Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (6 page)

“But he dragged my daughter and son into it, when he put houses in their names. I’m worried what might happen to them.”

“Nothing for the moment. Be patient a while longer. I’m hoping we can wind the whole business up, soon, keeping your children out of it.”

“The sooner the better.” Libby had an idea. “I need some fresh air. D’you fancy a walk? Let’s pick up Shipley from Marina, and go out to the cliffs at High Down.”

High Down

Shipley’s high-pitched yelp echoed from inside Marina’s house. As the door opened, the springer spaniel bounded out, whining with excitement, nails clattering on the wood floor. Libby grabbed his collar and guided him back into the house. Marina seemed ill at ease, with flushed cheeks and untidy hair. “Are you all right?” Libby asked.

“Fine, I’m fine.” Someone coughed inside the house, and Libby had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing. That cough didn’t belong to Henry Sellworthy. “Is it an awkward time?” Libby’s voice was innocent. Her friend appeared to be conducting the affair in her own home, right under her husband’s nose.

Marina’s eyes flashed, but she beckoned Libby to come inside. “Actually, Chester’s here. We’re going over a few business details.”

Business?
Libby shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. “I won’t come in. I’m wearing wellies, ready for a walk on High Down. We’re taking Bear and I thought Shipley might like to come.”

“We?” Marina peered round Libby.

Max stuck his head out of the Land Rover and waved. “Hi, Marina. Fancy a run?”

“No, thank you.” Her voice crackled with ice. She raised an eyebrow at Libby and murmured, “You two spend a lot of time together, these days.”

“That’s true.” Libby smiled. She wouldn’t attempt explanations. They’d give Marina even more ammunition for tittle-tattle. “What about it, Shipley? Ready for a walk?” At the magic words, a frenzy of excitement sent Shipley scurrying to the back of the house to find his lead.

Marina followed, a cloud of perfume drifting in her wake. Libby recognised the scent.
Poison;
a heady, glamorous perfume. Marina produced her parting remarks. “You know it’s going to rain, don’t you?”

Shipley dragged Libby out to the Land Rover, Bear barked a greeting, the spaniel piled in the back, Libby jumped in the front and Max drove off, squealing the tires to make Marina roll her eyes. “There’s something going on between Marina and Chesterton Wendlebury,” Libby said. “Do you think she’s about to leave Henry?”

“And deprive herself of his pension? Not likely.”

“Wendlebury’s a rich man. He could look after her.”

Max shot an odd look in her direction. “Rich on paper. He makes a good job of being the local squire, I grant you, but I’ve a feeling things aren’t all they seem.”

“I’ve never quite trusted him,” Libby confessed.

“You don’t trust anyone.” Max was brisk. Surprised, Libby stole a sideways glance at him. What did he mean? “Don’t look so worried. In our business, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

“Our business?”

“Private investigation. Come on, Libby, we’ve talked about it before. You’ve got a nose for things that don’t add up and a logical brain. I’ve been trained in undercover financial research. I’m not suggesting you ditch the cakes and chocolate. You’ve got a great business going there, and we’re never going to make a fortune as private eyes, but we’re good partners.”

Libby’s heart pumped so fast she thought Max would hear it over the rumble of the engine. She took a deep breath. He meant business partners, of course. It was Mandy’s fault Libby felt so unsettled. She’d suggested he cared, just because they went to the exhibition in his posh Jaguar.

Libby pulled a map out of the pocket of the car door and pretended to study the route to High Down, letting her flaming cheeks cool. “Let me think about it, Max. The chocolate business is just beginning to take off, and I’ve asked Mandy to do a proper apprenticeship. When that’s going well, maybe...”

“Let’s face it,” he went on, “we’re already working together. Why not make it official? You know, business cards, a website and a bit of mouth to mouth advertising. That’s all I’m suggesting.”

“But what happens if we’re in the middle of an investigation, and you suddenly disappear to South America on some secret government work? How can I trust you, when you keep things from me?” Max turned and stared.

Libby grabbed the wheel. “Look where you’re going.”

“I’m not the one who runs the car into the ditch.”

“I’ve only done it once. Don’t change the subject. The point is, how can I work with a partner who takes off without a word and never tells me where he’s going?”

Max let the silence draw on. When he spoke again, he sounded thoughtful. “I suppose you’ve got a point, but I won’t be doing government work for ever.” Libby swallowed hard, battling to keep her breathing steady as Max pulled through a gate and drove along a rutted path towards the cliffs. As the car drew to a halt, Bear and Shipley whined and drooled with excitement. Max jumped out, threw open the doors and shooed the dogs onto the Downs, where the first few drops of rain heralded Marina’s promised rainstorm.

***

The rain drove hard across High Down, but neither of the dogs cared a jot. Libby pulled up the hood of her new parka, zipped the collar and strode on, enjoying the rain against her face. In London, she’d carried an umbrella at all times, terrified of a sudden storm causing her unruly hair to frizz, but she’d learned to love a good downpour. To her surprise, Max took her arm. “Sorry if I upset you,” he murmured.

“You didn’t,” she lied, startled.

He squeezed her arm. “Come on, let’s look round the old fort.”

For half an hour, they explored the ruined buildings. Shipley raced in and out of the wartime pillbox while Bear investigated interesting holes in the ground and chased imaginary rabbits. “The rain’s getting worse,” Max pointed out. “Maybe we should go. Am I really invited to this sticky chicken dinner, tonight, or have I blown my chances?”

A sudden burst of barking interrupted him. Bear hovered at the edge of the cliff. “Can you smell another rabbit?” Libby waded through mud puddles on the path. As she reached the edge of the cliff, Shipley appeared, to see what Bear was doing. He brushed past Libby, just as she raised a foot to step over another puddle. Caught off balance, she tripped and fell, rolling down the steep slope, scrabbling to clutch at grass stalks.

“Libby!” Max was too far away to help as Libby slid over the edge of the cliff. After a long moment, she landed with a thud that squeezed every ounce of air from her lungs. Her head connected with something hard.
So that’s what it means to see stars.
For a moment, lights swirled in front of her eyes, before darkness descended.

***

She opened her eyes. A wide ledge, a few feet down the cliff face, had broken her fall. Max was at the cliff edge, looking down, horror etched on every line of his face. “Libby,” he called. “Can you hear me? Are you OK?”

Libby tried to lift her right hand, but it wouldn’t move. Her wrist seemed to twist at an odd angle, and it ached. She tried her left hand, relieved to find it uninjured. She waved. Max called, “I’m on my way. I’ll get a rope from the car.”

“No, don’t come. You’ll fall too.” As she shouted, Bear jumped down from the top of the cliff and licked Libby’s face. “Get off, Bear. I’m quite all right.” She lifted her head and discovered she wasn’t quite all right. Her head hurt.

Moving as little as possible, she stole a glance over the ledge and shivered at the drop. She’d been close to falling the full height of the cliff. Bear stood between Libby and the drop and she pulled his warm body closer. “You’re a clever old dog. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Hold tight.” Max was back. “I’ve tied the rope to a tree. I’m coming down.” Seconds later, he joined her on the ledge. “I’m getting too old for this.” He held out the end of the rope. “Now, tie it round your waist, in case you slip. It’ll stop you falling further.”

Libby fumbled, trying to tie a knot with one shaky hand. Max’s fingers were warm on hers as he took the rope. “Here, let me do it. I was a boy scout, you know. Knots are my thing.”

He secured the rope around Libby’s waist. “That’s a bowline, I believe. I hope you’re impressed.” He slid an arm round her shoulders. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

“I hurt my wrist.”

“Anything else?”

“A bit of a headache. Nothing to worry about.”

Side by side, they looked up at the climb. “Can you make it, or should I ring for the coastguard?”

“Don’t you dare. I don’t want my picture in the paper.”

“You’re as white as a sheet. Is your wrist broken?”

“Only a sprain, I think.” Libby cradled her right hand with her left. “It only hurts if I move it.”

“I suggest you don’t move it.”

With Max’s arm round her shoulders, keeping her safe, Libby felt light-headed. Overcome with relief at not falling to her death, she giggled and found she couldn’t stop. Even Max was infected, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Bear remained on the ledge, patient, waiting for his two foolish humans to calm down, while Shipley scampered back and forth at the top of the cliff, thrilled by so much excitement, barking at the top of his lungs.

Max made his hands into a cup for Libby’s foot and hoisted her to his shoulders. Her head reached a little above the lip of the cliff. “Right,” Max said. “On three.” He placed both hands firmly on her bottom and gave a mighty shove that sent her up, over the top, clinging on with her good hand as she scrambled, one knee following the other, onto the grass above.

Bear leaped up, making easy work of the jump. Max heaved himself up on the rope and joined Libby where she lay on her back. “Take me home,” she begged. “I think I’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”

Sticky spiced chicken

Miss Bakewell’s stolen photographs decorated one wall of Libby’s living room. Mandy, Max and Libby, her wrist tightly bandaged, scrutinised each picture in turn. “We know these were taken by John Williams,” Libby said, “but why did Miss Bakewell try to hide them?”

Mandy walked down the line, head on one side. “The same people keep cropping up. Look, there’s a couple of, like, hippies, I guess. All droopy moustaches and afro hair. These must be their girlfriends.” She squealed. “Wow. Sick clothes.”

“You can talk.” Libby gestured at Mandy’s latest tattoo, a lurid design representing a skull with angel’s wings. “I hope that’s not permanent, by the way.”

Mandy tossed her head. “I’m not daft.”

Libby returned to the photos. “Caftans, tight purple loons and flowery shirts with enormous sleeves were high fashion in the sixties, Mandy. You know, Carnaby Street, the Rolling Stones, mini skirts the first time round...”

“Yeah. I’ve seen the retro stuff, like, a million times. The Beatles, Sergeant Pepper, Hari Krishna, psychedelic drugs, frizzy hair...”

“No proper hair straighteners in those days. Girls used steam irons on their hair, so most of the time it was pretty much as nature intended.”

Max, tired of their discussion of sixties culture, studied a photo at the end of the row. It showed a girl wearing a tiny skirt and a wide-brimmed hat. “If I’m not very much mistaken, that’s our Jemima Bakewell, in her youth.”

“Never.” Libby leaned close and squinted. “Are you sure? I mean, look at all that lovely brown hair. I suppose, if you picture that face with short grey hair and a pair of spectacles, it could be her.”

Mandy sniffed. “You said Miss Bakewell needed make-up and a decent haircut. She looks cool, in the photo.”

“Deteriorated over the years,” Libby sighed. “Happens to us all, as you’ll find out soon enough, Mandy.”

Bear lay on his back, wriggling, demanding attention. With three favourite humans in the room at the same time, surely at least one could talk to him? Mandy gave in, squatted down and scratched his stomach while Max and Libby focused on the photos. Max sucked his teeth. “I’m almost certain it’s Miss Bakewell. See that mole on her cheek?”

He was right. The girl laughing into the camera had the teacher’s mole, and Libby recognised that square jaw. “How old d’you think she was when the photo was taken? Nineteen or twenty?”

“About that, I’d guess. Let me do the sums.” Max paused. “Yes, she must be over sixty now. I’d say that’s about right.”

“It looks like she had a boyfriend. That one in the pink shirt has his arm round her. I wonder why she didn’t admit to being in the picture.”

Interested, Mandy strolled back to the photos. “Hey,” she shouted. Bear grunted, lurched to his feet and pushed his head under her arm. “Get away, Bear. I wasn’t talking to you. Look, Mrs F, she’s wearing the amber beads.”

Max thumped Mandy’s back. “So she is. Well spotted. Maybe that’s why she took the photos; so no one could see her with the stolen necklace.”

“Or perhaps she didn’t want to be recognised. I think we need to find out more about these people; who they are and what they know about the necklace.”

Libby gasped. “I’ve just realised. You see the girl behind the others? The one with long black curls half-way down her back? She looks like the child on the top of the Tor.”