she sank to the ground as fire officers unrolled a heavy hose. A torrent of water flooded the house, until every inch was drenched. Slowly, the flames flickered and died.
For Libby, time seemed to stand still. The house was a shell, no more than four blackened walls, when at last two burly figures pushed their way through the space where the door used to stand.
Libby held her head in her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks, waiting and hoping, knowing it was impossible for Samantha to have survived the inferno, praying she’d been away from home.
The fire officers returned, shoulders drooping. An officer trudged across to Libby and removed a heavy helmet. Libby recognised a young woman who often came into the bakery. Libby didn’t know her name. Cheese and pickle baguette. That’s what she buys. Libby’s thoughts shied away from the truth she read in the woman’s face.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Forest.’ The officer wiped a sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You’re right. There’s someone in there.’
Libby shuddered, horror clutching her stomach. Voice trembling, she asked the question, knowing the answer already. ‘Is she dead?’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Anyone else?’ had Chief Inspector Arnold been there with her?
Libby closed her eyes and sank to the ground, hardly aware of the freezing water that puddled on the lawn, soaking her jeans. ‘If I’d been here sooner. If I hadn’t had that last cup of coffee…’
The officer crouched at her side. ‘You did all you could. Are you hurt?’
Libby shook her head, turned away and emptied the contents of her stomach on the muddy ground.
She threw her clothes into a black bin bag and dumped it in her spare room. She’d never wear them again. She showered, scrubbing every inch of her body under hot water, and shampooed her hair three times. The smell of burning lingered everywhere, in her chest and throat, in the pores of her skin. It filled the cottage.
She gargled with mouthwash and sprayed the house with Glade. All the while, a voice in her head whispered, ‘You never liked Samantha Watson.’ No matter how hard Libby tried, she couldn’t subdue that small, persistent voice of guilt.
Max helped her onto the sofa and handed over a glass of brandy. He’d found the bottle under the sink. It had belonged to her husband. Libby hated brandy, but tipped a big slug down her throat, anyway. Maybe it would banish the smell of smoke. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Max asked.
She tried to smile. ‘A little. My conscience is working overtime. Samantha said there’s been nothing but trouble since I came to Exham. I wonder if she was right?’
‘Nonsense. That’s delayed shock talking. Why should the fire be your fault? You had nothing to do with it. In fact, you nearly rescued Samantha.’
‘I’m afraid ‘nearly’ wasn’t enough.’ Libby shuddered. ‘That chocolate-box thatched roof looked cute, but wasn’t the house a disaster just waiting to happen?’
Max tucked a rug around her knees. ‘In fact, thatched roofs are no more combustible than other materials, but so many things can start a fire. Candles left burning, or gas, or a cigarette.’
‘Samantha didn’t smoke. I don’t understand why she didn’t get out when the fire started’
‘Who knows. Maybe she wanted an early night, perhaps had a couple of drinks that made her woozy. Once a fire takes hold, it’s amazing how fast it travels. It’s usually the smoke that chokes people, prevents them from escaping.’
Libby shuddered. ‘What a terrible way to die. I suppose the police and fire service will be on the case, and we’ll find out the full story.’
Max tried to refill her brandy glass, but she made a face and pushed it away.
He said. ‘For one thing, they’ll have the insurance company on their backs, trying to avoid a huge pay out. Samantha would have all the proper documentation. She was a solicitor, after all.’ He frowned. ‘Though any documents may have been destroyed in the fire.’
Libby struggled to sit up straight. ‘There are sure to be electronic copies online.’
Max poured another slug of brandy into her glass. ‘I’ll bet super-efficient Samantha had a fireproof filing cabinet. Or if not, she might have left paperwork at the solicitors’ office. Anyway, Chief Inspector Arnold will sort it out. Poor fellow.’
Libby shuddered. Those things she’d said about Samantha and the chief inspector in the past; if only she could take them back. ‘He’ll be devastated. They’ve been engaged for months.’
She yawned and her eyelids drooped. The brandy was doing its job. ‘I’m going to bed. I can’t think any more tonight. It’s been such a week, what with Giles Temple, and Angela, and that scene in the shop, and…’ She stopped, half way to the door, with a sharp intake of breath.
‘What is it?’ Max, gathering glasses, paused.
‘Nothing. I just remembered…’ Libby forced herself to breathe evenly. She tried a weary smile. ‘It’s nothing. I’m tired. Good night.’
She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Max, about the picture in her head: the fury on Mandy’s face and the venom in the words she’d hissed in Libby’s ear as the solicitor left the bakery. ‘She’ll be sorry.’
16
Gossip
Libby woke late to find a rare beam of light flooding the room between the curtains. She rolled over and a mild pain behind her eyes intensified until her entire head throbbed. She scrubbed at her face, eyes squeezed shut, desperate to erase the memory of last night’s fire.
She sat up, pulse racing, as she remembered Mandy’s fury. Could her apprentice possibly have anything to do with the fire? Libby shuddered. Mandy would never, ever do such a thing. Of course, she wouldn’t.
Libby paused to think. Yesterday was Mandy’s day off. She’d muttered something about visiting friends before going to The Dark Side, the club frequented by Somerset’s small Goth community, for the evening. Libby could easily check on her movements. All she had to do was talk to Mandy’s friends.
She chewed her lip. Go behind her apprentice’s back? What was she thinking? She must ask Mandy herself. She swung her legs out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, grabbed her phone and looked at the time. Too late. Mandy must have left the house by now.
Libby fought down a stab of panic. Think logically. She took a deep breath and sank on to the bed. There were plenty of other possible causes of the fire. A kitchen fire? The organised Samantha would have a fire blanket in the house. Candles, or a spark from an open hearth? Possibly. What about cigarettes? Samantha did not smoke, but maybe someone else had been with her earlier, dropping a lighted cigarette end behind a chair, or near a curtain, where it could smoulder, unnoticed, before bursting into flame. A single half extinguished cigarette could burn down a house.
Libby sighed. This was all hopeful nonsense.
