Ghosts
Robert and Sarah left, still chattering. A lump formed in Libby’s throat as she watched them. She leaned on Max’s shoulder. “They’re more excited about the mystery than their wedding. Still, it’s very strange to see your son prefer another woman.”
He slipped an arm round her shoulders. “It’s how it should be. You must be proud of Robert.”
“I am. I used to think he was dull until Sarah brought him out of his shell. Funny, how wrong you can be about your own children.”
Max’s laugh was rueful. “Tell me about it. I made every mistake possible with Joe. All those wasted years when we hardly spoke… He’s pleased about you and me, you know. It’s almost enough to make him forgive me.”
Libby leaned against Max. “I’m pleased, too.”
“But not enough for marriage?”
“Not quite yet. Give me time. Let’s go back and see how the other pair are doing.”
Mandy and Reginald were tidying Max’s kitchen, Reginald explaining the rules of basketball while Mandy listened, open-mouthed. Max whispered, “More love-birds.”
Mandy’s face glowed. She had a wine glass in each hand. “Reginald wants to know if this house is haunted.”
Max snorted. “Don’t listen to him, Mandy. Reg sees ghosts everywhere. It’s his hobby.”
Mandy and Libby spoke in unison, breathless. “Really?”
Max sighed. “It’s one of his ploys to attract women. Successful, of course.”
“That’s very sexist,” Mandy objected.
“Maybe, but true. Anyway, Reg, it looks like you’ve already hooked these two.” Max rescued a wine glass from Mandy’s grasp as she drained the other. “You’d better explain. What makes you think I have a ghost? I can’t say I’ve seen anyone cross the hall with his head beneath his arm.”
Reginald pointed to Bear. “You can scoff, but that dog senses something. There are parts of this house that bother him. He followed me down the hall just now, stopped at the third door and wouldn’t go in.”
Libby admitted, “I’ve noticed it, too. It’s the drawing room that bothers him. Sometimes he won’t pass the door at all. He just pokes his nose in and backs right away to the kitchen.”
Max led them into his comfortable, scruffy study. Reginald stretched out in an armchair, his legs reaching half way across the room. “I had no idea you had a drawing-room, Max. I thought it was something only your British royalty would own.”
“It comes with the house. I’ll admit I hardly use it. It’s far too formal. I just go in when I want to impress someone like the Lord Lieutenant on official business.”
Reginald scratched his head. “You Brits and your aristocracy. I’m not even going to ask what a Lord Lieutenant is. But I’d love to have a peak in the drawing room. Come on now, back me up, Mandy.”
“I’ve never been somewhere as posh as a drawing room,” Mandy giggled. “We just had a front room, where I grew up. Should I call you Lord Ramshore?”
Libby joined in. “Come on, Max. Haven’t you ever wondered about ghosts? This is such an old house.”
Max grinned. “Are you sure you want to start ghost-hunting? You’ll give yourself nightmares. You were scared enough that time you were lost on Glastonbury Tor.”
“Don’t try and get out of it that way. Come on, spill the beans.”
“Okay, then, here’s the story. I’ll start it properly. Once upon a time…”
Mandy chortled. Max winked at her and continued. “Once upon a time I sat in there, reading. It was soon after I moved into the house, half a dozen years ago. I was reading Dickens. Bleak House, I think. Seemed appropriate in an old pile like this. Anyway, it was midsummer, on one of the three hot days we had that year. We call that a heat wave, Reg, by the way.”
Reginald laughed, but Mandy complained, “Get back to the story.”
“Sorry. I realised my feet were freezing cold. It felt as though they had ice packed round them. The rest of me was fine, even a bit too warm. I got up to walk around, warm the toes up a bit, and,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I felt something cold land on my shoulder.”
Mandy gasped. “Like a hand?”
He nodded, his face solemn. “It was heavy, like a dead weight. I looked round, but there was nothing to be seen. I told myself I was imagining things and tried to go on reading, but my feet just got colder. I told myself, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a draught.’ These old buildings have plenty of spots where the wind gets through, even with half-decent central heating. I moved across and sat in another chair, but…”
Mandy put in, “The cold spot followed you?” She licked her lips, eyes shining.
Libby leaned forward, caught up in the story. “What happened next?”
“Nothing. In the end, I went back into my study to get warm.”
Mandy groaned. “That can’t be the end. Was Bear with you then?”
“No, it was before I inherited him. You’re right, though, Libby. He’s never gone into that room. This old house has plenty of other places he prefers.”
Mandy’s eyes glowed. “Did it happen again?”
“Every time I sit in there, to tell the truth.”
Libby grinned at Mandy. “Come on. We have to investigate this, even though I don’t believe a word of it. There’s nothing to beat a good ghost story. Let’s go into the drawing room, right now, and see what happens.”
Max led the way through the corridor. Bear padded beside Libby, as far as the door. Max pushed on the wood. Slowly, it creaked open and Mandy gasped. Bear stopped, his legs rigid. Mandy whispered, “He doesn’t like it here, does he?”
The dog barked, once. His tail drooped and the ruff of fur round his neck stood on end. He managed to look miserable and offended at the same time. Max strode into the middle of the room and held out a dog treat. “Come on, Bear.” The dog took a step forward, hesitated, looked from Libby to Max, barked again, turned and padded back along the corridor.
“Does that count as proof?” Libby asked, an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Max took her hand. “Come on Reg, you’re the expert. Is there a ghost in here?”
Reg paced round the room, stopping at intervals, his face serious. “There’s a strange atmosphere,” he concluded. “There are cold spots, just as you described. Are there any records of odd happenings? Witches in the area?”
“Nothing I’ve been able to track down. I’ve looked at various histories of the house and the surrounding area, but I haven’t managed to turn up anything interesting apart from the Battle of Sedgemoor.”
Reg beamed from ear to ear. “While I’m here, maybe I can do a little research into your local history. Tell me about this battle.”
Max wrinkled his brow. “The Duke of Monmouth was a pretender to the throne of England, back in the 18th century. He landed in the West Country, fought the king’s army and was defeated. Most of his followers died, and the rest ran away.”
“Maybe some got this far…”
“Before they died…” Reginald and Mandy were talking over each other, Mandy’s face pink with happiness.
Libby, Mandy and Reginald stayed at Max’s house that night, in a motley collection of rooms built in barns and stabling, that had been converted to bedrooms when the land ceased to be farmland. They sat up, drinking coffee, until late into the night. Max looked out of the window. “It’s freezing cold out there and I doubt you could see your hand in front of your face. Just the weather to give Bear his final walk. Coming Libby?”
Bear appeared, miraculously, at the door. He’d been out of sight, most likely curled up in the room Max grandly called the gun room. Libby had never seen a gun in the house. Did Max own one? He’d never told her. Just one more thing she’d find out one day. She stood up, slightly tipsy. “Wellington boots and hats needed, I think.”
No one else would leave the warmth of the blazing fire for the cutting blast of winter’s east winds. Libby and Max trudged, arm in arm, down the lane, the wind
in their faces, using a flashlight to avoid the worst of the puddles. “I know you trust Reginald, but do you think we should have talked so much about the murder?”
“Why, because Joe thinks he’s a suspect?” Max scoffed. “Joe’s not a fool, even if his chief is. He interviewed Reginald this afternoon and the alibi checks out. He was travelling at the time, with train tickets to back him up, and the woman behind the bar on the train remembers him. He’s very distinctive, as you’ve seen. He’s been eliminated from the enquiry.”
“That’s just as well. Did you see Mandy’s face? I think she’s in love.” She told Max about Mandy’s quarrel with Steve. “She’s got this enormous inferiority complex, and it’s making her miserable and jealous. I’m worried about her, to be honest.”
“You’re doing all you can. Let her be. She has to make her own mistakes.”
Guilt
After a morning baking and an afternoon struggling with a pair of unruly knitting needles, Libby was ready for the next meeting of the Knitters’ Guild. Ignoring the uneven edges of her squares, Libby stuffed them into a bag, pulled on her thickest woollen sweater, a pair of jeans and sheep-skin lined boots, persuaded the engine of the Citroen to kick into action on the third attempt, and drove through the murk of a dark winter’s evening.
The car sped along deserted lanes, round twists and turns. Libby loved to drive in the dark, able to see the lights of an approaching car well before it arrived. Tonight, though, the darkness seemed less dense. It would be hours before dawn broke, but the sky grew brighter every moment. Libby slowed, puzzled.
She turned another corner. Between the naked arms of a leafless hedgerow a gleam of bright orange flickered. Libby drove closer and sniffed the air. An acrid, bitter smell filled the car. The smell of fire.
Smoke billowed, a patch of denser black against the sky. One more turn in the lane and Libby saw the fire straight ahead, bright against the night sky. With a shock of horror, she recognised the isolated eighteenth century thatched cottage where Samantha Watson lived.
She screeched to a halt, leapt from the car and ran through a gate in the white-painted fence, towards the house. Searing heat beat her back. She gasped for breath, lungs full of smoke.
The fire brigade. Coughing, she grabbed the phone from her pocket and fumbled, fingers trembling, for the emergency button, bellowing the news, the roar of fire threatening to drown her voice.
Help was on its way, but the fire had taken hold and black smoke billowed from the front door. Where was Samantha? Was she inside? Sick with fear, Libby ran round the cottage, searching for a way in, but the fire burned even more fiercely at the back.
She shrieked Samantha’s name, but all she heard in reply was the shatter of glass as a window exploded high above, driving Libby back. Glass showered like snow into the garden.
Water. She needed water to drown the flames. Desperate, she searched the garden, the unnatural light of the fire delineating every detail. A tiny stream trickled along beside a wall, but she had no way of carrying it. A bucket. Where could she find a bucket?
A shed stood halfway down the garden, out of range of the fire. Libby rattled the door, but it was locked. She kicked the lock once. It rattled, but held. She took a run at the door and crashed painfully against the wood.
The wail of a fire engine sounded, ever closer. Libby took another run at the shed. Hands grabbed her, pulling her back. “Leave it to us, now.”
“Thank heaven, you’re here.” Howling with frustration, she screamed, “Samantha’s in there. It’s her house. I couldn’t get in…”
She broke off, paralysed, as with a roar like a steam train, the thatched roof threw a volcano of fire into the air and collapsed, tumbling into the house.
Someone led Libby away. “There’s nothing you can do. We can’t get in until the fire’s under control. Keep back while the lads work.” Sobbing, she sank to the ground as fire officers unrolled a heavy hose. A torrent of water flooded the house, until every inch was drenched. Slowly, the flames flickered and died.
For Libby, time seemed to stand still. The house was a shell, no more than four blackened walls, when at last two burly figures pushed their way through the space where the door used to stand.
Libby held her head in her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks, waiting and hoping, knowing it was impossible for Samantha to have survived, praying she’d been away from home.
The fire officers returned, shoulders drooping. An officer trudged across to Libby and removed a heavy helmet. Libby recognised a young woman who often came into the bakery. Libby didn’t know her name. Cheese and pickle baguette. Libby’s thoughts shied away from the truth she read in the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, Mrs Forest.” The officer wiped a sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. “There’s someone in there.”
Libby shuddered, horror clutching her stomach. Voice trembling, she asked the question, knowing the answer already. “Is she dead?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Libby closed her eyes and sank to the ground, hardly aware of the freezing water that puddled on the lawn, soaking her jeans. “If I’d been here sooner. If I hadn’t had that last cup of coffee…”
The officer crouched at her side. “You did all you could. So did we. Are you hurt?”
Libby shook her head, turned away and emptied the contents of her stomach on the muddy ground.
She threw her clothes into a black bin bag and dumped it in her spare room. She’d never wear them again. She showered, scrubbing every inch of her body under hot water, and shampooed her hair three times. The smell of burning lingered everywhere, in her chest and throat, in the pores of her skin. It filled the cottage. She gargled with mouthwash and sprayed the house with Glade. All the while, a voice in her head whispered, “You never liked Samantha Watson.” No matter how hard Libby tried, she couldn’t subdue that small, persistent voice of guilt.
She trailed downstairs. Max helped her onto the sofa and handed over a glass of brandy. He’d found the bottle under the sink. It had belonged to her husband. Libby hated brandy, but tipped a big slug down her throat, anyway. Maybe it would banish the smell of smoke. “Are you feeling better?” Max asked.
She tried to smile. “A little. My conscience is working overtime. Samantha said there’s been nothing but trouble since I came to Exham. I wonder if she was right?”
“Nonsense. That’s delayed shock talking. Why should the fire be your fault? You had nothing to do with it. In fact, you nearly rescued Samantha.”
“I’m afraid ‘nearly’ wasn’t enough.” Libby shuddered. “That chocolate-box thatched roof looked cute, but wasn’t the house a disaster just waiting to happen?”
Max tucked a rug around her knees. “In fact, thatched roofs are no more combustible than other materials, but so many things can start a fire. Candles left burning, or gas, or a cigarette.”
“Samantha didn’t smoke.”
“Well, the police and fire service will be on the case. For one thing, they’ll have the insurance company on their backs, trying to avoid a huge payout. Samantha would have all the proper documentation. She was a solicitor, after all.” He frowned. “Though any documents will have been destroyed in the fire.”
Libby struggled to sit up straight. “There are sure to be electronic copies on line.”
Max poured another slug of brandy into her glass. “I’ll bet super-efficient Samantha had a fireproof filing cabinet. Or if not, she might have left paperwork at the solicitors’ office. Anyway, Chief Inspector Arnold will sort it out. Poor fellow.”
Libby shuddered. Those things she’d said about Samantha and the chief inspector in the past; if only she could take them back. “He’ll be devastated. They’ve been engaged for months.”
She yawned and her eyelids drooped. The brandy was doing its job. “I’m going to bed. I can’t think any more, tonight. It’s been such a week, what with Giles Temple, and Angela, and that scene in the shop, and…” She stopped, half-way to the door, with a sharp i
ntake of breath.
“What is it?” Max, gathering glasses, paused.
“Nothing. I just remembered…” Libby forced herself to breathe evenly. She tried a weary smile. “It’s nothing. I’m tired. Good night.”
She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Max, about the picture in her head: the fury on Mandy’s face and the venom in the words she’d hissed after Samantha as the solicitor left the bakery. “She’ll be sorry.”
Gossip
Libby woke late to find a rare beam of light flooding the room between the curtains. She rolled over and a mild pain behind her eyes intensified until her entire head throbbed. She scrubbed at her face, eyes squeezed shut, desperate to erase the memory of last night’s fire.
She sat up, pulse racing, as she remembered Mandy’s fury. Could her apprentice have anything to do with the fire? Libby shuddered. Mandy would never, ever do such a thing. Of course she wouldn’t.
Libby paused to think. Yesterday was Mandy’s day off. She’d muttered something about visiting friends before going to The Dark Side, the club frequented by Somerset’s small Goth community, for the evening. Libby could easily check on her movements. All she had to do was talk to Mandy’s friends.
She chewed her lip. Go behind her apprentice’s back? What was she thinking? She must ask Mandy herself. She swung her legs out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, grabbed her phone and looked at the time. Too late. Mandy must have left the house by now.
Libby fought down a stab of panic. Think logically. She took a deep breath and sank on to the bed. There were plenty of other possible causes of the fire. A kitchen fire? The organised Samantha would have a fire blanket in the house. Candles, or a spark from an open hearth? Possibly. What about cigarettes? Samantha did not smoke, but maybe someone else had been with her earlier, dropping a lighted cigarette end behind a chair, or near a curtain, where it could smoulder, unnoticed, before bursting into flame. A single half-extinguished cigarette could burn down a house.
Murder at the Cathedral Page 6
