but…’ More evidence of the speed of the town grapevine. Libby's words tailed into silence as her brain raced. ‘Well, maybe we are friends. Max has plenty of friends.’
‘Yes, and I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of most of 'em.’
Libby swallowed. ‘So, what's the favour you owe him?’
‘Now, that would be saying.’
The man was putting on a good local yokel act, Libby had to hand it to him. ‘Come on, Mr-er-Alan. If you want me to help you get on the right side of Max, you'd better tell me a bit more, or else I'll give you a cheque and tell him you threatened me.’
‘I never did.’
‘I know that, but Max doesn't.’ Libby coughed, fighting a snort of laughter. Alan Jenkins had turned pale.
‘All right.’ He looked around, to check they were alone. ‘There's been some ringing.’
Libby tried to look intelligent. ‘Ringing? With – er – um…’
‘Broken-down cars fit only for scrap, sold for next to nothing, tarted up, clock turned back, sold on to nice unsuspecting ladies, like you.’
Together, they eyed Libby's car. ‘It came from a proper Citroen garage, I'll have you know. A long time ago.’
He wiped his hands on the front of his overall. ‘Anyway, the garage got in a bit of trouble with a Bristol gang and Max – well, he sorted it out for me.’ Max had enough clout to scare off a gang of criminals, had he? Alan Jenkins picked up an oily rag and polished the wing mirrors of a small Renault. If Libby wanted to know more, it appeared she'd have to ask Max.
13
Mangotsfield Hall
‘Where are you?’
‘What?’ The harsh trill of the phone broke into Libby's confused dream of sand, mud and dogs. ‘What time is it?’
Marina exhaled loudly. ‘It's half past one, and we're all here, waiting for you.’
Libby shook her head to click it into gear. ‘I fell asleep.’ She never fell asleep after lunch. She wished she'd kept Bear with her, instead of walking him back to Mrs Thomson's house. He would have kept her awake. ‘I'm on my way.’
Her heart sank. Today, the local history society was giving a talk about Victorian women at Mangotsfield Hall, the huge mansion nearby, owned by the National Trust, and Marina was planning to demonstrate the clothes a Victorian lady wore. Libby had agreed to be a model chiefly because Trevor's ancestor had worked there as a maid, and Robert, her son, would love to see photos.
Unfortunately, the appointment had slipped her mind. ‘You might have reminded me.’
‘We talked about it on Tuesday.’ Marina dropped the outraged voice. ‘Look, don't panic. Angela's doing the magic lantern show first, so you've got a bit of time. I know how you feel, I've been all of a tizz ever since the Susie thing. Just get here as fast as you can.’
‘What about refreshments?’ Libby had planned to pick them up from the bakery.
‘Mandy brought them over. She said she's staying with you? As a lodger?’ The question hung in the air. No problem with Marina's gossip antennae.
Libby ignored it. ‘Look, my car's in the garage. Can someone pick me up? I'll be ready in ten minutes.’
She grimaced. She'd agreed to some crazy things since she came to Exham, hoping to fit in with the townspeople, but it would probably take at least twenty years to be accepted as a local. She really ought to spend more time on her career. She was getting behind with the next book, and it was time she booked another cooking course. Baking. That was her future. And chocolate. She ran downstairs. Better not keep Marina waiting.
Marina's car screeched to a halt at the back of the Hall, at the tradesman's entrance. Libby dashed through another sudden downpour, frantically grasping the edges of an umbrella as the wind threatened to turn it inside out. She pasted a serene expression on her face as they walked in.
‘It's OK.’ Marina poked her head through a crack in the door. ‘Angela's kept them busy.’ Laughter blared from the hall, followed by applause as Angela finished.
‘Come on, then,’ Marina hissed. ‘It's us next.’ She gave her friend a hearty shove and Libby half fell into the hall.
She was never going to volunteer for anything, ever again. She really, really hated people staring. What had she been thinking? Well, too late now. She smiled through clenched teeth, lips stiff, as Marina dressed her up in Victorian costume and make-up, beginning with a cotton shift and working up through layers of corsets and wire crinoline cages. She wouldn't be able to bear the weight for more than five minutes. How did Victorian ladies keep going all day?
Marina attached false ringlets to the sides of Libby's head. ‘The Victorians thought it impolite for a lady to show her ears,’ she explained, taking a pot of strong-smelling potion and a paint brush, and smoothing oil over Libby's hair. As it dried, Libby shook her head, but the ringlets stayed rigidly in place.
The result was a passable imitation of Queen Victoria. As though that were not sufficient humiliation, the audience gathered round, taking photos that threatened to haunt Libby for the rest of her life. They plucked at the costume, lifting heavy layers and letting them fall. ‘Look, you can hardly raise your arms, those sleeves are so tight.’
‘It's all part of the Victorian way of life,’ Marina said. ‘In fact, wearing a corset supports your back, don't you think, Libby,’
‘I could wear this every day,’ Libby lied. ‘For one thing, it hides my waist. I could put on pounds and no one would notice.’
Slowly, the audience dispersed, chattering happily. At last, she could get rid of the costume and have a few words with Marina. ‘What's in that disgusting stuff you spread all over my hair? You didn't warn me about that. How am I going to get it off?’
The words dried up on her lips as Libby caught sight of Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore. She shifted, embarrassed. Did Joe know she'd been out to dinner with his father? Oh, well, who cared? She was a grown woman and Max was divorced. It was none of his son's business.
‘Mrs Forest, I'm glad to see you.’ Joe focused on Libby's hair and smirked. ‘So sorry I missed the meeting. That costume looks terrific. And the hair…’ He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. ‘Actually, I'm one of the trustees of Mangotsfield Hall and it's my day off today, but I'd like to have a word with you.’
Libby swallowed. Was she in trouble? About to be accused of obstructing the police by moving the body and taken into custody?
‘Of course.’
‘I wanted to tell you we've had the pathologist's report. It's no more than we expected. The cause of death was drowning while intoxicated. He found alcohol in Susie's blood. Probably not a deliberate overdose, just enough to stop Susie taking proper care around the water.’
‘No sign of anything else?’
‘A bruise on her head, but that would be the tide bashing her against the lighthouse. It was a rough old storm on Monday night.’
Libby tried to think. ‘What about the time of death?’
‘It's hard to tell. The body was in the water for a few hours, but it was so cold the pathologist can't tell when rigor mortis set in.’ Libby winced. It was the stiffness of rigor mortis that had kept Susie's hand in her pocket, until Libby pulled it out to point at the sky.
‘Look, Detective—’
‘Call me Joe.’ The grin told Libby he knew she'd been to dinner with his father.
‘Look, aren't you going to investigate further? I mean, you