Murder at the Castle Read online

  'Ah, lunch. You realise that's why I agreed to marry you? So you can feed me your wonderful food?' Max rubbed his stomach. 'By the way, I found some fishing tackle in your loft. Robert’s, I suppose?'

  'Not mine, that’s for sure. Did you want it?'

  'No, but seeing it made me think. There’s a local club. We used to have competitions, but it all got a bit nasty. You won’t remember, because it was just before you arrived in Exham, but there was some bad feeling. People accused of weighting the scales.'

  'Really? Why would anyone care that much about fishing?'

  'You’d be surprised. I just thought I might take it up again.'

  Libby laughed. 'Good idea. It’ll keep you out from under my feet. Isn’t that what old married couples say?'

  She climbed into the car and waved goodbye through the open window as she rounded the corner into the road, watching in the mirror as Max and the dogs vanished from view. The mirror reflected her ridiculous grin. Contentment. That's what she felt. It had taken her months – years, almost – to realise marrying Max would not necessarily mean loss of independence. She was embarrassed to remember how she'd dithered and hesitated, and done her best to drive Max away. At last, recognising she'd lose him if she didn't make up her mind, she'd proposed to him.

  They'd made plans for the ceremony and given notice to the register office, so they could marry whenever they chose. There was no hurry. Her son Robert's wedding had ended in drama, and Libby was determined to have as quiet an event as possible, and Max hated any kind of fuss. He had breathed a sigh of relief. 'If you’re sure that’s what you want, it will suit me fine. We’ll go to the register office on our own and do the deed. They’ll supply witnesses.'

  'For the first time in my life,' Libby had confided to her friend, Angela, 'I don't feel under any pressure to do what other people want me to. I'm free, at last.'

  Angela, long a widow, had looked wistful. As Libby drove, she mentally ran through a list of men she knew, wondering if any would be suitable for her friend. Oliver, perhaps, who'd been at school with Max? Or Reginald, the African-American basketball player who came over to Exham at every opportunity. He'd dallied with Libby's apprentice, Mandy, but that relationship had fizzled out. Reginald was in his thirties, about halfway between Mandy and Angela, but maybe Angela would like a toy-boy?

  A ray of sunshine broke through the late autumn clouds, adding to Libby’s glow of well-being. Her own happiness made her want the same for everyone but she’d try not to interfere in other people's lives. She had enough to think about, with the cake and chocolate business, and the private investigation partnership she'd established with Max. Angela would have to find her own way forward.

  Libby changed gear. On the other hand, it would be nice to see Angela happy. Perhaps she could try on-line dating?

  ***

  The purple Citroen screeched to a standstill. Dunster Castle was in uproar. A police car, blue lights flashing, blocked the driveway as white-clad figures moved purposefully around the entrance, securing police tape across the road.

  Libby recognised a crime scene when she saw one. She climbed out of the Citroen, leaving the cargo of cake, keen to find out more, only to hear a harsh voice. 'Wait there.' The familiar, unwelcome, figure of Police Constable Ian Smith levered an overweight body from the front seat of the police car.

  His small eyes were screwed into pinpricks of malevolent light and Libby’s heart sank. He'd never liked her. For one thing, she'd succeeded in solving several murder investigations, leaving Ian and his colleagues with egg on their faces. Some of his colleagues in the police force had slowly grown used to having her around, and afforded her a reasonable measure of respect. It had helped that Max's background, working for the UK government's security services as a financial expert, was valuable to the local police service. Recently, as Libby and Max's standing as private investigators gained traction, they'd been invited to undergo a trial period, working for the increasingly stretched police force. They were rather grandly described as civilian investigating officers.

  Ian Smith disagreed profoundly with a policy of allowing 'muggles' anywhere near investigations. 'Sorry, Mrs Forest. Not this time.' He looked as though he could hardly speak civilly to Libby.

  'Actually, Ian, I have my official badge with me.'

  She kept her voice friendly and tried hard not to look smug as she pulled out the laminated card, but Ian's lip curl made it plain she'd failed. 'You're not involved in this one yet.'

  Libby's pulse quickened. Not involved yet? So, she was likely to be? Her stomach lurched and she drew a sharp breath at the familiar mix of excitement and foreboding. 'Might not even be a murder,' the constable continued. 'The old woman probably had a heart attack after walking up that road.' He pointed up the steep slope that led towards the castle's thirteenth-century gateway.

  'Someone's dead?'

  PC Smith folded his arms across a beer gut. His face flushed red. Clearly, he'd given away more information than he intended, so keen to put Libby in her place he’d forgotten to watch his tongue. 'They won't let you in to the scene,' he grumbled.

  Libby stepped round him, wondering how he’d ever managed to pass a fitness assessment. 'We'll see.'

  She climbed through the gateway and up a flight of steps, arriving breathless at the entrance to the castle. Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore, Max's son, ducked under the yellow police tape to greet her, pulling off white gloves on the way. 'Well, news really travels fast around here. Nice to see you, step-mother-to-be. Is your partner-in-crime here too?'

  'Not today. Max is involved in some of these bitcoin mining frauds. He spends most of his time tracking down computer viruses, trying to find their source. It’s going to take weeks, if not months. Some of his old government contacts sent the work his way, and as you can imagine, he’s loving it.'

  Joe laughed. 'That sounds like him. Never happier than gazing at a screen, fingers on the keyboard. Rather him than me. But, what brought you to our latest crime scene? Are you developing second sight or did someone tip you off?'

  'Pure coincidence. I'm here on bakery business, delivering cake for a group of visiting schoolchildren, though it looks as though they won't be eating it. What's up?'

  'Elderly lady dead in the kitchens.'

  'Anyone I know?'

  Joe clicked his tongue. 'I'm afraid so. Beryl Nightingale. She belongs – well – belonged to the Exham on Sea History Society. Was she one of your friends?'

  Libby had not known it was possible to feel colour drain from your own face. She’d been a member of the society since she arrived in the area, so she knew Beryl. Last time Libby saw her, the older woman had perched like a small brown sparrow on a wooden chair, nibbling on cake crumbs and whispering with her old friends, George Edwards and the Halfsteads. 'Beryl? Not really? What – I mean how did she die?'

  'We don't know if it's natural causes yet, or something more sinister. It could be a stroke or heart attack. There's no obvious sign of foul play, but we'll wait to hear from the pathologist.'

  He made a wry face. 'Unfortunately, we have a gaggle of schoolkids here, and if I'm not mistaken they'll already have texted the whole of Somerset with lurid gossip, so our friends in the press will arrive at any moment.'

  He paused to take a deep breath, before finishing with a dramatic flourish. 'What’s more, one of the boys is that new local member of parliament's son.'

  Libby's mouth formed a soundless whistle. 'An MP? Now, that's going to cause some complications, if it's not natural causes.'

  'Sure will. What's more, the lad was talking to Beryl when she had her seizure, or whatever it was. His dad's not going to like it.' Joe raised his eyes to the heavens. 'Tell you what, if you want to sit in on young Jason Franklin's initial interview, I could use your input. In your new official capacity.'

  ***

  Jason Franklin's long, bony body perched on a wooden chair in one of the offices at the back of the castle, well away from the public areas. His arms
and legs, sticking out at odd angles, reminded Libby of the spider her son had once kept as a pet, against Libby's better judgement. She'd always hated the beast, shuddering every time she passed the tank in his bedroom. Robert insisted spiders were harmless. Libby did not believe him.

  The boy’s uniform marked him out as a pupil at the local comprehensive school. The regulation tight grey trousers failed to quite cover bare ankles, and he wore no socks. Did young people not feel the cold? Whether the shortness of the trousers was due to a teenage growth spurt or simply current fashion, Libby had no idea.

  Jason’s intelligent, sharp-featured face was alight. Excitement or nerves? He waved his hands in the air as his voice veered between a deep, adult brown tone and occasional adolescent crackles.

  A young detective constable, neat in black trousers and jumper, with long fair hair tied in a ponytail, sat opposite Jason, nodding at his answers. She looked up as Libby entered, her face blank. Recognition dawned and her expression hardened. 'Mrs Forest. Can I help?'

  Libby’s heart sank at the sight of another resentful police officer. She fixed a friendly smile on her face and held up her pass. 'DS Ramshore wants me to sit in, if that's OK, Detective Constable?'

  The young officer raised an eyebrow, and Libby's spirits dropped further. She was not welcome here.

  A police radio crackled, and the young detective constable fiddled with it for a few seconds before she spoke. Her otherwise pleasant voice held a hard edge as she spoke. 'Very well. I'm Detective Constable Gemma Humberstone. There's tea and coffee over there.' She nodded to a tray on a nearby table. 'Jason is just explaining what happened. Of course, this is only to get a feel of things. If we need to talk more, we'll organise an appropriate adult to be with us, as Jason is a minor.' Libby nodded. The detective constable clearly intended to proceed according to the book. Well, that made a refreshing change from Ian Smith's slapdash methods.

  Libby tilted the coffee pot over a cup. Liquid dribbled out, the colour of treacle. It must have been brewing for some time. Preferring not to give herself palpitations, Libby took another cup and used a teabag instead.

  The DC raised her voice. 'Now, this is just a preliminary chat, as I was saying, Jason.' Libby caught the implied rebuke and subsided quietly into her seat, sipping lukewarm tea. DC Humberstone continued. 'You were all together in the butler's pantry?'

  The boy nodded. 'We were – I was – talking into the speaking tube. It goes from the butler's pantry to the kitchens. Everyone was there. I mean, all of us from school.'

  He paused, and the DC waited, but he said no more. She asked, 'Did you have a teacher with you?'

  'No. Mr Halfstead was in charge. He works here. I think he's a course leader, or something.' DC Humberstone nodded and made a note as he talked. 'There were a couple of other people as well. People who work here, I think. I'm not really sure.'

  'Don't worry. We'll get names and so on before people leave. Just tell me what you remember. In your own words.'

  The teenager scratched at his chin, leaving a pink mark. 'Well, nothing much. I mean, like, I asked her what was on the menu for dinner – pretending to be part of the staff, you see.' He screwed his eyes shut, obviously trying to be precise. 'She talked about food – different courses – one was something called a shape. I was going to ask her what that was, but I didn't get a chance. She gave a sort of hiccup and stopped talking.' He frowned. 'I wasn't really worried, and Mrs Halfstead didn't seem too bothered, anyway. She sent us down to the servants' hall and then she took one of the others up to the bedrooms to ring a bell. They have this full set of bells on the wall, like in the servants' quarters, so the family can summon help when they need it…'

  His voice faded away. 'We didn't know what had happened. We all ran down the stairs. Mr Halfstead was already there. He turned and shouted at us to stay where we were, but we'd already seen what looked like a bundle of rags on the floor. Someone screamed I think.' He shrugged. 'I didn't see the lady's face, just a bit of her skirt and that. It was all a muddle, with people shouting.'

  'Did anyone try to revive the lady?'

  'I think he did – Mr Halfstead, I mean. He bent over her, like he was giving her mouth to mouth.'

  'OK. That's fine, Jason.'

  As DC Humberstone rose, Libby put in, 'Do you mind if I ask a question, Jason?' She ignored the DC's cold stare. 'Can you tell me exactly what you said to Ber— I mean, to Miss Nightingale, through the speaking tube?'

  He reached inside his back pocket. 'I had a script. Here.' He hesitated, then offered it to Libby.

  To avoid further antagonising DC Humberstone, Libby shook her head. The police officer held out a plastic bag and Jason slipped the sheet of paper inside. Libby would have a chance to scrutinise it later. 'Did you write this yourself?'

  'With my mates. We had a session at school about coming here today. Mr Halfstead gave us a talk on the history of the castle and that, and then we wrote down what we'd say.'

  'Just one more thing,' Libby asked, feeling the atmosphere in the room, already chilly, cool by several degrees under the detective constable's continued disapproval. 'Why were you the one talking through the tube? I mean, how were you chosen?'

  Jason beamed, and for the first time, Libby caught a glimpse of his personality as pride overcame his shock. 'I won it in a competition.'

  'A competition? Organised by…'

  'Mr Halfstead.'

  Shortbread

  For the first time, Libby was allowed into the Incident Room in the police station, a sign of her new status as an official adjunct to the police. Joe Ramshore led the way, pushed open the door and stood back to let her in. Libby looked round the room, her heart sinking at the sight of Ian Smith, leaning against a wall. His eyes had narrowed to virtual invisibility and his upper lip curled in a sneer. By his side sat DC Humberstone. She glanced round at Libby, then turned back, her face stony.

  Joe made the introductions. 'Some of you already know Libby Forest. She helped with the recent murder case, over at the bridge in West Somerset, and DCI Morrison's asked her to work with us on this case. We can use her in the investigation, but you need to remember she's a civilian. DCI Morrison will be here soon, and he's keen we welcome her properly.'

  Libby felt her face burn as Ian Smith snorted, loud enough for her to hear. 'Always around when there's a suspicious death, isn't that right, Mrs Forest? Anyone would think you know it's coming.' Another officer slurped a mouthful of coffee and sniggered.

  Joe raised a hand. Before he could come to her defence, Libby stepped forward. She needed to stand up for herself. 'I help when I can.' She took a breath. 'I've brought cake.' Someone made an appreciative noise as she pulled the tin from her over-sized tote bag. 'This was intended for the school party at the castle. They won't need it now, and I thought you might like some. Oh, and some shortbread.'

  The coffee-drinking constable took the tin, opened the lid, and sniffed. 'Smells OK. What's this pineapple on the top for?'

  Libby followed him to a side table. 'It's part of a Victorian theme. The students intended to visit the old Victorian kitchen and the Victorians were fond of pineapples – something about one-upmanship if you could grow them in your orangery.' The constable cut a huge slice, swallowed it in two bites, and murmured through a mouthful of crumbs, 'Not bad.' Libby had a theory that when people eat food you’ve cooked, they feel obliged to be civil, at least. So far, so good.

  The door opened. 'Right, if you've all finished stuffing your faces, let's get on.' Detective Chief Inspector Morrison had arrived. Libby had met the senior officer several times before. His deeply lined face wore the crestfallen expression of a man who expected very little from the world and was seldom disappointed. Nevertheless, his reputation for clearing up crime on his patch brought grudging respect, even from the likes of Ian Smith.

  The detective chief inspector opened the discussion. 'We don't have a report yet from the pathologist but he gave a few hints. First thoughts about the cause of death are u
nclear. No wounds of any sort. The victim appeared to be alone in the kitchen, by the speaking tube. There's no chair, so she must have been standing, which suggests she felt well. Not much more to tell, at this stage, I'm afraid.'

  The crime scene manager, a short, cheerful woman wearing baggy black trousers and solid, flat shoes, described police activities at the unusual scene. 'This may not be a crime scene, but given the deceased lady's good health and a few preliminary thoughts from the pathologist, we decided to treat the death as suspicious and collect as much forensic evidence as possible.'

  She glanced at Libby. 'We don't want to dismiss this as natural causes and look like fools.' That had happened more than once in the past couple of years.

  'Unfortunately, dozens of people visit the Victorian kitchen every day, so finger marks are not likely to lead us anywhere, unless we take prints from everyone who's visited the castle this year.'

  Someone groaned. 'We won’t be going down that route yet, not without extra resources,' DCI Morrison confirmed. 'Do we have any other leads?'

  'We're testing the victim's possessions. She’s not allowed to have a handbag with her in the castle, apparently, but she had a few things in her apron pockets. Nothing very interesting. Mints, purse, a diary with very few entries – the usual things. Plus, some personal souvenirs – a small silver photograph album, the kind that takes just two photos, and a hip-flask. One picture is of an old lady bearing a very strong resemblance to the victim – perhaps a relative – and the other of a young man. That photo’s in black and white, and judging from the lad’s clothes and haircut, a proper short back and sides with a neat parting, it was taken back in the fifties. We may get something useful from them.'

  Gemma Humberstone and Ian Smith reported on their initial conversations with the volunteers and schoolboys. Most had been brief, placing people at various points around the castle. All accounts confirmed Beryl Nightingale was alone in the kitchen.