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

by Frances Evesham

  13

  Little Red Riding Hood

  Max and Libby rose early next morning. A frost had hardened the ground, but the sun shone brightly in a pale blue sky.

  Max took Shipley for an energetic run through the lanes and fields, while Libby undertook a more sedate stroll around Max’s two acres of land, with Bear. He’d had his first dose of medicine last night, and seemed keen to wander along at Libby’s side. ‘We’ll take it slowly,’ she told him. ‘Leave the rabbits for Shipley.’

  By ten to nine, Max and Libby were at the police station, crammed into a tiny room with DCI Morrison’s team, drinking watery coffee from an array of mugs and gossiping cheerfully while they waited for the boss to arrive.

  Gemma greeted Libby with a grin and a hug, as though Libby was a favourite aunt. ‘You did bring cake, didn’t you?’

  Libby pulled the tin from her bag. ‘I wouldn’t dare arrive empty-handed.’

  ‘This,’ Gemma introduced a tall, thin uniformed youth with large, black-rimmed spectacles and a worried expression, ‘is Timothy Green, our newest constable.’

  ‘C-call me Tim,’ the young man said, with a hint of a stutter.

  Libby wondered how old he was. Such a cliché, that policemen were getting younger, but this one looked as though he should still be at school.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Tim,’ she said.

  The constable’s Adam’s apple rose and fell in a stringy neck as he shook hands with Libby and Max. ‘I’ve heard all about you two,’ he said, with a nervous smile that came slowly and disappeared in a flash.

  Libby hoped he had more confidence than appearances suggested. If not, he’d suffer in the rough and tumble of Morrison’s team of energetic officers. Had he even been part of a murder investigation before this one?

  The room had filled quickly with people both Max and Libby had met before. She enjoyed their banter, pleased to find they’d accepted Max and herself as part of their team. It hadn’t been so easy last time, when PC Ian Smith had set out to undermine them. Smith was still in the team, relegated to note-taking, and sitting as far away from Libby as possible.

  The chatter faded as DCI Morrison arrived. As ever, his face wore the hangdog expression of a man bearing the cares of the world on his shoulders. Libby happened to know his wife was a cheerful soul who worked as a teaching assistant at Exham Infants and loved nothing more than an excuse for a party.

  She concentrated on the DCI’s take on events.

  ‘You’ll all know by now that Carys Evans died at the Avon Gorge. In Leigh Woods, to be exact. It’s outside our area, but the Bristol chaps have asked us to help them out. Very busy over there, apparently.’

  He said this with a straight face. Libby could only imagine the strings he’d had to pull with senior officers to get the murder case moved onto his patch.

  ‘The forensic examiner’s report, of which you should have copies…’ He hooked a pair of narrow reading glasses on his ears, waved the report in the air and looked around, over the top of the spectacles. Satisfied by the answering nods, he went on, ‘Good, then you’ll see that she died from a blow on the back of her head. Swift and deadly, and unlikely to be accidental, as an attempt had been made to cover her body with leaves. That part of the woods is a little off the beaten track, and Ms Evans’ body was discovered, coincidentally, by Max Ramshore, here, while walking his dogs. You all know Max, I think.’ Morrison gestured towards Max. ‘We don’t have DS – now DI Joe Ramshore – with us, as he’s gone on to greater things in Hereford, but it’s good to have a member of his family as a stand-in.’ That was as close to a joke Libby had ever heard from DCI Morrison, and a couple of young officers laughed, awkwardly.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Morrison continued, ‘there’s a little confusion about time of death. The weather, you see. Cold. Frozen bodies, according to this chap Hamilton in his report, take longer to show rigor mortis, and once it’s arrived, it hangs around far longer.’ He made the early process of decay sound like a visitor who won’t go home. ‘The upshot is, Ms Evans probably died a couple of days before her remains were found. But that raises an even more interesting possibility.’

  He paused.

  Libby calculated aloud. ‘The nursery rhyme email arrived on November the twenty-fifth, and the body was found on the twenty-sixth. But, counting back two days…’

  Gemma Humberstone chimed in, ‘The email arrived after she was already dead.’

  ‘Full marks,’ Morrison said. ‘Does that mean the two events are unconnected? Or is the email a clumsy attempt to disguise the time of death? Or is there another reason?’

  Max and Libby exchanged a puzzled look. What was the point of sending a threatening email after the victim was already dead?

  Libby ran through other possibilities in her head. Gladys had been copied in to the email. Whoever sent it had wanted her to know – what? Was it a threat to Gladys? And if so, why not send a rhyme directly to her?

  Libby’s sinking feeling told her this business did not end here. As she’d suspected, everyone who’d received an email must be under threat.

  As she puzzled, Morrison introduced a female Scenes of Crime Officer, on secondment from Bristol, who described various items found at the crime scene. ‘Including the branch of an oak tree bearing traces of Ms Evans’ blood, there are various pieces of cloth and other materials, but given the public nature of the location, they may not take us much further forward. No fingerprints were found on the branch. The assailant was bound to be wearing gloves, given the weather. No signs of a struggle, no skin under Ms Evans’ fingernails, or anything useful of that sort.’

  ‘In short,’ DCI Morrison sighed, his jowls drooping sadly, ‘we’re going to need plenty of straightforward investigation into Ms Evans, her contacts, ex-husbands and boyfriends, sightings in the area during the previous week, and so on. You all know the drill. There are, by the way, some very unusual aspects to this case, and we have something of a head start with these. Our civilian officer, Libby Forest here, has already begun her discussions with the local residents of Exham on Sea, using her network of contacts. All of whom, I gather, meet almost daily in the, er, bakery. This includes the victim’s sister, one Gladys Evans. She keeps the florist shop.’

  Libby, thrust into the limelight, described the email received by Carys Evans.

  Tim, the new PC, gazed at her open-mouthed. Definitely, this was his first murder case.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Libby said. ‘There are three more emails – all nursery rhymes – that have dropped into the inboxes of Exham on Sea people.’

  One of the admin assistants distributed hastily photocopied lists of the other residents and the nursery rhymes they’d received.

  ‘Three more emails? All nursery rhymes? Someone’s playing games,’ Morrison said. His team sat straighter, almost licking their lips in appreciation of such an intriguing development. ‘We need to consider whether these rhymes are coincidences, or bad jokes, or is Ms Evans’ killer planning further atrocities? There are more than enough angles to keep us all busy, including taking safeguarding measures for those who’ve received these unpleasant communications.’ He distributed tasks to the officers in the room and brought the meeting to a close.

  ‘The problem is,’ Libby said to Max as they drove away, ‘we have so little to go on. The emails are shocking, but they’re not threatening. They don’t give us much in the way of clues. They’re just everyday nursery rhymes.’

  ‘But,’ he pointed out, ‘in each case, the rhyme is fitted to the recipient. Are there any other common angles?’

  ‘Well, all the recipients are women.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Absolutely. Does that suggest the sender is a man?’

  Max slowed down to take a tight bend. ‘Too early to say, I would think. Received wisdom in the past was that women were more likely than men to send poison-pen letters. But that may not hold true now with the internet.’

  ‘Modern technology makes an emai
l much more difficult to track down than a proper letter. No special typewriter to identify, with one letter at a distinctive angle; no licking of envelopes to provide DNA evidence; no fingerprints; no way of knowing which part of the world the sender’s IP address comes from. If I’ve got the right expression.’ She looked enquiringly at Max.

  ‘More or less, and you’re right. It’s all anonymous. Let’s see what turns up when we talk to the recipients.’

  ‘Can you drop me at Hope Cottage?’ Libby asked. ‘I’ve got a few phone calls to make about this change of date. Angela offered to help, which is great, as she’s the best organiser in the world, but I still need to sort out a few things. A venue for the reception, for one, and the flowers from Gladys. It’s going to be hectic.’

  Max rested a hand on Libby’s knee. ‘And it will all be worth it, in the end.’

  Mandy was in Hope Cottage when Libby arrived, for Annabel had taken on the day’s shift at the bakery. Libby wanted to make sure her lodger was taking the nursery rhymes seriously.

  Her phone glued to her ear, Mandy was conducting delicate deals with one of the outlets supplied by Mrs Forest’s Chocolates.

  She concluded her business, ended the call and beamed, triumphantly. ‘Mrs F, I wasn’t expecting you. I was chasing up a lead for the last of our Christmas chocs, and they’re all gone, now. Snowmen, Christmas trees and stockings for that place in Wells. You know, on the corner, where all the Cathedral School pupils fill up on junk at lunchtime.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. You’re a terrific saleswoman.’ Libby said. She smiled into Mandy’s beaming face. ‘But, I came to talk about your email.’

  ‘Little Red Riding Hood? I quite like that. My black cloak has a scarlet lining.’

  ‘So it does. And that means whoever sent the email must know you. Or, at least, they’ve seen you around. Maybe at the Goth club?’ Libby paused. ‘Mandy, I don’t want to frighten you, but I’m worried that the person writing these things might have killed Carys.’

  ‘Nah. It’s just a bit of fun. Someone’s having a laugh.’

  ‘What about Carys? Her death’s not funny.’

  Mandy winced. ‘I know. I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic, but don’t you think that’s just a coincidence? No one’s going to bump off another three people, all in one go, are they? At least, if they are, why warn us all? Doesn’t make sense. I bet the rhymes are nothing to do with that murder.’

  Mandy seemed determined not to take the email seriously.

  ‘I hope you’re right, but I want you to be careful.’

  ‘They’re just a joke, if you ask me. Look at the rhymes. Mrs Sheffield’s is Jack and the Beanstalk. Appropriate, no?’

  ‘How do you mean? Oh,’ light dawned. ‘She’s tall—’

  ‘Like a beanstalk. Funny, really, although I bet she doesn’t think so. Takes herself a bit too seriously, if you ask me.’

  ‘What about Annabel Pearson?’

  Mandy was still chattering. ‘Queen of Hearts. That’s Mrs Pearson. You should have seen her the other day, flirting with Freddy from the estate agents. She had him convinced she was about to buy that empty house near Max’s. As if she has that kind of money – but she led him right up the garden path, like. He was practically drooling over her, and she must be twenty years older than him.’

  ‘I’m starting to feel disappointed that I haven’t had one of these, myself.’ Libby said. Was she taking them too seriously? No, it all felt wrong. The emails arrived just as Carys Evans died, and Libby distrusted coincidences. ‘I just hope you’re right, but I’m not convinced. Keep your eyes open, won’t you? Make sure there’s always someone in the bakery with you, and get Frank to take you out to the car at night, now it gets dark so early.’

  Mandy burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Mrs F, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. I can’t have a bodyguard with me all the time. Anyway, Steve will be here tomorrow, for the weekend.’ Mandy’s cheeks glowed. Her feelings for her boyfriend were as strong as ever. Perhaps Angela’s hope that the two would eventually get married, so that Mandy would become her niece, would come true. ‘Now,’ Mandy said. ‘Tell me all about the latest plans for your wedding. Honestly, if you postpone it any more, we’ll have to kidnap you and Max and drag you both to the register office with hoods over your heads.’

  Libby managed a chuckle and tried to concentrate on the wedding arrangements, listening to Mandy’s description of her dress, and her guesses about Libby’s own. Her mind, though, was elsewhere. Someone in Exham was playing games. Were the games entirely innocent, if silly, or was Carys’ killer, like a cat, toying with its prey before pouncing? Libby shivered. What message could the Rhymer be sending? And how did the threatening email to Stella fit in?

  14

  Santa Special Thursday

  Bright and early on Thursday morning, Libby arrived, breathless, on the platform at Minehead Station, the dogs by her side. Brightly coloured bunting hung from the station buildings, and a small Christmas tree leaned at an ungainly angle close to the waiting room. A huge banner proclaimed ‘Santa Steam Special’, complete with a picture of a beaming, jolly fat man in a red Santa costume. A similar banner decorated the side of a West Somerset Railway steam train.

  An east wind gusted across the platform, and for a moment Libby wished she had a Santa costume of her own to help keep out the chill. She hadn’t expected to join a train load of children on a trip to see Santa, but when she’d called Joanna yesterday, the poor woman had sounded so harassed that Libby was happy to agree to join the train and talk about the nursery rhyme emails as they travelled.

  She picked her way down the platform, through crowds of tiny, excited children wearing party hats, mothers with babes in arms, and a sprinkling of older children trying to look cool and grown-up.

  The giant train let out a puff of steam, to shrieks of delight.

  There was Joanna Sheffield, waving from a little further along the platform. Libby joined her.

  ‘You made it in time. Welcome to the Santa Special,’ Joanna said. ‘These are my two.’ She held the hand of a small girl wearing a bright red waterproof that covered her from head to toe, with a helmet-shaped peak to the hood. All Libby could see of the child was a button nose, a few strands of strawberry-blonde hair, and a pair of round blue eyes. ‘This is Isobel. She’s almost four, and that one’ – she indicated a taller boy standing a little apart, a glum expression on his face – ‘that’s Jeremy. Named after my husband.’

  The boy, who appeared to be about six or seven, had a shock of curly black hair falling over his eyes, and a blue anorak. ‘I’m Jay,’ he rebuked his mother.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  The children were far more interested in the dogs than in Libby. Jay took up a stance beside Shipley, his attitude suggesting no one else would be allowed near. Isobel approached Bear nervously, one hand outstretched, the other gripping on to her mother’s coat. As Bear pushed his head against her hand, she giggled and kissed the top of his head.

  Joanna said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you at home, today. This is the annual Christmas outing for the Children’s Centre at the school I work for, and it’s all hands on deck to keep order. Ninety families, would you believe? It’ll be a bit of a crush on the train, but we had a couple of families cancel because of the flu, and since you’ve had a criminal records check, it’s OK for you to come along. You can help keep an eye on them all.’ Libby sometimes held biscuit-decorating sessions for children at local fetes and fairs and carried out occasional cooking lessons in schools, so she felt – almost – ready to cope with anything the children could throw at her. Joanna went on, ‘There’s just enough space for you. And the dogs.’

  ‘They’re both well-trained. Even Shipley’s learned to keep still when he’s told – a few months ago, I wouldn’t have dared bring him near so many children.’

  ‘I’m really pleased they’re here. My son – he has a mind of his own, as I expect you’ve noticed – decided this morn
ing he didn’t want to come with all the little ones, after he’d been talking about it for weeks. Kids. I don’t know. Such a handful!’

  Both Isobel and Jay seemed perfectly well-behaved, especially compared to a nearby family of three under-fives, already setting up a chorus of wails and demands for ice-cream and chocolate. Had Libby made a mistake coming today? How could she learn anything from Joanna amid all this bustle? But, she was curious about Joanna, and keen to find out more about her. Of all the recent arrivals in Exham, she felt she knew least about the Sheffields.

  Just then, the engine silenced the crowd with a cloud of noisy steam and blew a sustained blast on its horn. The parents and children climbed aboard and settled down, clustered around the tables in the carriages.

  Joanna, with the dexterity of an experienced teaching assistant, passed out crayons and sheaves of colouring paper to the children in her section of the train, and a colleague provided paper cups of hot chocolate and mince pies. ‘There’ll be entertainment in the carriages on the way,’ she confided.

  Sure enough, a team of Santa’s helpers in elf costumes arrived and set up a cheerful sing-song.

  Joanna remarked, ‘You’ll be heartily sick of “The Wheels on the Bus” by the end of the day.’

  She found a seat for Libby and herself within sight of her charges, in a small oasis of peace.

  ‘Now, you want to know about that email I received.’

  Libby sipped hot chocolate.

  ‘Jeremy says it’s just envy. He says people in small southern towns are unfriendly and they don’t like incomers. Not that we’ve come far. I grew up in Bath, and I love Somerset, but Jeremy’s from Birmingham.’

  Libby said, ‘It just takes a while for people to get to know you, here. There are plenty of new families arriving all the time. There’s Annabel Pearson, for one. She came at about the same time as you did.’