The proprietor of one antique shop seemed inclined to talk. Her store was stacked high with brass instruments and fishing tackle, but empty of customers. “I think I know who you mean. Mrs Marchant, isn’t it? I feel sorry for the woman. She looks lonely and I sometimes offer her a cup of tea.” She grew confidential. “She’s gone downhill, you know. I met her at the school gates when our children were young. She was beautifully dressed and, well, to be honest, too posh to talk much to the likes of me. I don’t know what happened in her life. How the mighty are fallen.”
The woman leaned on the counter while Libby, keen to keep the conversation going, admired a telescope. “Mrs Marchant has a son, I believe, but he doesn’t live round here.” Libby shuddered at the price on the telescope’s ticket and moved on to a blue glass fishing float.
The store-keeper continued, “They quarrelled a few years ago. Her son lives a few miles away, I think, but I don’t know the address.”
Libby visited more shops, and although almost everyone was sympathetic, and several recognised her description of Mrs Marchant, none had seen the cat.
At last, feet aching, she taped the final photograph to a lamp post near the marketplace. It had all taken far longer than she’d expected, she was freezing cold, it was starting to rain, the cold drizzle sliding inside Libby’s collar, and she was beginning to doubt the efficacy of this approach to finding Mildred.
“Excuse me.”
Libby turned. “Can I help you?”
A woman in a bulky purple anorak pointed to the photograph. “That’s my cat.”
Libby frowned. “Are you sure? Her name’s Mildred. She belongs to an elderly lady and she went missing a few days ago, not far from here.”
“No. It’s Jesse. She went out weeks ago and we haven’t seen her since. We’ve been scouring the streets. My daughter was desperate, but then, Jesse arrived home the other day, all by herself.”
Libby swallowed. “How can you tell it’s Jesse?” This was all she needed―a squabble over a cat.
The woman pointed at the poster. “You see that white mark on her nose?” Libby peered. The mark was just visible. “That’s Jesse, all right. I can show you a photo.” She pulled out a mobile phone and thrust it at Libby.
It was true. Mildred was, in fact, Jesse. Libby apologised. “I think your cat’s been rescued by mistake.”
The woman’s face remained stony. “Then your old lady should be ashamed of herself. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. You tell me where she lives. I’ll go and give her a piece of my mind.”
Libby blessed the foresight that had led her to put her own contact details on the poster. A confrontation between this woman and Mrs Marchant could only end in trouble. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.” She spoke cheerfully, hoping to placate the angry cat owner, “It was a genuine mistake.” She hoped she was right. “Your cat’s been well looked after. Mrs―er―the lady who rescued Jesse was convinced she was a stray.”
The anorak woman put her phone back in her pocket, mollified. “Well I suppose it’s confusing when cats arrive on your doorstep. I expect Jesse went looking for food. She’s always been greedy. She’s sometimes broken in to my neighbours’ houses.”
She walked away, still talking and Libby wiped her wet face. The rain pelted down, harder than ever. I suppose I’ll have to collect all the posters and confront Mrs Marchant.
Half an hour later, arms full of soggy posters, she returned to the car. She’d never imagined private investigation would be so hard on the legs.
Mrs Marchant threw the door open. “Have you got good news?”
“Well, yes and no.” Libby explained that Mildred was in fact Jesse, owned by a different family. She coughed, broaching a difficult subject. “Perhaps you should take your strays to the vet. She could read their microchips. You know, the cat’s details, hidden under the skin.”
Mrs Marchant looked doubtful. “Oh dear, I suppose I should.”
Libby bit her lip, telling herself to walk away. She’d finished the job and this was none of her business. Before she could move, she heard herself say, “How often do you go out looking for stray cats?”
“Oh, most evenings. There’s nothing else to do now my television’s broken.”
The poor woman was lonely. “Do you know many of your neighbours? I was here the other day and I spoke to Ruby, who lives across the road. She’s very friendly and I’m sure she’d love to meet up for tea or coffee.”
She’d made a mistake. Mrs Marchant snorted. “Ruby Harris? She’s no better than she should be, that one. Thinks herself so perfect. Well, she wasn’t so high and mighty when she had that son of hers.” Mrs Marchant dropped her magnificent voice to a feline hiss as she repeated, “No better than she should be.” Libby hid a smile. She’d heard that expression years ago, about an unmarried woman with a child.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs Marchant was getting into her stride. “Shacked up with a man from the railway, she was. He ran off with a foreign dancer and left the country. I’ll give her credit, Ruby made a good job of bringing up her son alone. Then she met her husband. Weak as water, Walter Harris, taking on another man’s child.”
She sniffed. “Of course she wants me visiting her. She asked at Christmas, you know. Wanting to show off that enormous television, I suppose.”
Libby abandoned the subject of neighbours. “Talking of television,” she ventured. “Maybe your Terence could buy a new one.”
Mrs Marchant emitted a noise somewhere between a cough and a grunt. “Not he.”
Libby wasn’t giving up, yet, although it was hard to help this awkward old lady. She had an idea. “The Cat Protection League. They collect strays. Why not get in touch with them? They’d help you check the microchips and you wouldn’t have to pay.” Perhaps the League would find better homes for some of those cats.
She’d at last hit on something of which Mrs Marchant approved. “I can’t bear to think of those poor homeless animals. Someone has to save them, but I sometimes wish I had help. It’s cold and dark in the winter. A few nights ago I had the fright of my life. I was on the green by the cathedral, heading for Vicar’s Close. I like walking down there. Sometimes, you hear children from the school practising their music, you know.”
Libby often walked Bear along the medieval cobbles of the Close. She understood its attraction. Mrs Marchant talked on. “A man and a woman were whispering. When I came near, they hid under the archway. I thought they might jump out and rob me so I hurried past as fast as I could.” She tutted, loudly. “All these people begging, that’s the trouble these days.”
“What night was that?”
“I remember it well, because the next day I heard about that dreadful murder. Imagine. I was near the cathedral at the same time as the killer. I said to myself, ‘Vivian, that could have been you.’ Made me shiver to think of it.”
“Have you told the police? Given descriptions?”
“They haven’t bothered to ask. No one takes any notice of me, these days.” Mrs Marchant was on her high horse again. The mood changes were unpredictable and disconcerting.
“The police don’t know you were there,” Libby pointed out.
The woman shrugged. “If you like I’ll tell you about them and you can pass it on.”
Libby took that as a compliment. “Go on.”
“Well, one was big and fat and the other tall and thin. I couldn’t see what they were wearing because it was dark.”
The descriptions were disappointing. Libby tried another question. “You said they were whispering. Did you catch what they said?”
“Not really. The tall, thin one wore a hoodie. I remember that. It muffled the words, you see.”
Libby suspected Mrs Marchant’s hearing might be failing, but pride would prevent the woman admitting it. “You’re sure he was a man?”
“Oh, yes, definitely.” The old lady paused. “I’m not sure about the fat one. Could have been male or female. They all dress the same, these day
s.” She held a finger in the air. “Now, wait. I remember they had a bag. The thin one handed it over to the other before they split up. The thin one went along Vicar’s Close and the fat one crossed over the road towards the cathedral.”
“Really?” Two people behaving suspiciously in the dark, on the night Giles Temple was murdered? Libby could hardly speak for excitement. What a good thing she’d taken on the job of finding the missing cat.
Unfortunately, despite Libby’s efforts to help her remember, Mrs Marchant was unable to add more detail. Taking a different approach, Libby tried to persuade her to tell Joe about the two mysterious figures. In the end, she turned to bribery. “While you speak to the police officer, I’ll see if I can find a new television for you.”
“One with a bit of sound. Everyone mutters, these days.”
Lunch
“I’m not invited to the dean’s lunch?” Max lay in an armchair, feet on Libby’s coffee table.
“Members of the Knitters’ Guild only, I’m afraid. Unless you bring proof of your knitting ability, I’m afraid you’re excluded.”
“Just as well, I suppose. But I’m offended that Bear’s invited while I’m not.”
“Bear is much more fluffy and cuddly.”
Max stretched out a foot to trip Libby and she fell in his lap. “Don’t mess my hair. I must look respectable for the dean.” She preened. She’d chosen her favourite bright jade silk blouse and skin-tight embroidered trousers. “Not too dressy for lunch, is it?”
“You look beautiful. I’m jealous.”
Libby snorted. “Don’t forget, his wife will be there. I’m not convinced the so-called special invitation came from her, though. She seemed hostile when I called at the house. Still, I can’t refuse. She’s near the top of my list of suspects, though I’m hoping Mrs Marchant’s suspicious lurkers are a better bet. I wonder what they were up to in the dark, that night.”
“Probably drug dealers.”
“You could be right. Anyway, I rang Joe, and he promised to pay a visit to Mrs Marchant, and not send one of the team.” She laughed. “Meanwhile, I have to find a TV for the old lady. Somehow, I found myself promising I would.”
“Typical. Making work for yourself.”
“Maybe, but I mean to persuade her son to contribute. I think it’s time he gave her a helping hand, don’t you? I’ll see if I can track him down. But, in the meantime, I’m off to the dean’s lunch party. It’s a wonderful opportunity to snoop.”
She glanced at her watch and struggled away. “Look at the time. I need to go. It won’t do to be late and I agreed to take Angela.”
It felt strange, leaving Max alone in the little cottage. He’d stayed there before, and one day he even cleaned the bathroom. Libby almost died of shock. Her husband had never lifted a duster. Since the gargoyle affair, Max had spent every spare moment in the cottage and Libby, to her surprise, enjoyed his constant presence.
At the dean’s imposing property, Imogen played the gracious hostess, more glamorous than ever in a multi-coloured silk blouse and blue harem pants. She stretched out a hand. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. “I was in a rush, that day you brought Ruby’s plant. I didn’t have time to chat. I hope I wasn’t rude.”
Libby stitched a smile on her face and lied. “Of course not. And thank you for inviting Bear today. He’s very honoured and on his best behaviour. So far.” Imogen leaned down to pat Bear. Maybe she really had insisted he attend. She certainly looked pleased to see him.
The ladies sat, subdued, nursing a variety of drinks. Vera restricted herself to water, but June gulped gin and tonic, drained the glass and looked round for more. Other ladies held glasses of white wine while Ruby sipped from a tumbler of orange juice.
Libby, soft drink in hand, mindful she must soon drive home, settled next to Ruby. “I’m so glad you’re here. I wanted to tell you we found Mrs Marchant’s missing cat. Except, as it turned out, the cat wasn’t a stray. It was all a mistake. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”
Ruby beamed. “I went to see Mrs Marchant yesterday and took her one of my sausage casseroles. I pride myself on being a good neighbour and letting bygones be bygones. She wasn’t very grateful, but we must persevere with those less fortunate than ourselves. I never want thanks. The deed is enough reward.”
Vera overheard. “Playing Lady Bountiful again, Ruby?”
Libby excused herself and moved next to June. Imogen perched on her other side, clutching a wine glass so tightly Libby feared the stem would snap.
Bear, who until then had lounged behind a chair, chose that moment to glance through the French doors. He caught sight of a black and white cat digging under an apple tree at the bottom of the garden, leapt to his feet, galloped to the doors and barked at the top of his voice.
Imogen followed and threw open the doors. A blast of cold air rushed into the overheated drawing room. “He can run in the garden. Maybe he’ll stop the local cats using it as a litter tray. I wish your Mrs Marchant would collect more of those animals. They’re forever digging up our plants.”
Angela said, in her gentle voice, “I think Mrs Marchant is lonely and looking for something to love.”
“Perhaps,” Vera suggested, an edge to her voice, “she should have stayed on better terms with her son.”
They gathered to admire the garden. “The pond will soon be full of frogs,” Imogen said. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me dig, Ruby. I’d never have managed it alone.”
Vera sniggered. “Do you keep fish in it? No wonder cats come.”
“We did, but they were eaten. It was very sad.”
Libby thought the lunch party would never end. By the time they’d finished the last chocolate mousse and risen from the table, she felt uncomfortably full. She was tired of listening to Vera and Ruby sniping and nothing she’d heard today seemed at all useful.
The sky hung grey and heavy as the early winter evening closed in. Libby longed to make excuses and leave, just as Imogen whispered in her ear. “Bear’s still having a wonderful time in the garden. Shall we throw balls for him?” Libby glanced round. The other guests were in small huddles, discussing the yarn-bombing. Imogen had seized the opportunity for a private talk, so perhaps the day would not be wasted.
She wasted no time. “I want to apologise again for the way I behaved.” She tossed a brand new tennis ball from hand to hand, finally throwing it for Bear to chase. Thrilled, he galloped in its wake. “You see, I wasn’t entirely honest with you about Giles Temple.” Libby nodded, trying to hide her excitement. Did the dean’s wife mean to confess?
“It’s perfectly true we’ve been friends since university,” Imogen continued, “but we became much closer a few years ago.” She looked across the garden, eyes unfocused, as though gazing into the past.
Bear returned with a well-chewed tennis ball. Imogen, startled, took a step back, hands raised to protect her dress. Drool dripped from Bear’s jaws as he offered the sodden object, and Imogen winced as she held it at arm’s length. “I’m afraid my husband doesn’t know that Giles and I had―well…” She hesitated. “I suppose you could say we had an affair.” Libby held her breath.
“I told you I knew Giles at university. We bumped into each other again, several years ago. He was married―I wasn’t. I worked in Manchester at the time―in the library.” Imogen seemed to be struggling for words.
“Giles came in, quite by chance, looking for some book or other. He was a very attractive man, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” She looked Libby in the eye. “I believe your friend Angela had some feelings for him.” The sudden hint of malice was over in a flash. “Our affair lasted for over a year.”
Imogen concentrated on folding the hem of her blouse into tiny pleats. “He didn’t tell me he was married, but I became suspicious. There was a pattern. For example, he never saw me during half term or school holidays. When it came to Christmas, he made one excuse after another, and wouldn’t spend the day with me. I still didn’t unders
tand. At least, I didn’t let myself see the truth. I suppose that’s what happens when a woman imagines herself in love.” Giles Temple was turning out to be a real piece of work.
“After that, I followed Giles a few times, without his knowledge, until one Saturday morning I saw him in the park with some children. Two girls. They called him Daddy.” Imogen’s cheeks turned crimson. “I’m not proud of spying on him but at least I found out the truth.” She shot a glance at Libby. “Of course, you know about following people and spying on their lives. You have to do it in your line of work. As an investigator.” She almost spat the word.
“Later, I confronted him and he confessed. He told me I wasn’t the only other woman.” She sniffed. “He wasn’t the man I thought. Not at all. I felt used and dirty and I planned to tell his wife the truth.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I wasn’t that cruel. Instead, a wonderful thing happened, like a fairy tale. I went into the local church. It was quiet and I wanted to think. I was very unhappy. Quite by chance I dropped my handbag and a stranger picked it up. That man became my husband. We fell in love and he saved me.” She blew her nose on a lace handkerchief and gave a watery smile. “The trouble is, he’s such a moral person. I never told him about Giles, and I don’t want him to know. He might not forgive me.”
Libby frowned. Wouldn’t a man of the church forgive her sins? “You must have been horrified when Giles appeared in Wells.”
“The word horrified hardly covers my feelings.” Imogen hid her eyes behind one hand. “I spoke to him after a service and asked him to meet me. We met in the pub and I begged him not to tell my husband. I knew meeting in public was risky, but I couldn’t have him in my husband’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to visit him in rented rooms.”
She gave a sad little laugh. “I couldn’t understand what I’d seen in him. He was still handsome and full of compliments, but he made me shiver.” Her shoulders twitched at the memory. “Soon after, Vera told me Angela had been seeing him. I meant to warn her―tell her what Giles was like―but before I could say anything, someone killed him.”
Murder at the Cathedral Page 9
