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

by Frances Evesham

  26

  Threats

  In Hope Cottage next morning, Libby scrolled down the list of names in her inbox. There were several messages from Angela, dealing with plans for the café opening and a silly, fond message from Max. Her happy smile froze on her face. What was this? A message from an unknown sender.

  Her heartbeat sped up. Another nursery rhyme?

  She clicked on the email.

  You think you’re clever, don’t you? Running around town, interfering in our business? Well, we’re watching you. Better take care. Nice dogs by the way. Especially that big one – wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would we? Maybe keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. See you soon.

  Libby filled her lungs as full as they would go, before letting her breath out slowly, trying to calm the churning in her stomach.

  This was worse than the nursery rhymes.

  Far more scary.

  So far, the police had paid little attention to the anonymous emails, but Libby was sure they’d take this seriously.

  Time to speak to DC Gemma Humberstone.

  Gemma agreed to call in to the bakery on her way to visit some local teenagers who’d been reported for scratching keys along car doors in town.

  ‘Can’t stay long,’ Gemma said, as she and PC Tim Green pushed open the bakery door.

  Mandy, sharing the morning shift, grinned. ‘The first rush is over, but we’ll be busy in a few minutes. Here, Constable, try one of these.’ She offered him one of the misshapes they kept in the kitchen. ‘I hope you’ll be coming to the café opening?’

  PC Green blushed and stammered. Libby would have a word with Mandy later. It wasn’t fair to lead the poor lad on while she and Steve were an item.

  She took Gemma to one side and showed her a printout of the email. ‘We also suspect someone’s been sneaking around the house. The cat escaped from Max’s house yesterday and he’s sure he’d locked all the doors.’

  ‘Not much to go on. We only go out to burglaries when we think the villain’s still there. Police shortages, you know.’ She read the email again. ‘I can’t do much about this, either, Libby. It’s just an empty threat. No place or time, and no reference to hurting you or anyone else. The only real threat is to Bear. But I’ll ask DCI Morrison to send a car round from time to time, keep an eye on your cottage and on Max’s place. I’m afraid that’s the best we can do. We’ll have to leave this to you. Keep a lookout for anything odd, and let us know.’

  She left, PC Green throwing a last look over his shoulder at Mandy.

  ‘Cheer up, Mrs F,’ Mandy said, as the first of the estate agents arrived for their sandwiches. ‘Things aren’t so bad. The café will be opening in a couple of days, your daughter’s arrived in plenty of time for your wedding, and you’re going to be a granny. What could be better?’

  ‘I know Mandy’s right. I’m incredibly lucky and I have so much to look forward to, but I can’t get rid of a dreadful feeling of foreboding, as though something awful is about to happen.’

  Libby was in Angela’s house, with her friend and Owen, the new owner of the café and Angela’s ‘significant other’. As Angela had said, ‘boyfriend sounds ridiculous after forty, and man friend makes him sound like a predator.’

  ‘Just call me “your man”,’ Owen had suggested. ‘It makes me feel tall and imposing. Which, as you can see, I am not.’

  Libby was surprised how soon she’d learned to feel at ease with Owen. ‘I,’ she’d said, ‘shall call you “Boss” once the café’s open.’

  ‘We need to get to the bottom of these spiteful emails, before you allow them to ruin your wedding,’ Angela put in. ‘Otherwise, we’ll have you postponing again, and I want to wear my new dress. Besides, Max might run out of patience.’

  Libby’s head jerked up. ‘Do you think so? I thought he took it very well when I suggested we wait until Ali could be there, but Robert thinks he was furious.’

  ‘Too kind to upset you. Typical Max. Has Ali given you a sensible reason for the delay?’

  Libby bit her lip. ‘That’s one of the things on my mind. She said it clashed with her interview. But she doesn’t look too well. I think she’s been on some kind of silly diet.’

  ‘Fitting into a dress for the wedding?’ Angela suggested.

  Libby shook her head. ‘As I thought, she hasn’t brought one. But I found the perfect dress for her – velvet, dark blue – she’ll look like a queen. If it’s not too big. Still, Ali’s good with a needle.’ The thought of Ali at her wedding brought a smile to her face. ‘Now, how are we going to find the person sending these emails? Max has been searching for clues online, but whoever’s doing it is hiding their identity perfectly. There are no clues at all. In any case, Max is quite distracted over his ex-wife. She’s managed to shove an oar right into our wedding plans.’

  Owen said, ‘Leaving a vengeful ex-wife aside for the moment, do you know of any likely culprits in Exham? Anyone with a grudge against you or any of the others, Libby? Especially you – that last email went a step further than a nursery rhyme.’

  ‘I’ve racked my brains, trying to think, but I haven’t come up with a suitable suspect, so far.’

  Angela said, ‘What about people you’ve annoyed, since you’ve been a private investigator. Like that Chesterton Wendlebury, from the board of Pritchards. He went to prison because of Forest and Ramshore.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘He’s still there. Can’t be him. The prison authorities will limit his computer access.’

  ‘Or that other businessman – Terence Marchant? He wanted to set up in competition with you and Frank.’

  Owen joined in, ‘I bought his premises and interest in the café for a fair price, and it was a business deal. I can’t imagine why he’d be upset. It wasn’t personal, like the emails.’

  Libby looked from Angela to Owen, but they both shook their heads. She sighed. ‘We’re no further forward, are we? Let’s forget the emails for a while, never mind the murders, and talk about the café.’

  At least those plans were moving forward smoothly.

  Angela said, ‘We’re giving ourselves time to bed in – make mistakes that won’t matter, before the visitors descend at Easter. I haven’t run a café before, so I need the practice. Are you ready to supply the cakes?’

  Libby grinned. ‘That’s something I can do standing on my head, and it’ll take my mind off these emails. Here are the new recipes…’

  With talk of recipes, the pitfalls of baking on new equipment, and the best way to display the chocolates that would take pride of place in the café window, Libby almost forgot there may be someone watching her, someone who bore her some kind of grudge, who’d threatened her and the people – and animals – she loved.

  27

  Goosey Goosey Gander

  Angela had organised a special meeting of the History Society for Quentin Dobson’s talk. Libby was glad of the chance to fill another day. The time before her wedding seemed to drag, painfully slowly, even though she tried to fill her days with phone calls, checking and re-checking the arrangements for the big day, testing cake recipes for the café opening, and wrapping Christmas presents.

  ‘This,’ she announced, as Angela’s room filled with society members, ‘is one of the recipes for the opening of the café on Tuesday.’ She carried in a three-layer lemon-iced cake, scattered with carefully preserved summer flowers, ‘I’m trusting everyone here will be coming along.’

  Jemima Bakewell licked her lips. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she enthused. ‘I’m so grateful to you all for letting me come to these meetings, even though I don’t live in Exham. Maybe I should move here?’

  ‘You’d be very welcome,’ said Margery. Margery much preferred older members of the society. Their presence helped her to keep a distance between her husband and Annabel Pearson.

  Jemima beamed with delight at Quentin Dobson’s arrival, as their guest speaker. ‘I can’t wait to talk to you about your fossils,’
she gushed.

  Libby and Angela shared a smile. Annabel wasn’t the only single lady at these meetings.

  Quentin Dobson delved into his briefcase and brought out several fossil samples, launching into a long explanation of the Jurassic era, its flora and fauna, as faces glazed over.

  Libby used the distraction to take a good look at the society members in the room. Could any of these people be the Rhymer?

  Jemima Bakewell, her eyes fixed on Quentin’s face, followed his every word with bated breath, nodding along as he spoke.

  Annabel Pearson sat quietly in the corner, beautifully made-up, pretending not to notice the glances sent her way by Archie Phillips, the Wells Cathedral librarian.

  When Quentin Dobson stopped talking, Libby had hardly heard a word. She soon realised she wasn’t alone. Everyone, it seemed, was far more interested in the email epidemic.

  Annabel said, ‘I haven’t had any more nursery rhyme poison-pen emails. Has anyone else?’

  Quentin’s angular face was alight with interest. ‘Poison pen, did you say? How very interesting. It reminds me of that spate of poison-pen letters in Exham, years ago.’

  All heads swung his way.

  ‘You mean, this has happened before?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite some time ago, now. Before most of you were born. The late sixties, you see. Not everything was peace and love, despite the Beatles.’ He chuckled. ‘Of course, in those days, the letters were real. Typed, I seem to remember, and sent by post. Snail mail, they’d call it, these days.’

  Libby heard Angela give a small gasp. ‘I remember something, now you mention it. Not nursery rhymes, but a few letters telling tales about people. Mostly, they were gossip, accusing folk of having affairs. I didn’t really notice it, as I wasn’t old enough. Still at infant school.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Quentin, a little irritated, regained the centre of attention. ‘I received one, myself.’

  ‘No!’ Joanna had let out the exclamation. She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I mean…’

  ‘You mean, you can’t imagine me being accused of having affairs? Let me tell you, young lady, I was quite the man about town in my day.’

  Annabel’s face turned red with suppressed laughter. ‘Mr Dobson, the big question is, who was sending the letters?’

  ‘The culprit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A hush fell on the room.

  Quentin let it draw out, as though he were about to announce the winner of MasterChef.

  ‘It’s still a mystery, I’m afraid.’ The twinkle in Quentin’s eye told Libby he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘The police tried to find him – or her – but no one knows for certain, to this day.’

  They were no farther forward, then. Libby felt deflated. For a moment, it had seemed they were getting close to a breakthrough. She wondered if Max had heard of the letters from the sixties.

  Meanwhile, Quentin Dobson was keen to hear about the recent emails.

  Annabel said, ‘There was mine, the Queen of Hearts, and Joanna’s Jack and the Beanstalk.’

  Joanna interrupted. ‘Mandy had one about her Goth clothes – Little Red Riding Hood.’

  Libby joined in, ‘I had Ding Dong Bell, and one went to Max – Baa Baa Black Sheep – and one to an old friend of his, Ollie Redditch. Little Boy Blue, I believe. But the first one had gone to Carys Evans – Lucy Locket. To be honest, they’d be more amusing than scary – except…’

  ‘Except that Carys died.’ Quentin was nodding. ‘Not so funny, now, is it? And I believe there was another murder at the same spot. Someone completely unconnected to Exham.’

  Libby was thinking. ‘Ivor Wrighton, the man who was killed, lived with Stella, Max’s ex-wife, and someone sent her a rhyme as well. Goosey Goosey Gander.’

  She felt a blush rising to her cheeks, and hoped no one had noticed, for she’d suddenly worked out the connection that had been staring her in the face for days.

  ‘This has all happened before,’ Libby finished explaining Quentin Dobson’s startling information to Max, later that evening. ‘And the police were involved.’

  Max whistled. ‘They’ll have records, then. A pity it’s too late to find anything today. But I’ll contact DCI Morrison. This opens up a whole new area of investigation.’

  ‘It seems we have a copycat criminal.’ Libby mulled this over for a few minutes. ‘But the thing that hit me between the eyes was the connection. It’s you, Max. You’re the one. The only person who connects the Exham on Sea community and Ivor Wrighton, through Stella.’

  ‘That’s crazy…’ Max stopped in mid-sentence, frowning.

  Libby said, ‘So, you could be next.’

  ‘Nonsense. Why would anyone want to kill me?’

  ‘Look, if you think of the rhymes as a smokescreen, designed to hide the killer’s real intentions, it makes sense. Although, why he’d want to go to all the trouble of playing complicated games, I can’t imagine. Why not just lure you into the woods, and whack you on the head? It’s worked twice.’

  Max was shaking his head. ‘I can’t see anything like a motive. And, no one’s made any attempt to harm me.’

  ‘But the other day? When your door was unlocked? Do you think someone had got into the house?’ Libby felt sick. The more she considered the possibility that Max was some kind of target, the more likely it seemed. ‘You have to be careful. Could you ask Morrison for protection?’

  Max laughed. ‘You’re worrying too much. I’ll keep my eyes open, and I’ll cut out the woodland walks for a while.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’ Libby’s voice wobbled.

  Max pulled her to him. ‘I know, love, and I promise to take it seriously. In any case, the best solution is to find the Rhymer, whatever his – or her – twisted reasoning may be. And, you know, I bet there were newspaper articles about the poison-pen letters in the sixties. If we could find some of those, they may give us a clue.’

  He settled to work at his desk, while Libby, determined to find something positive to do, made lists of townspeople she knew who were around in the sixties.

  ‘Not many,’ she muttered. ‘Margery and William Halfstead?’

  Max said, ‘Unlikely. And they wouldn’t want to upset you by getting rid of me. They credit you with saving their marriage, when Margery thought William was straying. Besides, you told me they didn’t remember anything about the letters.’

  ‘Or so they said. I don’t trust anyone at the moment.’ She thought aloud. ‘There’s Quentin himself, of course, and Amy Fisher, the vicar. She’s probably old enough to remember the poison pens.’

  ‘Some people may have heard about it from their parents,’ Max pointed out. ‘That would add quite a few to the list. Everyone in the area seems to be related, either through birth or marriage.’

  They worked in silence for a few minutes, until Max waved an arm to attract her attention.

  ‘Listen to this.’

  Libby squinted across the room, refocusing her eyes.

  He beckoned. ‘As we thought, it’s all in the local paper. Watchet seems to have been the centre of the outbreak, where all the letters originated.’

  Libby came to his side.

  He sniffed the air. ‘You smell nice. Are you wearing something special?’

  She named a perfume.

  He shrugged. ‘Never heard of it,’ but made a mental note to buy her some for Christmas. Pleased with his subterfuge, he pointed to the screen. ‘See? It’s the West Somerset Gazette, an independent local paper serving that part of Somerset. It loves local scandal, and it has page after page on the poison pen affair. Look.’ He read out the article. ‘Local MP, Sir Bartholomew Higgs, admitted yesterday that he’d received one of the scandalous anonymous letters circulating in the area. Sir Barnaby was unwilling to share the letter with this newspaper, but said in a statement, As the letter refers to innocent people, I shall not divulge its contents, but rest assured there is no truth whatsoever in its accusations. I have passed the letter to the
police, and confidently expect that the culprit will be found and brought to justice. Why are you laughing?’

  Libby scoffed. ‘Innocent people? No truth whatsoever? I bet he was having an extramarital affair. But there’s no nursery rhyme. What a pity.’

  ‘Good point.’ Max said.

  ‘You sound as though you’re thinking.’

  ‘Well, I do sometimes.’ He tried to sound hurt. ‘But I was wondering, too, why nursery rhymes? What do nursery rhymes mean to people?’

  ‘Childhood? Fun?’

  He shook his head. ‘There are much darker aspects to them. Many of them date back hundreds of years and refer to disasters. You know, Ring a Ring o’ Roses is supposed to be about sneezing as the first sign of the Black Death. We’ve been looking at the way the rhymes apply to the recipient – the Queen of Hearts, for instance, for a flirt, and Lucy Locket as a suggestion of someone with – ah – loose morals.’

  ‘There’s another thing.’ Her cheeks were pink.

  ‘Yes,’ Max encouraged. ‘A brainwave?’

  ‘We’ve been assuming all the email recipients are victims. But, what if one of them was actually sending to all the others, and sent one to themselves to cover their tracks?’

  He grinned at her. ‘I love it when you have ideas,’ he said.

  Libby forced herself to smile. ‘I want this sorted before the wedding. I’m not going to marry you if someone’s going to bump you off immediately after the ceremony.’

  ‘I’ll take care. Now, didn’t you tell me you were spending the next few days baking? You need to get those cakes finished before the café opening, keeping one of the best for me, by the way. I’ll sit safely at home with the dogs, and keep searching online. Maybe I’ll find something in your list of likely recipients of the sixties poison-pen letters.’

  Libby slipped her hand behind his neck. ‘You can’t wait to spend a few hours alone with your PC, can you? Don’t worry, I’ll leave the two of you alone together. Plus the dogs, for safety. But let’s give up, for tonight, and have a nightcap.’