Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  ‘That sounds about right. Joanna’s fine once you get to know her, although she talks about the children all the time. But you do when you have young ones, don’t you?’ She made a thinking face. ‘The boy has his father’s name – a bit old-fashioned, that. I bet it was the doctor’s idea. I’m pleased to say the child insists on being called Jay instead of Jeremy.’

  ‘Good for him. Did Joanna throw any light on her email?’

  ‘Not really. But one thing’s very clear – she’s no friend of Annabel Pearson. She sounded quite spiteful; called Annabel the Merry Widow.’ She paused. ‘I’ve had an idea. If Joanna’s right, and Annabel likes men more than women, why don’t you talk to her about the email? I’m sure she’ll melt under your charms.’

  ‘Why not? I’m sick of background research into my ex-wife’s friends, and I haven’t found anything yet, except that she knows plenty of men. Apparently, she goes to the ballet with someone called Philip, visits stately homes with a Derek, and sings in a community choir with John. Which is crazy, because she can hardly hold a tune.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I’d like to meet your ex-wife.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ The idea horrified Max. ‘You don’t want her in your life, and nor do I.’

  ‘Now,’ Libby said, wiping her mouth on a paper napkin. ‘Let’s pay a visit to that funny little museum on the seafront. I’ve never been in. I suppose you know it from childhood.’

  ‘You’ll love it,’ Max promised, and led the way to the Market House Museum, a glass-fronted building set on a sharp corner next to the quay.

  They pushed open the door. The museum was open but deserted, except for a single woman, seated behind a table covered with shells, small replicas of anchors, old photographs and a couple of fossils.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she beamed. ‘Yes, and bring those lovely dogs. Everyone’s welcome in here. I’m just sitting in while Quentin Dobson, the curator, popped out for lunch, so don’t ask me any tricky questions, will you?’ She held out a leaflet. ‘Here’s something about the history of the place.’

  Obediently, Libby and Max read the short description.

  The woman said, ‘Haven’t I seen you before? Mrs Forest, isn’t it? I’ve been in your bakery and eaten your chocs. Hence the tummy.’

  Max looked at her more closely. Was that a dog collar peeping out from under her crew neck sweater?

  ‘You’re the new vicar,’ he said.

  ‘Guilty as charged. Amy Fisher’s the name.’

  Max managed not to make the joke, but the wide grin on Libby’s face gave the game away, and Amy Fisher hooted.

  ‘Exactly. Fisher of men – very biblical, isn’t it? I should have thought about that before I married my husband, shouldn’t I? But I wasn’t a vicar, in those days.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the shelves. ‘I can’t tell you everything about Watchet, I’m afraid. I’ll leave that to Quentin. My proper place is up there.’ She pointed to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs, I mean, in Holy Cross Chapel. Our place of worship shares this building with the museum. Unusual, isn’t it? Ah, and here’s Quentin.’

  Quentin Dobson, a small, bent man of at least seventy, peered at Libby and Max through half-moon glasses. ‘Well, well, so nice to have visitors at this time of year. Thank you, Amy, for holding the fort.’

  The cheerful vicar waved and departed, presumably to visit her domain. Sure enough, Max could soon hear footsteps above his head.

  ‘Now, was there anything in particular you’re interested in?’

  Libby looked around. ‘That’s quite a collection of fossils you have here.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Visitors often think they have to go to Lyme Bay, down in Dorset, to see fossils, but we have hundreds in this area.’

  ‘Kilve,’ Max said. ‘I’ve been there, many times, when I was a boy.’ He’d loved stepping with care over the limestone pavement, fingering the ammonites that covered many of the rocks and pocketing devil’s fingernails.

  Libby said, ‘I’ve never been.’

  The curator wagged a bony finger. ‘A treat in store for you. But it’s not just about the fossils. We pride ourselves on featuring the real history of the area. Are you fond of history?’

  Max said, ‘Libby’s a shining light in the Exham History Society.’

  Quentin Dobson’s eyes gleamed above his glasses. ‘Then, come this way, my dear. There’s so much to show you. Let me put the kettle on and we’ll have a lovely cup of tea. Milk and sugar?’

  Two hours later they were still chatting happily with Quentin Dobson when Amy Fisher put her head around the door. ‘Good gracious me. How wonderful to find folk so interested in our little town.’

  Libby said, ‘We’ve had a fascinating time. I’ve asked Mr Dobson to give a talk at the Exham on Sea History Society. I’ll talk to the organiser, Angela Miles, but I know she’s had a cancellation for next week’s meeting.’

  ‘If you want to know anything about Watchet, he’s certainly your man. I just called in to tell you it’s time for the museum to close. Quentin would sit here for hours if I didn’t remind him.’

  The curator looked at his watch. ‘Good heavens. How time flies.’

  As they left, Max murmured in her ear, ‘There isn’t a meeting next week.’

  ‘I know.’ She chuckled. ‘But he was so happy talking to us, I couldn’t resist. I know Angela will agree. Meanwhile, these dogs have behaved so well, I think they deserve a walk right around the bay,’ and she set off down the esplanade, Max and the dogs trotting happily behind.

  17

  Chocolate cake

  Max spent the next morning reviewing Stella’s list of Facebook friends, divided into three groups: the ten people known to both Stella and Max, some friends Stella sent comments to occasionally, and some complete unknowns. Not many of her friends appeared to be women.

  After a glance at their pages, he discarded some self-described ‘Generals’ in the USA, whose pages consisted entirely of photographs of themselves. Max wondered what they were after, assumed it was easy sex, and moved on.

  Taking the names of people Stella knew reasonably well, he scanned the information available on the site before carrying out a Google search. He found businessmen, a politician, and a handful of men he’d worked with in the bank, who’d taken early retirement. Stella showed a clear preference for wealth.

  Among the names of people he recognised, one stood out. Angus. Angus and Hilary Margetson had often eaten supper with Max and Stella. They were no longer married, according to Facebook, and Angus’s page included a photo of himself with Stella.

  That was odd.

  Digging deeper into Angus’s background, Max found other photos of him with Stella. From the clothes and haircuts, it was clear they were taken long ago – before Max’s divorce.

  He sat back. He’d thought the problems between himself and Stella had all stemmed from Debbie’s death. Stella had blamed him for arguing with Debbie that fateful day. The quarrel, trivial enough, about Debbie’s timekeeping, had somehow escalated until Debbie had flounced out of the house, gone for a ride on her pony, fallen off and died. Max had never rid himself of the guilt, and Stella had agreed it was all his fault.

  No marriage, he’d thought at the time, could withstand that.

  Yet, here was evidence that Stella had already been spending time alone with Angus. Had they been having an affair?

  Max’s heartbeat slowed as he considered their life together.

  He’d met Stella in his first week as a new graduate in the London bank. She’d been in the marketing department, working with magazines, newspapers, photographers and, as television became ever more sophisticated, producers of TV advertisements. She’d been beautiful, rich and popular, and Max, from the small, quiet backwater of Exham on Sea, with a degree from Exeter University in the West Country, had been dazzled.

  In his heart, he’d always suspected she’d been unfaithful, but he’d chosen to close his eyes to the evidence – the times when she wasn’t
at home, the flimsy excuses for sudden days out, and once or twice, a weekend away ‘with an old friend from school’.

  It was time to be honest with himself. He’d lost Stella long before Debbie’s death.

  At least his parents, who’d never trusted her, had died before they’d been proved right.

  Max needed air. Dipping into the morass of his old life threatened to suffocate him.

  He took the dogs out and threw tennis balls for Shipley until his hands were too cold to continue. ‘Come on, boys, let’s get back inside.’

  Back in the study, he laid logs in the grate, tucked firelighters in among them and, defying his own self-inflicted ban on daytime fires, took his laptop to the most comfortable chair in the room where he could watch the flames leaping up the chimney as he reviewed the other men on Stella’s list.

  He didn’t notice the passage of time, until his stomach growled. He’d worked well past lunchtime. Discarding people whose updates Stella had liked or commented on recently, meaning they were on reasonably good terms, he’d whittled the list of men he’d consider suspects down to five, including Philip, Derek and John, men who’d featured in Stella’s life recently, and Angus.

  There was no guarantee any one of these had been stalking Stella, but they were a starting point. Was one of these men, all past boyfriends, angry enough with her to try to scare her? How could he find out?

  Maybe it was time to bring in Joe. He was, after all, an experienced police officer. Younger than Debbie, he’d lived with his mother after the divorce. He might know some of these men.

  Max couldn’t wait for dinner on Sunday evening to raise the subject, and in any case, Libby’s son and daughter-in-law would also be present. Max had no desire to wash his family’s dirty linen in front of them.

  He rang Joe, pleased to find that his son had a spare hour, later that day.

  The drive to Hereford that afternoon reminded Max of his search for Bear, a few short weeks ago. For once, he was alone, the dogs snoring quietly at home. Max had been tempted to ask Libby to come, but she was busy in the shop, letting Mandy start her weekend early, preparing for Steve’s arrival.

  Joe had suggested they meet in a tiny tea shop he’d visited before.

  The waitress remembered Max. That soothed his bruised ego a little.

  Trained by Libby, he took an intelligent interest in the cakes on offer at the counter, and managed a gentle banter with the waitress over the relative merits of coffee and walnut, or chocolate layer cake.

  Joe arrived as Max agreed to try both.

  Joe’s eyes, as blue as Max’s own, sparkled. ‘Flirting, Dad?’ he mocked.

  ‘Just passing the time of day.’

  As Joe poured tea into two chintzy cups, Max described his meeting with Stella, and her worries about a stalker.

  Joe nodded. ‘She told me. She said, don’t bother you about it. She’s not worried.’

  ‘What? You know?’ What was Stella playing at? She’d told Max she was scared.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.

  ‘She rang, last weekend. She didn’t say she was coming down to Bristol, though. Didn’t want to visit me, maybe. She doesn’t get on with Claire.’

  Max chuckled. Claire, Joe’s wife, was a clinical psychologist, and nobody’s fool. ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Dad, we both know Mum’s a bit – well – flaky. I love her to bits, and she’s a hoot at a party once she’s had a gin and tonic, but I’ve learned never to be surprised – or embarrassed – by anything she says or does. I suspect this stalker story’s some chancer, targeting any woman he can find. Ivor’s been looking into it for a while. Don’t you think all this desire for your help’s blown up at a convenient time, just as you’re about to get married again?’

  ‘You mean she’s jealous?’

  ‘Course she is.’ Joe leaned across and took a forkful of Max’s chocolate cake. ‘Honestly, Dad, for a man with an analytical mind, you’re pretty dim sometimes when it comes to people.’

  Max sat back, chewing thoughtfully, thinking that over. Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion there was some evidence that Joe was right. For one thing, trying to keep his meeting with Stella secret had been a stupid idea. He’d completely misunderstood Libby’s possible reaction.

  Then, his old friend, Angus, from their London years, had turned out not to be a friend at all. All those pints with the man, the times the two couples had eaten at each other’s houses, and Max hadn’t felt the slightest suspicion Angus and Stella were having a fling.

  He switched his attention back to Joe, who’d finished eating.

  ‘The waitress is right about this cake. Almost – but not quite – as good as Libby’s.’ Joe checked his watch. ‘Sorry, Dad. Got to run. Places to go, villains to catch. See you on Sunday for dinner. Tell Libby we can’t wait – we’ll be skipping lunch so we can do justice to her food. Meanwhile, I’ll take these names and do some digging, but I think we’ll find you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

  He thumped Max on the shoulder and left.

  Max sat alone for a while. What was really going on? Had Stella been leading him up the garden path with this so-called stalker, or were her emails genuine? And if they were, was there any connection with the Exham nursery rhymes? His internet searches had failed to find any sort of nursery rhyme hoaxes or memes sweeping social media.

  A very unpleasant inkling of an idea arrived at the back of his mind, and began to take root.

  18

  Queen of Hearts

  Libby’s Saturday shift at Brown’s Bakery was due to start early, so the Citroen chose that morning to refuse to start.

  Furious, she revved the engine, jabbed at the clutch and swore loudly, before abandoning the car outside Hope Cottage. She transferred to the red Hyundai she’d bought for the business, that Mandy used for marketing and delivery trips around the county. Thank heaven it was Saturday so Mandy didn’t need it.

  Before she left, Libby scribbled an apologetic note. She wouldn’t see much of her lodger over the next few days, while Steve was back in town.

  A queue was already forming outside Brown’s Bakery when she arrived, and Frank was bringing the first loaves of the day through to the front of the shop. They steamed, still hot from the oven.

  Alan Jenkins was first in the queue. ‘Morning, Libby,’ he said. ‘Have you thought any more about that little car I told you about?’

  ‘Funny you should say that.’ Libby told him about the Citroen’s refusal to start.

  ‘Probably the cold weather overtaxing the battery,’ Alan pronounced. ‘Affects an old jalopy like yours, and it’s brass monkey weather, today. Why don’t I call around later and take a look? It may just need a battery boost.’

  Libby nodded towards the line of hungry Exham folk. ‘When all this has died down and Frank’s back from his deliveries? Annabel will be in later.’ She consulted the list, pinned to a board at the back of the shop. ‘I have a couple of cakes to take out to Nether Stowey early this afternoon. Can you call in after that – I’ll have my head in the oven, cooking. The family are coming for a meal, tomorrow.’

  Her heart lifted as she spoke. Robert and Sarah, plus Joe and Claire – and Ali would be here before long. The wedding arrangements were coming along nicely, and she’d repaired that strange disconnect with Max. They were back on the same wavelength, although he’d been a little quiet and thoughtful when he returned from seeing Joe.

  Joanna Sheffield was last in the line of customers.

  Libby greeted her with a wide smile. ‘That was a great outing on Thursday. The children loved it, didn’t they?’

  Joanna didn’t meet her gaze, pointing instead to the last couple of loaves on the shelf. ‘Don’t you have any cobs left? The ones with sesame seeds?’

  ‘All gone, I’m afraid. How about that cottage loaf? It’s very similar.’

  Joanna frowned. ‘Jeremy likes the cob.’

  Jeremy would have to lump it, or get up early and buy the b
read himself.

  Soothingly, Libby said, ‘We can set up a delivery for you. Frank likes to get out of the shop in the mornings, and you don’t live far away.’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘I like to come into town.’

  Libby looked more closely. Joanna’s eyes were red-rimmed, as though she’d been crying, or was very tired.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Fine, thank you. I’m a little tired. The children, you know.’ Joanna kept her eyes firmly on her hands as she packed the loaf, in its paper bag, into a shopping bag.

  Before Libby could enquire further, Gladys arrived. Joanna brushed past, on her way to the door, and left without another word. Libby watched her go.

  Gladys said, ‘No manners, that one. Thinks she’s a cut above the rest of us, she does. What with her and that Annabel, I don’t know what the town’s coming to.’ Gladys seemed cheerful enough, today, despite her sister’s death. In fact, she could hardly stand still, but jigged up and down in front of the counter. ‘The solicitor rang me yesterday to tell me Carys left me some money,’ she burst out, as though unable to keep her news to herself for a moment longer. ‘A bit of a windfall, for me. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Gladys nodded her head so vigorously that Libby wondered if she’d do herself a mischief. ‘The solicitor says it’s too early to know the full amount, what with probate and bank accounts and so on, but she left a will, you see, and I’ll be getting at least one hundred thousand pounds, probably a lot more. And that’s before selling her little holiday home in Powys. I’ll have enough to put down a deposit on a place of my own, and I can let out that flat over the shop, make a spot of income for my old age.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Libby said.