Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (2 page)

“Poor thing,” murmured the receptionist, a cheerful, middle-aged woman. “Isn’t that the dog old Mr Thomson used to own? I’m sure Tanya will fit him in straight away. It’s a quiet day, today.” She muttered into a telephone. After a moment the vet appeared, pulling on a pair of blue disposable gloves and beckoning Libby and Bear into a consulting room.

Tanya Ross, the vet, had a wiry, lean body that hinted at a jogging habit, despite the woman’s apparent age.
Older than me. In much better shape, too.
Libby pulled in her stomach. Only five foot four inches tall, she knew every ounce of spare flesh on her body showed. The vet couldn’t be far from retirement age, judging by the ruddy, outdoor complexion and collection of crows’ feet round her eyes, but she skipped across the floor, quick and light, eyes robin-bright, to examine the dog with firm but gentle fingers. Bear lifted his head and licked her hand.

Libby’s spirits rose. “He’s feeling better, already. Must be your magic touch.” By the time the vet finished weighing, measuring and inspecting the dog, Bear looked far more cheerful; almost back to normal. “What do you think was the matter?”

Tanya Ross fondled Bear’s ears. “His temperature’s low, but he seems to be recovering fast. What happened? Has he had a shock, or been chilled?”

Libby swallowed. “It sounds stupid, but when the mist came down on the Tor, we lost our way. We were on the hill far longer than I thought, in the damp and cold. I can’t understand how it happened. We must have been there for an hour or more, wandering round the sides of the Tor. It gave me the creeps, to be honest, and we’d only just got out of the mist when the police arrived. They told me about an accident on the hill; about the man who died.”

Tanya Ross put her head on one side. “I heard it on the news. If you were on the hill when that poor man died, it must have given you a nasty shock. I think you need a nice hot cup of tea. Have a seat in the waiting room, and I’ll make one. I could do with a brew.”

She disappeared through another door while Libby and Bear returned to the waiting room, which smelled of dog and disinfectant. Libby passed the time looking at cute photos of kittens and puppies, reading a poster that warned of the danger of ticks, and admiring a row of framed certificates. She examined all four, one for each of the vets in the practice. She’d guessed Tanya Ross’s age accurately. The oldest of the team, she’d graduated from Bristol University way back in 1968. The newest vet, younger than Libby’s son, Robert, had been in practice for no more than two years.

There was nothing
else to read and Libby settled on a hard wooden chair. At once, the receptionist stopped pretending to work at a computer and took off her glasses, bursting with news. Her eyes sparkled. “Have you heard about the dead man?”

“I just came from Glastonbury Tor,” Libby admitted.

She soon wished she’d held her tongue, for the woman licked her lips and, face alight with excitement, whispered, “Did you see the body?”

“No. It was misty on the hill.” Libby kept her answer brief, hoping to shut down the conversation, but she was disappointed. The receptionist, thrilled, drew a long breath through pursed lips. “Ooh, you be careful, m’dear. You don’t want to be going up the Tor, not in the mist. Anyone will tell you that.”

Libby raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued. “Why not?”

The receptionist leaned over the counter. “Some say there are tunnels under the Tor and King Arthur walks there every midsummer, guarded by the little people. Folk around here don’t go up on the hill, then. They reckon, if one of the fairies appears, it heralds a death.” Before Libby could reply, the vet reappeared. The receptionist snatched up her spectacles, replaced them on her nose and resumed typing.

“Here.” Tanya Ross offered Libby a battered mug. “Strong, with milk and two sugars.” Libby took a polite sip, trying not to wrinkle her nose. She hated sugar in tea. The vet leaned an elbow on the counter. “I bet Mrs White’s been telling you tales about strange happenings on the Tor.” The receptionist typed harder, eyes fixed on the screen. “Oh, yes,” the vet went on. “Everyone round here will tell you local people keep away, when the mist comes down.” She raised her voice. “Don’t they, Mrs White?”

The receptionist pretended not to hear. Tanya rolled her eyes. “Take no notice of her, Mrs Forest. The stories are meant to excite the tourists, though I bet there weren’t many other walkers up there, today.”

“No. Oddly enough, there weren’t. Bear and I were alone, at first. Then we met a little girl. And the dead man...”

“You saw him?”

Libby drained the mug, trying not to shudder. “No. He wasn’t on the hill when we arrived, and I can’t understand how he managed to reach the top unseen.”

“Ah. He must have climbed up the other path.”

Libby started. “There’s another one?”

“Oh yes. There’s the easy way, through the woods...”

“That’s the route I took.”

“And there’s another entrance further down the road. The second path is shorter, but steeper.”

Libby’s laugh was shaky. “So I’m not crazy. He came from the other direction. I didn’t see him because I was lost in the mist.”

“Any idea how he died?”

“The police didn’t say.”

“A heart attack, that’s most likely. It’s a steepish climb, if you’re not used to exercise.”

An elderly lady burst through the surgery door, struggling to control two perfectly matched Scottie dogs, as neat as a pair of white porcelain figurines. Tanya Ross handed Libby a small box. “Put a couple of these tablets in Bear’s food. They’ll keep him calm for the next few hours and he’ll be right as rain, soon.”

She presented a hefty bill. Libby blinked, recovered, paid and left, the dog trotting at her side, tail in the air as though nothing had ever been wrong. “You’re a fraud,” Libby hissed, “and an expensive one, at that.”

Max

“Imagine, Max, while Bear and I were on the Tor, someone died.” Max’s open French doors led to a vast, well-maintained garden. Bear, his usual rude health restored, chased imaginary rabbits under bushes. He nudged aside a voluptuous peony’s blowsy pink and white flowers and scrabbled at the earth beneath, sending up a shower of dirt. Triumphant, he galloped back to drop a filthy, bedraggled tennis ball at Libby’s feet. “The mist, and Bear vanishing, and seeing that strange little girl.” Libby shivered. “No wonder Bear had a funny turn.”

Max scoffed. “He tired himself and got cold. Nothing strange about it. It sounds as though you wandered around, confused, a lot longer than you realised.”

“I think I panicked a bit,” Libby admitted. “I lost my bearings. I thought I was on a path.”

“You were. It’s the ancient way up the hill. The remains of seven terraces still spiral round the Tor, like a maze. They’re visible from a helicopter, but hard to see when you’re walking. Legend suggests the monks from the Abbey took that path, when they processed up the hill to the Tower. It takes a while to reach the top, because it’s an indirect route, but it’s easier than climbing straight up. The steps you used at the top are recent additions, intended to make it easier for visitors. You walked the ancient route.”

Libby grunted. “I didn’t enjoy it, and nor did Bear.”

Max looked serious. “Don’t forget, Bear’s an old fellow and he won’t be with us for ever. In dog years, he must be getting on for ninety. I’ll miss the old chap as much as you when he goes, but I’m not surprised he feels under the weather from time to time.”

“At least he recovered quickly. I didn’t want to bring him back in that state.” Libby wiped mud from the ball. “Tanya Ross’s receptionist would like me to believe some kind of curse jinxed poor Bear. Something to do with Glastonbury’s special relationship with the spirit world.”

“Don’t let local people hear you scoff, because we’re fond of our Glastonbury legends around here. We all know King Arthur’s buried under the Tor.”

Libby threw Bear’s ball at Max. Damp and grubby, it left a smudge of mud on his shoulder. “Oops. Sorry.” She scrubbed at Max’s jacket with a tissue, making matters worse. “The Once and Future King is also rumoured to be buried in about five other places in England, according to the stories.”

She gave up on the mud stain. “Joking apart, it was strange and scary on the hill today. In that thick mist, I lost all sense of time and place. I could have walked round in circles for hours. It made me shiver, and I’m not given to imagining things.”

Max tossed the ball to Bear, who loped down the garden in pursuit. “There’s no one more down to earth than you.”

“Thank you.” She guessed that was meant to be some sort of compliment, though it made Libby sound dull. “Anyway, after we came out of the mist, Joe arrived. The police spread out all over the hill, looking for the body. It gave me a shock, so soon after meeting that funny little girl.”

Max closed the doors and rested a pair of size twelve feet on the coffee table. “I bet that child ran straight down to the nearest play park. Kids scuttle up and down the Tor all the time.”

His easy explanation infuriated Libby. He wasn’t taking her seriously. “Max, someone died up there. I can’t just ignore it.”

“You could leave it to the police.”

Libby made a face. “They’re most likely to write it off as an accident.”

Max sighed. “It’s none of our business.”

Libby took a breath, and Max raised his hands, as if warding off a blow. “Don’t shout at me. The police are perfectly capable of investigating a sudden death, especially if the man died from a heart attack. But the history of the Tor’s interesting. I’ve got a book, somewhere...” He covered the floor in two strides and ran his hand over a long shelf.

Dozens of volumes, crammed in at all angles, jostled for every inch of space. “No, must have left it in the study. Come with me.” Curious, Libby followed Max out of the room. He grinned over one shoulder. “Don’t often take people into my study. Ignore the mess if you can.”

On three sides of the tiny room, shelves ran from wall to ceiling. A haphazard mix of ancient, saggy, mismatched chairs hinted at long, comfortable reading sessions. An oak desk occupied most of the floor space. Intrigued, Libby tilted her head to one side, trying to read the spines on a heap of books that teetered on a nearby stool.
International Corporate Finance.
Max straightened the pile. “Work, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. It’s one of my bad habits. My children tell me I’m nosy.”

“Nonsense. Curiosity’s a great quality. What with that and your brain power, it’s no wonder you can’t resist problem solving. Especially when you think other people aren’t taking the issue seriously.” Max shot her a grin as he brushed crumbs and dog hairs from a chair. “Would you like the guided tour?”

“No, the Glastonbury book first, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, come and look round another time. This is a favourite place of mine.” Max waved an arm round the room. “See, there’s your cook book.” Libby fingered
Baking at the Beach,
a collection of her favourite cake recipes. How kind of Max to buy a copy; she couldn’t imagine him ever making use of it.

Max’s finger traced the volumes on the shelves, stopping at a green, leather-covered tome. “Here.
Myths and Legends of the West Country
. You can borrow it, if you want.”

“Thanks.” She took the book, smooth and cool under her fingers. “I love this room. It’s cosy.” Every object looked right, from the rows of books, to the massive dog basket in one corner.

“Me too. I rattle around in the rest of this place. Can’t imagine why I bought such a big house.” He waved at the ceiling. “An old rectory like this should be full of life, with dozens of kids running up the stairs, kicking the walls and fighting. A grumpy old retired banker has no right to live here alone.”

Satisfied the chair was sufficiently clean, Max plumped up the cushions and waved Libby to sit. “Read
Myths and Legends
and you’ll understand how lucky you’ve been to escape the grip of the Tor. Why, you could have been whisked away to Fairyland.” Max grinned. His old fisherman’s sweater was unravelling round the neck, giving him the appearance of a North Sea trawler captain. Libby caught a whiff of woody aftershave.

“Incidentally,” Max fiddled with documents on the desk, not meeting Libby’s eye. “I’m going to a photography exhibition tomorrow. I wondered if you’d be interested.” He dropped the papers in a drawer and paced round the room.

A smile tugged at the corners of Libby’s mouth. “What photos?” She giggled as a blush crept over Max’s face. “Yours? Don’t tell me you’re an ace photographer?”

He stopped walking and settled into a battered old chair, long legs stretched across the floor. “Nothing so grand, I’m afraid, but you can’t live in the West Country and not be tempted to take a snap or two. I’ve submitted a few pictures to the show. Most of the exhibitors are keen amateurs, but a local man, John Williams, is a professional, selling pictures to magazines like Country Life. He’s showing some of his earliest work. A retrospective, I believe, is the proper term.”

Libby was more interested in the sudden glimpse into one of Max’s passions. “Can I see your photos?”

“Not now. I’d be embarrassed. Come to the show, tomorrow. The hall’s in Glastonbury, funnily enough, and the exhibition’s the brainchild of Chesterton Wendlebury and the company he works for, Pritchards. It’s called Somerset Secrets. The idea is to show off the county for the summer visitors.”