Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3)

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Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 5

by Frances Evesham


  “You didn’t,” she lied, startled.

  He squeezed her arm. “Come on, let’s look round the old fort.”

  For half an hour, they explored the ruined buildings. Shipley raced in and out of the wartime pillbox while Bear investigated interesting holes in the ground and chased imaginary rabbits. “The rain’s getting worse,” Max pointed out. “Maybe we should go. Am I really invited to this sticky chicken dinner, tonight, or have I blown my chances?”

  A sudden burst of barking interrupted him. Bear hovered at the edge of the cliff. “Can you smell another rabbit?” Libby waded through mud puddles on the path. As she reached the edge of the cliff, Shipley appeared, to see what Bear was doing. He brushed past Libby, just as she raised a foot to step over another puddle. Caught off balance, she tripped and fell, rolling down the steep slope, scrabbling to clutch at grass stalks.

  “Libby!” Max was too far away to help as Libby slid over the edge of the cliff. After a long moment, she landed with a thud that squeezed every ounce of air from her lungs. Her head connected with something hard. So that’s what it means to see stars. For a moment, lights swirled in front of her eyes, before darkness descended.

  ***

  She opened her eyes. A wide ledge, a few feet down the cliff face, had broken her fall. Max was at the cliff edge, looking down, horror etched on every line of his face. “Libby,” he called. “Can you hear me? Are you OK?”

  Libby tried to lift her right hand, but it wouldn’t move. Her wrist seemed to twist at an odd angle, and it ached. She tried her left hand, relieved to find it uninjured. She waved. Max called, “I’m on my way. I’ll get a rope from the car.”

  “No, don’t come. You’ll fall too.” As she shouted, Bear jumped down from the top of the cliff and licked Libby’s face. “Get off, Bear. I’m quite all right.” She lifted her head and discovered she wasn’t quite all right. Her head hurt.

  Moving as little as possible, she stole a glance over the ledge and shivered at the drop. She’d been close to falling the full height of the cliff. Bear stood between Libby and the drop and she pulled his warm body closer. “You’re a clever old dog. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Hold tight.” Max was back. “I’ve tied the rope to a tree. I’m coming down.” Seconds later, he joined her on the ledge. “I’m getting too old for this.” He held out the end of the rope. “Now, tie it round your waist, in case you slip. It’ll stop you falling further.”

  Libby fumbled, trying to tie a knot with one shaky hand. Max’s fingers were warm on hers as he took the rope. “Here, let me do it. I was a boy scout, you know. Knots are my thing.”

  He secured the rope around Libby’s waist. “That’s a bowline, I believe. I hope you’re impressed.” He slid an arm round her shoulders. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

  “I hurt my wrist.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A bit of a headache. Nothing to worry about.”

  Side by side, they looked up at the climb. “Can you make it, or should I ring for the coastguard?”

  “Don’t you dare. I don’t want my picture in the paper.”

  “You’re as white as a sheet. Is your wrist broken?”

  “Only a sprain, I think.” Libby cradled her right hand with her left. “It only hurts if I move it.”

  “I suggest you don’t move it.”

  With Max’s arm round her shoulders, keeping her safe, Libby felt light-headed. Overcome with relief at not falling to her death, she giggled and found she couldn’t stop. Even Max was infected, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Bear remained on the ledge, patient, waiting for his two foolish humans to calm down, while Shipley scampered back and forth at the top of the cliff, thrilled by so much excitement, barking at the top of his lungs.

  Max made his hands into a cup for Libby’s foot and hoisted her to his shoulders. Her head reached a little above the lip of the cliff. “Right,” Max said. “On three.” He placed both hands firmly on her bottom and gave a mighty shove that sent her up, over the top, clinging on with her good hand as she scrambled, one knee following the other, onto the grass above.

  Bear leaped up, making easy work of the jump. Max heaved himself up on the rope and joined Libby where she lay on her back. “Take me home,” she begged. “I think I’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”

  Sticky spiced chicken

  Miss Bakewell’s stolen photographs decorated one wall of Libby’s living room. Mandy, Max and Libby, her wrist tightly bandaged, scrutinised each picture in turn. “We know these were taken by John Williams,” Libby said, “but why did Miss Bakewell try to hide them?”

  Mandy walked down the line, head on one side. “The same people keep cropping up. Look, there’s a couple of, like, hippies, I guess. All droopy moustaches and afro hair. These must be their girlfriends.” She squealed. “Wow. Sick clothes.”

  “You can talk.” Libby gestured at Mandy’s latest tattoo, a lurid design representing a skull with angel’s wings. “I hope that’s not permanent, by the way.”

  Mandy tossed her head. “I’m not daft.”

  Libby returned to the photos. “Caftans, tight purple loons and flowery shirts with enormous sleeves were high fashion in the sixties, Mandy. You know, Carnaby Street, the Rolling Stones, mini skirts the first time round...”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen the retro stuff, like, a million times. The Beatles, Sergeant Pepper, Hari Krishna, psychedelic drugs, frizzy hair...”

  “No proper hair straighteners in those days. Girls used steam irons on their hair, so most of the time it was pretty much as nature intended.”

  Max, tired of their discussion of sixties culture, studied a photo at the end of the row. It showed a girl wearing a tiny skirt and a wide-brimmed hat. “If I’m not very much mistaken, that’s our Jemima Bakewell, in her youth.”

  “Never.” Libby leaned close and squinted. “Are you sure? I mean, look at all that lovely brown hair. I suppose, if you picture that face with short grey hair and a pair of spectacles, it could be her.”

  Mandy sniffed. “You said Miss Bakewell needed make-up and a decent haircut. She looks cool, in the photo.”

  “Deteriorated over the years,” Libby sighed. “Happens to us all, as you’ll find out soon enough, Mandy.”

  Bear lay on his back, wriggling, demanding attention. With three favourite humans in the room at the same time, surely at least one could talk to him? Mandy gave in, squatted down and scratched his stomach while Max and Libby focused on the photos. Max sucked his teeth. “I’m almost certain it’s Miss Bakewell. See that mole on her cheek?”

  He was right. The girl laughing into the camera had the teacher’s mole, and Libby recognised that square jaw. “How old d’you think she was when the photo was taken? Nineteen or twenty?”

  “About that, I’d guess. Let me do the sums.” Max paused. “Yes, she must be over sixty now. I’d say that’s about right.”

  “It looks like she had a boyfriend. That one in the pink shirt has his arm round her. I wonder why she didn’t admit to being in the picture.”

  Interested, Mandy strolled back to the photos. “Hey,” she shouted. Bear grunted, lurched to his feet and pushed his head under her arm. “Get away, Bear. I wasn’t talking to you. Look, Mrs F, she’s wearing the amber beads.”

  Max thumped Mandy’s back. “So she is. Well spotted. Maybe that’s why she took the photos; so no one could see her with the stolen necklace.”

  “Or perhaps she didn’t want to be recognised. I think we need to find out more about these people; who they are and what they know about the necklace.”

  Libby gasped. “I’ve just realised. You see the girl behind the others? The one with long black curls half-way down her back? She looks like the child on the top of the Tor.”

  “Pretty girl,” said Max, “but there were thousands of pretty girls with hot pants and long black hair in the sixties. She could be anyone.”

  Libby compared the modern photo of the child with the old pictur
e of Miss Bakewell and her companions. “They look exactly like each other. Same hair, similar noses, and their smiles are identical. They must be related.”

  “Maybe. Miss Bakewell will know, but will she tell the truth?” Max began with the first photo and pointed at each in turn. “These people are probably all local. The photographs are taken in several different places, all near here. There’s the Tor, and this one,” pointing, “shows the beach in Exham. Look, there’s the lighthouse. And that’s the Knoll, just outside town.”

  Mandy took up the thread. “So, they were all here together. Could they have been on holiday?”

  “No, I don’t reckon that’s it. If they were on holiday, all the snapshots would be taken within a few days or weeks, but if you look carefully, you can see they’re spread out across a year or more.” His finger moved from one picture to the next. “Here, the trees are bare, photographed in winter, but this one’s taken in the summer. The trees are in leaf, there are flowers in the hedgerows and the girls are wearing thin dresses.” He hummed as he thought. “Yes, I reckon they’re students.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, they’re all about the same age. They’re too old to be school kids. We’ve agreed they look maybe nineteen or twenty. So, we’ve got a group of young people together for long periods of time.”

  “You’re right.” Mandy punched Max’s shoulder, getting her revenge. “They’re all students at the same University.”

  Libby added, “Miss Bakewell was reading Classics, so I wouldn’t mind betting they were at Bristol University. They award degrees in Greek and Latin.” She held up a hand in self defence. “And if either of you thumps me on the back, I’ll empty my wine on your head.” Excitement carried her along. “It’s a starting point, at least. Would anyone at the University remember students from those days?”

  Max was humming again. “Where do you keep old newspapers?”

  “In the rack, over there.” Libby pointed behind the sofa. “Why?” He dragged out a muddle of magazine, fliers and old papers, and Libby winced. Time to throw a few things out. The cottage had needed a spring clean for weeks.

  Max shuffled the pile, flicking through pages, tossing them aside in a swelling flood of paper on the floor. “Ah. Thought he looked familiar.” He folded a recent copy of the Bristol Gazette into a neat square and held it next to one of the photos. “Look.”

  Libby narrowed her eyes, trying to see a likeness. “You’re right,” she agreed. “The boy standing next to Miss Bakewell in the photo looks like the man in the newspaper. Only much younger. Who is he?”

  “A Professor Malcolm Perivale. Apparently, he presented a paper to the Bristol Antiquarians, on radiocarbon dating of bronze artifacts.” Max’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve seen him on television a few times. One of those arrogant, know-it-all experts who wear three-piece suits and cravats. He’s an archaeologist, but I suspect it’s a good while since he got his own hands dirty.”

  “And what’s more,” Libby read from the paper. “He’s worked at the University for years. I think we should pay him a visit, as soon as possible. He might be able to tell us more about these students, and I bet he knows all about the necklace.”

  “That’s all very well,” Mandy complained, “but you promised us sticky spiced chicken for dinner, Steve’ll be here in a minute, and I’m starving.”

  Libby waved her bandaged wrist in the air, and Mandy groaned. “I’d better start the rice.”

  ***

  Late next morning, Frank, Libby’s business partner and friend, loaded boxes into her Citroen. “Thanks for offering to deliver the cake.”

  Libby hovered. “Take care. The icing’s still soft.”

  Frank pointed at her arm. “Can you manage?”

  “No problem. It doesn’t even hurt, any more, and the headache disappeared after a good night’s sleep. I feel a fraud wearing this bandage on my wrist. Anyway, I’m glad to help. We can’t leave a customer without a cake for her son’s birthday party. I hope she got the ice cream organised.”

  A frantic late-night phone call, from the harassed, forgetful parent of a five year old with his heart set on a Spiderman cake, led to a rapid flurry of design and icing in the bakery. “Good job we weren’t too busy. I’ll get this over to―er...” Libby consulted the scrap of paper Frank had thrust into her hand. “To little Ernest. Ouch. Who calls their child Ernest?”

  “Think your rust-bucket will make it?” Frank leaned in at the car window. “Sounds a bit rough.”

  “It always sounds rough. Alan Jenkins at the garage keeps it going for me. Mind you,” Libby let in the clutch with a loud screech, “he keeps trying to sell me a new one. I think there are at least a few thousand miles left in this old thing.” With a wave, she drove off on the mission of mercy.

  Ernest’s mother, hair escaping from an elastic band on the top of her head, tiny infant in one arm and smelly nappy in the other hand, looked as exhausted as only a mother with young children can. Libby juggled the cake one-handed into the kitchen and made a space on the table, elbowing aside a jumble of socks, Babygros, muslin squares and vests.

  The trip to Bristol gave Libby time to call on Professor Malcolm Perivale, the man in Miss Bakewell’s stolen photos. Max was free to accompany her, and he’d suggested they have lunch at a Bristol restaurant before visiting the professor. Libby tugged at her pencil skirt, hoping it wasn’t too short, conscious of her mother’s half-remembered warnings about mutton dressed as lamb.

  A schoolboy on a scooter sped round the corner, almost under her wheels, and Libby slammed on the brakes. After that, she concentrated on the road, blocking thoughts of Max from her mind.

  Squeezing the car into one of the last spaces at Bristol Harbourside, she walked across the bridge, a stiff little breeze blowing hair in her eyes. Max, smart in a suit and tie, waved from a table for two in the window of the restaurant. Had he dressed to impress Libby, or the professor? Libby smoothed a lock of hair behind an ear, fingered a gold chain that hung round her neck, and took a deep breath. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Only five minutes. I’m mixing business and pleasure. I had an appointment with a firm of auditors in Queen Square.” That explained the suit. “Pritchards is their client.”

  Pritchards. Chesterton Wendlebury’s company; the one Trevor had dealings with. “Are they as shady as we suspected?”

  A waitress brought plates of food. “I’ve ordered tapas, hope that’s all right?”

  “Lovely.” Libby ran an eye over dishes of chorizo, tortilla and seafood. “Calamari? Terrific. Haven’t had squid for ages.” She piled it onto her plate.

  “Thought you’d like it. Can’t bear the stuff, myself, so I’m sticking to roast peppers and ham.”

  “Did the auditors tell you anything interesting about Pritchards, or are they bound to secrecy by client privilege?”

  “I have ways of making companies talk.”

  Libby spluttered. “Strong arm stuff? No, I don’t believe it.” Max was tall, trim and fit-looking, but no match for gym bunnies in their thirties.

  “Much too old for that. My leverage is more in the nature of a financial threat, if you know what I mean. Taking a look at the firm’s tax situation, for example. Amazing how willing companies are to help, once I suggest that. You’d be surprised how many financial wizards neglect their own records.”

  “I’d better keep the chocolate accounts straight, then.”

  “Or bribe me with the product.” Max served garlicky shrimp to them both. “This is good, whatever it is, though we’d better not breathe too hard on the professor. Anyway, Pritchards have a pretty complex set-up. Off-shore accounts, a series of complicated financial instruments and a lot of buying and selling of shares among board members. Not illegal, unless it’s used to manipulate prices on the stock market.”

  “And Chesterton Wendlebury’s been doing that?”

  “He’s certainly an active board member.”

  Libby hesitated, not sure she wan
ted to ask the next question. “What about Trevor? You said his name was on some documents you found. How was he involved with Pritchards?”

  Max wiped sauce from his chin. “He dealt with their insurance, all above board and open for scrutiny, but I’m afraid he was in on some of the murkier deals.” Libby kept her eyes on her fork, moving squid from one side of the plate to the other. When she thought about Trevor and his criminal past, her stomach churned. What would she find out next? She laid her fork down, unable to eat any more.

  Max changed the subject. “Mandy seems happy. Growing up, do you think?”

  Libby forced her whirling thoughts back from Trevor to her lodger. “Steve’s influence, I think. They spend a lot of time together. There’s a gig tonight, with his band. I sometimes get the impression Steve’s not entirely committed to being a Goth, though, which is probably a good thing.”

  “It’s tough, being a teenage boy, no matter how easy it looks.”

  Libby glanced up. “That sounded as though it came from the heart.”

  Max smiled, but his eyes were serious. “I wish I’d known you when we were young.” Thrown off balance, heart racing, Libby couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She waited, to see if he’d explain. Did he mean he cared about her? Was he asking for more than friendship?

  Max said no more, but went on eating, avoiding her eye. Libby, suddenly tired of uncertainties, of second-guessing Max’s motives and wondering what he was thinking, downed a gulp of wine and plucked up every scrap of courage. “Max, never mind Mandy and Steve.” She swallowed. “Don’t you think it’s time you and I decided whether we’re having a relationship?”

  There, she’d said it. She clenched her hands tight under the table, so tense she could barely catch her breath, and waited.

  Silence dragged on until she thought she might scream. At last, Max raised his head to look at Libby’s face, unsmiling. “Don’t ask me to answer that, Libby. Not yet.”

 

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