Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6. Frances Evesham
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She said, ‘That’s been kept quiet. Not even the knitters mentioned it.’
‘There’s some sort of politics involved. I’ll be in serious trouble if the boss finds out I told you, so keep it quiet, won’t you? I think he’s a contender, but the chief says we’re to move on.’
Libby sucked her lower lip. ‘I wonder why.’
‘The thing is,’ Joe went on, ‘I’ve met him before. He works with Dad.’
Libby nodded. They were thinking along the same lines. ‘So, there may be trouble at the cathedral?’
‘Hard to say. It could be genuine research of some sort.’
‘Like research into the Pilgrim Fathers? Has anyone interviewed this American?’
‘I’m scheduled to speak to him later today.’
‘I suppose I couldn’t – I mean, can I watch from outside the room?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Sorry, no clearance. But I’ll tell you what I can, within the proper limits.’
‘Not many Americans visit this part of the world. I suppose he’ll be easy to recognise when he speaks, because of the accent.’ A big grin split Joe's face. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘He’s the most recognisable man I’ve seen in Somerset. He won’t need to say a word. He’s an African American, about seven feet tall and bald as a coot. Used to play basketball. He’s fit – very fit.’
11
Cat woman
The Cedars. Despite the grand name, Mrs Marchant’s Wells home turned out to be a tiny two bedroom house in the middle of a small terrace, a few streets away from the cathedral. Libby checked the address, turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car, mentally reducing the fee she’d been about to charge. Whoever lived here was unlikely to be rich.
Mrs Marchant opened her door a few inches and peered at Libby through round John Lennon spectacles. A pungent smell crept through the gap.
Libby recoiled. ‘I’ve come about your cat.’ In the distance, a cacophony of wails and squeals suggested several animals shared the house. ‘One of your cats.’
‘You’d better come in, then.’ Mrs Marchant closed the door with a sharp click. The chain rattled for a full minute before the door opened. As Libby stepped inside, the overpowering smell of cats caught in her throat. She coughed as discreetly as possible and followed the woman down a narrow, dark passage.
‘Mind your feet.’ Mrs Marchant waved at an oblong litter tray covering half the width of the passage. Libby trod with care, skidding on the light dressing of litter scattered over an expanse of ancient brown, cracked linoleum, saving herself with a hand on the wall. Her fingers stuck to the dull brown wallpaper.
‘Elsie,’ the woman shouted. A fat grey moggy appeared at the top of a short flight of stairs, green eyes twinkling through the gloom, and picked her way downstairs, sedate as a Victorian miss. She wound in and out of Libby’s legs, purring.
Two medium sized tabbies, a tiny black kitten, and a big marmalade giant followed. ‘How many cats do you have?’ Libby untangled herself and stepped into a small kitchen to find two large cages full of cats. Every remaining inch of floor held bowls of water and cat food.
Mrs Marchant pulled the sides of a grey cardigan across her thin chest, retied the knot in a belt of the same material, and picked a tiny white kitten out of one of the cages. ‘Lost count, m’dear. All strays, you know.’ She spoke with the deep, cut-glass accent Libby remembered from the phone call. ‘They come here when they’re lost. Impossible to keep count.’
The cats looked healthy and happy, but the smell was almost unbearable and Mrs Marchant’s clothes struck Libby as shabby and threadbare. Beneath the cat stink, Libby detected the scent of unwashed garments. The woman was painfully thin. ‘Cup of tea?’
Libby glanced at the sink where dirty dishes teetered in a pile and cracked mugs lay tumbled on the draining board. ‘No, thanks. I can’t stop long. You rang about a missing cat?’
‘Oh yes, Mildred. She went out a few nights ago. Hasn’t been back.’
‘Was she a stray, too?’
‘That’s right, she’s lived with me for a year or so. All my darlings are strays, except Emily, here.’ She dropped the white kitten back in its cage and picked up the plump grey Emily, addressing the next remarks to the cat. ‘You were my first cat, weren’t you, my love. You came with me when I moved. We used to live in a lovely house called The Cedars. Just brought two things with me, don’t you know – the name and the cat.’
Mrs Marchant put Emily down on a kitchen counter, where the animal picked a delicate route among teetering piles of tins, purring. ‘Anyway, mustn’t keep you. There’s a picture of Mildred – the one that’s lost – in one of these drawers.’
She moved to a shabby brown cabinet and pulled open one drawer after another. Scraps of paper, pens, spoons and elastic bands cascaded to the floor. Libby bent to retrieve them, trying not to touch the grubby floor. ‘Here it is.’
The photo Mrs Marchant pushed under Libby’s nose showed a plumper self, looking down an aristocratic nose at the camera. Libby, surprised, barely noticed the cat. ‘Who took the photo?’
‘My son. Terence.’ She tossed the photo back in the drawer.
‘Has he been here, lately?’ Did he know his mother was living in squalor?
Mrs Marchant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Huh. What does he care? Children,’ she glared, and Libby caught a brief glimpse of the handsome, haughty woman of the photo, ‘are ungrateful little beasts.’
Surprised by such sudden vehemence, Libby’s curiosity took over. ‘Ungrateful?’ she prompted.
‘His father left everything to Terence on the understanding he’d look after me. Instead, what did my dear son do? Sold the house out from under my feet and left me in this place.’
‘Does he realise you need help?’ Mrs Marchant was a difficult and demanding woman, but surely no son would leave their mother in this state. She must have gone downhill fast and Terence deserved to be told. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Can’t remember. Not far. Thirty miles or so.’ Mrs Marchant gave an elaborate shrug. ‘Lost the address, didn’t I? Last time he came to see me was just after Mildred arrived. The day he took the photograph.’ Libby groaned, inwardly. She couldn’t let this state of affairs continue. She’d have to challenge Terence.
The temptation to walk away almost overwhelmed Libby. She could refuse the commission, leave Mrs Marchant to find her own cat, and forget about the ungrateful son. She already felt like a size eight foot in a size six shoe.
Instead, she added the task to her long mental to-do list and asked, ‘May I keep Mildred’s photo?’ The cat woman shrugged, pulled it from the drawer among another shower of odds and ends, and handed it over.
‘Has she been lost before?’
‘Of course not. Well, just one night, shut in a neighbour’s garage. She’s not there now. I looked.’
The smell in the house sickened Libby. She had to get away. ‘I’ll arrange for some prints of the photo and distribute them around Wells. Would you like me to put an ad in the local paper? It might be expensive.’
‘You may do as you wish. The cost,’ Mrs Marchant raised both eyebrows, looking down the aristocratic nose at such vulgar talk of money, ‘is of no consequence.’
12
Samantha
The news of Angela Miles’ interview under caution had travelled fast. On Thursday morning, half the inhabitants of Exham on