“He’s the most recognisable man I’ve seen in Somerset. He won’t need to say a word. He’s an African American, about seven feet tall and bald as a coot. Used to play basketball. He’s fit―very fit.”
Cat woman
The Cedars. Despite the grand name, Mrs Marchant’s home turned out to be a tiny two-bedroom house in the middle of a small terrace, a few streets away from the cathedral. Libby checked the address, turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car, mentally reducing the fee she’d been about to charge. Whoever lived here was unlikely to be rich.
Mrs Marchant opened her door a few inches and peered at Libby through round John Lennon spectacles. A pungent smell crept through the gap. Libby recoiled. “I’ve come about your cat.” In the distance, a cacophony of wails and squeals suggested several animals shared the house. “One of your cats.”
“You’d better come in, then.” Mrs Marchant closed the door with a sharp click. The chain rattled for a full minute before the door opened. As Libby stepped inside, the overpowering smell of cats caught in her throat. She coughed as discreetly as possible and followed the woman down a narrow, dark passage.
“Mind your feet.” Mrs Marchant waved at an oblong litter tray covering half the width of the passage. Libby trod with care, skidding on the light dressing of litter scattered over an expanse of ancient brown, cracked linoleum, saving herself with a hand on the wall. Her fingers stuck to the dull brown wallpaper.
“Amelia,” the woman shouted. A fat grey moggy appeared at the top of a short flight of stairs, green eyes twinkling through the gloom, and picked her way downstairs, sedate as a Victorian miss. She wound in and out of Libby’s legs, purring.
Two medium-sized tabbies, a tiny black kitten, and a big marmalade giant followed. “How many cats do you have?” Libby untangled herself and stepped into a small kitchen to find two large cages full of cats. Every remaining inch of floor held bowls of water and cat food.
Mrs Marchant pulled the sides of a grey cardigan across her thin chest, retied the knot in a belt of the same material, and picked a tiny white kitten out of one of the cages. “Lost count, m’dear. All strays, you know.” She spoke with the deep, cut-glass accent Libby remembered from the phone call. “They come here when they’re lost. Impossible to keep count.”
The cats looked healthy and happy, but the smell was almost unbearable and Mrs Marchant’s clothes struck Libby as shabby and threadbare. Beneath the cat stink, Libby detected the scent of unwashed garments. The woman was painfully thin. “Cup of tea?”
Libby glanced at the sink where dirty dishes teetered in a pile and cracked mugs lay tumbled on the draining board. “No, thanks. I can’t stop long. You rang about a missing cat?”
“Oh yes, Mildred. She went out a few nights ago. Hasn’t been back.”
“Was she a stray, too?”
“That’s right, she’s lived with me for a year or so. All my darlings are strays, except Amelia, here.” She dropped the white kitten back in its cage and picked up the plump grey Amelia, addressing the next remarks to the cat. “You were my first cat, weren’t you, my love. You came with me when I moved. We used to live in a lovely house called The Cedars. Just brought two things with me, don’t you know―the name and the cat.”
Mrs Marchant put Amelia down on a kitchen counter, where the animal picked a delicate route among teetering piles of tins, purring. “Anyway, mustn’t keep you. There’s a picture of Mildred―the one that’s lost―in one of these drawers.”
She moved to a shabby brown cabinet and pulled open one drawer after another. Scraps of paper, pens, spoons and elastic bands cascaded to the floor. Libby bent to retrieve them, trying not to touch the grubby floor. “Here it is.”
The photo Mrs Marchant pushed under Libby’s nose showed a plumper self looking down an aristocratic nose at the camera. Libby, surprised, barely noticed the cat. “Who took the photo?”
“My son. Terence.” She tossed the photo back in the drawer.
“Has he been here, lately?” Did he know his mother was living in squalor?
Mrs Marchant’s eyes narrowed. “Huh. What does he care? Children,” she glared, and Libby caught a brief glimpse of the handsome, haughty woman of the photo, “are ungrateful little beasts.”
Surprised by such sudden vehemence, Libby’s curiosity took over. “Ungrateful?” she prompted.
“His father left everything to Terence on the understanding he’d look after me. Instead, what did my dear son do? Sold the house out from under my feet and left me in this place.”
“Does he realise you need help?” Mrs Marchant was a difficult and demanding woman, but surely no son would leave their mother in this state. She must have gone downhill fast and Terence deserved to be told. “Where does he live?”
“Can’t remember. Not far. Thirty miles or so.” Mrs Marchant gave an elaborate shrug. “Lost the address, didn’t I? Last time he came to see me was just after Mildred arrived. The day he took the photograph.” Libby groaned, inwardly. She couldn’t let this state of affairs continue. She’d have to challenge Terence.
The temptation to walk away almost overwhelmed Libby. She could refuse the commission, leave Mrs Marchant to find her own cat, and forget about the ungrateful son. She already felt like a size eight foot in a size six shoe.
Instead, she added the task to her long mental to-do list and asked, “May I keep Mildred’s photo?” The cat woman shrugged, pulled it from the drawer among another shower of odds and ends, and handed it over.
“Has she been lost before?”
“Of course not. Well, just one night, shut in a neighbour’s garage. She’s not there now. I looked.”
The smell in the house sickened Libby. She had to get away. “I’ll arrange for some prints of the photo and distribute them around Wells. Would you like me to put an ad in the local paper? It might be expensive.”
“You may do as you wish. The cost,” Mrs Marchant raised both eyebrows, looking down the aristocratic nose at such vulgar talk of money, “is of no consequence.”
Samantha
The news of Angela Miles’ interview under caution had travelled fast. On Thursday morning, half the inhabitants of Exham on Sea discovered they needed a loaf of bread or a cake, and Libby tuned in to every conversation, listening hard.
The flower shop lady had been at school with Angela. “She wouldn’t harm a fly, and that’s a fact.”
“Who knows.” The estate agent slouched by the counter. “Middle-aged women―”
The florist cut him off, standing full-square, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “Middle-aged women what?”
“Nothing.” He backed away, stammering. “I just meant she might be lonely. You know. Living alone. Maybe this Giles Temple took advantage of her.” He edged towards the door.
Mandy held out a paper bag. “Don’t forget your sandwich.” Red-faced, he grabbed it and shot out of the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with Samantha Watson.
“Well, really. Some people have no manners.” Patting her hair into place, the solicitor stalked to the counter to order smoked trout with mustard. “It seems your friend Angela Miles is our killer, Libby. I‘m surprised you missed that. You’re supposed to be the local sleuth. But you’re an amateur, of course. Perhaps you’ll leave inquiries to the professionals, in future. Chief Inspector Arnold tells me the evidence against Mrs Miles is most compelling.”
Mandy slapped the solicitor’s food on the counter. “You mean that scarf?” she scoffed. “Planted. Any fool can see that.”
Samantha sneered. “You mind your manners, Mandy. If I had your background, I’d be more careful what I said.”
The spiteful words dropped into horrified silence. Someone drew a sharp breath. Mandy’s father had been in trouble with the police, many times. He’d even attacked her mother and threatened Mandy. Her face twisted in fury, mouth working, Mandy ran into the back kitchen.
Before Libby could gather her wits, Frank made a rare public appearance. Hiding in the b
ack kitchen, he’d heard every word. He strode to the front door, held it open, glared at Samantha, and pointed to the street. “You’ve gone too far, this time. Get out. You won’t be served here in future.”
Samantha gasped. “I haven’t paid, yet.” Frank folded his arms and waited as she picked up her food, tossed a handful of coins on the counter and swept out. At the door, she stopped. “I won’t forget this. Since you came here, Libby Forest, there’s been nothing but trouble. Just watch out, you and your lodger. You’ll be sorry.”
As the door slammed, the hubbub in the shop swelled. “Well,” the flower shop lady whispered to Libby, with a wary glance at Frank, “if your apprentice dresses like a Goth, it’s hardly surprising people think the worst.”
As the last customer left, Libby confided in Mandy and Frank. “Sometimes I think a small town’s the most vicious place in the world.”
Mandy scowled. “Samantha Watson’s got it coming. She’s the one who’ll be sorry.”
After the morning’s drama, Libby took time alone to work in the peace of her kitchen while Mandy stayed at the bakery. Developing overdue new product lines, she forgot everything except her recipes.
Max would be home soon. It would be a relief to talk over the problems with him. “I like my independence,” she explained to Bear and Fuzzy as she scraped food into separate bowls―fish for Fuzzy, beef for Bear, “but I do miss him.” Perhaps a partnership really could work. She stopped work for a moment, imagining it. If they set up as private investigators, she’d have to do a course, take exams. Butterflies swooped in her stomach, but it would be interesting. She liked a challenge. As for marriage? She shook her head. She’d think about that later.
Soon she was humming above the noise of mixer and grinder. Chocolate hearts needed filling. Libby mixed and measured, tested and tasted, until strawberry, coconut, lime, coffee and praline cream scented the air with heady sweetness and every chocolate brimmed with flavour.
She polished the kitchen until the surfaces shone, made a cheese sandwich and put her feet up. The living room reminded her of the last time Max sprawled on the sofa, Bear at his feet, stroking Fuzzy with one hand and twirling a whisky glass with the other, watching as an inch of golden liquid coated the sides. Libby rarely sat here on her own. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “I’m getting sentimental.”
She pulled out a pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool she’d brought home from the Guild, curled up on the sofa and concentrated on producing squares. The Knitters’ Guild would meet again, tomorrow, and Libby would be there.
If only Chief Inspector Arnold hadn’t burst into the meeting, full of pomposity and self-importance, Libby might have discovered an important clue amongst the gossip. What had the knitters said? A vague thought, shapeless but insistent, nagged at Libby’s brain. She couldn’t bring it into focus. Maybe it would become clearer tomorrow.
Dinner
Libby sat at one end of Max’s long table, trying to relax. She felt like a mother hen with a brood of unruly chicks. Max had returned, but instead of the quiet evening together in the cottage she’d have preferred, they were eating supper at his almost-mansion, and were not alone.
His American colleague, Reginald, was staying. Max wanted to introduce him to Libby and she was keen to find out more about his work in the cathedral library.
Max had sweetened the deal further by inviting Libby’s son, his fiancée, Sarah, and Mandy. Sarah, a statuesque blonde, bubbly and excited, was full of wedding arrangements, but Robert had a different agenda. He told Libby he wanted to meet her ‘friend’. Libby hadn’t yet confessed Max was more than a friend.
Joe, though invited, had not come. He was on duty. Had that been an excuse? Libby hoped not. The relationship between father and policeman son had been strained since Max divorced Joe’s mother, many years ago. Things had improved recently, and Libby prided herself on helping smooth the path with input to some of Joe’s cases.
Since the scene in the bakery, Mandy had been subdued, answering remarks with monosyllables. When Libby suggested she might like to attend Max’s homecoming, she’d pretended indifference. Libby turned away. “Max asked me to invite you, but it’s your choice.”
That did the trick. Mandy tossed her head and mumbled, but wore a sheepish grin. “You need me there, to stop you talking about weddings and boring business all evening.” To Libby’s surprise, her lodger toned down her appearance for the occasion and looked stunning in one of Libby’s silk blouses over a pair of velvet trousers.
Max welcomed the guests with champagne. He discarded his apron with a flourish, as though he’d spent hours in the kitchen. In fact, the meal had come straight from Libby’s freezer along with simple instructions. “Reginald’s just taking a call,” he explained. “He’ll be down in a minute. Ah, here he is. Reginald, let me introduce you to some of my neighbours and friends.”
Libby heard Mandy’s sharp intake of breath and glanced sideways. The girl’s mouth hung half open. Libby swallowed a chuckle. Reginald was gorgeous. Tall enough even to dwarf Max, his body was lean and fit-looking and his skin the warm colour of a summer tan. It was hard to assess his age; mid-thirties, perhaps. Libby had little time for shaved heads, but she could make an exception in Reginald’s case.
They shared small talk. “I love your British weather,” Reginald said. “In my part of Texas, it’s pretty much the same every day. Hot. Here, you never know what’s coming. One day it’s freezing, and the next you have this gentle rain.”
Max ushered them into the dining room. “We call it drizzle.”
“The sun does shine occasionally.” Libby defended her home country.
Once settled at the long table, Mandy focused a pair of kohl-rimmed eyes, stretched wide, on the American newcomer. From time to time she tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear. Maybe her gloom at Steve’s defection would be short-lived. Bear lay under the table, alert in case someone dropped a tidbit.
Reginald’s biceps rippled inside a beautifully cut jacket as he stretched to offer a dish of carrots roasted with cardamom and honey. “Ma’am,” he drawled, his voice as warm and liquid as Nat King Cole’s, “Max told me you did the cooking. I haven’t had a meal like this in years. Why, those chefs in the city, dribbling little pools of sauce on inch-long pieces of half-cooked fish, ought to come out here for a few lessons.” Libby blushed, tried not to simper, and offered him a second, larger helping. “You bet. A man my size needs a good meal.”
Under cover of serving Reginald, Libby exchanged glances with Max. He’d insisted Libby could trust his colleague. “I’ve known him years. He’s spent a long time in England. He read for a research degree at Cambridge University, something about the crossover between history and science. He likes to play up his deep-south accent when he’s around women, though. They swoon.” Now she’d met him, Libby understood why. “We still meet up from time to time, when I’m in the States or he’s in England. We’re pretty much in the same business.”
Reginald tucked into his second helping of Libby’s special roast lamb and launched into an explanation of his presence in Somerset. His story was plausible and Libby relaxed. She wanted to avoid involving her son and his fiancée in any undercover work, but Reginald’s task was straightforward. “The cathedral library has some unique and ancient books, donated over the centuries by what you British call ‘canons’ at the cathedral. Don’t you love the idea of religious men named after weapons?” Mandy giggled, eyes fixed in transparent adoration on the speaker. Max winked at Libby.
“Why, there was a book there, from the 16th century, that used to belong to your Thomas Cranmer―you know, Archbishop of Canterbury when Henry VIII was king? There are notes he wrote himself. How about that?”
Max said, “The question is, were you in the library on the night of the murder?”
Reginald sighed. “You always were a straight talker, my friend. No, I was travelling down from my temporary office in Bristol, and staying at the Swan. It’s a fine pla
ce, though nothing like this stately home of yours.”
He looked from one face to another. “Here’s something you may be interested in.” He addressed Libby. “I can tell you about the book Giles Temple was reading. The police mentioned it to me, wanting to know if I’d looked at it.”
“What was it?” Mandy asked.
“A travel guide, full of maps of the world. At least, the world they knew in the 17th century. Not the most precious book in the collection, but still worth a pretty penny.”
Libby’s mind raced. “How do you know that’s the book he was reading?”
Max said, “It’s a best guess, according to Joe Ramshore, but the police can’t be sure. Giles Temple wore white gloves in the library to avoid acid from his fingers damaging the oldest books, so there are no recent fingerprints, but the spine of this one stuck out a bit from the others, as though someone in a hurry had shoved it back on the shelf. That attracted the police officer’s attention.”
“So, the murderer left the book? Isn’t that odd?” Libby was thinking aloud. “Why did he shove it back so carelessly? Didn’t that just draw attention to it?”
Her voice trailed away as she caught sight of Robert. Her son’s face was flushed with excitement. He burst out, “Why do you keep saying ‘him’ for the murderer? Are you sure it was a man?”
Max nodded. “Good question. Joe thinks it’s likely. The victim was strangled with a chain, so the murderer was pretty strong. It would take plenty of force to keep the pressure on the chain, with the victim fighting for his life.” Libby winced.
Reginald added, “There’s something else. Chains, like the one used to strangle Mr Temple, are attached to the shelves with forged steel bolts. The murderer must have brought bolt cutters.”
“Which means,” Robert interrupted, excited, “he had a plan. He came prepared to kill Giles Temple that night.”
Murder at the Cathedral Page 5
