Murder at the Cathedral

by Frances Evesham

  He balanced books on the stair rail, scratching his head with one hand. “Now, what did you ask? Oh, yes, was it an accident? Hmm. Funny sort of accident, getting a chain round the neck.” He chortled. “Someone did him in, and that’s a fact.”

  “What about suicide?”

  “You mean, could he have made a noose from the chain?” The librarian’s face wrinkled in thought. “No, that wouldn’t work. The ceiling’s too high. He wouldn’t be able to get up there, even if he climbed on the benches…”

  “Was the chain still attached to a book?”

  “No. Just round his neck.” The man seemed to warm to his topic. “I’ll tell you a funny thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “The knitted scarf was wrapped round on top of the chain. Strange. D’you see? On top of the chain, not underneath.” He pursed his lips. “Couldn’t kill himself first, then wrap a scarf round his neck, could he?”

  His expression brightened. “At least there wasn’t any blood. Don’t want blood on that old oak floor―17th century, you know―never get the stain out…”

  Giles Temple

  Libby brought Angela back to the cottage she shared with her apprentice, Mandy, and Fuzzy the marmalade cat. She couldn’t leave her friend alone to brood.

  They settled in the living room with Bear guarding the door. Until recently, the room had been functional and reasonably comfortable, but unexciting. Libby’s priority had been her state-of-the-art kitchen, where she’d developed recipes and written the book that kick-started her new career in Exham on Sea.

  At Christmas, her son presented her with a book of Danish style called ‘Hygge.’ The idea of warmth, cosiness and a happy atmosphere captivated Libby. She bought cushions and a fluffy rug, positioned candles in the empty fireplace and brought in stools made from tree-trunks. She even considered investing in a solid-fuel heater. Bear approved of the changes and spent as much time as possible stretched across the rug, snoring. Even Fuzzy deigned to curl up on the soft, fleece cushions.

  Perhaps the atmosphere would help Angela relax and speak freely. Since leaving the cathedral cafe, she’d been unusually quiet. Even now, she remained tense, gripping the arm of the sofa with rigid fingers and biting her lips. Libby brought hot chocolate. Angela gave a wan smile and ran a finger round the rim of her mug. “It’s been a shock. You don’t expect people to die in a library.”

  “That’s true.” Libby tried to sound non-committal. I’m not getting involved. Not this time. I’m too busy with Robert’s wedding and my business, and everything else…

  Libby planned to set up a private investigation service with Max Ramshore, who currently worked for one of the more secretive branches of government on financial business, but recently, she’d suffered an attack of second thoughts. Not long ago, she’d been a recently widowed newcomer in Exham, building a small but successful business. She hadn’t wanted a relationship with Max or anyone else. They’d worked together and she discovered Max’s skills fitted well with her own. Besides, the man was undeniably attractive, with bright blue eyes, a sharp intellect and a huge fund of common sense. Somehow they’d fallen into an agreement not only to work together, but also to get married.

  Whenever Libby thought about Max her heart fluttered, but her head throbbed with questions. Would they tire of one another if they lived and worked too closely together? Could she give up her independence and walk away from the business she’d struggled so hard to grow, just as it was taking off? What about Mandy? Libby couldn’t let her apprentice down. She needed a few days’ breathing space, with time to think and no crime investigations, while Max finished his current assignment. Any inquiry into a suspicious death was best left to the police.

  Nevertheless, Libby’s curiosity continued to nag, insistent as an itch. Asking a few questions wouldn’t commit her to anything. It wasn’t real investigating, and besides, Angela needed to talk.

  Libby gave in to temptation. “Why was Mr Temple in Wells? Does he have a family?”

  “His home’s in Birmingham. He’s―I mean, he was―married, with two children. They’re grown up, now. He’s been coming to Wells for a couple of days every week, working late into the night and travelling home as often as possible.” Angela shot a glance at Libby. “He’s a history lecturer, studying texts from the 16th century and writing a book about old beliefs and superstitions…”

  Her voice tailed away, but Libby hardly noticed. She’d stopped listening. The thought of the victim’s wife had sent a shiver down her spine. The police, probably on the way to Birmingham right now, would have to break the news to Mrs Temple. Libby pictured a cheerful woman opening a neat front door, her smile freezing on her face as the officer asked permission to come inside.

  How quickly would realisation dawn? When would Mrs Temple understand she’d become a widow? Her husband had gone forever. He would not return home for dinner, that day or any other. What would she do―collapse on the floor, scream and shout, or hide her feelings with a clenched jaw and stiff upper lip until the police left and she could grieve in peace?

  Libby blinked and forced her focus back to her friend. “Giles was a lovely man,” Angela was saying. “Gentle and kind. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him in such a horrid way.”

  “It’s certainly novel. Strangled with a chain―what a nasty death.”

  Angela fingered the pearls in her necklace. “Then, there’s the scarf.”

  “Now, that’s interesting. I wish I could see it. I suppose Giles Temple wasn’t a member of the Knitters’ Guild?”

  Her friend spluttered. “Not likely. He was pretty old school. You know, women cook and knit, men work and think.” Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound kind at all. I don’t mean he was a bully. I’m sure he couldn’t have been. He was much too gentle.” Her eyes met Libby’s. Both had endured bullying husbands who liked to keep a wife in her place. A guilt-twinge reminded Libby she’d felt nothing but relief when Trevor, her own husband died. But then, he’d been secretly money-laundering, so Libby had no need to feel guilty. Unfortunately, the habit died hard.

  Angela pulled out her phone. “How silly of me. I can show you a photo of Giles, taken in the library during a tour.” She flicked through screens on her phone, using a forefinger to swipe awkwardly from one picture to another. “Here it is.” She angled the phone towards Libby and the picture disappeared. Angela clicked her tongue. “I’ll never get used to this phone.”

  Libby laughed, glad of the break in tension. “Mandy never goes anywhere without her mobile, but I can’t get the hang of mine at all. I think you have to be young―preferably under thirty five.” She crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside Angela, peering over her friend’s shoulder as the picture returned.

  Libby took in the details; rows of heavy, leather-bound books, neatly arranged on wooden shelves, their heavy chains dangling. Nearby, a small group of visitors peered into a glass display case. The camera had caught Giles Temple, one of two men in the group, with his mouth open. His hair was sparse, a rim of grey-speckled brown tufts worn a shade too long for Libby’s taste. Round, tortoiseshell glasses hooked onto a pair of over-large ears. “I’m afraid I took him by surprise,” Angela murmured.

  “Who are the other people? Oh, that’s the librarian.”

  Angela pointed. “The lady in the middle of the picture, next to Giles, is the dean’s wife, Imogen Weir. She works in the library once a week, as I do, but on different days. I don’t know her well.”

  Mrs Weir, much younger than Libby or Angela, stood very close to Giles Temple. Angela’s voice had been sharp. Libby shot a glance at her face. Two angry furrows had appeared on the forehead. Could Imogen Weir and Angela both have a soft spot for this Giles?

  For now, Libby changed the subject. “I think I need to know more about the Guild’s yarn-bombing.”

  “There’s a session this evening. Why don’t you come along and meet the members?”

  “I’ll be there. I ca
n’t knit, but I’ll bring cake.”

  Knitters’ Guild

  “What should I wear to a Knitters’ Guild meeting?” Libby asked Bear. “A knitted jumper’s required, I suppose.” The dog gazed into her face, eyes mournful. Libby frowned. “Stop looking at me like that. You can’t come.”

  Three sweaters lay on the bed. The Arran cable tempted her, for the evening was chilly, but it made Libby look fat. “I’ve been sampling too many chocolates, Bear. Time to take myself in hand. Tomorrow.” She put the sweater back in the drawer. Fast losing patience, she grabbed a cheerful red and yellow striped jersey and shrugged it over her head. “Will they know I didn’t knit it myself?”

  Bear lay on his back, inviting Libby to scratch his stomach in an attempt to dissuade her from leaving him. “Oh, very well. You can come as my guard dog. Just behave yourself and don’t deposit dog hair all over the knitting.” Bear clattered towards the front door. Fuzzy the cat watched, envy glittering in her green eyes.

  Fuzzy adored Bear. After a brief spat when they first met, the two animals became firm friends. “Sorry, you can’t come with us, Fuzz, but I’ve left the door of the airing cupboard open. It’s as warm as toast.” The cupboard was one of Fuzzy’s cherished spots.

  Libby emptied a can of the best wild red salmon into the cat’s dish. Fuzzy pretended not to notice, but as soon as Libby closed the door, she’d gobble every scrap. Libby pulled on a woolly hat. “Come on, Bear. Let’s go.”

  The street was dark. To make financial savings and reduce light pollution, Exham’s town council had dimmed the street lamps. As a result, stars glittered across a clear sky. The moon hung low, a shimmering crescent in crisp air. Libby inhaled the unmistakable scent of the ocean. The beach lay out of sight of her cottage but it filled the air with the sharp smell of ozone.

  She brushed gloved hands through a rosemary bush outside and inhaled. Few plants survived the salty winds that speckled and corroded every shiny brass number on Libby’s front door, but rosemary and lavender flourished. They were her favourite herbs. She remembered a recipe she’d been developing; tea bread flavoured with rosemary. She’d planned to work on it tonight, but she was intrigued by the Knitters’ Guild. Tea loaves could wait.

  She shivered and loaded Bear into her purple Citroen, the car so small he overflowed across the whole back seat. If she hadn’t quarrelled with Max before his current trip to London, she’d have borrowed the Land Rover.

  They’d been arguing for weeks, Max hurt by Libby’s refusal to wear a ring and set a wedding date. Thinking of him, an ache of longing caught Libby by surprise. She missed him when he was away. She drove on through darkness, meeting few other cars on such a chilly winter night. Anyone with good sense was at home, warm and cosy.

  As she braked outside the tiny village hall where the knitters gathered, the door flew open and light, laughter and coffee smells spilled out. Angela led her inside. “Look, everyone, Libby’s brought cake.”

  “You’ll soon get used to us,” bellowed a big-boned, hearty woman with a beaky nose, tucking into a slice of Dundee cake. Her voice boomed, deep and mannish. A single streak of bright green ran through a shock of wild grey hair. “I’m June. Like the song: busting out all over.” She cackled.

  Libby settled Bear in a corner with a huge chew, knowing he’d finish it in less than half an hour. The room was small and faintly oppressive. An electric fire hung awkwardly from the ceiling, throwing heat on the top of Libby’s head while her feet remained chilled. “How does this yarn-bombing work, exactly?”

  June hooted. “It’s art, you know. At any rate, it’s a grand excuse to creep out in the middle of the night and tie things to lamp posts. That’s the truth of it. The fun starts next day when folk see what we’ve done. Can’t wait to see their faces. Tried it in Trivington a year ago. Just what Wells needs to liven it up.”

  “Not that it needs livening, of course.” Angela was always alert in case someone should be offended.

  “Manner of speech, that’s all. Livvy’ll soon get used to me.”

  “It’s Libby, actually.”

  June roared with laughter.

  A plump, motherly woman poured tea from an old brown teapot. “I don’t do the bombing for fun, you know. I knit useful things,like hats and scarves. I’m Ruby, by the way. I shall hang my work on benches and people who need them can take them home. It helps the less fortunate. I call it ‘giving back to society.’ ”

  Another voice intervened. “Do you remember that time we hung knitted underwear from the tower on Glastonbury Tor? The National Trust were furious.” Ruby glared but the other woman ignored her. Tiny and thin, she radiated energy. “I’m Vera, by the way. Welcome to our group. You knit, of course?”

  “I’m afraid not. Well, my mother taught me when I was small, but I haven’t knitted for years.”

  June swooped, green hair awry. “Now’s your chance to take it up again, then. Size ten needles and double knitting wool. That’ll do the trick. You’ll finish a square in no time.”

  Plied with balls of every colour, Libby avoided orange and yellow, choosing instead the quietest colour available, royal blue. She settled on a wooden chair and allowed the plump mother-figure, Ruby, to elbow June aside, cast on a row of stitches and hand them over.

  Struggling with wool that stuck to her unpractised, fumbling fingers, Libby listened as the women talked. Silently, she repeated her vow not to investigate. Still, the knitters’ unguarded thoughts would be fascinating. They all claimed connections with the cathedral, as volunteers, worshippers or friends of the clergy. As the women chattered, needles flashed and balls of wool turned, like magic, into socks, scarves and hats.

  News of the murder had spread like wildfire and everyone had a theory. June ran both hands through her hair until the green stripe stood on end, like an exotic parrot perched on top of her head. “I reckon the dean did it. Never liked the man. Always after money. Funds for clock renovation, contributions for new vestments. Can’t say good morning without begging.”

  “Poor man, it’s his job, you know,” Angela soothed. “He was very kind to me when my husband died.” June grunted, bit the end off a strand of wool, threw a yellow square onto the table and cast on a fresh row of orange stitches.

  Vera giggled. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but that Mr Temple was a right one for the ladies.”

  Libby felt Angela stiffen. “How do you mean?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

  Vera glanced round, nostrils flared, checking all eyes were on her. “I saw him in The Swan with the dean’s wife.” She stopped knitting and hissed, in a loud stage whisper, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the dean did it. You know―a crime of passion.”

  Chief Inspector Arnold

  A stunned silence followed Vera’s remark. Libby waited to see who’d speak first, shooting a surreptitious glance round her companions to judge their reactions. Angela’s face turned puce red, her lips pressed tightly together. June’s eyes bulged. A frog. That’s what she looks like. A great green frog. Ruby poured tea. “I think it’s rather unkind to jump to conclusions. I’ve always had the greatest respect for our dean. You should be ashamed of yourself, Vera.”

  Vera shrugged, not the least bit ashamed. “I speak as I find.”

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean, Vera?” Angela’s voice was sharp enough to slice a finger. Libby, eyes on her knitting, concealed a grin.

  “I mean,” said Vera, “that I can follow evidence just as well as our new, so-called member, here.” Scorn dripped from the words. “Isn’t it true you’re a kind of amateur sleuth, Mrs Forest, and you’re here to find out if one of us had anything to do with the murder?”

  “What if she is?” Angela’s eyes flashed. Libby thought she’d never seen her so furious. “Libby has a wonderful track record of solving mysteries.”

  “Well, she makes a good cake, I’d say that for her,” observed June, tucking in to a second slice. “If she can find the killer, good on her, that’
s what I say.”

  Libby put aside her square of dropped stitches, the wool grey from over-handling. “You’re quite right. I’ve been involved in other cases and I’ve had some luck, but I don’t know the dean or Mr Temple, or anyone else at the cathedral except Angela, and I’m not investigating. I trust the police.” She hesitated, exchanged a glance with Angela and decided not to mention the orange scarf.

  Vera’s eyes were wide. “What if there’s another murder. Is it likely, do you think?”

  Libby shrugged. “It happens. It depends on why Giles Temple was murdered, and who killed him.”

  The motherly Ruby brushed crumbs from her bosom. “In that case, we must find the murderer as soon as possible. I agree with June. I, for one, never liked the dean. He’s been here three years, and what’s he done for the cathedral? Included a lot of silly new services for a bunch of noisy children, that’s what.”

  Joan wiped her mouth. “Sooner they find the killer, the better. Come on, Vera, tell us a bit more. You saw Giles Temple meeting the dean’s wife. Were they having an affair?”

  Vera hesitated, perhaps thinking better of her accusations. “Dr Weir’s wife is a historian. So was Giles Temple. I suppose they might have been comparing notes.” Bouncing back, she finished, “But they seemed pretty friendly, if you ask me.”

  A question was on the tip of Libby’s tongue, but before she could speak someone hammered on the door. Vera jumped, tea slopping from her cup as the door swung open. Libby recognised Chief Inspector Arnold and her heart sank. He made no secret of the fact he thought Libby a nuisance, even when she helped untangle a case. He’d been furious when she outdid the police and solved the murder at the lighthouse.

  Uniform buttons glinting, the chief inspector stepped inside and took a long, slow look round the room, enjoying the moment. His close-set eyes glittered. “Sorry to disturb you, ladies.” The high-pitched voice grated on Libby’s ears. “I need a word with you. I expect you’ve heard about the incident at the cathedral.”