His gaze fell on Libby. “Well, well.” He fingered his chin. “Fancy meeting you here, Mrs Forest. Often turn up, don’t you, when there’s a crime? I’ll be suspecting you’re behind the murder, if you’re not careful. Haha.” The laugh was unconvincing, the small black eyes sharp. “Trying to get one over on the police, I suppose.”
“Are we all suspects?” giggled Vera. “How exciting.”
The chief inspector smiled through tight lips. “There’ll be time for that, later. We’re just making preliminary inquiries at the moment. It’s normal police procedure, nothing to be concerned about. I believe you all knew the deceased, Mr Giles Temple.” Heads nodded. “What about you, Mrs Forest? Was he one of your acquaintances?”
Libby shook her head. “I never met him.”
“And are you a member of the Knitters’ Guild? I can’t seem to find your name anywhere on this list.” He ran a long finger down a sheet of paper, his lips twitching. “Or maybe you work in the cathedral?”
Libby tried not to squirm under the sarcasm. “No, I was just…” She stopped.
“Quite. I suggest you get back to your chocolates and leave the police work to the professionals.” Libby turned to gather up the empty cake tin and call Bear to her side. The chief inspector used a finger and thumb to pick up the ragged, unfinished square she’d been working on. “Not a professional knitter, I see.”
Max
Libby curled her feet on the sofa and chewed a fingernail. Max had rung as arranged soon after she arrived home, but their conversation had been difficult. “I’ve given in my notice,” he reminded her, “so at least one of us is committed to the future. Time to make your mind up, Libby. Are we a partnership, or not?”
“Stop hassling me. I need to think.”
“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly developed cold feet. You usually jump head first into everything. Once or twice you almost got yourself killed. No one could call you timid, so why are you being indecisive? Am I scary?”
A lump formed in Libby’s throat. “You’re not at all scary, Max. Try to understand. I’m not only grappling with the implications of a private investigation business on my cakes and chocolates, although that’s complicated enough. There’s the other thing, too.”
“Our wedding, you mean?”
“Not the wedding so much as our life afterwards. Let’s imagine we do get married. Where will we live? In your house? If we do that, what about my cottage? I can’t just sell it. It’s important to me and besides, I run the chocolate business from the kitchen. You see what I mean?”
Max sighed. “It’s not complicated at all. You’re trying to think of problems. Be honest with me, Libby. Are we partners? Do you want to work with me and get married, or not?”
She gulped. Did she? Now it came to it? “That’s not fair. Not on the phone.”
There was a long silence. “Max? Are you still there?” Libby’s voice sounded very small.
“OK. I won’t pin you down over the phone. Not about the wedding, anyway. Not yet. But, I won’t wait for ever. When I get home in a couple of days, I’m going to set up the business. You can join me, or not. Up to you.”
Libby swallowed but the lump remained. “Let’s talk about it when you come home.”
“Meanwhile,” Max dropped the serious tone. “Tell me about this murder you’re determined not to investigate.”
Relieved to change the subject, Libby told him about the cathedral library and the orange scarf, her spirits lifting as he laughed at her description of the knitters. “Angela’s upset. She says this Giles Temple is just a friend, but I don’t think she’s telling me the whole truth.”
“And the police? Is Joe part of the inquiry?” Max’s son, a detective sergeant, had worked on several other murder investigations.
“I haven’t spoken to him. Chief Inspector Arnold appeared at the Knitters’ Guild, though, and sent me home. I could have slapped his smug face.”
“Turn the other cheek. You should hear the abuse I had from the company I visited today, when I questioned their shady accounts. Don’t let Arnold intimidate you.”
“I won’t. Anyway, I won’t see him again. I’m not investigating, remember?”
“You should at least go back to another meeting. It’s time you added knitting to your talents and I could use a new sweater.”
Libby giggled. “You can knit your own.”
“Did you discover any other keen knitters? Those who didn’t attend the meeting.”
“Yes, actually, Angela dropped a list of names through the letter box on her way home. They’re planning a surprise for Wells, you see. A yarn-bombing.”
Max chuckled. “OK. I give up. What’s a yarn-bomb?”
Libby recited the details. “It’s due next week, on Tuesday, at dead of night.”
“Tuesday. Good, I’ll be back by then. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. By the way, some old colleagues have agreed to send work my way.”
Spies? Libby bit back the word. It wasn’t a great idea to talk about MI5 or MI6 or whatever it was on the phone. Max went on, “And everyone in Somerset must have heard about Libby Forest, female sleuth, by now.”
“OK, you know I’m tempted to work with you, Max. Leave it for now. I don’t want to give up the business. Not yet, anyway.”
“You don’t have to. Just cut back a little. Give Mandy more to do and take on another assistant. Forget the cakes and stick with the chocolates.”
“I’ll think about it.” Libby giggled.
“What is it?”
“I just realised the truth. You can’t live without my chocolates.”
“Ah. You found me out.” His voice softened. “I’m looking forward to coming home. Things will work out, you know. Oh, by the way, I’m bringing a colleague. An American.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No, but you’ll love him, though not too much, I hope. He’s younger than me.”
“I like the sound of him already. What’s the occasion?”
“Some work he’s doing.” Max’s voice was vague. Maybe the American was a secret agent. Max said, “I thought I’d ask a few people round to meet him. His name’s Reginald, by the way. I thought, Robert and Sarah―you said they were planning to visit to make wedding plans―and Mandy and Steve, of course.”
Libby took a deep breath. She’d mentioned Max to her son, Robert, but they hadn’t met. This dinner could be tricky. “I’m not sure about Steve. He and Mandy had a falling out, so I’ll check.”
“Cheer up. It’ll be fun.” Libby’s phone buzzed.
She had a text, from Angela. I have to see you. Right now.
Angela had sounded desperate. The Citroen hurtled towards her house, squealing round corners as dread squeezed Libby’s insides. Angela would only send such a message in dire circumstances.
She must have been watching from a window, for the door was already open when Libby ran up the path. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sit down, collect your thoughts and explain.”
Angela paced round her elegant, grey-painted room, moving expensive scented candles and straightening books in an already tidy bookcase. “There’s something I kept from you. I hoped it didn’t matter, but it’s been eating away at me.”
Libby thought for a moment, reviewing their conversation in the café. “I had a feeling you weren’t being entirely honest. It’s the scarf, isn’t it?” Her friend rubbed invisible specks of dirt from an over-mantle mirror, avoiding Libby’s eyes. “Did you give it to Giles Temple?”
Angela grabbed a tissue from a nearby box. “It was a joke, just between the two of us. We laughed about the yarn-bombing. You know, how tacky and bright it was going to be. Giles said no one would ever wear anything in those colours. Well, I couldn’t resist knitting the brightest scarf I could and giving it to Giles. He promised to wear it. It was just a joke,” she dabbed at her eyes. “What will the police think?”
; Libby’s brain clicked into gear. The presence of the scarf at the murder scene made Angela a prime suspect. She knew the victim was a married man, and she’d given him a gift she made herself. It looked suspicious. Libby groaned. She knew what was coming. “Please, help me, Libby. Find out who killed Giles. That’s the only way I’ll feel safe. You can’t leave it to the police. Everyone knows they’re over-stretched. They’ll decide I killed him and won’t look for anyone else.”
Libby’s head drooped as her hopes of a quiet life, with time to make decisions about the future, evaporated. Angela, normally so calm, looked terrified. Smudges of mascara ran into tiny lines around her eyes. Libby rose and offered another tissue. “I’ll try to help, on one condition.”
“Anything.” Angela’s face lit up. “Anything at all.”
Libby hid a wry smile. Angela wasn’t going to like her next words, but that was too bad. “I can’t help unless you swear you had nothing to do with Giles Temple’s death.”
A flush covered Angela’s face from neck to hairline. For a second, her eyes flashed anger. Slowly, she gained control. When she spoke, her voice grated, harsh and strained. “I understand why you have to ask, Libby. I suppose you need to be sure. On my honour, I swear I didn’t kill Giles Temple and I don’t know who did.”
Bakery
Libby spent the next morning with Mandy, working at the bakery. In the shop she had no spare time to think of Max, or worry about Angela, or Giles Temple’s murder. Mandy was unusually quiet. Libby supposed she was brooding about the quarrel with Steve.
Frank, the baker, had converted half the shop to a display space for chocolates, and his girth was expanding as a result. “The wife’s sending me out running every evening.” He heaved a sigh. “I can resist bread and cakes, all except your squishy chocolate log…” He centred a slice on a plate. “But those chocs’ll be the death of me. Still,” his long face lightened. “My daily shuffle gets me out of the house for a bit of peace.”
He finished the last morsel and wiped his mouth. “Delicious. Ah well. No peace for the wicked. They’ll be coming in for their lunch-time sandwiches, any minute now, wanting to talk about this affair over at the cathedral. I’ll be off.”
Frank, unique in Exham on Sea, hated gossip. Mandy once suggested he’d been bullied in childhood. “Impossible. He’s six feet tall with shoulders like bill-boards,” Libby objected.
“Maybe he grew after leaving school.” Frank made himself scarce whenever the door opened, leaving Libby, Mandy or one of his new part-timers in charge.
Along with bread, cakes and chocolates, the shop functioned as a branch of the local Exham grape vine, and sure enough, the shop soon buzzed with theories about the murder in the cathedral. “I made a delivery there, just the day before he was found.” The lady from the flower shop panted with excitement. “Imagine, it could have been me, lying dead on the floor.”
“Never been caught in a library, though, have you,” jeered one of the paper boys, paying for a pair of Belgian buns with crumpled notes. “Have to be able to read.”
“I hope you won’t be eating both those buns for your lunch,” Mandy snapped. “All that sugar―you won’t be able to walk. And don’t lean your bike against the window. There’s a sign there, you know. Maybe it’s you who can’t read.” Libby shot a glance at Mandy. She was definitely cranky today.
The lady from the flower shop handed over a twenty pound note in payment for a waist-watching salad and glowered at the boy as she waited for change. “Getting back to the cathedral. I was talking to the bishop’s wife, the other day…” She peeped under her lashes at the queue of customers, checking they were listening. “She told me the man who died, Giles something, was researching old stories from the past, about ghosts and the supernatural and such like. She said it wasn’t a very suitable subject for a cathedral library, and I for one agree.”
“Maybe it was a ghost that did him in,” suggested a young man. New to Libby, he wore the estate agent uniform of short, gelled hair, shiny, pointed shoes and a vivid pink shirt. Exham was full of estate agents. House prices were rumoured due to rocket, now a nuclear power station had been promised for the area.
The door bell chimed and local solicitor, Samantha Watson, entered. Samantha, who was engaged to be married to the pompous Chief Inspector Arnold, disliked Libby as an interfering newcomer to Exham and only graced the bakery with her presence when she had a spicy police tidbit to share. “Pillow talk from her fiance,” Max called it. Libby waited, expectant. Samantha’s tips had been useful in the past, though Libby would die rather than admit it. The solicitor already thought far too well of herself.
She inspected Mandy from head to toe. “What an original necklace, dear, and on such a heavy chain. A Celtic cross, isn’t it? Did you know, the murderer used a chain to kill his victim in the cathedral library?”
Mandy rose to the bait before Libby could intervene. “I did, as it happens.”
“Chief Inspector Arnold told me the chain was made of forged steel. Incredibly strong. But, that’s not all…”
“Go on,” said the flower shop owner as Samantha produced a dramatic pause.
“Well, I’m not sure I ought to tell you. Police business, you know. In fact, I think perhaps I should wait. There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour. I’ll just say this―don’t miss it. You’ll hear something very interesting if you watch the local news.”
The paper boy tore off a slab of bun and spoke with his mouth full. “That Inspector―”
“Chief inspector,” Samantha corrected.
The boy licked his lips. “Whatever. He’d better not come round after our Dan.”
“Dan who?”
“My brother, Dan. He was at school with those lads who had a cannabis farm, and he reckons the cops are out to get him.”
Samantha looked smug. “Those boys were lucky. They were given suspended sentences. Maybe your Dan should have been in court with them.” She glanced sideways at Libby. “I worked on the case, you know.”
The boy wiped his mouth on a grubby sleeve, elbowed the door, and cycled away. The flower shop owner huffed. “Rude, that boy, like all his family. Thinks the world owes him a living.”
Samantha turned back to Mandy. “Anyway, dear, perhaps you should rethink your jewellery. You don’t want to be a suspect in a murder case, do you? It wouldn’t be easy to persuade the judge to let you off lightly.”
Press conference
Mandy served the remaining customers in tight-lipped silence, clearly upset by Samantha’s remarks. The final customer, Mr Ali from the Indian restaurant, took an impossibly long time to choose a roll, settling at last on salmon and cucumber. He’d once confided in Libby how much he hated the ‘English curry’ his customers demanded.
“Mrs Watson practically accused me.” Mandy burst out as the door closed.
“It’s not you. She just likes winding people up,” Libby soothed. “Ignore her.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mandy muttered, just loud enough for Libby to hear.
Better to ignore that. Mandy would cool down soon enough. Libby switched on the television in the back of the bakery as Frank returned. “The press conference is about to start.”
Sure enough, Chief Inspector Arnold sat behind a long table, flanked by a female police constable on one side and Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore, Max’s son, on the other.
The police constable introduced Arnold, who nodded at the assembled body of local and national press. Arnold’s face was composed, schooled into an ostentatious, solemn expression. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending on such short notice. I called this press conference to discuss the suspicious death of a man in the library of Wells Cathedral, last night. The first 48 hours after a murder are vital.” He blinked as a press camera flashed. “I expect anyone holding information that might help our inquiries to step forward.”
Mandy leaned closer to Libby. “He can’t help sounding up himself, can he?”
>
Libby winked, glad some of her apprentice’s good humour had returned, then focused on the TV. Now she’d agreed to make inquiries, she needed to know all the available facts.
The chief inspector performed well, she admitted, with just the right amount of gravitas. Libby was impressed against her will. No wonder the man had risen so fast through the ranks. She pulled out a pen and scribbled in her newest note book. The time of the victim’s death had not been finalised, but the chief inspector identified a window of six hours, from the time Mr Temple spoke to the librarian at six o’clock in the evening, to midnight. Libby wrote, Rigor mortis?
“Did anyone notice Mr Temple after six o’clock?” the chief inspector asked. “We’re keen to speak to the last person to see him.”
Mandy, scrubbing the counter, paused to chortle. “That would be the killer, then. He was the last one to see the victim.”
“Shh. He’s still talking.”
“The forensic pathologist suggests midnight is probably the latest possible time for the crime to have been committed. Anyone in the cathedral or the streets nearby, should come forward. We want to know if anyone entered the building or behaved suspiciously.” The chief inspector spoke directly to the camera. “Were you in Wells that night? Did you see anything strange? The police are waiting for your call.”
Libby murmured, “They’ll be swamped with statements. How many children board at Wells Cathedral School? I bet some were in town, and they’ll all have bright ideas.”
The chief inspector added details. “The last service at the cathedral, Evensong, finished around six o’clock. There was no concert in the building that night.”
“Don’t expect many folks attended evening service in the middle of the week,” Frank pointed out. “Not in winter.”
The chief inspector invited the press to ask questions, letting Joe Ramshore answer. “Typical,” said Mandy. “Everything left to his team while he claims the credit.”
Murder at the Cathedral Page 3
