Mandy sounded breathless. "What did she say?"
The florist shook her head. "Can't remember what it was exactly. Something to do with eggs. Or was it candles? Anyway, she was cured in a shake of a rat's tail."
Libby began, "I really don't think we need a fortune teller," but Mandy's eyes gleamed. "I've always wanted to have my fortune told. Who was it at the fair? Was it a local person?"
"She lives over Dunster way, I think," the flower shop lady replied. "I can let you have her address, if you like. She's not usually a fortune teller, of course. That's just for the shows. She's what they call an alternative therapist."
"Mandy, I really think you should stick to this Julia, if Claire recommended her. You know she's properly trained, and…"
Mandy was too busy making a note of the alternative therapist's address to listen. Libby's heart sank. Her young friend was grabbing any idea that came her way. Maybe it was best to end the conversation here, before another customer arrived with an even more ridiculous suggestion. She served the flower shop lady. "Your usual sandwich?"
Peter, Mandy's old school friend, watched with a superior half-smile playing on his lips. Libby's hand itched to slap the smug face. Instead, she said, "I take it you've just arrived back in Exham, if Mandy hasn't seen you before today."
Peter grinned. "I'm sizing up the opposition."
"I'm sorry? What opposition?"
"I work for Terence Marchant. We're opening a new patisserie in Exham and Terry asked me to look at the local cafes and sandwich shops. Of course, our place will be rather different. More focused on croissants and macaroons than cheese and pickle sandwiches. I don't think you've got anything to fear."
Mandy's face turned pink. "You mean, you're a spy? Then you can get out of here, Peter Morris. I never liked you when we were at school and I was right. And I won't be visiting any therapist you know."
Peter smirked harder. "No need to get in a tizz. We don't want to make your phobias worse, do we?"
Libby's heart hammered. Her instincts had been right. She'd known the lad was bad news as soon as he came in. His trousers were shiny and much too tight, and his hair slick with grease. She held the door open. "Thank you for coming in, Mr Morris. You can tell your boss we're managing very well, and there's plenty of room for all kinds of shops in Exham."
Peter used his elbow to shove himself off the counter, swallowed the last of his doughnut, and snorted. "You can go on selling your buns, Mrs Forest, and your home-made chocolates. Terry thinks there might be a place for them in the patisserie. Of course, they'll need to be of professional quality. I expect he'll pop in one of these days for a sample, and you'd do well to offer your best products. He's quite the businessman. You'd best stay on the right side of him."
As the door closed, Libby let out an angry whistle. "So, Terence Marchant thinks he might possibly be interested in my chocolates." Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. "How very kind of him. I think we'd better tell Frank what's going on. Between you and me, and despite what I said, I think Exham has just about as many food outlets as it can manage. Do you think we should be worried?"
Mandy gave a short, unconvincing laugh. "I'm sure this place is popular enough to beat off Peter Morris and his boss. Is Terence Marchant anything to do with the cat lady in Wells?"
"He's the rich son. I was worried about her, and I visited him to discuss all those cats she keeps. He told me he might start a rival business in Exham. I thought he was just winding me up, but it seems I was wrong."
More customers arrived. As Libby served, she watched Mandy from the corner of her eye. The young woman kept staring at the address and phone number of the alternative therapist. If only there was something Libby could do. An unqualified therapist could lead to trouble, but she knew better than to try to stop Mandy. Opposition would only make her more determined. Libby added it to the mental list of things to worry about in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep. The list seemed to be growing fast. "Can you manage here for an hour or so, Mandy? I'd like to call round to see Frank. I know it's his day off, but he needs to know about Terence Marchant's patisserie as soon as possible."
***
Libby was disappointed to find Frank away from home. She rang his mobile number, but he didn't answer. It was no surprise. He'd never come to terms with mobile technology. Libby shrugged. He'd taken a few days off. He rarely spent more than twenty-four hours away from his beloved bakery, but it was fully staffed for the next few days and he'd be back soon enough. Terence Marchant's new shop wouldn't be opening for a week or two.
Libby slipped a note through the door, asking Frank to get in touch when he returned home, and spent the rest of the day with Mandy in the bakery. The college catering supervisor arrived, questioning Mandy about food hygiene and health and safety. Pleased with the apprentice's progress, she left clutching a bag of Belgian buns left over from the lunchtime rush.
Mandy beamed. "She says I'm doing really well." She'd removed the rings from her face and ears in honour of the supervisor's visit, and apart from purple lipstick could pass for any attractive young woman, so long as she stayed behind the counter. The Doc Martens on her feet gave the game away, though. Libby wondered if the supervisor had noticed them.
At the end of the day, when the shop was clean and shiny, Libby and Mandy took off their overalls and prepared to shut the shop. "My feet are killing me," Libby muttered. "It's these stupid kitten heels. Maybe I should get some boots, like yours."
"You could do worse, Mrs F. Lots of space for the toes."
As Mandy dug into the pocket of her overall and dropped the little pile of pencil, paper, and handkerchief on the counter, Libby peeked at the address of the alternative therapist.
Abbott House, near Upper Compton, she read, and a shiver crept down her spine. That was the village the barmaid had mentioned, where Mike's creepy visitors, Olivia and Xavier Papadopoulos, lived. Libby didn't want them anywhere near Mandy. Despite her determination to stay out of her apprentice's private life, she had to say something. "That address…"
Mandy raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" Her tone was belligerent.
Libby opened and closed her mouth several times. The urge to stop Mandy was almost overwhelming, but she knew it would be a mistake. Already, Mandy's eyes glowed with the light of battle. "Are you planning to visit?"
Mandy shrugged. "Yes, but I don't know how I'm going to get there."
The cold hand of fear grabbed hold of Libby's insides. She didn't want Mandy getting involved with this therapist and she hated the thought of her visiting Upper Compton on her own.
She thought quickly. "You know, we haven't taken delivery of that new vehicle I ordered. Remember, I said I'd get another car for the business. You did well to pass your driving test first time, and you can drive it when it arrives, but in the meantime if you really want to go over to see this woman, I'd like to come with you. We can go in the Citroen and take Bear. I always feel better in a strange place when he's around."
Mandy's face was difficult to read, but she was fond of the dog, so Libby ploughed on. "I think we should leave Shipley behind. He's still a bit wild. In fact, the vet's running some advanced classes for crazy dogs, and I'm planning to take him, soon. Meanwhile, if you really insist on visiting this woman in Upper Compton, I'll take you." That way, she could keep an eye on her apprentice. Keep her out of harm's way. They'd both be fine, with Bear in tow.
Mandy picked up her phone. "Thanks, I'll ring and see if I can make an appointment for tomorrow. It's our half day."
Abbott House
Mandy's appointment with the alternative therapist was set for three the next afternoon. She spent the morning on the telephone at the bakery, cold calling likely distributors of Mrs Forest Chocolates. Libby was impressed. She hated trying to sell things to strangers. "They can always say no," Mandy pointed out. "Anyway, your chocs are so scrummy, I know they'll love them."
"Well, if you don't need me to help, I'll leave you to it. I've arranged a mee
ting with the vet to talk about Shipley."
"The obedience classes?"
"Exactly. Shipley's a beautiful dog, and he's won prizes for best in breed at the local show, but he wouldn't win anything for his behaviour."
As though to prove her right, Shipley darted round her feet, yapping and whining, wildly over-excited, when she collected him from Max's house. Once inside her little purple car, he sniffed every corner, snuffling for evidence of his best friend, Bear.
Max held the car door as Libby calmed the dog, offering a chew. "That animal has an over-developed sense of smell," he said.
The vet was delighted to see Shipley, and the dog responded by leaping wildly around, despite Libby's stern commands. Tanya turned her back on the dog. "I won't encourage him," she said. "Now, you wanted to talk about obedience classes. Let's go inside. Come on, Shipley, walk to heel." To Libby's astonishment, the dog stopped leaping and barking and walked sedately, close to the vet's ankles.
"How did you do that?"
"He likes authority. The advanced training classes start tomorrow. I don't run them, I get an ex-police dog trainer to do that. He's like the dog whisperer and he'll soon sort Shipley out."
Libby said, "I rather suspect I need as much help as Shipley. Bear was well trained before I met him and the only other animal I've ever owned is Fuzzy. My cat. And she does exactly what she likes."
The vet laughed. "You mean your delightful marmalade. The one who broke her leg? How does she feel about Shipley?"
"When he's around, she hides in the airing cupboard. If he gets too near, she makes a swipe at his nose, but she only comes out to see Bear, these days. She worships that dog."
"Poor cat. The sooner Shipley falls into line, the better. Can you make the class tomorrow morning?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Officially, Max owns Shipley as well as Bear, but I think he'll be delighted if I take the training off his hands." And it will buy me a little more time to decide what I really want.
***
Even Bear seemed subdued as Libby and Mandy arrived in Upper Compton. The village was bigger and less cosy than its smaller relative down the road. There was no welcoming pub, bright with summer flowers, just a featureless brick building close to the road, with no room for outside tables and chairs. Libby felt no temptation to eat there.
Her heart sank lower with every yard they covered, until the car crawled round the increasingly twisty lanes leading to Abbott House. Mandy's hands were clasped tight in her lap. She was as nervous as Libby.
"Are you sure about this?"
Libby wished her young friend would change her mind, but Mandy shook her head. "I'm going to beat this phobia."
Libby fell silent, determined not to keep recommending Claire's therapist friend, but she felt heavy with trepidation. This is a mistake.
They followed the directions of the Satnav, enunciated in perfect Received Pronunciation by the invisible female. Libby imagined her as Charlotte, a wealthy woman lying on a chaise longue, sipping champagne between announcements.
As they drew nearer to Abbott House, even Charlotte sounded unsure, describing the road as an Unnamed Lane. The hedges grew closer until Libby's Citroen touched vegetation on both sides. Brambles scraped along the paintwork, setting Libby's teeth on edge, as the ground dipped sharply down into a valley.
"I hope we don't meet a horsebox." Mandy's voice trembled.
Just as Libby began to suspect the house they sought was some kind of joke perpetrated by the Exham flower shop woman, she saw a building. Tiny, half-hidden by over-hanging elm trees whose dense canopy of leaves shut out all but the most persistent rays of the sun, it was nothing like the grand mansion she'd expected. "I suppose this must be it?"
Mandy peered out of the window. "The name's on the gate."
Neither she nor Mandy was in a hurry to leave the familiar safety of the car, but Bear was restive, never content to sit quietly in a stationary vehicle. Libby climbed out and reluctantly led the way to the house.
The door flew open. "Ah, Mandy. There you are." Once more, Libby's expectations were confounded. She'd imagined a fairground fortune teller in tasselled shawls, gold bracelets, and a beaded head-dress. Kate Stephenson was a tiny, energetic woman in denim dungarees over a white t-shirt, with a blue square tied round her head. Fair curls escaped, framing delicate features. She wore no jewellery at all. "Sorry about the clothes." She laughed. "I've been trying to clean the house while the kids are at school." She bent over Bear, and he allowed her to stroke his head.
The tension-ache at the back of Libby's neck subsided. She shot a sideways glance at Mandy, who returned a sheepish grin. They'd both let imagination run away with them.
Instead of taking them inside, Kate Stephenson led the way round the corner of the house, under a wooden arch in the even deeper shade of a sturdy yew. The tree's wide trunk spoke of great age. There was something about yew trees. What was it, now?
As they reached the back of the house, Libby remembered. Yew trees were traditionally planted at the entrance to cemeteries. The wooden entrance was the lychgate. Sure enough, rows of discoloured gravestones marched down the garden. The quiet of the surrounding woods was broken by rooks, rising up, cawing and flapping. Under the noise, water babbled gently.
They followed a path between the graves, towards the corner of the garden where a summer house stood, doors flung wide, offering a glimpse of white-painted interior. "I hope you're not bothered by the old gravestones," Kate said. "Some of them date back to the seventeenth century. The cottage used to belong to the sexton who dug the graves. My boys and I love it here, living among the departed."
Libby gulped and followed her into the summer house. White walls reflected the daylight streaming through enormous windows. A small, round table stood in the centre of the room, with four comfortable-looking chairs pulled close. A pink sofa and a second, rectangular table against the far wall completed the furnishings.
"Have a seat." Kate smiled, showing a set of perfect, white teeth. "Don't worry, I'm not a witch, by the way. I only do fairground work for fun." Her bright green eyes sparkled as though she sensed Libby's antagonism and found it amusing. Bear settled next to the pink sofa, his gaze following every one of Kate Stephenson's moves. Libby slipped a finger through his collar and sat close, glad he was there.
Kate turned her attention to Mandy. "Of course, you're the one needing my help. I can tell by your aura."
"My aura?" Mandy's brows met over her nose.
Kate laughed, the sound as musical as the murmur from the nearby stream. "Nothing scary. Everyone has their own aura, and it changes according to mood. Yours is a little orange today. You're anxious, of course." She bustled round the room, brewing something in a small pot with a bamboo handle. "Don't you love the way the Japanese make tea? I've been to Japan and seen the tea ceremony. They're completely mindful through the whole process."
Mandy nodded, eyes dark, face serious, but Libby stifled a groan. Max had once described mindfulness as a pseudo-scientific way of justifying the art of doing nothing. She'd argued at the time, but Kate's mention of auras and tea ceremonies within five minutes of their arrival left Libby cold. She subsided into the comfy cushions of the sofa and drank green tea.
Kate sipped from her cup in silence. Birds chattered outside. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Libby tried not to make slurping noises.
At last, Kate said, "Now, Mandy, let me help you."
Mandy peered around the room. "Don't you use a crystal ball, or tarot cards, or something?"
"No need. I can already sense your troubles, Mandy. You've had a difficult life. A broken home."
"Well, only recently. It was fine when I was a kid."
"Of course, it seemed fine to you. Both your parents were at home and you thought they were happy. Children always make the best of things. But, underneath, you knew something was wrong."
Kate paused. Mandy stammered, "W-well, I suppose I knew Mum was nervous around my dad. But I never saw
him lay a hand on her. Not then. Not when I was small."
"She hid it from you, to protect you. Then, there was the thing you were scared of…"
Mandy's head jerked up.
"What was it, now? Something in the house…"
This time, the pause dragged on until Mandy broke into the quiet, her voice small and scared. "The attic." She chewed on her lower lip. "There was a ladder that led up to the loft. Mum and Dad kept old curtains and bits of carpet there. I wasn't supposed to go up on my own."
"Your father stopped you, didn't he?"
"He told me I'd fall through the floorboards."
"But you wanted to see it?"
"That's right. So, one day, I went up there, and he caught me, and he was so mad." Kate laid her hands on Mandy's, tightly clasped on the table. "I expect you thought it was your fault."
"It was. You see, there were boxes up there. It was dark, up in the attic. It smelled musty, from the old curtains, I suppose, and there were boxes I'd never seen before. Some were just old clothes. You know, my baby clothes. Mum must have kept them. At the back of all the other boxes, I found a small one. It was different from the others–smaller, made out of painted wood."
Mandy's lip trembled as she continued, "I had this awful feeling before I opened it. I don't know what I expected to find, but I had to look. They were photos. Horrible pictures. Dad had been in the Bosnian war, you see, in 1995, just before I was born. The photos were terrible – picture of dead people. Some were soldiers, but others were just ordinary people. Women and children too. Covered in blood, a-and lying in heaps."
Libby closed her eyes. Mandy's father, Bert, was a bully. Once, when Mandy was lodging with Libby, he'd got drunk and tried to break into the house to find his daughter. Libby had no idea he'd once been a soldier. A bad time in Bosnia could explain his violent moods.
Murder at the Bridge_An Exham on Sea Cosy Murder Mystery Page 5