“Oh yes, indeed. I remember.”
“You’ve been very helpful in the past.” Mr Scruggs laughed in a ‘man-to-man’ kind of way. “Now, we’re keen to find out more about this sad business of Samantha Watson’s death.”
The warm smile disappeared from the solicitor’s face, replaced by an expression of well-practised, profound sorrow. “Mrs Watson worked here for many years and was a most valued member of our team.” The condescension in his voice grated on Libby’s ears but she pressed her lips together, kept quiet and let Max do the talking. “I’m afraid,” the solicitor continued in a hushed voice, full of self-importance. “I’m unable to tell you much about Mrs Watson’s work. Client confidentiality, you see.”
“Of course. You understand, though, I’m privy to the highest level of secrets in my government work?”
Mr Scruggs beamed. “In that case I’m sure I can help you a little, although I would need an official warrant to show you any case files. The police have already searched them.”
“That won’t be necessary at the moment. I just want a feel for the cases Mrs Watson might have worked on when she died, to consider why someone might bear her a grudge.”
The solicitor frowned. At least he was thinking about Samantha, now, rather than himself. “Mrs Watson dealt with the more domestic areas of our work. She had a successful caseload including many divorces, people wishing to change their name by deed poll, wills, all that sort of thing, and a little minor crime. She never handled anything of a serious nature, such as murder.”
“Perhaps I could have a list of her most recent clients?”
Mr Scruggs shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mr Ramshore. Not even for you.”
“Were there any cases she was particularly concerned about, to your knowledge?” Max tried a different tack.
“Not really. I tried not to overburden her with difficult work. We left that for the senior partners.”
Libby coughed gently and forced herself to sound deferential. “Perhaps there were personal issues that Samantha discussed with colleagues in the office. Is there anyone in whom she might have confided?”
The solicitor drew himself up. “I can assure you, if Mrs Watson had any worries or concerns she was quite at liberty to speak to me. My door is always open to my team.”
As he spoke, a young woman appeared. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Scruggs. Lord Haversham is on the telephone for you.”
Her boss rose to his feet, face pink with pride. “Then I must come and talk to his lordship at once. Mustn’t keep the aristocracy waiting, must we? Was there anything else, Mr Ramshore? Or Mrs―er… If so, perhaps Mary here can help. She was Samantha’s personal assistant.” He gave a perfunctory wave in the direction of an attractive young woman of around thirty, who sat just out of earshot on the other side of a glass partition.
Libby knew her face was a picture of outrage. She’d known many condescending males―her husband had been one of the worst―but Mr Scruggs took the prize. On the other hand, she’d probably learn more about Samantha from the personal assistant than from an out-of-touch boss. “Max, I wonder if I could have a minute or two alone with Mary. I’d like to know more about Samantha’s time here, and it may be easier on my own. Sort of a water-cooler chat.”
“You mean, no men allowed. Feminists only.” Max chuckled. “Fair enough. You get on with your girl talk and I’ll meet you back at the car.”
Libby introduced herself to Mary. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It’s very strange here, without Mrs Watson.”
“I thought you might be able to tell me about her. Did you know her well?”
“I’m just a personal assistant and she shared me with one of the other solicitors, but I’ve worked for her for a while. She gave me some lovely presents at Christmas.” Mary broke eye contact, examining her own hands in great detail. The nails were beautifully French polished and neatly squared off. Libby liked the woman already. Long nails on computer keyboards made her shudder. “To be honest, Mrs Watson wasn’t always easy to deal with, but her heart was in the right place.” Libby wasn’t so sure. She’d had plenty of spats with Samantha.
Mary fiddled with a ring, winding it round her finger. Libby asked, “Is there something you think I should know? Anything that struck you as odd in the last few weeks?”
The PA squared her shoulders as if she’d made a decision. “It’s not much really, but it hadn’t happened before, and it was the day before she―she…” Mary’s lip trembled.
Libby waited a second to let her regain control, pleased to find someone genuinely upset for Samantha. Mr Scruggs had hardly acknowledged her death. After a moment, she said, “What did you want to tell me?”
Mary concentrated on her hands once more. “I think she was worried about something. It started with that business in the cathedral. The―the murder.” She drew in her breath with a shudder. Libby nodded, taking care not to interrupt Mary’s train of thought. “Every Monday I give―gave―her a list of appointments for the week. Of course, they’d often change as the week went on and I’d update her on-line calendar, but she liked to have a printed copy to pin up by her desk.”
She raised an eyebrow at Libby, as though checking she understood, and continued, “The Monday before Mr Temple died, I gave Mrs Watson the list as usual and she pinned it up. Then the day we heard about the murder, she took it down and put it through the shredder. She’d never done that before. Not ever. She always gave things to me if she wanted them shredded. I’m surprised she even knew where the machine was.” Mary smiled, as though this was an office joke.
“Do you have a copy of the list?”
“It’s still on my computer. I keep the originals as well as the updates.” Mary shot a glance over her shoulder. “I shouldn’t really give it to you, though. It belongs to the partnership. Mr Scruggs…”
“Of course.” Libby waited. Mary glanced over one shoulder. No one stood nearby. She typed a few rapid strokes, her fingers flying over the keys.
She looked up again, a hint of conspiracy in her smile. “Perhaps I can get you a glass of water?”
“That would be lovely.” Mary stood up, touched her computer screen, glanced at Libby and left the room. Libby leaned towards the screen, scanning the list of names, dates and times. She pulled out her notebook and scribbled as fast as she could. As she copied the last name, she heard a discreet cough, heralding Mary’s return. “Thanks,” Libby murmured, already on her way out.
Ghosts
Reginald, Libby and Max settled in Max’s study, nursing mugs of coffee and plates of lemon shortbread. “Did you or Joe find anything useful in the list of Samantha’s clients?” Libby asked.
“Afraid not. There were a couple of minor criminals, Wayne Evans and Ricky de Havilland, but neither appeared to have any interest in the cathedral.”
“No links to anyone we know?” Libby was disappointed.
“No. Samantha’s clients were small fry. A spot of criminal damage, cannabis, minor vehicle thefts. She wasn’t allowed to represent any of the big boys. Her boss saw to that. Both her clients were given suspended sentences, by the way.”
“Would either have a motive to kill her?”
“Quite the opposite, I would have thought. They got off lightly. Joe thinks the judge had a soft spot for Samantha, so he was disposed to give her clients another chance.”
“She was certainly lovely to look at,” Libby admitted. “Funny, I couldn’t stand the woman when she was around, but now she’s died in such a dreadful way, I just remember the good things about her. She had sharp wits. She often made me laugh, even when she used them against me.” She swallowed the last crumbs of shortbread, brushing sugar from her fingers. “It’s disappointing. I had high hopes of a link between Samantha’s clients and the cathedral.”
“Joe’s team have been running the names through the police computer. They may come up with something useful, but it all takes time.”
“It’s so frus
trating.” Libby laughed. “There are plenty of threads, all tangled, like my knitting. Every one we follow seems to break off. I feel if only I could pull on the right one…”
“Stop thinking so hard,” Max suggested. “Let your subconscious do the work.”
Bear was stretched out across Reginald’s feet, snoring. Reginald had sat in silence as Libby and Max talked. Now, he shifted in his seat. Bear wriggled and went back to sleep. Reginald asked, “On another subject, has this guy ventured into the drawing room, yet? I’d back him against any ghost.”
Max dribbled cream on his coffee. “Won’t put a paw across the threshold. Our ghost still seems to worry him. I sat in the room for an hour the other day and I must admit it’s uncomfortable. Cold, as much as anything.”
Libby drained her cup. “It’s broad daylight. Why don’t we go in there now and see if we can’t get a sighting. Reginald, you know about ghosts. You could tell it to go, or something.”
“Not me. I’ve researched plenty of old houses, and spent the night in some, and I’ve learned enough not to take them lightly.”
“But things don’t happen in daylight, do they? I mean, people see the odd white shape flit across a hall, but I never heard of anyone suffering harm.”
Reginald shook his head. “You need to be properly equipped if you’re going ghost-hunting. Microphones, infrared cameras. Or, if you want to chase the ghost out, you need an expert.”
“Dr Phillips told me there are exorcists working in churches. I suppose we could get in touch with one of those.”
Max put in, “Why would we want to? It hasn’t hurt us.”
“But you can’t use the drawing room in your own house. Aren’t you curious? Wouldn’t you like to know why the house is haunted?” Max and Reginald exchanged glances. They were hiding something. “What is it? You know something, don’t you? Reginald, you were going to do some research. What did you find out?”
Max moved across to sit beside Libby on the sofa. “Go on, Reginald. She won’t give up. You’d better tell her what you know.” He took Libby’s hand. “You won’t like it.”
A chill ran down Libby’s spine. “But, I love ghost stories. Anyway, you have to tell me about the ghost, now you’ve mentioned it. I’m imagining all sorts of things.”
Reginald said, “It’s sad, rather than frightening. You see, one of the men fighting for the Duke of Monmouth, the pretender to the throne in the 17th century Battle of Sedgemoor, escaped the battle and ran away, getting as far as Exham. He was a local man, and he made the mistake of returning to his own house, where his mother hid him as best she could.”
“The village was divided, with half backing Monmouth, the others loyal to the King, and our soldier was careless. A neighbour saw him and told the King’s men. Informing on enemies could be lucrative in those days. When the King’s men arrived the soldier hid in a trunk under his mother’s bed. She pretended illness and said she couldn’t walk.”
Libby groaned as Reginald continued, “Needless to say, the soldiers took no notice, dragged the old woman from the bed, levered the top off the trunk and found her son curled up, cowering among his mother’s linen. The woman pleaded for her son’s life. She fell on her knees and begged the captain to kill her instead.”
Max took up the tale. “The captain paused, thinking about his own mother. He said to the prisoner. ‘You hold your mother’s fate in your hands. Choose your path.’”
Libby bit her lip. “Did he do the right thing?”
Max leaned forward, bright eyes exploring Libby’s face. “You’d expect him to man up, submit to his fate and save his mother, wouldn’t you?”
“But he didn’t?”
Reginald scoffed. “The coward fell to the ground, snivelling, begging to be saved.” A thought began to stir in the back of Libby’s mind as Reginald finished the story. “The captain shrugged and gestured to his men. ‘Do as you will with her. Why should we take more care of an old woman than her son does?’ They tied her up and hanged her from the gallows. This place was built a century or so later for the local Lord of the Manor, on the spot where the gallows stood.”
Libby groaned. “Did they let the soldier go?”
Reginald laughed. “Not a chance. They let him watch his mother die, then strung him up as well.”
Libby gripped Max’s hand. “That’s cruel.”
“The old woman thought she’d saved her son. She died happy, I suppose, though his cowardice must have broken her heart.”
“Is that why she haunts the house?”
“She doesn’t. It’s her son. He can’t leave, because he can’t forgive himself for letting his mother die.” Max was thoughtful. “He’s ashamed.”
The story reminded Libby of something she’d heard. What could it be? She screwed her eyes tight, trying to recall the words.
A moment later, she leapt to her feet. “That’s it. I understand what happened.”
He frowned. “You mean, with the soldier?”
“No, not that. Giles Temple’s death. You were right. Once I stopped thinking so hard, everything fell into place in my head. Where’s that copy of Samantha’s client list? And I’ll need your computer.”
She clicked through to the on-line census she’d used to find Terence Marchant. “There it is. I can’t prove it, though. Not yet.” She ran into the hall, ignoring Max’s shout, and pulled on her outdoor clothes. “I’ll tell you later. Meanwhile, I have to bomb Wells with my appalling knitting.”
Yarn-bombing
Libby and Angela arrived at the cathedral in time for the bishop’s blessing. “I’m glad you’re here,” Angela admitted. “I haven’t been back since that―that thing fell on us.” They stared into the roof. “Do you think someone was really trying to kill us?”
“It’s an inefficient way to do it,” Libby said. “I see they’ve sealed the area where the gargoyle fell. They don’t want a whole row of statues landing on people’s heads.”
“If anything else happens in the building, they’ll have to rope off the whole cathedral.” Angela giggled. The moment of tension broken, they joined Vera, Ruby, June and the other members of the Knitters’ Guild. Each carried an enormous bag, stuffed with knitted items. They fidgeted, checking watches, keen to get to work.
The bishop beamed, kept his blessing brief, and let them go. “I can see you’re all keen to begin your task.”
Outside, a cold wind sliced into Libby’s face. “Let’s split up,” she said to Angela. “It’ll be quicker.”
“Don’t you think we should stay together?”
“We’ll be fine. It’s a clear night. You go down the High Street and I’ll cover Vicar’s Close.”
Lights shone from houses either side, like beacons reflected on the cobbles. Libby tied a knitted scarf to a gate and moved on. Music spilled all around. She paused to listen to a quiet guitar. A piano joined in, then a saxophone. Libby walked on, her feet moving to the rhythm of a tango.
She stiffened. Was that a footstep? She waited, breath held, heart thudding in time with the dance. She took one more step, every sense alert.
Another footfall. Should she turn and look? Libby tensed, waiting, listening. Another footstep sounded, and another, close by. Not yet. Wait.
Now! She spun round, arms outstretched, fingers clutching. A heavy object swung towards her head. Libby caught the bag, tugged, and a figure lost its balance, slipped on the cobbles and fell among the pile of knitting tumbling from Ruby’s red holdall. Metal clattered on the path.
Ruby, scrabbling to rise, lunged sideways, but Libby was first. She stamped on the knife. “I don’t think so,” she gasped. “Leave it. It’s all over.”
Defeated, Ruby curled into a sobbing ball. Libby’s eyes searched the empty street. She shivered, searching for help, but Vicars Close was deserted. Only the invisible music played on, the oblivious musicians safe and warm.
Libby scrabbled in her bag, but before she could pull out her phone, Joe Ramshore and a uniformed constable appeared fro
m the shadows. The constable pulled the distraught, weeping Ruby to her feet while Joe retrieved the knife from the cobbles. “Mrs Forest, when will you learn to let the police handle things?”
Ruby hiccuped. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was just trying to help.”
Joe spun round. “Help? Help who?”
“My boy. My son.” She howled. “I only wanted to stop him going to prison.”
The yarn-bombing had to wait. The Knitters’ Guild crowded into the verger’s office to drink tea and demand explanations from Libby. “How did you know Ruby had a knife?”
“I didn’t, but I guessed she’d try something tonight. She failed to get rid of me in the cathedral so I gave her the opportunity to try again.”
June was aghast. “Ruby’s been a friend for years. She’s the kindest soul I know, always looking after others. I can’t believe she’d kill.”
Libby, trembling, accepted a cup of hot, sweet tea from Angela. Her friend glared. “I’m so angry with you, Libby. You knew Ruby wanted to kill you and never said a word. You should have let me come with you.”
“I didn’t know for sure, but yarn-bombing in the dark was the perfect time to attack me. She’d already tried once, with the gargoyle, and nearly killed you as well. I chose Vicars Close, because I thought I’d hear her footsteps on the cobbles. I’d told Joe my suspicions, earlier. I knew he’d come.”
“I bet he told you to wait for him in the cathedral.” Libby stirred sugar into her mug to avoid answering. Angela was right. Joe had made Libby promise to stay away from Ruby. She’d have to face his anger later. Max would be furious, as well.
Angela laughed. “Anyway, you’d better tell us all about it. We won’t move until you do.”
Libby began the story. “At first, I thought Giles Temple’s murder was about the man himself. He had something of a past.” Libby caught a glimpse of Imogen Weir’s flushed face and moved on. “His murder seemed carefully planned. I supposed the killer slipped into the library armed with wire cutters, planning to cut the chain from a book and use it to kill Giles.”
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