Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (11 page)

“Hello again,” Libby said. The child was motionless, except for her eyes. They flickered from the adults to the doorway and back. She was poised, ready to run.

Bear trotted over, tongue lolling. The child stretched out a hand and touched his ear. He stayed quite still, letting her pet his head. Libby took a step forward. “Does your mother know you’re here?” The little girl took no notice.

Max spoke in Libby’s ear. “I’ve got an idea. Let me talk to her.” He pointed to the dog. “This is Bear. He’d like to know your name.”

The child squatted down, her lips close to Bear’s ear and whispered. Libby had to strain to hear. “Katy,” the child said.

Max went on, “Bear wants to know if Mummy’s here with you, Katy.” The girl stroked Bear’s head, but said nothing more. “Or Daddy?” The child pointed down the hill. The wind had dropped and the rain subsided to a steady drizzle. A figure emerged from the trees. The child waved, and it waved back. “Shall we go and talk to him? Bear will come too.” She nodded.

The man that met the little procession halfway up the hill was about forty, despite the long blonde dreadlocks tied at the back of his head. A hole in one elbow and a couple of missing buttons spoiled what must once have been a good leather jacket. “Af’ernoon,” he nodded.

Max said, “Is this your daughter? Shouldn’t she be at school?”

The man ignored the question. “Talked to you, did she?”

Libby said, “Not us. To Bear―the dog.”

“Ah. She’ll talk to animals, will Katy. Not to people, though.”

“Why not?”

He pulled at his goatee beard as though deciding whether to answer. “She don’t like people, much.”

“Fair enough.” Max nodded and walked on, a hand on Libby’s elbow.

“Why did you drag me away? We should have asked a few more questions,” she hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“None of our business, is it? Katy’s with her father. She’s perfectly safe.”

“I wonder why she won’t talk. Do you think there’s something wrong with her?”

Max shook his head. “Some children can’t bring themselves to talk out loud. Especially to grown ups. Animals are different. Less scary.”

Libby thought back over her first meeting with the little girl. “I wonder where her father was, last time I saw her. Down in the mist, I suppose. I let my imagination run away with me, that day. I was almost ready to believe in fairies.”

“Wait.” The man called. “Aren’t you that detective woman. The one that was in the papers, when the rock singer died?”

Max murmured, “You’re famous.”

Libby ignored him. “Yes, that’s me? Why?”

“Maybe you can help us. We’ve lost something, you see. Something that matters to Katy. We need to find it.”

“Is that why Katy’s on the Tor?”

He nodded. “She runs away, that’s the trouble. Any chance she gets, she runs up here, looking for it.”

Libby had a moment of inspiration. “The necklace?”

The man laughed. “Fancy you knowing that. She’s attached to those old beads. Been in the family for forty years or more.”

Libby, spirits rising, reached into her bag and fumbled with the zip. “Here it is.” She held up the necklace. She’d polished the beads until they gleamed and threaded them on a length of stout leather. “The wire was broken. I expect that’s how she lost them.”

Katy’s father took the beads, running them through his fingers. “Katy,” he shouted. “Get over ’ere.” The child saw the beads and held out a grubby hand. Libby dropped the necklace on the palm. A grin spread over the child’s face, colour flooded her cheeks and she looked, suddenly, just like any other happy little girl. “Thank the nice lady,” said her father.

The child’s smile died. She inspected her feet.

“Actually,” Libby said, “it’s Bear you have to thank. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have found the beads.” Katy sank on to her knees and threw her arms round the dog’s neck. “Thank you, Bear,” she whispered.

Truffles

“You’ve got some explaining to do.” Libby had hammered on Jemima Bakewell’s door until the woman came running. Libby was furious. “All that nonsense about the beads and the legends.”

The older woman held the door ajar. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

“It’s about time you started telling the truth.” Libby refused to sit, choosing instead to stand by the window, so she could see every twitch of Miss Bakewell’s face. “Who is Katy, how do you know her, why does she have your beads, and why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?”

Miss Bakewell perched on the edge of the sofa. “What do you know about Katy?”

“We went up the Tor and she was there again, looking for the beads. We met her father.”

Miss Bakewell snorted. “He’s a useless article, that young man. Always been a cup short of a tea service. Even at school.” She rolled her eyes. “I taught him, once. Nothing stayed in that head. Had to be kind to him, though, given...” she stopped.

“It’s no good, Miss Bakewell.” Libby was stern. “You won’t get away with half answers, not this time. Nor talking about ancient history, or myths and legends. I need the truth.”

“No.” The woman suddenly stopped twisting her hands. She folded her arms. “What’s past is past.”

“But John Williams is dead. Have you forgotten? Don’t you care?”

Miss Bakewell’s face crumpled. “Of course I care, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

“You can tell us the truth.”

The woman strode across the room and threw the door open. “I can’t tell you anything. Now, please leave my house and don’t come back.”

***

Libby met Max on the beach. He’d rung, sounding uncertain, to suggest they walk Bear together. “Are we still partners?”

“Of course we are, but we’re no farther forward.” She tried to sound neutral. “Miss Bakewell called my bluff, just when I thought she was about to tell me everything.”

Max was thoughtful. “She knows who killed John Williams, and she knows why.” He walked faster. “Come on. I think best when I’m moving. Let’s find some sticks for the dogs.” The sun was back, there were no signs of yesterday’s rain clouds, and the beach was thronged with visitors enjoying the heat.

Libby pulled off her jacket and a sweater as her spirits rose. “This is proper summer weather.”

“Now, let’s have look at the facts,” Max suggested. “Come on, Libby, this is what you do best. Sort out the truth from all this misdirection.”

“Misdirection.” Yes, that was the problem. Someone had been orchestrating events to throw Libby off the scent. “It’s like a magic show,” Libby said, trying to untangle her thoughts. “We need to keep the facts separate from the special effects.”

She used Shipley’s stick to write numbers in the sand. “Number one fact; the death of John Williams on the Tor. That really happened. That day was a muddle because after I was caught in the mist, I met Katy on her own, then found the beads. Then, Bear was chilled and unhappy, and I panicked, thinking he was ill. I can see things more clearly, now. The beads are 2,000 years old, but the myths around them are just that―stories. The beads belonged to Katy―or, at least, she had them in her possession.”

Max put in, “How did she come by them in the first place?”

“Her father said they’d been in the family a long time. Forty years. Miss Bakewell had them first.”

“Right, that’s one question we’ll have to answer. How did the beads get from our teacher to Katy? We’ll need to find that out. But, going back to the facts...” Max drew the number two, then threw the stick for Shipley to chase. “Miss Bakewell, Tanya Ross and the professor all admit they knew each other, plus Catriona and John Williams.”

Libby nodded. She looked around for another stick, but found nothing. She used a finger to draw in the sand, instead. “Fact number three. The body was found on the Tor, the day before the exhibition. John Williams was killed because someone wanted to stop the exhibition.”

Max nodded. “That didn’t work and Miss Bakewell stole the photos. Fact number four.”

“Don’t forget number five, the explosion, the day Miss Bakewell went to see the professor. That’s another coincidence. A lot of them about, aren’t there?”

They looked at each other. Libby was the first to speak again. “Things don’t look too good for Jemima Bakewell. She’s involved in everything. No wonder she won’t talk to me any more.”

“But we still don’t understand what else links all our facts together. If Miss Bakewell’s been going around killing people, there must be some sort of a reason.”

“Unless she’s just a nut case.”

***

The doorbell rang. “Mandy, can you get it?” Libby called, forgetting Mandy was out. She cursed, shouted, “Just a minute,” and elbowed the tap. Tempering chocolate helped her think, but it was a messy business. She was still drying her hands as she opened the door. “Miss Bakewell?”

“Can I come in?”

“I suppose so.” When would Libby remember to use the safety chain? She ushered the teacher to the sitting room, wondering how to tell if her visitor had any sort of a weapon in that familiar brown handbag.

Fuzzy, stretched on the sofa, opened one eye and, to Libby’s surprise, stayed where she was. “What a lovely animal.” Miss Bakewell held out a hand. Fuzzy sniffed at the fingers and allowed the newcomer to stroke her cheek. “I’ve always had cats, you know, until a few months ago when poor Sebastian had to be put down.”

Fuzzy seemed to trust the woman. Weren’t cats supposed to have a sixth sense? Maybe Fuzzy lost hers by spending too much time asleep in the airing cupboard. Libby asked, “Do you eat chocolate?” Miss Bakewell beamed.

Libby piled a tray with coffee, cream, and a plate of chocolate mis-shapes from the kitchen, seizing the opportunity to send a text to Max.
Get here now. Miss B’s about to confess.

Cheeks pink with delight, Miss Bakewell considered, fingers hovering over odd-shaped coffee creams and squashed strawberry shortcakes before settling on a wonky white chocolate truffle. “You sell these in the bakery in Exham, don’t you? I bought a box recently. For a friend, of course.” She wagged a finger. “Now, just a word of warning. Don’t let that dog of yours anywhere near chocolate. It’s poison to dogs, you know.”

“I did know, actually.” Had the woman come to confess or give unwanted advice? “It’s time you explained what’s been going on.”

Miss Bakewell, taken by surprise, swallowed the last of the truffle with an audible gulp. “Oh.” She recovered. “Very well. I think you and your friend, Mr Ramshore, may have jumped to the wrong conclusions.”

“Do you?” Libby kept her voice non-committal.

“Yes, you see, when you asked me about little Katy, I didn’t tell you everything.”

“As far as I remember, you didn’t tell us anything useful.”

“You and that friend of yours―Max, isn’t it―were very kind, after that dreadful explosion, so I decided you should know the truth.”

Libby held out the plate and Miss Bakewell selected another chocolate. “Let me guess,” Libby prompted. “We know you were one of the friends at University with John Williams and Professor Perivale. You visited the professor even though you’d kept away from each other for so many years. You wanted to know if he had the beads, didn’t you? You’re obsessed by them. Did you cause the explosion?”

Miss Bakewell sat ramrod straight. Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I’ll be frank. I went to see Malcolm, as you say, to beg for the beads. You see, nothing’s been right in my life, since I lost them. Nothing.” The pink flush deepened to purple. The teacher’s lips suddenly curled, transforming her mild expression to a snarl. “They were mine.”

The doorbell rang. Miss Bakewell clamped her lips together and Libby winced.

Max’s eyes sparkled. “Am I in time?”

“Your timing couldn’t be worse,” Libby hissed. “She was just about to spill the beans. Don’t upset her.” She returned to Miss Bakewell and offered an encouraging smile. “You can tell Mr Ramshore the truth. We’re partners.”

The teacher looked at Max as though he were an insect in a bowl of cereal. “Very well, if you insist. Where was I?”

“Let’s go back a bit. Explain what happened at University.”

“There were several of us. All friends together. It was the sixties―well before your time. I’m afraid we experimented with some rather inappropriate substances.”

Max chuckled. “The generation that invented sex.”

Libby glared, but the teacher ignored him. “There were five of us in all.”

Libby counted them off. “You and the professor, John Williams and Catriona. That’s four, plus Tanya, the vet.”

“Catriona,” said Max. “That’s who you recognised in the photograph you stole.”

Miss Bakewell’s lips trembled. “I thought it would all come out, if people saw the pictures. It was so long ago. When I read about the exhibition in the local news, I couldn’t sleep. How could John show everyone? Why couldn’t he leave well alone?”

“Show everyone what?”

“The pictures of us all―of Catriona.”