‘Cheer up. It’ll be fun.’ Libby’s phone buzzed.
She had a text, from Angela.
I have to see you. Right now.
Angela had sounded desperate. The Citroen hurtled towards her house, squealing round corners as dread squeezed Libby’s insides. Angela would only send such a message in dire circumstances.
She must have been watching from a window, for the door was already open when Libby ran up the path. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Sit down, collect your thoughts and explain.’
Angela paced round her elegant, grey-painted room, moving expensive scented candles and straightening books in an already tidy bookcase. ‘There’s something I kept from you. I hoped it didn’t matter, but it’s been eating away at me.’
Libby thought for a moment, reviewing their conversation in the café. ‘I had a feeling you weren’t being entirely honest. It’s the scarf, isn’t it?’ Her friend rubbed invisible specks of dirt from an over-mantle mirror, avoiding Libby’s eyes. ‘Did you give it to Giles Temple?’
Angela grabbed a tissue from a nearby box. ‘It was a joke, just between the two of us. We laughed about the yarnbombing. You know, how tacky and bright it was going to be. Giles said no one would ever wear anything in those colours. Well, I couldn’t resist knitting the brightest scarf I could and giving it to Giles. He promised to wear it. It was just a joke.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘What will the police think?’
Libby’s brain clicked into gear. The presence of the scarf at the murder scene made Angela a prime suspect. She knew Giles was a married man, and she’d given him a gift she made herself. It looked suspicious, and Libby was sure, now, that the two of them had grown close. Libby groaned. She knew what was coming.
Angela said, ‘Please, help me, Libby. I’m scared. You see, if the police know I spent a lot of time with Giles—’ She winced, ‘with him being married, they might think I had something to do with it. Revenge, if he was throwing me over, or something like that.’
Her cheeks glowed bright red. ‘Find out who killed Giles. That’s the only way I’ll feel safe. You can’t just leave it to the police. Everyone knows they’re over-stretched. They’ll find out about the scarf, decide I killed him and won’t look for anyone else.’
Libby’s head drooped as her hopes of a quiet life, with time to make decisions about the future, evaporated. Angela, normally so calm, looked terrified. Smudges of mascara ran into tiny lines around her eyes.
Libby rose and offered another tissue. ‘I’ll try to help, on one condition.’
‘Anything.’ Angela’s face lit up. ‘Anything at all.’
Libby hid a wry smile. Angela wasn’t going to like her next words, but that was too bad. ‘I can’t help unless you swear you had nothing to do with Giles Temple’s death.’
A flush covered Angela’s face from neck to hairline. For a second, her eyes flashed anger. Slowly, she gained control. When she spoke, her voice grated, harsh and strained. ‘I understand why you have to ask, Libby. I suppose you need to be sure. On my honour, I swear I didn’t kill Giles Temple and I don’t know who did.’
7
Bakery
Libby spent the next morning with Mandy, working at the bakery. In the shop, she had no spare time to think of Max, or worry about Angela, or Giles Temple’s murder. Mandy was unusually quiet. Libby supposed she was brooding about the quarrel with Steve.
Frank, the baker, had converted half the shop to a display space for chocolates, and his girth was expanding as a result. ‘The wife’s sending me out running every evening.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I can resist bread and cakes, all except your squishy chocolate log…’
He centred a slice on a plate. ‘But those chocs’ll be the death of me. Still,’ his long face lightened. ‘My daily shuffle gets me out of the house for a bit of peace.’
He finished the last morsel and wiped his mouth. ‘Delicious. Ah well. No peace for the wicked. They’ll be coming in for their lunch time sandwiches, any minute now, wanting to talk about this affair over at the cathedral. I’ll be off.’
Frank, unique in Exham on Sea, hated gossip. Mandy once suggested he’d been bullied in childhood. ‘Impossible. He’s six feet tall with shoulders like bill-boards,’ Libby objected.
‘Maybe he grew after leaving school.’ Frank made himself scarce whenever the door opened, leaving Libby, Mandy or one of his new part-timers in charge.
Along with bread, cakes and chocolates, the shop functioned as a branch of the local Exham grapevine, and sure enough, the shop soon buzzed with theories about the murder in the cathedral.
‘I made a delivery there, just the day before he was found.’ Gladys, the owner of the flower shop, panted with excitement. ‘Imagine, it could have been me, lying dead on the floor.’
‘Never been caught in a library, though, have you,’ jeered one of the paper boys, paying for a pair of Belgian buns with a crumpled note, ‘Have to be able to read.’
‘I hope you won’t be eating both those buns for your lunch,’ Mandy snapped. ‘All that sugar – you won’t be able to walk. And don’t lean your bike against the window. There’s a sign there, you know. Maybe it’s you who can’t read.’
Libby shot a glance at Mandy. She was cranky today.
Gladys handed over a twenty pound note in payment for a waist-watching salad and glowered at the boy as she waited for change. ‘Getting back to the cathedral. I was talking to the Bishop’s wife, the other day. You know, the Bishop of Bath and Wells.’
She peeped under her lashes at the queue of customers, checking that they were listening and were suitably impressed. ‘She told me the man who died, Giles something, was researching old stories from the past, about ghosts and the supernatural and such like. She said it wasn’t a very suitable subject for a cathedral library, and I for one, agree.’
‘Maybe it was a ghost that did him in,’ suggested a young man. New to Libby, he wore the estate agent uniform of short gelled hair, shiny pointed shoes and a vivid pink shirt. Exham was full of estate agents. House prices were rumoured to be due to rocket, now a new nuclear power station was being built nearby, at Hinckley Point.
The doorbell chimed and local solicitor, Samantha Watson, entered. Samantha, who was engaged to be married to the pompous Chief Inspector Arnold, disliked Libby as an interfering newcomer to Exham and only graced the bakery with her presence when she had a spicy police titbit to share.
‘Pillow talk from her fiancé,’ Max called it. Libby waited, expectant. Samantha’s tips had been useful in the past, though Libby would die rather than admit it. The solicitor already thought far too well of herself.
She inspected Mandy from head to toe. ‘What an original necklace, dear, and on such a heavy chain. A Celtic cross, isn’t it? Did you know, the murderer used a chain to kill his victim in the cathedral library?’
Mandy rose to the bait before Libby could intervene. ‘We did, as it happens.’
‘Chief Inspector Arnold told me the chain was made of forged steel. Incredibly strong. But, that’s not all…’
‘Go on,’ said Gladys, as Samantha produced a dramatic pause.
‘Well, I’m not sure I ought to tell you. Police business, you know. In fact, I think perhaps I should wait. There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour. I’ll just say this – don’t