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

by Frances Evesham

  ‘One careful owner,’ Alan announced. ‘She brought it in, and I thought of you.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Lady who lives in Bath. Wanted something smaller. A town runabout.’ He wrinkled his nose. Alan wasn’t a fan of the city.

  Libby climbed inside the car. It felt like home. She fiddled with switches that turned on lights and set the wipers going.

  ‘Want to go for a run? I’ll look after Bear.’

  She set off through narrow lanes under a grey sky, concentrating. Six gears? She was going to enjoy this car.

  As she returned, another car drew up on the short stretch of gravel Alan called his forecourt.

  ‘Annabel. Nice to see you.’ Libby climbed down from the driver’s seat.

  Annabel’s face was pink. ‘Hello? Is that yours?’

  ‘It will be, very soon. I’m going to haggle with Alan.’ ‘Haggling with Alan,’ meant persuading him to charge a reasonable price, rather than giving the car to her at cost. ‘But you go first.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m not in a hurry. Just wanted to – er – to book a service. I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘In this weather? Nonsense. I’ll go round the lanes again for five minutes.’

  She returned just in time to wave as Annabel drove away.

  ‘Alan, I adore this car, and I have to own it.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘What? You’ve sold it?’

  Alan coughed. ‘Well. Promised it.’

  ‘To Annabel?’ Libby accused.

  ‘No. Look, Libby, can’t explain just now. It needs a bit of work.’ That was clearly a lie. What was the matter with the man?

  ‘Well, I can wait until I come back from my honeymoon, I suppose. I won’t really need it until then. The Citroen might keep limping along for a while. Can I have first refusal?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  Libby left, shaking her head. Alan had always been eccentric, but he seemed to be taking leave of his senses. And he’d finished the chocolates. The box had disappeared. She’d give him an even bigger box for Christmas.

  30

  Naming

  Libby woke early on Tuesday – the day the Exham on Sea café was due to open.

  Robert phoned to explain that the family trees were almost done, and he’d bring them round this evening along with Sarah and a takeaway, because he was sure neither Libby nor Max would want to cook after the first day in the new café.

  She loaded up the Citroen, and the little car Mandy drove for the chocolate business, and the two of them processed carefully into town, parking in the small car park behind the new café.

  Frank walked down the road to greet them. ‘The first day of my retirement,’ he said, his face almost split in two by a beaming smile. ‘I’ll bring the missis in for coffee later, and then we’re off for a holiday in Torquay. She wants us to buy a place there, a nice bungalow, for our retirement.’

  ‘You’re leaving Exham?’ Frank had lived there forever.

  ‘It’ll be a wrench, but the missis will be happy.’

  Angela, as cool as a cucumber, was already inside the building, smoothing tablecloths and rearranging pictures on the walls.

  Gladys arrived with buckets full of plants. ‘Difficult to lay my hands on anything fresh, at this time of year,’ she told Libby. ‘Apart from Christmas trees and holly wreaths, and Angela thinks that’s not quite what she needs.’ She waved her arm at the palm tree positioned in the corner of the room. ‘I brought that over yesterday.’

  At the back of the café, the local school’s steel band played Caribbean music.

  Angela said, ‘I thought we’d all had enough of Noddy Holder singing “It’s Christmas”. I’ve heard it in every shop in town.’

  Libby’s hips swayed to the beat. ‘All we need is sand, and we’ll think we’re on a tropical island, not Exham in midwinter. We’ll all be dancing by lunchtime.’

  Behind the counter lay a long object, wrapped in a sheet.

  ‘The sign,’ Angela told Libby. ‘We’re announcing the winner of the competition to name the café at eleven o’clock, and Owen’s sent a man to hang it over the door.’

  ‘Did I win?’ Libby asked.

  Angela narrowed her eyes. ‘What name did you choose?’

  ‘Time for Tea.’

  Angela snorted. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Give me a hint?’

  With a shake of the head, Angela drifted away to supervise Annabel, who was in charge of coffee.

  Mandy whispered to Libby, ‘She wanted to have “Barista” printed on the back of her blouse, but Angela refused. She said, “This is an old-fashioned seaside tea-shop, not a branch of Starbucks.”’

  Libby, Mandy and Annabel took up their stations behind the counter, and Angela flung open the door, its bell tinkling cheerfully. ‘Welcome, everyone.’ She smiled at the small group of Exham on Sea residents gathered outside, stamping their feet to keep warm. ‘Come inside.’

  Libby and Mandy retired to the kitchen, their new domain. ‘Perfect,’ Libby said.

  She had to admire Angela’s organisation. At one end of the counter, a new, young assistant sold bread, baked to Frank’s recipes, along with freshly cut sandwiches. Annabel waited at the tables, with Angela’s assistance planned for busier moments, supplying toasted teacakes and slices of chocolate cake, while Mandy lurked behind a glass case containing Mrs Forest’s Chocolates, weighing them out to folk who’d ‘just popped in’ but had ‘no time to stop for coffee’.

  Even Dr Sheffield arrived, to buy a dozen doughnuts, ‘For the surgery.’ He’d never before darkened the bakery’s doors, and Libby watched, fascinated, as Annabel served him, blushing and twinkling. No wonder there was no love lost between her and Joanna.

  Libby grabbed Angela’s arm as her friend paused to catch her breath. ‘This is going to be a success.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Angela glowed. She crossed her fingers. ‘We won’t know until later in the year – it’s full today, because it’s the opening. We need to find out if the summer holiday visitors like it.’

  A clock chimed.

  ‘Eleven o’clock. Time for the official naming ceremony.’ Angela tapped a spoon against a cup, to gain everyone’s attention.

  The chocolate cake was down to its last slice, and needed to be replaced. Libby slipped back into the kitchen to prepare a second plateful.

  She slid the replacement carefully from its box, transferred it to a cake stand, and turned to pick up a sharp knife, ready to slice it into neat portions.

  She raised the knife.

  A hand closed over her mouth.

  ‘Don’t move.’ No more than a grunt.

  A second fist gripped her fingers, forcing the knife from her grasp. It clattered on the floor.

  Libby tried to turn her head, but the hand squeezed her face, crushing her lips painfully against her teeth.

  She fumbled for the phone in her pocket, tried to pull it out, but it slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.

  ‘Keep quiet.’ That was a different voice.

  Libby stood rigid. Had the second man picked up the knife? It would slice through her neck, as through butter.

  A hood, dark and smelling of damp burlap, slid over her head, blocking out the light. The two men lifted her easily, as if she were no heavier than a tray of new-baked bread.

  She fought to stay calm, not daring to cry out, as they carried her through the kitchen door and dropped her into the boot of a car waiting directly outside the kitchen. The boot slammed shut.

  Trying to breathe steadily, to calm the panic that rose inside and made her heart thump, she thought. If they kill me, I’ll never know what the café’s going to be called.

  She muttered, aloud. ‘They’re not going to kill you. Don’t be ridiculous,’ but still she had to clench her fists to stop herself screaming. No one would hear her inside the car boot.

  ‘Think,’ she urged. ‘Who are they?’

  Had she recognised the voice
s? The men had hardly spoken – just a few words. Had she heard a Somerset burr, or was she imagining things?

  With a jerk, the car set off, throwing her around the boot, her elbow cracking painfully against the side of her prison.

  What kind of car was this? It was bigger than her Citroen – you couldn’t have fitted a child in that boot – but not as big as Max’s Land Rover.

  It rocked around bends, tossing her from side to side, slowed to take a longer bend, and sped up. The motorway. She calculated she was on the M5, headed either south, to Taunton and Devon, or north, towards Bristol.

  31

  Family Trees

  On the morning of the café opening, Max lay awake. Last night, after hours on the internet, he’d discovered a scrap of information that he could hardly wait to take to Libby. He’d been trying to find something – anything – about Ivor Wrighton, but it seemed the man had hardly existed online. That was suspicious in itself – everyone had some kind of online presence.

  Then, he’d had an idea. Stella had given Ivor those handkerchiefs as one of his birthday presents. Knowing Stella, there would be a photo somewhere in her own footprint. She took photographs of everything to post on Facebook.

  He’d turned to her Facebook page and scrutinised every photograph, tracing them to her posts.

  At last, ‘Bingo,’ he’d shouted. There was Stella, in a selfie with Ivor, holding up one of the handkerchiefs. But, it was the date that fascinated Max. 10 July.

  Ivor’s birthday was on 10 July, The date rang a bell.

  Max pulled up his earlier research into Carys’ missing son, Maurice. ‘Praise be!’ he exclaimed. Maurice and Ivor shared a birthday.

  It wasn’t conclusive, but it was an exciting coincidence.

  Was Ivor Wrighton actually Maurice Noakes? He was Welsh, with the same birthday as Carys’ son. And he’d been murdered, like Carys.

  Max would be willing to bet the house he was the same man.

  Libby was going to be so excited.

  It didn’t tell Max who the murderer – the Rhymer – was, though.

  Those poison-pen letters from the sixties niggled at his mind. Did they hold a vital clue? Had they given the present-day Rhymer his idea?

  Max couldn’t wait until the evening before seeing the results of Robert’s research. He was on a roll, and he’d try to finish the job.

  Libby was busy, today, at the café opening, but he could visit her son and see what his genealogical dive into the past had uncovered. He’d call Robert and see if he was free.

  Sure enough, Robert, who worked from home, was delighted to take an hour to indulge in his favourite hobby.

  ‘Sorry, dogs, I shall do this alone,’ Max announced. ‘I’ll take you out this afternoon.’

  Robert greeted Max with enthusiasm and several sheets of paper, the size of billowing sails, that covered the floor.

  They wasted no time on chit-chat, Robert jumping right in. ‘I don’t know if any of this helps, but it’s fascinating. Let me show you.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve drawn up a tree for each of the people who received a poison-pen letter in the sixties. Here’s an example – Henry Trelawney. Henry lived all his life in Exham, married a woman called Elizabeth James and had two sons – Malcolm and Gavin, in 1959 and 1961. They have a couple of children each, born in different parts of the country.’

  Max nodded. ‘I was at school with Gavin Trelawney. He was a few years older than me, though, so I don’t remember much about him.’ Nevertheless, he made a note of the names on his phone.

  ‘Right,’ Robert said. ‘That’s an easy tree, because the names all fit. Names can be a trap. Until recently, English children nearly always took their father’s surname, if the father was on the scene. If not, they usually share a name with the mother. If there’s a divorce and remarriage – or even two…’

  ‘I see what you mean. It can get complicated.’

  Robert was enjoying himself. ‘It can. If a woman marries twice, her children often have different last names, and that’s turned out to be the case with several of these Exham families.’

  Max glanced through the neatly drawn diagrams. ‘This is going to take a while. I want to cross-check the names from the sixties with the people in my ex-wife’s list of friends. Can I take these with me?’ He gestured towards the papers blanketing the floor. ‘I’ve got to go if I’m to arrive at the café in time for the grand naming ceremony, and I daren’t be late. Your mother will eat me alive.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Robert said. ‘I’ll scan them and email them to you.’

  Max made it to the café just in time. Annabel handed him a tiny glass of celebratory Prosecco, the steel band sounded a fanfare, and Owen handed Angela a microphone.

  Libby was nowhere to be seen.

  Angela announced, ‘The winning name in the competition to name our new café is… The Crusts and Crumbs Café.’ Amid applause, she went on, ‘And the person who suggested it is Joanna Sheffield. So, let’s raise our glasses to the success of Exham’s new café, The Crusts and Crumbs Café.’

  Where was Libby hiding?

  Max crossed the room to Mandy. ‘Where’s Libby? She won’t want to miss this.’

  ‘I saw her go into the kitchen a few minutes ago. I’ll get her.’ She put her head round the door into the kitchen, but returned, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Nope, not there. Maybe in the ladies’?’

  Hairs rose on the back of Max’s neck. This felt wrong. ‘Could you look?’

  Mandy walked to the side and opened the door to the washrooms, emerging a few moments later. ‘No one there at the moment. Maybe she went out the back for a breath of fresh air. It’s been hectic in here.’ She dived back through the door into the kitchen, and, seconds later, ran back out, eyes wide in a white face. ‘The back door’s open and… and there’s a knife lying on the floor in the kitchen, beside Libby’s phone.’

  Max pushed past Annabel.

  ‘Staff only,’ she cried, but he scowled and her voice died away.

  The kitchen was deserted.

  He snatched Libby’s phone and tried to turn it on, but the battery was dead.

  He hurried through the kitchen and out of the door at the back. The small car park was full. There was Libby’s car, beside Mandy’s runabout, and he recognised Angela’s car at the end of the row.

  But what caught his attention was a skid mark, close to the door. A car had left recently – travelling fast.

  ‘Mandy, was there a car here this morning?’

  ‘Not that I remember, but I’ve been inside for hours. Maybe one of the others knows. I’ll ask.’

  ‘Be discreet. We don’t want to cause alarm on Angela’s big day. Not unless we have to.’

  Mandy slipped quietly round the room, talking to staff under cover of the babble of noise. They shook their heads. ‘No one’s seen anything,’ she told Max.

  ‘Let’s try the other shops in the road.’ Max was icy calm, determined not to panic. Why shouldn’t Libby have popped out onto the high street? She was always leaving her phone around and often forgot to charge it up. Besides, there was nothing unusual about a dropped knife in a café kitchen. But the knife and the phone, together on the floor, told a different story.

  Max left by the front door, Mandy close behind. She turned right and Max, left, working his way along the street, eyes sweeping the interior of each shop. The town was almost deserted. Most of Exham was in the café, toasting its first day.

  ‘Have you seen Libby Forest?’ Max asked the young lad at the hardware shop.

  He shook his head and sniggered. ‘Lost her already, have you – and not even married, yet.’

  Max had no patience for jokes. ‘Tell her we’re looking for her,’ he ordered, and tried the estate agents.

  Freddy sat at the desk nearest the door, lounging back, his arms behind his neck.

  ‘Hope you’re a customer,’ he grinned. ‘It’s never been so quiet.’

  No Libby.

  �
�Have you seen any cars speeding away from the town, this morning?’

  Freddy guffawed. ‘Like in Top Gear? I don’t think so. Nothing like that goes on here. My dad was right – I should have got a job in Bristol, at that new games arcade. That’s where things happen.’

  Max returned to the café. He could no longer pretend all was well.

  Libby had gone.

  32

  Humpty Dumpty

  Max met Mandy back at the café.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. She’s just disappeared. Are you going to call the police?’

  He hesitated. ‘She’s only been gone a short while, and she’s a grown woman.’

  ‘Yes, but you two work for the police, don’t you? Doesn’t that make a difference?’

  ‘Maybe it does, at that.’

  He called DCI Morrison’s phone.

  The officer listened calmly. ‘So, you’re thinking her disappearance is connected to these emails I’ve been hearing so much about, from my DC Humberstone, and the murders we’re working on.’

  ‘Maybe.’ A shiver ran through Max.

  ‘Right. Your fiancée does have a way of getting herself into dangerous spots, doesn’t she? I’ll get one of my people from the Carys Evans enquiry to look into it, since Libby’s one of our own. You go home. We can’t have you buzzing around the country like a bluebottle. If you have any bright ideas, let me know.’

  It was good advice, but Max couldn’t bear to do nothing. His instinct was to get in the car and drive around, desperately searching for a strange vehicle, but he knew that was a foolish gut reaction. Whoever had taken Libby could be miles away by now.

  Fighting the urge to run, he returned to the café. ‘I expect she’s thought of something and run off to deal with it,’ he said, trying to sound calm. ‘You know what she’s like.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mandy sounded sceptical, but customers were waiting. ‘Let me know when you find her,’ she hissed, and went back to work.