Pictures flashed behind Libby’s eyes. She remembered Trevor one Sunday, complaining the roast potatoes were cold, retiring to his study, and shoving papers swiftly into his briefcase, as she brought his coffee. The image lingered. He’d looked annoyed, his cheeks unusually flushed. Did the papers belong to his insurance clients, as she’d always supposed, or were they something less innocent?
Libby tossed the jacket on a chair. It was going out, along with anything else that reminded her of her husband. She grabbed one item after another, shaking them, feeling in the pockets for any stray clues to a secret life.
When the solicitor had told Libby she was broke, she hadn’t thought to investigate. She’d just accepted that Trevor had indulged himself, while at the same time complaining about every penny Libby spent on anything he called a selfish luxury, like new clothes. Now, she had to know more.
Slowly, a pile of old receipts and train tickets grew on the desk. She’d found nothing unexpected, so far. She smoothed out a crumpled slip of paper, a receipt from a hire car company in Leeds. More evidence of that secret life Trevor had lived?
Libby’s head buzzed with questions. Why had Trevor bought houses in Leeds, when they lived in London? Who lived in the house he’d passed on to Ali and why had he told Ali not to put the house up for sale for five years?
Maybe he was having an affair. Did he have a mistress, living up in Leeds? He would want her to keep the house for a few years after his death, for security. The thought made Libby burn with fury. He hadn’t cared much about his wife’s security.
She bundled the pile of clothes into a charity plastic bag and dumped them beside the front door. A plan was forming in her head. She had clues, now. All she had to was follow them to find out what Trevor was up to. She’d give it a few days, until she had her car back, all serviced and ready for a trip to Leeds. Then, she’d make the trip and surprise whoever lived in the house.
Mushroom omelettes
Looking after Bear gave Libby the excuse she needed to wander along the seafront, doing nothing in particular. She’d pick up the car later, ready for the trip to Leeds. The Exham promenade bustled with early seaside visitors. Too early in the year for families with children, who were still in school, the pavement filled with older people, more interested in the coffee shops in the High Street than the stalls of plastic spades and Union flags.
Libby strolled in the sunshine, Bear at her side, head so full of mixed speculation about Trevor, Ali and the cycling club that at first she didn’t hear the voice calling her name. “Libby. Over here.” Angela Miles, grey hair piled on top of her head, wire-rimmed glasses dangling on a string round her neck, poked her head out of the door of the seafront cafe.
Libby liked Angela, who never asked for favours, or bullied people. “Sorry. Thinking about something.”
“I see Max Ramshore’s gone away again, and left you with his dog.”
“I’m just looking after Bear for a few days. I like his company.”
“Mandy’s still staying with you too. I don’t know where you get your energy.” Angela ducked as a seagull swooped past, on the look-out for easy food. She sounded odd, off balance. Libby examined her friend’s face. The eyes looked brighter than usual. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all.” Angela beamed. “In fact, I’m doing something I should have done, years ago. The trouble is, it’s making me nervous.”
“Sounds exciting.” Libby steered her friend towards the tables set out at the entrance to the pier. “We need coffee while you tell me all about it.”
“I’ve just had some.”
“There’s always room for another cup. Or,” scanning the list on the blackboard, “even better, hot chocolate.”
Settled at a corner table, a steaming cup stacked with calories in front of her, Libby could wait no longer. “Now then, out with it. What’s up?”
“It’s all your fault, you know.”
Libby blinked. “Me? Why? Have I offended you?”
“No, of course not. Quite the opposite. I’ve been watching you, since you came to Exham. You dash about, doing what you want, whether other people approve or not. Your book’s been published and you’re a proper author, now. You solve mysteries, and you’re starting up in business.” Angela stirred her chocolate. “Watching you made me realise I don’t have to slow down, just because I’m not thirty any more. I’m going to do something with my life.”
She finished her drink and set the mug down on its saucer. “Did you know my husband, Geoff, was a composer?”
Libby racked her brains. Geoffrey Miles. The name rang a bell. “Not the Geoffrey Miles who wrote music for that film that picked up all the Oscars? What was it called?”
“An Honourable Gentleman.” Angela trailed one finger in a splash of milk on the table. “I need to explain. When I married Geoff, I was very young. He swept me off my feet with his genius. He was a lecturer at the University, and I could see he would make his name in the music world. I was just a student.”
She drew a shape in the spilled milk. Libby thought it was a treble clef. “My music always came second, of course, because he was a rising star and I was just competent. His friends, fellow lecturers, were all brilliant, but he stood out.”
Angela used a paper napkin to mop up the drops of milk. “You see, unlike me, you’ve been brave enough to start again on your own.” She turned bright green eyes on Libby. “You’ve shaken up Exham, that’s for sure.”
Libby drained the last drop of cream from her mug and wiped froth off her lips. “And upset a few people.”
Angela piled their cups on a tray. “I’ve decided not to waste any more time. I’m starting a series of concerts.”
Libby shooed away a couple of hopeful pigeons. “Sounds exciting. If you’ve got time, let me cook you lunch, and you can tell me more. Mandy’s out and my daughter’s flying visit is over.”
Angela beamed. “That would be wonderful.”
***
Libby tossed a salad, flipped mushroom omelettes and poured chilled white wine into two large glasses. Angela rooted in her giant tote handbag and pulled out a thick file. “I wanted to show you this. Geoff died ten years ago, but I only found this the other day, when I was up in the loft. I’ve been carrying it around, wondering what to do. Now, I know.”
She laid the papers on the table. Libby leaned forward. “Manuscript paper?”
“Some of Geoff’s music. I had a call from his old agent the other day. First time I’d heard from him for years. He wants to do a memorial concert, ten years after Geoff died, using Geoff’s old friends. I said no, of course. I’d have to persuade people to join in, organise rehearsals, help with the arrangements for the concert. It all seemed too much bother.”
She grinned. “I changed my mind. I used to manage Geoff, when we were younger. I dealt with his travel, venues, schedules, everything. Why shouldn’t I do it now? I’ve decided to put on concerts, use them to raise money for charity.”
Angela looked ten years younger. She rustled the manuscript paper. “I thought I’d start with this quintet. It hasn’t been played in public often. It was one of the last things Geoff wrote. We were about to perform it, the day he ran his car off the road.”
“Wow. That’s some undertaking.”
“I’ve already got the performers to agree. Geoff’s sister’s coming, she’s a violinist, I still play the violin a bit, and Geoff’s nephew will play clarinet. Geoff would have liked that. It’s all on track.”
“When’s the concert?”
“In a few weeks. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” Angela frowned, suddenly anxious.
“Of course you are. It’s a wonderful idea.” Libby flicked through the papers on the table, one finger following the lines of notes, wishing she could read music and hear the melody in her head.
She tried to figure out the directions scribbled above the lines. Allegretto. Diminuendo. “I wish I knew what all these Italian words mean.” Her finger stopped mo
ving. “That’s funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look. On the last few pages, the handwriting’s different. I can’t make things out at all.”
Angela balanced the reading glasses on her nose and squinted at the manuscript. “I see what you mean. I hadn’t noticed, before. How very odd. Geoff was meticulous. His notation was always neat and tidy.”
She flicked from one page to another. “Wait.” Her brow cleared. “I remember now. Geoff must have been working on this, when he sprained his wrist, skiing. Look, see how shaky that crotchet is?”
Libby hardly knew a crotchet from a croquet mallet, but even she could see the composer had struggled to write legibly. Angela shuffled the pages into a neat pile. “I never let anyone perform the music again. I thought it had some sort of a curse on it. You know, because Geoff died. I can see now, I was being silly. We’re going to have a wonderful concert, and we’ll play this piece for Geoff.”
Poached eggs
The mornings seemed very empty, now the bakery was closed. Libby perched on a kitchen stool, breakfast mug in hand, while Mandy rotated marmalade, chocolate spread and peanut butter, munching one slice of toast after another. “It’s weird,” she said. “It was such a pain, having to wake up at the crack of dawn. I thought I hated it, but now I kind of, like, miss it.”
Libby swirled boiling water, added a drop of vinegar and lowered eggs into the pan. “I know what you mean. Sometimes, I had to put the alarm clock on the other side of the room, so I’d have to get out of bed.”
She rescued a slice of toast from Mandy’s chocolate spread and centred a poached egg on top. “Here, get some protein down you.”
Mandy gulped it down. “Mmm. Trouble is, now I don’t have to get up, I seem to wake even earlier, and I can’t get back to sleep because I’m worrying about getting another job.”
Libby ground salt on her egg. “It must be even worse for Frank. I don’t think he ever missed a morning at the shop. Did he even go on holiday?”
“Not so far as I know.” Mandy licked her fingers. “I suppose his wife will look after him. At least he won’t be lonely.”
“I’ve a feeling Frank’s happiest in the shop. He likes a bit of peace and quiet.”
Mandy laughed, and a mouthful of tea went down the wrong way. She mopped streaming eyes. “Are you and Max going to investigate the murders, like last time?”
Libby tapped one finger on the side of her cup. How much should she involve Mandy? She’d hate to drag the girl into any sort of danger, but Mandy had a sharp brain and she’d grown up in Exham. She could be useful.
Mandy interrupted Libby’s train of thought. “I know that look. You’re already on the trail, and it’s not fair to leave me out. Anyway, there’s nothing else for me to do all day.” She pointed at the kitchen clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock, yet. I suppose I’ll have to sign on, but what will I do the rest of the time?”
“I’m sure the shop will open again...” Libby sounded unconvincing, even to herself.
Mandy blew a puff of air through her mouth. “No chance. Pritchards will muscle in on the bakery.”
Libby wrinkled her brow. She’d heard that name, somewhere. “The chain of grocery shops and bakeries?”
“They’re all over the West Country.”
“How do you know they’re interested in Frank’s shop?”
“Per-lease.” Mandy tapped her nose. “I have my sources.”
“Which are?”
“My friend Steve’s got a mate who works at Pritchards. They’re buying up all the empty shops, as cheap as possible. He says they’d do anything to get hold of a thriving business like Frank’s. It’s meant to be secret, but...”
“I now, nothing stays secret for long in Exham.”
“See, I can help.”
“How does that help, exactly?”
Mandy banged a triumphant hand on the work surface. “What if they’re poisoning people deliberately, to get Frank’s bakery blamed, so they can buy him out?”
Libby spluttered. “That’s crazy, Mandy. They’re a perfectly respectable business. They won’t kill people just to open a shop.”
“Maybe they’re backed by the Mafia.”
“In Exham? I doubt it, somehow. By the way, who’s this Steve? Do I know him?”
“Oh, just someone I know from that club I go to on Fridays.” Mandy jumped down and busied herself tidying the kitchen.
“The Goth club? I suppose he listens to that music you like?”
“You mean Katatonia?”
“Er, possibly.” If they were responsible for the screeching from Mandy’s bedroom. “Anyway, I’d like to hear what he has to say. Your idea’s crazy, but maybe we should eliminate it.”
“Come to the club.”
“You’re joking. I’m far too old, and I value my hearing. Could we go round and talk to Steve at home, instead?”
Mandy beamed, and Libby realised she’d been played. “I’ll ring him. I think his mum’s away at the moment.”
Libby wiped down the kitchen counters. “He lives at home, then?”
“Can’t afford a flat, can he? No one can, these days.”
“Then, that’s what we’ll do, this evening. But, meanwhile, if you really want to help?”
“Course, I do.”
“Make me a list of the people in the cycle club and anything you know about them. Especially Vince and Kevin. I’m wondering why those two died, but no one else.”
Mandy narrowed her eyes. “Kevin’s lived around here for ever, but Vince is new. Don’t know much about him, but maybe I can find out.”
Libby folded the cloth and placed it neatly over the edge of the sink. She’d need to make sure Mandy didn’t run into danger. “Take it easy. We’re looking for a poisoner. A killer. I don’t want to have to tell your mother I put you in harm’s way. Just write down everything you know.”
Mandy nodded, but there was something about the determined angle of her chin that worried Libby. She’d never forgive herself if Mandy ended up into trouble. “I mean it, Mandy. Take care.”
“I can look after myself.”
There wasn’t much more Libby could say. Mandy was stubborn, and a landlady couldn’t lock her lodger in the house. She left matters there, and set off in search of Marina. She was certain her friend had more information to give, if only Libby could pin her down long enough to drag it out.
At least she knew where to find her. Marina had recently watched a Panorama programme and decided she needed to get fit. “Don’t want to die of high blood pressure, or heart disease, darling.” The difficulty seemed to be finding a regime that involved a minimum of exertion. Dismissing dieting, dog-walking and running as undignified and exhausting, Marina turned back to an old passion. She’d learned to ride horses at her expensive boarding school, alongside minor royalty. “At least I can ride sitting down,” she announced. “Far more comfortable.” Today, she’d be out at the stables, taking a quiet hack around the lanes.
***
The drive took Libby over an hour. Why Marina travelled all the way to a tiny village near Shepton Mallet for her lessons, Libby had no idea, unless it was in the hope of meeting celebrity jockeys riding out on the gallops.
A string of well-fed, mild-mannered horses puffed up a hill. Libby slowed. That had to be Marina bringing up the rear, in a luminous orange jacket. Libby drove round the corner, parked in sight of the stables, and settled down to wait. The open window let the country smells of hay and horse manure fill the car. Libby tried to decide whether she loved or hated them.
The single file of horses clattered into the yard. They were huge―much bigger than Libby expected. She’d never before been within a hundred yards of a horse. She wasn’t letting those hooves anywhere near her feet.
Plucking up courage, she left the safety of the Land Rover, hovering out of range, as stable hands led the horses into nearby stalls, and riders drifted away. Marina remained, her back turned to Libby, deep in conversa
tion. Libby touched her friend’s shoulder. “Hello.”
Marina swung round, mouth open. “Libby. What the―what are you doing here?” A crimson stain crept up her cheeks.
Her companion was new to Libby. Heavily built, immaculate in full riding kit, his weather-beaten, fleshy face crowned by a shock of snow-white hair, he tapped a riding whip lightly against mud-splashed leather boots. Libby flashed her warmest smile. “Sorry to interrupt. I hoped I’d find you out here.”
Marina swallowed, neck tendons working. Her eyes flickered to her companion and back. “Here I am. Taking riding lessons.”
“It looks like fun.”
The stranger turned full beam on Libby. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” His voice rumbled deep in his chest. “My name’s Wendlebury. Chesterton Wendlebury.”
Pasta and spotted dick
Chesterton Wendlebury secured the best table in the Monmouth Arms, near the wood fire, explained he had urgent business, and left. Marina had regained her dignity. “It’s not what you think.”
Libby took a sip of orange juice and lemonade. “I wondered what brought on your sudden enthusiasm for horse-riding. Where did you meet superman?”
Marina blushed. “We’re just friends. I bumped into him at one of the Round Table dinners.”
“Which you were attending with Henry?”
Marina swallowed a large mouthful of red wine. “My husband and Chester are friends, and Henry does Chester’s legal work. He has business interests in the area.”
“Looks like his interests extend beyond business.”
“Don’t be crude, darling.” Marina pouted. “Chester just happens to ride at the same place. Henry knows all about it, of course.”
“Of course he does.” Henry, a slight, balding solicitor with an air of perpetual worry, never disagreed with his wife about anything.
Marina pulled out a selection of the pins that had secured her hair under her riding hat. “That’s better. Anyway, you didn’t come all the way out here by accident, did you? I know you, Libby Forest. You’re on the trail of the poisoner.” She shook her hair loose, raking her hands through the apricot waves. “I do hope it doesn’t turn out to be that teenager lodging with you. She’s such a pathetic little thing. So pale and gloomy-looking. She might have forgotten to wash her hands after taking drugs, or something.”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 4