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

by Frances Evesham

  28

  Toasted cheese and onion

  On Sunday morning, Libby planned to devote the morning to baking for Tuesday’s grand opening. As she wrestled with packs of butter that she’d forgotten to leave out of the fridge to soften, Max called. ‘The people on your list who admitted to receiving letters back then are long gone from Exham, or have died, and only a few remain in the area. There’s a Jane Atkins. She died a few years ago, but there are several of her descendants living nearby, including Mary Atkins, the tired woman with five children I saw at the vet’s surgery. There’s an Ann Stewart – don’t know her at all – and Quentin Dobson. He’s still here, of course.’

  Max sighed. ‘The trouble is, I could spend hours going through information on the last poison-pen event all those years ago, instead of looking into Ivor and Carys’ backgrounds—’ He broke off.

  ‘What is it?’ Libby asked.

  ‘It could be nothing, but it just struck me that Carys and Ivor are both Welsh names.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Where was Max going with this?

  ‘Stella told me that Ivor was very proud of his Welshness. He even had handkerchiefs with Ivor the Engine on – from the story about the little Welsh train?’

  ‘I remember it. But, why does it matter that Ivor was Welsh?’

  ‘Don’t laugh – it’s a very long shot – but what if Ivor and Carys knew each other? Could there be a connection? Even a family link? Wales is a small place.’

  Libby thought about it. ‘It’s worth considering. How can we find out? Wait, don’t tell me. You’ll look it up on the internet. Or…’

  ‘Have you had an idea?’

  ‘I have, and it’s brilliant. Instead of you slogging through all this information while I bake cakes, why don’t we get an expert on the job?’

  ‘Quentin, you mean?’

  ‘I was thinking of someone closer to home. Robert. He’s always asking about our investigations, and he’s crazy about old family trees; he spends hours poring over ours. I think we should ask him about the people affected by the original poison-pen letters, and any family they may have, and I’ll get him to add Carys into the mix. If she’s related to Ivor, he’ll find it out. He’s like a dog with a bone when he’s researching genealogy. It’s a long shot, as you say, but it may give us a clue. I’ll ring him, now.’

  Robert could hardly wait to get started. ‘I’ll have some family trees for you in a couple of days,’ he promised. ‘By the way, have you talked to Ali, yet?’

  ‘What?’ Libby’s throat tightened at the odd note in his voice. ‘What do you mean? Of course I’ve talked to her. Is there something wrong?’

  She heard him mutter.

  ‘Robert. What are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know. I mean, she just looks a bit peaky, to me. Sarah thinks so, too.’

  That was true. Libby had thought it as soon as she saw her. ‘I expect she’s tired.’

  ‘Maybe. What would I know? Sarah says I’m hopeless at psychology. Let me get on to these names.’

  Libby’s mind was only half engaged. Worry over possible danger to Max had distracted her from thinking about Ali’s pale face. She’d put her daughter’s new aura of calm and quiet down to growing up and working with people with terrible lives of poverty and illness. What if there was another reason, and something was wrong?’

  ‘She’s coming to try on her dress today,’ she told Robert. ‘I’ll see if anything’s wrong.’

  Ali arrived for her dress fitting at lunchtime. She hadn’t yet worn the velvet dress Libby had bought in the market. ‘I hope it’s not too big,’ Libby had said on the phone, biting back the urge to say, ‘you’ve lost weight.’

  Ali’s cheeks were a little pinker than when she’d arrived, and she tucked into a plate of toasted cheese and onion sandwiches as though she hadn’t eaten for a week, but she still looked peaky.

  ‘Shall I make more?’ Libby asked, as her daughter finished the last sandwich in two bites.

  ‘No thanks, but I’ll try some of that sultana bran loaf.’

  ‘It was always your favourite, when you were at school. What do you eat in Brazil?’

  ‘Plenty of vegetarian food – beans, and rice, and some glorious sun-dried beef when I feel like eating meat. Plus, desserts and sweets made with dulce de leche. Full of calories, of course, but they taste wonderful.’

  Libby bit her tongue. At least Ali wasn’t starving herself. So, why the weight loss?

  Upstairs, Ali slipped into the dress, spinning in front of a mirror, and Libby caught her breath.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said, her eyes misty. ‘Just needs a bit of a tuck around the waist.’

  ‘I can fix that,’ Ali grinned. ‘Easy. What about you. Come on, try on your wedding dress. You’re allowed to show me. It’s just the groom who mustn’t see it before the wedding.’

  Obediently, Libby unwrapped the dress that she’d bought weeks ago, but today, her mind wasn’t on the wedding.

  As she struggled to find the words to ask what was wrong, Ali saved her the trouble. ‘Why don’t you say it?’

  ‘It?’

  ‘You’ve been dying to ask. That interview story didn’t fool you for a moment, did it?’

  ‘I’ve known you for too long. But, if you’re ready to tell me, I want to hear the truth. Why couldn’t you get home in time?’

  To Libby’s horror, Ali sank onto the bed and burst into tears, grabbing a tissue from the box beside the bed and scrubbing at her eyes. ‘I wanted to tell you. You see, Andy and I – well, I expect you know, we’ve been together ever since we went overseas, I was – I mean, we were thinking about getting married, but we didn’t get around to it, and then – then – I found I was pregnant.’ She wept harder, and Libby could hardly make out what she was saying. ‘And I was going to tell you, when I got to twelve weeks, but it didn’t last that long. I had a miscarriage.’

  Libby closed her eyes. She’d known something was wrong, but she hadn’t begun to guess the truth. If only she’d been there, with Ali. It broke her heart to think of her daughter going through such a terrible event, thousands of miles away. ‘Were you in hospital?’

  Ali nodded. ‘Everyone was very kind, especially Andy, but I wanted you, Mum.’

  They clung together, Ali sobbing into her mother’s shoulder, as she’d done when she was a child.

  When the storm of tears was done, they both wiped their eyes. ‘Oh, Ali. I’m so sorry. If only I’d been there.’

  ‘Don’t. You’ll set me off again. I wanted the baby, even though it meant I might not be able to do the medical qualification. And I wanted to tell you. It was going to be a sort of wedding present. But it all went wrong.’

  ‘You should have told me, Ali. That’s what parents are for.’

  ‘I didn’t want to spoil things for you. You’ve been so happy, ever since you met Max. You’ve been different – setting up your chocolate business, and becoming a private investigator. I’m very proud of you, Mum.’

  Libby eyes filled again. ‘Stop it,’ she warned. ‘You’ll start me off again and make our dresses wet.’

  Ali stood up. ‘We should have changed before I dropped the bombshell,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘No harm done. We can steam out the creases. And, to be honest, I’m not sure that cream lace dress is right for me. I’m having second thoughts. There’s still time to buy something different.’

  They took off their outfits, hanging them carefully in polythene bags. ‘Not very eco-friendly,’ Ali pointed out, with a watery smile.

  ‘What are you and Andy going to do now?’ Libby asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I told him I needed time to think. I wanted to talk to you. You see, the medical training is real. I can do it in Brazil, or come home, if I can get a place in a UK University.’

  Libby’s heart gave a tiny flip. If only Ali would come back to study in England.

  ‘And Andy?’

  ‘He’s said he’ll do whatever I wan
t. He’s the nicest, most easy-going person, Mum. You’ll love him when you get to know him.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ Libby wasn’t sure at all. She’d have to make an effort to forgive him for whisking her daughter so far away, to the other side of the world.

  ‘I wouldn’t let him come for the wedding. I wanted to talk to you alone about the future. I know the way I left home was – well, Andy said I was unfair to you.’

  ‘Did he?’ That was something.

  ‘He can come for a couple of weeks in the New Year, if you like. You and Robert – and Max – can get to know him.’

  29

  Scrambled eggs

  On Monday morning, the day before the grand opening, Libby and Mandy were up to their elbows in cake mixture and chocolate, in final preparation for the great day.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, Mrs F, when you’re married and living at Max’s place.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Breakfast, mostly. I can’t be bothered with cooking in the morning, but I do like your scrambled eggs. What’s that stuff you put on them?

  ‘Paprika.’ Libby added eggs to her mixer and switched it on, the noise prohibiting further chat. She smiled to herself. Mandy was still young, and refused to ditch the Goth clothes or the weird, angular hairstyles, but underneath all that she was delightfully uncomplicated, unlike Ali. Luckily, the two girls got on well together, despite Ali being a few years older.

  Libby switched off the motor, and silence descended.

  Mandy, filling chocolate cases on the other side of the kitchen, hummed to herself. ‘Will you miss the cottage?’

  Libby let her gaze roam over the shining surfaces, hygienic enough to please the most fastidious of inspectors. She’d be working in the kitchen at the café, soon. She’d been tempted to set up another professional-standard kitchen in Max’s house, and had pored over catalogues for days, before making her decision. She’d keep her professional baking and chocolate-making life separate from the time she spent with Max.

  The café kitchen would be bigger and better.

  She’d always be fond of the cottage, though. She’d earned her independence here. In the kitchen, Mandy and she had fought off a killer with a knife, and in the hall, Bear had saved them from an attack by Mandy’s father, Bert, in a drunken fury.

  Then, she thought of Max, his glasses pushed up on top of his head as he squinted at books, torn between his long-term short-sightedness and his age-related long sight, complaining that his arms weren’t long enough, these days. She couldn’t wait to share the rest of her life with him.

  ‘It’s been fun, living here with you,’ she admitted. ‘But I can’t wait to be married, living with Max and the dogs…’

  Mandy grinned. ‘You’ll miss my music.’

  Libby winced. Catatonia was not her style. She said, ‘I’m glad you’ll still be living here, and I’ll see you often at the café.’ She lined up a row of tins ready to add the cake mixture. ‘How’s your mum, by the way?’ she asked. Elaine had moved away from Exham after Bert’s attack.

  ‘She’s still sharing my aunt’s place in Bristol. I’m surprised, because she used to bad-mouth Aunt Celia all the time. Her younger sister, you see. She said Celia was always the favourite daughter.’

  Libby laughed. ‘I never had brothers or sisters, but I would have loved growing up with a sister. Clothes shopping, and gossip, and giggling over boys. I envy big families, even the ones full of step-brothers and -sisters. I can never understand why they quarrel.’

  ‘Talking of quarrelling, how are Fuzzy and the dogs getting along together in that big house?’

  Libby recounted how Fuzzy had put Shipley in his place. ‘Poor Shipley. He’s right at the bottom of the pecking order. He’s such a funny creature. He needs a goal in life.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ Mandy said. ‘I told Steve about your time on the train, and how Shipley behaved so oddly around Mrs Atkins, and he had an idea. He said, some dogs can sniff out illnesses.’

  ‘What sort of illnesses?’ Libby was intrigued.

  ‘Well, Parkinson’s disease, for one thing, and cancers.’

  Libby stopped tasting lemon fillings. ‘Oh, my goodness me. Neither Max nor I thought of that, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? You could be right – Mrs Atkins looked exhausted when I saw her, but I just put that down to tiredness. She has five children.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mandy said, as Libby dropped spatulas and bowls into the dishwasher.

  ‘I’m going over there, right now.

  ‘Do you even know where she lives?’

  ‘I don’t, but someone at the doctor’s surgery will know.’

  Sure enough, when Libby called in at the doctor’s surgery, the receptionist admitted to having the addresses of everyone on the doctors’ lists – which included pretty much everyone in Exham. But she wouldn’t divulge the information. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Forest. It’s a doctor – patient confidentiality thing, and more than my job’s worth. Why do you need to see her?’

  ‘Oh, just something about our dogs. Shipley’s taken a shine to Mrs Atkins.’

  ‘Then, maybe you should try the vet. They probably don’t have to reach the same standards we have to meet in the surgery.’

  Marvelling at this instance of professional snobbery, Libby loaded Bear up into the Citroen. ‘This could be your last trip in this car,’ she told him. ‘If the one Alan’s found for me is as great as he promises, we’ll be saying au revoir to this French voiture.’

  Bear, overflowing the back seat as he always did, grunted companionably.

  The vet’s surgery was almost empty, the last basket of guinea pigs leaving in the arms of a pink-faced teenager as she arrived.

  ‘Libby. Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.’ Tanya was an old friend. ‘What can I do for you? Bear’s looking in fine fettle.’

  ‘Those tablets seem to work. So long as we don’t walk too far, he’s fine.’

  ‘He’ll be fit to follow you down the aisle, then?’

  Libby grinned. ‘No aisle. It’s a register office wedding.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  Libby flinched. Why did it matter where she and Max married? Changing the subject, she explained Mandy and Steve’s theory about Shipley’s ability to spot human illnesses. ‘And I need to talk to Mrs Atkins. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘I can do better than that. Look.’ Tanya pointed. Mrs Atkins, three of her troupe of children in tow, was just passing the window.

  Libby leapt to her feet, and with barely a thank you, dragged Bear from Tanya’s office and out into the street.

  Mrs Atkins was shepherding her brood into the library.

  Libby followed her inside, leaving Bear tied to a bicycle stand. ‘Two minutes, Bear, I promise.’

  Breathless, she burbled at Mrs Atkins, her voice low. The last thing she wanted was to frighten the children. However, they were too busy squabbling over the last How to Train Your Dragon book on the shelves to overhear.

  It sounded ridiculous, when Libby put her suspicions into words.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Atkins said. ‘Nothing wrong with me. You’d be tired if you had to chase after these kids all day.’ Close up, her skin had an unhealthy, greyish tone. Her cheekbones stood out sharply. ‘Maybe you need to train your dog more carefully. That Shipley’s a menace, sniffing around people. That’s why I won’t have a dog in the house.’

  ‘But he has an incredibly good sense of smell.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’ Mrs Atkins, offended, seemed to grow an inch taller. ‘How dare you…’

  ‘Please, just visit the doctor. Check it out?’

  ‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business.’ Outraged, Mrs Atkins turned her back on Libby and joined her children.

  Libby felt close to tears. She’d been trying not to think about Max, and the danger he might be in. The chance to help Mrs Atkins had seemed like the perfect antidote to her fears. Instead, yet again, she’d been told to keep her nose out
of other people’s business.

  She’d try to cheer herself up that afternoon, with a trip to Alan Jenkins’ garage, to have a look at the car.

  Alan worked from a small garage just outside Exham, where he kept his personal collection of classic cars.

  As usual, he was lying on his back underneath a Renault Clio, apparently oblivious to the chill in the workshop. Just one small two-bar electric heater struggled to warm the space. A cup of tea steamed on a small table, next to a box of Libby’s chocolates. Alan, it seemed, was developing something of an addiction to them.

  He slid out, wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘My favourite customer,’ he said.

  ‘I bet you say that to all the ladies,’ Libby replied.

  ‘I meant Bear.’ He snorted with laughter.

  Libby sighed. ‘Walked into that, didn’t I? Don’t you feel the cold?’

  He shrugged. ‘Thermals. That’s the answer.’

  Deciding not to delve further into Alan’s clothes, Libby asked to see the car he’d reserved for her.

  He hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Have you sold it?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I mean, someone wants it, but it’s still – um – available, I suppose. It’s a great little car. Come and see. You’ll love it.’

  She doubted that. She loved her Citroen, with all its faults; its tendency to clam up in cold weather, and its perennially sticky clutch that even Alan had despaired of fixing. All other cars were just a way to get from A to B.

  Alan beckoned her into the area he called his showroom, but which Libby would characterise as a shed. ‘There she is.’

  Libby whistled. A Jeep. An orange Jeep. She’d never even thought of such a vehicle. She felt the smile creep across her face. Now, that would be fun to drive. More fun than Max’s Land Rover, with far more character than his Jaguar.