Frank laughed. “He’s the boss.”
A journalist raised a hand, waited for a microphone to arrive and asked, “Are there any significant clues to the identity of the criminal, Chief Inspector Arnold?”
Arnold beamed at the journalist’s use of his correct title. “We have several lines of enquiry, all of which will be pursued with the utmost diligence. However, I would like to bring one item to your attention. This was found near the body.”
With a flourish, he waved an arm. Libby squinted at the screen as he held up Angela’s orange scarf. As cameras flashed and whirred, Arnold explained, “This is a hand-knitted scarf. Mr Temple is not an aficionado of the art and craft of knitting.” Scorn oozed from his voice.
Mandy muttered, “An afici―what?” Libby put a finger to her lips. She needed to hear every word.
“His wife does not recognise the scarf as belonging to herself or anyone she knows. She has never seen her late husband wear it. This item may be important, so we would like you to think carefully. Have you ever seen this scarf? If so, please make yourself known to the police.”
Joe gave the details of contact numbers for the incident room in Vicars Close, near the cathedral, and the press conference ended. Libby bit her lip. She must tell Joe about Angela’s confession.
The phone rang before Libby could key in Joe’s number. “Hi Mrs Forest? It’s Joe here, Joe Ramshore.”
“That’s a coincidence. I was about to ring you. By the way, Joe, I think it’s time you called me Libby, like everyone else does. It can’t be so hard, now you’re talking to Max again.”
“Sorry. Libby. Look here, I can’t speak for long. I’m just leaving the press conference.”
“I’ve been watching it.”
“Can I come over in the next day or so? There’s something I want to run past you.”
“Well yes, of course. I need to speak to you, too. How about tomorrow morning, about nine?”
“Great, thanks. See you then.”
Libby frowned. “That was weird. Joe wants to talk to me. I wonder what’s happened.” There was a note of urgency in Joe’s voice that unsettled Libby. Still, it gave her an opportunity to worm information out of him, once she’d shared Angela’s confession.
Mandy polished the oven door until it sparkled. “Don’t forget you’re taking me driving, tonight.”
Libby stiffened. She’d forgotten that promise. Her heart sank, but she couldn’t admit it. Not with Mandy in today’s touchy mood.
Frank waved them away, “It sounds like you two need to get off. I can manage the rest of the afternoon, now the rush is over.”
Libby almost made it to the door before her phone rang again. “Libby Forest here.”
“Oh, hello. You don’t know me,” said a deep, plummy female voice with immaculate vowels, “but I visited the vet today, and she recommended you.”
The vet? Libby thought hard, determined to remember the vet’s name. “Oh, yes, Tanya Ross. I know her.”
“She said you solve mysteries. I looked you up on the local news website and found you’ve been involved in a few little matters with some success, so I decided to give you a ring.”
She fell silent. Libby spoke cautiously, “How can I help you?”
“It’s my cat. He’s disappeared into thin air. I’d like you to find him for me?”
“Your cat?” Mandy’s eyes were on stalks and Libby had to turn away to keep from bursting into laughter. “I―er―I don’t know.”
“I thought you were a private investigator,” the woman accused.
“No. Well―it’s true I’ve inquired into a few things, but I’ve never dealt with lost animals. Except my own, of course…” Libby bit her tongue. Her first instinct was to refuse this case. She gave an exaggerated shrug and whispered to Mandy, “What should I do?”
“Go for it, Mrs F.”
Perhaps unravelling a less stressful mystery might offer Libby perspective on the life of a private investigator. A lost cat couldn’t be too difficult. Libby put on her best telephone voice and asserted herself. “Maybe we should meet tomorrow.”
“Not until then?”
“I’m afraid not. Give me your details and I’ll come at eleven. That’s the earliest I can manage.”
“Oh, well, that’s better than nothing, I suppose.” The woman gave her name.
“Marchant,” Libby repeated, making a note.
“Mrs.”
The call ended. Libby sighed. “I must be crazy.”
Mandy leaned on the counter. “I wonder why Joe wants to see you. I bet Chief Inspector Arnold won’t listen to his ideas. By the way, while you were out yesterday, Jumbles sent us another big order. They need, like, twice as many chocolates as usual next week.”
Libby’s legs wobbled and she sank onto a chair. “This is impossible. There aren’t enough hours in a day.”
“It’s the price of success. Get used to it.”
“Is it? It feels exhausting. Will you visit Jumbles? Use all your charm and see how long they can give us.” The Jumbles account was the first one Mandy had negotiated alone.
She leaned over Libby’s shoulder to read the address. “Mrs Marchant. The Cedars. Wow, sounds posh. I bet you can charge her, like, a fortune. She must be rolling in dosh, and her cats are her babies. I think you’ve hit the big time.”
Driving lesson
Mandy adjusted the driving seat in Libby’s little purple Citroen and rattled the keys. Libby pulled her seatbelt tight. “Tell me again, exactly how many lessons have you had?”
“Loads. The instructor said I need to practice, but I’m quite safe, honest.”
“Maybe I should drive us to the car park and start there…”
Mandy snorted, turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine. Libby shuddered as it howled. “Oops. Sorry, Mrs F.”
She let in the handbrake and the car lurched forward. “Did you look behind?” Libby asked.
“Course. Nothing coming. Let’s roll.”
The car moved sedately down the street, stopping neatly to turn at the T-junction, and Libby’s clenched jaw began to relax. Mandy was perfectly competent. “Were you trying to scare me, by any chance?”
Mandy giggled. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Actually, he’s put me in for my test. It’s in three weeks, but I need to practice parallel parking.”
Libby groaned. “Definitely need to head for the car park, then, and I’m not sure I can help.”
“I know. You’d drive three times round town rather than reverse into a space.”
Half an hour later, Mandy had practiced the manoeuvre a dozen times. She drew to a halt facing the beach. “Come on, then, out with it.”
Libby gulped, wrong-footed. “Out with what?”
“I saw you with Mrs Miles in the cathedral café when Steve and I quarrelled. I know you’re dying to hear all about it. Why haven’t you asked me?”
“I didn’t want to interfere, but if you want to tell me about it, I’d like to help.” This was why Mandy suddenly needed driving practice. She wanted to talk. It was easier to share confidences in a car.
“Well, we’ve split up. Steve keeps asking me to go to London at the weekend, but I don’t see why I should.”
“Is it the expense?” Mandy’s pay as an apprentice wasn’t great, and the train to Paddington cost a fortune. “You should be able to get a student discount, and…”
Mandy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s my clausta―thingy.”
Libby half-turned in her seat. “Claustrophobia?”
Mandy nodded. “In the train. Or a coach.”
“And you haven’t told Steve?”
“He’ll think I’m pathetic. He wanted me to go to a concert and I said I would, but then I panicked and told him I was ill.”
“And he didn’t believe you.”
“He thought I didn’t want to go and he took Alice, instead.”
“That’s why you’re suddenly so keen to take a driving test. So you can drive do
wn to London?”
Mandy nodded. “I’m fine in a car. I think it’s the other people on the train. They seem on top of me, so I can’t breathe, and my tummy churns, and I feel all distant, as though I’m about to faint.”
“Mandy, you have to tell Steve the truth. He won’t think any less of you.”
“Course he will. That Alice, she can do everything. She’s going to be a violinist―she’s already got an audition with an orchestra. She’s got tons of A levels and so has Steve. And look at me. Just a chocolate-making apprenticeship.” Mandy sniffed. “I don’t mean to be rude about your business…”
“It’s OK. I know what you mean.”
“When we argued, he looked at me like I was stupid.”
“Oh, Mandy. If I had a pound every time my husband made me feel foolish…” Libby’s voice trailed away. She’d let Trevor call her stupid for years. She looked across at Mandy’s wet face. Her lodger wasn’t going to suffer as she had. Not if Libby had anything to do with it. “If he insults you, he’s not worth bothering with.”
“He didn’t say it, exactly.” Mandy jumped to Steve’s defence. “I just know he’s thinking it.”
Libby gave Mandy a hug. “You daft thing. Don’t imagine you know what someone else is thinking. Nobody can read minds. Now, let’s do some more practice, you pass your test, and we’ll think about how to get your hands on a little car. Maybe the business could manage something…”
Mandy rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “You don’t have to…”
“Let’s get you through the driving test, shall we? We’ll deal with the other stuff later.”
Libby managed to sound calm, but she was worried. How long had Mandy been suffering panic attacks? Did her mother, Elaine, know? Maybe Libby should call her. Or, was it none of her business? She slumped back in her seat. Another problem to think about. Sometimes, it seemed solving murders was the least of her worries.
Joe
“Joe.” Max’s son was on her doorstep on time next morning, arm raised to pound on the door. “It’s still dark. You’d better come inside. It’s freezing, out here.”
Libby pulled her dressing gown tight. She’d overslept, waking to the hammering on her front door. “Couldn’t you just ring the bell, like normal people do? Or is this an emergency?”
“Sorry. There’s something I thought you’d like to know. I’m on my way to the station, so I can’t stop.” Libby nodded, guessing he didn’t want Chief Inspector Arnold to know he was calling on her.
She led him into the kitchen, flicking light switches as she went. “Coffee? I need one before you tell me anything.”
Joe sniffed the air. Mandy must have fried bacon. “What have you been cooking up?”
“Arsenic sandwiches,” Libby said. “Want one?”
Joe snorted. “Toast and Marmite would be good.”
Libby threw a couple of slices of bread in the machine. “Watch that,” she ordered. “It burns.”
Meekly, Joe oversaw toast while she fetched butter and Marmite. Settled comfortably at the counter, he explained. “We’ve got a suspect for the murder.”
“My, that was quick. Chief Inspector Arnold will be impressed.”
“It’s his suspect.”
Libby paused, and butter slid from the tip of her knife. “By which you mean, I suppose, that he’s got the wrong man?”
Joe nodded and glanced round the room, looking as guilty as if he expected his boss to appear. “It’s not a man…”
Libby interrupted. “Let me guess. It’s a member of the Knitters’ Guild?”
Joe frowned. “Not just any member. It’s your friend, Angela Miles.” Libby dabbed Marmite on toast, buying time to think. It hadn’t taken long for the police to discover the connection with Giles Temple.
She tried to smile. “That’s ridiculous.” Her voice was a squeak.
Joe shook his head. “Not really. It’s the scarf, you see. Mrs Miles told the police she made it for Giles Temple as a present.” Libby breathed out. Angela had done the right thing and gone to the authorities, saving Libby the unpleasant task. She could concentrate on proving her friend’s innocence.
She jabbed a finger at Joe. “And when Angela killed the victim, she made sure the scarf was round his neck so everyone would suspect her? That’s crazy. It won’t stand up in court. Any decent lawyer will make mincemeat of the idea.”
Joe grimaced. “The chief inspector wants someone in custody as soon as possible. He needs a success to show the press.”
“The police won’t find any real evidence, because Angela didn’t kill Giles Temple. You’ll have to release her and then you’ll look ridiculous.”
Joe nodded and Libby’s breathing returned to normal. The police officer knew Angela Miles, and he was a smart man. He wouldn’t be easily misled. “I’d rather stop that happening, but there’s a lot of police time focused on establishing evidence against Mrs Miles rather than following other leads. I’d send my team out, but my hands are tied. I thought you might have spare time…”
“You mean, when I’m not struggling with orders for chocolates, planning Robert’s wedding, sorting out Mandy’s problems or finding lost cats?”
Joe held up his hands. “Angela’s your friend.”
Libby heaved a sigh and poured more coffee. “Of course, I’ll do what I can to help. Let’s look at the facts. For one thing, Giles Temple was strangled. That would take some strength. I can’t imagine the middle-aged ladies of the Guild overcoming a healthy man in a struggle.”
Joe was nodding. “I agree. Go on. What else do you think?”
“I think the scarf was planted to lay suspicion on the Knitters’ Guild, or on Angela herself. The members of the Guild are mad as a bag of ferrets, but I can’t see them wanting to kill Giles Temple.” She paused. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged. Time to share Vera’s gossip. “There’s one person who might merit a closer look. Have you met the dean’s wife?”
“Chief Inspector Arnold sent Filbert-Smythe, our new detective sergeant with a first-class degree from a swanky university, to interview the dean and Mrs Weir. We won’t be getting anything useful from that, I can guarantee.” Joe rolled his eyes. Filbert-Smythe’s Oxbridge accent had not endeared him to the local police force, but he’d impressed Chief Inspector Arnold. “The lad will be fine, once he gets some experience and stops brown-nosing the bosses,” was Joe’s verdict.
Libby blew out her cheeks, thinking hard. Should she tell Joe the big secret? She made up her mind. She wanted him to share information, so she must do the same. “The Guild have a big event coming up in Wells. It’s supposed to be a secret, but I think you should know.”
Joe groaned. “Not a Greenham Common-type protest―sitting down in the streets?”
Libby laughed. “This is a celebration. Do you remember the scaffolding at the cathedral? It was there for months.” Joe nodded. “Now the work on the West Front’s finished, they’re planning a celebration. I’ll tell you about it if you promise not to whisper it to a soul.”
“Cross my heart, so long as there’s no danger to the public. Go on, you can’t stop now.”
“The Guild members plan to smother the centre of Wells with knitting. They’ll hang scarves from lamp posts, leave hats and gloves on benches and wrap blankets round trees. It’s called yarn-bombing.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“The bombs can be useful things, like mittens and ear-warmers, and people are free to take them home. They’ll leave silly stuff like toys and dolls as well, just for fun.”
“Do I need to request extra policing?”
“Well, they’re not planning to do any damage and I can’t imagine there’ll be unmanageable crowds. Come along and see it. I imagine it’ll be quite a sight.”
Joe’s face was a picture. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. In return, you’ll help?”
Libby shrugged. “I can’t let Angela be a scapegoat, but you need to let me in on the evidence.” Joe hesitated. Libby rose, col
lecting cups and plates. “If not, I can’t help. You know I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut.”
Joe smiled. “As a reward for breakfast, I’ll tell you what I can. We don’t have results from forensics yet, apart from the approximate time of death. Apparently, the heating in the library goes off at seven and it gets cold very fast up there, so it’s only an approximation. The pathologist calls it an educated guess. Anyway, the best suggestion remains between six and midnight, as we said at the press conference.”
“What time does the library close?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Did Giles Temple have a key?”
“No. The bursar has one, I believe, and so does the verger.”
“Are researchers left alone with the books?”
“Occasionally. A volunteer often sits by the door.”
Joe had a glint in his eye. He tapped a finger on the counter top. “Here’s the thing I shouldn’t be telling you. There’s been another researcher working in the library this week. An American, by the name of Reginald Talbot.”
Max’s friend. “That’s been kept quiet. Not even the knitters mentioned it.”
“There’s some sort of politics involved. I’ll be in serious trouble if the boss finds out I told you, so keep it quiet, won’t you? I think he’s a contender but the chief says we’re to move on.”
Libby sucked her lower lip. “I wonder why.”
“The thing is,” Joe went on, “I’ve met him before. He works with Dad.”
Libby nodded. They were thinking along the same lines. “So, there may be trouble at the cathedral. Something secret?”
“Hard to say. If he’s American, it may not be anything about UK security. It could be genuine research of some sort.”
“Like research into the Pilgrim Fathers? Has anyone interviewed this American?”
“I’m scheduled to speak to him later today.”
“I suppose I couldn’t―I mean, can I watch from outside the room?”
Joe shook his head. “Sorry, no clearance. But I’ll tell you what I can, within the proper limits.”
“Not many Americans visit this part of the world. I suppose he’ll be easy to recognise when he speaks, because of the accent.” A big grin split Joe’s face. “Why are you laughing?”
Murder at the Cathedral Page 4