Murder at the Cathedral

by Frances Evesham

  “Neither of us is hurt,” said Libby. “Let’s get home, shall we?”

  Libby refused offers of tea and trips to hospital. She insisted on driving home, though her hands shook and her arm ached from the fall. A couple of aspirin would fix that. At least she was on the right track. If someone tried to kill her, she must have been asking the right questions.

  She opened the door and froze, hitting a solid wall of sound, wincing as Joy Division, Mandy’s favourite band, battered her ears. After a moment of total shock, she laughed. Mandy was home, now, so they could talk and clear the air. Mandy could put Libby’s anxieties to rest. She was bound to have an alibi for the fire. “Hey,” Libby called. “I’m back.”

  Mandy slouched downstairs, pale face inscrutable, avoiding Libby’s eyes. Libby hung up her coat. “You didn’t reply to my messages. I was worried. Did your phone battery run out?”

  Mandy shrugged. “I was with Mum in Bristol. She’s getting a divorce. Dad’s gone off with another woman and Mum rang yesterday, in a state. She says she never wants another man in her house as long as she lives.”

  Mandy’s father had a history of violent behaviour. Libby thought he’d left the area long ago. Was Mandy lying? “I’m sorry to hear that, but you should have called me. I was worried. Did you go to Jumbles, today?”

  “I rang them. Changed the appointment. No need to fuss.”

  Libby’s patience ran out. “Mandy,” she snapped. “I’m your boss and I’m running a business. You have to tell me when you take a day off, even if it’s a family emergency.” She threw her keys on a table, losing her temper. “The least you can do is text. In future, when I call during working hours, you answer the phone. Got it?”

  Mandy shrugged, sullen. “Sorry.” She turned away, one foot on the lowest stair.

  Libby’s voice shook with anger. “Wait just a moment. I suppose you heard about Samantha Watson?”

  “I’m sorry she died. Nothing we can do about it though.” Mandy threw the words over her shoulder.

  The hairs on the back of Libby’s neck rose. She didn’t recognise this Mandy, and the suspicions she’d tried so hard to overcome returned. “Are you sure you were with your mother all day, and overnight as well?”

  “Of course.”

  Libby couldn’t see her lodger’s face. “The police are checking alibis.” She grabbed Mandy’s shoulder to swing her round. “This is serious, Mandy. I can’t help if you don’t tell the truth.”

  Mandy shrugged the hand away. Her eyes flashed. “I know you’re my boss and I should have let you know what I was doing. I’ll make the time up.”

  Libby stopped her. “That’s not my point―”

  Mandy’s furious face shocked Libby. “I know what you’re suggesting. You think I set fire to the cottage. How could you, Mrs F? Don’t you know me at all?”

  “I don’t think that. At least, I don’t want to, but you quarrelled with Samantha, you disappeared for the day, and you’re―you’re different. Mandy, what’s happened?”

  Mandy sank onto the stair. “I think maybe I ought to look for somewhere else to live.” Her voice grated. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Don’t be daft. I like you living here. Anyway, my opinion doesn’t matter. Sooner or later the police will interview you. Half of Exham was in the bakery when you quarrelled with Samantha. She was rude and you were furious.” Libby tried to speak calmly. “No one blames you for being angry, but the police will need to know everything; where you were yesterday, what you were doing. Everything. It’s their job.”

  Mandy glared, eyes narrowed. “I’ll talk to the police when I have to. You’re my boss, not my mother. I’ve apologised to Jumbles, and they don’t mind. It won’t make any difference to your precious business, so leave me alone. And I’ll start looking for a flat tomorrow.”

  She thundered up the stairs and the bedroom door slammed. Libby wandered into the sitting room and flopped on the sofa, exhausted. A little later, she heard Mandy’s rapid footsteps leaving the house. Fear welled in Libby’s chest, like sickness. Where had Mandy been yesterday? And where was she going, now?

  Beach

  Despite a sky full of dark clouds, heavy with rain, Max and Libby refused to cancel their plans for a walk on the beach next morning. Libby, still shaken by Mandy’s sudden hostility, wanted to talk things over with Max. She hoped fresh air might clear her head. She’d hardly slept, disturbed by dreams of Mandy’s angry face juxtaposed with images of Samantha’s burning house.

  Bear, free of restrictions, bounded along the sand to choose one stick after another from the driftwood left by the tide. Max gripped Libby’s arm. “Why didn’t you call me? You could have been killed. Imagine how I felt when I heard about the gargoyle attack from Joe.”

  “I’m sorry. I was tired. I thought I’d go home and rest before ringing you. Then, Mandy and I quarrelled.” Tears sprang to Libby’s eyes. “Oh, Max. I’m so scared. Mandy’s behaviour―it’s not like her.” She gulped, afraid of voicing her fears even to Max. “I’m terrified she might know something about the fire.”

  She pulled her scarf tighter against the wind. “I’ve been praying Samantha’s death was an accident, but…” Her voice faded. Max had stopped walking. One glance at his face told the truth. Libby stammered, “What did Joe say about the fire? It was deliberate, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. The police found petrol residue round the front door where the fire started.”

  “So, the killer poured petrol through the letter box and set fire to it.” She shivered. “He’d only need a match, or a lighter.”

  “Or one of those kitchen blow torches. Like the one you use for crème brûlée.”

  Libby’s breath caught in her throat. Mandy had access to the torch. She closed her eyes, thinking. Had she seen the blow torch recently? She kept it safe on a high shelf in the kitchen. If only she could remember… “Mandy’s leaving the cottage,” she blurted out, “after the row. She says I don’t trust her―that I think she killed Samantha, because they quarrelled the other day.”

  A sob rose in her throat. “It’s not always easy being a sleuth, is it?” Max gathered her close, his arms strong and comforting. Libby clung tight, breathing Max’s familiar scent. “I have to solve both murders, now. I need to discover who killed Giles Temple and Samantha, but even if I prove Mandy’s innocence, she may never want to speak to me again.”

  Max swung Libby round to look into her face as she dragged a hand across damp eyes. “You’re not responsible for Mandy. She’s your apprentice and your lodger, but she’s an independent woman, not a child. If she set the fire, she must take the consequences. You can’t protect her, and you shouldn’t try.”

  Libby swallowed. “You’re right, I suppose. In any case, it’s not my call. The police came about my―er―accident. Actually, Detective Sergeant Filbert-Smythe arrived, just as I was falling asleep. He cross-questioned me for ages, and he wants to talk to Mandy when she comes home.”

  “Leave it to the police, then. Tell me what happened yesterday, in the cathedral. You don’t suspect Mandy of that, do you?”

  Libby managed a shaky smile. “No, of course not. At least, I don’t know what to think any more. My head’s like cotton wool. Still, this cold wind is helping clear it.”

  Her arm ached, and the quarrel with Mandy had left her devastated, but Max’s embrace was comforting. Tension seeped away from the muscles in Libby’s back and the hard knot in her chest eased. She yawned. “I’m assuming the gargoyle attack was designed to scare me away. There’s a corridor in the cathedral that runs high up behind the carvings. Whoever broke off the gargoyle must have been up there, but they made a quick exit. To be honest, I could almost believe it was an accident. The carvings have been up there since the 12th century, so I suppose they couldn’t last for ever.”

  “An accident? When you’ve been investigating two murders? I don’t think so.”

  “No.” Libby took a moment to think. “I suppose I must be asking th
e right questions, but unfortunately, they haven’t taken me very far.”

  “The killer thinks you know something.”

  “The trouble is, I really don’t. I’ve hardly discovered anything, except that Giles Temple was one for the ladies. He could probably take his pick, from the women who do the flowers, through the Knitters’ Guild, to the members of the amateur choirs.”

  “Well, you must watch your step and keep your eyes open.”

  Libby giggled. “And keep my wits about me, and tread with care…”

  Max squeezed her shoulder. “Well, you know what I mean. Good to know your sense of humour’s survived. And you’ve got some colour in your cheeks, now.”

  “The truth is, I’m finding it hard to sort out gossip and rumour from facts,” Libby confessed.

  “Use that brain of yours. Think. Why would someone want to kill both Giles Temple and Samantha Watson? What connects them? If we can find a link, we’ll have the answer. You’ve been out and about, talking to the local gossips. What are people saying?”

  Libby described her visits. “I picked up plenty of scandal from Ruby, one of the knitters. She knows everyone at the cathedral and gave me a rundown on who’s doing what with whom. Most of it was just gossip. Ruby likes to chat.”

  Libby threw a stick for Bear. Concentrating on the facts helped. She felt better, back in control. “I thought I’d never escape her clutches. She mentioned the dean’s wife, Imogen Weir. Vera, another knitter, had spotted Imogen out and about with the victim, so I made an excuse to visit the dean’s wife. She wasn’t pleased to see me, but she has a plausible explanation for the evening she spent with Giles Temple.”

  Max asked, “What about Angela? Was she one of Mr Temple’s conquests?”

  “That’s why Chief Inspector Arnold suspected her at first. Mind you, half the middle-aged ladies in Wells could be involved with Giles Temple, by all accounts.”

  Max was quiet for a moment, whistling. “Let’s consider opportunity. We know where and when Giles died. Who else might stay late in the library?”

  “There’s the librarian. I’d suspect him, except he’s so small and thin, he’d never have beaten Giles Temple in a struggle.” She thought about the cathedral. “The place is full of vergers and volunteers, not to mention worshippers and visitors. Dozens of people have legitimate business there. It would be easy to hide until the building emptied, and if you were inside you wouldn’t set off the alarms.”

  “Let’s look at the detail. Giles Temple was strangled with a chain while reading a book. What do we know about the book and chain?”

  “The book was old and full of maps. The police have it, but I’m planning to revisit the librarian. Dr Phillips and I got off to rather a bad start, but I think he may have more information. No one knows the library better.”

  “Good idea. While you do that, I’ll talk to Joe again.”

  A watery sun peeped out between the clouds. Libby loosened her scarf and raised her face to the warmth. In a few weeks, spring would arrive, and then Robert’s wedding.

  Thinking of Robert reminded her of Max’s relationship with his son. “I’m pleased to see you and Joe getting along so well.”

  “That’s your influence. Joe admires you. You’ve made his work easier, and you tolerate me, so I can’t be all bad. He’s thinking about going for promotion, by the way.

  “Good for Joe. He deserves it.”

  “Your son seems happy. He and Sarah make a fine couple.”

  Libby made a face. “I wish Ali would come home.”

  “Where you can keep her under your wing?”

  She laughed. “You’re right. I’m a mother hen.”

  “And as if your own children weren’t enough, now you worry about Mandy.”

  “It started before the fire.” Libby told him about Mandy’s break-up with Steve.

  Max stopped walking. “Something just occurred to me. You say Mandy disappeared for the day?”

  “On the day of the fire, and overnight. She said she went to see her mother. An emergency.”

  Max rubbed his chin. “I should have realised. That day, I visited Reginald in Bristol. He works from an office there and he asked me to review a set of financial documents. At Temple Meads station someone climbed out of a taxi, and I thought it was Mandy, but I assumed I was mistaken.”

  “Really?” A slow smile spread over Libby’s face. Mandy was telling the truth, after all. “So, she really was visiting her mother in Bristol.”

  “Why didn’t she take the train? Do you offer such generous expenses for taxis?”

  “Not likely. The problem is, Mandy’s got a thing about trains. A sort of claustrophobia.”

  “Is she getting therapy?”

  Libby shrugged. “I don’t know. I suggested it, but I think the idea fell on deaf ears. Still, if you saw her in Bristol, you can prove her alibi for the day of the fire.” Libby took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh. “What a relief.”

  “Hold on a minute. There’s no proof. I can’t put my hand on my heart and swear I saw Mandy. The best I can say is that the person I saw looked similar. She wore black clothes, like Mandy’s, but she had a scarf wrapped round her head so I couldn’t see her face. She moved like Mandy, though, and she had big, heavy boots.”

  “Well, your description sounds right. Maybe I don’t have to suspect her any more, so you’ve put my mind at rest.”

  “In that case, can we please leave this freezing beach and go home?”

  Knitters’ Guild

  The day of the yarn-bomb extravaganza was drawing close, so the members of the Knitters’ Guild planned to meet on several extra evenings. “We want to make a splash,” Angela said. “After all this misery, Wells needs cheering up.” Libby was determined to be there, so she set off once more through the lanes, taking a new route to avoid any sight of the burnt-out shell of Samantha’s house.

  The Guild had expanded. Several members, new to Libby and all experienced and competent knitters, had added their contributions. Knitted items swamped the trestle tables. Libby, embarrassed, tried to hide her uneven squares, but Angela grabbed them. “They don’t have to be perfect.”

  June scooped fingers through her green hair until it stood on end. “Pop them on the table, my love. We’re all friends, here. Colour and spectacle matter, but the odd dropped stitch won’t hurt.”

  Vera sniffed. “At least they’re bright.” Angela grouped colours together, shifting them around until even Libby saw a pattern emerging.

  Ruby threw her arms around Angela. “You have a wonderful eye, my dear.” Angela wrinkled her nose at Libby over Ruby’s shoulder.

  As the ladies sewed squares together to make blankets, Vera led the gossip. “I heard about the gargoyles. Now, what do you think? Was it an accident or did Giles Temple’s killer set a trap?”

  June shook her head. “In a cathedral. Unbelievable.”

  Ruby munched a fruity scone. “You’re so brave, both of you. If it had been me, I’d stay safe at home and I wouldn’t set foot in the cathedral until the police caught the killer.”

  Vera interrupted. “I forgot to tell you. The dean said he’d drop in this evening. He’s very excited about our little event.”

  On cue, the door opened and the dean made an entrance, smiling at each lady in turn, stroking a mane of neat, groomed grey hair. Libby nudged Angela. “I wonder how long he spends every morning blow-drying his hair,” she whispered.

  “Good evening ladies.” The voice was resonant. Libby could imagine the dean reading a lesson, filling the cathedral with sound. The effect on some of the ladies made her smile. They fluttered round the room, searching out the prettiest cup and offering scones piled high with cream and jam.

  The dean sank gracefully into a chair, inspected manicured nails, and turned his attention to the knitted goods. “The bishop is most impressed with your work, good ladies. He’s looking forward to the yarn-bombing.”

  “He doesn’t think it’s inappropriate after the m
urder?” Vera asked.

  “Good heavens, no. We need a happy event, to encourage community spirit. Have you decided on the date?”

  “Next Wednesday,” Joan boomed. “Which means we’ll get together on Tuesday evening and work through the night, decorating the city.”

  The dean extracted a diary from his pocket and made a note. “Excellent. Please come to the cathedral after Evensong on Tuesday, for a short blessing.” He turned to Libby and Angela. “I must apologise most sincerely to you two, on behalf of everyone at the cathedral, for your dreadful accident.”

  Angela thanked him. “No lasting harm done. The statue missed us both. I suppose it will need repair?”

  He raised a hand. “No need to worry. We have a contract with a firm of masons. The bishop and I are so sorry for your fright.” He’d decided the event was an accident, and there was little point in arguing.

  “Now,” he continued, “to the other reason I came. I bring invitations to a special lunch tomorrow. It’s a small thank you for such hard work.” He beamed at Libby. “My wife asked me to give a special welcome to you, Mrs Forest and Mrs Miles, after your fright. Please bring that charming dog.”

  Libby gulped. “Do you mean Bear? He’s very big.”

  Angela giggled. “I’m afraid ‘big’ doesn’t do him justice. The creature’s enormous.”

  The dean smiled. “Imogen, my wife, is exceedingly fond of dogs.”

  Cats

  With so many events crowding into the past few days, Libby had done nothing about Mrs Marchant’s missing cat. To put matters right next morning, she set off early to distribute posters. She had plenty of time before lunch with the dean.

  She walked the streets of Wells, fixing photographs of the missing cat to lamp posts. She called into almost every shop near the town centre as they opened, begging the owners to display posters. “Have you seen this cat?” the text read, alongside a cute photo of Mrs Marchant’s missing Mildred. When Libby told the sad story of the anonymous elderly lady who rescued cats, most shopkeepers agreed to help.