She thought fast, reluctant to tell this man too much about herself. “I came out for a spin to clear my head.”
His roar of laughter startled a flock of geese grazing on a nearby field. He doesn’t believe me. “And landed in the ditch for a reward, did you? Oh well, must be off, the Board awaits.”
The Board? Libby’s brain seemed to whirr into action. Could her hunch be right? She tried to sound casual. “Is that the Board of Pritchards?”
Wendlebury’s brows came together. For the first time, he seemed confused. “Ah. Well, one of the irons I like to keep in the fire, you know.”
“I hear you’re looking for premises around here.” She kept her voice light.
“Now, m’dear. Let’s not worry about business just now. I think you should be on your way home, and have a nice mug of hot chocolate. I’d offer to make you some, myself, if I didn’t have this meeting.”
He made a show of looking at his watch. “Heavens, look at the time. Can’t be late. Better get that car started, just to be sure.”
He stepped towards Libby, but she opened the door and slipped into the driving seat, turning the key in the ignition as she went. The car coughed once, and Libby drew a sharp breath. Please, please, start. The prayer worked. The engine turned over smoothly. She relaxed, wound down the window, smiled, waved and drove off.
As she drove, she glanced in the rear view mirror. Wendlebury peered after her for a long moment. Finally, he climbed into his own vehicle and drove in the opposite direction. Libby took her foot off the accelerator and pulled in to the side of the road. She needed to stop and take a breath.
As she slowed, she glanced in the mirror once more. What she saw made her gasp. The Range Rover was approaching fast from behind.
Chase
Chesterton Wendlebury had turned around. He was following her. Libby had to get home. Every inch of her body was on high alert. She trod hard on the pedal and the car juddered as it gathered speed. Don’t break down, now. The Citroen was small and nippy, taking bends in its stride. Libby kept her foot hard on the accelerator, ignoring the engine’s anguished whine.
Soon the Range Rover fell back. Was Wendlebury letting her go, having lost the element of surprise? She wasn’t waiting around to find out. There seemed to be no one else out on the Levels. Just as well. Libby, panic in her throat, would have run slap into any vehicle going the other way.
Was Chesterton Wendlebury trying to kill her? Could he be behind everything? Libby tried to think. Why would he have killed Kevin Batty?
The answer was obvious. Kevin had stopped his company from getting the land they wanted, and Wendlebury wasn’t the kind of man to let anyone stand in his way. He’d never let go of a grudge. When Kevin stood up to Wendlebury, he signed his death warrant. Wendlebury, through Pritchards, had been working for years towards his revenge. No doubt he’d soon be approaching Kevin’s family, trying to buy the land cheaply, now Kevin wasn’t there to fight back.
Libby had asked about Steve. She shuddered, hands shaking on the wheel, stealing snatched glances through the mirror as the Range Rover slipped further behind. Her questions had put her on the list of people likely to stand in Wendlebury’s way.
As she reached Exham, Libby shot one more glance in the mirror. The Range Rover had disappeared. Tears of relief filled her eyes. He’d given up.
There was her road. She screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car and ran into the house. She was safe, for now. Maybe Wendlebury’s meeting was too important for him to waste time dealing with Libby, but it wouldn’t be long before he found her again. There was nowhere in Exham to hide.
Shaking, Libby pulled out her phone, to dial the police. Halfway through the number, she stopped. What was she going to tell them? That she’d run into Chesterton Wendlebury, a pillar of the establishment, he’d helped her out of the ditch and now she was accusing him of wanting to kill her?
She cut off the dial tone. Joe, she knew, would support her if he could, but she needed hard evidence. Frank was still the likeliest suspect, in police eyes. She sighed and pressed more buttons. She’d call Max.
“Hello, Libby. That was quite a day at the show.” The warmth in his voice sent a rush of mixed emotions through Libby. A stomach-jangle and a smile she couldn’t quite shake off, along with a flicker of guilt. Wendlebury had interrupted them at the show, preventing her responding properly to Max’s confidences.
There was no time for that, now. She took a shuddering breath. “Max. I need your help, again.”
His tone changed, sounded urgent. “What’s wrong.”
“He’s after me. Can you come?”
“Calm down. Is someone there?”
“No. But he’s on his way.”
“Who is? And where are you?”
“Wendlebury.” She could hardly say the name through her chattering teeth. “Chesterton Wendlebury. He’s coming after me. I’m at home.”
“Wendlebury? Libby, what are you talking about?”
“Stop arguing. Just get here.” A sigh travelled across the airwaves. Was he going to refuse to come? “Max, I need you.”
“Okay, just lock the doors and stay inside. I’m on my way.”
Libby checked the doors and windows, then checked them again. She held the phone in one hand, counting the bars that registered the strength of the signal, as she shivered with fear. How long would it take Max to arrive? Twenty minutes? Trembling, she watched the hand on the kitchen clock tick round.
Six minutes, then seven. Maybe, if Max drove fast he could do it in fifteen...
The doorbell rang. He’d arrived. He must have really put his foot down. Libby staggered to the front door and flung it open.
Simon Logan smiled. Libby, too relieved to be polite, gasped, “Simon? Whatever are you doing here?”
“Hello. Can I come in? I wanted to ask you something.” Libby leaned against the wall, knees weak. Simon’s brows drew together. “Are you OK?”
She beamed. She couldn’t help it. He was tall, strong and handsome, and those warm brown eyes seemed to draw her in. “You’ve saved me.” She bit her lip. “Someone’s after me.”
“After you? Who?”
“Chesterton Wendlebury. He killed Kevin Batty and tried to kill Steve. I’m next.”
Simon stepped forward and hugged her. “Why, you’re shaking. I’m sure you’re imagining things.” His voice was deep and very comforting. Libby leaned into his body. Gently, he took her shoulders and turned her round. “Let’s go inside and sit down, and you can tell me all about it.”
He followed Libby down the hall to the kitchen. She swallowed. “I’m sure he’s the killer. He was following me and I only just managed to get away.”
“You mean, he chased you in that Range Rover, and you lost him in your little Citroen? I don’t think so.” He laughed, his voice too loud, echoing through the cottage. Libby’s heart lurched. She spun round. Simon was only inches away, one hand out of sight, behind his back.
Startled, Libby took a step back, tripped and stumbled across the room. Simon followed, his voice purring. “If he’d wanted to catch you, he would.”
She whispered, through dry lips. “It’s not Wendlebury, is it?” So much suddenly fell into place. Meeting Simon at the picnic and handing over the sandwiches. Kevin Batty and his love of cars. Vince’s heart condition. Angela’s husband and the accident...
Simon’s smile was cold, now, those brown eyes suddenly as hard as stones. “Not Wendlebury, no.”
Libby could hardly get the words out. “It was you, all the time.”
Simon’s left arm was still hidden behind his back. His right hand shot out and grabbed the neck of Libby’s sweater, pulling her face close. “You’ve been interfering a little too much, Mrs Forest. All that talk of manuscripts and sprained wrists. You knew I’d written that music, not Geoff, didn’t you?”
“N-no. I didn’t realise...” Music? What was he talking about?
“All those questions you’ve been asking at the
garage, about Kevin Batty. You’ve been after me for days.”
“What do you mean? I wasn’t…”
“Don’t pretend. You’ve talked to them all. Alan Jenkins, Steve, Angela.”
She had to keep him talking. “Angela? What does she have to do with it?”
He sneered. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know about Geoff and me. It was all in the past. Forgotten. Water under the bridge. I thought I was safe. Then, Kevin spoiled everything.”
“How? What happened?”
“One night, we were in the Lighthouse Inn. Alan, Kevin and me. Kevin started on about the old days, when they used to fix cars. Alan mentioned Geoff Miles’s Porsche, and the crash. He said he’d been afraid he’d get the blame for Geoff’s death, because one of the nuts on Geoff’s wheel was loose. He said it was Geoff’s own fault. He’d always been a crazy driver.”
Frantic, unable to move her head, Libby peered from side to side, searching for something to grab, anything she could use to disable Simon.
He thrust his face closer to Libby’s, spit flying from his lips. “Kevin was cleverer than people thought. He looked at me, while Alan was talking, and I saw the light dawn in that ugly rat-face. Next day, he rang me, offering to forget all about it for half a million quid.” Simon’s lip twisted. “The fool. Always after money. He found out he was messing with the wrong man.”
Libby had to keep him talking. Max would be here any minute. Simon needed to tell her how clever he’d been. His hand gripped tight round her throat, crushing her windpipe, his body pushing her hard against the wall. She croaked, “You killed Geoff? But why?”
“He double-crossed me. He stole my work. We were mates, both struggling to make a living in music. I was making twice as much as him, writing advertising jingles.” Fury distorted Simon Logan’s face. “He had a mental block. He was stuck. Couldn’t write a note more of his quintet, the one he thought would take the music world by storm. Like a fool, I helped him out. He swore he’d share the credit.” His hands were so tight, Libby’s head swam. Her breath came in short gasps. If Max didn’t arrive soon, it would be too late.
Simon’s eyes were glassy. “Nothing happened with Geoff’s work for years. No one cared. Then, suddenly he was offered film work. Before long, he was famous, his stuff played everywhere. He toured Europe and the USA, and then, like a magician, he produced that long-lost quintet. The critics loved it, and he lapped up the praise. He never mentioned my name. Not once. I couldn’t prove I’d written it. Who would have believed me? He was the maestro! He let me perform in it, like he was doing me a favour.”
Tears streaked down Simon’s face. His voice shook. “We were friends, and he cheated me. He’d already stolen Angela. He deserved to die.” Madness shone in his eyes. “And so do you.”
The doorbell rang. Libby screamed. “Max!”
“He’s too late.” Simon was laughing. The doorbell kept on ringing. Max hammered on the door. The door’s too solid. He’ll never break it down.
Still throttling Libby with one hand, Simon brought his right arm round from behind his back. Something glinted in the light. “Stop!” The shriek came from the doorway that led to the hall.
From the corner of her eye, Libby caught sight of Mandy. “Stay there,” she gasped, but Mandy ran, screaming like a banshee, grabbed Simon’s arm, and twisted it round behind his back. With one hand still grasping Libby’s throat, he couldn’t throw Mandy off. The syringe fell and shattered on the floor. Simon swore, and his grip on Libby’s throat loosened.
She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. With all her strength, Libby held on. Simon raised his free arm to strike her, but Mandy was back, the chocolate grinder in her hands.
With a crash, she brought it down on Simon’s head. He fell, heavily, awkwardly, cracking his face against Libby’s cherished marble floor tiles. He lay still.
Mandy and Libby looked at each other, aghast. The glass in the kitchen door shattered, and Max’s face appeared. Hysteria began to bubble up inside Libby. “You’re too late,” she croaked, and slid to the floor. Mandy ran to the kitchen door and let Max in.
“It looks as though you’ve managed perfectly well without me,” Max complained. Libby sat with her back propped against the wall, grinning like an idiot.
Max checked Simon was still breathing and rang 999. “Your efficiency is not at all good for my ego. We should tie him up, though, just in case.”
Libby searched in the drawers and pulled out a handful of plastic ties. Max took them. “Perfect.” He clipped Simon’s wrists together behind his back.
“Not too tight,” Libby said. Max looked from her to Simon, smiled and pulled the plastic tie a notch tighter.
Libby scrambled to her feet and hugged Mandy. “I’d forgotten you were in the house.”
“I was asleep for hours. Then Aunt Angela sent me a text. Look.” She tilted her phone so Libby could see. Steve awake. On the mend. He’d love to see you. “I was just about to ring for a taxi when I heard Max at the door.”
If Angela hadn’t texted Mandy, she would still be asleep. Libby would have died. “Mandy, you’re wonderful.”
The girl’s smile threatened to split her face in two. Minus makeup, cheeks aglow with excitement, she frowned. “But what was Simon Logan doing, attacking you?”
Max pointed to a broken syringe on the floor. “I imagine the police will find that’s full of digitalis.”
Orange drizzle cake
Joe arrived, with Constable Ian Smith in tow, as Simon began to rouse, twitching and cursing. Ian Smith rammed a pair of handcuffs on the man’s wrists. “Though, to be honest, Mrs Forest, your plastic ties work just as well.”
Simon squirmed, face twisted with fury, lips curled in a snarl. Every sign of courteous gentleman had vanished. Constable Smith dragged him to his feet and shoved him into the police car. “We’ll need statements from each of you,” Joe said, “but they can wait. I want to hear what Mr Logan has to say for himself, first.”
Max had an arm round Libby. She didn’t object, for her legs felt distinctly wobbly. Max still seemed confused. “I don’t understand much of this. Why did Simon Logan poison Kevin and Vince, and try to kill Steve and Libby? None of it makes sense.”
Libby’s brain raced as pieces fell into place. “I think I can see some of it,” she said, “but we need to talk to Angela. She’s involved.”
Mandy’s hand flew to her mouth. “I forgot. She sent another text. She’s going to the local history society meeting, and she told me to ask you to bring the cakes.”
Libby laughed. “Cakes. Just what we all need. Max, I bet you’ve never set foot in a local history meeting.”
“I’m game for anything. Let’s go.”
***
The meeting was in full swing as they arrived at Marina’s house. “Darling,” she cried, “thank goodness you’ve arrived. We’re all dying for cake. We’d given up on you and I was just about to break out some old custard creams, instead.”
They trooped into the beautifully elegant drawing room. Chesterton Wendlebury’s bulk spread over both seats of a two-seater chesterfield. “Mrs Forest,” he said, “I’m so glad to see you. After our little incident, I realised I had my days quite mixed up, and my meeting isn’t until tomorrow. So I turned around and followed you into town. I must say, dear lady, you’re impossible to catch on the road. I never knew a little Citroen like that could travel so fast.”
Libby’s cheeks burned. Did the man have any idea she’d been racing to get away from him? That twinkle in his eyes made her wonder. She let Marina take the orange drizzle cake, slide it onto the waiting plate and hand it round, neatly sliced. Marina wriggled into the space next to Chesterton. Libby glanced at Angela, who raised an eyebrow. Had no one else noticed how often those two were together?
In the corner of the room, the society’s longest-serving member, Beryl, flicked through a sheaf of papers. Libby’s heart sank. Was Beryl about to give her long-anticipated talk on the history of the post off
ice? There was only one way to escape it. “We thought you’d want to know we’ve discovered who poisoned Kevin Batty and Vince Lane, and tried to kill Angela’s nephew, Steve.”
In the hubbub of gasps, guesses and questions that greeted the announcement, Beryl gave a weary sigh, folded her notes and slid them into a battered brown handbag, snapping the bag shut with a click.
Marina raised her vigorous contralto above the rest. “Come on, Libby. Stop milking it and tell us.”
“It was Simon Logan.” As the noise died down, Libby explained. “I was very stupid. You see, because two members of the cycle club died, and several others were taken ill, it was easy to think the poison was meant for everyone. In fact, Kevin Batty was the only intended victim.”
Libby watched her audience. Each face betrayed surprise, excitement, confusion, or a mix of all three. “Simon was very clever. He’d brought digitoxin, ready for Kevin, to the picnic, but when I delivered the sandwiches that day, he saw a chance to cover his tracks. He took them all from me.”
It was embarrassing. Annoyed with Max for keeping secrets, for not trusting her, she’d been easily flattered by Simon’s attention. He’d rushed over as soon as she arrived, but he hadn’t been at all interested in Libby. He was just keen to get his hands on the food.
Libby kept her face turned away from Max. “Simon had plenty of time to add poison to the food. Just a little in a sandwich here, or a cake there, so that most people swallowed some.”
She thought back to the scene at the water’s edge. It had looked so innocent. “Simon wanted to make sure Kevin died. Poisoning the food wasn’t enough. Simon injected poison straight into Kevin.”
Someone asked. “Wouldn’t the police pathologist find marks from the syringe?”
“I puzzled over that, too. Alan Jenkins had given me the answer, quite by chance. When I was in the garage, Alan grazed his hand. He told me it happened all the time. His hands are always covered with cuts and scrapes. Kevin’s were, too. He loved tinkering with custom cars, like Alan.”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 11