“Any idea how he died?”
“The police didn’t say.”
“A heart attack, that’s most likely. It’s a steepish climb, if you’re not used to exercise.”
An elderly lady burst through the surgery door, struggling to control two perfectly matched Scottie dogs, as neat as a pair of white porcelain figurines. Tanya Ross handed Libby a small box. “Put a couple of these tablets in Bear’s food. They’ll keep him calm for the next few hours and he’ll be right as rain, soon.”
She presented a hefty bill. Libby blinked, recovered, paid and left, the dog trotting at her side, tail in the air as though nothing had ever been wrong. “You’re a fraud,” Libby hissed, “and an expensive one, at that.”
Max
“Imagine, Max, while Bear and I were on the Tor, someone died.” Max’s open French doors led to a vast, well-maintained garden. Bear, his usual rude health restored, chased imaginary rabbits under bushes. He nudged aside a voluptuous peony’s blowsy pink and white flowers and scrabbled at the earth beneath, sending up a shower of dirt. Triumphant, he galloped back to drop a filthy, bedraggled tennis ball at Libby’s feet. “The mist, and Bear vanishing, and seeing that strange little girl.” Libby shivered. “No wonder Bear had a funny turn.”
Max scoffed. “He tired himself and got cold. Nothing strange about it. It sounds as though you wandered around, confused, a lot longer than you realised.”
“I think I panicked a bit,” Libby admitted. “I lost my bearings. I thought I was on a path.”
“You were. It’s the ancient way up the hill. The remains of seven terraces still spiral round the Tor, like a maze. They’re visible from a helicopter, but hard to see when you’re walking. Legend suggests the monks from the Abbey took that path, when they processed up the hill to the Tower. It takes a while to reach the top, because it’s an indirect route, but it’s easier than climbing straight up. The steps you used at the top are recent additions, intended to make it easier for visitors. You walked the ancient route.”
Libby grunted. “I didn’t enjoy it, and nor did Bear.”
Max looked serious. “Don’t forget, Bear’s an old fellow and he won’t be with us for ever. In dog years, he must be getting on for ninety. I’ll miss the old chap as much as you when he goes, but I’m not surprised he feels under the weather from time to time.”
“At least he recovered quickly. I didn’t want to bring him back in that state.” Libby wiped mud from the ball. “Tanya Ross’s receptionist would like me to believe some kind of curse jinxed poor Bear. Something to do with Glastonbury’s special relationship with the spirit world.”
“Don’t let local people hear you scoff, because we’re fond of our Glastonbury legends around here. We all know King Arthur’s buried under the Tor.”
Libby threw Bear’s ball at Max. Damp and grubby, it left a smudge of mud on his shoulder. “Oops. Sorry.” She scrubbed at Max’s jacket with a tissue, making matters worse. “The Once and Future King is also rumoured to be buried in about five other places in England, according to the stories.”
She gave up on the mud stain. “Joking apart, it was strange and scary on the hill today. In that thick mist, I lost all sense of time and place. I could have walked round in circles for hours. It made me shiver, and I’m not given to imagining things.”
Max tossed the ball to Bear, who loped down the garden in pursuit. “There’s no one more down to earth than you.”
“Thank you.” She guessed that was meant to be some sort of compliment, though it made Libby sound dull. “Anyway, after we came out of the mist, Joe arrived. The police spread out all over the hill, looking for the body. It gave me a shock, so soon after meeting that funny little girl.”
Max closed the doors and rested a pair of size twelve feet on the coffee table. “I bet that child ran straight down to the nearest play park. Kids scuttle up and down the Tor all the time.”
His easy explanation infuriated Libby. He wasn’t taking her seriously. “Max, someone died up there. I can’t just ignore it.”
“You could leave it to the police.”
Libby made a face. “They’re most likely to write it off as an accident.”
Max sighed. “It’s none of our business.”
Libby took a breath, and Max raised his hands, as if warding off a blow. “Don’t shout at me. The police are perfectly capable of investigating a sudden death, especially if the man died from a heart attack. But the history of the Tor’s interesting. I’ve got a book, somewhere...” He covered the floor in two strides and ran his hand over a long shelf.
Dozens of volumes, crammed in at all angles, jostled for every inch of space. “No, must have left it in the study. Come with me.” Curious, Libby followed Max out of the room. He grinned over one shoulder. “Don’t often take people into my study. Ignore the mess if you can.”
On three sides of the tiny room, shelves ran from wall to ceiling. A haphazard mix of ancient, saggy, mismatched chairs hinted at long, comfortable reading sessions. An oak desk occupied most of the floor space. Intrigued, Libby tilted her head to one side, trying to read the spines on a heap of books that teetered on a nearby stool. International Corporate Finance. Max straightened the pile. “Work, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. It’s one of my bad habits. My children tell me I’m nosy.”
“Nonsense. Curiosity’s a great quality. What with that and your brain power, it’s no wonder you can’t resist problem solving. Especially when you think other people aren’t taking the issue seriously.” Max shot her a grin as he brushed crumbs and dog hairs from a chair. “Would you like the guided tour?”
“No, the Glastonbury book first, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, come and look round another time. This is a favourite place of mine.” Max waved an arm round the room. “See, there’s your cook book.” Libby fingered Baking at the Beach, a collection of her favourite cake recipes. How kind of Max to buy a copy; she couldn’t imagine him ever making use of it.
Max’s finger traced the volumes on the shelves, stopping at a green, leather-covered tome. “Here. Myths and Legends of the West Country. You can borrow it, if you want.”
“Thanks.” She took the book, smooth and cool under her fingers. “I love this room. It’s cosy.” Every object looked right, from the rows of books, to the massive dog basket in one corner.
“Me too. I rattle around in the rest of this place. Can’t imagine why I bought such a big house.” He waved at the ceiling. “An old rectory like this should be full of life, with dozens of kids running up the stairs, kicking the walls and fighting. A grumpy old retired banker has no right to live here alone.”
Satisfied the chair was sufficiently clean, Max plumped up the cushions and waved Libby to sit. “Read Myths and Legends and you’ll understand how lucky you’ve been to escape the grip of the Tor. Why, you could have been whisked away to Fairyland.” Max grinned. His old fisherman’s sweater was unravelling round the neck, giving him the appearance of a North Sea trawler captain. Libby caught a whiff of woody aftershave.
“Incidentally,” Max fiddled with documents on the desk, not meeting Libby’s eye. “I’m going to a photography exhibition tomorrow. I wondered if you’d be interested.” He dropped the papers in a drawer and paced round the room.
A smile tugged at the corners of Libby’s mouth. “What photos?” She giggled as a blush crept over Max’s face. “Yours? Don’t tell me you’re an ace photographer?”
He stopped walking and settled into a battered old chair, long legs stretched across the floor. “Nothing so grand, I’m afraid, but you can’t live in the West Country and not be tempted to take a snap or two. I’ve submitted a few pictures to the show. Most of the exhibitors are keen amateurs, but a local man, John Williams, is a professional, selling pictures to magazines like Country Life. He’s showing some of his earliest work. A retrospective, I believe, is the proper term.”
Libby was more interested in the sudden glimpse in
to one of Max’s passions. “Can I see your photos?”
“Not now. I’d be embarrassed. Come to the show, tomorrow. The hall’s in Glastonbury, funnily enough, and the exhibition’s the brainchild of Chesterton Wendlebury and the company he works for, Pritchards. It’s called Somerset Secrets. The idea is to show off the county for the summer visitors.”
Libby groaned. She’d met Wendlebury, a wealthy businessman with a finger stuck firmly in most local pies, many times. He sat on the boards of several big, ruthless and avaricious companies. Pritchards, Wendlebury’s biggest business, had been on the verge of taking over the Exham bakery and putting Libby, her lodger Mandy, and Frank the baker out of business. Libby disliked Mr Wendlebury more every time they met.
***
The doorbell interrupted. “I thought I’d find you here.” Max waved his son, Detective Sergeant Joe, into the hall. The policeman stepped inside, awkward, as though he hadn’t been near his father’s home for a while. “Haven’t got much time,” Joe said. “Can’t stop long. Wanted to let you know about the body on Glastonbury Tor.”
Joe was a younger edition of his father. He’d inherited the enigmatic, crooked smile and a pair of ice-blue eyes, the legacy of a Norwegian ancestry. At least the two of them were talking, these days. By all accounts, they’d spent most of Joe’s adult life at daggers drawn, since Max’s divorce from Joe’s mother.
“I heard the brief details on the radio,” Libby said. “But they didn’t say much. Just that it was an elderly man. What happened? Who was he?”
“The name’s John Williams. He had a wallet in his pocket, with his address. He lives―lived alone.”
Max paused in the act of opening a bag of coffee. “John Williams? The photographer?”
“Is he?”
“Half the exhibition tomorrow is his work.” Max was thoughtful. “I wonder if it’ll go ahead?”
Libby interrupted. “How did he die?”
Joe thrust his hands in his pockets. “Suicide.” Libby snorted. “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs Forest. You’d prefer it to be murder, but he had a note in his pocket.”
“You think he killed himself? The day before his exhibition?” Libby didn’t even try to hide her disbelief.
The police officer wagged a finger, infuriating Libby. “Mrs Forest, everything points to suicide.”
“You’ve said that before.” Libby had twice proved murder when the police had dismissed a death, calling it an accident.
“It’s an open and shut case.”
Libby folded her arms. “It’s too easy to write off every death as accident or suicide.”
Max intervened, grinning, clearly enjoying the argument. “You can’t blame the police. Funding, lack of time, shortage of manpower...”
“What about justice? Doesn’t every sudden death deserve investigation?”
Joe groaned. “In a perfect world,” he said, “of course they do. The world isn’t perfect, though. We can’t waste hundreds of police hours trying to prove a man was murdered, when he left a perfectly clear note.” He shrugged. “And before you ask, it’s in his own handwriting. We checked it with shopping lists and so on. And he tied a plastic bag round his head. Easy to do to yourself, if you’re determined enough. No one else need be involved. So, unless someone provides evidence to the contrary, suicide it is. My constable’s doing the paperwork, right now.”
Max laid a restraining hand on Libby’s arm. “And you came to tell us because...”
Joe coloured. “Ah. Thought you’d be interested.”
Max said, “You mean, you’ve got a few doubts of your own and you wouldn’t mind if we poked around?”
Joe’s face was impassive. “I couldn’t possibly ask it of a pair of civilians.”
“Of course you can’t. And you haven’t, have you?” Max winked.
“Will the exhibition go ahead tomorrow?” Libby asked.
Max grunted. “If I know Chesterton Wendlebury, he won’t let a little thing like a tragedy get in the way of a money-making venture. He’ll be hoping John Williams’ death makes the show more profitable.”
Joe rubbed his chin. “Maybe I’ll send someone along to keep an eye on things. We can spare a community support officer for an hour or two.”
Libby asked, “Did you find the girl I saw?”
“We spoke to a couple of local people.” Joe gave a short laugh. “Amazing how news can spread. There were crowds in Glastonbury by the time the body was removed. At least it saved us some legwork.”
“The child...” she prompted.
“Well, we heard the usual tales about fairies whose appearance heralds untimely death, of course, but aside from those, there are no reports of any missing children. I don’t think you need worry.”
His radio buzzed. He flicked a switch and listened. “I’ve got to get back to the station. Keep your ears to the ground, will you?”
Mandy
As she tidied the kitchen after breakfast next day, Libby related her adventures on the Tor to her lodger and fellow baker’s assistant, Mandy. Exham’s resident teenage Goth flicked her head. A lock of black hair fell back over one side of her face. Libby closed one eye, trying to decide which side of Mandy’s head looked oddest; the left, shaved close to the skull, or the right with its single long, limp strand reaching to the girl’s chin. Libby longed to push in a hair clip.
Mandy jigged from one foot to the other. “Are you going to investigate the dead man? Can I help?”
“There’s little to go on, at the moment. We’re off to the photographic exhibition today, to see some of his work.”
“We? Max is going, too?” Mandy examined her fingernails, selected one and nibbled the corner. “So, you’re going on a date with him.”
“It’s not a date, it’s an investigation. You can come, too, if you like.”
“Not likely. I’m off to one of Steve’s rehearsals after work.”
“Band or orchestra?”
“Band. His mate lent him a new mouthpiece for the saxophone.” Steve, Mandy’s boyfriend, was a talented musician headed for the Royal College of Music later in the year. Meanwhile, he divided his skills. Sometimes, neatly suited, he played classical clarinet in an orchestra with other soon-to-be professional musicians. On other days, in black t-shirt and nose rings, he contributed the saxophone part to a local band, called Effluvium.
“Why does he need a new mouthpiece?”
“It’s metal. Makes more noise.” Libby winced and Mandy giggled. “Yeah. It’s loud. His mum won’t let him play it in the house. Anyway, Mrs F, don’t change the subject. You’ve got a date.”
“It’s not a date.”
Mandy giggled. “Saying it don’t make it true. Bet you a tenner he comes in the Jag. You can’t go on a proper date in that old Land Rover.” It was true, Max’s favourite vehicle did smell a little of dog and ancient leather.
“Ten pounds? It’s a deal.”
“Don’t forget your meeting with Jumbles, that posh shop in Bath, this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there,” Libby promised. “I’ll have plenty of time. I’ll nip back here, pick up the samples and get to the meeting with time to spare.”
Last night, Libby’s experiment with new chocolate flavours had extended well into the early hours of the morning. Samples of new orange and geranium creams sat in neat boxes in the shiny, professional standard kitchen, along with Exham’s favourites, lemon meringue and mint. Libby had prepared everything for today’s meeting. She wasn’t leaving matters to chance. If Jumbles put in a big order, Mrs Forest’s Chocolates would be on the way to making a decent profit. Mandy, selecting a new finger to bite, raised heavy black eyebrows. “Whatever.”
Libby chewed her lower lip. Mandy was turning into a real asset in the fast-growing chocolate business, despite her weird appearance. Could Libby afford to take her on full time? Frank’s bakery, the main outlet, was doing well. Frank, Libby’s partner in the enterprise, was delighted, but their continued success would mean changes.
Libby wouldn’t have time to manage all the development, manufacture and packaging herself much longer, never mind marketing and advertising, especially if outlets like Jumbles put in regular orders. She’d been thinking of setting up a proper apprenticeship. Would Mandy commit to it? “We need a proper business meeting soon. I’d like to run a few ideas past you.”
“So long as you provide cake for the meeting, Mrs F. Oh, there’s the door. I’ll get it.”
“No...” Too late.
Mandy raced down the hall and threw open the door. “Mr Ramshore. You look wicked.” She edged round the new arrival to take a peek at his car. “You’ve brought that posh Jag. How very―er―appropriate.”
Max looked puzzled. “Swallowed a dictionary, have you, Mandy?”
The girl held out a hand, palm up, to Libby, who sighed and scrabbled in the handbag hooked on to the banister. “Little bet, that’s all,” Libby muttered, and pressed a folded ten pound note into Mandy’s outstretched hand.
***
“These are terrific. I’d no idea there were so many fantastic beauty spots near Exham.” Libby and Max sauntered down the rows of photographs. “I love that sunset on Exham beach. The one with the lighthouse in the distance.”
He didn’t answer. “Max, are you listening?” She’d never seen him so embarrassed. “It’s one of yours, isn’t it? I’m going to buy it.”
“I’ll give you a copy, if you really want it.”
“No, you bought my book, so I’ll buy your photograph. Oh, here’s Chesterton.” Chesterton Wendlebury, burly with a yellow waistcoat, a thatch of grey hair and an impressive Roman nose, appeared beside Max. Libby’s friend, Marina, splendid in a floor length orange and green dress, a red and yellow pashmina, and a string of purple beads, followed hard on his heels, accompanied by a small, balding, elderly man in a formal suit. If ever there was an odd couple, it was Marina and Henry, her mild-mannered husband. Libby more often met Marina accompanied by the powerful, larger-than-life Chesterton Wendlebury than by Henry. She suspected they were more than friends.
Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 2