Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (5 page)

“Joe told me John Williams was single and lived alone, so there’s no wife or kids wanting the photos for sentimental reasons.”

The hall had emptied, visitors at last persuaded to leave, to embellish their stories at home. Max slipped the pictures inside his jacket. “We can’t study these photos properly here. Let’s hold on to them for a day or so. Are you free tomorrow?”

“It depends how Mandy got on this afternoon. I had to send her to Jumbles with the chocolate samples. They’ve talked about stocking our products, but if the meeting went horribly wrong I might need to build bridges.”

“That girl could sell nuts to Brazil, if she set her mind to it. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when the Jumbles staff see her tattoos. Isn’t it an old-fashioned business?”

“That’s what bothers me, though their marketing girl sounded younger than I’d expected. I’d better get back home and prepare for the worst. Fingers crossed, see you tomorrow.”

***

Libby walked into the kitchen and her jaw dropped. “Is that really you?” Mandy had brushed her hair until it shone. A demure hair band held the long side out of her eyes and hid most of the shaved area. She’d dabbed a subtle hint of pink blusher on her cheeks and removed most of the facial nuts and bolts, leaving only two or three earrings in each ear. Even the skull tattoo had disappeared; a fake, as Libby suspected. She recognised the pink silk shirt and pencil skirt, though. “Are you wearing my clothes?”

Mandy swore, kicked off a pair of six inch Jimmy Choo’s, the only pair of designer shoes Libby owned, and rubbed a bright red spot on her toe joint. “Blimey, how do you wear these babies, Mrs F? They’re giving me bunions.”

“Those shoes are strictly ‘car to bar.’ I’ve never tried to walk any distance in them. I just tottered across the road, sat down for dinner, and limped back to the car. Best with tights and some of those gel pads, by the way, for future reference.”

The shoes hadn’t seen the light of day for years. Trevor, Libby’s late husband, hadn’t frequented bars. At least, she amended, he hadn’t taken Libby. She’d recently realised she hadn’t known Trevor at all, for under his respectable insurance salesman front, he’d been part of a web of fraud. His role had been laundering money through property deals. Libby winced, remembering some of the lies he’d told.

Mandy was talking. “Does that mean I get to wear the shoes again?”

“A little out of character for a Goth, aren’t they?”

“I suppose. Anyway, I don’t wear tights. Well, not those flesh-coloured things.” Mandy’s leg-wear was restricted to thick, black tights. “Me toes are all, like, screwed up. Look.” She hoisted a bare foot on to the table top.

Libby shrieked. “Don’t do that. I’ll lose my five star food hygiene certificate.”

“Only if an inspector happens to look in the window, and if they’re snooping about at this time of night, we’ll call Max’s son, grumpy Detective Sergeant Joe.”

Libby shooed Mandy out of the kitchen into the living room, wiping the table with Dettol on the way. The girl stood in the hall, hopping from one bare foot to the other. “Don’t you want to know how I got on, then?”

“I’m beside myself. Judging by your face, it went well.”

“They loved me, Jumbles did. Ate all the chocs, told me I did you credit, and said you were to give me a raise.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Maybe not the last bit. But they’ve put in an order. Look.”

Mandy extracted a crumpled sheet of paper from her bag. A column of figures marched down the page and Libby whistled. “This is easily the biggest order we’ve had yet.”

“It’s not just for now, either. They want to try these out for starters, and if they sell, they want a repeat every month.”

“Mandy!” Libby collapsed onto the sofa, infuriating her marmalade cat. Fuzzy stalked away and slunk upstairs to hide in the airing cupboard. “Can we do it? Fulfill the order, I mean?”

Dates and preparation times swirled round Libby’s head. She sat up, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Of course, we can. Now, I’ll need your help. I’ve got a proposition. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about setting up an apprenticeship.”

“What? You mean, like, official? With qualifications and everything?”

“Absolutely.”

Mandy whooped, threw her arms in the air and jigged round the room, giggling. At last, breathless, she flopped backwards over the arm of a chair, leaving her bare feet dangling. “When do I start? Frank’s taken on a couple of new girls, so he won’t mind me moving across to the chocolate side of the business.”

“In a week. That’ll give me time to get the paperwork done.”

Libby darted back to the kitchen, retrieved a bottle of chilled New Zealand Chardonnay from the fridge and poured two large glasses. “Don’t gulp, sip,” Libby insisted, as Mandy took a huge mouthful. “We’re going to be busy, supplying Jumbles as well as the bakery. Are you up for it?”

“Watch me. Oh, nearly forgot. Your iPad’s been dinging. Can’t you turn the noise off?”

“Haven’t got round to it.” The machine was new and Libby hadn’t got to grips with it. She flipped up the cover and checked her emails, finding one from Max, headed
The Beads.
“He’s sent photos. How do I open them?”

“Just tap.” Mandy emptied her glass and broke pieces off a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, giggling at Libby’s horrified double take. “Your chocs are wonderful, Mrs F, but sometimes a girl needs, like, a proper bar of chocolate.”

As the first photograph opened, Libby studied the set of amber beads, arranged on a table alongside other artifacts. She compared them to the ones she found on the Tor. They were identical. Alongside the necklace, Libby recognised a sharpened stone as a spear head. Max had added a note.
Found the photo online. Looks like the beads came from an excavation near the Tor about forty years ago.
Libby smiled. Miss Bakewell had a few more questions to answer.

Max’s second photo showed the Tor rising from a mist that ended just below St Michael’s Tower, blocking out half the hill. Libby said, “The Tor looked like that when Bear and I were there.”

“Spooky,” Mandy said. “Makes you shiver.”

2,000 years

“Did you bring the necklace?” Libby and Mandy cradled mugs of coffee in Max’s living room, while Bear stretched across as many feet as possible, grunting with pleasure. Libby placed her mug out of reach of the dog’s tail and unzipped a small pocket in her handbag, pulling out a silk jewellery pouch that once contained a silver brooch. The amber stones felt warm against her skin. “I’ve been terrified of losing them. I kept moving them around, hiding them in different places. In the end, I decided my bag’s the safest place. I never go anywhere without it.”

Max agreed. “It would take a better man than me to part a woman from her handbag.” Libby laid the beads on the coffee table.

“More than 2,000 years,” Mandy murmured. “They just look old and dusty, really.”

Max had spent the previous evening googling amber beads. He shared his findings. “Amber’s a strange medium. It’s actually tree resin, compressed for hundred of years. Sometimes, it traps insects or flowers, preserving them inside the amber for ever.”

Mandy giggled. “Or until someone takes the DNA and makes dinosaurs. Like in Jurassic Park.”

Max grinned. “I’m not sure the science of that idea holds water, but amber’s been valued as a precious stone for hundreds of years. It’s even thought to have healing properties.”

“I’m not surprised folk are fascinated.” Libby picked up the beads and with a sigh, slid them back into the silk pouch, zipping them in the side of her bag. “I wish I could hang on to them, but I suppose I should find the real owner and hand them back. At least they aren’t part of a hoard of gold or diamonds, or Miss Bakewell would really be in trouble.”

She laid Max’s
Myths and Legends
book on the table. “I was up all night reading this. Glastonbury seems to have as many legends as ancient Greece.”

Mandy grabbed it, skimming the text. “Well, the Tor’s pretty cool, with that old ruin on top. St Michael’s Tower,” she read. “Never knew that was its name.” She pointed to a sticky note. “What’s all this about a curse?”

“It keeps cropping up.” Libby took the book and thumbed through the pages, pointing to other marked areas. “Here, you see, and on this page. Look. Amber beads figure in the tales of King Arthur and Guinevere. Guinevere was King Arthur’s young wife, but she fell in love with Lancelot, one of the twelve knights. According to the story, he travelled far and wide, searching for the Holy Grail, and on the way he found a dozen “perfect gems” which he gave to the beautiful Queen. She hid them from her husband, for fear he’d suspect her love for Lancelot, but forgot where she’d left them.”

“You’d think she’d take care of a present like that.” Mandy put in.

Remembering something, Libby scanned her notes. “Look, she was only a teenager. Not even as old as you. I suppose girls were as forgetful then as they are now.” Mandy made a face. “Present company excepted,” Libby added.

“Are you going to finish the story?” Max tapped a foot, impatient. Mandy rolled her eyes at Libby and mouthed, “Men.”

“I saw that,” Max said.

Libby went on, “One day, the beads appeared on a golden platter at dinner. Guinevere, frightened one of her household knew of her secret love and planned to inform the King, made up a story about a child finding them at the foot of a great hill. King Arthur believed her and ruled they must be kept at Glastonbury for ever. Because Guinevere lied to her husband, the story goes, bad luck would fall on anyone who touched the beads.”

Max looked from Libby to Mandy and laughed. “I wish you could see your faces. Anyone would think you believed all this mumbo-jumbo.”

“Of course we don’t,” Libby said. “It’s just a legend. Good story, though.”

Mandy interrupted. “So, who put the beads on the serving platter?”

“Doesn’t say in the records. Someone knew about the affair with Lancelot and wanted to cause trouble. Even in Arthur’s court, there were arguments and jealousies. Maybe one of her ladies wanted Lancelot for herself. Rivalry’s inevitable, I think, where people live close together.”

“Like Exham on Sea?” Mandy suggested.

Max laughed, but Libby glanced at her bag, thinking about the beads. Trouble seemed to surround them, even now. “Libby, you’ve gone quiet.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about jealousy and quarrels, and bad luck.”

Mandy’s eyes were round. “What do you mean?”

Libby gave a short laugh. “I’m not sure, really, except that John Williams took photographs of people wearing the beads and now, he’s dead.”

***

Mandy pulled on a jacket, ready to leave for a shift at the bakery. “It’s so unfair. You two can carry on drinking coffee and sleuthing, while I’m slaving in the bakery. Those new girls Frank brought in are so-o-o slow.”

“Help Frank train them up, so you can start that apprenticeship.”

Mandy mounted her bike. “Can’t wait. Don’t uncover the murderer before I get back, will you?”

“Tell you what,” Libby said. “We’ll invite Max for dinner and talk more, then.”

Mandy wobbled in a circle, narrowly missing the trunk of an old ash tree as Bear tried to lick her ankles. “By the way, what’s on the menu?”

“Sticky spiced chicken. It’s already in the fridge, at home. We’ll just need rice. Bring Steve, if you like.”

“Young love,” Max murmured, hauling the dog indoors and kicking the door shut in one practised movement. “I wonder how long it’ll last.”

“Steve’s leaving for music college in a few months. Things may fizzle out, especially if Mandy’s busy with the apprenticeship. I’d be sorry, though. They’re very happy.”

“At their age, they’ll be changing partners every few months. Didn’t you have plenty of boyfriends when you were young?”

Libby threw a ball for Bear, to hide hot cheeks. “Not really. Trevor sort of took me over, when we met. He was very persistent.”

“And he bullied you?”

“Not at first. A little, maybe, later,” she admitted. In fact, towards the end of their marriage, her husband convinced Libby she was stupid and ugly. He kept up a daily barrage of criticism: her clothes were too tight, her hair a mess and her legs ugly and fat. When he died, a weight lifted from Libby’s shoulders.

She recognised, with hindsight, how Trevor had controlled everything she did. When he died, Libby vowed to take charge of her own future, and wasted no time in leaving London for Exham on Sea. As soon as she arrived in town, she set about building a new life, making cakes and chocolates.

When she’d uncovered Trevor’s involvement in the series of financial frauds Max was investigating, Libby was mortified. “Talking of Trevor,” Max said, “which is a subject we try to avoid, I’ve got a meeting in London soon, to pull together the threads of money laundering in Leeds.” Libby giggled.

“What?”

“Sorry. Laundry. Threads. You know. It seemed funny, for a moment.” She swallowed. “I get nervous when we talk about Trevor.”

“There’s no need for you to feel bad. Your husband had a portfolio of houses bought with funny money. You didn’t. You’ve done nothing illegal.”