Miss Bakewell removed her glasses, breathed on the lenses and scrubbed at them with a scrap of handkerchief. “A warning,” she whispered. “That’s what it is. From all those years ago.”
Goose-bumps prickled the skin of Libby’s arms, but Max snorted. “Come on. There must be millions of amber beads lying around in jewellery boxes across the country. Amber’s not a precious stone and anyone could have dropped it. I bet it’s nothing to do with the necklace, anyway,”
Libby cleared her throat. He was right. With any luck, Max hadn’t noticed her moment of foolish panic. She said, “We all know John Williams didn’t die because of some magic curse. I heard what you said at the exhibition, Miss Bakewell, when you saw the photographs. It wasn’t the beads that bothered you, it was someone you saw in the picture; a friend. Don’t you think it’s time you told us what happened to Catriona?”
Miss Bakewell’s hand flew to her chest. Colour leached out of her face, leaving her pale, eyes staring. Libby pushed her advantage. “We’re not leaving until you explain.”
The woman seemed to shrink. “I knew Catriona well, many years ago, when we were young. It was a shock, seeing the child in the photograph. She looked so like Catriona. You see, Catriona died.”
Libby gulped. “How did she die?”
The woman shrugged. “It was an accident at a party. She fell out of a window. She was on drugs, you see. After all, it was the sixties.”
***
Libby ran after Max as he hurried down the path. The shock of thinking he might be dead had overcome the anger and shame she’d felt when he turned her down. Seeing him safe in Miss Bakewell’s house, her heart had leapt. That told Libby everything she needed to know. She loved the man. Even if Max never returned her feelings, she couldn’t bear to lose him from her life. She’d been a fool, doing her best to drive him away, because he’d asked for more time. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Wait for me, Max.”
He turned and smiled, and Libby’s heart lurched. It was hard to hide her feelings, now she understood them, but she had to try. “How much of that did you believe?” There, that sounded sufficiently matter-of-fact.
“Hardly any. She’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes with all that ‘curse of the beads’ malarkey. Misdirect us.”
Libby nodded. “I believe Catriona’s death is important. When Miss Bakewell saw the girl in the photo and mistook her for the woman who’d died, back in the sixties, she was terrified.” Libby paused, one hand on the door of the Land Rover. “It’s difficult, sifting through to find out what’s true. We don’t even know if more beads were really found at Deer Leap. Anyone could tell the press a trumped-up story.”
“Including Miss Bakewell.”
As they fastened their seat belts, Libby pondered. “No, I don’t think she did it. She was genuinely scared.”
“You know what I think?” Max put the key in the ignition. “I think she’s got a thing going for the professor. That’s why she’s so upset about the explosion. It might have nothing to do with the amber beads.” He turned. “Libby, are you listening?”
Libby swallowed. “Sorry.” Her voice shook. She hadn’t intended this to happen. She cleared her throat.
“What’s the matter?”
If only he’d stop looking at me like that, as if he cares. “Nothing.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
A sob rose in Libby’s throat. She muttered. “She’s not the only one who thought someone died.”
“What?” Two vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “Oh. You mean...”
Libby sniffed hard, keeping tears at bay. “Yes.” She couldn’t stop her voice squeaking. “When I heard about the explosion, I thought you’d been killed.”
“Oh, Libby.” His arms slid round Libby’s back, pulling her close. “I should have realised.” Her face was against his shoulder, his woody scent filling her head, her voice muffled by his jacket.
She muttered, “The people at the history meeting were ghouls, wondering if anyone died, while all I could think about was―was you.”
Max looked into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Libby,” he murmured, and for once there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice or face. “I didn’t think...” Libby scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
Max smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I should have realised you’d be upset. I would have been, if it were you.”
“Really?” She tried a laugh. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Is it?” The frown was back. “Then, I should be ashamed of myself. You’re a wonderful person, Libby Forest.”
“If that’s the beginning of a ‘you’re too good for me’ speech, you can shut up, right now. I’m not a teenager.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s not funny.”
“No.” Max fixed his gaze on the windscreen. His smile had disappeared. “It’s not.” He started the engine.
Trevor
That evening, Libby roamed around the house, searching for any distraction from the questions hammering in her head. She flicked through every channel on television, dropped the remote control in disgust, and started the latest John Grisham novel. She read the first chapter twice. With a groan, she snapped the book shut. She hadn’t taken in a single word.
It was Trevor’s fault. Libby managed not to think about Jemima Bakewell and the beads, and with a supreme effort of will, she could even force Max Ramshore out of her mind, but she couldn’t stop returning to thoughts of Trevor. The trouble was, every time she remembered her husband and the financial mess he’d left behind, her stomach heaved with anxiety. She’d never rest until she knew the full story of his crimes.
She headed to the study. Fuzzy lay stretched across the computer keyboard, tail dangling in front of the desk drawer. Libby gave her a nudge. “Shift over, will you?” The cat stared, unmoving, through slitted eyes. Libby pushed harder. “Come on, you silly animal.” Fuzzy stretched, sighed, and turned round twice. Libby seized her chance to grab the folder containing Trevor’s papers from the drawer, before the cat settled down in exactly the same position as before.
Two cups of coffee later, Libby had read and re-read every word of the documents in the folder. One question kept pounding in her head. Trevor told Ali not to do anything with the house for five years. What was that about? Why did she have to wait? Could it be a mortgage, perhaps? Libby flipped back to the top of the letter he sent Ali, and the date leapt out at her. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she noticed it before? Call yourself an investigator? Fuzzy blinked. Libby had spoken aloud.
The letter was dated six years ago. Trevor died last year. He’d told Ali she could sell the house then. How odd. Libby couldn’t ask Ali about it, because she was doing good works in the rain forest with her new boyfriend. Her calls home were too short, and reception in the Amazon too uncertain, for sensitive discussions.
Libby had never raised the subject of the houses with her son, Robert, even though she knew Trevor gave him a property. Nervous, she dialled his mobile number.
“Hello, Mum. Is everything all right? I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Robert hated the phone.
“Everything’s fine, but I need to ask you about that house your father gave you.” In the silence that followed, she heard her heart beat.
At last, Robert replied. “How do you know about that?” No guilt, or apology for hiding it from his mother. Libby had to bite back angry words, for Robert couldn’t have known about the mess Trevor left behind. “Robert, I know he gave a house to you, and one to Ali. Did he say when you could sell it?”
Her son cleared his throat. “Oh―er―well.” At least he had the grace to sound uncomfortable. It was unfair of Trevor to make his children keep secrets from their mother. The sad truth was, Libby married a weak-willed fool who’d died and left her stranded, with a mess to clear up.
The phone fell from Libby’s hand and clattered on the desk. Fuzzy yowled and jumped away, but Libby took no notice. An idea, so sho
cking she could hardly bear to acknowledge it, had leapt fully-formed into her mind. Trevor knew something might happen to him, and he’d done his best to provide for his children. He’d made sure the links between the purchase of the houses and his shady deals would be buried so deep they’d be almost impossible to unravel after his death. He’d known things were likely to go wrong. Libby whispered, through dry lips. “He knew he was going to die.”
She pressed one hand hard against her mouth, fumbling for the phone with the other. She could hear Robert’s voice. “Mum, are you still there?”
“Sorry, darling.” She tried to sound unconcerned. “I was wondering about the house. Did you sell it, once the five years were up?”
“Look, Mum, I wanted to tell you, but Dad said no, you weren’t to be worried. He said I could sell it and take the money after a few years, but then―well―he died. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of the house he gave me.” Libby closed her eyes, trying to understand. Trevor, concerned she might be worried? That didn’t sound like her husband. “Dad said you were upset about Ali and the drugs thing, and he and I needed to look after you.”
Libby sank on to a chair. Robert had never before referred to that dreadful day when Ali rang from the police station. Possession of illegal substances; that was the crime. Libby felt sick at the memory. She’d been drenched in guilt, even though Ali had so little cannabis in her bag the police let her off with a caution. Libby always blamed herself for letting Ali run off the rails. To think Robert knew, all the time.
“Your Dad shouldn’t have put the burden on you, Robert. That wasn’t fair,” Libby said. “I know about the houses―yours and Ali’s, and it’s fine with me. You do whatever you want.” She was babbling. The awful thing in her mind stopped her thinking straight. “I wanted to check―find out―let you know you don’t have to hide things from me.”
Robert sounded relieved. “Thanks, Mum. I’ve got to go, but I’d like to come home soon, if that’s all right? Catch up?”
Libby stared at the phone. Her son hadn’t been to see her for months.
“Mum?”
“Of course. Please come.”
“Can I bring Sarah?”
***
“Mrs F? Shouldn’t you be in bed at this time of night?” Libby was making bread, taking out her feelings on the dough.
She registered Mandy’s flushed face, smudged lipstick and bright eyes, and thumped the dough harder. “Looks like you’ve had fun.”
“What’s wrong?” Mandy spooned instant coffee into a mug. “Won’t make you one. You look wired already. You know it’s after midnight?”
Libby grunted, pounded the bread into shape, turned it into a tin and dumped it in the oven. “If that doesn’t rise, I’m giving up and moving back to London.”
“Anything I can do?”
Libby swept a cloth over the counter with unnecessary force. “It’s just life.”
“I know. Life sucks.” Mandy rescued a jug of milk. Libby flung the cloth into the sink and flopped onto a stool, head resting on her hands.
“Want to talk?”
“Give me a minute.” It wasn’t fair to burden Mandy with her problems. Libby wiped her sleeve across both eyes, blew her nose, and forced a smile on her face. “Sorry. I was having a moment. About my husband.” Mandy deserved more than that. “And Max, actually.”
“Men. What are they like?”
Libby managed a watery smile. She wished she could tell Mandy the truth. Her husband was a crook, she suspected he hadn’t died of a heart attack after all, and Max had turned down her offer of a relationship. Things couldn’t really get worse.
She let her breath out in a long sigh. Mandy had enough problems in her own family. She’d moved in with Libby to escape them and it wasn’t fair to dump the landlady’s woes on the lodger. “Cheer me up. Tell me about Steve.”
Mandy’s face melted into that dreamy expression only first true love could conjure. The gig had been wonderful, Steve had been amazing, and the audience had been phenomenal. Mandy’s enthusiasm, pink cheeks and ear-to-ear grin lifted Libby’s mood an inch or too from the mire of gloom. So what if Max didn’t share her feelings? Who cared if Trevor hadn’t died of natural causes? The world was still turning.
Libby yawned and forced a smile. “I’m truly happy you had such a good evening. Sorry to be grumpy. Hope I didn’t spoil things.”
“You go to bed. I’ll take the bread out when it’s cooked. Everything will look better in the morning.”
Tears welled in Libby’s eyes. Somehow, she and Mandy had reversed their roles. “I’m sure it will,” she mumbled, like a tired child. Her life was a mess. She didn’t want to think about it any more. Far better to keep her mind busy with the murder on the Tor. She’d forget about Max and Trevor and concentrate on Jemima Bakewell, Catriona and Professor Perivale.
Tanya
Bear tugged on the lead, dragging Libby through the door of the vet’s surgery where Tanya Ross was reaching for a pack of worming tablets. The dog reared up on his hind legs, placed a pair of heavy front paws on her shoulders and licked the vet’s face. Libby tugged his collar. “Get down, Bear.”
He dropped to all fours as Tanya wiped drool from her cheek. “I haven’t had a hug like that all day.” She eyed Libby. “There’s not much wrong with him today, so how can I help you?”
“I wanted to have a word with you about Jemima Bakewell.”
Tanya’s eyes slid away. “I’m sorry. Who did you say? Bakewell? Like the tarts?” Tension in the vet’s voice killed the lame joke.
“I think you know her. Weren’t you at University together?” The vet was motionless, as though holding her breath. “With Jemima Bakewell and Professor Perivale? Bristol in the sixties?” Libby waved at the certificate on the wall. “According to that, you were contemporaries.”
Tanya Ross swallowed. “So what if we were? I haven’t seen either of them for years.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “Now, the receptionist will be back soon, and I’ve got appointments, so I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. People have died.”
“Is that any of your business? You don’t know them. You’ve only...”
Libby cut her off with a sigh. “I know, I’ve only lived in the area for a short while. If I had a pound for every time one of you locals told me that, I’d be living in one of those houses by the golf course.”
The ghost of a smile spread over Tanya’s face. She pushed past Libby. “Come into my room.” Bear sniffed at Tanya’s pockets and the vet brought out a handful of dog treats. She beckoned Libby to follow and opened a door marked Private, where racks of professional journals climbed the walls and a computer covered most of the surface of a small desk.
The two women perched on small brown tub chairs, on opposite sides of a cheap, deal coffee table. A textbook lay open on the desk. Libby averted her eyes from a lurid diagram of the lungs and heart of some unknown animal. Tanya snapped the book shut. “Coffee?”
Libby shook her head. “Information.”
“I don’t see why I should tell you anything.”
“You won’t put me off by saying, ‘It’s none of your business.’ I was there, up on the Tor with no one else around except a child, and just after I left, John Williams’ body was dumped with a plastic bag round his head. That makes it my business.” Libby remembered every detail. “That poor child could have found it, and the thought of that makes my blood boil. So don’t tell me to walk away. I’m determined to find out what’s been going on. If you know something, you’d better tell me.” Libby paused, waited and added, “For Catriona’s sake.”
The shot hit home and the vet’s mouth dropped open. “What do you know about Catriona?”
“I know she was your friend. There was a group of you, all at University together. Catriona was one of that group and she died. At a party.” The vet shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Were you there, the night Catriona d
ied?”
Tanya chewed her lip, her eyes on the table, focused on the closed veterinary textbook. She murmured, “None of us was in the room when Catriona fell out of the window. We were all downstairs.”
“That’s what Miss Bakewell said.” Was that a tiny sigh of relief? Libby let it go, for the moment. If the vet thought she’d sidestepped a difficult question, she’d be likely to open up and tell Libby more than she intended. “Tell me about Catriona?”
Tanya looked up from the book on the table. Her eyes were too bright. “She was beautiful. She cared about people. If you had a problem, she’d always listen―really listen.” A smile lit the woman’s face, then faded. “We shared a house, Jemima, Catriona and me, and while we were there, I was happier than I’d ever been in my life. My own home was a place where we kept a stiff upper lip and spoke when we were spoken to. I came to University to escape, and I found Catriona.” Tanya pressed a balled-up tissue to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I haven’t talked about it for so long.”
Libby, careful not to shatter the woman’s mood, kept her voice low. “You found Catriona and...?”
The vet drew a shaky breath. “Everything was fine until that night.”
“What night? What happened?”
“It was the May Ball. We were all there. I wore a long, velvet dress. Navy blue. Catriona said it matched my eyes. She had a red top with enormous sleeves. She looked wonderful; like a queen. Even Jemima seemed pretty, that night, but the two of them had far too much to drink, and they had a fight over that stupid necklace…” The vet fumbled in her pocket for a new tissue.
“The beads belonged to Jemima, didn’t they?”
Tanya’s lip curled. “Malcolm Perivale gave them to her. She said she found them, but no one believed her. Malcolm stole the necklace from some dig he was working on in Glastonbury, and gave them to her. They were going out together, you see. What he saw in her, no one could understand.”
Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 7