not have worried. A pin falling would have reverberated louder in that room than a shotgun fired into the peace of Wells Cathedral.

Satisfied, Annabel finished quoting the email, with emphasis, ‘Thought you’d get away with it, did you, Kitty?’

‘Good gracious me.’ Angela’s voice broke into the shocked silence. ‘How very nasty. Does Carys know who sent it?’

‘It came from one of those secret whatdoyoucallits – IPs or VPNs or something, – anyway, an address you can’t track,’ Annabel said.

Libby cleared her throat. ‘It’s the sort of address people use when they’re trying to defraud you. Max will know what it’s called.’ She wished he were there with her. He’d love it. Computer crime was right up his street.

‘We had one of those phishing letters, wanting our banking details, from an address like that,’ William agreed, ‘but we didn’t fall for it. Called the police we did. They told us to report it to the fraud line, but nothing ever happened.’

‘Government cuts, I suppose,’ Margery sighed.

Libby asked, ‘Does Carys understand what the email meant?’

Annabel shrugged. ‘No idea. I heard Gladys mention it, when I went to get a Christmas wreath from her shop. She said her sister’s devastated.’

‘Eavesdropping, were you?’ Joanna enquired, her voice sugar-coated.

A circle of colour appeared on Annabel’s cheeks. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. I thought we might be able to help. After all, this society seems to be involved in everything that happens in the area.’

‘And a nursery rhyme has plenty of history associated with it.’ Archie Phillips’ eyes shone.

Jemima Bakewell clasped her hands together on her tweed skirt. ‘That’s right. You see, the rhyme refers to a pair of – well…’ she blinked, rapidly, ‘well, to prostitutes.’

Annabel snickered.

Dr Phillips glared. ‘Quite right. Lucy Locket was a barmaid in a seventeenth-century alehouse, and barmaids were seen to be “no better than they should be”. Kitty Fisher was an acquaintance of hers. The rhyme suggests she stole Lucy’s pocket—’

‘A kind of bag tied round her waist, under her skirt,’ Jemima put in.

‘Exactly. But the barmaid had no money – as compared, presumably, to the lady of pleasure, Kitty Fisher. Just a ribbon.’

Angela said, ‘Well, it’s an insulting email however you look at it, but it would fit better if Gladys’ sister was called Lucy, or Kitty.’

Joanna said, ‘I can’t imagine who’d send such a thing.’

Libby watched the faces of the society members, every one animated, excited. This new mystery could help the group recover a little from Beryl’s death.

Anyway, even if the society didn’t follow up this intriguing puzzle, she certainly would. She was already intrigued.