Foxgloves
At the hospital, a serious young doctor with floppy hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, tie tucked between two shirt buttons, examined Libby, declared her out of any danger and decreed she could go home. “The hospital’s full to bursting, today, after the poisoning. No beds free at all.” He yawned. “We think we’ve pinpointed the poison, though. Digitoxin. It’s a compound made from digitalis.”
“I’m sorry? What’s digitalis? Or the other thing?”
The doctor nodded, brow furrowed in a scholarly expression, transparently gratified to have the chance to explain his newly acquired, expert knowledge. “Digitalis is found in the common foxglove, Digitalis Purpurea. That’s the Latin name. You can find them easily in woodland.”
“Or in people’s gardens?”
“Exactly. You’d be surprised how many everyday plants have serious toxic effects. Foxgloves can be both poisonous and beneficial, especially the leaves. Digitalis affects the heart rate.”
He thrust his hands into the pockets of crumpled trousers. He looked hardly older than Robert, Libby’s son. Did doctors not wear white coats any more? “Digitoxin must have turned up in the sandwiches or cakes. I believe you only had a small bite, Mrs Forest?”
“From an Eccles cake.” Libby shivered. She’d never eat one again.
A bleep interrupted. The doctor pulled a small device from his pocket. “Sorry, have to go. Just take it easy for a few days, and you’ll be fine. Your heart’s steady enough.”
Max took Libby’s arm and walked her to the car. “I suppose you realise what this means for the bakery?”
She closed her eyes. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it’s going to be the first place the police look. How could foxglove leaves get into the cyclists’ food? Was it deliberate, d’you suppose, or a terrible mistake? Oh dear, I can’t seem to think straight.”
“Leave it for now. Get a good night’s sleep. Things might seem clearer in the morning.” Max drove her home.
Mandy was in the kitchen, eyes on stalks, bursting to gossip, but Max cut her short and steered Libby upstairs. “Do you need help getting to bed?”
“I can manage.”
“Oh.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Sleep well.”
***
It was the hammering that woke her. Surfacing from a dreamless sleep, Libby groaned and rolled over. Early light filtered through the curtains. The noise started up again, thudding in her head. Someone was banging on the bedroom door. “What is it?”
Mandy’s head appeared. “Sorry to wake you, but your daughter’s here.”
“Ali?” Libby sat up. That was a mistake. Her head thudded harder. She grabbed the water glass by the bedside table and sipped. Empty. She must have drunk it in the night. With care, she slid one foot out of bed, feeling for the floor. Her stomach lurched.
“Here’s the bucket.” Mandy was by her side. “Max said this might happen. He said you’re to stay in bed. I wasn’t going to wake you, but Ali...” Ali was away at Uni, wasn’t she? It couldn’t be the holidays already.
“Hi, Mum.” Her daughter’s head popped round the door. “Your friend, Max, rang. He said you’d been poisoned.”
Libby lay back against a pile of pillows. “It’s not serious. He shouldn’t have worried you.”
Ali, eyes wide, hair tousled, grinned. “Of course, he should. I’ve come to look after you. By the way, who was that girl? Why is she dressed like that, with all those studs?”
Guilt crept over Libby. She’d meant to tell Ali about the lodger sleeping in her old bedroom. Somehow, the time had never seemed right. “Mandy works at the bakery with me. She’s staying here for a while.”
“And when were you thinking of telling me?” Ali raised an eyebrow and leaned over to plump her mother’s pillows.
Libby pushed her hand away. “We haven’t spoken recently.” Ali’s eyes avoided her mother. That last phone call had been heated.
Ali heaved a familiar, exaggerated sigh. “OK, I know I should have rung at the weekend. I was busy.”
“With John?” Libby tried to sound non-committal, but the words arrived laced with disapproval. She winced, as Ali’s eyes narrowed. It was so easy to say the wrong thing.
“Busy, actually. John’s been away in Dubai, if you want to know.”
“Oh.” Libby said no more. Was she being unreasonable? John was a wealthy, sophisticated man, more than twenty years older than her daughter. Ali met him when he lectured at the University. He was an expert in philanthropy, apparently, which seemed to be an excuse for the rich to get even richer, without feeling guilty.
“Look, Mum. I can see you’re feeling lousy. We won’t argue just now.” Ali bustled about the room, straightening curtains, smoothing the duvet, dusting a mirror with a tissue.
Libby closed her eyes. “I think I’d like to go back to sleep.”
“Dry toast. That’s what you need.”
“Lovely.” Anything for a moment’s peace. Drowsy, Libby twitched awake as the bedroom door clinked shut. She sighed, closed her eyes and drifted away.
***
Hunger kicked in and she woke. A tray on the bedside table held a slice of cold toast. Libby took a bite. Delicious. Just what she needed, after all. Ali was right.
Libby looked at the clock and threw back the covers. What was happening at the bakery? She reached for her dressing gown and stopped, eyes fixed on the hugely expensive silk pyjamas she wore. She’d bought them a few Christmases ago, as revenge when Trevor gave her a wok. Had Mandy undressed her? Oh no. Not Max, surely?
She winced, struggling to remember, and then tugged open a drawer, shuddered at the jumble of clothes inside, and slammed it shut. Max had seen this muddle? And undressed her while she was asleep? She’d never look him in the face again.
Tying the dressing gown tightly, Libby set off downstairs. “Watch out!” The marmalade cat, who offered daily evidence of despising Libby, shot out of the living room and up the stairs, disappearing into the airing cupboard. “That was deliberate, Fuzzy.”
A vacuum cleaner hummed as she approached the living room. Ali had wasted no time in getting to grips with the cleaning. Resisting the temptation to tiptoe past, into the kitchen, Libby opened the door and planted a kiss on the back of her daughter’s head. “Thank you for coming home.” She took a breath. “Does your brother know about the―er―the accident?”
“I rang him. He’s going to phone you later.” Ali switched off the machine and wound the cable neatly. “I hear you poisoned everyone in Exham with your baking, yesterday.”
“Not me. At least, I hope not.”
“Of course, it wasn’t your fault. I was joking.”
“Not very funny, actually. Two people died.”
“How awful.” Ali’s eyes were huge. “Did you know them?”
“Not really. Don’t be a ghoul. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her daughter pouted. “Very well. Did you know your vacuum cleaner needs bags? I’ll pick some up this afternoon. Now, what do you want for lunch? I can stay for a day or so to look after you.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m going to work.” Libby sniffed the air, scenting coffee.
Mandy arrived, holding the door open with one foot, balancing three mugs on a tray. “You’d better have this before we go to the bakery. I’ve got a bad feeling about this morning.”
Cocoa beans
The small yard behind the bakery heaved with police. Libby recognised a middle-aged, overweight constable, all pudding face and small eyes, as one of Joe’s team. He held up a hand the size of a dinner plate. “You can’t come in, Ma’am, I’m afraid.”
Frank handed keys to a tall woman in white overalls. He looked terrible, with red-rimmed eyes, his brow furrowed. Mournful, he shook his head at Libby. “They’re going to search the bakery.” He’d aged overnight. He’d become an old man, and his voice quivered. “This will put us out of business.” His lip was trembling. “I’m sorry, Libby.
Just when you were about to get started.”
It was true, then. The police were blaming the bakery for Kevin Batty’s death. Frank’s business, built up over dozens of years, had hit the dust, and both Libby and Mandy were out of a job. A shock of reality punched Libby in the chest. A closed bakery meant the end of the chocolate project. Her wonderful new career had died before it even came to life. Mandy’s eyes, lined with black kohl, were enormous in her white face. “What will we do?”
The constable―Ian Smith was his name, Libby remembered―looked vaguely sympathetic. Frank was well known and popular in the town. “We need to ask you some questions at the police station, sir.”
Frank’s body slumped. Libby forced a cheerful smile as she patted his arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out what happened.”
Constable Smith’s concern failed to extend to Libby. “Don’t go interfering, Ma’am. We’ll be talking to all of you, and you’ll be better off waiting quietly at home until then.”
“Last time...” Libby bit off her words. Reminding the police officer how badly they’d failed before would just antagonise him. “Are you suggesting we’re all suspects?”
“We can’t discuss it yet. We’ll talk to you later today. Now, let me have your phone number and go on home.”
Mandy’s mouth hung open as the police hustled the baker away. “They can’t think it was Frank?”
“It looks like it. Come on, let’s go. We need to find out what really happened.”
***
Libby’s year in Exham had taught her who was likely to know most about the area. In a moment of genius, she lured Ali out of the house, sending her to Bath in search of new curtains for the living room, picked up the phone and issued an invitation to Marina.
While she waited, Libby started on her new, hastily formed plan. The moment of despair at the bakery had soon passed. She had no idea how she was going to sell her wares, but she wasn’t about to give in and abandon the chocolate dream at the first obstacle. She was going to make up a new batch and find an outlet somehow, even if she had to hawk her wares all over England.
Mandy wandered aimlessly round the house, switching on televisions and turning them off again. Libby tracked her down in the bathroom and grabbed an arm, just in time to stop her painting each nail a different shade of mauve. “Mandy, come and help me in the kitchen. I’ll need an assistant if I’m going to make this project work.”
“Not giving up, then, Mrs F?”
“You bet I’m not. Did you see how those free samples disappeared? There’s a real market for original chocolates. We’re going to make them, even if we can’t sell them at Frank’s. Maybe some of the shops in Bath will stock them, instead.” Libby set up the chocolate grinder and tipped warm beans inside.
As they worked, the hours raced past, meals forgotten, until Marina arrived. She wafted in on a cloud of Youth Dew, resplendent in a purple kimono, amber beads jangling on her spectacular chest. “Darling Libby, you look ghastly,” she gushed. “We were all so worried.”
“Actually, I’m perfectly all right, now, thank you.”
“Well, if there’s anything you need, you only have to ask. Though I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m getting my hair done.” Marina settled herself more comfortably on the sofa and got down to business. “Now, do tell me everything. I heard it wasn’t food poisoning, but real poison. How extraordinary. Just imagine!”
Marina wore the permanent air of unconscious, effortless superiority of someone who’d spent her life nurtured and cherished, never denied any pleasure she desired. As a result, good-humoured, extravert, and a pillar of Exham society, she provided a never-ending source of the very best gossip. Libby forgave Marina’s sloth, although one day, she’d pluck up the courage to tell her friend to take her own dog for walks. Poor Shipley would never get beyond the garden gate, if Libby didn’t take him.
Marina sipped at a glass of sherry. “Who would have thought it of Frank?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Frank wouldn’t kill anyone.” Kind, monosyllabic Frank could hardly bring himself to squash a wasp.
Marina helped herself to a cup cake. “Who else could it be? One minute, everyone’s buzzing along the road like a swarm of starving bees in Lycra, and the next, they eat Frank’s food and half the cycling club ends up in hospital. Everyone knows Frank quarrelled with Kevin Batty, years ago. He must have decided to get his own back.”
A chill crept up Libby’s neck. If Frank had a motive, he was in big trouble. “What did they fall out about?”
“Well.” Marina sat forward, settling the heavy orange beads more comfortably, face animated. “Kevin was a very rich man. One of the big farmers in the area. Plenty of land, darling, all in the family. Of course, he didn’t farm it himself. He rented most of it out.”
Libby blinked. “You’re kidding.” She’d only met Kevin a few times, but anyone who looked less like a wealthy landowner would be hard to find. Everything the man wore seemed to be made for someone ten pounds heavier, as though he bought every item of clothes secondhand.
Marina’s laugh tinkled. “You’d know if you’d grown up around here. The Battys own half the county, and my husband handles their affairs. Kevin’s finger was in plenty of pies; sheep farms, dairy, and just a few acres of wheat.”
Libby topped up Marina’s glass. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen Batty lorries on the motorway.”
“That’s right.” Marina wrinkled her nose. “Not the cleanest on the road, I’m afraid. Now,” she swept on, “where was I? Oh, yes, Kevin used to supply flour to the bakery, years ago. Then, he had the falling out with Frank. It started with darts, in the pub. Kevin accused Frank of using weighted darts. Or was it Frank accusing Kevin? Can’t quite remember. Anyway,” Marina shrugged, dismissive of such details. “They had a fight. They were both drunk, and Frank gave Kevin a bloody nose. The next thing Frank knew, Kevin hiked the price of his flour sky-high and nearly bankrupted the bakery.”
Mandy called from the kitchen. “The grinder’s finished.”
Chocolate scented the air as Libby opened the huge metal grinder and scooped out the paste. Marina rustled, close behind. “Oh, I didn’t know you made your chocolates from actual cocoa beans. Can I taste?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. It’s too bitter at this stage. Inedible.” Libby let heavy blobs fall onto a vast marble board.
Marina glanced at her expensive watch. “Look at the time. I’m going to be late.” She gathered up scarves and bags. “Now, don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.” She was gone, slightly unsteady, leaving a heavy trail of perfume.
Libby swooped on the heap of chocolate paste, scraping and turning it with vigour, watching for the shine that would tell her it was ready for use. “I’m afraid everyone in town knows it’s food poisoning, now,” she told Mandy. “The bakery’s getting the blame.”
Mandy’s eyes were huge. “I don’t know what I’ll do for money, without that job.”
“Well, I’m sure it won’t be for long. Everyone knows Frank’s fanatical about hygiene.”
Mandy was biting her thumbnail. “It’s not just Frank. We’re all under suspicion. No one’s going to want our chocolates, now.”
Pizza and salad
Ali arrived back from Bath early. “I found just what you need in the first shop.” In minutes, she was bent over the ancient, hardly-used sewing machine, shortening curtains.
Too restless to stay indoors, Libby made an excuse. “I need Marmite to settle my stomach,” she announced, and drove to the supermarket. The place was overheated and crowded. Libby leaned on the trolley, wishing she’d stayed at home.
“What are you doing here? You should be taking it easy.”
Libby jumped. “Max! How do you manage to keep creeping up on me like that?”
“You were miles away. By the way, did you mean to put five boxes of cornflakes in your trolley.”
How did that happen? “I’m hiding from my daughter’s ministrations.” That was unkind. “Oh dear, I d
idn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that Ali’s very organised. Unlike me. She arrived yesterday and she hasn’t stopped cleaning yet. She’s hanging curtains as we speak.”
Max replaced cornflake packets on the shelf. “Heaven help anyone who tries to organise you, Libby Forest.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No need to get on your high horse. I mean you’re a very capable woman who knows what she wants. By the way, how’s the stomach?”
“Better. I suppose I should thank you for putting me to bed.” Now, she sounded ungracious. “Sorry. I really am grateful.” Libby couldn’t forget the silk pyjamas, but if she didn’t mention them, maybe Max wouldn’t, either.
“If you want to get away from your daughter for a bit, come over to my place. There’s pizza in the freezer.”
“Pizza? Really?”
“Forget your culinary standards for once and come down to my level.”
“I could cook.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If you like. You choose.”
Why was she making work? The habit of a lifetime. Crazy. Time to stop trying to please everyone. “Pizza sounds wonderful.”
He grinned. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You don’t have to be perfect all the time, you know.”
***
Libby concentrated on the pizza on her plate. She’d made a salad, squeezing lemon into olive oil, adding a touch of honey and mustard, and a pinch of salt, grateful Max hadn’t refused to eat the food she made. At least he didn’t think she was a poisoner. “You’re looking better,” Max said. “Nothing like junk food to settle the digestion.”
“How’s Joe?”
“They’re letting him out in a couple of days, and I said I’d go and visit. We’re almost on speaking terms at the moment, so long as we don’t mention anything about his work or mine, especially the local thugs he’s been watching.”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 2
