Alan Jenkins was scrubbed and clean in his best suit, no trace of oil visible today. Samantha Watson leaned her head close to Chief Inspector Arnold, taking no notice of her husband, Ned, who stood on her other side. Angela, Marina, George and the others from the local history society gazed at Libby, eyes wide. Bert, Elaine’s husband, leaned against the wall, on the far side of the room, as far from his wife and daughter as possible.
Guy and the two Sutcliffes, father and son, stood a little apart from the townspeople, while Joe Ramshore leaned against the door, suspicious eyes fixed on Libby. She took a breath. “Susie drowned, just like her daughter. It looked like an accident, or suicide. A woman still grieving for the loss of her daughter: who’d be surprised if she chose the same way to die? She was bruised. Again, you’d expect that, what with the way the sea lashed the shore, on the night she died. It didn’t prove she was murdered. But one thing did prove it.”
Feet shuffled. A forest of faces goggled at Libby. “You all knew old Mrs Thomson. Lonely, missing her husband, she spent her days watching the world go by. She saw everything that happened on the beach, from her window. Some of you called her a nosy parker.”
More than one pair of eyes slid away. “You were right. Mrs Thomson watched what went on, down at the beach, and she kept a diary. She saw the murderer dump the body under the lighthouse, that Monday evening, and she made a note of it. I found some of the notes in her house, but someone had been there before me. That person shoved the old lady down the stairs and took the notes.”
In the sudden hubbub, Joe Ramshore pushed himself away from the door and cleared his throat. Libby shook her head. “Luckily, the police didn’t lock me up for removing the evidence. The notes were missing, but the murderer left behind the second sheet of paper from the pad, and we could make out the words.” Someone gasped. “Unfortunately, they were in Mrs Thomson’s own brand of shorthand and she didn’t write the full name of the murderer.”
“Well,” Samantha said. “In that case, we’re no further forward.” Her voice rang with disdain. “Perhaps you should leave the investigation to the police, Libby. After all, they know the town. You’ve only lived here five minutes.”
“But she’s been a good friend to us,” Mandy shouted. “Better than you, with your posh clothes and―”
Libby waved a hand. “It’s all right, Mandy. Samantha does have a point. I haven’t lived here long, but as an outsider, perhaps I could see what was going on more easily than the rest of you.”
She waited for the murmurs to die down. She couldn’t care less if people thought she was interfering. Susie deserved justice. “At first, we suspected Susie’s husband. Because Susie hadn’t bothered with a will, he had a solid financial motive.”
Faces brightened. If Mickey was the murderer, everyone else was off the hook. Libby went on, “But why would he wait until she was back in England? Wouldn’t it have been far easier to have his wife killed in his own country?”
She had their full attention. “I wanted to know more about Susie. I needed to know what she was like when she lived here, in Exham, where she died. Why was she killed here? Why now, and not sooner, perhaps when she first refused to give Mickey a divorce?”
Libby’s throat was dry. She took a sip of water, listening to the awkward shuffle of feet, the sharp intakes of breath. “Everyone I spoke to filled in another part of the jigsaw. I discovered the men here seemed to like Susie, but the women didn’t.” Someone giggled, and was hushed.
“I heard how Susie left Exham in such a hurry, and I began to wonder why. If she was pregnant, did the father know about the child? That was my next question. What would he do, if he ever found out? Then, I understood. Susie’s murder had nothing to do with money, after all. It was about Annie Rose: about children, parents and jealousy.”
“Mrs Thomson knew everyone in town, and she recognised the murderer. She saw someone she knew, carrying what looked like a sack of rubbish. That’s what got her killed. She’d no idea of the importance of what she saw. When she made her rough notes, she used the initial, as she always did, to remind her when she came to write up the diary.”
Libby raised her voice, to make sure everyone in the room heard. “The killer’s name begins with B.”
She waited as first one head, then another, turned, every horrified face pointing in the same direction. It was Alan Jenkins who blurted out the name. “Bert Parsons.”
Ancestors
Mandy’s mother screamed, the sound muffled by a clenched fist stuffed into her mouth. Bert raised red-rimmed eyes. “It wasn’t me, Elaine.”
Alan said, “We all know you’re not afraid of a spot of violence.”
Bert’s head flicked from one side to the other, searching in vain for a friendly face. “No-no. I didn’t k-kill Susie,” he stammered. “I never even went out with her. I was about the only one that didn’t. I was already with you, Elaine. You know that. We got married just after we left school.”
Elaine ran at her husband, outstretched fingers curled like a cat’s. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t going with Susie at the same time.”
“Wait.” Max’s voice rang out, and Elaine stopped.
Libby said, “Bert seemed a very likely suspect, but I saw a photo of Susie’s daughter in Mrs Thomson’s album. Annie Rose was very fair, with blonde hair and blue eyes.”
“That proves it.” Bert pointed at his own head. He was turning bald, the remaining hair was thin, but it was still dark brown, almost black. His eyes were brown, like Mandy’s.
Marina said, “It doesn’t prove anything. Susie had blonde hair, so of course Annie Rose did.”
“No.” Angela stepped forward. “Susie had blonde hair when she was small, but hair often darkens as you get older. Don’t you remember, at senior school? Susie’s hair began to turn brown when she was about fifteen. She was devastated, and she started dyeing it. All that fair hair came out of a bottle.”
Libby went on. “You’re right. Anyone can dye their hair, any colour they choose, but Annie Rose’s hair was unusually light in colour, sandy really. What combination of genes would give her such pale hair? And she had blue eyes. That means both her parents had blue eyes. Maybe, Bert wasn’t the only man having an affair with Susie, just before she left town.”
She looked straight at Samantha. “Tell me, Samantha. What’s Ned’s real name?”
Samantha’s head jerked up, face contorted. “Wh-what do you mean? Ned, his name’s Ned.”
“No, Samantha.” Angela said. “Ned’s family thought themselves a cut above the rest of us, descended from ancient Scots and the former owners of the Hall. They wouldn’t give their son an ordinary name, like Ned.”
Every eye was on Angela. “I remember the day we started primary school, when the teacher took the register for the first time. She read out his name and we all laughed. Ned cried, he was so embarrassed.” She put an arm around Samantha’s shoulder. “Samantha, my dear, I’m afraid you already know this. Ned’s real name is Benedict.”
Wild-eyed, face purple, Ned stared from one face to another. With a roar, like an animal in pain, he dashed for the door. Guy stuck out a foot and Ned fell, heavily, on the plush carpet. Samantha said. “Your hair’s that pale, sandy colour, or it used to be, before you lost most of it. It’s your Scottish family.”
Libby said, “Most people had forgotten you were called Benedict, but Mrs Thomson always used full names. To her, you remained Benedict, even when everyone else called you Ned.”
Joe Ramshore tightened his grip on one of Ned’s arms. Max had grabbed the other, but after that first dash for freedom, Ned gave up the struggle. He was crying, his words muffled by sobs. “I never knew Annie Rose was my baby. Susie should have told me. Samantha and me, we tried for children, but we never had any. It broke my heart, but,” he cried louder, “all the time I was a father.”
He took a long, shuddering breath. “Susie came back to England, to see Mary Sutcliffe one last time. I bumped into her in Bristol.” He w
iped his nose on his sleeve. “She still looked the same: still the Susie I’d loved. We met up, just for a drink, one night.” He glared at Samantha. “You were out with your fancy man, that policeman, pretending to be at work. You must have thought I was stupid.”
Chief Inspector Arnold stepped closer to Samantha. Ned’s lip curled. “I was driving Susie back to Bristol. She’d had a lot to drink, and she told me everything. All about my little girl: how cute she was, and how she died, all alone in that swimming pool. I think I went a bit crazy. I couldn’t think straight.”
Libby strained to hear Ned’s words through his tears. “I stopped the car, grabbed the satnav and hit Susie with it. It smashed into the side of her head.” He rubbed clenched fists into his eyes. “I thought of my little girl, drowning. Susie deserved to find out what it was like for Annie Rose.”
He took a breath, shuddering. “I drove to Exham, and carried her out to the beach. It was already blowing a gale. I put her under the lighthouse; tucked her in between the supports. I couldn’t kill her. I left it to fate to decide. She might have woken up in time, before the tide came in.” He looked at the ring of horrified faces and pleaded, “I didn’t kill her.”
“How could you do such a thing, Ned?” Samantha hid her face, paper-white, behind her hands. “How could you?”
Ned tears dried. He glowered at his wife, hate in his eyes. “She deserved it. I’d do it again, for Annie Rose.”
Max
Libby curled up on the sofa. Max stretched out in an armchair. Both nursed large glasses of wine. Bear and Fuzzy jostled for position on the floor, in front of the fire. Mandy had gone to Bristol with her mother. “I’ll be back the moment she starts nagging,” she whispered to Libby. “See you tomorrow, probably.”
“The town will pay for Susie’s headstone,” Max said. “It’s going to say, Loving Mother of Annie Rose. We won’t take the money from her estate. Mickey’s welcome to it. It won’t do him any good.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Think, Libby. He’s probably a bigamist. He was still married to Susie, when he went through some sort of a ceremony with his film star wife. I guess he always hoped Susie might die first so he could get his hands on her money. I’ve already emailed some law-enforcement contacts in California. He’ll end up in gaol, I hope, and with any luck, his new wife will sue for damages and he’ll be ruined.”
It took a while for Libby to stop laughing. “I’m glad about the headstone. I’m sure Annie Rose was all Susie really cared about, in the end.”
Max asked, “How did you know Susie was pregnant when she left Exham? You weren’t here, then.”
“Ever since the day I dressed up in that Victorian costume, at Mangotsfield Hall, I’ve had a feeling I was missing something. It was the costume, you see. There were layers of clothes; petticoats and skirts and corsets. I think I said, ‘I could put on pounds and no one would notice.’ The point was, you could hide anything under there. It rang a bell, because my son had told me about one of my husband’s ancestors, a maid, who ‘got into trouble.’ But I didn’t put it all together at first. I didn’t think about Susie hiding her bump, to trap Mickey into believing he was Annie Rose’s father.”
Libby took a large mouthful of wine. “About the document I gave you.” Max pulled the single sheet of paper out of his pocket. “What do you want to do with it?”
He unfolded it, reading in silence. “You’re right about everything,” he said, when he finished. “Bert, Mickey, Samantha, Ned. You’re right about me, too. I never quite got over Susie. I met my wife in Bath, but the marriage was a mistake. Joe grew up living with my wife. I don’t think he ever forgave me, even though she left me. Divorce is tough on a child.” He shrugged. “I made my fortune, bought the big house and salted money away in the stock market. But there was always something missing. I guess I craved excitement.”
He raised one eyebrow. “When I retired early from the bank, I looked around for something else to do: something that could give me the buzz banking lacked. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what I do, or who I work for.” He waved the paper at Libby. “I can’t comment on your last sentence.”
Libby smiled. Not commenting was as good as admitting her conclusions were correct. The last sentence read, Secret Service. “I suppose it’s because of your job you were so keen for an excuse go to the States. Or were you heading somewhere else?”
“On my way to Bolivia, actually, but you’re right. It was useful to have an excuse.” Max’s smile was enigmatic. Whatever the job description, he was keeping it to himself.
“Tell me about Alan Jenkins. I know he’s one of your old mates, but you wouldn’t have been able to get him out of trouble with the police, if you didn’t have contacts.”
“You’re quite a sleuth, Libby. The ringing gang was part of a vehicle fraud, where the proceeds were laundered and sent to Latin America, to finance the drug trade. Joe discovered it, and he was on the point of arresting Alan, who had no idea what he was getting into. Joe wasn’t too pleased when I stepped in.”
“That gave him another reason to be mad at you.”
Max drained his glass. “I’m not easy to know, Libby. You’ll find that, if you let me stick around.” He stood up. “Do you want me to go, now, and let you get on with your new life? What’s it going to be: a patisserie or a chocolatier?” Libby’s body ached with tiredness. Her brain had all but stopped working, but at least she knew she didn’t want Max to disappear from her life.
She took the document from his hand, tore it into small pieces, and tossed them into the fire. “There’s a whole lot of things I don’t know, at the moment, but I’ll think about it all tomorrow. For now, let’s just finish the wine.”
Thank you for reading
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Murder on the Levels
Amateur female sleuth Libby Forest is about to realise her dream of selling hand-made chocolates when disaster strikes. Two cyclists die and the bakery gets the blame. Libby runs into trouble as she sets out to solve the mystery, save the bakery and rescue her career, helped by Bear, an enormous Carpathian Sheepdog, Fuzzy, an aloof marmalade cat and the handsome, secretive Max Ramshore.
CLICK to start reading Murder on the Levels now.
CHAPTER ONE
The warm tang of yeast percolated through Exham on Sea’s bakery. “This must be the quietest place on the planet.” Libby Forest didn’t mean to complain, but there hadn’t been much excitement here, lately.
Frank, the baker, dumped a pair of disposable gloves in the kitchen bin, hoisted a crate of fresh loaves, grunted and shuffled backwards through the door. “Time to revamp the bakery, then. Make some space for those hand-made Forest Chocolates.” Libby’s knife clattered to the table. Had she heard right?
Mandy, Exham on Sea’s resident teenage Goth, pumped a tattooed arm. “Our very first proper chocolate shop.”
A big fat grin forced its way across Libby’s face. It was weeks since she’d presented her business plan. Frank had sucked his teeth, scratched an ear and mumbled, “We’ll see.” She’d almost given up hope. Maybe it was the constant supply of free samples that wore him down.
His head bobbed back around the door. “Are you in a fit state to drive, Libby? The cycling club left their sandwiches in the van.” He thrust packages into Libby’s arms.
Mandy giggled. “Too busy stuffing themselves with free chocolates. Kevin Batty gobbled up at least three lemon meringue truffles.”
Still in a daze, Libby loaded the sandwiches into her ancient purple Citroen, crunched the gears and drove out onto the Somerset Levels, following the cyclists’ route through corkscrew lanes, beneath a broad blue spring sky. Her head whirled with plans for packaging, marketing, future outlets and e
xotic new chocolate flavours. She turned up the CD player and bellowed We Are The Champions at the top of her voice. Why not? No one could hear it, in this peaceful corner of the West Country.
The car squealed round a corner, narrowly avoiding a row of bicycles propped against a wooden fence. It lurched to a halt and Libby jumped out. Beyond an open gate, clumps of sedge and willow lined the placid waters of a stream. Moorhens ducked in and out of overhanging branches, and a pair of geese honked in the distance.
Libby slithered on the grass. Patches of mud, still damp from a brief overnight rainstorm, squelched under her feet. Not quite a country girl yet, then. She’d keep a pair of wellies in the car in future.
A hand grasped her elbow. “Careful.” A few years older than Libby, Simon Logan had pleasing pepper and salt hair and a warm smile, and almost managed to make Lycra look elegant. As Mandy, Libby’s lodger and self-appointed dating advisor, had pointed out, “He’s divorced, no children, retired university lecturer, conductor of the local orchestra and much richer than Max Ramshore. He’ll do for you, Mrs F.”
Enjoying a sudden, welcome independence, since her husband’s heart attack ended their unsatisfactory marriage, Libby had scoffed at the idea. Intent on building a business and a new life, she didn’t need male complications, thank you. Max Ramshore was hardly more than an acquaintance. She’d worked with the secretive ex-banker on Exham’s recent celebrity murder investigation, but he’d left town without so much as a word.
“Lovely morning.” Simon Logan’s deep brown voice resonated pleasantly in Libby’s ears, but she had no time to reply. Kevin Batty intervened, wiping streaks of sweat from sallow cheeks. His pointy-chinned, pink-eyed face lacked only a set of stiff whiskers, to complete the resemblance to an over-friendly rodent.
He stood so close, Libby could count the pores on his nose. “Mrs Forest. Why don’t you join us?” What’s more, he’d been eating garlic.
Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) Page 11