Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

Chesterton Wendlebury loomed above her head. “Well, it looks like you’re in fine fettle.” Bear growled. “I’ll join you, if I may.” He smiled at Libby, showing his large teeth. “Seems to me, you’re a bit accident prone. Missed you by a whisker.”

Libby smiled, forcing herself to be polite. Chesterton Wendlebury made her uncomfortable. “How did Marina get on in the dog show?”

“It’s still going on. Thought you might like to go over there with me.”

Max stood. “We’ll all go. Should be fun.” Libby slipped her arm through his. He gave it a small squeeze.

The judging was under way. Seven finalists paraded round the ring. Shipley had made it to the last few, alongside Mrs Wellow’s Theodore. Marina and her diminutive, red-headed rival kept their eyes fixed on the judge, a dapper man with a shooting stick.

Finally, after waking round each dog amid much loud harrumphing, he made his decision, raised a hand, and beckoned Shipley to jump on to the winner’s podium.

Mrs Wellow tugged on Theodore’s lead, dragged him across to the front of the podium and jabbed a finger at Marina. “I told you what would happen.” Her voice was shrill, reaching every ear round the ring. “A cheat, that’s what you are. You’ve bribed the judge.”

The audience gasped, thrilled. “Oh, I say!” The judge intervened. “You can’t say things like that, Madam.”

“Can’t I just? You watch me.” Mrs Wellow spun round, to the audience. A camera whirred as the photographer from the local paper took a series of close-ups. “I’m telling you now, Marina Selworthy is nothing but a cheat. That dog of hers is no pure-breed. He only won because she’s sleeping with one of the local toffs, and that’s a fact.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Marina gasped, one hand on her ample chest. “How dare you!”

“Now then.” Constable Smith materialised from the audience and took Mrs Wellow’s elbow. “There’s no need for that sort of talk.”

The red-head shrugged free. “You’d better watch out.” Her outstretched finger followed Marina as she left the judging ring, head high, Shipley dancing at her feet. “I’ll be getting my own back on you, just see if I don’t.”

***

Back at the stall, Libby counted the proceeds. “Do you know, I think we’ve actually made a profit.” She handed Mandy a pile of notes. “Thanks for your help.”

“I had fun.” The teenager’s face was flushed.

“You know, you’re very good with children. Much better than I am.” Libby put the last few biscuits back in their tin. “Do you know when Steve’s coming home?”

“In a few days. The doctors say he’ll be fine.”

“He had a lucky escape.” Libby chose her next words with care. She didn’t want to frighten Mandy. “Have the police said anything more about the accident?” Mandy shook her head and Libby let it go. Poisoned cyclists, Steve’s bicycle, classic cars, road accidents. She shrugged, and picked up a pile of empty boxes. There was a visit she had to make.

In the rhyne

Libby dropped Mandy at home, then climbed back in the car. “I won’t be long.” She knew plenty about Kevin Batty and his old feud with Frank, but Kevin wasn’t the only victim of the poison attack. She still didn’t know enough about Vince, Kevin’s friend, the other cyclist who died. Why had he been killed, as well?

Libby pulled Mandy’s list of local people out of her pocket. There he was. Vince Lane, with an address in a village out on the Levels. Mucklington. The name rang a bell. Libby concentrated. Ah, yes, the great floods had cut the place off from civilisation. Boats, floating up the main road, headlined the national news for days.

She fiddled with the satnav, turned the car and set off across the Levels, rewarded by miles of green fields, stretched out as far as she could see, criss-crossed by drainage rhynes. No wonder the cycling club loved their days out here. Libby wished she had Bear with her, today. He adored the freedom of the Levels.

She had a feeling she was getting closer to the truth of Steve’s accident, but she couldn’t grasp any clear link with the death of the cyclists. Maybe they were two separate events? She pondered that thought for a moment, then shook her head. She felt sure there was a connection, if only she could figure it out.

She glanced at the satnav. Mucklington was only half a mile away. She put her foot down on the accelerator, watching out for more treacherous bends hidden by withy, and soon found herself on the single road to the village. The surface was smooth, newly laid, the road raised several inches, no doubt to combat flooding. The fields of pasture nearby were bright with spring green and grazed by contented cows.

She drew to a halt outside a short row of terraced cottages, left the car and tapped on the door of number three. There was no answer. She tapped again, stepped back and looked up at the windows on the first floor. A single curtain dangled limply. Libby dropped her glance to the ground floor. There were no curtains, blinds, nor any other sign of life down there. She stepped closer, shaded her eyes with one hand and peeped through the window. A cooking hob and a sink were visible, but otherwise, the room was empty.

“They’re gone.” Libby jumped, startled, at the voice in her ear. An elderly man in a flat cap and brown overalls nodded. “Vince’s wife left years ago, and now, he’s a gonner.” The man laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough. Recovering, he looked Libby over and pulled off his cap. “I always thought his heart would kill him off, but someone got there first.”

“His heart?”

The old man nodded. “Vince used to work on the farm over yonder, along with me.” He jerked his head towards the field of cattle. “Farmer had to let him go, on account of the heart failure.” He sniffed. “On a mountain of tablets, he was. Only a young man, half my age. I used to come in of an evening. ‘Vince,’ I’d say, ‘Vince, you need to give up the cider,’ but would he ever? Not Vince. ‘I’ll go when it’s my time,’ he’d say. ‘The cycling keeps me fit.’”

Vince’s neighbour peered over Libby’s shoulder into the house. “He was chairman of the cycling club, you see. Had been for years. When his heart was first playing up, they used to come round here often, to see how he was going. Every member of the club must have tramped up and down this path.”

He nodded, lost in the memories. “Then, when Vince got better, they used to let him pootle along at the back, on his old bike. We thought the cycling might give him a heart attack, but he wouldn’t give up. It took a dose of poison to finish young Vince.”

“Ah well.” The old man put his cap back on. “Vince’s time came quicker than he thought. This place’ll be going up for auction, though who’ll want to buy anything here, since them floods, I don’t know. No value in these houses, not any more.”

He shambled off. Libby, perplexed, wondered whether to knock on any of the other doors. She shivered. The place felt eerie. She gave in to temptation, got back in the car and began the drive home.

She slipped a CD into the car’s ancient player. One of the benefits of independence was listening to music she chose herself, without husband or family rolling their eyes at her choices. Spirits suddenly high, she turned up the volume on the Eagles, singing along at the top of her voice to
Hotel California.

She rounded a bend, hidden by a small outcrop of trees, and saw the front end of a Range Rover bearing down, only feet away. She wrenched the wheel to the left, skidded on a patch of mud, tried to correct and felt the car slide at a right angle to the road. Hands clenched on the steering wheel, she hung on as the front wheels lurched off the road, over a patch of grass and into the accompanying rhyne.

Libby flicked off the music and revved the engine. The front wheels spun helplessly, failing to gain traction, hanging over the ditch. She gave up, turned off the engine and unclipped her seat belt. Someone tapped on the window. “Chesterton?” Libby opened the door. A worried frown creased the familiar face.

“Good gracious me, m’dear. Not you again. Are you hurt?”

“Not at all. But I’m stuck.” Chesterton Wendlebury, vast bulk clad once more in full riding kit, leaned over to squint at the front of the car. “We’ll soon have her out of there.”

He strode across to the rear of the Range Rover, threw up the boot and fumbled inside, emerging with a length of rope which he fastened round the tow bar. Libby stepped forward, hands outstretched. “Here, I’ll fix it on to the car.”
I’m not a helpless little woman.

“Good heavens, no, m’dear. Let me do it. You must be shaken.” Libby, exasperated, had no alternative but to watch impotently as he fastened the tow rope, climbed back into the Range Rover and drove off, slowly, smoothly, heaving the Citroen on to dry land. “There we are.” Beaming all over his ruddy face, he untied the rope. “No damage done, I think. You’ll be right as rain.”

It was too late for indignation. It would be churlish to complain the Range Rover had been speeding, now its owner had rescued her. Libby forced a grateful smile and fluttered her eyelashes. Men like Chesterton Wendlebury liked woman to be helpless and weak.

“Now, no need to thank me,” he went on, condescending. “Just be careful in future. These roads can be tricky when you’re not used to them.” He was standing very close. Libby found herself backing away. His smile was warm, his teeth large. “Look what happened to that unfortunate boy, Steven. I hear he’s still very poorly.”

Libby swallowed. “The doctors are hopeful he’ll be fine.” She watched his face.

“Good, good.” The smile hardly changed. “Let’s hope he’s on the road to recovery, shall we? That little girl lodging with you, what’s her name, Amanda, is it? She’ll be relieved.”

“Mandy. Yes, we all will.” Libby looked around, curious. “Were you on your way back from the riding stables?”

He turned to stare back along the road. Libby moved to the door of her car and grasped the handle, the metal comforting in her hand. Wendlebury went on, “Yes, had a charming ride with your friend, Marina.” His eyes were back on Libby, as if daring her to comment. “On my way home to change, now. Back to business, eh? And what brings you all the way out here?”

She thought fast, reluctant to tell this man too much about herself. “I came out for a spin to clear my head.”

His roar of laughter startled a flock of geese grazing on a nearby field.
He doesn’t believe me.
“And landed in the ditch for a reward, did you? Oh well, must be off, the Board awaits.”

The Board? Libby’s brain seemed to whirr into action. Could her hunch be right? She tried to sound casual. “Is that the Board of Pritchards?”

Wendlebury’s brows came together. For the first time, he seemed confused. “Ah. Well, one of the irons I like to keep in the fire, you know.”

“I hear you’re looking for premises around here.” She kept her voice light.

“Now, m’dear. Let’s not worry about business just now. I think you should be on your way home, and have a nice mug of hot chocolate. I’d offer to make you some, myself, if I didn’t have this meeting.”

He made a show of looking at his watch. “Heavens, look at the time. Can’t be late. Better get that car started, just to be sure.”

He stepped towards Libby, but she opened the door and slipped into the driving seat, turning the key in the ignition as she went. The car coughed once, and Libby drew a sharp breath.
Please, please, start.
The prayer worked. The engine turned over smoothly. She relaxed, wound down the window, smiled, waved and drove off.

As she drove, she glanced in the rear view mirror. Wendlebury peered after her for a long moment. Finally, he climbed into his own vehicle and drove in the opposite direction. Libby took her foot off the accelerator and pulled in to the side of the road. She needed to stop and take a breath.

As she slowed, she glanced in the mirror once more. What she saw made her gasp. The Range Rover was approaching fast from behind.

Chase

Chesterton Wendlebury had turned around. He was following her. Libby had to get home. Every inch of her body was on high alert. She trod hard on the pedal and the car juddered as it gathered speed.
Don’t break down, now.
The Citroen was small and nippy, taking bends in its stride. Libby kept her foot hard on the accelerator, ignoring the engine’s anguished whine.

Soon the Range Rover fell back. Was Wendlebury letting her go, having lost the element of surprise? She wasn’t waiting around to find out. There seemed to be no one else out on the Levels. Just as well. Libby, panic in her throat, would have run slap into any vehicle going the other way.

Was Chesterton Wendlebury trying to kill her? Could he be behind everything? Libby tried to think. Why would he have killed Kevin Batty?

The answer was obvious. Kevin had stopped his company from getting the land they wanted, and Wendlebury wasn’t the kind of man to let anyone stand in his way. He’d never let go of a grudge. When Kevin stood up to Wendlebury, he signed his death warrant. Wendlebury, through Pritchards, had been working for years towards his revenge. No doubt he’d soon be approaching Kevin’s family, trying to buy the land cheaply, now Kevin wasn’t there to fight back.

Libby had asked about Steve. She shuddered, hands shaking on the wheel, stealing snatched glances through the mirror as the Range Rover slipped further behind. Her questions had put her on the list of people likely to stand in Wendlebury’s way.

As she reached Exham, Libby shot one more glance in the mirror. The Range Rover had disappeared. Tears of relief filled her eyes. He’d given up.

There was her road. She screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car and ran into the house. She was safe, for now. Maybe Wendlebury’s meeting was too important for him to waste time dealing with Libby, but it wouldn’t be long before he found her again. There was nowhere in Exham to hide.

Shaking, Libby pulled out her phone, to dial the police. Halfway through the number, she stopped. What was she going to tell them? That she’d run into Chesterton Wendlebury, a pillar of the establishment, he’d helped her out of the ditch and now she was accusing him of wanting to kill her?