Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 4-6. Frances Evesham

away. She could hardly jam her foot against the elegant grey paintwork.

      Thoughtful, she returned to the car. Amelia Weir had gone to considerable trouble to set out the story. Libby could easily check the facts. The Knitters' Guild would know whether the Dean’s birthday was imminent, and the local auction house used a catalogue. Amelia had anticipated the need to explain her relationship with the murder victim. However, she’d not supplied an alibi for the time of his death. Libby could not remove either the Dean or his wife from the list of suspects. Not yet.

      As Libby started the engine, Angela Miles returned her call. ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk when you rang. I had an appointment with Joe Ramshore at the station, and he tells me the inquiry’s moved on. I’m no longer the only police suspect.’ She laughed. ‘I’m so relieved. I wish I hadn’t bothered you with it all…’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Libby said. ‘I’m sure hounding you was just spite on the chief inspector’s part. He’s probably not at work now, after―after the fire. Poor man. It must be devastating for him.’

      Angela’s tone changed. ‘That fire. What a terrible thing to happen. Samantha was difficult, of course, but fire is such a terrible way to go. She must have left candles burning, I suppose. And a thatched roof. Ooh, it makes me shiver to think of it. And you were there, I hear? Poor you.’

      ‘I’d like to talk to you. Where are you? Could we meet?’

      ‘I’m at the cathedral. This is one of the days I volunteer. The library’s still closed, but I came to see if I could help out, as everyone’s still upset, but to be honest, there’s hardly anything for me to do.’

      They found a corner of the cathedral in the South Transept, near the steps of the library entrance. Yellow tape still blocked entry to the library, but the police presence had gone. The organist played something quiet and gentle, and the friends could talk without being overheard.

      ‘I love it in here,’ said Angela. ‘Even after – you know – what happened, there’s a wonderful feeling of peace in a cathedral. I think it's the light. Today’s weather is miserable, yet the building looks bright.’

      Libby took a deep breath. ‘I need you to tell the truth about Giles. I’m not prying or judging you, but if you were more than friends, it suggests a motive for his death. The killer may have been jealous.’

      Angela's eyes opened wide. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She sat in silence for a moment. ‘Very well, I'll be honest. The truth is, I was attracted to Giles. More than just attracted. For a while, I thought he felt the same.’ She swallowed. ‘Finally, I had to admit he wasn't in love with me. We were just friends. Giles had plenty of friends. Mostly women. He liked women.’

      Libby touched her friend’s hand. ‘You were in love with him.’

      Angela nodded. ‘I’ve been very foolish.’ She sighed. ‘Giles asked me to meet him the night he died. That's why he was working late. He pretended he was behind with his research and needed to work after hours, and the verger gave him a key. He wanted to be alone with me. He said people were always watching…’

      She bit her thumbnail. ‘The trouble is…’ She looked round, as if expecting to be overheard. ‘The trouble is, I didn’t go. I was getting ready, putting on makeup. I saw myself in the mirror and I realised what I was doing.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’d been behaving like a silly middle-aged woman, infatuated with a younger man.’ Tears sparkled in her eyes. ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’

      ‘Did you tell him you weren’t coming?’

      Angela looked away. ‘I rang him, but when he answered, I lost my nerve. I couldn't explain and I felt so stupid. I just switched off my phone.’

      Libby was silent. The police must have checked Angela’s phone records. ‘Joe says they don’t think I killed Giles,’ Angela said, ‘no matter how bad it looks.’

      ‘I imagine,’ Libby was thinking aloud, ‘the police are spending more energy on Samantha Watson’s death at the moment.’

      Angela dabbed at her eyes. ‘So dreadful. Poor Samantha…’

      She blew her nose. At that moment, a sharp crack echoed round the cathedral. Startled, Libby glanced up. The noise had come from high above her head. A tremor shook the building, like an earthquake, just as Angela shoved Libby hard.

      She fell, cracking her arm painfully on the stone floor. Something heavy crashed to the ground inches away, shattering into hundreds of pieces. A cloud of dust rose round Libby’s head. ‘What the—’

      She scrambled to her feet, rubbing an arm. Angela clutched at her. ‘I think someone just tried to kill us.’

      Horrified onlookers appeared from all over the cathedral. ‘Did – did anyone see what happened?’ Libby managed to keep her voice steady.

      The verger took her arm. ‘I’ve never known one of those fall before. It’s unbelievable.’

      Libby looked up at the empty space from which a gargoyle used to leer at the congregation. ‘Could anyone get up there?’

      ‘Not any more. At one time, you could walk there, but we closed off the passageway a while ago. We decided it was too dangerous for visitors.’

      ‘There’s no one up here.’ One of the cathedral guides called down.

      The verger frowned. ‘You could have been badly hurt. I can’t understand how such an accident happened.’

      ‘Accident?’ Libby fell silent, thinking. That was no accident. It was deliberate.

      She brushed plaster dust from her hair and Angela’s. A circle of worried faces surrounded them. Two guides, a couple of flower arrangers, one clutching a pair of secateurs, and the verger. They looked shocked, not shifty. Whoever deliberately dislodged the gargoyle had escaped in the confusion.

      ‘Neither of us is hurt,’ said Libby, suddenly wanting to get out of there. ‘Let’s go home, shall we?’

      Libby refused offers of tea and trips to hospital. She insisted on driving home, though her hands shook, and her arm ached from the fall. A couple of aspirin would fix that. She was on the right track. If someone tried to kill her, she must have been asking the right questions.

      She opened the door and froze, hitting a solid wall of sound, wincing as Joy Division, Mandy’s current favourite band, battered her ears. After a moment of total shock, she laughed. Mandy was home now, so they could talk and clear the air. Mandy could put Libby’s anxieties to rest. She was bound to have an alibi for the fire. ‘Hey,’ Libby called. ‘I’m back.’

      Mandy slouched downstairs, pale face inscrutable, avoiding Libby’s eyes. Libby hung up her coat. ‘You didn’t reply to my messages. I was worried. Did your phone battery run out?’

      Mandy shrugged. ‘I was with Mum in Bristol. She's getting a divorce. Dad’s gone off with another woman and Mum rang yesterday, in a state. She says she never wants another man in her house as long as she lives.’

      Mandy’s father had a history of violent behaviour. Libby thought he’d left the area long ago. Was Mandy lying? ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but you should have called me. I was worried. Did you go to Jumbles today?’

      ‘I rang them. Changed the appointment. No need to fuss.’

      Libby’s patience ran out. ‘Mandy,’ she snapped. ‘I’m your boss and I’m running a business. You have to tell me when you take a day off, even if it’s a family emergency.’ She threw her keys on a table, losing her temper. ‘The least you can do is text. In future, when I call during working hours, you answer the phone. Got it?’

      Mandy shrugged, sullen. ‘Sorry.’