Murder at the Bridge: An Exham on Sea Cosy Murder Mystery (Exham on Sea Mysteries Book 5)

by Frances Evesham

  He lapsed back into silence. Libby prompted, "Then, there's cheese and yoghurt. I expect they're profitable?"

  He shrugged. "We manage." His mouth clamped shut, making it clear any further discussion of his finances was off limits.

  ***

  As Libby pondered her next question, a vehicle screeched to a halt in the yard. Mike stumbled to his feet without a word, opened the door, and left the kitchen, letting the door bang shut behind him. More surprised than offended, Libby stood by the window, out of sight of the two arrivals emerging from a mud-stained four-wheel drive.

  One of the newcomers was female, a middle-aged woman in a Barbour jacket, faded hair straggling to her shoulders. It was the sight of her companion that sent a chill down Libby's back.

  Xavier Papadopoulos, the grey man she'd met at the wedding reception, wore the loose trousers and kaftan of a would-be guru. A necklace of beads and feathers reached halfway down his chest as he towered above Mike, hovering like an eagle over a mouse. Mike seemed to shrink under the other man's gaze.

  Libby leaned close to the window, listening, nerves jangling, butterflies circling her stomach. As the man's eyes slid over the house, she shrank back, hoping he hadn't noticed her peering from the window. Expressionless, he turned away towards the yard and Libby clicked her tongue, annoyed at her own edginess. She knew nothing about the man. He was tall, imposing, and oddly dressed, but that was no reason to fear the man. He'd done her no harm.

  If only she could hear what they were saying. With a burst of determination, she shoved the door open. Why should she cower in the house as though she had something to hide? Squaring her shoulders, she stepped outside and smiled. "Hello. I'm Libby Forest." Her voice was too loud. She tried again, keeping her tone even. "We met at the wedding."

  Mike turned and looked at her, his eyes so dark in a white face that Libby took an instinctive step back inside the house. Too late, she spotted Bear. Always ready to defend her, he'd crept close to her side and she stumbled against him, saving herself from a humiliating fall with a grab at the fur round his neck. Her right elbow hit the wall with a painful crack.

  Regaining her balance, she lifted her chin, trying to retain some dignity. The grey man was openly smirking. Bear growled, the noise rumbling low in his chest, his lips quivering. He snarled, exposing sharp canines. "It's OK, Bear." Shipley stood still, alert, every muscle rigid.

  Libby spoke to Mike. "The dogs are nervous."

  The farmer blinked twice before replying, as though he found it hard to focus on Libby. "Did you hurt your elbow?" he asked at last.

  Libby forced a smile, trying not to grimace. Her elbow burned, but she'd be dragged from the yard by wild horses before she'd admit it in front of Xavier Papadopoulos. "Not at all. I can see you're busy so I won't keep you. I'll come back when Belinda's here."

  Xavier Papadopoulos stretched out his hand. The familiar voice was silky smooth. "Mrs Forest. It's a pleasure to meet again." He held Libby's hand a moment too long. Clenching her jaw, refusing to blink, she stared into intense grey eyes, until with a knowing smile the man dropped her hand.

  It took an effort to overcome the instinct to wipe her palm on the seat of her jeans. Libby spoke to Mike. "Say hello to Belinda for me."

  The farmer swallowed, looked at the floor, and muttered something indistinguishable about a quiz that Belinda wouldn't want to miss.

  The visitor's companion had watched the brief pantomime without a word. Intrigued by her silence, Libby smiled. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

  A nerve twitched in the woman's face. Before she could answer, Xavier Papadopoulos interrupted. "This is Olivia. My wife."

  "Pleased to meet you." The atmosphere crackled with tension, and Bear slipped between Libby and the visitors.

  Libby had rarely felt so unwelcome. "Thank you for the tea, Mike." She was reluctant to admit defeat. She'd be back. "Here's my card. Could you ask Belinda to phone me later? I'd like to talk to her about the wedding. We haven't had the chance for a good gossip."

  Without reading the card, Mike slipped it straight into the pocket of his jacket. Libby felt three sets of eyes boring into her back as she loaded the dogs into the Land Rover, started the engine, and drove away.

  She whistled, feeling pent-up strain seep from her body. "You dogs didn't care for Olivia and Xavier Papadopoulos any more than I did. The man gives me the creeps, and he dominates his wife. I wonder who they are and why Mike was suddenly so nervous when they arrived." She accelerated up the lane. "We need to do a little more sleuthing around the area. It's almost lunchtime. Let's find a local pub where dogs are welcome."

  Local pub

  At the end of Mike's long drive, signs pointed in two directions. One was labelled Compton Rival, the other Upper Compton. "Which do you think?"

  Neither dog expressed a preference, so Libby turned left, towards Compton Rival. Less than a mile down the road, she passed the first of a small row of cottages. The terrace included half a dozen front doors and separate patches of ground, each defined by its owner's taste: one area packed with bean poles, raspberry canes, and strawberries; another covered with AstroTurf; and the third a riot of poppies, cornflowers, and hollyhocks.

  An elderly man, hard at work in the vegetable garden, raised his head, leaned on a spade, and rubbed his back. Libby slowed the car and called, "Is there a pub in the village?"

  The gardener chuckled and pointed a bony, earth-stained finger along the road. "You're almost there, m'dear, if you're looking for the Red Cow. Go on a bit further and you'll find the Gate Hangs High. Take your pick."

  Libby thanked him and let in the handbrake. How could two pubs in the same tiny hamlet make a living? As promised, she arrived at the Red Cow as she rounded the first corner. She drew up in front of the pub. Baskets crammed with cheerful lobelia, petunias, and fuchsias hung on the wall, and a vast tin bowl full of water sat beside the door. "This will do nicely," Libby told the dogs. "It seems you're welcome here."

  She unlatched a heavy wooden door and pushed it open, breathing in the country-pub smell of real ale, years of wood fires, and floor polish. Cool and dark, in contrast to the vivid light of the midday sun outside, the room at first appeared deserted, but as Libby's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she spotted a woman behind the bar. A little older than Libby, dressed in a tight, low cut, pink blouse with copious frills round the neckline, the woman polished the spotless bar with a bright yellow duster. "Come in, do. What can I get for you?"

  At last, someone was pleased to see them. Libby could have hugged the bartender. "Are you serving lunch yet?"

  "Anytime." The woman pointed to the wall. "The specials are on the board."

  Libby deliberated, ordered a soft drink and a goat's cheese and red onion tart, and chose a seat at a small round table. Situated in the bay window, she could watch the road. Any sign of the Papadopoulos couple and she'd be out of the place in a second.

  The woman bustled round, adding knives and forks, glasses and napkins to each table. "You're not from round here, are you?" Her voice was cheerful. "On your holidays?"

  Libby smothered a sigh. Holidays were a thing of the distant past. "I live in Exham," she confessed. "I'm just enjoying the countryside today. It's my day off." If only that were true. "Lovely out here, isn't it?"

  The woman leaned on the bar, ready to chat. "Full of summer visitors, at the moment. This place will be heaving in half an hour. You've arrived just in time to beat the rush."

  "I've been visiting Handiwater Farm. I expect Belinda and Mike come in here quite often?"

  The woman shook her head. "Not them. They go to Upper Compton."

  "The two villages are very separate, then?"

  The woman gave a fruity chuckle and settled her blouse more comfortably on her shoulders. "I should say so. Them at Upper Compton think themselves a cut above those of us down here in Compton Rival. They wouldn't be seen dead in this old pub."

  Libby looked around. "But it's lovely. They're miss
ing a treat."

  "Nice of you to say so." A bell pinged behind the bar. "That's your dinner ready."

  Libby tucked into her tart, enjoying the raspberry dressing on the salad and making a mental note to make something similar at home. A group of three walkers arrived, equipped with boots and rucksacks, and sat at a nearby table. The barmaid organised their drinks and food, and Libby was left to wonder, in silence, why the two villages should so dislike each other.

  Bear and Shipley had emptied the water bowl at the door and now sat at her feet, watching with unblinking eyes as the newly arrived humans tucked in to plates of steak, alert for any food that might fall on the floor. Libby finished her meal and returned to the bar. "Is there anything I can give the dogs? I've been out longer than I intended and they're hungry."

  "Of course, my dear." She pattered behind the bar, returning with a dish of beef scraps. "There, that should do. Nice dogs." She sniffed. "They'll not be welcome in Upper Compton, you know. That Zavvy Papadopoulos and his wife will see to that."

  Libby kept her tone light. "I met them earlier today."

  The barmaid puffed air between her lips in a show of disgust. "You don't want to have much to do with them. Think they own the county, they do, living in that old house. That Olivia comes from one of the oldest families round here, and Coombe House belongs to her. She was a pretty girl back in the day. You wouldn't know it from the look of her now, but they say you grow to look like your husband, don't they? Or is it your dogs?" She looked from Libby to Bear and chuckled. "Olivia used to get on all right with the rest of us, until she met that Zavvy and had her head turned."

  "Unusual name for this part of the world, Papadopoulos."

  The bartender polished knives with a bright yellow tea towel. "Olivia met him on a Greek island. Had a holiday in one of those retreats, where you go to lose weight, or stop smoking, or some such. I don't hold with that sort of nonsense, myself. People with too much money and not enough sense or willpower to sort out their own lives, if you ask me. I heard."

  She leaned across the bar and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I heard Olivia had a problem." She glanced round the room, leaned closer, and hissed, "Drugs, you know."

  She dipped glasses in a bowl of frothy water, dried them on her towel until they squeaked, and hung them in a wooden rack over the bar. "That's why her family sent her out there. They got more than they bargained for when she came back from Greece with Zavvy. Nasty piece of work, he is. Wouldn't be surprised if he was at the bottom of Liam Weston's accident."

  "You've heard about that, then."

  "All round the village. We don't keep no secrets out here. Poor young fellow, Liam. Nothing but bad luck in that family."

  "His parents' farm went bust in the foot and mouth, or so I heard…"

  The barmaid took a long look at Libby. The friendly smile had evaporated. She sucked her teeth. "You heard that, did you? Got a good grapevine?" She turned away to polish the Exmoor Ale beer pump with a vigour that signalled the end of the conversation. Libby called the dogs and made her way to the door. She'd asked one question too many. The barmaid showed every sign of regretting her earlier gossip.

  As Libby reached the door, the woman coughed, glanced round at the walkers and muttered. "Liam's dad's farm was a mile down the road in that direction." She flicked her head to the right. "Just the farmhouse left now, on the edge of Upper Compton. If you go down there, you watch your step. Make sure those dogs are with you. You can't be too careful."

  Libby drove back the way she'd come, passing the lane leading to Mike's farm. Half a mile later she came to a tumbledown brick building set back from the road, on the edge of the next village. Curious, she stopped the car and walked across, peering through cracked windows into desolate, neglected rooms.

  There was nothing else to see, and certainly no evidence to suggest she needed the dogs' protection. What had the barmaid meant by her warning? Was she talking about Liam's dilapidated old family home, or was there danger in Upper Compton, where the unpleasant Papadopoulos couple ruled the roost?

  Mandy

  Still unsettled by the unpleasant episode with Mike and his visitors, Libby was glad to spend the next morning in the Exham bakery with Mandy. Frank, the baker, had rearranged their schedule so Libby and Mandy spent one day a week working together. Delighted with the recent improvement in the fortunes of the bakery, mostly as a result of the popularity of Libby's cake recipes and luxury chocolates, Frank was keen to encourage Mandy in her training.

  This afternoon, the supervisor from the local further education college was planning a visit. In a couple of weeks, Mandy would be taking her first exam, on the route to a qualification in catering. Libby offered to rearrange the meeting, to give Mandy a chance to recover from her breakdown at supper, but her apprentice turned down the offer. "I'm fine, Mrs F. I don't know what came over me."

  "Don't worry. If you need anything from me, just ask. Otherwise we'll carry on as normal." Mandy hadn't confided in Libby about her talk with Claire, and Libby knew her apprentice better than to ask too many questions.

  Mandy moved around the kitchen, as though unable to keep still. "To tell you the truth, Mrs F, I'm nervous about this afternoon."

  "Well there's no need to worry. You're doing a great job in the business. I'm sure you'll sail through the supervisor's questions with no difficulty."

  Mandy's laugh sounded shaky. "I'd rather be selling chocs to shops than answering questions. I was hopeless at school. Not a single qualification."

  "Well, this is your chance to shine, because I'll be writing a great report on your progress. You've been a real asset."

  Mandy's cheeks turned pink. "Thanks, Mrs F." She took a very deep breath. Libby kept busy, stacking chocolate boxes on shelves, saying nothing, sensing Mandy had something to say. "That Claire," Mandy ventured, "she says I could talk to one of her therapist friends about this claustrophobia problem of mine." She pronounced the word with care. "Claire says it's more common than people imagine. She reckons it's easy to deal with, in just a few sessions."

  Libby nodded, wishing Mandy had taken her advice months ago and asked for professional help. She'd been more distressed by Mandy's panic attack the other evening than she'd admitted. Now, it looked as though it was a blessing in disguise. "I think that's a great idea. Claire knows what she's talking about."

  "She says I don't need to worry about seeing a psychiatrist every week for a year, like I thought. She says I'm not mad. I just got into bad habits."

  "Sounds very positive. Have you got an appointment?"

  "That's the trouble. I'm going to have to pay for the sessions or go to my GP and wait months for an appointment." Mandy glared at Libby. "And don't you even think of offering to pay. You've done more than enough for me already and I can just about afford the first few sessions."

  Recognising the challenge in Mandy's over-bright eyes, Libby bit her tongue. "Who's the therapist? Anyone in Exham?"

  "Someone called Julia Enders." The bakery bell clanged as the door swung open. Mandy hissed, "Lives in Bath. I'll go after my next visit to Jumbles. They want to see some more chocolate samples this week."

  The new arrival in the shop, an unfamiliar young man, interrupted. "Julia Enders, did you say? Why, I know her very well."

  Libby stitched a cool smile on her face. "Can I get you something?" she asked.

  The man ignored her, focusing on Mandy. "Well, you're a sight for sore eyes. Haven't seen a proper Goth for ages. Didn't know they still existed in this backwater."

  Libby, offended by the sneer in his voice, shot a glance at Mandy, praying the young woman would hold on to her temper. Mandy, though, wore a broad smile. "Hello, Peter. Long time no see."

  Libby said, "You two know each other? Don't tell me, you were at school together." There was only one secondary school in Exham, and every long-time resident knew all the others and their families. When Libby first arrived in town, she'd been like a stranded goldfish in the close community. Many s
till regarded her as an outsider.

  Mandy giggled. "This is Peter."

  "And you must be the famous Mrs Forest." The young man's feet were set wide apart, his hands in his pockets; he seemed altogether too self-assured for Libby's taste.

  Mandy, though, had brightened up at his appearance. "How do you know Julia Enders?"

  "Friend of my uncle." He winked. "A very good friend, if you know what I mean. What do you know about her?"

  Mandy hesitated. "I suppose there's no reason to keep it a secret. I'm going to see her about my phobia." The defiant gleam in her eyes sent a warm glow of almost maternal pride through Libby.

  Peter looked Mandy up and down. "You're the last person I'd expect to have a phobia. You beat me up in the school playground, just because I called you a stupid Goth, remember? What's this phobia then? Spiders?"

  Libby hated the sarcasm in his voice, but Mandy laughed. "Claustrophobia actually. Can't travel in trains and coaches. Nothing mega."

  "Well, Julia deals with all kinds of phobias. She reckons to shift 'em in one session."

  He lounged against the counter, munching a doughnut. "Julia says she can re-programme your brain to help you overcome learned anxieties, or some such palaver. Works for all sorts of mental problems, apparently—" He broke off, wiping sugar from his chin, as the door swung open again with a jaunty jangle, and the owner of the flower shop appeared.

  Libby stifled a sigh. The woman was one of the worst gossips in town, and from the look on her face she'd caught the end of Peter's sentence. A busy shop was really the worst place to talk about serious subjects. "Phobias? If you're talking about alternative remedies," the florist began, "I can tell you what to do. My sister had a dreadful fear of lifts, because she was shut in a cupboard by mistake when she was a child. The hinges were on the inside, and she couldn't get out for an hour. Her mother broke the door down with a hammer in the end…" Mandy's mouth hung open. Her eyes opened wide as the woman went on, "My sister went to a fortune teller at the County Show and the woman picked up on the problem. She saw my sister a few times…"