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

Libby groaned. She’d met Wendlebury, a wealthy businessman with a finger stuck firmly in most local pies, many times. He sat on the boards of several big, ruthless and avaricious companies. Pritchards, Wendlebury’s biggest business, had been on the verge of taking over the Exham bakery and putting Libby, her lodger Mandy, and Frank the baker out of business. Libby disliked Mr Wendlebury more every time they met.

***

The doorbell interrupted. “I thought I’d find you here.” Max waved his son, Detective Sergeant Joe, into the hall. The policeman stepped inside, awkward, as though he hadn’t been near his father’s home for a while. “Haven’t got much time,” Joe said. “Can’t stop long. Wanted to let you know about the body on Glastonbury Tor.”

Joe was a younger edition of his father. He’d inherited the enigmatic, crooked smile and a pair of ice-blue eyes, the legacy of a Norwegian ancestry. At least the two of them were talking, these days. By all accounts, they’d spent most of Joe’s adult life at daggers drawn, since Max’s divorce from Joe’s mother.

“I heard the brief details on the radio,” Libby said. “But they didn’t say much. Just that it was an elderly man. What happened? Who was he?”

“The name’s John Williams. He had a wallet in his pocket, with his address. He lives―lived alone.”

Max paused in the act of opening a bag of coffee. “John Williams? The photographer?”

“Is he?”

“Half the exhibition tomorrow is his work.” Max was thoughtful. “I wonder if it’ll go ahead?”

Libby interrupted. “How did he die?”

Joe thrust his hands in his pockets. “Suicide.” Libby snorted. “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs Forest. You’d prefer it to be murder, but he had a note in his pocket.”

“You think he killed himself? The day before his exhibition?” Libby didn’t even try to hide her disbelief.

The police officer wagged a finger, infuriating Libby. “Mrs Forest, everything points to suicide.”

“You’ve said that before.” Libby had twice proved murder when the police had dismissed a death, calling it an accident.

“It’s an open and shut case.”

Libby folded her arms. “It’s too easy to write off every death as accident or suicide.”

Max intervened, grinning, clearly enjoying the argument. “You can’t blame the police. Funding, lack of time, shortage of manpower...”

“What about justice? Doesn’t every sudden death deserve investigation?”

Joe groaned. “In a perfect world,” he said, “of course they do. The world isn’t perfect, though. We can’t waste hundreds of police hours trying to prove a man was murdered, when he left a perfectly clear note.” He shrugged. “And before you ask, it’s in his own handwriting. We checked it with shopping lists and so on. And he tied a plastic bag round his head. Easy to do to yourself, if you’re determined enough. No one else need be involved. So, unless someone provides evidence to the contrary, suicide it is. My constable’s doing the paperwork, right now.”

Max laid a restraining hand on Libby’s arm. “And you came to tell us because...”

Joe coloured. “Ah. Thought you’d be interested.”

Max said, “You mean, you’ve got a few doubts of your own and you wouldn’t mind if we poked around?”

Joe’s face was impassive. “I couldn’t possibly ask it of a pair of civilians.”

“Of course you can’t. And you haven’t, have you?” Max winked.

“Will the exhibition go ahead tomorrow?” Libby asked.

Max grunted. “If I know Chesterton Wendlebury, he won’t let a little thing like a tragedy get in the way of a money-making venture. He’ll be hoping John Williams’ death makes the show more profitable.”

Joe rubbed his chin. “Maybe I’ll send someone along to keep an eye on things. We can spare a community support officer for an hour or two.”

Libby asked, “Did you find the girl I saw?”

“We spoke to a couple of local people.” Joe gave a short laugh. “Amazing how news can spread. There were crowds in Glastonbury by the time the body was removed. At least it saved us some legwork.”

“The child...” she prompted.

“Well, we heard the usual tales about fairies whose appearance heralds untimely death, of course, but aside from those, there are no reports of any missing children. I don’t think you need worry.”

His radio buzzed. He flicked a switch and listened. “I’ve got to get back to the station. Keep your ears to the ground, will you?”

Mandy

As she tidied the kitchen after breakfast next day, Libby related her adventures on the Tor to her lodger and fellow baker’s assistant, Mandy. Exham’s resident teenage Goth flicked her head. A lock of black hair fell back over one side of her face. Libby closed one eye, trying to decide which side of Mandy’s head looked oddest; the left, shaved close to the skull, or the right with its single long, limp strand reaching to the girl’s chin. Libby longed to push in a hair clip.

Mandy jigged from one foot to the other. “Are you going to investigate the dead man? Can I help?”

“There’s little to go on, at the moment. We’re off to the photographic exhibition today, to see some of his work.”

“We? Max is going, too?” Mandy examined her fingernails, selected one and nibbled the corner. “So, you’re going on a date with him.”

“It’s not a date, it’s an investigation. You can come, too, if you like.”

“Not likely. I’m off to one of Steve’s rehearsals after work.”

“Band or orchestra?”

“Band. His mate lent him a new mouthpiece for the saxophone.” Steve, Mandy’s boyfriend, was a talented musician headed for the Royal College of Music later in the year. Meanwhile, he divided his skills. Sometimes, neatly suited, he played classical clarinet in an orchestra with other soon-to-be professional musicians. On other days, in black t-shirt and nose rings, he contributed the saxophone part to a local band, called Effluvium.

“Why does he need a new mouthpiece?”

“It’s metal. Makes more noise.” Libby winced and Mandy giggled. “Yeah. It’s loud. His mum won’t let him play it in the house. Anyway, Mrs F, don’t change the subject. You’ve got a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

Mandy giggled. “Saying it don’t make it true. Bet you a tenner he comes in the Jag. You can’t go on a proper date in that old Land Rover.” It was true, Max’s favourite vehicle did smell a little of dog and ancient leather.

“Ten pounds? It’s a deal.”

“Don’t forget your meeting with Jumbles, that posh shop in Bath, this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there,” Libby promised. “I’ll have plenty of time. I’ll nip back here, pick up the samples and get to the meeting with time to spare.”

Last night, Libby’s experiment with new chocolate flavours had extended well into the early hours of the morning. Samples of new orange and geranium creams sat in neat boxes in the shiny, professional standard kitchen, along with Exham’s favourites, lemon meringue and mint. Libby had prepared everything for today’s meeting. She wasn’t leaving matters to chance. If Jumbles put in a big order,
Mrs Forest’s Chocolates
would be on the way to making a decent profit. Mandy, selecting a new finger to bite, raised heavy black eyebrows. “Whatever.”

Libby chewed her lower lip. Mandy was turning into a real asset in the fast-growing chocolate business, despite her weird appearance. Could Libby afford to take her on full time? Frank’s bakery, the main outlet, was doing well. Frank, Libby’s partner in the enterprise, was delighted, but their continued success would mean changes.

Libby wouldn’t have time to manage all the development, manufacture and packaging herself much longer, never mind marketing and advertising, especially if outlets like Jumbles put in regular orders. She’d been thinking of setting up a proper apprenticeship. Would Mandy commit to it? “We need a proper business meeting soon. I’d like to run a few ideas past you.”

“So long as you provide cake for the meeting, Mrs F. Oh, there’s the door. I’ll get it.”

“No...” Too late.

Mandy raced down the hall and threw open the door. “Mr Ramshore. You look wicked.” She edged round the new arrival to take a peek at his car. “You’ve brought that posh Jag. How very―er―appropriate.”

Max looked puzzled. “Swallowed a dictionary, have you, Mandy?”

The girl held out a hand, palm up, to Libby, who sighed and scrabbled in the handbag hooked on to the banister. “Little bet, that’s all,” Libby muttered, and pressed a folded ten pound note into Mandy’s outstretched hand.

***

“These are terrific. I’d no idea there were so many fantastic beauty spots near Exham.” Libby and Max sauntered down the rows of photographs. “I love that sunset on Exham beach. The one with the lighthouse in the distance.”

He didn’t answer. “Max, are you listening?” She’d never seen him so embarrassed. “It’s one of yours, isn’t it? I’m going to buy it.”

“I’ll give you a copy, if you really want it.”

“No, you bought my book, so I’ll buy your photograph. Oh, here’s Chesterton.” Chesterton Wendlebury, burly with a yellow waistcoat, a thatch of grey hair and an impressive Roman nose, appeared beside Max. Libby’s friend, Marina, splendid in a floor length orange and green dress, a red and yellow pashmina, and a string of purple beads, followed hard on his heels, accompanied by a small, balding, elderly man in a formal suit. If ever there was an odd couple, it was Marina and Henry, her mild-mannered husband. Libby more often met Marina accompanied by the powerful, larger-than-life Chesterton Wendlebury than by Henry. She suspected they were more than friends.

“Henry.” Marina possessed an ear-shattering, retired deputy head-teacher voice. “You simply have to buy this one. It’s utterly perfect for your study.”

“Sorry Marina,” Libby intervened. “It’s taken. I’m afraid I got here first.”

Marina looked down her substantial nose. “I don’t see any little red dot.”

“I haven’t had a chance to finalise the deal.” Libby stood her ground.

“Well, you’re too late, because I’m determined to have it. Chester, here’s my card. Put a red dot on the picture, right now. Libby won’t mind, will you, dear?”

Marina, as ever, expected her own way but Libby wouldn’t give up without a fight. She wanted Max’s photograph. “Actually, I do mind, Marina. I saw it first.” They stood toe to toe, hands on hips, like children in a school playground.

Libby pasted a wide smile on her face.
“
I was wondering if you still wanted me to take Shipley out for a walk tomorrow?” Marina would rather die than take her own dog for a walk. “You know, I’m so busy these days, it’s getting hard to find the time...”

Marina took the hint. “Of course you must have the picture, darling.” She waved an arm that jangled with bracelets, making a quick recovery. “I wouldn’t dream of standing in your way if it means so much to you.” She peered at the printed label below the photograph. “M.R. That wouldn’t be you, Max, by any chance?” She laughed, reminding Libby of the donkey whose loud braying call sounded across the fields in the early summer mornings. “Maybe Henry and I will choose another of your efforts, Max. I’m sure we can find a nice one, somewhere. Won’t we, Henry?”

“Yes, dear. Perhaps we will.” Marina departed like a frigate in full sail, as Chesterton Wendlebury stuck the all-important red dot to the photograph. Max took Libby’s arm. “I think a cup of tea might be a good idea before you start a fight.”

He steered Libby to the single unoccupied table in the refreshment corner. The hall had filled almost to capacity, now the news of John Williams’ death was out. Who could resist an exhibition of photographs by a man who’d killed himself only the day before? The place hummed with excitement. Near the entrance, high visibility jackets marked the presence of a pair of police community support officers. It was their frustrating task to field a constant stream of theories, for everyone had an opinion on the affair, no matter how well they knew the dead photographer.

Chesterton Wendlebury stalked the rows of easels, hands behind his back, every smug inch the man in charge of a successful event. The till clanged and dinged. At this rate, all the exhibits would be sold in less than an hour.

Libby took a sip of weak, lukewarm coffee, made a wry face and replaced the sturdy green cup in its saucer.
I think I’ll wait.

“Catriona.” The muttered exclamation caught Libby’s attention. At the end of a row of prints on stands, a short woman, so squat as to be almost square, had pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her exclamation. The woman sent a quick, furtive glance around the room, as though checking for observers. Satisfied, she hurried down the row, removing one photo after another from its display easel.

Libby shouted. “Hey!” The plump woman, caught off-balance, stumbled. Her foot nudged one leg of the nearest tripod. She stopped, put out a hand, changed her mind and abandoned any intention of rescuing the easel. Instead, she turned away, walking fast, head held high. Eyes fixed on the door, looking neither to right nor left, she cannoned into Libby’s table, sending coffee splashing across the surface.

Libby let it drip, hardly noticing, fascinated by the picture stand as it rocked, teetered, righted itself for a split second and at last, in slow motion, toppled over, its full weight crashing onto the next stand. The second easel fell against a third, momentum building down the row, watched open-mouthed by mesmerised, silent bystanders. One after another, each easel thundering into the next, they fell like a set of dominoes. The last stand in the row collapsed on the floor in a muddle of wooden legs and photographic prints.