Kate said, "Did your father know you found his photos?"
Mandy nodded. "He caught me looking at them, and he was furious. He shouted, and then he started to cry." Her voice shook. Kate offered her a box of tissues. "Is that why I don't like small spaces? Because of the attic?"
Kate replaced the tissues on the table, near Mandy. "We can't be sure, at the moment, but it made a big impression on you. We need to talk more, another time, but if that experience started your fears, you'll begin to feel different, already."
Mandy was nodding. "I never thought about it like that, before." She screwed the tissue into a ball. "Do you think that might be why Dad… Why he…" Her voice faded away.
"You can say it, here. You're safe."
Mandy took a deep, shuddering breath. "That's why Dad used to hit Mum, isn't it? He was angry all the time and he took it out on her." She spoke slowly, as though thinking it through, her voice growing in confidence. "It wasn't my fault at all, was it?"
Kate smiled. "No. Not your fault."
Libby was astonished. She knew about Mandy's claustrophobia, and she'd seen her father's anger, but she'd never imagined there could be a link. She'd heard of soldiers suffering from mental health problems, even years after they left the army. Post-traumatic stress disorder. That's what it was called.
Kate sat back. "That's enough for now, Mandy. We'll talk some more, another time. There are bad things in your family's past, and we need to uncover them. It will take careful thought. I'll consider how best to handle it. You come back in a few days. I'm sure I can help you."
She led them through the cemetery-garden. "Perhaps you'll be able to come alone, next time?" she suggested. Libby narrowed her eyes, searching Kate's face, suddenly uneasy, but the warm smile was still in place and the woman's green eyes were wide. "You can bring a friend if you wish, but sometimes it's easier to talk when it's just the two of us."
She turned to Libby. "Give my regards to Max, when you see him. I knew him once, many years ago."
Libby started. Max had never mentioned Kate. Well, she couldn't expect to know everything about him. That was part of his charm, wasn't it?
Anyway, Kate was still talking. "I heard about Debbie. That she died. If you like, you can tell Max how sorry I am. I'll understand if you'd rather not."
***
As Libby and Mandy climbed back into the Citroen, Bear scrambling into the back seat, Libby broke the silence. "Are you OK?"
Mandy nodded, but still said nothing. The silence continued as Libby started the car, the engine juddering in protest. The steep slope and muddy ground were almost too much for the aging vehicle.
Mandy pulled out a tube of mints. "Want one?" Libby shook her head. Mandy sucked noisily. "Who's Debbie?"
Libby hesitated. Max had trusted her with the story of his daughter's death in a horse-riding accident. In a town like Exham, where everyone knew their neighbour's business, Libby was amazed no one had ever mentioned it to her. She supposed Max had worked hard to keep it private. Joe, as well, for Debbie had been his sister. Libby struggled for the right words. Although she often listened to gossip in her work, she tried not to fall into the trap herself.
The car lurched as a stray branch scraped along the driver's side, and Libby made up her mind. "I can't share it with you, Mandy. It's something that happened to Max many years ago. He would have to tell you himself."
"OK, no problem."
Libby shot a sideways glance at the set of her companion's jaw. Mandy didn't usually give in so easily. Probably, she was still thinking about today's session with Kate Stephenson. It had certainly left Libby confused. Set to distrust the so-called alternative therapist, she'd been astonished by the ease with which the woman uncovered some of Mandy's fears. Perhaps she'd been too hasty.
As Libby persuaded the car round a dog-leg bend, she came face to face with a heavy Range Rover. Both vehicles drew to a halt, the lane too narrow to allow them to pass.
Xavier Papadopoulos glared from behind the car's wheel. The nearest passing place was ten yards or so behind his vehicle. For a long moment, Libby's eyes locked with his in a silent battle. It was his responsibility to reverse and she wasn't going to let the man intimidate her into giving way. She'd have to travel backwards and negotiate the tricky bend. She waited, jaw set, stomach churning.
The stand-off seemed to last for hours. At last, the Range Rover scraped into reverse gear. With a glare that sent shivers down Libby's spine, Xavier Papadopoulos crunched his gears into reverse and shot backwards with wheels squealing. Swerving just far enough inside the passing place, he let Libby's Citroen squeeze through the gap. Bear barked, loudly, as Libby waved her thanks.
Mandy giggled. "Well, Mrs F. I wouldn't want to argue with you with that look on your face."
St Mary's
Next day, Max and Libby left the Land Rover under a tree in a pretty Exmoor village. "Why are we here?" Libby asked. "Upper Compton is still a few miles away." Max linked his arm with hers. "I want you to meet someone. First, though, tell me about your adventures with the alternative therapist."
They strolled down the lane, Bear and Shipley snuffling for rabbits in the hedgerow. Libby grunted. "I can't decide whether Kate Stephenson has some sort of psychic gift, or is playing tricks. The session with Mandy wasn't at all as I expected. I thought there'd be more jingling silver bracelets and patchouli oil, but instead, we sat very sedately and drank tea. It seemed to help Mandy, which I suppose is a good thing, but Kate made me nervous. She seemed to know everything."
Max gazed across the hedges towards empty green fields leading down into the valley. "Don't let your imagination run riot. She knew Mandy's name. It would be the easiest thing in the world for her to find out about Mandy's father. He's been in court. That would be reported in the papers and you'd be able to find reports on the internet. Given that knowledge, it wouldn't take too much work to uncover his background in the army and come up with a convincing story for Mandy."
"Maybe." Libby had learned to trust the knot of anxiety that formed in her stomach. It nearly always meant something was wrong. When she ignored that tiny ache, bad things often followed. "Kate, the therapist, or whatever she's called, said something odd, by the way. She sent you her best wishes." Libby kept her eyes steadily on the road ahead. "You didn't mention knowing her."
"I don't know her." Max sounded perfectly calm. They walked on a few paces. "What was her last name?"
"Stephenson."
He shrugged. "No, doesn't mean anything to me."
"But she knows you. She mentioned Debbie."
"What?" Max swung to face Libby, his eyes wide. Libby twirled a leaf in her fingers, trying to appear casual. Max rubbed a hand over his face. "Let me think. Is Stephenson her married name?"
"Oh. Of course." She hadn't thought of that. Max probably knew Kate before she was married. Such a silly system, changing your name when you married. It made it so tricky to trace people.
Max walked faster. "I wonder… I knew a Kate when I worked in the bank in Bristol, just after I left university. Kate Mitchell was her name."
"Did you know her well?" Libby made an effort to sound relaxed.
"We went around together for a while. Nothing intense. It all fizzled out when I met my wife and we lost touch over the years. I haven't seen her since then."
"Well, she seems to know a lot about you." Libby caught her lower lip between her teeth, annoyed at the edge in her voice.
Max, deep in his own thoughts, seemed not to notice. He murmured, almost to himself, "I suppose my divorce is common knowledge, but how did she know about Debbie? We lived in London when she died."
Max had told Libby the sad story: he'd had a row with his teenage daughter, she'd flounced away, ridden her horse without a helmet, fallen and suffered a fatal head injury. At the time he'd been focused on making big money as a banker, and he'd let family relationships slip. After Debbie's death, he'd blamed himself and hit the whiskey bottle, hard. A messy divorce soon follo
wed.
The knot in Libby's stomach tightened its grip. Kate Stephenson had certainly done her homework. Libby straightened her shoulders, tossed aside the leaf, and took Max's hand. "I imagine Kate's the kind of person who has her ear to the ground. Let's not worry about it. There's no need for you to do anything."
"I suppose not." Max sounded less than convinced.
Libby tried a change of subject. "Anyway, I want to concentrate on Liam Weston's death. We still know so little about him."
"That's why I brought you out here, today, to St Mary's church. I'm hoping the local rector will be able to tell us more." Max squeezed Libby's hand. "He's been at St Mary's for ten years or so. That's long enough to find out all about the local population."
"What did you say his name was?"
"John Canterbury."
Libby laughed. "That's a good name for a rector, especially one with ambition."
"The couple of times I've run into John, playing skittles in one of the local pubs, he's struck me as someone completely uninterested in moving up the hierarchy. We won't be seeing him inducted as Bishop of Bath and Wells any time soon. Oh, and here we are…"
The tiny church, attached by a stone wall to a couple of small thatched cottages, was distinguished by a spire that pointed heavenward. Libby glanced round. Another churchyard; her second in a couple of days. They walked the short distance to the heavy wooden door of the church and left the dogs outside, lying happily in the shade. Even Shipley seemed content to rest quietly, for once.
Max and Libby entered the cool, dark interior of the church. Tacked to a cork board on Libby's right were a dozen or so notices, some printed, several handwritten. A quick scan showed they were notices of events about to take place in the village. The local playgroup was due to meet on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons. The cricket team was playing away next week in Devon, a bring-and-buy sale was due in a few days, and a Grand Summer Quiz was advertised for this evening, to be held in the church hall. An entry ticket entitled the holder to a free glass of wine or a soft drink.
Everything on the board suggested a calm, peaceful community, crime free, where organising an evening without falling foul of the licensing laws was a main concern. Could Liam's death, not two miles away, really be murder? Libby had doubts. Perhaps she'd been reading too much into a careless accident. She'd let the strange Papadopoulos couple spook her, and that unnerving experience in Kate Stephenson's house had left her nerves jangling. A dose of uncomplicated low-key Anglican religion would calm her twitchy nerves.
They walked into the body of the church, to be greeted by a small, round, smiling man wearing enormous glasses. The spectacles were held in place by two very large ears that stood out almost at right angles from his head. With an effort to avoid staring at these twin excrescences, Libby kept her eyes on the centre of the man's face as Max introduced her. "Libby, this is John Canterbury, the rector of this parish, and several others in the area."
The rector, exactly the kind of welcoming vicar Libby had hoped for, beamed. "How lovely to see you again, Max, though I haven't forgiven you for your part in that last skittles match. My team will be taking vengeance very soon. Now, I hope you didn't mind meeting me here. I just popped into the church to make sure everything was ready for the funeral later today. Mrs Banks, one of the most stalwart members of my congregation, I'm afraid, passed away last week. Almost ninety, so the event was not unexpected, but the loss will weaken our Sunday singing even more."
His mouth drooped comically, but the twinkle in his eyes remained. "I suppose you don't live around here, Mrs Forest, and better yet, sing?"
"Sorry. I'm from Exham. And not really a churchgoer, I'm afraid."
"Ah well, not to worry." The good humour was infectious. "We'll have to make do with our choir of six, and hope no more are called away to higher things. We could use some young boys and girls, really. Anthony Palmer's the only choir member still at school, and he's obliged to attend because his father's our churchwarden. Lovely voice, the child has. Quite beautiful, but a few months left before it breaks." He heaved a sigh. "Still, you didn't come here to talk about church music, I'm sure."
He straightened a pile of leaflets, handing one to Libby. "Here's a short history of the parish. You may find it interesting."
She tucked the leaflet into her bag and followed the rector out of the dim light in the church into bright June sunshine.
"Now, Max." The smiling vicar leaned against the ancient honey-coloured wall of the nearest cottage. "I live just up the lane. Not in this charming cottage, sadly. Mrs Banks' daughter has that pleasure. But if you come with me, I'm sure I can rustle up a can of tomato soup and some bread. Not much to offer a famous cook such as yourself, Mrs Forest, but perhaps it will stave off the worst of the afternoon's hunger pangs."
***
The rector lived in the small, modern bungalow on the edge of the village. He led Libby and Max inside. "My wife's at work, so you'll have to put up with me, I'm afraid. She's a pharmacist at the local hospital. Let's see what she's left for lunch."
Instead of the promised can of Heinz soup, John's wife had left plates of salmon and cucumber sandwiches and an apple pie, all tightly covered in cling film. The kitchen was clean and tidy, almost as neat as Libby's own, though without the industrial-scale oven and sink units. The rector removed a pile of books and papers from the scrubbed table in the dining room: a Bible, leaflets, and a couple of heavy reference books.
The rector noticed her interest. "Some fascinating information about old Somerset in these books. Glastonbury, of course, is so old it was mentioned in William the Conqueror's Doomsday Book, as well as in this one about old religions."
Libby peered more closely: A History of Ancient Somerset and The Golden Bough. "There's so much to find out about the county's history," she said. "I've only been here a year or two, and I'm still learning."
Max chuckled. "All the old places seem to have present-day mysteries, as well as the old ones. Did you hear about the body on Glastonbury Tor, and the murder in Wells library?"
"Oh, yes. I've been following your adventures with admiration," the rector said. "So I'm not surprised you're interested in young Liam's story, Mrs Forest. I expect that's what you wanted to ask me about?"
Libby nodded and the rector continued, "Poor lad. I knew him well, of course. At least his parents went before him. There's nothing worse than burying your own child. Those are the worst funerals for the clergy, you know, because it's so hard to find the smallest crumb of comfort for the parents. It seems against the natural order of things for a child to go before his parents. Older people, now, they're another matter. When they've lived a happy life, they're often ready to pass on."
His round face beamed with goodwill that hinted he'd find just the right words to say to grieving relatives. He went on, "Liam was well liked around these parts, despite his hot temper, and he was a hard worker, I believe. Wanted to set up his own herd of cattle, learning everything he could from Mike Carmichael. He was like one of the family to Mike and Belinda, you know. There are only a couple of years in age between Liam and Tim, their son."
He offered Libby another sandwich. "To tell you the truth, I think Mike would almost rather have had Liam as his heir. Tim's always been a little…" He laid a finger on his mouth, as though trying to stop criticism pass his lips. "How can I put it, now? Young Tim can be a little too fond of going out with his mates and having a good time. I'm sure he'll settle down in time too. Most do."
Libby drained a coffee cup. "My son just married Sarah, Tim's sister."
The rector beamed, revealing large white teeth, so crowded they crossed one another, lending a certain goofy charm to his smile. "Now, she's a lovely girl, is Sarah. I always thought she'd end up with a local boy like Liam." He raised both hands in the air in an apologetic gesture. "So sorry, that came out wrong. No offence intended."
"None taken. I suppose most people round here end up marrying people they've grown up with?"
He chuckled. "Still, now, I've been rambling on. What was I saying?" He glanced around, eyes narrowed, as though searching for inspiration. "Oh yes. Children don't stay around here, like they used to. Wages are low, and it's easier to find work in the cities." He poured more coffee. "It's good to have new life in the area." He looked from Max to Libby, and she felt a blush start on her neck.
Max stepped in, bringing the conversation firmly back to Liam. "What can you tell us about the lad who died?"
The rector steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. "Not a churchgoer, I'm sorry to say. At least, only at Christmas and Easter, along with most people here." The grin returned. "Best attendance I ever have is when we bless the animals. Church is full of folk, those days, apart from the goats, sheep, and donkeys. Once, we even had a llama up from Barrow Farm over in that direction."
Libby asked, "How well did Tim and Liam get on? Were they friends?"
The rector let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Not them. Jealousy, you know."
Libby leaned forward. "Which way? Was Liam jealous of Tim, or the other way round?"
The rector leaned back, arms folded. "Tim resented the way his father relied on Liam. Now, don't get me wrong. A little bit of jealousy doesn't mean Tim would want to hurt Liam, but since Liam became Mike's right-hand man, Tim refused to have anything to do with farm business. He works in Minehead, these days, with a feed supplier."
He rose, his chair scraping awkwardly on the laminated floor, and began to stack dishes in the dishwasher. "Now, I'm afraid I have to get away and finish preparations for old Mrs Banks. Come and see me again soon, won't you? I'd love to hear about your adventures as our local sleuth."
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