She looked at Libby through wide eyes. “It wasn’t me. I had no need to kill him. He’d agreed not to tell my husband. Why would he? He didn’t want trouble any more than I did.”
She clutched Libby’s arm. “Please, promise you won’t tell a soul.”
Libby shook her away, gently. “I can’t promise. I have to tell Max, because we work together, and Joe needs to know. I won’t mention it to the dean, though, and Joe will only tell him if it becomes necessary for the case.” Libby took a long breath. “But, maybe you should think about telling the truth to your husband. After all, you weren’t married when you knew Giles.”
Imogen shook her head. “I can’t tell him. I just can’t…”
Libby shrugged. “I’ll leave that to you. The real question is, do you have an alibi for the evening Giles Temple died?”
“That’s the trouble.” Imogen’s face was creased with anxiety. “I was alone at home and my husband was at a prayer meeting, so I have no alibi at all.”
Clifton
Mrs Marchant’s situation weighed on Libby’s conscience. The woman was suffering. She wasn’t the kind to fit in with her neighbours, go to classes or join groups and societies. She’d be unlikely to turn up at the Knitters’ Guild armed with a pair of sharp needles and several balls of brightly coloured wool. Living alone with a house unhealthily full of cats, though, was no life. Libby had played a part in bringing Max and Joe together. Why couldn’t she do the same with Mrs Marchant and Terence?
First she had to find the woman’s son. That shouldn’t be too difficult. She thought back to the conversation in Mrs Marchant’s house. Had she told Libby where her son might be living? Libby flipped through the notes she’d made and grinned, pleased with her attention to detail. Terence Marchant lived about 30 miles away. She pulled out a road map and drew a circle around Exham. There weren’t too many places within range.
“South Somerset,” she murmured. “Wiltshire and Dorset, plus a bit of Devon, and in the other direction, Weston-super-Mare and Bristol. Well, that shouldn’t take too long.” After an hour’s research she had two Marchants on her list, living in the right area. The on-line census made it clear one resident was far too old to be Mrs Marchant’s son. That left just one candidate. Triumphant, Libby set off in the purple Citroen to visit Terence.
She found a comfortable, detached house in Clifton with two expensive cars parked on the drive: a Jaguar XJ series and a BMW 7. A handsome, blond god with very white, even teeth came to the front door. Libby mentioned cats and he raised his eyes to the sky. “You’d better come in. My mother adores those ghastly creatures. I tried to convince her to give them away and clean the house but she took no notice. Now why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it. How did you become involved?”
He seemed friendly but Libby wasn’t sure she trusted the man. His eyes were very sharp and his lips rather red and full. Not her type. Still, she wasn’t there for pleasure. She’d say her piece and leave as soon as possible.
She sat on a pale couch in a minimalist room. No photos or ornaments cluttered the surfaces and she saw no sign of any books. Libby wondered if the room had a sliding wall to hide shelving. She’d seen one in a magazine. She looked in vain for traces of another person in the house. Terence Marchant appeared to live alone. “I don’t want to interfere, but I’m worried about your mother,” Libby confessed. “She asked me to look for her lost cat but it turned out it didn’t belong to her at all.”
“I suppose she’d rescued it,” her son groaned. “No cat’s safe from my mother.”
“Well, I’m not sure she’s looking after herself properly, never mind the cats. There are so many of them.”
“I’m afraid it’s her own choice.” His voice sounded harsh. “I offered to pay for a cleaning woman and have regular meals delivered but she won’t let me. Was she forgetful, when you were there?”
Libby thought back. “No, not really. I think she’s deaf, though.” No harm in taking the bull by the horns. “Have you seen her recently?”
He leaned back in his chair, quite at ease. “I can’t visit as often as I’d like. I have to earn a living you know.” Something about his bright, blue eyes made Libby uncomfortable. They held her gaze a little too long and his smile couldn’t disguise their cold stare. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“No, thank you.” She didn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary in this cold, featureless room. She forced herself not to stammer. “I thought I’d get in touch with the Cat Protection League and maybe ask Age UK to visit.” Was she overstepping the line?
On the contrary, Terence Marchant nodded, happy for her to take responsibility. “That would be wonderful. I’m afraid I don’t know what’s available for batty old people.” He clamped his mouth shut, too late. He’d let his true feelings show.
Libby decided to probe a little more. “What a beautiful room.” She resisted the temptation to cross her fingers behind her back. She’d hate to live in such soulless surroundings.
He smiled, unnaturally white teeth gleaming. His skin was light orange, either from trips abroad or visits to the tanning parlour. Pretending to search for a handkerchief in her bag, Libby leaned forward to inspect his shoes. The soft brown leather had been polished to a gloss. “You’re lucky to catch me at home today. I’m not often here. My business is based in London and I’m away most of the week. The train ride from Paddington leaves much to be desired, so I come back to Bristol as rarely as possible. I’m here this week for the opening of one of my shops.”
Libby’s bag slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She’d thought the name was familiar. “You own Marchant’s coffee shops?” The chain sold overpriced espressos and a range of exotic teas. There was one in Taunton.
“That’s me. We’re about to open more branches in the West Country, starting with Axminster and Exham.” Libby stifled a gasp as he went on, oblivious to her shock. “A decent up-market café and pâtisserie should wake those sleepy little places up.”
Libby bridled. “Do you think there’s room for another pâtisserie? I live in Exham and it seems quite happy as it is.”
He laughed. “Of course, that’s what residents think. They’re always scared of change, in an old-fashioned town like Exham. I’ve done my research, I can assure you. As soon as my place is open, customers will flood in. I quite understand your concerns, Mrs Forest.” He gave a thin smile, and Libby realised he’d been goading her into a reaction. His research had identified Libby as the competition. “We’ll be offering high concept pastries. There’s no need to be worried.”
Libby’s head buzzed with fury as she left the house and made her way to her Citroen. The aging car looked small and battered alongside Terence Marchant’s highly polished, expensive vehicles.
She rang Max. “Condescending, calculating brute,” she fumed. “He’ll be trying to put us out of business. High concept pastries, indeed. What’s more, he has no intention of looking after his own mother.”
“Mrs Marchant’s not your problem, Libby. Let it go.”
“I can’t. He could at least pay for her new television. He’s loaded.”
“Did you ask him to?”
Libby fidgeted, uncomfortable. “Well, no. He distracted me with all that talk of pastries.” She kicked a stone down the road. “I suppose that’s what he intended. He took me for a ride.”
“Libby, if it will calm you down, I’ll pay for a new television for the woman. It’ll be worth it. But you have to promise to stop trying to solve every problem in Somerset.”
“I could kiss you.”
“Then, that’s my mission accomplished. Come round and have lunch. Reg is here and he’s dying to talk to you. I’ll get Joe to come if he can.”
“I’ll be there, but I’ve a job to do, first. I’m visiting the librarian. It’s time we got to the bottom of all this.”
Librarian
On the way into the cathedral, Libby almost bumped into the dean. He aimed a cool n
od in her direction. Perhaps Bear’s antics in the garden had annoyed him.
She searched for the librarian. Deprived of access to his beloved library, he’d moped around until someone found space for him in a tiny office, where he sat at a desk, tapping his bald head with the fingers of one hand. His cheeks had faded and shrunk since she last saw him.
Remembering their unfortunate meeting on the stairs, Libby exhibited her most perfect manners. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. As you know, my friend Angela has been caught up in this sad business of Giles Temple’s death. She was friendly with Giles.”
The librarian acknowledged that with an inclination of the head, and Libby continued, “Angela told me a little about the books he was interested in, but she doesn’t know much. I don’t think they discussed literature. Can you tell me any more? What was his research area?”
“Ah.” She’d hit on the right topic. The little librarian’s cheeks glowed and his eyes lit up. “Giles was a scholar, you know. A real enthusiast for ancient texts. He planned to work here for another three or four weeks, fact checking.”
“I gather his interest was history. Something about Thomas Cranmer?”
“That’s right, he was working through Thomas Cranmer’s student books.”
Libby smiled. “They must be incredibly valuable.”
“Priceless, I’d say, although not illuminated like some of the other books we have. Still, they’re full of Cranmer’s notes, in his own handwriting.”
Dr Phillips warmed to his topic, excited by Libby’s interest. “I’d be glad to show you some of our most beautiful books. You could return under happier circumstances, when all this is over.” He waved a hand, vaguely.
“What were the books about?”
“Where’s your history, my dear?” He sighed, his tone hinting at years of disappointment with ignorant students. “They dealt with the old beliefs in relics and other superstitions of the Catholic Church before the Reformation.”
He rubbed his hands. “You see, in those days, people thought they needed sacred objects to ward off evil. They believed in the devil then.”
Libby thought about the murders. “They might have been right. Perhaps we should pay more attention to wickedness.”
“Ah, well, we do,” he exclaimed. “Every archbishopric has someone delegated and trained whose job it is to deal with the devil.”
“You mean, providing―what is it―exorcism? Does that still go on?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Libby moved on. “I wondered if you could say any more about the chain used to kill Mr Temple. It’s such an unusual way to store books.”
“Oh, yes, the chain. This is one of the few chained libraries in England, you know. Let me show you.” He pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket. “I can’t show you the books themselves as the library’s still off-limits, but this picture illustrates the mechanism.” Libby scrutinised the picture. “You see, one end of the chain is attached to the book and the other end to the shelf. The position of the chain makes it easy to pull the book from the shelf and read it, but it prevents people borrowing a book, wandering away with it, and forgetting to bring it back.”
“Like forgetting to return library books?”
“Exactly. You’d be amazed at the number of upright citizens with old library books in their houses; books they should have returned years ago. Well, the canons of the 17th century were just as bad. Hence the chain.”
Libby pointed to the photograph. “That chain looks incredibly strong. It would take a lot of force to break it away from the book, wouldn’t it? And how would the murderer remove it from the shelf?” She frowned. “It seems a crazy way to kill anyone.”
The librarian jumped up and snapped his fingers. “Why didn’t I think of this before? The killer didn’t have to remove a chain from a book. I keep spares in a box.”
“Spare chains?” Libby’s heart thumped. “Where’s the box?”
“At the back of the library.”
“So anyone could grab one of the spare chains?”
“Of course. The box isn’t hidden. The chains have no value in themselves.”
Libby laughed aloud. She’d supposed the killer had planned the murder with care and taken along heavy duty cutters for the chain. Dr Phillips’ revelation changed all that. Perhaps the murder had not been planned, after all. Giles Temple was simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Over cheese, salad and crusty bread, Libby recounted her meeting with the librarian to Max, Reginald and Joe. She put her worries over the sad cat woman and the unpleasant Terence to one side. “You see, we’ve been concentrating on the victim, trying to work out why someone would want to kill Giles Temple. That’s why we were so interested in Imogen Weir, and why the police suspected Angela, but perhaps we’ve all been on the wrong track. What if this isn’t about Giles, but the library itself?”
Reginald, eating with appreciative gusto from a heaped plate, grinned. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you know there’s a huge international market in stolen books?”
“Like the art market? You often hear about the theft of paintings but I’ve never heard much about books.”
“That’s true, ma’am. It happens pretty much under the radar. I shouldn’t tell you this, but that’s why I’m in the area. ”On behalf of the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers.
Libby tried not to laugh. “Seriously? That’s a thing?”
“Sure is. They maintain a database of stolen books and manuscripts.”
“Are you about to tell me the book Giles Temple was reading is on the list? Wouldn’t the librarian know?”
“The book didn’t come from Wells. It’s on the list, but it was reported missing from another library.”
“Let me get this straight. On the day Giles Temple died, a book appeared in the library. No one in Wells knew it had been stolen.” She spoke slowly, trying to figure it out. “Giles happened to be there, for an assignation with Angela, when the killer arrived. He was murdered to stop him talking.” She shivered. “If Angela had gone to meet him as planned, she could have been killed as well.”
Max said, “All this leaves us no further on. We still don’t know the identity of the two people seen by the cat woman, and we don’t know who stole the book. I don’t even think we can discount Imogen Weir. No one can support her explanation of the meeting with Giles Temple. What other suspects do we have?”
“The cat woman saw two figures that night. One took something from the other and disappeared in the direction of the cathedral. It’s only circumstantial but I bet that was the murderer.”
Joe mused aloud. “Imogen Weir could be the small, thin person seen in Wells that night. Could the dean be the other?”
Libby leaped to her feet. “I’ve had an idea. I’ve been wondering about the connection between Giles and Samantha. What if I couldn’t find one because it doesn’t exist? Maybe the connection is between Samantha and the book thief. She was a solicitor, after all. She worked with criminals. I think a visit to her chambers is the next step.”
Joe was thoughtful. “Good idea. We’ve already interviewed the head of chambers and looked through the files, but no one’s found any cases handled by Samantha, other than divorces and a few minor criminals. My men are cross-checking, but it’s a slow job and there’s nothing to stop you poking around as well.”
He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the station. It’s awkward, as the moment. Some of my colleagues are like headless chickens. Chief Inspector Arnold’s gone on leave, and handed over to another chief, drafted in from an inner city police service. He’s come down from Birmingham with a great record but precious little feel for country ways. Let me know how you get on.” He paused on the way out. “By the way, officially, we haven’t talked.”
Solicitors
The solicitors’ offices filled the ground floor of a Victorian building in the oldest part of Exham. Painted bright blue, the buildin
g overlooked the beach. As Libby and Max sat in a stuffy waiting room, they could see along the beach as far as the nine-legged lighthouse. “It seems such a long time since the murder at the lighthouse. I was walking Bear and Shipley, Marina’s dog, that day. I miss that crazy springer spaniel, you know, and I think Bear does, too, since Marina went. I walked past her house the other day. There’s a sale sign on the drive, and Shipley is still homeless.”
“I think Exham on Sea can live without Marina and her overbearing ways,” said Max. “What happened to the dog?”
“The vet’s looking after him. I’d like to adopt him, but he’s so wild. He needs more training.” Shipley was quite a handful. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Because you have so much time to spare?” Max raised his eyebrows. “Maybe I could help.”
“Would you really? Bear would be delighted.”
Libby forgot about dogs as the receptionist returned to the waiting room. “I’ll ask Mr Scruggs to come in. He’s the senior partner and he might be able to help you.”
Libby tried her best smile on Mr Scruggs, a formidable man with a hooked nose and rapidly receding hair. He nodded a greeting, his attention on Max. “Mr Ramshore. We haven’t seen you at the Rotary Club for a while.”
Max introduced Libby, a half-smile on his face. “This is my associate, Mrs Forest.”
Mr Scruggs looked Libby over, from top to toe. “The chocolate lady, I believe.” The corner of his lip lifted in a smile that was almost a sneer. Libby found the atmosphere oppressive. How had Samantha worked in this place, where women were second best?
Reluctantly, Libby allowed Max to ask the questions. Mr Scruggs would give more information to a fellow member of the Rotary Club. “As you know, Mr Scruggs, I’ve worked with the police on several matters of interest to the government,” Max began.
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