Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

“Pretty girl,” said Max, “but there were thousands of pretty girls with hot pants and long black hair in the sixties. She could be anyone.”

Libby compared the modern photo of the child with the old picture of Miss Bakewell and her companions. “They look exactly like each other. Same hair, similar noses, and their smiles are identical. They must be related.”

“Maybe. Miss Bakewell will know, but will she tell the truth?” Max began with the first photo and pointed at each in turn. “These people are probably all local. The photographs are taken in several different places, all near here. There’s the Tor, and this one,” pointing, “shows the beach in Exham. Look, there’s the lighthouse. And that’s the Knoll, just outside town.”

Mandy took up the thread. “So, they were all here together. Could they have been on holiday?”

“No, I don’t reckon that’s it. If they were on holiday, all the snapshots would be taken within a few days or weeks, but if you look carefully, you can see they’re spread out across a year or more.” His finger moved from one picture to the next. “Here, the trees are bare, photographed in winter, but this one’s taken in the summer. The trees are in leaf, there are flowers in the hedgerows and the girls are wearing thin dresses.” He hummed as he thought. “Yes, I reckon they’re students.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, they’re all about the same age. They’re too old to be school kids. We’ve agreed they look maybe nineteen or twenty. So, we’ve got a group of young people together for long periods of time.”

“You’re right.” Mandy punched Max’s shoulder, getting her revenge. “They’re all students at the same University.”

Libby added, “Miss Bakewell was reading Classics, so I wouldn’t mind betting they were at Bristol University. They award degrees in Greek and Latin.” She held up a hand in self defence. “And if either of you thumps me on the back, I’ll empty my wine on your head.” Excitement carried her along. “It’s a starting point, at least. Would anyone at the University remember students from those days?”

Max was humming again. “Where do you keep old newspapers?”

“In the rack, over there.” Libby pointed behind the sofa. “Why?” He dragged out a muddle of magazine, fliers and old papers, and Libby winced. Time to throw a few things out. The cottage had needed a spring clean for weeks.

Max shuffled the pile, flicking through pages, tossing them aside in a swelling flood of paper on the floor. “Ah. Thought he looked familiar.” He folded a recent copy of the Bristol Gazette into a neat square and held it next to one of the photos. “Look.”

Libby narrowed her eyes, trying to see a likeness. “You’re right,” she agreed. “The boy standing next to Miss Bakewell in the photo looks like the man in the newspaper. Only much younger. Who is he?”

“A Professor Malcolm Perivale
.
Apparently, he presented a paper to the Bristol Antiquarians, on radiocarbon dating of bronze artifacts.” Max’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve seen him on television a few times. One of those arrogant, know-it-all experts who wear three-piece suits and cravats. He’s an archaeologist, but I suspect it’s a good while since he got his own hands dirty.”

“And what’s more,” Libby read from the paper. “He’s worked at the University for years. I think we should pay him a visit, as soon as possible. He might be able to tell us more about these students, and I bet he knows all about the necklace.”

“That’s all very well,” Mandy complained, “but you promised us sticky spiced chicken for dinner, Steve’ll be here in a minute, and I’m starving.”

Libby waved her bandaged wrist in the air, and Mandy groaned. “I’d better start the rice.”

***

Late next morning, Frank, Libby’s business partner and friend, loaded boxes into her Citroen. “Thanks for offering to deliver the cake.”

Libby hovered. “Take care. The icing’s still soft.”

Frank pointed at her arm. “Can you manage?”

“No problem. It doesn’t even hurt, any more, and the headache disappeared after a good night’s sleep. I feel a fraud wearing this bandage on my wrist. Anyway, I’m glad to help. We can’t leave a customer without a cake for her son’s birthday party. I hope she got the ice cream organised.”

A frantic late-night phone call, from the harassed, forgetful parent of a five year old with his heart set on a Spiderman cake, led to a rapid flurry of design and icing in the bakery. “Good job we weren’t too busy. I’ll get this over to―er...” Libby consulted the scrap of paper Frank had thrust into her hand. “To little Ernest. Ouch. Who calls their child Ernest?”

“Think your rust-bucket will make it?” Frank leaned in at the car window. “Sounds a bit rough.”

“It always sounds rough. Alan Jenkins at the garage keeps it going for me. Mind you,” Libby let in the clutch with a loud screech, “he keeps trying to sell me a new one. I think there are at least a few thousand miles left in this old thing.” With a wave, she drove off on the mission of mercy.

Ernest’s mother, hair escaping from an elastic band on the top of her head, tiny infant in one arm and smelly nappy in the other hand, looked as exhausted as only a mother with young children can. Libby juggled the cake one-handed into the kitchen and made a space on the table, elbowing aside a jumble of socks, Babygros, muslin squares and vests.

The trip to Bristol gave Libby time to call on Professor Malcolm Perivale, the man in Miss Bakewell’s stolen photos. Max was free to accompany her, and he’d suggested they have lunch at a Bristol restaurant before visiting the professor. Libby tugged at her pencil skirt, hoping it wasn’t too short, conscious of her mother’s half-remembered warnings about mutton dressed as lamb.

A schoolboy on a scooter sped round the corner, almost under her wheels, and Libby slammed on the brakes. After that, she concentrated on the road, blocking thoughts of Max from her mind.

Squeezing the car into one of the last spaces at Bristol Harbourside, she walked across the bridge, a stiff little breeze blowing hair in her eyes. Max, smart in a suit and tie, waved from a table for two in the window of the restaurant. Had he dressed to impress Libby, or the professor? Libby smoothed a lock of hair behind an ear, fingered a gold chain that hung round her neck, and took a deep breath. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Only five minutes. I’m mixing business and pleasure. I had an appointment with a firm of auditors in Queen Square.” That explained the suit. “Pritchards is their client.”

Pritchards. Chesterton Wendlebury’s company; the one Trevor had dealings with. “Are they as shady as we suspected?”

A waitress brought plates of food. “I’ve ordered tapas, hope that’s all right?”

“Lovely.” Libby ran an eye over dishes of chorizo, tortilla and seafood. “Calamari? Terrific. Haven’t had squid for ages.” She piled it onto her plate.

“Thought you’d like it. Can’t bear the stuff, myself, so I’m sticking to roast peppers and ham.”

“Did the auditors tell you anything interesting about Pritchards, or are they bound to secrecy by client privilege?”

“I have ways of making companies talk.”

Libby spluttered. “Strong arm stuff? No, I don’t believe it.” Max was tall, trim and fit-looking, but no match for gym bunnies in their thirties.

“Much too old for that. My leverage is more in the nature of a financial threat, if you know what I mean. Taking a look at the firm’s tax situation, for example. Amazing how willing companies are to help, once I suggest that. You’d be surprised how many financial wizards neglect their own records.”

“I’d better keep the chocolate accounts straight, then.”

“Or bribe me with the product.” Max served garlicky shrimp to them both. “This is good, whatever it is, though we’d better not breathe too hard on the professor. Anyway, Pritchards have a pretty complex set-up. Off-shore accounts, a series of complicated financial instruments and a lot of buying and selling of shares among board members. Not illegal, unless it’s used to manipulate prices on the stock market.”

“And Chesterton Wendlebury’s been doing that?”

“He’s certainly an active board member.”

Libby hesitated, not sure she wanted to ask the next question. “What about Trevor? You said his name was on some documents you found. How was he involved with Pritchards?”

Max wiped sauce from his chin. “He dealt with their insurance, all above board and open for scrutiny, but I’m afraid he was in on some of the murkier deals.” Libby kept her eyes on her fork, moving squid from one side of the plate to the other. When she thought about Trevor and his criminal past, her stomach churned. What would she find out next? She laid her fork down, unable to eat any more.

Max changed the subject. “Mandy seems happy. Growing up, do you think?”

Libby forced her whirling thoughts back from Trevor to her lodger. “Steve’s influence, I think. They spend a lot of time together. There’s a gig tonight, with his band. I sometimes get the impression Steve’s not entirely committed to being a Goth, though, which is probably a good thing.”

“It’s tough, being a teenage boy, no matter how easy it looks.”

Libby glanced up. “That sounded as though it came from the heart.”

Max smiled, but his eyes were serious. “I wish I’d known you when we were young.” Thrown off balance, heart racing, Libby couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She waited, to see if he’d explain. Did he mean he cared about her? Was he asking for more than friendship?

Max said no more, but went on eating, avoiding her eye. Libby, suddenly tired of uncertainties, of second-guessing Max’s motives and wondering what he was thinking, downed a gulp of wine and plucked up every scrap of courage. “Max, never mind Mandy and Steve.” She swallowed. “Don’t you think it’s time you and I decided whether we’re having a relationship?”

There, she’d said it. She clenched her hands tight under the table, so tense she could barely catch her breath, and waited.

Silence dragged on until she thought she might scream. At last, Max raised his head to look at Libby’s face, unsmiling. “Don’t ask me to answer that, Libby. Not yet.”

Professor

Max might as well have punched her in the stomach.
I’m not going to cry.
Slowly, she unclenched her fists, looking everywhere except at him. “It―it doesn’t matter. I thought―you know―I wanted to be sure.” She took a deep breath that made her head swim. “I was going to say, we should keep things strictly business. I don’t think either of us is looking for any sort of―er―arrangement.” She was talking too fast, struggling to hide the hurt. She shrugged into her coat. “It’s time for us to meet the professor.”

Max busied himself with the bill. “Your car, or mine?”

Libby glanced at her wine glass. How much wine had she swallowed? “Better be yours.”

“Look, Libby, let me explain―”

“There’s nothing to explain. Nothing at all. Let’s get going.”

The ride to the professor’s house seemed interminable, the atmosphere in the car claustrophobic. Libby clenched her arms tight to her sides, pressing her knees against the passenger door, terrified Max might touch her leg. She couldn’t bear him to think she’d engineered a contact.

In her head, she replayed the scene in the restaurant, each iteration more depressing than the last. She’d exposed her feelings for nothing. Max shared none of them. She shot a glance at his profile. A cheek muscle twitched, but his eyes stayed on the road.

Well, Libby could live without Max. What was it she’d said to the children, breaking the news of her move to Exham? “I’m starting a new life. I’m going to be independent. I can make my own living.” She’d meant it, too. She didn’t need a new man.

Max yanked hard on the handbrake as they arrived, climbed out of the car and walked to the professor’s house. He didn’t even come round to open Libby’s door.

The professor opened the door before they reached the halfway point on the path. His shapeless brown jacket had leather patches on the arms. Perhaps he bought it when he reached the starry heights of professorship, in an attempt to look the part. Under normal circumstances, Libby would have shared a glance with Max, but today, she couldn’t bear to look at him.

Instead, she focused on the Professor, picking up an overwhelming impression of an absent-minded academic, a kind of Einstein look-alike. The man’s wire-framed glasses teetered halfway up his forehead. Tufts of wispy hair stood out, like an electrified white halo. “Come in, come in,” he boomed, waving the visitors along a corridor to his study.

Stacks of students’ work overflowed every chair. A globe stood in a prominent spot on a side table next to a sherry decanter, and in one corner, a glass cabinet displayed misshapen pieces of pottery and metal. Libby peeked inside, noticing chunks of iron with sharpened ends, a lump of greenish glass and something that looked like a primitive saw.

“I see you’re admiring my artifacts,” the professor said, prolonging the word, emphasising every syllable, a technique most likely developed for the benefit of sleepy students. “They’re from the Glastonbury Lake Village. Over 2,000 years old. Can you imagine that?”

Libby and Max sat apart, awkward on a lumpy sofa, separated by a gap that felt as wide as Exham beach. They refused sherry, biscuits and coffee. “So,” the professor said. “How can I help you? Is it about the new excavations? You don’t look much like the usual amateur archaeologists. No dirt under your nails.” His smile exposed a gap between the front teeth.