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

by Frances Evesham

  ‘Can you tell me how Mr Wrighton died? I take it there was no accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give you any further information,’ but the look on the young woman’s face told Max what he needed to know.

  He asked Stella, ‘Do you want to go back to Surrey?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I couldn’t bear to be there any longer, in that house, without Ivor. Oh dear, there will be all sorts of arrangements to make, with his funeral and so on, although Ivor and I are not – official – in any way. Just friends. Close friends.’ She offered Max’s handkerchief back to him. ‘I have some of Ivor’s here.’ She opened a drawer beside the bed and took out two beautifully ironed squares, each with a small train embroidered in the corner. ‘Oh dear,’ she sobbed, ‘Poor Ivor. I gave these to him for his birthday. I used to tease him about his name. Ivor, you see, like Ivor the little Welsh engine in the TV programme – Ivor was Welsh, of course,’ she explained.

  She gave a tremulous smile. ‘I think I’ll ask Joe if I can stay with him for a few days. That would be best, wouldn’t it?’

  Max was torn between relief that she didn’t want him to take her in, and sympathy for Claire. He made a supreme effort. ‘You can stay with me, Stella, if you like. Just until the wedding…’

  Stella smiled at the police officer. ‘My ex-husband is remarrying soon.’ She laid a hand on Max’s arm. ‘No, I don’t want to come between you and your Libby. I’ll talk to Joe. I’m sure he’ll take pity on his poor old mother.’

  22

  Omelette

  Libby bundled Fuzzy into her wicker cat basket, much to the cat’s very vocal disgust, and loaded her with her bed – the one she hardly ever used – into the newly repaired Citroen. She added a selection of cat toys, feeding bowls and sachets of cat food; the expensive kind, for Fuzzy would tolerate nothing less. Satisfied Fuzzy had everything she needed, she drove to Max’s house.

  She arrived just as his car swung into the drive, and followed him to the house. ‘I didn’t know you were going out,’ she said, as they hugged. ‘And you look terrible. Is something wrong? By the way, I’ve brought Fuzzy, so she can get used to your house.’

  She bustled around the kitchen, cooking omelettes, as he told her the story.

  ‘Joe came to take his mother home, so I know she’s safe, at least, and I rang DCI Morrison. Ivor Wrighton’s death didn’t take place in his area, but he’s working on it, because of the similarities with Carys Evans’ murder. He told me that Ivor had almost exactly the same cause of death – hit over the side of the head by a blunt object, possibly a tree branch. Our killer’s a creature of habit, it seems. That’s all he had so far, except to say that they’ve checked Ivor Wrighton’s phone records for that day. He received a couple of texts, one at around the time he left the hospital. Unfortunately, whoever sent that text used a brand-new pay-as-you-go phone.’

  ‘A burner?’ Libby said.

  ‘Exactly. I’m afraid our villains watch as many USA crime series on Netflix as the rest of us. Still, it tells us a little more. Someone contacted Ivor, presumably to entice him into the woods. Must have been someone he knew well – it’s December, after all. No one would agree to meet a stranger there at this time of year.’

  Max looked uncomfortable. He’d met Stella in the same woods.

  Libby concentrated on the new evidence. Ivor’s body had been found in the same place as Carys Evans’, and he’d been killed in almost exactly the same way, but she knew of no connection between the two victims.

  Did Ivor’s death have anything to do with his relationship with Stella? Had her stalker turned violent? If so, it was just as well she was staying safely in Somerset, with Joe.

  ‘I’m so sorry about all this,’ Max said. ‘I’d no idea this business with Stella was going to jump out of the woodwork, just before our wedding, and I didn’t take it seriously enough. Stella’s always been a drama queen, and I thought she was crying wolf. Thank heaven she’s OK.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Libby said. ‘We both come with baggage, don’t we? But her man, Ivor, killed – that’s shocking. I suppose…’ she stopped herself in mid-sentence. Since coming to Exham on Sea, she’d been involved in several murder cases and she was used to talking about the victims in a matter-of-fact way. It was easier to investigate when she felt detached from them. But this murder was very personal to Max. Whatever he felt about his ex-wife, Libby wouldn’t say the words that hovered on the tip of her tongue – Do you think Stella had anything to do with it?

  There was no need. Max took her hands. ‘I know what you’re thinking. We have to wonder whether Stella’s involved, but I can’t imagine how. She was in the hotel when he was killed, still recovering from her overdose, although I suppose she could have paid someone to do the dirty work.’ He forced a smile. ‘But if I know Stella, and she wanted to get rid of someone, she’d be far more likely to feed them poison herself. Arsenic, perhaps, in the sugar bowl. That used to be a thing in the nineteenth century, I believe.’ He stabbed at his omelette and forked a tiny square into his mouth. It tasted fine, but his mouth was dry and he couldn’t swallow. ‘Do you mind if I leave it? No appetite, I’m afraid.’

  Libby leaned across the table and squeezed his arm. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Max, ‘this was all about Exham, but Ivor’s never even been here, so far as I’m aware. Where’s the link? I’m convinced there has to be a connection – two murders in almost exactly the same circumstances can’t just be coincidence.’

  Tired of thinking in circles, Libby let her eyes wander to Fuzzy. On this, her first visit, she’d ventured carefully into every room in the house, sniffing suspiciously in corners and leaping in the air at the slightest sound, as though someone had fired a gun.

  Bear was still following her like an anxious mother on a child’s first day at preschool, while Shipley danced around them both, having the time of his life, playing a game of doggy chicken. He crept as close to Fuzzy as he could before she retaliated with a flick of her paw, then jumped out of range and waited, tail twitching, until he’d plucked up the courage for another attack.

  ‘Shipley can’t understand why Fuzzy’s not scared,’ Libby said. ‘He doesn’t realise she’s chased more dogs than he’s had hot dinners. Or any dinners for that matter. At least she’s keeping her claws sheathed.’

  ‘I reckon she’ll keep Shipley under control far better than we do,’ Max agreed. ‘He’s so much improved, since his training, but I’m worried he’ll slip back into old ways. Can’t we use him more when we’re investigating?’

  ‘That reminds me. He did one of his stop and point moves, when we were on the Santa Special, but I couldn’t understand why. He was pointing at one of the mums.’

  Max rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. ‘Which one?’

  Libby had to search her memory. ‘Mrs – um – she had a son called Joseph. Big lady.’

  ‘Atkins? Was that the name? Tired-looking woman?’

  ‘Not surprising she’s tired – Joanna told me she has five children. Do you know her? You seem to know everybody.’

  ‘Only people from school, and that was a good few years ago,’ Max said. ‘Mrs Atkins and her brood have moved into the area since then. I wonder if there’s a Mr Atkins? But I digress. The point is, I met her at the vet’s surgery, and Shipley played the same game. I thought she might have food in her bag, or something. Anyway, I had to almost drag him away. Isn’t it odd? Still, that’s less important than these murders.’

  ‘And the emails containing silly nursery rhymes seemed like a joke, at first. Someone poking fun at local people. I don’t think it’s at all funny, now. Do you?

  Max frowned. ‘Carys Evans’ death made this a serious business. One of the odd things is the timing. Why send her an email when she was already dead?’

  ‘Maybe the killer was after her anyway, and it just happened that the emails came at around the same time.’

  Max scraped the remains of his omelette
into the kitchen compost bin. ‘Which takes the emails back to being just a practical joke.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t buy that any more. Here’s another idea – what if Carys’ murder was the first event, and then, the killer thought he’d muddy the waters by sending out the nursery rhymes?’

  ‘Bizarre, but possible. A sort of elaborate game?’

  ‘So the killer wanted Carys and Ivor dead. We should concentrate on finding a connection between Carys and Ivor.’

  Max pondered for a moment. ‘I don’t think we can drop the Exham aspect entirely. Those rhymes must mean something, but I agree, events are pointing towards a Carys–Ivor link. We need to know more about both victims. I haven’t looked into Maurice Noakes, Carys’ son, yet. Stella’s phone call put it right out of my head. I’ll get on to it tomorrow.’

  Libby grinned. ‘Maurice is definitely sitting at the top of my list, expecting his mother to leave him a nice nest egg. Then, when the money went to Gladys instead, trashing her shop and demanding the same amount. The circumstantial evidence points to him, but something feels wrong, psychologically. While you’re researching Maurice, I think I’ll visit Claire. I’d like her professional view as a psychologist on men killing their mothers. If you don’t mind me going to see your daughter-in-law?’

  Max threw up his hands. ‘What’s mine is yours – or will be in a couple of weeks. Don’t forget Stella’s staying with Joe and Claire.’

  Libby grinned. She was well aware of that. ‘I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Max peered at her face. ‘What are you really up to?’

  23

  Bread and cheese

  It had seemed such a good idea yesterday, when Libby emailed Claire to see if she was free for lunch. She’d replied:

  I can’t get away from Hereford, as I have clients in the morning and afternoon, but if you’re willing to drive up here I’d love to see you. We can meet at home – Joe’s taking his mother out for the day. PS bring Bear.

  Heavy black clouds lowered from the sky, threatening rain, or even worse, sleet or snow. ‘Don’t worry, It never snows in the west country,’ Mandy had told her.

  ‘Everyone says that, but it snowed last year.’

  ‘That was an exception. Usually, it only snows deep in the valleys and high on the hills. Some of the villages near Exmoor get snowed in. I’d stay clear of those, if I were you.’

  ‘I won’t be going out in the countryside. It’s motorways and cities only, this trip.’

  Libby encouraged Bear into the Land Rover.

  Max had agreed to look after Shipley, still on the lookout for something useful for the spaniel to do.

  ‘Why don’t you just enjoy his company, like you do with Bear?’ she’d asked.

  ‘I do – but I’m sure he’d be happier using his special skills.’

  ‘Running in circles and racing along the beach, so he can pretend he doesn’t hear when we call, you mean?’

  Max chuckled, and Libby realised how rarely she was hearing that sound. They used to laugh all the time. Stella's problems were making Max miserable. The sooner they solved the murder mystery and caught the Rhymer, the better. Darkening skies accompanied Libby’s drive to Hereford, as the threatened rain drew closer. Was this a mistake? Taking the quicker, motorway route, rather than the pleasant meander along the River Wye she would have preferred, Libby breathed a sigh of relief as she finally parked in the centre of the city, within sight of the beautiful cathedral.

  Claire was already waving from the door of the small, terraced house she shared with Joe. ‘Quick, before the downpour starts.’

  The first drops fell on Libby and Bear as they hurried inside.

  The house was like a Tardis, seeming far bigger inside than out. Built way back in the nineteenth century, the rooms were tall and deep, leading back to a small square of garden.

  Claire led the way into the kitchen. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is the reason we bought this house – for the Aga. It keeps the whole place warm. Of course, it’s almost impossible to cook with and we use the microwave, mostly, but it feels homey, doesn’t it?’

  A huge quilt hung in pride of place on one wall. Libby couldn’t resist examining it closely, while Claire fed Bear biscuits. ‘You didn’t make this, did you?’

  ‘I did. My mother is from Maine, and she taught me how to quilt. Joe works such unsocial hours, it helps to have something useful to pass the time.’

  ‘It’s just beautiful.’

  Claire was busy, so there was no time to waste. They settled at the cosy scrubbed oak table, in the comfortable kitchen, plates of bread, fruit and cheese in front of them, and talked about murder.

  ‘Specifically, sons and mothers. How likely is it that a son would kill his mother in cold blood?’

  ‘If you asked Joe that while Stella’s in residence, he’d say it was a miracle his own mother’s still breathing. She’s driving him up the wall.’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed her. Max is so churned up about her that I’m frantic with curiosity.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d keep away. She’s a trouble magnet, with a worrying level of alcohol intake. Joe’s taken to marking the level in the gin bottle.’

  Claire cut a neat triangle of Somerset Cheddar, balanced it on a slice of the crusty loaf Libby had brought, and topped it with onion chutney as she considered.

  ‘But, to get back to your question about this Maurice killing his mother for money. I think you’re right to doubt it. Murdering a mother is one of the last taboos, although it does happen, occasionally. Usually, a matricide, as it’s called, happens after a quarrel or as part of a spree in which multiple family members die.’

  ‘Like the Jeremy Bamber case, where both parents, a sister and two nephews all died in their farmhouse?’ Libby shivered.

  ‘That’s right. There was also a case in 1929, when a man took out a life insurance policy and strangled his mother on the day it matured, but most often, an apparently cold-blooded perpetrator like that turns out to suffer from schizophrenia.’

  ‘What about psychopaths?’

  ‘Well, that’s a form of personality disorder, although it wouldn’t help to get the villain off in a court of law. It might affect sentencing, and he would likely end up in hospital rather than prison. But, as I say, it’s very rare.’

  Libby nodded, glad to have her instincts confirmed. ‘The sister, Gladys, pointed the finger at the estranged son.’

  ‘Don’t take my word as gospel truth, but it would be highly unusual.’

  As they finished eating, they chatted over the wedding arrangements, and the news of Sarah’s pregnancy. Claire said, ‘I thought I’d make a quilt to celebrate your son’s baby. Do you think he’d like that?’

  ‘Sarah and Robert would be thrilled to bits. Especially as I’m so hopeless with crafts, I probably won’t even manage a pair of bootees for the poor thing.’

  Claire showed some drawings, saying in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Since I won’t be making one for a child of my own, I’d love to do something for your grandchild.’

  Libby hesitated, not wanting to overstep the mark but glad Claire had raised the matter. Secretly, that had been the main reason for Libby’s visit. She had been worried by the bleak look on Claire’s face as Robert had announced the baby news. ‘You won’t be having babies? By choice?’ Was that tactful enough?

  ‘Not really. Not my choice, anyway, but Joe’s against having children. What with his job, and the bad record police officers have with divorce, and his own parents splitting up, not to mention his mother’s general lack of stability, he thinks we should stay as we are.’

  ‘But you don’t agree?’

  Claire chewed on her lip. ‘I’m getting older; almost thirty-five. My clock’s ticking. When Robert and Sarah announced their news, I thought I was going to cry.’

  Libby threw her hands in the air. ‘These men? Why can’t they see what’s in front of their noses? Have you told Joe how you feel?’
>
  ‘No. And, please don’t say anything, Libby. I know you like to help, and we love you for that, but I need to decide what I really want. How badly do I want children? When I’m sure, I’ll talk to Joe, myself.’

  That was the nicest way Libby had ever been told to mind her own business. ‘I won’t interfere,’ she agreed. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The storm had increased as she left, rain filling the gutters by the side of the road and drumming on the roof of the car.

  ‘Some problems can’t even be solved with cake,’ she murmured to Bear, as she turned the windscreen wipers to full and pumped up the heating. ‘Let’s get home.’

  As Libby drove away, the weather worsened further. It was only just past two o’clock, but it felt like night-time, with the sun entirely obscured by clouds. Hailstones hammered at the window, leaving a carpet of white stones as big as pebbles on the road.

  She slowed the car, glad she wasn’t driving her little purple Citroen.

  Heavier and faster, the stones fell, turning for a few moments of relief into snowflakes.

  The hiatus didn’t last, and the storm grew stronger, until rain was falling so fast the windscreen wipers couldn’t keep up.

  Libby, never a very confident driver, wondered whether it was safe to continue. She drew into a service station, along with a host of other vehicles, left the Land Rover and queued for an overpriced coffee.

  As the storm grew worse, she made up her mind. The Inn at the station allowed dogs, so rather than fight the weather, she’d buy a toothbrush, text Max, and stay overnight.

  24

  Ding Dong Bell

  Next morning, Max yawned and stretched. He’d spent most of last night glued to his computer, and his stomach was rumbling. He’d discovered as much as he could about Maurice Noakes, and it hadn’t made happy reading.