Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6. Frances Evesham
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She slumped back in her seat. Another problem to think about. Sometimes, it seemed solving murders was the least of her worries.
10
Joe
‘Joe.’ Max’s son was on her doorstep on time the next morning, arm raised to pound on the door. ‘You’d better come inside. It's freezing, out here.’
Libby pulled her dressing gown tight. She’d overslept, waking to the hammering on her front door. ‘Couldn’t you just ring the bell, like normal people do? Or is this an emergency?’
‘Sorry. There’s something I thought you’d like to know. I’m on my way to the station, so I can’t stop.’ Libby nodded, guessing he didn’t want Chief Inspector Arnold to know he was calling on her.
She led him into the kitchen, flicking light switches as she went. ‘Coffee? I need one before you tell me anything.’
Joe sniffed the air. Mandy must have fried bacon. ‘What have you been cooking up?’
‘Arsenic sandwiches,’ Libby said. ‘Want one?’
Joe snorted. ‘Toast and Marmite would be good.’
Libby threw a couple of slices of bread in the machine. ‘Watch that,’ she ordered. ‘It burns.’
Meekly, Joe oversaw toast while she fetched butter and Marmite. Settled comfortably at the counter, he explained. ‘We’ve got a suspect for the murder.’
‘My, that was quick. Chief Inspector Arnold will be impressed.’
‘It’s his suspect.’
Libby paused, and butter slid from the tip of her knife. ‘By which you mean, I suppose, that he’s got the wrong man?’
Joe nodded and glanced round the room, looking as guilty as if he expected his boss to appear. ‘It’s not a man…’
Libby interrupted. ‘Let me guess. It’s a member of the Knitters' Guild?’
Joe frowned. ‘Not just any member. It’s your friend, Angela Miles.’
Libby dabbed Marmite on toast, buying time to think. It hadn’t taken long for the police to discover Angela’s connection with Giles Temple.
She tried to smile. ‘That’s ridiculous.’ Her voice was a squeak.
Joe shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s the scarf, you see. Mrs Miles told the police she made it for Giles Temple as a present.’ Libby breathed out. Angela had done the right thing and gone to the authorities, saving Libby that unpleasant task. She could concentrate on proving her friend’s innocence.
She jabbed a finger at Joe. ‘And when Angela killed the victim, she made sure the scarf was round his neck so everyone would suspect her? That’s crazy. It won't stand up in court. Any decent lawyer will make mincemeat of the idea.’
Joe grimaced. ‘The chief inspector wants someone in custody as soon as possible. He needs a success to show the press.’
‘The police won’t find any real evidence, because Angela didn’t kill Giles Temple. You’ll have to release her and then you’ll look ridiculous.’
Joe nodded and Libby’s breathing returned to normal. Joe knew Angela Miles, and he was a smart man. He wouldn’t be easily misled. ‘I’d rather stop that happening, but there’s a lot of police time focused on establishing evidence against Mrs Miles rather than following other leads. I’d send my team out, but my hands are tied. I thought you might have spare time…’
‘You mean, when I’m not struggling with orders for chocolates, planning Robert’s wedding, sorting out Mandy’s problems or finding lost cats?’
Joe held up his hands. ‘Angela’s your friend.’
Libby heaved a sigh and poured more coffee. ‘Of course, I’ll do what I can to help. Let’s look at the facts. For one thing, Giles Temple was strangled. That would take some strength. I can’t imagine the middle-aged ladies of the Guild overcoming a healthy man in a struggle.’
Joe was nodding. ‘I agree. Go on. What else do you think?’
‘I think the scarf was planted to lay suspicion on the Knitters' Guild, or on Angela herself. The members of the Guild are mad as a bag of ferrets, but I can’t see them wanting to kill Giles Temple.’
She paused. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged. Time to share Vera’s gossip. ‘There’s one person who might merit a closer look. Have you met the Dean’s wife?’
‘Chief Inspector Arnold sent Filbert-Smythe, our new detective sergeant with a first class degree from a swanky university, to interview the Dean and Mrs Weir. We won’t be getting anything useful from that; I can guarantee it.’
Joe rolled his eyes. Filbert-Smythe’s Oxbridge accent had not endeared him to the local police force, but he’d impressed Chief Inspector Arnold. ‘The lad will be fine, once he gets some experience and stops brown nosing the bosses,’ was Joe’s verdict.
Libby blew out her cheeks, thinking hard. Should she tell Joe the big secret? She made up her mind. She wanted him to share information, so she must do the same. ‘The Guild have a big event coming up in Wells. It’s supposed to be a secret, but I think you should know.’
Joe groaned. ‘Not a Greenham Common-type protest – sitting down in the streets?’
Libby laughed. ‘This is a celebration. Do you remember the scaffolding at the cathedral? It was there for months.’ Joe nodded. ‘Now the work on the West Front's finished, they’re planning a celebration. I’ll tell you about it if you promise not to whisper it to a soul.’
‘Cross my heart, so long as there’s no danger to the public. Go on, you can’t stop now.’
‘The Guild members plan to smother the centre of Wells with knitting. They’ll hang scarves from lamp posts, leave hats and gloves on benches and wrap blankets round trees. It’s called yarnbombing.’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘The bombs can be useful things, like mittens and ear warmers, and people are free to take them home. They’ll leave silly stuff like toys and dolls as well, just for fun.’
‘Do I need to request extra policing?’
‘Well, they’re not planning to do any damage and I can’t imagine there’ll be unmanageable crowds. Come along and see it. I imagine it’ll be quite a sight.’
Joe’s face was a picture. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. In return, you’ll help?’
Libby shrugged. ‘I can’t let Angela be a scapegoat, but you need to let me in on the evidence.’ Joe hesitated. Libby rose, collecting cups and plates. ‘If not, I can’t help. You know I can be trusted to keep my mouth shut.’
Joe smiled. ‘As a reward for breakfast, I’ll tell you what I can. We don’t have results from forensics yet, apart from the approximate time of death. Apparently, the heating in the library goes off at seven and it gets cold very fast up there, so it’s only an approximation. The pathologist calls it an educated guess. Anyway, the best suggestion remains between six and midnight, as we said at the press conference.’
‘What time does the library close?’
‘Five o'clock.’
‘Did Giles Temple have a key?’
‘No. The bursar has one, I believe, and so does the verger.’
‘Are researchers left alone with the books?’
‘Occasionally. A volunteer often sits by the door.’
Joe had a glint in his eye. He tapped a finger on the countertop. ‘Here’s the thing I shouldn’t be telling you. There’s been another researcher working