Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3
FRANCES EVESHAM
For my fellow residents in Burnham on Sea, Somerset.
1
Under the Lighthouse
The autumn high tide discarded Susie Bennett under the lighthouse, on the beach she'd avoided for twenty years.
A fierce autumn wind whipped across Exham beach, driving sand rain in Libby Forest's face. It tore at her hood as she trudged across the expanse of deserted beach. The locals knew better than to brave this morning's weather. Libby shivered. Newly arrived in Exham on Sea, she'd underestimated the strength of the storm. She tugged her hood closer, as the wind snapped strands of wet brown hair across her face.
No wonder Marina, one of the handful of people who'd welcomed her to the town, had jumped at her offer to walk Shipley, the Springer Spaniel. Excited by the storm, Shipley pulled at the lead, dragging Libby towards the lighthouse.
She'd never seen a building like it. White-painted, perched on the sand on nine wooden legs, the lighthouse looked hardly strong enough to withstand a breeze, never mind this gale.
The dog ran around Libby, wrapping the lead round her legs. She stepped out of the tangle and hesitated. The dog pulled harder and her arms ached. Marina had forgotten to mention the animal's lack of training.
Could Libby let him run off some of his energy? She didn't want to lose Marina's pet. It seemed hard enough to be accepted in a town like this, where everyone seemed to know other people's business, and Marina was chairman of music club and the history society. Her opinion counted in Exham.
‘I'll chance it,’ she told the dog. ‘You're pulling my arms out of their sockets.’
Free from his lead, the animal raced in excited circles, twirling and spinning, ears alternately flat against his head or standing at right angles, like aeroplane wings.
As Libby squinted into the wind, Shipley skidded to a halt, right by the lighthouse. She ran to catch up, and he barked, whiskers quivering, head pointing.
‘What's that?’ Libby gasped as she reached his side. ‘Looks like an old sack. Still, we'd better take a closer look.’ The tide had receded, almost out of sight, leaving a layer of mud surrounding the lighthouse. It stuck to Libby's boots, dragging her down, sucking at her feet as she picked her way to the shapeless bundle, testing every step.
‘It's a person. A drunk, I suppose,’ Libby said. ‘We'd better wake him. He'll freeze, in this weather.’
The drunk lay awkwardly, half supported by one of the lighthouse legs.
Libby braced herself for a mouthful of abuse from the drunk, and shook one of the leather-jacketed arms.
The drunk slid noiselessly to the sand. The spaniel nosed it, whining. ‘Quiet, Shipley.’ Libby squatted beside the body, brushed sopping wet hair from an icy cheek, and searched the neck for a pulse. ‘It's not a man, it's a woman.’
Shipley howled into the gale. Rain beat down on Libby, sliding into her hood and slipping down her neck, but she hardly noticed. Her stomach felt hollow.
She staggered up, legs trembling. ‘It's a woman, and she's dead.’
She scanned the beach, but they were alone. Libby shivered. ‘We'd better tell the police.’ She tugged a mobile phone from an inside pocket and fumbled, jabbing 999, calling the emergency services.
‘Hello, do you need fire, police or ambulance?’
This was only the second corpse Libby had seen, and an image of the first floated into her head. She'd seen her dead husband, Trevor, laid out at the hospital. The memory triggered a painful mix of horror and guilty relief that he was dead and she was free at last.
She wiped her hand across her wet face. This was no time to think about Trevor. She looked closely at the body. Who could it be? A local? No one Libby recognised, but then, she hardly knew anyone here apart from Marina, a few members of the history society and Frank Brown, the owner of Brown the Bread, the bakery where she worked part-time.
Slim and tiny, about Libby's age, the dead woman wore skin-tight jeans. A brown ankle boot encased one foot, but the other was bare, the expensive footwear long gone. The woman's lips were fuller than nature intended. Cosmetic work in the recent past? Drenched hair half concealed a small, neat face with a turned up nose. A line of darker hair, along a parting on the side of the head, suggested highlights; a proper salon job, not a do-it-yourself.
Libby peered into the puddles under the lighthouse, looking for a handbag, hoping for clues, but the sea had left nothing behind.
I shouldn't touch the body again. Libby knew the rules: everyone did. Don't disturb the scene. She should wait for the police to arrive, but something about the woman's arm, tucked at such an awkward angle into a jacket pocket, nagged at Libby. It wouldn't do any harm just to give it another small nudge, surely?
She twitched the sleeve and the arm jerked. Libby, startled, jumped back and almost tripped over Shipley. ‘Just rigor mortis,’ she muttered. She pulled again, harder. The stiff hand popped out of the pocket, rigid, fingers pointing to the bleak, wide Somerset sky. A chunk of plastic tumbled from the jacket.
Libby whispered, ‘Sorry,’ as though the dead woman could still hear. Shipley nudged the woman's face, and Libby pulled him back, clipping the lead to his collar.
The sudden, shocking wail of police sirens brought an officer, younger than her own son, running down the beach. Libby held out one hand, as if to protect the body. ‘Be careful.’
The young plainclothes officer raised an eyebrow above intense blue eyes and waved an ID card under Libby's nose. ‘Detective Sergeant Ramshore. Step over there and leave it to us now, please, madam. We need to clear the scene. The constable, here, will ask you a few questions.’
A female, uniformed police officer led Libby and Shipley along the beach, up a short flight of steps to a seat on the promenade, its roof providing some shelter from the wind and rain. As she answered the officer's gentle questions, Libby gazed through relentless rain, past the tiny pier with its deserted kiosk, to the brightly coloured houses and shops of the town.
The dead stranger still lay, forlorn, on the beach, a small plastic ring with a pink stone tumbled beside her on the sand.
2
Coffee and Cake
‘There's no reason to cancel the meeting.’ Marina folded her arms, enclosed in the purple sleeves of a wafty silk caftan, across an ample chest. She settled comfortably in her chair and beamed at Libby. ‘Folk will arrive in a moment.’
The local history society meeting was due to begin. Libby had dashed
