‘Gladys rang my mum. They’ve been friends for years. They still meet up every now and then.’ Elaine, Mandy’s mother, had moved to Bristol after her divorce from the violent Bert.
‘Yes, but what happened?’ Annabel interrupted.
Mandy rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know many details. Just that Carys Evans’ body appeared in Leigh Woods yesterday. You know, at the Avon Gorge? Mum rang me because Gladys is in a state, and she said please could someone pop round to the shop to check on her, and I thought of you, Mrs F. It’s right up your street, and you’re good with people in trouble.’
‘Am I?’ The compliment was unexpected. Libby was more accustomed to being accused of nosiness than tact. ‘I don’t know Gladys that well. I don’t want to intrude.’ Nevertheless, her mind was already racing. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, her sister dying just after that email arrived for her. Did Gladys have to identify the body?’
‘Apparently not. Carys had a son, I believe. The police visited him, he dealt with the identification and rang Gladys. She says he’s devastated.’
‘Well, he would be,’ Libby agreed. Her mind was racing. A body in Leigh Woods? Could it be the one Max had found – there couldn’t be two bodies buried there, could there? And it had shown up just after the arrival of the strange email. Libby’s suspicious mind was working overtime. She’d be willing to lay odds that the person Max found was Carys Evans.
Had she been murdered?
Don’t jump ahead, Libby warned herself. Not every death is a murder – even in Somerset. Still, she was keen to check on Gladys, in any case. She’d be upset about her sister. Libby had a soft spot for the florist, despite Gladys’ spiky exterior. She wasn’t the most popular woman in town.
Libby hesitated. ‘I should stay in the bakery, though. I was late to work this morning and I can’t let Frank down any more…’
‘I’ll look after things here,’ Mandy offered. ‘I don’t have any plans for today. You go ahead and visit Gladys.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind…’
Annabel said, ‘I’ll come too. Make the tea, or something.’
Libby couldn’t think of a reason to refuse, although she disliked the thought of offering Annabel more gossip-fodder, and the two women left the shop. As the door swung to behind Libby, she could hear Mandy repeating every detail of her mother’s call to a fascinated Alan Jenkins.
Annabel and Libby hurried down the road, to where Gladys lived above the flower shop. They threaded their way past Christmas shoppers in the High Street, under Merry Christmas banners, past shop windows bright with tinsel. Annabel said, ‘Clifton Suspension Bridge is notorious for suicides, or so I’ve heard.’
‘But anyone jumping would land way down in the gorge. Not in Leigh Woods. Anyway, there are barriers along the bridge, now, to stop people.’
Annabel shrugged. ‘If you’re determined enough, there are places you can climb over the wall beside the towers. There’s CCTV, though, and often the bridge keepers manage to persuade people not to jump.’
Libby shivered at the thought. She hated heights, and Clifton Suspension Bridge spanned the gorge at a dizzying altitude. Even driving across made her stomach lurch.
Annabel continued, ‘I went to the visitor centre, soon after I came to Exham. It’s fascinating. Did you know Isambard Kingdom Brunel designed it for a competition, but he died before it was built?’ She chattered on, cheeks aglow with the winter chill and the enthusiasm of a West Country newcomer.
Libby wondered about Annabel. She’d been widowed a few years ago, and had only recently arrived in Exham, looking, she said, for a new, quieter life, where she could walk on the beach with her son and get out into the Somerset countryside. Exham, for all its quiet charm, lacked the excitement of a vibrant city like Bristol or Bath. Was she lonely? And did her young son find it dull?
None of your business, Libby told herself, as she let the recitation of facts slip over her head. Her thoughts turned, instead, to Gladys and her dead sister, Carys. Libby hadn’t even known Gladys had a sister, until yesterday.
Gladys lived over her flower shop at the bottom of the High Street, next to an award-winning haberdashery, just around the corner from the site of Angela’s new café. This part of town, a short stroll from the beach, felt like the heart of local Exham. It sat a little apart from the bustle of the seafront kiosks selling beach balls, buckets and spades, but close enough to the sea to attract plenty of passing trade during the visitor season.
The windows of the flower shop glittered with fairy lights, Christmas wreaths, and huge vases of dried flowers.
Annabel leaned her thumb on the doorbell, and a muffled voice from above called, ‘Come in.’
The door was on the latch, so Libby pushed it open and led the way through a narrow passage behind the shop, and up a staircase.
Gladys met them at the top. A small, thin woman in her late fifties, she had a shock of wiry hair, suspiciously dark for a woman of her age, usually tamed into an untidy bun at the back of her neck. Today, her face was pale, and her hair, unconstructed, curled wildly around her face.
‘Libby, it’s so kind of you to come,’ she said, in her lilting Welsh accent. ‘Elaine told me she’d ask you to. Oh. Annabel, too.’ A little frost had crept into her voice.
Libby glanced from one to the other. Another woman who disliked Annabel, as Joanna did? ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Carys,’ she began.
Annabel, perhaps sensing Gladys’ hostility, said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on, if you don’t mind letting me loose in your kitchen?’
Gladys made a curious gesture, half shrug and half nod, and led Libby into the flat’s tiny living room; an overheated, chintzy space full of tables swathed in embroidered tablecloths. Ornaments and knick-knacks decorated every surface.
With care, Libby negotiated an occasional table dominated by a carriage clock and a porcelain statue of a boy dressed as a shepherd, and sat on a chair covered in rose-patterned linen. She handed Gladys a brown paper bag containing jam-filled pastries from the bakery – one of the florist’s favourite treats.
Annabel clattered cups in the kitchen.
Gladys narrowed her eyes. ‘Why did you bring her?’ she hissed.
Libby, startled, stammered a little. ‘She offered. She wants to help.’ She leaned close and whispered, ‘I think she’s lonely.’
Gladys grunted. ‘She’s got a nose for gossip, that one. Mark my words.’
You could say the same for me, Libby thought. Rumour and hearsay lay at the heart of her methods when she was on a case. She encouraged people to talk while she listened, alert for seemingly inconsequential remarks that jolted her brain into action.
She studied Gladys, listening carefully as the florist talked.
‘Down in the valley, she was,’ Gladys said, her Welsh accent very evident. ‘Lying under a heap of leaves.’
‘Did Carys live in Bristol?’
‘Not really. At least, she’s been staying there recently, but she’s spent most of her life in London.’ Gladys’ eyes slid away from Libby’s face. She picked up the shepherd boy, and stroked its head.
Libby chose her words with care. ‘I’m very sorry about your sister. I want to help, if I can. Max always reminds me every death is suspicious until proved otherwise. Let’s face it, honestly, if someone attacked your sister, you’ll want to get to the bottom of it, won’t you? Maybe you have an idea or two of your own?’
Gladys nodded, but still avoided Libby’s gaze.
Libby tried again. ‘That nursery rhyme email was spiteful, but it may contain clues. It could tell us why someone wanted her dead.’
Gladys rose and walked to the window, watching Exham on Sea residents going about their business in the street below. ‘Look at them,’ she said. ‘All leading happy lives, shopping and cooking, getting ready for Christmas. They’re good people here. Law-abiding. Quiet. They wouldn’t understand my sister, you see. Carys was a law unto herself.’
Libby joined her at t
he window. ‘Don’t you believe it. The Exham on Sea community is as full of secrets as any inner city. Look at Angela there, busy setting up the café. Her husband was killed by a rival, but she’s made the best of her life and now she has a new career and a new man.’ As do I, she could have added. ‘Mandy’s dad turned out to be a wife-beater, and my own husband was a selfish, weak, petty criminal. Don’t be fooled by the images we hide behind or the smiles we wear, pretending all’s well. Everyone has a skeleton or two in their cupboards.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Gladys said.
‘I won’t be shocked by your sister’s history, no matter what she’s done. It’ll be a nine-day wonder in Exham, and soon forgotten. The neighbours will be far more interested in who killed her. That email didn’t seem serious at first – more like a very bad joke, but it’s clear your Carys had a complicated past, and maybe that’s what led to her death.’
Gladys fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘You’re right, of course. I’m not really surprised she’s come to a bad end. I’ve spent most of my adult life covering up her behaviour. I should have known it would all come out one day.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about her?’
At that moment, just as Libby thought Gladys was about to divulge an important piece of information, Annabel returned from the kitchen, bearing a tray laden with mugs, a milk jug, a biscuit tin and a bag of sugar. ‘Couldn’t find the sugar bowl,’ she sang out, as though dispensing refreshments at a tea party.
She could use a little tact, Libby thought.
Gladys muttered. ‘Get rid of her.’
Libby thought fast. ‘Annabel,’ she said, ‘I wonder if you’d mind popping back to the bakery. I only brought two cakes. Could you ask Mandy for a mince pie?’
‘Oh, not to worry. I’ll stick to biscuits.’ Annabel was either too thick-skinned to take Libby’s hint, or determined to hear whatever Gladys was about to say.
Gladys said, ‘Well, could you run downstairs to the shop and put together a bunch of dried flowers for me? Carys always loved my flowers. I’d like to put some on the mantelpiece, beside her photo.’
Annabel hesitated, but gave in. ‘Oh. Very well.’ She disappeared downstairs, clutching the bunch of keys Gladys had retrieved from a jar on the table.
‘Now, then.’ Gladys had bounced back a little, regaining some of her usual sparkle. ‘I’ll tell you about Carys.’
As she listened, Libby moved to the mantelpiece, to look at the photograph in its silver frame. She saw a younger, prettier version of her sister, with the same dark hair, blue eyes and black eyelashes, showing their Welsh ancestry.
‘Carys,’ Gladys said, talking fast, her glance constantly flickering to the door, as though she was keen not to let Annabel hear a word. ‘Carys was my little sister. She was born when I was almost grown, and she was the centre of our family.’
Libby lifted the photo and tilted it to catch the light. ‘A pretty woman.’
Gladys nodded. ‘Indeed, she is. Was, I mean.’ She sniffed, her face crumpling. She blew her nose heartily on a pocket handkerchief. ‘Our Carys grew up in a bubble of admiration. Everyone loved her. She wasn’t too clever at school, but then, nor was I, but she could run like the wind. She played tennis and hockey – in the first team for both, she was.’
‘Where did you live?’
‘Oh, not far away from here. On the other side of the River Severn, near Cardiff. Another quiet, rural place, with a village school and a tiny shop, but it was too dull for Carys. She wanted the bright lights, the shops and pubs and clubs, and she couldn’t wait to get away from home. Neither of us was clever enough to go to university. I started work at a florist’s – I’ve always loved flowers – but Carys, she couldn’t seem to settle. One job after another, it was. Shop work locally, at first, but she found the little sweet shop and newsagent in the village too dull. In the end, she got herself a job in Bath, at the department store.’
‘Jumbles?’ Libby put in, and Gladys nodded.
‘She seemed happy enough there. Plenty of people coming in and out. That’s where she met her first husband, Peter Noakes. He worked in one of those tailors, where you can hire evening clothes – you know, for weddings and… and so on.’
The phrase ‘weddings and funerals’ hung in the air, unspoken.
‘Anyway,’ Gladys wiped her nose, tucked her handkerchief back into the sleeve of her pink cardigan, and went on. ‘Peter and Carys set up home in a nice little house on the outskirts of Bath. That was back in the day, when young people could get a foot on the housing ladder. I thought she’d settle down then, but within two years, she tired of Peter, and went off with an estate agent. Mike, he was called.’ Gladys gave a short laugh. ‘I bet you can see where this is heading. Mike lasted just a few years, and then she was off again, with husband number three.’
Libby sat down and reached into her bag. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I write this down, Gladys. I want to get the names right.’
‘You carry on. I expect the police will want to know all about it soon, anyway. Husband number three was Alexander, and then there was Sid and John, but she’d given up bothering to marry them, by then. I suppose that’s why the person who sent that nasty email likened her to a… to a… prostitute.’ She reclaimed her handkerchief from her sleeve, and blew her nose again.
‘Did she have children?’ Libby prompted.
Gladys pursed her lips. ‘One little boy, with Peter, but when Carys left, the child stayed with his dad. He was only two. That’s why they’ve never been close.’ She burst out, ‘Unnatural, that’s what I call it. Leaving your little one, for a man. There’s not one of them worth it, and your child will never forgive you. Never.’
Libby found it hard to disagree.
‘I would have looked after little Maurice, if she’d asked me to. Instead, Peter broke off all ties with her and the family, and I haven’t seen the boy for years. He’ll be grown up now – about thirty. One of those – what do they call them? Millennials, that’s it. Same age as my daughter, Becca, up in Swansea. I thought they’d grow up together, but that wasn’t to be.’
As though drained by the recitation of her sister’s past, Gladys fell silent, biting a thumbnail.
Finally, she roused herself and said, ‘I can give you Carys’ latest address if you want?’
Libby handed over her notebook and, as Carys scribbled, asked, ‘Have you been in touch with your sister recently? Was there any reason for her to be in the woods?’
Gladys frowned. ‘No reason I can think of. She came to Exham last year, for a holiday. Between men, I think, for once. Maybe she was meeting someone.’ She hissed the last few words quietly, as Annabel’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Libby took back her notebook, closed it with a snap, and dropped it into her bag. She had plenty to go on.
9
Chilli
Lunchtime with Max was approaching fast, but Libby was still dithering over what to do. She’d been out of the bakery most of the morning, and she already felt guilty for not pulling her weight in the shop recently. Most of the work had fallen on Frank’s shoulders, and Mandy’s.
She was longing to hear all the details of Max’s discovery of the body in the woods. She was sure it must be Carys Evans’ – more than one body in the woods seemed unlikely.
Nevertheless, running off to lunch and deserting the shop felt wrong.
She pulled out her phone, looked at it, hesitated, and dropped it back in her pocket. Should she cancel?
She made up her mind. Max would understand. She grabbed her phone once more and sent a text.
Spent all morning investigating Carys Evans so need to work through lunch. Was it her body you found? Tell me all about it tonight?
After a moment’s thought, she added a sorry and a single x.
His reply pinged back.
Understand, posh restaurant tonight?
And three xs.
Libby’s plan fell apart when she tried to persuade Mandy to lea
ve the bakery – it was her day off, after all – but Mandy was adamant. ‘I love being in the shop. I get to be first with the gossip and Steve says he only goes out with me to find out what’s happening in Exham. He’s busy in London at the moment, rehearsing for a concert. Something Christmassy, he tells me, with carols, although I expect they’ll be some of those modern ones, not “Away in a Manger”.’ She giggled. ‘He’ll be home at the weekend and all this is my way of asking you to take over my shift on Saturday so I can be with him, and I’ll finish yours here.’
‘I can stay for a while. Many hands, and all that.’
Mandy rolled her eyes. ‘That’s just silly. I can cope. You get off and solve Carys Evans’ sudden death. I can see you’re dying to do some thinking. Just make sure you tell me everything. Oh, and maybe you could plan some new chocolates for Jumbles. They’re screaming for more – they sell them faster than we can make them at this time of year.’
Back at Hope Cottage, Libby set to work on some new recipe ideas she’d had. She opened the cupboard where she kept ingredients, and, immediately, the scents of violets, strawberries and vanilla essence hit her nostrils. She breathed them in, loving the thought of an afternoon alone in her kitchen.
As she worked, mixing and tasting, she tried to focus on Carys’ background. She’d been in Exham last year, although Libby hadn’t seen her – but maybe some of the other residents knew her.
Her hands were busy with a bowl full of pistachio-flavoured cream, but for once, mixing and blending failed to soothe Libby. A barrier seemed to have appeared, cutting her off from Max. They’d shared so much recently. Why hadn’t he shared the truth about Stella? And, why had Libby herself found an excuse to cancel their lunch?
A knot had formed in her stomach. Surely she wasn’t jealous.
The doorbell rang, and she caught her breath. Was that Max, coming to see her because he couldn’t bear to wait until the evening?
Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries) Page 5
