The last few drops of rain had dried up as Libby wandered outside, and the dog show was under way on the other side of the park. Libby caught sight of Marina leading Shipley into the ring. Was that Mrs Wellow on a collision course with her rival? It was too good to miss.
“Look out!” Something hit Libby hard in the chest and she fell, landing heavily on her back, every ounce of breath squeezed out of her body. Bear barked, paws on her chest, as with a flash of gleaming chrome, a car whizzed past, inches away. She scrambled to get to her feet, gasping.
A hand on her arm steadied her. “Idiot. Can’t you look where you’re going?” Bear whined, mouth open, tongue lolling.
Libby shuddered. “I think Bear just saved my life. Where did that car come from?”
It juddered to a halt, yards away, and Chesterton Wendlebury stepped out. “You almost went under my wheels, dear lady. Are you all right?”
Libby cringed. “That was stupid of me. Sorry. I’m perfectly OK. You didn’t touch me.”
A crowd was collecting. Max still held her arm. “I think you need a stiff drink.” She nodded. Anything to get away from all those eyes.
Wendlebury slapped Max on the back. “Good idea, good idea. I’ll park the old lady and join you.”
A half pint of locally-brewed beer in hand, Libby found a space on a straw bale in the refreshment tent. Bear lay at her feet. She took a long gulp, glad of the warm, malty taste at the back of her throat. “I feel a fool.”
Max laughed. “I’m surprised we don’t have more accidents, here.”
“What kind of car was that, anyway?”
“A Mustang Convertible. Made around 1965. It’s one of Wendlebury’s collection; he’s got dozens of them. He takes them from one show to another. Alan’s here somewhere, with one of his.” He frowned into Libby’s face. “You’re sure you’re OK?”
Libby remembered the conversation she’d had with Alan, a few days ago. “Several people around here have old cars―what Alan calls classics―don’t they?
“Most of them are probably here today.”
“Did Kevin Batty have one?”
“Used to. He spent hours fiddling around with it, he and Vince. They were mates.” Libby said nothing. Her mind was too busy. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wouldn’t tell Max, yet, about the idea she’d had. He kept things from her, and she could do the same.
Beer
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Max still looked worried.
Libby forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m just embarrassed at making such a fool of myself. I was on my way to watch Marina do battle with Mrs Wellow at the dog show, but I think I’d rather stay here for a while.”
Max’s leg felt warm and strangely comforting against Libby’s. He took a long draught of Butcombe Gold beer, taking a minute to roll it round his mouth. “Good idea. Listen, Libby, I wanted to apologise. I should have told you what I knew about Leeds. I’d no idea you’d go rushing up there in your old tin can. You could have been in real danger, you know. Don’t do anything like that again, will you?”
Libby swallowed. “If we’re still partners, Ramshore and Forest, we need to talk more. And we need to stop arguing and tell each other about ourselves. You know, personal things.”
Max leaned over to pat Bear. “I’m not good at sharing.”
“I’ve noticed. You’ve hardly told me anything.”
“What did you want to know? You can ask anything you like.”
“I don’t want to be nosy.” Max snorted. Libby tried to find the right words. “Look, I’ll tell you something about me, then you tell me something about you. Something personal. How about that?”
He nodded. “Sounds fair.”
“Well, you know my daughter came to stay?” Libby told him about the row with Ali, how devastated she felt when Ali told her she was leaving the country, and how she found the letter from Trevor. Tears started in Libby’s eyes. “I never really understood Ali. She was Trevor’s daughter, much more than mine, and now, I’m afraid I’ve lost her.”
Max took her hand. “None of us get parenting right, but I think you said just the right things to Ali. She wanted you to know about the house. That’s why she left the envelope where you were bound to find it.” Libby sniffed and blew her nose.
“And now, it’s my turn, isn’t it?” He drew a long breath. “While we’re talking about children, I suppose I need to tell you more about mine. I’m surprised no one in town’s given away my guilty secrets.” Libby waited. “I had a daughter, too. Ten years younger than Joe.”
He cleared his throat. “When Debbie and Joe were growing up, I was in banking. Living in London, working all the hours in the week, I hardly saw the kids, or Stella, my wife. I meant well, of course. I had good intentions, and we all know what happens to them.” He lifted a shoulder, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
“I thought I was doing the right thing, being a good husband. I made money. Plenty. We had a Hampstead house and a place in Italy, but I was never at home with the family. I didn’t have time for holidays, or helping the kids with homework, or going to meetings at the school.”
He emptied his pint glass. “It’s a common story. Nothing special. Stella didn’t need to work. She was bored, with nothing to do all day but go to lunch with her friends. I guess that’s where she started drinking.”
He balanced the empty beer glass on the hay. “I loved my kids, but I thought providing for them made me a good father. They had everything they wanted.” He laughed, but it sounded harsh. “Joe hardly wanted anything. He was on the way to being a scientist. He used to run experiments in the garage. Debbie, though, liked having things. Clothes, toys, ice-skates. When she was twelve, she wanted a pony, and like a fool I bought one. She kept it at the riding school.”
“After a while, she stopped riding the poor thing. It was getting fat. I came home one weekend, and the phone rang. It was the stables, to say they were worried about the animal.”
He shrugged. “I should have let Stella deal with it, but it was eleven in the morning and she was already well down her second gin and tonic. So, I became a hands-on dad and gave Debbie a good talking to.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d ever punished her before. I said we’d sell the horse, and sent her up to her room.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Here she is. She was a lovely girl. It was my fault she was spoiled.”
Libby felt sick. This was leading somewhere she didn’t want to go. She whispered. “What happened?”
“I bet you can guess. Debbie took no notice, slammed out of the house, caught the bus to the stables and took the horse out for a ride. On the road...”
Libby put a hand on his arm. “There was a crash?”
He nodded. “A lorry sped past, too close. Button, the horse, reared. Debbie fell off and hit her head. She wasn’t wearing a hard hat. She died.”
Max kept his eyes on the photo.“As you can imagine, the marriage didn’t last long. I had an affair, my wife found out. We divorced, Joe wanted to stay with Stella and I let him. I’m afraid I ran away from it all.”
Max glanced at Libby, then looked away, eyes bleak. “I left the job and came back to Exham, where I’d grown up. I did nothing for a while, but hit the bottle. It was Joe that saved me, oddly enough. One day, he arrived at the door, with a degree, a girlfriend and a job with the police, and gave me a piece of his mind.”
Libby could imagine. She glanced round, making sure no one could hear. “That’s when you joined MI6 or whatever it is?”
“That’s right. If Joe could make something of himself, so could I. But, it’s shaming to know your son’s a better person than you, and I’ve been hard on him. When he was poisoned, I thought I was going to lose him, too.”
No wonder Max had been short-tempered. Libby hung her head. If only she’d been less prickly, less worried about her own affairs, she’d have seen there was something seriously wrong. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was about to
say.
Chesterton Wendlebury loomed above her head. “Well, it looks like you’re in fine fettle.” Bear growled. “I’ll join you, if I may.” He smiled at Libby, showing his large teeth. “Seems to me, you’re a bit accident prone. Missed you by a whisker.”
Libby smiled, forcing herself to be polite. Chesterton Wendlebury made her uncomfortable. “How did Marina get on in the dog show?”
“It’s still going on. Thought you might like to go over there with me.”
Max stood. “We’ll all go. Should be fun.” Libby slipped her arm through his. He gave it a small squeeze.
The judging was under way. Seven finalists paraded round the ring. Shipley had made it to the last few, alongside Mrs Wellow’s Theodore. Marina and her diminutive, red-headed rival kept their eyes fixed on the judge, a dapper man with a shooting stick.
Finally, after waking round each dog amid much loud harrumphing, he made his decision, raised a hand, and beckoned Shipley to jump on to the winner’s podium.
Mrs Wellow tugged on Theodore’s lead, dragged him across to the front of the podium and jabbed a finger at Marina. “I told you what would happen.” Her voice was shrill, reaching every ear round the ring. “A cheat, that’s what you are. You’ve bribed the judge.”
The audience gasped, thrilled. “Oh, I say!” The judge intervened. “You can’t say things like that, Madam.”
“Can’t I just? You watch me.” Mrs Wellow spun round, to the audience. A camera whirred as the photographer from the local paper took a series of close-ups. “I’m telling you now, Marina Selworthy is nothing but a cheat. That dog of hers is no pure-breed. He only won because she’s sleeping with one of the local toffs, and that’s a fact.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Marina gasped, one hand on her ample chest. “How dare you!”
“Now then.” Constable Smith materialised from the audience and took Mrs Wellow’s elbow. “There’s no need for that sort of talk.”
The red-head shrugged free. “You’d better watch out.” Her outstretched finger followed Marina as she left the judging ring, head high, Shipley dancing at her feet. “I’ll be getting my own back on you, just see if I don’t.”
***
Back at the stall, Libby counted the proceeds. “Do you know, I think we’ve actually made a profit.” She handed Mandy a pile of notes. “Thanks for your help.”
“I had fun.” The teenager’s face was flushed.
“You know, you’re very good with children. Much better than I am.” Libby put the last few biscuits back in their tin. “Do you know when Steve’s coming home?”
“In a few days. The doctors say he’ll be fine.”
“He had a lucky escape.” Libby chose her next words with care. She didn’t want to frighten Mandy. “Have the police said anything more about the accident?” Mandy shook her head and Libby let it go. Poisoned cyclists, Steve’s bicycle, classic cars, road accidents. She shrugged, and picked up a pile of empty boxes. There was a visit she had to make.
In the rhyne
Libby dropped Mandy at home, then climbed back in the car. “I won’t be long.” She knew plenty about Kevin Batty and his old feud with Frank, but Kevin wasn’t the only victim of the poison attack. She still didn’t know enough about Vince, Kevin’s friend, the other cyclist who died. Why had he been killed, as well?
Libby pulled Mandy’s list of local people out of her pocket. There he was. Vince Lane, with an address in a village out on the Levels. Mucklington. The name rang a bell. Libby concentrated. Ah, yes, the great floods had cut the place off from civilisation. Boats, floating up the main road, headlined the national news for days.
She fiddled with the satnav, turned the car and set off across the Levels, rewarded by miles of green fields, stretched out as far as she could see, criss-crossed by drainage rhynes. No wonder the cycling club loved their days out here. Libby wished she had Bear with her, today. He adored the freedom of the Levels.
She had a feeling she was getting closer to the truth of Steve’s accident, but she couldn’t grasp any clear link with the death of the cyclists. Maybe they were two separate events? She pondered that thought for a moment, then shook her head. She felt sure there was a connection, if only she could figure it out.
She glanced at the satnav. Mucklington was only half a mile away. She put her foot down on the accelerator, watching out for more treacherous bends hidden by withy, and soon found herself on the single road to the village. The surface was smooth, newly laid, the road raised several inches, no doubt to combat flooding. The fields of pasture nearby were bright with spring green and grazed by contented cows.
She drew to a halt outside a short row of terraced cottages, left the car and tapped on the door of number three. There was no answer. She tapped again, stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor. A single curtain dangled limply. Libby dropped her glance to the ground floor. There were no curtains, blinds, nor any other sign of life down there. She stepped closer, shaded her eyes with one hand and peeped through the window. A cooking hob and a sink were visible, but otherwise, the room was empty.
“They’re gone.” Libby jumped, startled, at the voice in her ear. An elderly man in a flat cap and brown overalls nodded. “Vince’s wife left years ago, and now, he’s a gonner.” The man laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough. Recovering, he looked Libby over and pulled off his cap. “I always thought his heart would kill him off, but someone got there first.”
“His heart?”
The old man nodded. “Vince used to work on the farm over yonder, along with me.” He jerked his head towards the field of cattle. “Farmer had to let him go, on account of the heart failure.” He sniffed. “On a mountain of tablets, he was. Only a young man, half my age. I used to come in of an evening. ‘Vince,’ I’d say, ‘Vince, you need to give up the cider,’ but would he ever? Not Vince. ‘I’ll go when it’s my time,’ he’d say. ‘The cycling keeps me fit.’”
Vince’s neighbour peered over Libby’s shoulder into the house. “He was chairman of the cycling club, you see. Had been for years. When his heart was first playing up, they used to come round here often, to see how he was going. Every member of the club must have tramped up and down this path.”
He nodded, lost in the memories. “Then, when Vince got better, they used to let him pootle along at the back, on his old bike. We thought the cycling might give him a heart attack, but he wouldn’t give up. It took a dose of poison to finish young Vince.”
“Ah well.” The old man put his cap back on. “Vince’s time came quicker than he thought. This place’ll be going up for auction, though who’ll want to buy anything here, since them floods, I don’t know. No value in these houses, not any more.”
He shambled off. Libby, perplexed, wondered whether to knock on any of the other doors. She shivered. The place felt eerie. She gave in to temptation, got back in the car and began the drive home.
She slipped a CD into the car’s ancient player. One of the benefits of independence was listening to music she chose herself, without husband or family rolling their eyes at her choices. Spirits suddenly high, she turned up the volume on the Eagles, singing along at the top of her voice to Hotel California.
She rounded a bend, hidden by a small outcrop of trees, and saw the front end of a Range Rover bearing down, only feet away. She wrenched the wheel to the left, skidded on a patch of mud, tried to correct and felt the car slide at a right angle to the road. Hands clenched on the steering wheel, she hung on as the front wheels lurched off the road, over a patch of grass and into the accompanying rhyne.
Libby flicked off the music and revved the engine. The front wheels spun helplessly, failing to gain traction, hanging over the ditch. She gave up, turned off the engine and unclipped her seat belt. Someone tapped on the window. “Chesterton?” Libby opened the door. A worried frown creased the familiar face.
“Good gracious me, m’dear. Not you again. Are you hurt?”
“Not at all. But I
’m stuck.” Chesterton Wendlebury, vast bulk clad once more in full riding kit, leaned over to squint at the front of the car. “We’ll soon have her out of there.”
He strode across to the rear of the Range Rover, threw up the boot and fumbled inside, emerging with a length of rope which he fastened round the tow bar. Libby stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Here, I’ll fix it on to the car.” I’m not a helpless little woman.
“Good heavens, no, m’dear. Let me do it. You must be shaken.” Libby, exasperated, had no alternative but to watch impotently as he fastened the tow rope, climbed back into the Range Rover and drove off, slowly, smoothly, heaving the Citroen on to dry land. “There we are.” Beaming all over his ruddy face, he untied the rope. “No damage done, I think. You’ll be right as rain.”
It was too late for indignation. It would be churlish to complain the Range Rover had been speeding, now its owner had rescued her. Libby forced a grateful smile and fluttered her eyelashes. Men like Chesterton Wendlebury liked woman to be helpless and weak.
“Now, no need to thank me,” he went on, condescending. “Just be careful in future. These roads can be tricky when you’re not used to them.” He was standing very close. Libby found herself backing away. His smile was warm, his teeth large. “Look what happened to that unfortunate boy, Steven. I hear he’s still very poorly.”
Libby swallowed. “The doctors are hopeful he’ll be fine.” She watched his face.
“Good, good.” The smile hardly changed. “Let’s hope he’s on the road to recovery, shall we? That little girl lodging with you, what’s her name, Amanda, is it? She’ll be relieved.”
“Mandy. Yes, we all will.” Libby looked around, curious. “Were you on your way back from the riding stables?”
He turned to stare back along the road. Libby moved to the door of her car and grasped the handle, the metal comforting in her hand. Wendlebury went on, “Yes, had a charming ride with your friend, Marina.” His eyes were back on Libby, as if daring her to comment. “On my way home to change, now. Back to business, eh? And what brings you all the way out here?”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 10