Another body. A wave of nausea struck Libby. She swallowed it down. No time for that. She felt Mrs Thomson’s neck for a pulse, and fingered her wrist, horribly aware she’d done exactly the same for Susie. “I think she’s dead.”
Mandy’s hand clamped to her mouth, muffling her voice. “She must have fallen down the stairs.” She tugged Libby’s elbow. “Can’t we do anything? Shouldn’t we put a blanket over her?”
“It’s too late for that.” A news programme still blared through the house. Libby’s head pounded. She strode to the sitting room, found the remote control and switched off the TV. Silence fell. A cup of tea, half finished, sat in its saucer on the table. Mrs Thomson had been alone, with no one nearby to help when she fell. How long had she lain in the hall?
The house was quiet: too quiet. What was wrong? Bear. Where was the dog? Why hadn’t he barked when his mistress fell? A cold hand tugged at Libby’s chest. She stepped with care around Mrs Thomson and set off up the stairs. “Where are you going?” Mandy squeaked.
“The dog’s missing.” Libby went through the house, opening one door after another. “Bear, where are you? Come on out, it’s me.”
Mandy sat on the stairs, transfixed by Mrs Thomson’s body. “Maybe he’s outside?”
Before Libby could search the garden, horns blared, lights flashed and the emergency services arrived in force. Joe Ramshore was first. “Mrs Forest. What are you doing here?”
Mandy said. “We found Mrs Thomson.”
“Did you?” He frowned at Libby, eyes narrowed, suspicious. The ambulance crew whispered in his ear. “Another body,” he said. “And once again, you’re on the spot.” He took Libby’s arm. “Might I ask what you were doing here?”
The wooden chair at the police station, designed for utility rather than comfort, made Libby’s back ache. She stared ahead at uninviting walls, bare of pictures, or notices, painted dull grey. Mandy sat next to her at the plain wooden table, swirling cold, undrinkable tea inside a paper cup. Detective Sergeant Ramshore tilted his chair back, until only two legs touched the floor, waiting blank-faced for an explanation. “We went to the house to look at a photo. Mrs Thomson showed it to me earlier when I walked the dog for her.”
His expression didn’t change. “You were looking after Bear?”
“Max―your father―he’s away.”
Joe’s eyes were cold. He raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “And he asked you to take over the dog walking?”
Libby held his glance. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “So, you came back here in the evening, to visit an old woman? Didn’t you realise you’d frighten her at this time of night? It looks like she tried to get to the door, wearing her ragged old slippers, and tripped on the stairs.”
“What?” Furious, Libby leaned forward. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
“The dog’s missing. Maybe she was going out to look for him?”
Joe crossed an ankle over the other leg, tapping his cup with a long finger. “We’d know more about that if you hadn’t broken in, making such a mess of the back door, wouldn’t we?”
“We had to get in.” Libby was indignant. “What if she’d still been alive?”
“OK.” He uncrossed his legs. “Fair enough, I suppose. Anyway, I’m afraid the poor old soul’s gone. She must have been almost ninety, and she lived all on her own. Something like this was bound to happen, one day.”
“You think it’s an accident, then?”
The detective laughed. “Mrs Forest, please don’t start imagining someone murdered Mrs Thomson. Old ladies fall all the time. It’s amazing she lasted so long, all alone in this place. No one broke in. The only damage is to the kitchen door, thanks to you.”
“Can we go home, then?”
When Joe smiled, he looked like his father. “I’ll get one of my men to drive you.” Tired, Libby and Mandy trudged along the drab corridor of the police station. “And Mrs Forest.”
She stopped. “Yes?”
“Try not to find any more bodies for a few days.”
Bear’s Adventure
Libby tapped out a brief text for Max before she fell, exhausted, into bed. “Can’t send photo after all. Explain later. Please text addresses of band members.” She was asleep even before the whooshing noise warned the text had gone.
A series of messages greeted her when she woke. “What’s going on? Hope everything OK. Here are addresses.” She smiled. Max was no more able to use text speak, full of gr8 and thx, than she. She copied the addresses onto a scrap of paper and folded it, sliding it into a pocket in her handbag.
“I’m worried about Bear.” She poured cornflakes into a bowl. Mandy, white faced, a faded grey dressing gown pulled up to her chin, looked like a vampire. She cradled a coffee cup in both hands, and grunted. Libby hid a smile. It was good to have a teenager about the place again, failing to communicate. “I’m going back to see what happened.”
“You know it’s not half past six yet, don’t you?”
Libby chopped a banana into tiny pieces and dropped them into her bowl. “I can’t just leave him.” Anyway, she wanted to get to the house early. There was a job she must do alone.
Mandy heaved a sigh and pushed herself up from the table. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. I got you into enough trouble yesterday. If Detective Sergeant Ramshore finds out we’ve been back, we’ll go straight to the top of the suspect list. That is, when he works out Mrs Thomson didn’t fall.”
Mandy’s mouth hung open. “You think she was pushed?”
“Of course, she was. How many unexplained sudden deaths does a place like Exham have in the average week? Yet, here are two in a few days.”
“There are lots of old people, here. You know, in Haven House and that new place near the kid’s playground. There must be dozens of people dying every week.”
“Susie wasn’t old. Anyway, it’s too much of a coincidence.” Libby stirred the banana into her cereal. “Think about it. She comes back to Exham for some reason, we don’t know why. Next minute, she’s dead. Then, one of the few people who really cared about her dies.” She pointed her spoon at Mandy. “I was beginning to think the police were right, and Susie’s death was suicide, but this is one coincidence too many.”
Mandy got to her feet and stacked her bowl in the dishwasher. “In that case, I’ll come with you. You can’t go alone. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
Libby choked on her cornflakes. “Nonsense. I’ll be careful. Anyway, one of us needs to get over to the shop. Frank can’t bake bread and serve at the same time.”
Libby enjoyed the walk to Mrs Thomson’s house. The wind had died away overnight, and the rain dried. She’d take Shipley out soon. She’d been neglecting him a bit, deserting the poor animal for Bear. They’d have a good run on the beach, maybe later, before the weather broke again. A pale sun peeped out once or twice from between heavy clouds that threatened more storms before long.
As expected, the police had boarded up Mrs Thomson’s back door. Libby walked on, out into the half-acre garden. The late Mr Thomson’s retirement pride and joy looked neglected, the pond full of duckweed and dead leaves. A few remnants of foliage clung to grey overhanging branches. Beds of roses had run to a riot of hips and haws. Something for the birds to enjoy, at least.
Libby called, softly. “Bear?” No answer. She called again, and whistled. What was that? She strained her ears. The sound had come from her right, where a sturdy shed nestled against a ragged yew hedge. Libby tugged at the door until it creaked open. Bear sprawled in the corner. He raised his massive head, staggered to his feet, whined, wobbled and lay down again.
Libby’s stomach heaved as she caught the acrid scent of sick. A pool of vomit stank nearby. Fresh scratches covered the shed door, where the dog had tried to get out. Bear whined again, and lay, head on paws, exhausted. “What happened to you, Bear?”
The shed was clean and warm, and
a selection of doggy toys suggested Bear sometimes slept there. His basket was lined with old sweaters, positioned close to an empty bowl. Judging by the nearby splashes, it had recently held water. Another container held a lump of meat, half-eaten. Bear had only taken a bite or two.
Libby rubbed her knuckles against the top of his bony head. The dog nuzzled her hand. “What did they give you? You’re on the mend, old thing, but I’ll take you to the vet to make sure.” She straightened up. “But first, I need to get into the house.” There was a tool box in the shed. Libby grinned. This was going to be easier than she’d thought.
The lock on the back door was still broken. The police had nailed hardboard roughly across the opening, half to the door, the rest attached to the side posts. She’d better be quick. A locksmith would be arriving this morning.
She opened the tool box, glanced round to check she was alone, grasped the biggest hammer firmly, hooked the claw behind the first nail and twisted. The nail popped out. So did the second. The third was awkward, bending and sticking, and Libby’s hair stuck to her head with sweat by the time she wrenched it out.
As she levered out the fourth and final nail, the door swung open and she stepped inside. The broken glass had been swept away. She tiptoed into the front room, stopped and straightened. No need to tread with such care; there was no one in the house to hear her. She let her gaze rove across the crowded tables and shelves. Nothing had changed since she’d been here with Mrs Thomson.
The old lady’s presence seemed all around. Libby shivered and whispered, “I hope they didn’t scare you, before they shoved you down the stairs.” Maybe they took her by surprise, and she had no idea what happened. Or perhaps it was someone Mrs Thomson knew and trusted. Lonely, she would have let them in, just as she’d welcomed Libby. “I won’t mess up your house, I promise. I just need those photographs.”
The album lay where she’d last seen it, among a pile of notebooks and scraps of paper. “I’ll find out who killed Suzanne,” Libby promised. She started to flick through the stack of papers, fingers fumbling. Her head flew up. What was that noise? Someone was outside.
She grabbed the pile of papers and books, along with the album, and thrust them all into her shoulder bag. Just in time. The door flew open. “What the―” Detective Sergeant Ramshore slid to a halt, halfway between Libby and the door, arms folded. “Mrs Forest. I might have known. This is breaking and entering, you know.”
Libby thought fast. “I’m worried about the dog. I came back to find him.”
Joe hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Well, one of my men found him in the shed. Looks like he slept there last night, so you can go home again, Mrs Forest, and please, please, just stay away.”
“I was going to take him home with me.”
Joe’s face cleared. “Good idea. Make yourself useful. And don’t come back.” He stood aside and Libby slipped past, shoulder bag heavy. Sometimes, age and gender had its uses. He’d have spent longer talking to a pretty young girl, and he’d have been suspicious of a man, but a woman of a certain age, old enough to be his mother… Maybe he’d decided Libby was just a foolish, interfering older woman. She bit her lip to keep a tell-tale smile from her face.
“Wait.” Joe held up a hand. Libby stopped, heart racing. She’d celebrated too soon. Was he about to search the bag? She’d have a job explaining the stack of stolen papers. “I’ve got some news. I suppose you’re entitled to hear it first, as you found her.”
“About Mrs Thomson?” Libby stood sideways, her bag clasped under the arm furthest away from the officer, her body shielding it from view.
“No, about Susie Bennett. The post mortem shows more bruising than we thought: more than the pathologist thinks would result from being thrown about in a storm.”
“Bruising? What does that mean?” No harm in continuing to play the innocent woman.
“It means you may be right, crazy as it sounds. Susie Bennett might, just possibly, have been murdered.”
“Do you―do you know who did it?”
He leaned back, legs set apart, every inch the bold investigator. “Not yet. I’ll be surprised if we ever find out. A body on the beach, in the storm. No evidence, you see. Still, don’t leave town, Mrs Forest.” Libby slipped out of the room, clutching the bag tight to her body.
Joe had already lost interest in her. “Better get the door fixed right now, Evans, before the rest of the town comes to visit.”
By the time she arrived home, Bear trooping, listless, beside her, Libby’s shoulder ached from the weight of books. Her mind raced. As she’d turned to leave Mrs Thomson’s sitting room, she’d glanced out of the window. From there, the widow could see right along the beach, to the pier on the left and the lighthouse to the right.
What if Mrs Thomson had stood, looking out into the storm, on Monday night? She might have seen something unusual. More than the storm and high tide. Something that had got her killed.
Guy
The faithful old Citroen was due for collection today. Libby checked the time. Yes, she could pick up the car and visit both band members today, as Mandy had volunteered to take over Shipley’s walk.
Bear recovered fast, growing perkier every moment until he bounded up and down the hall with his usual vigour. How long could Libby keep a dog his size in this tiny cottage?
Oh, well, she’d worry about that later. Meanwhile, she dug out an ancient apple crate from the cupboard under the stairs, dragged it into a warm spot in the hall and lined it with old blankets. “There you are, my lad.” She took a step into the kitchen and held her breath. Fuzzy lay curled by the door, in a spot where underground water pipes heated the floor. Bear loomed over her, panting.
Was Libby about to witness an epic fight? Fuzzy stood and stretched. What was that noise? No. Surely not. Libby laughed. The cat was purring. “When did you two make friends?” The animals ignored her. Bear leaned over, touched his nose to Fuzzy, and settled down next to his new buddy.
Libby stashed Mrs Thomson’s photo album in a drawer and walked to the garage. She’d spend the evening poring through the book for clues. Alan Jenkins wiped oily hands on a blue overall. “Ah. Mrs Forest, there you are. She’s just about ready for you.” Why did men always call cars, “she?”
He still insisted on refusing payment. “Tell Max it’s a present.” He’d even topped the Citroen up with petrol. Was Max some kind of Godfather, around here?
Tired of arguing, Libby held out a packet of shortbread. Alan’s eyes lit up. “You’re a good woman.” What was it they said about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach?
The road to Bath twisted through tiny villages, along a road too narrow for more than one car. Marina told her it was quicker by train, but Libby needed the car. She’d made up her mind to visit both the other members of Susie’s old, defunct band, before Max returned. James the keyboard player lived just outside Bristol, and Guy the violinist lived in Bath.
She’d thrown a ham salad into a Tupperware container before setting off, and she pulled over, by the side of the Chew Valley Lake, to eat. She took a bite and screwed up her nose. The dressing didn’t taste quite right. Maybe a little too much lemon juice? Or not enough honey? She’d make up another batch soon.
It was days since she’d had time to potter around in the kitchen, experimenting. Once this business was over, she planned to lock herself in for hours and get on with the book. The publisher’s deadline was looming. Libby felt a twinge inside at the thought. She planned a series of excuses as she ate, opening the door to let a few rays of sunshine warm her. Dead husband: that would do it. At least it had the advantage of being true.
She threw a crust of bread into the water. Excited ducks scrambled over one another. Libby took out a chunk of sultana cake. The ducks wouldn’t get any of this, her favourite comfort food.
Every last crumb eaten, she climbed back into the car, crunching gears in sudden excitement. Maybe Guy would have some answers.
His double-fronted G
eorgian house stood, white-painted, in a block of similar graceful homes. He flung the door open almost before she’d had time to drop the brass lion-head knocker, as if he’d been expecting her.
The man’s appearance took her aback. She’d been prepared for aging hippy long hair, flares or tasselled waistcoat. Instead, his short, neat haircut, shirt, and the final touch, a silk tie with a Windsor knot, were conventional enough to please Libby’s parents. He was only a short step away from a cardigan.
His lined face wore the slightly anxious look of a middle-aged man, whose mirror proves his youth is disappearing fast. He led her inside. “Max rang to say you’d be coming.” So it was Max who gave the game away. Annoying man. She’d lost the element of surprise. “Anyway,” Guy shrugged. “Susie was all over the local news. I thought I’d hear something from Exham. When’s the funeral?
Was the man upset? Libby couldn’t tell. The pupils of his eyes were big and dark. He pushed wire-rimmed glasses further up a long nose, and waved at a selection of wines and spirits on a breakfast bar. “Drink?”
The huge, airy kitchen was clean and, unlike Guy himself, at the cutting edge of modern design. Libby flicked her gaze round the room, finding no sign of a wife or children among the uncompromising shine of black granite and glassy smooth white paint. She shook her head. “I’m driving, but I’d love a coffee.”
“Ah. Good choice.” A wannabe barista? Guy clattered around the huge, gleaming chrome of the coffee machine with milk jugs and coffee. Libby hid a smile. Whatever had happened to Kenco and hot water?
The coffee, when it arrived at last, was perfect. “So, you found Susie on the beach. That’s sad. Not quite the dramatic end I’d expect of her. She’d have preferred something outrageous, like a mistimed bungee jump.” When he smiled, he showed beautiful white teeth. They must be the result of the band’s success in America. “The drink, was it?”
There was no reason to hide the truth. “In fact, she had been drinking, but it looks more like murder.”
Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) Page 6
