Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (8 page)

“We wanted to ask you about John Williams. He was at University with you.”

The smile faded. “Haven’t seen him for years. Heard he topped himself. Read it in the papers. The man was a waste of space. Huh.” He downed a glass of sherry in one gulp and poured another. “Sure you won’t?” He waved the glass. Not the man’s first drink of the day, judging by the bulbous nose and red cheeks. Libby turned towards Max, remembered they weren’t speaking and looked down at her hands.

Max said, “Some of his photographs were in a local exhibition. Jemima Bakewell was there.”

The professor frowned. “Was she, by George? Shouldn’t have been.” His mouth snapped shut, as though he’d said more than he should. Libby leaned forward, elbows on her knees. The man was half drunk. She intended to take advantage of the fact, and find out everything she could. “Tell me about Jemima Bakewell and John Williams and the others. You were friends, weren’t you?”

“Used to be. Not any more. Had a falling out, you know, over some stupid business, back when we were young. Huh. Something to do with Jemima’s beads. She lost ’em, accused us of stealing the things.” The professor waved a hand. “Can’t remember the sordid details. Far too long ago. Went our separate ways. Haven’t seen ’em since then.”

“Those beads. Miss Bakewell said she found them.”

“Maybe she did. They’re fine examples of Iron Age amber. We were just students, then.” His laugh turned into a cough. “Seen more beads than I could shake a stick at since. Nothing like the first time, though. Beauties, they were.” The professor wiped his face on a large blue handkerchief. “Hot one, today. Must be a storm coming.”

“When did you last see Miss Bakewell?”

He folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it with care into his jacket pocket. “Not since we were students.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “But you only live a few miles apart. You must have bumped in to each other, at conferences or such like. I mean, she studies the Classics, you’re an archaeologist...”

The professor’s ruddy face deepened to an unhealthy purple. “You calling me a liar? Huh!”

Max’s lip twitched. He’d scored a hit. “And the beads?”

The professor’s eyelids flickered. “Those beads. Yes.” Libby could hardly keep a straight face at the sudden grunts and exclamations. Maybe they were involuntary, like a twitch. His students must have fun with them. “Made of amber. Know anything about amber?”

Sensing a lecture, Libby interrupted, “I’m sure you know all the myths surrounding the beads.”

“Myths? I don’t deal in myths, young lady.” The glare would silence a roomful of the rowdiest undergraduates. “Stuff and nonsense. The beads are mentioned in the records. From the grave of a high status woman, one would imagine. Possibly stolen by vandals. Yes. Grave robbery’s a taboo, you know. Always was. Some nonsense about the beads being cursed. Huh! Made up in recent years. Glastonbury’s the place for myths and legends. King Arthur, lot of tosh. Good for tourism, that’s all. Huh.”

“Have you been to Glastonbury, lately?”

“Not since the last excavation, three, four years ago. Place is full of tourists, these days.”

Max asked, “Where were you two days ago?”

“Me? What day was it, now? Tuesday? Huh! Yes. Spent the morning in tutorial with a student, then lunch with colleagues. Leaving do. And, now, I have work, so if you’ll excuse me...”

***

The professor poured more sherry into a crystal glass and let them find their own way out. “Take me back to my car,” Libby demanded.

“You’ve had far too much wine. I’ll drive you home, and when you get a free day, we’ll come back to get your car.”

Another silent drive, then, and Libby wouldn’t be first to speak. After a few miles, Max broke the oppressive silence. “What did you make of our professor? Huh!” Libby refused to smile. He went on, “I don’t think he could help the twitches, but he’s a pompous old fool and he didn’t want to tell us anything. He’s in the clear for John Williams’ death, anyway. His student can put him in Bristol on the morning John Williams died.” Libby didn’t reply.

Max tried again. “Reading between the professor’s lines, they made some pact never to meet again. What could have shaken them so much?”

“No idea.”

“Do you know, I think I’d like to pay another visit to our professor.”

Libby said, “You’ll have to come on your own. I’m going to the history society meeting tomorrow.”

“I’ll come up on the train, then, and bring your car back.” Libby just shrugged. She wasn’t going to thank him. She never wanted to see the man again.

The Land Rover drew up at her house. A lump formed in Libby’s throat as Max killed the engine. “Libby, you caught me off guard, at lunch.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Libby’s voice quivered.

“You deserve an explanation...”

“No need.” She had to get out of the car, right away.

Max put a hand on her arm. “I should give you a proper answer to your question.”

“No.” She pushed him away, shoved the car door open and swung her legs out. “No explanations, no answers. We’re partners. And friends, I suppose. That’s all. It’s good to know where we stand.” She strode away, refusing to look back, determined Max should not see the tears that coursed down her cheeks.

Exham History Society

Next day, Libby spent far too long composing questions for the historical society meeting and arrived late. Marina ran to the car, scarlet and pink scarves flying, silver bracelets clanking. “Libby, darling, how’s your wrist? And did you remember to bring the cake?”

Libby let Bear out of the Citroen. “Hope you don’t mind Bear coming. Max is on his way to Bristol to―er―talk to an old colleague.”

“Bear can stay in the back room. Shipley’s always pleased to see him.” Marina’s house, a substantial, brick-built Georgian mansion, included several rooms at the rear. These, built in the days when servants were commonplace, had once served as sculleries and dairies. Now, they were perfect for dogs. Shipley greeted Bear in Marina’s back cloakroom, barking and running in circles, full of unhinged excitement. Libby sometimes wondered if the spaniel was headed for a stroke.

The drawing room, far more elegant than the servants’ quarters, buzzed with gossip. Samantha Watson held the floor. She stopped in mid-sentence as Libby entered and wrinkled her nose. She was engaged to Chief Inspector Arnold, Joe’s boss, and Marina’s stage whisper must have been audible to everyone. “Chief Inspector Arnold rang Samantha with the news.”

“I’m sorry,” Libby confessed. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What news?”

“Well,” Samantha sipped from a delicate bone china teacup, one little finger held aloft with a daintiness Libby hadn’t seen since she was a child at her mother’s tea parties. “The Chief Inspector told me about the explosion.” The woman’s smile could have frozen waves on Exham beach. “He said it had something to do with a school teacher. Marina says you were talking to the woman at the photographic exhibition, Lizzy.”

Libby’s heart lurched. She ignored the deliberate mispronunciation of her name. “If there’s something you think I should know, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me.”

“Oh, the police will talk to you soon enough, I’m sure. The Chief Inspector says everywhere you go, trouble follows.”

Libby sighed. “Samantha, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Has something happened to Miss Bakewell?”

Samantha slapped her cup so hard onto its saucer, the contents slopped onto Marina’s marble-topped table. She pointed a manicured finger at Libby. “I knew you’d be involved. I wish newcomers like you would mind your own business, instead of poking around in local affairs...”

“Do calm down, Samantha,” Marina broke in. “I’m sure Libby knows nothing about the explosion.”

Libby lost patience. “For heaven’s sake, tell me what you’re talking about. What explosion, and why do you think I’m involved?”

“Well, darling, you and Max Ramshore were at the photography exhibition together, talking to that Miss Bakewell.”

“Why shouldn’t I have been there? You were there, too, Marina.”

“No reason at all. I’m just explaining. According to Samantha, the inspector told her...”

“Chief inspector,” Samantha put in.

Marina sighed. “Chief Inspector Arnold said Miss Bakewell’s been involved in an accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” An accident? The back of Libby’s neck prickled. What was that nonsense about the beads and a curse? “What kind of accident are you talking about?”

Marina was enjoying the limelight. “Apparently, she went to see some professor. Perivale, that was the name. After she left his house, there was some sort of explosion.” Professor Perivale’s house? Libby’s throat felt tight. She whispered. “Was anyone hurt?”

“That’s all we know.”

Libby’s hands were clenched tight in her lap, the knuckles white. Her nails forced themselves into the palms. She stood up. “Doesn’t anyone know any more?”

Someone said, “We might catch the local news, if we’re quick,” and Marina switched on the vast television. Libby bit her lip, trying to think, but there was only one idea in her head. What if Max was there? He planned to visit the professor today. He could be hurt, or even dead.

A local reporter stood in front of a row of terraced Victorian houses that had a jagged-edged gap, like a missing tooth, in the centre. Libby recognised the street she’d visited yesterday. “Police say one person has been taken to hospital, but no one else was in the house,” intoned the journalist. “Neighbours tell us the property belongs to a Professor Perivale, from Bristol University. It’s believed he may be the injured man. We have no further news at this time.”

Not Max.
The words hammered in Libby’s head.
It isn’t Max.
“Are you all right, Libby?” Marina’s face creased with anxiety. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine.” Libby’s phone rang. She fumbled the buttons with shaking fingers as the name flashed up on the screen.
Max.
“I have to take this.” She stumbled to her feet and ran to the hall, as Samantha remarked, “Really, some people are so
over
-
dramatic.
”

“Max, are you OK? I saw the news...”

“You’ve heard about the explosion, then. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Miss Bakewell’s pretty shaken, though. I’m about to drive her home.”

“What was she doing there? And what about the professor?”

“He’s gone to hospital, but the neighbours say he was awake and talking while they put him in the ambulance.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No, unfortunately, the explosion came a moment before I arrived. Miss Bakewell had just left. I’m hoping the shock will make her a little more forthcoming about the photographs. Could you meet us at her house in Wells? We’ll be there in less than an hour. I want to find out what she was doing at the professor’s house, and I think it would be better if you were there. Will you come?”

Libby looked at the phone. Max sounded stressed. No wonder. “Yes, of course. Max, what do you think happened?”

His voice was grim. “I don’t know, but the professor could have died. It’s a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Libby shivered. She dropped her phone in a pocket. The history society would have to wait. When she took a step, her legs shook so much she could hardly walk and she sank down on to the stairs. The adrenaline of fear ebbed away, leaving her exhausted, and she let her head drop between her knees until the faintness passed. Libby was still mad at Max, but at least he wasn’t dead.

Catriona

Jemima Bakewell kept a bottle of whisky in a corner cupboard in her kitchen. It took Libby only a few minutes to track it down and pour a big slug into a cup of tea, add six lumps of sugar and carry it through to the tiny sitting room. The school teacher pulled a plaid blanket tight round her shoulders and sipped. “I knew something like this would happen. It’s all coming horribly true.” She looked thirty years older than last time Libby saw her.

The room was stuffed with mementos from Miss Bakewell’s travels. Busts of Greek philosophers jostled with photographs showing the teacher in various locations. Libby studied them while the woman drank her tea. In one picture, Miss Bakewell wore a sun hat and waved a trowel, surrounded by the open trenches of an archaeological dig. Another showed her walking in the Greek islands, while in another she was with a group of middle-aged ladies wearing flowery skirts and cardigans, and enjoying a bottle of red wine under azure skies.

Books cluttered every spare inch of space in the room. A Latin dictionary and a well-thumbed copy of the Aeneid leaned against a leather-bound version of the poems of Catullus. It was clear Miss Bakewell loved her subject.

Max remained silent, letting the teacher recover from the shock of the explosion at the professor’s house. He raised an eyebrow at Libby and she nodded. He said, “I think it’s time you told us the truth, Miss Bakewell, don’t you?” Taken aback by the sharp tone, the woman licked her lips, eyes larger than ever behind the tortoiseshell spectacles. Max persisted. “Tell us what you mean. What’s coming true?”