Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (9 page)

The teacher’s lip trembled. “The curse. I thought it was all nonsense, but it isn’t. It’s catching up with us.”

Libby leaned forward. “
Us?
Who do you mean by
us
?”

The woman’s eyes flickered between Libby and Max, seeking sympathy, but Max’s face was stony. She wasn’t getting away with evasions this time. Her shoulders slumped.
“
It’s the beads. They’re causing it.”

“What rubbish.” Max snorted. “They’re old and possibly valuable, but that’s all.”

Libby held out a hand. “Wait, Max. Let’s hear what she has to say.”

The woman’s hands trembled, coffee spilling on her tweed skirt. “It’s all in the paper.” She took a newspaper from the table. “Here it is.”

Libby recognised the picture. “It’s the same photo you emailed, Max, from the excavation.” She took it from Miss Bakewell’s shaking fingers and read aloud.
Beads from Glastonbury Lake Village discovered near Dear Leap Stones.

She frowned. “I’ve heard that name, somewhere.”

Miss Bakewell had stopped trembling. The light of an educator shone in her eyes. “The Deer Leap stones are a pair of ancient standing stones, said to mark the entrance to a tunnel leading to Glastonbury Tor, eight miles away.”

“According to the newspaper,” Libby was scanning the story, “a man called Roger Johnson was out for a walk last week when he found an amber bead beside the stones. Being a local man, he knew about the archaeological digs and the stories about a tunnel, and contacted the newspaper. They’re going to have the amber dated.” She looked up from the paper. “Here’s a picture of the bead. What do you think, Max? Is it one of ours?”

Miss Bakewell removed her glasses, breathed on the lenses and scrubbed at them with a scrap of handkerchief. “A warning,” she whispered. “That’s what it is. From all those years ago.”

Goose-bumps prickled the skin of Libby’s arms, but Max snorted. “Come on. There must be millions of amber beads lying around in jewellery boxes across the country. Amber’s not a precious stone and anyone could have dropped it. I bet it’s nothing to do with the necklace, anyway,”

Libby cleared her throat. He was right. With any luck, Max hadn’t noticed her moment of foolish panic. She said, “We all know John Williams didn’t die because of some magic curse. I heard what you said at the exhibition, Miss Bakewell, when you saw the photographs. It wasn’t the beads that bothered you, it was someone you saw in the picture; a friend. Don’t you think it’s time you told us what happened to Catriona?”

Miss Bakewell’s hand flew to her chest. Colour leached out of her face, leaving her pale, eyes staring. Libby pushed her advantage. “We’re not leaving until you explain.”

The woman seemed to shrink. “I knew Catriona well, many years ago, when we were young. It was a shock, seeing the child in the photograph. She looked so like Catriona. You see, Catriona died.”

Libby gulped. “How did she die?”

The woman shrugged. “It was an accident at a party. She fell out of a window. She was on drugs, you see. After all, it was the sixties.”

***

Libby ran after Max as he hurried down the path. The shock of thinking he might be dead had overcome the anger and shame she’d felt when he turned her down. Seeing him safe in Miss Bakewell’s house, her heart had leapt. That told Libby everything she needed to know. She loved the man. Even if Max never returned her feelings, she couldn’t bear to lose him from her life. She’d been a fool, doing her best to drive him away, because he’d asked for more time. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Wait for me, Max.”

He turned and smiled, and Libby’s heart lurched. It was hard to hide her feelings, now she understood them, but she had to try. “How much of that did you believe?” There, that sounded sufficiently matter-of-fact.

“Hardly any. She’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes with all that ‘curse of the beads’ malarkey. Misdirect us.”

Libby nodded. “I believe Catriona’s death is important. When Miss Bakewell saw the girl in the photo and mistook her for the woman who’d died, back in the sixties, she was terrified.” Libby paused, one hand on the door of the Land Rover. “It’s difficult, sifting through to find out what’s true. We don’t even know if more beads were really found at Deer Leap. Anyone could tell the press a trumped-up story.”

“Including Miss Bakewell.”

As they fastened their seat belts, Libby pondered. “No, I don’t think she did it. She was genuinely scared.”

“You know what I think?” Max put the key in the ignition. “I think she’s got a thing going for the professor. That’s why she’s so upset about the explosion. It might have nothing to do with the amber beads.” He turned. “Libby, are you listening?”

Libby swallowed. “Sorry.” Her voice shook. She hadn’t intended this to happen. She cleared her throat.

“What’s the matter?”

If only he’d stop looking at me like that, as if he cares.
“Nothing.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

A sob rose in Libby’s throat. She muttered. “She’s not the only one who thought someone died.”

“What?” Two vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “Oh. You mean...”

Libby sniffed hard, keeping tears at bay. “Yes.” She couldn’t stop her voice squeaking. “When I heard about the explosion, I thought you’d been killed.”

“Oh, Libby.” His arms slid round Libby’s back, pulling her close. “I should have realised.” Her face was against his shoulder, his woody scent filling her head, her voice muffled by his jacket.

She muttered, “The people at the history meeting were ghouls, wondering if anyone died, while all I could think about was―was you.”

Max looked into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Libby,” he murmured, and for once there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice or face. “I didn’t think...” Libby scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

Max smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I should have realised you’d be upset. I would have been, if it were you.”

“Really?” She tried a laugh. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Is it?” The frown was back. “Then, I should be ashamed of myself. You’re a wonderful person, Libby Forest.”

“If that’s the beginning of a ‘you’re too good for me’ speech, you can shut up, right now. I’m not a teenager.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s not funny.”

“No.” Max fixed his gaze on the windscreen. His smile had disappeared. “It’s not.” He started the engine.

Trevor

That evening, Libby roamed around the house, searching for any distraction from the questions hammering in her head. She flicked through every channel on television, dropped the remote control in disgust, and started the latest John Grisham novel. She read the first chapter twice. With a groan, she snapped the book shut. She hadn’t taken in a single word.

It was Trevor’s fault. Libby managed not to think about Jemima Bakewell and the beads, and with a supreme effort of will, she could even force Max Ramshore out of her mind, but she couldn’t stop returning to thoughts of Trevor. The trouble was, every time she remembered her husband and the financial mess he’d left behind, her stomach heaved with anxiety. She’d never rest until she knew the full story of his crimes.

She headed to the study. Fuzzy lay stretched across the computer keyboard, tail dangling in front of the desk drawer. Libby gave her a nudge. “Shift over, will you?” The cat stared, unmoving, through slitted eyes. Libby pushed harder. “Come on, you silly animal.” Fuzzy stretched, sighed, and turned round twice. Libby seized her chance to grab the folder containing Trevor’s papers from the drawer, before the cat settled down in exactly the same position as before.

Two cups of coffee later, Libby had read and re-read every word of the documents in the folder. One question kept pounding in her head. Trevor told Ali not to do anything with the house for five years. What was that about? Why did she have to wait? Could it be a mortgage, perhaps? Libby flipped back to the top of the letter he sent Ali, and the date leapt out at her. For heaven’s sake, why hadn’t she noticed it before?
Call yourself an investigator?
Fuzzy blinked. Libby had spoken aloud.

The letter was dated six years ago. Trevor died last year. He’d told Ali she could sell the house then. How odd. Libby couldn’t ask Ali about it, because she was doing good works in the rain forest with her new boyfriend. Her calls home were too short, and reception in the Amazon too uncertain, for sensitive discussions.

Libby had never raised the subject of the houses with her son, Robert, even though she knew Trevor gave him a property. Nervous, she dialled his mobile number.

“Hello, Mum. Is everything all right? I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Robert hated the phone.

“Everything’s fine, but I need to ask you about that house your father gave you.” In the silence that followed, she heard her heart beat.

At last, Robert replied. “How do you know about that?” No guilt, or apology for hiding it from his mother. Libby had to bite back angry words, for Robert couldn’t have known about the mess Trevor left behind. “Robert, I know he gave a house to you, and one to Ali. Did he say when you could sell it?”

Her son cleared his throat. “Oh―er―well.” At least he had the grace to sound uncomfortable. It was unfair of Trevor to make his children keep secrets from their mother. The sad truth was, Libby married a weak-willed fool who’d died and left her stranded, with a mess to clear up.

The phone fell from Libby’s hand and clattered on the desk. Fuzzy yowled and jumped away, but Libby took no notice. An idea, so shocking she could hardly bear to acknowledge it, had leapt fully-formed into her mind. Trevor knew something might happen to him, and he’d done his best to provide for his children. He’d made sure the links between the purchase of the houses and his shady deals would be buried so deep they’d be almost impossible to unravel after his death. He’d known things were likely to go wrong. Libby whispered, through dry lips. “He knew he was going to die.”

She pressed one hand hard against her mouth, fumbling for the phone with the other. She could hear Robert’s voice. “Mum, are you still there?”

“Sorry, darling.” She tried to sound unconcerned. “I was wondering about the house. Did you sell it, once the five years were up?”

“Look, Mum, I wanted to tell you, but Dad said no, you weren’t to be worried. He said I could sell it and take the money after a few years, but then―well―he died. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of the house he gave me.” Libby closed her eyes, trying to understand. Trevor, concerned she might be worried? That didn’t sound like her husband. “Dad said you were upset about Ali and the drugs thing, and he and I needed to look after you.”

Libby sank on to a chair. Robert had never before referred to that dreadful day when Ali rang from the police station. Possession of illegal substances; that was the crime. Libby felt sick at the memory. She’d been drenched in guilt, even though Ali had so little cannabis in her bag the police let her off with a caution. Libby always blamed herself for letting Ali run off the rails. To think Robert knew, all the time.

“Your Dad shouldn’t have put the burden on you, Robert. That wasn’t fair,” Libby said. “I know about the houses―yours and Ali’s, and it’s fine with me. You do whatever you want.” She was babbling. The awful thing in her mind stopped her thinking straight. “I wanted to check―find out―let you know you don’t have to hide things from me.”

Robert sounded relieved. “Thanks, Mum. I’ve got to go, but I’d like to come home soon, if that’s all right? Catch up?”

Libby stared at the phone. Her son hadn’t been to see her for months.

“Mum?”

“Of course. Please come.”

“Can I bring Sarah?”

***

“Mrs F? Shouldn’t you be in bed at this time of night?” Libby was making bread, taking out her feelings on the dough.

She registered Mandy’s flushed face, smudged lipstick and bright eyes, and thumped the dough harder. “Looks like you’ve had fun.”

“What’s wrong?” Mandy spooned instant coffee into a mug. “Won’t make you one. You look wired already. You know it’s after midnight?”

Libby grunted, pounded the bread into shape, turned it into a tin and dumped it in the oven. “If that doesn’t rise, I’m giving up and moving back to London.”

“Anything I can do?”

Libby swept a cloth over the counter with unnecessary force. “It’s just life.”

“I know. Life sucks.” Mandy rescued a jug of milk. Libby flung the cloth into the sink and flopped onto a stool, head resting on her hands.

“Want to talk?”

“Give me a minute.” It wasn’t fair to burden Mandy with her problems. Libby wiped her sleeve across both eyes, blew her nose, and forced a smile on her face. “Sorry. I was having a moment. About my husband.” Mandy deserved more than that. “And Max, actually.”

“Men. What are they like?”

Libby managed a watery smile. She wished she could tell Mandy the truth. Her husband was a crook, she suspected he hadn’t died of a heart attack after all, and Max had turned down her offer of a relationship. Things couldn’t really get worse.

She let her breath out in a long sigh. Mandy had enough problems in her own family. She’d moved in with Libby to escape them and it wasn’t fair to dump the landlady’s woes on the lodger. “Cheer me up. Tell me about Steve.”