Libby sighed. This was all hopeful nonsense. Controlling, superior Samantha would never let anyone smoke in her home, and the fire officers had only found one body.
Two suspicious deaths within a week was too much of a coincidence. They had to be connected, and Libby wouldn’t find the link by sitting upstairs all morning.
She sniffed as a tantalising smell crept into the room. Bacon. Max was making breakfast. How could she have forgotten Max was here? Her heart suddenly light, she ran downstairs.
Max waved her to a stool, set down a plate of bacon and eggs and clattered cutlery. “How are you, this morning?”
Libby, ravenously hungry, smiled. “Much better. You’re turning into quite a chef. Has Mandy gone to work?”
“Haven’t seen her. I don’t think she was here last night.”
Without another word, Libby turned, ran upstairs, and threw open Mandy’s door. The room was empty. Either Mandy had left so quietly no one heard her go, or she hadn’t slept here last night.
Libby’s appetite vanished. She played with breakfast, struggling to force down the food, making light of Mandy’s absence. “She sometimes stays with her friends over night.”
She sent Max home, pleading a long list of cake commissions. She needed to be alone to phone Mandy. She couldn’t share her suspicions with Max at this stage. Not yet.
Max argued, but Libby was adamant. She had work to do. He swallowed the last of the bacon. “If you’re sure you feel OK.”
“Of course. I’m fine.” As he left, Libby’s fears returned. She must speak to Mandy before she could relax. She fumbled in the diary with nervous fingers.
She ran a finger down the appointments. Mandy planned to visit Jumbles in Bath, today, discussing orders for Mrs Forest’s Chocolates. Libby tried her apprentice’s mobile, but it went to voice mail. She swore and tried again. Nothing. Mandy must be in the meeting already. Libby left a text message. Ring me when you can. Need to talk. Urgent! Near to tears, she threw the phone down, leaned on a table and buried her face in her hands.
A few long, slow breaths slowed her heart rate. Calm once more, she retrieved the phone and rang Angela’s number. She could explain why she’d missed the meeting last night and talk over the horrible business of Samantha and the fire.
Angela let the call go to voice mail. Libby left a message. “Sorry I missed the Knitters’ Guild. Can we meet, later today?”
Libby’s grabbed her phone as it pinged. Not Mandy. She read the message. Can’t talk just now. Meet later? Libby would have to be patient. She drummed her hands on the table, frustrated, desperate for action―any action.
She showered once more, dressed in her oldest clothes, and drove out to Wells. She’d check on Mrs Marchant, to see if the cat had come home.
She rang the bell three times, but no one came to the door. Defeated, Libby shrugged and walked back to the car. Today was going from bad to worse.
“Libby Forest?” The hearty voice made her jump. Ruby, one of the knitters, appeared at her shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here,” she beamed. “I’m all alone this morning. How about a cup of coffee? Mrs Marchant’s out. Taken one of her moggies to the vet, I expect. She loves those animals, bless her. Didn’t know you knew her?”
Libby’s spirits revived at the prospect of a dose of Ruby’s cheerful gossip. “You live near here?”
“Just over there. Vivian Marchant and I are old friends.”
She led Libby across the narrow road, flung open a red-painted door and bustled inside, waving for Libby to follow.
The house, though similar in style to Mrs Marchant’s, looked completely different. Floor to ceiling windows flooded the rooms with light, highlighting cushions, curtains and rugs in vibrant shades of purple and green. Libby admired a display of exotic indoor plants. “Is that a bird of paradise plant?” Her knowledge of plants was worse than patchy, but the display was beautiful.
“My babies,” Ruby laughed. “In winter, I can’t work in the garden, so I keep plants in the house. My husband has his shed outside, to do his little bits of woodwork, but this room is mine.” She sighed. “I can’t wait to get back to my vegetable patch.”
“Your garden’s very striking.” Libby joined Ruby at the window, to gaze across a space filled with a riot of bananas, palms and olive trees.
“I never want to go on holiday,” Ruby laughed. “It’s like a tropical island here. You couldn’t grow these plants anywhere else in England, you know.” She laughed a good deal, and with every burst of merriment, her chins wobbled and bounced.
A pond near the house looked new. “We dug that last summer, and we’re letting it settle. In spring, we’ll be adding the fish. Carp. You know, the fat ones?”
Libby nodded. “I’d love a pond, but the ground’s so heavy in my garden. I tried to dig but I got stuck a few inches down.”
“Oh, the clay! Yes, it took a few weeks to dig my pond. Practise, that’s what you need. Take it slowly and build up a few muscles. It’s worth it. My garden means everything to me, now my son’s grown up.” Ruby’s smile was sad. “I miss him terribly. He left a gap in my life when he moved away, but he’s always in my heart. I’d do anything for him. Do you have children?”
Libby told her about Ali, her daughter, saving the rain forest in Brazil. “My son’s getting married soon,” she added, trying not to sound smug. “In the cathedral.”
Ruby clasped her hands. “Lucky, lucky you. I hardly see my son, these days. Just two or three times a year. I wish he’d bring a nice young lady home. Women have such a settling effect, don’t you think?”
She sighed, her chest heaving. “Still, mustn’t grumble. I have all I want here, and he comes at Christmas. Now, let me get you some cake. Oh.” She collapsed in a chuckling heap on a chair. “I suppose offering you cake is taking coals to Newcastle, as my mother used to say. Your cakes are famous. Look, I have your book.”
She sorted through a pile on a coffee table, repositioning illustrated gardening books and solid tomes on interior decorating, finally digging out Baking at the Beach. “Would you sign it for me?”
Libby signed, in her usual untidy scribble, as Ruby wiped her eyes and heaved herself up. She disappeared into the kitchen, chuckling, and returned with a tray, still talking. “Those cats, you know, over the way. Child substitutes. Did I mention that? Old Vivian Marchant drove her family away with her bad temper. The son never visits, not even at Christmas. She’s on her own. Of course, Walter and I invited her here. There’s always space for another neighbour beside a warm fire at Christmas, don’t you agree? Our son was here, on one of his visits, but we could have squeezed a little one like Viv Marchant in. But she wouldn’t have it.” Ruby fussed with plates, knives and paper napkins. “Can’t help some people, you know.”
She turned up the gas fire and the temperature rose. Sweating, Libby shrugged off her gilet. “And another thing…” Libby longed to make notes of Ruby’s unending chat, but fearing it might stem the flow of good-natured gossip, she tried to memorise every word instead. Her hostess, uninhibited, had a hint, an insinuation or a piece of downright scandal about everyone.
Ruby filled in the life and habits of every one of her neighbours and the regulars at the cathedral. “I take flowers there, in the spring and summer. I always say, you can’t have too many flowers in God’s house. The dean’s wife tells me not to bother, I do too much already for the community, but I believe in giving, don’t you? I can always spare time to help folk out.”
“The dean’s wife?” Libby prompted.
“Oh, yes, she’s a special friend of mine, you know. ‘Ruby,’ she says. ‘We can always rely on you.’ Imogen’s rather young for a dean’s wife, you know. Sometimes, she just needs a little hint.”
Libby nodded, schooling her face into seriousness, wondering whether the dean’s wife found Ruby overwhelming.
“I suspect there’s been trouble in that house.” Ruby took a bite of cake, smudging a little cream on her upper lip. Libby tried not to sta
re. “I’m afraid dear Imogen is just a little too welcoming to newcomers, if you get my drift. Especially gentlemen.”
She favoured Libby with a warm, conspiratorial grin. “A very nice lady, of course. Very nice indeed. I’ve got a lovely anthurium I promised to give her. She adores this room, you see, and she wants to have something similar. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, don’t they?”
She laughed gaily. Libby, glad of the perfect excuse to talk to Imogen Weir, offered to help. “Would you like me to deliver the plant for you? I’m going over that way.”
As she turned to leave, arms full of plant, the door opened. A bald head slid into view, whispering, “Anything you want from the shops, dear?” A wiry body followed the head into the room.
“Walter,” Ruby cried. “Where have you been all morning? In that poky old shed, I suppose, up to your usual nonsense.”
Walter shuffled closer and halted, one foot poised for escape. He shot a longing glance at the door. “Just finishing that cloche you wanted, dear.” The gentle voice had a soft, Welsh lilt.
“This is Mrs Forest, the Baking at the Beach author. She’s signed my book.”
He squinted at Libby. “The famous Mrs Forest, is it? I’ve heard about your exploits. On the track of a mystery, are you? The killer at the cathedral?”
“I’m looking for a missing cat. It belongs to Mrs Marchant.”
“Not here, I’m afraid. Not allowed in the garden. Lion droppings, that’s the answer. Get ’em from the internet, sprinkle on the flower beds. Works a treat.” He rubbed strong hands together. “Not looking into this affair at the cathedral, then?”
“Sad business, isn’t it?”
“So it is. Ah well, no peace for the wicked. Back to the grindstone.” Walter headed for the door and Libby grasped the opportunity to follow.
Ruby lurched to her feet, still chattering. “We’ll be on the look out for stray cats, Walter and I. Always keen to help our neighbours. Isn’t that right, Walter?”
He disappeared, the musical voice floating behind. “Yes, dear.”
Cathedral
Imogen Weir seemed far from pleased to see her visitor. “If you’re looking for the dean, he’s in his office at the cathedral.” Her voice was distant and chilly.
Libby pasted the warmest smile she could manage on her face. “I was just taking to Ruby. She wanted to send you this plant. It’s an anthurium, apparently.”
Stony faced, the dean’s wife took the plant, and deposited it on a semi-circular table in the hall. “Thank you for delivering it.” She smiled without showing her teeth. “Ruby is far too generous.”
Imogen Weir was an attractive woman with dark brown hair. Chestnut lights reflected the glow from an impressive chandelier in the cavernous entrance hall. The dean’s second wife, according to Ruby, was many years younger than her widowed husband.
“I know who you are, Mrs Forest. I suppose you’ve decided to undertake an amateur investigation.” The dean’s wife folded her arms across her chest, the gesture uncertain, defensive. “I expect you want to know about my relationship with Giles Temple.”
“If you’re prepared to tell me, it would certainly save a lot of time.”
“I expect it’s all over Wells by now. I was friendly with Giles Temple, but I’m sorry to have to disappoint you. My husband knows about it and there’s no mystery.”
She watched Libby’s face. Libby, keeping her expression blank, waited in silence. The dean’s wife clicked her tongue as if irritated, and continued. “Giles and I were at university together. Giles studied for a PhD while I was an undergraduate. We kept in touch. He was happily married and so am I. There are no secrets and I didn’t kill my old friend.”
Imogen’s wide blue eyes looked Libby full in the face. Either she was telling the truth or she was a very accomplished liar.
Libby began, “I didn’t say―”
Imogen interrupted. “I expect your informants told you I met Giles for a drink a few days ago.” Libby smiled, hoping she looked enigmatic. “We discussed my husband’s birthday. He’ll be sixty next month. Giles found a book my husband might enjoy.”
She looked beyond Libby, fingering a gold hoop earring. “The dean enjoys medieval history. Giles discovered a 15th century Book of Hours for auction next week in Bridgwater. He offered to accompany me, although it will probably fetch a huge amount of money. From internet bidders, you know. Far too much for my pocket. Anyway, I won’t be going, now. Not on my own. I’ll have to think of another gift.”
A slight tremor of Imogen Weir’s lips betrayed hidden feeling. Was Giles Temple just a friend, as she claimed? “If that’s all?” The door was already closing and Libby had to step away. She could hardly jam her foot against the elegant grey paintwork.
Thoughtful, she returned to the car. Imogen Weir had gone to considerable trouble to set out the story. Libby could easily check the facts. The Knitters’ Guild would know whether the dean’s birthday was imminent, and the local auction house used a catalogue. Imogen had anticipated the need to explain her relationship with the murder victim. However, she’d not supplied an alibi for the time of his death. Libby could not remove either the dean or his wife from the list of suspects. Not yet.
As Libby started the engine, Angela Miles returned her call. “Sorry I couldn’t talk when you rang. I had an appointment with Joe Ramshore at the station, and he tells me the inquiry’s moved on. I’m not the only police suspect.” She laughed. “I’m so relieved. I wish I hadn’t bothered you with it all…”
“Don’t worry,” Libby said. “I’m sure hounding you was just spite on the chief inspector’s part. He’s probably not at work now, after―after the fire. Poor man.”
Angela’s tone changed. “That fire. What a terrible thing to happen. Samantha was difficult, of course, but fire is such a terrible way to go. She must have left candles burning, I suppose. And a thatched roof. Ooh, it makes me shiver to think of it. And you were there, I hear? Poor you.”
“I’d like to talk to you. Where are you? Could we meet?”
“I’m at the cathedral. This is one of the days I volunteer. The library’s still closed, but I came to see if I could help out, as everyone’s still upset, but to be honest, there’s hardly anything for me to do.”
They found a corner of the cathedral in the South Transept, near the steps of the library entrance. Yellow tape still blocked entry to the library, but the police presence had gone. The organist played something quiet and gentle, and the friends could talk without being overheard. “I love it in here,” said Angela. “Even after―you know―what happened, there’s a wonderful feeling of peace in a cathedral. I think it’s the light. Today’s weather is miserable, yet the building looks bright.”
Libby took a deep breath. “I need you to tell the truth about Giles. I’m not prying or judging you, but if you were more than friends, it suggests a motive for his death. The killer may have been jealous.”
Angela’s eyes opened wide. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She sat in silence for a moment. “Very well, I’ll be honest. The truth is, I was attracted to Giles. More than just attracted. For a while, I thought he felt the same.” She swallowed. “Finally, I had to admit he wasn’t in love with me. We were just friends. Giles had plenty of friends. Mostly women. He liked women.”
Libby touched her friend’s hand. “You were in love with him.”
Angela nodded. “I’ve been very foolish.” She sighed. “Giles asked me to meet him, the night he died. That’s why he was working late. He pretended he was behind with his research and needed to work after hours, and the verger gave him a key. He wanted to be alone with me. He said people were always watching…”
She bit her thumbnail. “The trouble is…” She looked round, as if expecting to be overheard. “The trouble is, I didn’t go. I was getting ready, putting on makeup. I saw myself in the mirror and I realised what I was doing.” Her voice broke. “I behaved like a silly middle-aged woman, infatuated with
a younger man.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I’m ashamed of myself.”
“Did you tell him you weren’t coming?”
Angela looked away. “I rang him, but when he answered, I lost my nerve. I couldn’t explain and I felt so stupid. I just switched off my phone.”
Libby was silent. The police must have checked Angela’s phone records. “Joe says they don’t think I killed Giles,” Angela insisted, “no matter how bad it looks.”
“I imagine,” Libby was thinking aloud, “the police are spending more energy on Samantha Watson’s death at the moment.”
Angela dabbed at her eyes. “So dreadful. Poor Samantha…”
She blew her nose. At that moment, a sharp crack echoed round the cathedral. Startled, Libby glanced up. The noise had come from high above her head. A tremor shook the building, like an earthquake, just as Angela shoved Libby hard. She fell, cracking her arm painfully on the stone floor. Something heavy crashed to the ground, inches away, shattering into hundreds of pieces. A cloud of dust rose round Libby’s head. “What the…”
She scrambled to her feet, rubbing an arm. Angela clutched her. “I think someone just tried to kill us.”
Horrified onlookers appeared from all over the cathedral. “Did―did anyone see what happened?” Libby managed to keep her voice steady.
The verger took her arm. “I’ve never known one of those fall, before. It’s unbelievable.”
Libby looked up at the empty space from which a gargoyle used to leer at the congregation. “Could anyone get up there?”
“We closed off the passageway a while ago. Visitors used to walk along, but we decided it was too dangerous.”
“There’s no one up here.” One of the cathedral guides called down.
The verger frowned. “You could have been hurt. I can’t understand how such an accident happened.”
“Accident?” Libby laughed. “That was no accident. It was deliberate.”
She brushed plaster dust from her hair and Angela’s. A circle of worried faces surrounded them. Two guides, a couple of flower arrangers, one clutching a pair of secateurs, and the verger. They looked shocked, not shifty. Whoever deliberately dislodged the gargoyle had escaped in the confusion.
Murder at the Cathedral Page 7
