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

      She needed a breathing space, with time to think and no crime investigations, while Max finished his current assignment. Any inquiry into this most recent suspicious death was best left to the police.

      Nevertheless, Libby’s curiosity continued to nag, insistent as an itch. Asking a few questions wouldn’t commit her to anything. It wasn’t real investigating, was it? Besides, judging from the way Angela gulped hot chocolate, she was deeply stressed and clearly needed to talk.

      Libby gave in to the temptation to find out more. ‘Why was Giles in Wells? Does he have a family?’

      ‘His home’s in Birmingham. He’s – I mean, he was – married, with two children. They’re grown up, now. He’s been coming to Wells for a couple of days every week, working late into the night and travelling home as often as possible.’ Angela shot a glance at Libby. ‘He’s nothing to do with Wells Cathedral. He’s a history lecturer, studying texts from the sixteenth century and writing a book about old beliefs and superstitions…’

      Her voice tailed away, but Libby hardly noticed. She’d stopped listening. The thought of Giles Temple’s wife had sent a shiver down her spine. The police, probably on the way to Birmingham right now, would have to break the news to Mrs Temple. Libby pictured a cheerful woman opening a neat front door, her smile freezing on her face as the officer asked permission to come inside.

      How quickly would realisation dawn? When would Mrs Temple understand she’d become a widow? Her husband had gone forever. He would not return home for dinner, that day or any other. She’d have to tell their children.

      What would she do? Collapse on the floor, scream and shout, or hide her feelings with a clenched jaw and stiff upper lip until the police left and she could grieve in peace?

      Libby blinked and forced her focus back to her friend. ‘Giles was a lovely man,’ Angela was saying. ‘Gentle and kind. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him in such a horrid way; and in the cathedral, too.’

      ‘It’s certainly novel,’ Libby mused. ‘Strangled with a chain. That’s a nasty way to go.’

      Angela fingered the pearls in her necklace. ‘Then, there’s the scarf.’

      ‘Now, that’s interesting. I wish I could see it. I suppose Giles Temple wasn’t a member of the Knitters' Guild?’

      Her friend spluttered. ‘Not likely. He was too old school. You know, women cook and knit, men work and think.’ Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh dear, that doesn’t sound kind at all. I don’t mean he was a bully. I’m sure he couldn’t have been. He was much too gentle.’

      Her eyes met Libby’s in a moment of shared understanding. Both had endured bullying husbands who liked to keep a wife in her place. A guilty-twinge reminded Libby she’d felt nothing but relief when Trevor, her own husband, died. But then, he’d been secretly money-laundering, so Libby had no need to feel guilty. Unfortunately, the habit died hard.

      Angela pulled out her phone. ‘How silly of me. I can show you a photo of Giles, taken in the library during a tour.’ She flicked through screens on her phone, using a forefinger to swipe awkwardly from one picture to another. ‘Here it is.’

      She angled the phone towards Libby and the picture disappeared. Angela clicked her tongue. ‘I’ll never get used to this phone.’

      Libby laughed, glad of the break in tension. ‘Mandy never goes anywhere without her mobile, but I can’t get the hang of mine at all. I think you have to be young – preferably under thirty-five.’ She crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside Angela, peering over her friend’s shoulder as the picture returned.

      Libby took in the details; rows of heavy, leather-bound books, neatly arranged on wooden shelves, their heavy chains dangling. Nearby, a small group of visitors peered into a glass display case. The camera had caught Giles Temple, one of two men in the group, with his mouth open. His hair was sparse, a rim of grey-speckled brown tufts worn a shade too long for Libby’s taste. Round, tortoiseshell glasses hooked onto a pair of over-large ears.

      ‘I’m afraid I took him by surprise,’ Angela murmured.

      ‘Who are the other people? Oh, that’s the librarian.’

      Angela pointed. ‘The lady in the middle of the picture, next to Giles, is the Dean’s wife, Amelia Weir. She works in the library once a week, as I do, but on different days. I don’t know her well.’

      Mrs Weir, much younger than Libby or Angela, stood very close to Giles Temple. Angela’s voice had been sharp. Libby shot a glance at her face. Two angry furrows had appeared on her forehead. Could Amelia Weir and Angela both have had a soft spot for this Giles?

      For now, Libby changed the subject. ‘I think I need to know more about the Guild’s yarnbombing.’

      ‘There’s a session this evening. Why don’t you come along and meet the members?’

      ‘I’ll be there. I can’t knit, but I’ll bring cake.’

      4

      Knitters' Guild

      ‘What should I wear to a Knitters’ Guild meeting?’ Libby asked Bear. ‘A knitted jumper’s required, I suppose. Anyway, it’s bound to be cold.’ She’d been to history society meetings in the area before and learned to take warm clothes.

      The dog gazed into her face; his eyes mournful. Libby frowned. ‘Stop looking at me like that. You can’t come.’

      Three sweaters lay on the bed. The Arran cable tempted her, for the evening was chilly, but it made Libby look fat. ‘I’ve been sampling too many chocolates, Bear. Time to take myself in hand. Tomorrow, maybe.’

      She put the sweater back in the drawer. Fast losing patience, she grabbed a cheerful red and yellow striped jersey and shrugged it over her head. ‘Will they know I didn’t knit it myself?’

      Bear lay on his back, inviting Libby to scratch his stomach, hoping to dissuade her from leaving him. ‘Oh, very well. You can come as my guard dog. Just behave yourself and don’t deposit dog hair all over the knitting.’ Bear clattered towards the front door. Fuzzy the cat watched, envy glittering in her green eyes.

      Fuzzy adored Bear. ‘Sorry, you can’t come with us, Fuzz, but I’ve left the door of the airing cupboard open. It’s as warm as toast.’ The airing cupboard was one of Fuzzy’s cherished spots.

      Libby emptied a can of the best wild red salmon into the cat’s dish. Fuzzy pretended not to notice, but as soon as Libby closed the door, she’d gobble every scrap. Libby pulled on a woolly hat. ‘Come on, Bear. Let’s go.’

      She felt a twinge of guilt. She spent so much time with Bear and Fuzzy these days that she’d given little thought to the dog she’d taken under her wing when she first arrived in Exham on Sea.

      She’d been walking with Shipley, a friendly, excitable springer spaniel, when she came across a dead rock singer under Exham’s unique, wooden legged lighthouse.

      That encounter had begun her adventures in crime solving.

      Poor Shipley had been abandoned when his owner, Marina, left the area, and currently lived with the vet. Maybe Libby could offer to walk him from time to time, as she used to.

      Not tonight, though. The thought of the energetic Shipley at a Knitters’ Guild meeting made her shudder. The wool would be chewed to pieces or tied in knots in no time.

      The street was dark tonight. To make financial savings and reduce light pollution, Exham’s town council had dimmed the streetlamps. As a result, stars glittered across a clear sky. The moon hung low, a shimmering crescent in crisp air. Libby inhaled the unmistakable scent of the ocean. The beach lay out of sight of her cottage, but it filled the air with the sharp smell of ozone.

      She brushed gloved hands through a rosemary bush outside and inhaled. Few plants survived the salty winds that speckled and corroded