Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  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.

  4

  Ploughman’s

  Back at Hope Cottage, Libby found Mandy sprawled on the sofa, black hair standing in spikes round her head, Fuzzy the cat curled on her lap, fast asleep.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Libby complained. ‘She never sleeps on me.’

  ‘You don’t sit around long enough. You’re always jumping up and doing things.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘It’s not a criticism. We all like you for it.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’ She supposed it was a compliment, although it didn’t make her sound restful, in the way Max was. Thinking of Max, she wondered if he was home. She was keen to tell him about Carys Evans’ poison-pen letter.

  She sometimes wondered if he found this corner of Somerset too small. He’d been used to international travel as a financial adviser, although that was less frequent these days, now most finance investigations took place online.

  For now, she’d talk to Mandy, instead. ‘Do you want to hear some gossip?’

  Mandy dumped the cat on the sofa, adjusted the gothic, black net sleeves that matched her black fishnet tights, straightened the large Celtic cross round her neck and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. ‘Course I do. You’ve been at the History Society again, haven’t you? Always something happening there. What’s new?’

 
; Libby launched into a description of the poison-pen letter; she’d memorised every word.

  Mandy grinned. ‘Just when I thought life was about to get boring, what with you getting married and moving out. Now, what’s that rhyme supposed to mean?’

  ‘No one knows, really. It’s a well-known nursery rhyme. Dr Phillips, the cathedral librarian, was at the meeting, as was Jemima Bakewell, and they explained its history, but it didn’t take us very far, except to suggest Carys is either a thief or a prostitute.’

  ‘Nice,’ Mandy spluttered. ‘Are you going to visit Carys?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m not sure she knows she’s the talk of Exham, and no one knows where she lives.’

  ‘Come on, you can’t let this go without a spot of investigating, Mrs F.’ Libby loved the way Mandy spoke to her, with a friendly mix of affection and respect.

  ‘I thought I’d start with Gladys.’

  Mandy pretended to shiver. ‘Rather you than me. Gladys has quite a tongue on her.’

  Libby smiled. ‘I think there’s a good heart underneath. But, just now, I need food. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s always room for more.’

  Libby went into the kitchen, pulling together a supper of local Cheddar and Brie cheeses, ham and crackers, arranging it on two plates alongside a green salad, sliced apples and large dollops of roasted tomato chutney.

  ‘Mm, a ploughman’s. I’ll make coffee,’ Mandy approved.

  Two cups of coffee later, Libby’s plate was empty. ‘It’s late, and I’m going to bed before I drink too much coffee and sit up twitching all night,’ she announced.

  Max hadn’t contacted her since his trip to Bristol. She tried not to mind.

  As Mandy collected the plates, yawning, Libby’s phone rang. A glance at the screen told her it was Max. ‘I’ll take it upstairs,’ she murmured to Mandy, her heart pounding like a teenager’s. He still had that effect, no matter how much his absences annoyed her.

  Mandy’s wolf whistle followed her up the stairs.

  Without stopping to say hello, Max announced, ‘You’ll never believe what’s happened.’

  ‘You’ve found a body?’ she suggested, laughing.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m too tired for jokes. I’m on my way to bed. Where are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not joking. I just arrived home after talking to the police all evening.’

  Libby’s laughter died. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Never more so.’

  ‘Tell me more.’ She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘Shall I come round?’

  ‘Best not. It’s too late, and I’m shattered.’

  Deflated, Libby said nothing. Instead, she let him talk, disappointed that he didn’t want her with him. If she’d found a dead body, she’d want his support.

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you, now, except that I took the dogs for a walk in Leigh Woods, and we found a woman’s body buried under a pile of leaves. Shipley found it, of course. He did that pointing thing. I don’t know anything about the woman, and there’s no identification yet. She looked about fifty. Black hair, but with a touch of grey at the roots.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ That sounded professional. If he wasn’t going to make a fuss, nor was she.

  ‘None at the moment. I didn’t get to see much – I was trying not to disturb the body, of course. I thought it looked like a blow to her head, but I’m not sure, and I didn’t know any of the police officers when they arrived. They took my statement and said they’d get in touch.’

  ‘Not a case for Forest and Ramshore, then?’

  ‘Not so far as I can see. Come over in the morning, and we can talk.’

  On the verge of agreeing, she stopped. Why hadn’t he called in to Hope Cottage to see her this evening, to tell her about the body he’d found? If she’d found one, Max would have been her first port of call, no matter how late it was. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m working at the bakery tomorrow.’ She wasn’t even going to tell him about Carys Evans and the email. That would serve him right.

  They agreed to meet for lunch, and Libby ended the unsatisfactory call. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but Max had sounded odd. Distant. If he’d been upset by finding the body, surely he would have wanted to see her straight away? Maybe he’d been more upset than he wanted to show. Had she been childish, refusing to meet him tomorrow morning?

  She lay awake a long time, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. Something was wrong – awkward and disjointed – between Max and herself.

  Was he annoyed at delaying the wedding? He was an easy-going man, avoiding fusses about arrangements, usually happy to leave what he called their ‘social diary’ in her hands. Perhaps she’d gone too far, expecting him to put back the wedding date at short notice. But he’d often said he was sorry Ali wouldn’t be there, hadn’t he?

  Another thought struck. Maybe her excitement over Ali’s return had upset him for a different reason. Before Libby met him, Max had lost his daughter. He didn’t talk about it much, but Libby couldn’t imagine any pain more devastating. Had Ali’s return reminded him he’d never see Debbie again?

  Libby groaned aloud. She’d been insensitive, and there was nothing she could do about it now. Tomorrow, she’d find a way to apologise. Meanwhile, determined not to spend all night awake and worrying, she opened her Kindle in search of something cheerful to read. By some miracle, the battery was fully charged and at last, soothed by P. G. Wodehouse and the adventures of Lord Emsworth’s prize-winning pig, she fell into a restless sleep.

  5

  Waitrose

  Max had bought the large, sixteenth-century manor house, Exham House, when he retired from his job in a London bank. It now seemed ridiculously big for one person – even with two lively dogs around.

  Max laid his phone down on the table in his study, wishing Libby were with him. He’d been counting the days to their wedding, when she’d move in officially. He’d reconciled himself to an influx of squishy cushions to the sitting room, and was even learning to put toilet rolls on the holder, rather than leave them on the cistern. ‘Why?’ he’d asked Libby. ‘It’s just another pointless task.’

  She’d raised her eyebrows and shrugged, and he’d agreed to change. ‘As long as I can keep my study the way it is.’

  After hours spent poring through holiday brochures, they’d decided to take their honeymoon in the New Year. ‘Somewhere hot,’ Libby had said, ‘but let’s stay in Exham for our first Christmas together.’ Max pictured the house filled with Christmas trees, decorations and cards, with the two dogs and Fuzzy the cat all snuggled in a heap in front of a crackling log fire. He must remember to order more firewood.

  Meanwhile, Bear did his best to provide company by lying across Max’s feet. Shipley lay sprawled on the floor, upside down, hoping for a tummy tickle, but he’d have to wait. Max’s mood, already sombre from the sight of an unknown woman in a makeshift grave, hair full of leaves, mud all over her face, sank even further as he thought about the meeting with Stella.

  What did she really want with him? Was she just jealous of his new-found happiness with Libby? Maybe that was it.

  There had been an odd look on her face. Stella had always set great store on the way she looked. She dressed well and he was sure she’d had a little ‘work’ done on her face, but today, as she described the emails, she’d looked old and tired. Dark rings had circled her eyes, her lips had thinned into a single line with her trademark red lipstick sinking into the surrounding fine creases, and her brow bore furrows no Botox could entirely erase.

  What if her suspicions were right and someone was deliberately targeting her? Would the harassment escalate or would the perpetrator lose interest and move on to another victim? Until he was sure, Max had a duty to help. After all, she was the mother of his children.

  He glanced at his watch. Midnight already. Would Libby be asleep? He wanted to phone again, explain about the meeting with S
tella, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. Libby had sounded distracted, almost cold, on the phone. How would she react to his meeting his ex-wife, whom he’d previously insisted was happily living on the other side of the country, with no need for any contact between them?

  He should have told her before he went to Bristol, then he wouldn’t be in this spot.

  Maybe the best plan would be to track down whoever sent Stella the email and convince her she had nothing to worry about. Libby need never know he’d scampered off to meet his ex-wife as soon as she asked him to.

  He wouldn’t sleep tonight, in any case, so he might as well do something useful.

  He pushed Bear off his legs, rubbing the big dog’s chest as Bear grumbled, rewarded Shipley’s patience with a brief tummy tickle, made a cup of coffee and settled down at his desk. The computer hummed and Bear raised his head for a few seconds before falling asleep again. He was showing his age. Max hoped he’d have a few more years in him. It would break Libby’s heart if Bear fell sick – or worse.

  Max checked his email. Sure enough, Stella had forwarded her mysterious messages to him.

  These arrived while I was with you.

  He ran through them.

  I’m watching you.

  The email included a photo; the back of a woman, who could easily have been Stella, shopping in Waitrose.

  Don’t think you’ve got away with it.

  You’ll be sorry.

  Another photo of Stella, taken from the back again, at a different shop.

  Max tried to be objective. Was that really Stella in the photo? It wasn’t clear enough to be sure, even after he’d magnified and enhanced it as much as possible. The photo bore all the hallmarks of an amateur attempt to frighten.

  He sent Stella a quick text, asking if she recognised the branch of Waitrose as the place she normally shopped, but had no reply. She’d be fast asleep, like every sensible person at this time of night.