Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

Mickey’s bodyguards rearranged themselves on either side of the boss. Max’s single step dissected the space between Sutcliffe and the Americans. Jack Sutcliffe grasped his father’s arm. “Come away, Dad, it’s too late for that. Leave it.”

Sutcliffe shook the arm away, his face purple. “You’ve got a nerve, Garston, showing your face here after what you did.”

Mickey flinched. “Come on now, no need for this. I’m just paying my respects―”

James Sutcliffe shook his fist. “You killed Susie’s little girl.”

Mickey swallowed. He raised his hands, palms out, bluster gone. “No need for that, now.” He frowned. “James Sutcliffe? Is that really you? After all these years?” He let his hands fall. “Now, come on, man. It wasn’t my fault the kid died. Why, I was as upset as anyone.”

Sutcliffe’s voice shook. “Susie trusted Annie Rose with you, just for one day. All you had to do was play with the child, and keep her safe. So what did you do?” He clenched his fists. Tears wetted the weather-beaten cheeks. “You sat in front of the TV, drinking beer and eating fast food like a pig. How long was she in the pool, dead, before you even noticed she’d gone?”

Mickey shifted, edging backwards towards the car. “Come on, now. The kid could swim. She was playing with her dog. I guess he jumped in and she followed. It wasn’t my fault.” He shrugged. “Susie had no right to leave the kid with me, anyway. She wasn’t even mine.”

“Not yours? What do you mean, not yours?”

Mickey laughed through twisted lips. “You still don’t know, do you? Susie managed to fool us all. She sure made a monkey out of me. Yes, your precious Susie Bennett was already pregnant when we met. She tried to pass the baby off as premature and told me it was mine.”

Someone gasped. Guy’s face creased in a frown. Then, he shattered the stunned silence. “Do you remember, James? That summer, at Glastonbury, Susie wasn’t well. She was sick every day.”

“That was because of the mud.” James Sutcliffe shrugged. “It rained so hard, that year, there was mud everywhere. Couldn’t get away from it. Slept in it, sat in it. It got into the food, the beer. In the end, we gave up trying to keep clean. People were ill, plenty of ‘em, not just Susie. Caught things from the bacteria in the mud.”

“And we thought Susie caught a bug.” Guy pushed his glasses up his nose. “But, maybe we were wrong. Maybe she was sick because she was pregnant.”

Max joined in. “Susie left town suddenly, after Glastonbury. No one expected it.”

Guy shrugged. “She was so excited about our big break. She couldn’t wait to get over to the States. She left with him,” he gestured at Mickey, “and we followed a few weeks later.”

Libby studied the puzzled faces of Susie’s old school mates. Most registered shock and surprise―but not quite all. A bubble of excitement grew inside Libby’s chest. “You all knew Susie, you’d grown up with her, but she didn’t trust anyone with her secret.” One pair of eyes slid away.

Mickey folded his arms. “Yeah. She was expecting someone else’s baby, and she kept it a secret until after she’d got me up the aisle.” His lips twisted. “She thought she was so clever, putting one over on me. But I’m no fool. I wouldn’t have got where I am, if I couldn’t work a few things out. That was no premature baby, I can tell you.” He pointed a finger at Guy. “Soon as the kid was born, I put two and two together, and made five. Anyway, Annie Rose looked nothing like me. She had blue eyes. Nobody in my family ever had blue eyes.”

He swaggered past the security guards. “I did right by her. I was straight with her and she made a fool out of me, but even then, I didn’t kick her out.”

“Course you didn’t,” Guy jeered. “You were making a fortune out of her―out of us all. She was your meal ticket. Because of Susie, you were rich enough, and powerful enough, to keep the scandal out of the press.”

Mickey called to the bodyguards. “Come on, boys, let’s get out of here. I came over to pay my respects, and all I get is abuse―”

“Who are you trying to fool, Mickey?” Max said. “You don’t care about Susie. You came over here to find out if she left a will. Well, you’re in luck. She didn’t. You’ll go on getting what you always wanted from Susie―money.”

Mickey paused, one foot in the limousine. His lip curled in a snarl. “She owed me.”

Clouds scudded across the sun and heavy drops of rain spattered the tables. As guests ran for cover, the gossip began, eager questions fizzing in the air. Guy’s voice rose above the others. “If Mickey wasn’t Annie Rose’s father, then who was?”

Wake

Max’s spoon clinked against a glass. Slowly, the hubbub died away. “Nearly everyone from the old days is here, today. It’s been a shock, I know, for most of us. But not to one of us. Not to the father of Susie’s baby.”

A murmur almost drowned Max’s words. He raised his voice. “Susie never told anyone the child wasn’t Mickey’s, but she had a plan, just in case he found out. She put money away, for her little girl. It was insurance, in case Mickey found out he’d been tricked into marrying Susie and she was left to provide for the child. She never needed it, because Annie Rose died.”

He beckoned to Libby. “Why don’t you tell them the rest? You’ve worked it all out.”

Libby cleared her throat. “The person who killed Susie and dumped her body under the lighthouse came from this town.” On Libby’s left, Mandy clutched her mother’s arm, white knuckles bright against Elaine’s black jacket. To her right, Susie’s old schoolmates clustered together.

Alan Jenkins was scrubbed and clean in his best suit, no trace of oil visible today. Samantha Watson leaned her head close to Chief Inspector Arnold, taking no notice of her husband, Ned, who stood on her other side. Angela, Marina, George and the others from the local history society gazed at Libby, eyes wide. Bert, Elaine’s husband, leaned against the wall, on the far side of the room, as far from his wife and daughter as possible.

Guy and the two Sutcliffes, father and son, stood a little apart from the townspeople, while Joe Ramshore leaned against the door, suspicious eyes fixed on Libby. She took a breath. “Susie drowned, just like her daughter. It looked like an accident, or suicide. A woman still grieving for the loss of her daughter: who’d be surprised if she chose the same way to die? She was bruised. Again, you’d expect that, what with the way the sea lashed the shore, on the night she died. It didn’t prove she was murdered. But one thing did prove it.”

Feet shuffled. A forest of faces goggled at Libby. “You all knew old Mrs Thomson. Lonely, missing her husband, she spent her days watching the world go by. She saw everything that happened on the beach, from her window. Some of you called her a nosy parker.”

More than one pair of eyes slid away. “You were right. Mrs Thomson watched what went on, down at the beach, and she kept a diary. She saw the murderer dump the body under the lighthouse, that Monday evening, and she made a note of it. I found some of the notes in her house, but someone had been there before me. That person shoved the old lady down the stairs and took the notes.”

In the sudden hubbub, Joe Ramshore pushed himself away from the door and cleared his throat. Libby shook her head. “Luckily, the police didn’t lock me up for removing the evidence. The notes were missing, but the murderer left behind the second sheet of paper from the pad, and we could make out the words.” Someone gasped. “Unfortunately, they were in Mrs Thomson’s own brand of shorthand and she didn’t write the full name of the murderer.”

“Well,” Samantha said. “In that case, we’re no further forward.” Her voice rang with disdain. “Perhaps you should leave the investigation to the police, Libby. After all, they know the town. You’ve only lived here five minutes.”

“But she’s been a good friend to us,” Mandy shouted. “Better than you, with your posh clothes and―”

Libby waved a hand. “It’s all right, Mandy. Samantha does have a point. I haven’t lived here long, but as an outsider, perhaps I could see what was going on more easily than the rest of you.”

She waited for the murmurs to die down. She couldn’t care less if people thought she was interfering. Susie deserved justice. “At first, we suspected Susie’s husband. Because Susie hadn’t bothered with a will, he had a solid financial motive.”

Faces brightened. If Mickey was the murderer, everyone else was off the hook. Libby went on, “But why would he wait until she was back in England? Wouldn’t it have been far easier to have his wife killed in his own country?”

She had their full attention. “I wanted to know more about Susie. I needed to know what she was like when she lived here, in Exham, where she died. Why was she killed here? Why now, and not sooner, perhaps when she first refused to give Mickey a divorce?”

Libby’s throat was dry. She took a sip of water, listening to the awkward shuffle of feet, the sharp intakes of breath. “Everyone I spoke to filled in another part of the jigsaw. I discovered the men here seemed to like Susie, but the women didn’t.” Someone giggled, and was hushed.

“I heard how Susie left Exham in such a hurry, and I began to wonder why. If she was pregnant, did the father know about the child? That was my next question. What would he do, if he ever found out? Then, I understood. Susie’s murder had nothing to do with money, after all. It was about Annie Rose: about children, parents and jealousy.”

“Mrs Thomson knew everyone in town, and she recognised the murderer. She saw someone she knew, carrying what looked like a sack of rubbish. That’s what got her killed. She’d no idea of the importance of what she saw. When she made her rough notes, she used the initial, as she always did, to remind her when she came to write up the diary.”

Libby raised her voice, to make sure everyone in the room heard. “The killer’s name begins with B.”

She waited as first one head, then another, turned, every horrified face pointing in the same direction. It was Alan Jenkins who blurted out the name. “Bert Parsons.”

Ancestors

Mandy’s mother screamed, the sound muffled by a clenched fist stuffed into her mouth. Bert raised red-rimmed eyes. “It wasn’t me, Elaine.”

Alan said, “We all know you’re not afraid of a spot of violence.”

Bert’s head flicked from one side to the other, searching in vain for a friendly face. “No-no. I didn’t k-kill Susie,” he stammered. “I never even went out with her. I was about the only one that didn’t. I was already with you, Elaine. You know that. We got married just after we left school.”

Elaine ran at her husband, outstretched fingers curled like a cat’s. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t going with Susie at the same time.”

“Wait.” Max’s voice rang out, and Elaine stopped.

Libby said, “Bert seemed a very likely suspect, but I saw a photo of Susie’s daughter in Mrs Thomson’s album. Annie Rose was very fair, with blonde hair and blue eyes.”

“That proves it.” Bert pointed at his own head. He was turning bald, the remaining hair was thin, but it was still dark brown, almost black. His eyes were brown, like Mandy’s.

Marina said, “It doesn’t prove anything. Susie had blonde hair, so of course Annie Rose did.”

“No.” Angela stepped forward. “Susie had blonde hair when she was small, but hair often darkens as you get older. Don’t you remember, at senior school? Susie’s hair began to turn brown when she was about fifteen. She was devastated, and she started dyeing it. All that fair hair came out of a bottle.”

Libby went on. “You’re right. Anyone can dye their hair, any colour they choose, but Annie Rose’s hair was unusually light in colour, sandy really. What combination of genes would give her such pale hair? And she had blue eyes. That means both her parents had blue eyes. Maybe, Bert wasn’t the only man having an affair with Susie, just before she left town.”

She looked straight at Samantha. “Tell me, Samantha. What’s Ned’s real name?”

Samantha’s head jerked up, face contorted. “Wh-what do you mean? Ned, his name’s Ned.”

“No, Samantha.” Angela said. “Ned’s family thought themselves a cut above the rest of us, descended from ancient Scots and the former owners of the Hall. They wouldn’t give their son an ordinary name, like Ned.”

Every eye was on Angela. “I remember the day we started primary school, when the teacher took the register for the first time. She read out his name and we all laughed. Ned cried, he was so embarrassed.” She put an arm around Samantha’s shoulder. “Samantha, my dear, I’m afraid you already know this. Ned’s real name is Benedict.”

Wild-eyed, face purple, Ned stared from one face to another. With a roar, like an animal in pain, he dashed for the door. Guy stuck out a foot and Ned fell, heavily, on the plush carpet. Samantha said. “Your hair’s that pale, sandy colour, or it used to be, before you lost most of it. It’s your Scottish family.”

Libby said, “Most people had forgotten you were called Benedict, but Mrs Thomson always used full names. To her, you remained Benedict, even when everyone else called you Ned.”

Joe Ramshore tightened his grip on one of Ned’s arms. Max had grabbed the other, but after that first dash for freedom, Ned gave up the struggle. He was crying, his words muffled by sobs. “I never knew Annie Rose was my baby. Susie should have told me. Samantha and me, we tried for children, but we never had any. It broke my heart, but,” he cried louder, “all the time I was a father.”

He took a long, shuddering breath. “Susie came back to England, to see Mary Sutcliffe one last time. I bumped into her in Bristol.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She still looked the same: still the Susie I’d loved. We met up, just for a drink, one night.” He glared at Samantha. “You were out with your fancy man, that policeman, pretending to be at work. You must have thought I was stupid.”