Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths

by Holly Bell

  ‘Thank you, dear Mr Frumbling,’ Amanda’s appreciation was heartfelt.

  ‘That’s all right, duck.’

  No sooner had Amanda waved off her kind mentor, than she hurried back inside to the small dining-room, shut the door and took out her phone.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Miss Cadabra?’

  ‘Yes. Hello. This afternoon, I was talking to one of the villagers who told me that some of the books in the stacks are Jonathan’s. “Jonathan’s collection” he called it. I don’t know if that’s important, but …’

  She waited. Finally, Trelawney spoke. It was non-committal.

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Shall I go and talk to Jonathan, Inspector?’

  Trelawney considered that he shouldn’t be involving Miss Cadabra so closely, but his previous interview with Sheppard had plainly been a strain on the man. More to the point, it had yielded only the minimum of information. ‘Normally I’d say, let me do it, but,’ the inspector conceded, ‘he’s very shy, and you’re one of the few people with whom he seems to have a rapport.’

  ‘Yes, then?’

  ‘Go ahead, if you would, Miss Cadabra.’

  Chapter 20

  Samantha’s Aunt

  Hot chocolate with coconut cream for Miss Amanda, and flat white Atlantic Blue Hill coffee for Mr Dale.’ Alex served the pale green and gold cups and saucers.

  ‘Oh, Alex,’ she exclaimed admiring the new crockery, ‘these are beautiful! Are they new?’

  ‘Yes, arrived this morning. You’d never believe they’re dishwasher safe! Madeira cake on its way!’

  ‘He’s so very kind, isn’t he?’ Amanda remarked, watching Alex bustling off towards the kitchen.

  ‘He is indeed,’ agreed Dale with a smile. ‘Both he and Julian seem very fond of you.’

  ‘I am most fortunate in my neighbours. But there is something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Was the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done on your adventures the most enjoyable?’

  Dale leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his pleasant face.

  ‘Hm. Very good question, Amanda.’ He paused. ‘I think the answer is that there’s a difference between an adrenaline rush and … let’s say, delight. Reaching the summit of Dhaihir was perhaps the most dangerous thing I’ve ever attempted. We had to turn back twice. But it was the final stretch … it’s hard to describe, and then standing on that peak … And yet, yes, I think the time that made my heart sing, so to speak, was the time I told you about.’

  ‘With the lady who’d been ill and got better and was seeing the Arctic for the first time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely. I think that does you great credit, Dale.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Amanda. Just being honest.’

  He moved his hand from beside his cup slightly towards hers.

  Oh dear, thought Amanda. Does he think this is a date? I’d better—

  His phone sounded, and he hastily glanced at the screen. His face wearied.

  ‘Sorry, I have to go. It’s Mother.’

  Saved by the bell, was Amanda’s reaction. but she said politely.

  ‘Ah well, it was nice to chat.’

  ‘Maybe we can continue another time?’

  Amanda wasn’t so sure. He noticed her hesitation.

  ‘Have I said something …?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s just … look, Dale, you do know that this is just a friends thing?’

  ‘Of course! Have I given any other impression? If I have …’

  ‘Just wanted to be certain. I wouldn’t want there to …’

  ‘I understand. It’s all right. I’ve been in the same position. It is best to be on the safe side. Friends.’

  Amanda breathed a sigh of relief.

  She grinned. ‘Friends.’

  ‘And I hope, in time, “good friends”.’

  Amanda nodded, wondering what on earth that meant. He picked up his coat and, with a word of thanks to Alex and a farewell, walked to the door. He made way politely for an anxious-looking woman and her children entering.

  She looked vaguely familiar. The human face was not something that particularly registered with Amanda. If she didn’t see someone for six months, she’d have trouble recognizing them. Mr Treckit, her neighbour from Orchard Row, had gone on a year’s sabbatical to Indonesia. When he’d returned and greeted her in The Corner Shop, Amanda had had absolutely no idea who he was.

  What helped in the case of the woman was that Amanda had the feeling that this particular stranger was someone essential to remember.

  The woman, pushing her short wild blond hair out of her face, fussed about with tapestried bags and her coat of many colours, as she asked her children what they’d like to eat and drink. They replied politely as they took off their jackets and then went to pay their respects to Tempest.

  Ah yes, thought Amanda, I remember that coat. She took a deep breath, left her table and approached the woman diffidently.

  ‘Excuse me, please, are you a friend of Samantha?’

  ‘Erm … yes?’ The woman was cautious but curious.

  ‘My name is Amanda, and that’s my cat, Tempest, over there. I hope you don’t mind my …’

  ‘Oh, of course not,’ replied the woman. ‘Were you her friend?’

  That was a tricky one. ‘I’m working up at The Grange, where Samantha was staying. And I knew her from the village.’

  ‘She didn’t live here though,’ the woman pointed out.

  ‘No, but she rather liked this tea shop,’ Amanda replied, recalling Samantha’s remark that it was ‘the only decent place in this hole’. ‘And we did chat once or twice. I’m glad she had you to talk to. Sam did seem rather isolated.’ Because no one could stand her, thought Amanda accurately.

  The woman softened ‘I did wonder. Do sit down. Oh I’m Verity, by the way. Verity Gibbs, Samantha’s aunt.’

  ‘You’re Damian’s sister?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘You know, Damian?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Actually, his brother, Adam is my husband,’ Verity explained.

  ‘I see. You and Samantha seemed very close.’

  ‘Oh well, one does what one can. Did, I should say. I wondered how I’d feel being back in here where I last saw Sam but … then I thought it’s a way to remember her. And the children do like it here so much.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘Yes, a mother knows what’s best for her children. You don’t have any?’

  ‘No, I just feel like I do,’ replied Amanda, looking at Tempest.

  ‘Oh, I know! Pets can be just as full-on.’ Amanda’s familiar looked up in disdain at the word ‘pets’ that had been applied to his august person. Verity leaned forward earnestly. ‘Tell me, have the police got anywhere? I seem to remember Samantha mentioned you in connection with the tragedy at the Centre, the Marion Gibbs Asthma Centre. Damian named it after Samantha’s grandmother, you know. It was a friend of yours who died, wasn’t it? And you were somehow assisting the police?’

  ‘Let’s just say I know what it’s like to lose a friend. Though not a niece, of course.’ This elicited a sympathetic but enquiring expression from Verity. ‘I don’t have anything I can tell you, I’m afraid, about the progress of the investigation.’ That was, strictly speaking, true. ‘Have you spoken to the police yourself?’ Amanda enquired carefully and gently.

  That received a nervous shake of the head, and,

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to get involved. It would be so bad for the children, and I don’t know anything. I wasn’t there and don’t know anything about that library.’

  ‘You have no idea why Sam might have been there?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘She wasn’t mixed up in anything that … might have led to trouble?’

  Verity sighed. ‘No, not more than her usual … well, you know … extracurricular
activities! But it was all just youthful high spirits or boredom but … nothing that surely would have led to … to …’

  ‘Please forgive me,’ said Amanda kindly, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing when we were all in here … Sam mentioned money troubles and a … an idea? A scheme of some kind that could have helped?’

  ‘Well, her parents were laying down some boundaries, and she’d had to cut up her credit cards. But they weren’t cruel! They paid her uni fees and accommodation and expenses, and she had a small allowance for shopping from her mother … It just wasn’t what she was used to. And I’m afraid our Sam was rather a … a material girl.’

  ‘So this scheme, Sam didn’t say what it was to do with?’

  ‘Oh … I’m not sure … I think I was distracted at that moment … the children … Let me think … It was something to do with “the mid-life crisis band” or “brigade” or some expression like that.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know. Friends of her father’s perhaps. Plenty of people said, when Damian divorced Sam’s mother — not that I blame him — and got the new car and started wearing a leather jacket and shades, that he was having one — a midlife crisis — and some of his were friends too.’

  There was a pause. Amanda waited hopefully for more. Verity finally continued,

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not much to go on, but that’s all I can remember. Probably nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Amanda agreed reassuringly.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to be involved,’ Verity insisted.

  ‘I understand. Here’s my card. If you remember any more, please would you call me.’

  Verity took the pasteboard and looked at it. ‘Furniture Restorer?’

  ‘That’s right,’ smiled Amanda.

  ‘You’re not with the police, then?’

  ‘I’m not a member of the service, no. But the librarians, Mrs Pagely and Jonathan, are particular friends of mine, and I couldn’t bear it if either of them was wrongfully implicated. I think we both want to find the person really responsible for Sam’s death.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Verity said hastily. ‘Please don’t think me a coward. It’s just … I have the children to think of.’

  ‘Naturally. Well, thank you for the chat. I must get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, it was nice to talk about it. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again. Under happier circumstances.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Amanda.

  Chapter 21

  The Queen Bee Flies In

  A less seasoned detective would have blithely assumed that the most fruitful sources of information about Samantha Gibbs would be her parents. Inspector Trelawney, however, was sufficiently experienced to know that when it came to knowledge of their offspring’s dubious activities, the parents were usually the last to know.

  A case in point was Mr and Mrs Geen, respectable proprietors of The Tall Tail Inn. They were in total ignorance of the fact that Caitlin, their meek 14-year-old, had set up a distillery in a boarded-up, disused part of the cellar. Their darling daughter, who always did her homework and washed the dishes without being told, was doing a brisk trade, during school lunchtimes, selling homemade vodka to her fellow students, in a shed behind the chip shop.

  Consequently, when the news reached Trelawney that Samantha’s mother had returned from Bali, he did not hold out undue hope of receiving a stream of helpful information. Nevertheless, he did expect the interview to cast some light on the formation of the deceased girl’s character.

  Veronica Candace Loftleigh-Gibbs dwelt, when in the UK, in the select Essex town of Ironstone. Her residence was a four–bedroomed house of ample proportions in exclusive Chillbrush Lane. Trelawney’s efficient and devoted Constable Nancarrow had set up an appointment for him through Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs’s PA.

  Having been granted access through the unnecessarily imposing gate, and escorted from the door, by a nervous young man, to an opulent reception room, Trelawney was greeted by the lady of the house.

  She wore a funereally black silk jumpsuit cinched at her narrow waist, the V of the neck descending deeply to reveal a toast-rack décolletage. The one word that came to his mind to describe her was ... bone. Aggressively cut short dark hair accentuated the high cheeks. Brown eyes one usually associated with warmth belied the rule. Overall, it was easy to see where Samantha had got her height, figure and colouring. Yet, for all the girl’s attitude, she had been a softer version of the woman before him. And, ultimately, more vulnerable.

  Suddenly, for Trelawney, this case was no longer a matter of justice being done for justice’s sake. Samantha Gibbs had deserved better.

  Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs did not offer to shake hands but greeted him formally. With the air one holding court, she gestured for him to be seated on the opposite horn of the croissant shaped Armour blue sofa.

  Trelawney observed that she was carefully made up. Blusherlessness emphasised her pallor. He waited for her to arrange herself, placing one flawlessly French-manicured hand over the other. She sighed, then looked at him earnestly.

  ‘Inspector. I came as soon as I could. Literally, flung myself on the plane. I must look a total wreck.’

  Clearly, admiration was expected. Trelawney sidestepped neatly:

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Gibbs. I am glad you were able to get a flight.’

  ‘I would have come sooner, you understand.’ Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs was clearly anxious to avoid the appearance of an uncaring parent. ‘But at KOMA I always avoid all outside contact. I am there incognito, as it were. For a complete rest. You know the retreat, of course.’

  So, the game had begun. She did not expect a mere policeman to be au fait with, arguably, the most luxurious, not to say, expensive spa destination on the planet. And he would have been in ignorance, had it not been for his source par excellence for all things current in the world of the élite. His mother, Penelope, as a gallery owner catering for tastes at the upper end of the market, by casual references kept her son informed.

  ‘Indeed. Thailand’s finest, by all accounts,’ Trelawney answered smoothly. Round one to the inspector. ‘Mrs Gibbs —’

  ‘Loftleigh. Loftleigh-Gibbs. I kept the addition after my divorce for the sake of my daughter.’ The merest soupçon of the martyred mother had entered her voice.

  ‘Thank you for explaining that.’

  She leaned forward, palms up. ‘How can I help, Inspector? Oh, how remiss of me. Did my PA offer you refreshments?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs, he did. May I ask, when did you last see your daughter?’

  ‘Only a few weeks ago. She was at college, you see, and went straight from there to stay with friends.’

  ‘Did you know where she was staying?’

  ‘Near her father’s clinic. At The Range, I think Samantha said, with a fellow college student’s family. Her father knew the exact address, I’m sure.’ Again, anxious to appear the concerned mother, thought Trelawney

  ‘And when did you arrive at KOMA?’ he asked.

  ‘Two weeks ago. I’d booked in just for the month.’ The month. This was designed to let him know the extent of her disposable income. But no … Trelawney’s intuition was telling him that there was more … She’d been sizing him up since the moment he walked onto her exotic hardwood reception room floor. Having taken in his height, physique, the quality of his light grey suit, tie, shoes, pleasing features, and well-spoken voice and manner, she wanted … yes … she wanted to impress him.

  This was a reaction not unknown to the inspector who was always careful not to respond in kind, but to encourage any eagerness to co-operate.

  ‘Were you acquainted with any of Miss Gibbs’s college friends?’

  ‘No. Samantha was a very private person. She preferred to keep her college life separate from her home life.’

  ‘Had you met any of the staff at her college?’

  ‘Actually, her fa
ther took care of that. I’m sure he would be more than happy to help.’

  That well was manifestly dry. Trelawney tried another.

  ‘Had you ever visited the Asthma Clinic?’

  ‘That was my husband’s baby, Inspector. Conceived long after we divorced,’ Veronica said lightly, with raised shoulders and the hint of a helpless smile.

  ‘How about the village of Sunken Madley?’

  ‘Good gracious, what a name!’ she exclaimed with amusement.

  ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘Is that where Samantha was staying?’ hazarded Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ She leaned back and shook her head. ‘Well, no, Inspector, I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Does the name Little Madley, mean anything to you.’

  The light of recognition lit the flat brown of her eyes. ‘Ah yes, where the clinic is built. Yes, of course. So you see, I knew her father was nearby. According to my daughter, he is often there. She was not without parental supervision.’

  Hmm, thought Trelawney, she’s trying to shift blame of some sort onto her ex-husband. A sure sign that she feels responsible in some way. To be incommunicado in a luxury resort while her only child was being done away with could hardly redound to her credit.

  And now the rising guilt was beginning to disintegrate Veronica Loftleigh-Gibbs’s velvet glove. She leaned forward.

  ‘My daughter deserves justice, Inspector.’

  ‘She does indeed.’

  ‘So how far have you got?’ asked the woman, with the air of expecting a confidence from a close friend.

  ‘We are in the initial stages of the investigation,’ Trelawney replied noncommittally.

  She took this as a rebuff. ‘Well, what do you know so far?’ The voice was hardening.

  ‘We are pursuing various avenues, Mrs Loftleigh-Gibbs.’