Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) (4 page)

The woman dodged a knot of stunned spectators, making for the door, and would have got away but for Chesterton Wendlebury, who stepped out, his bulk filling the exit doors, to stop the woman in her tracks. “Not so fast, madam.”

Jemima

The culprit’s eyes, enormous behind the lenses of a pair of glasses rimmed with tortoiseshell, filled with tears. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “Dear me. I didn’t mean to...”

She sniffed, fumbled in her bag, pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “It was an accident. I―I tripped over an easel, and then―then they all started to fall, and I―well, I suppose I panicked.” She shot a sly glance at Wendlebury, as if assessing the effect of her words.

Wendlebury was too busy enjoying his favourite role as a genial, kindly gentleman. He failed to notice as the woman slipped photos into a large brown handbag strapped across her chest. Wendlebury patted her shoulder. “Never mind, madam. No damage done. Accidents happen. Get yourself a nice cup of tea and forget the whole thing.”

Libby mopped spilled coffee. “Max. Did you see? That woman grabbed some of the prints.”

“Really? I was looking at Wendlebury. Got to admire the man. He’s quite an operator.” He handed Libby another paper towel. “The woman’s not just clumsy, then.”

Libby nudged him. “Don’t let her leave.” Max winked, covered the ground in a few long strides and caught up with the culprit, just as Wendlebury turned away. Max grabbed the woman’s elbow. “Not so fast. You’ve got a bit of explaining to do.”

Marina, Exham’s most prolific gossip, had migrated to the cafe area, well away from the clear-up operation. Libby murmured in her ear, “Do you know that woman?”

Marina’s tinkly laugh rose above the hubbub in the hall. “Of course I do, darling, she lives in Wells. Jemima Bakewell. Recognise her from years ago, when I was teaching.”

“At the same school?”

“No. Come to think of it, I don’t believe we ever had a proper conversation. She taught Classics. Dresses the part, don’t you think? She’s a spinster, of course.” Marina drifted away, losing interest and heading for Chesterton Wendlebury. Max steered the woman towards Libby.

It was true she didn’t appear to care much for fashion. Short iron-grey hair, a small but conspicuous moustache, sensible brogues and a thick brown jacket, stretched almost to bursting across her chest, did nothing for the woman’s appearance. Her nails were broken and discoloured.
A gardener.

She shook Max’s hand from her elbow with an irritated shrug, but made no attempt to move away. Nevertheless, he positioned himself between the teacher and the door. “Stealing photos? A teacher? Pillar of the establishment? I suggest you explain, before we mention it to the community support workers. Luckily for you, they’re busy helping to clean up your mess.”

The woman inspected every inch of Max, from the top of his head to his shoes, snorted her disapproval and turned away to focus on Libby. The fluffy elderly woman act had disappeared, the experienced teacher far too shrewd a judge of character to try it with either Max or Libby. “I’ve seen you before, young lady. Now, where was it? I never forget a face.” She pursed her lips. “I know, you were selling chocolates at the County Show.”

Chocolates. Oh, no.
Libby gasped.
She’d forgotten about the meeting in Bath. She was going to be horribly late.

As panic set in, Libby’s phone trilled. She scrambled to find it at the bottom of her bag, extricated it and detached an old, fluffy mint from the screen. A message waited.
You haven’t forgotten the appointment with Jumbles, have you? Mandy.

Libby swore under her breath. Even if she left, right now, she’d still be late, and she’d miss the chance to find out more about Miss Bakewell and the photographs. She hit the buttons on her phone. “Mandy, this is your big moment. I’m stuck here and I need you take my place. Use a taxi. I’ll pay you back. Just get yourself and the chocolates to Bath as fast as you can.”

She heard Mandy take a deep breath on the other end of the phone. “Okay, Mrs F. No worries. Will do.”

***

Max pointed at Miss Bakewell’s bag. “Shall we take a look at the photos you stole?”

The woman fiddled with the strap, twisting the end round her hand. “Photos? What do you mean?”

Libby held out a hand. “I saw you take pictures from the easels and put them in your bag. You can’t deny it, so you might as well explain why you wanted them. Come on, hand them over.”

For a moment, the teacher looked ready to refuse. Neither Libby nor Max had any authority to force the issue, and Libby was already looking for the police workers, when Miss Bakewell sighed, delved into the bag and handed over a small stack of prints.

“I don’t believe it,” Libby muttered.

Max leaned over her shoulder. “Glastonbury Tor. Nothing odd in that. You can see plenty of photos of the Tor in the exhibition. There are more prints of the hill than anything else.”

“That’s not what I mean. Look.” Libby pointed to the child in the picture, the small face dwarfed by a cloud of curly black hair, whipped to a thatch by the wind. “That’s the little girl I met on the hill.”

Miss Bakewell breathed, “It’s not her, after all.”

“Yes, it is. That’s the child I met.”

The woman laughed in a high-pitched voice, sounding on the verge of hysteria. “It’s all a silly mistake. Just a photograph.”

She made a grab for the print, but Libby whisked it away. “The photo’s recent. Look at the date. Oh.”

Max said, “Now, what’s the matter?”

“That’s the necklace I found on top of the Tor. I’m sure of it. The photo’s dated 12th June last year, and the little girl’s wearing the beads round her neck.”

Max rounded on the teacher. “You’d better tell us why you took the photos. Otherwise, we’ll be tempted to give them to the police; they’re private property, you know. I expect you’d rather not be charged with theft. ”

The woman folded her arms, scowling, but said nothing. Max flipped through the pile. “Most of these date back a long time. To the late sixties, I’d guess.”

“You’re right.” Libby pointed. “Look at the clothes on that couple.” The two people in the photograph, smiling at the camera, were unmistakable hippies, all long hair and necklaces. “Oh!” Libby gasped. “There’s the necklace again. Look, Max, it’s in the old photos, as well.”

The necklace

Max pulled three chairs round a table. Jemima Bakewell shot him a look fierce enough to curdle milk, and spoke to Libby. “Very well. I can see you’re a sensible woman, Mrs Forest, so I’ll explain. I found the necklace many years ago. I should have handed it in, but I didn’t. I became rather fond of it.” Libby frowned. Was she confessing to jewellery theft? It seemed unlikely.

The woman clenched her hands until the knuckles turned white. “I assure you, young woman, it’s true. I went for a walk, one day, found the necklace on the Tor, liked it, popped it in my pocket and forgot about it.” She rubbed her nose. “No one reported it missing. I would have returned it at once, if so. I’d no idea the beads had historical importance until, several weeks later, I emptied my pockets, ready to send the coat to be cleaned, and looked at the necklace more carefully.”

She swallowed and Libby frowned, confused. S
he’s lying, but why?
“What do you mean by historical significance?” she asked.

“I’m a teacher of Classics. I’ve devoted many years to the study of ancient texts. In fact, my treatise on a comparison between the Iron Age in Britain and the later Roman civilisation was exceptionally well received.” Libby nodded, trying to look impressed. Max sighed and tapped an impatient finger on his knee, but Libby glared, sending a signal to let the woman talk.

Miss Bakewell gained in confidence as she explained her work. “In my paper, I point out the importance of certain items of jewellery to early settlers. The necklace is a case in point. It would have formed part of the grave furniture of a high-status woman, in 250BC.” The teacher broke off. “That’s right, Mrs Forest. You may well gasp. Those beads date back more than 2,000 years. Archaeologists must have discovered them when they explored the remains of the Glastonbury Lake Village settlement.” Her neck turned pink. “I should have handed the necklace in, but I’d grown fond of the beads and no one seemed to know about them.” The fingers of one of Miss Bakewell’s hands scratched at the back of the other, until Libby feared she might draw blood.

“What was so special about the beads?”

“Special?” The woman looked down, snatched her hands apart and gripped the seat of her chair. “Oh, just their age, of course.” The attempt at nonchalance wouldn’t fool a child. “That was all. They’re valuable because they’re so old, but no one was looking for them. I thought I could keep them safe, but a few weeks ago, I heard the University was planning another excavation at the site. I decided to hand them back, but...”

“But, you lost them?”

Miss Bakewell cleared her throat. “I―I took a walk up the Tor, for old times sake, and I wore the beads. They’re threaded on a piece of wire. The wire was old and thin, and I suppose it must have broken, because when I returned home, I’d lost the beads.” She spread her hands and sighed.

Libby said, “As a matter of fact, I have them.” Miss Bakewell’s head flew up, eyelids stretched wide, jaw slack. “Yes, I found them on the Tor.”
There, that wiped the sanctimonious expression off your face.
“Of course,” Libby added, “I’ll return them to the proper owner, when I find out who that is. If there’s a new excavation, I can hand them in myself.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the flash of a grin on Max’s face. Miss Bakewell scraped her chair back, grasped the handbag to her chest and took a step towards the door. “Wait.” Libby took her arm. “We haven’t finished.”

“No, no. I have to go.” The woman’s hand was trembling. “Here’s my address.” She shook off Libby’s hand, scribbled on a scrap of paper, and threw the note down on the muddle of photographs. With a surprising turn of speed, she shuffled across the room and out of the door, leaving Libby standing.

Max reached for the address and whistled. “She’s quite a character.”

“She didn’t think much of you,” Libby pointed out, “and finding out I have the beads spooked her. Do you think anything she told us was true?”

“Parts of it. I reckon she made up most of the story for our benefit, probably because she’s ashamed of taking the beads. I wonder where she really found them?” Max rubbed his hands. “Don’t you love it when peculiar things happen? The Case of the Ancient Beads. That’s something else for Ramshore and Forest, Detectives Extraordinaire, to investigate, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s all very suspicious. The man who photographed the beads died just one day before he shows the photos. It gives me the creeps. D’you think she knew him?”

Max’s eyes glittered. “We need to learn a bit more about those beads. Miss Bakewell said they came from an excavation, and I’m tempted to believe that part of the story. The dig must be documented.”

“I know how we can find out more about Somerset’s past.”

Max closed his eyes for a beat, and groaned. “Oh no. Definitely not. I’m not going anywhere near the local history society. I’ve been there once, and that was more than enough. Those women terrify me.”

“It’s the best place to start. They know absolutely everything about Somerset.”

He was shaking his head. “When Marina Sellworthy gives me the once-over I feel like a grubby and unimportant fossil from Kilve beach, and the rest of your history society friends are some of the biggest gossips in the West Country.”

“What do you have to hide, apart from your double life? Are you telling me you can pull the wool over the eyes of international criminals, but you’re too chicken to face the history society?”

“That’s about right. A man can only withstand so much.”

“OK, I’ll talk to them. There’s a meeting in a couple of days, and I still provide the cakes.” Libby gathered up the photos. “That was Marina’s fault, by the way. She nabbed me about a week after I arrived, almost as though she was lying in wait. She persuaded me it would provide good advertising for my business. She can be very persuasive, and once I’d agreed it got harder to back out.”

“What flavour are you offering this time?”

“Cardamom and ginger. Tempted?”

Max grimaced. “Sounds good, but not great enough to get me in that room. You might save me a slice, but I’ll leave the society to you. I’ll do some internet searches, and we can compare notes. First, though, we’d better return the photos Miss Bakewell left behind.”

Max stopped talking. She’d seen that look on his face before. “Max? What are you cooking up?”

He took the pile of photos from Libby’s hands. “There’s no hurry. We’ll hand these prints over to John Williams’ estate in a couple of days, but first, let’s have another look at them. Maybe we’ll see why they mattered so much to Miss Bakewell. I don’t buy the historically valuable ancient beads story. It’s not as if the police were on her trail for stealing them forty years ago.”

“You’re right. She kept glancing at the photos while we were talking, as though she saw something she didn’t want us to notice. I don’t suppose it will hurt to keep them a while.”