every word instead. Her hostess, uninhibited, had a hint, an insinuation or a piece of downright scandal about everyone.
Ruby filled in the life and habits of every one of her neighbours and the regulars at the cathedral. ‘I take flowers there, in the spring and summer. I always say, you can’t have too many flowers in God’s house. The Dean’s wife tells me not to bother, I do too much already for the community, but I believe in giving, don’t you? I can always spare time to help folk out.’
‘The Dean’s wife?’ Libby prompted.
‘Oh, yes, she’s a special friend of mine, you know. “Ruby,” she says. “We can always rely on you.” Amelia’s rather young for a Dean’s wife, you know. Sometimes, she just needs a little hint.’
Libby nodded, schooling her face into seriousness, wondering whether the Dean’s wife found Ruby overwhelming.
‘I suspect there’s been trouble in that house.’ Ruby took a bite of cake, smudging a little cream on her upper lip. Libby tried not to stare. ‘I’m afraid dear Amelia is just a little too welcoming to newcomers, if you get my drift. Especially gentlemen.’
She favoured Libby with a warm, conspiratorial grin. ‘A very nice lady, of course. Very nice indeed. I’ve got a lovely anthurium I promised to give her. She adores the plants in this room, you see, and she wants to have something similar. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, don’t they?’
She laughed gaily. Libby, glad of the perfect excuse to talk to Amelia Weir, offered to help. ‘Would you like me to deliver the plant for you? I’m going over that way.’
Ruby beamed, swooped on a plant nearby and pushed it into Libby’s arms.
Libby, arms full of plant, took that as a signal to leave, but before she could move, the door opened. A bald head slid into view, whispering, ‘Anything you want from the shops, dear?’ A wiry body followed the head into the room.
‘Walter,’ Ruby cried. ‘Where have you been all morning? In that poky old shed, I suppose, up to your usual nonsense.’
Walter shuffled closer and halted, one foot poised for escape. He shot a longing glance at the door. ‘Just finishing that cloche you wanted, dear.’ The gentle voice had a soft, Welsh lilt.
‘This is Mrs Forest, the Baking at the Beach author. She’s signed my book.’
He squinted at Libby. ‘The famous Mrs Forest, is it? I’ve heard about your exploits. On the track of a mystery, are you? The killer at the cathedral?’
‘I’m looking for a missing cat. It belongs to Mrs Marchant.’
‘Not here, I’m afraid. Not allowed in the garden. Lion droppings, that’s the answer. Get ’em from the internet, sprinkle on the flower beds. Works a treat.’ He rubbed strong hands together. ‘Not looking into this affair at the cathedral, then?’
‘Sad business, isn’t it?’
‘So it is. Ah well, no peace for the wicked. Back to the grindstone.’ Walter headed for the door and Libby grasped the opportunity to follow.
Ruby lurched to her feet, still chattering. ‘We’ll be on the lookout for stray cats, Walter and I. Always keen to help our neighbours. Isn’t that right, Walter?’
He disappeared, the musical voice floating behind. ‘Yes, dear.’
17
Cathedral
Amelia Weir seemed far from pleased to see her visitor. ‘If you’re looking for the Dean, he’s in his office at the cathedral.’ Her voice was distant and chilly.
Libby pasted the warmest smile she could manage on her face. ‘I was just taking to Ruby. She wanted to send you this plant. It’s an anthurium, apparently.’
Stony faced, the Dean’s wife took the plant, and deposited it on a semi-circular table in the hall. ‘Thank you for delivering it.’ She smiled without showing her teeth. ‘Ruby is far too generous.’
Amelia Weir was an attractive woman with dark brown hair. Chestnut lights reflected the glow from an impressive chandelier in the cavernous entrance hall. The Dean’s second wife, according to Ruby, was many years younger than her widowed husband.
‘I know who you are, Mrs Forest. I suppose you’ve decided to undertake an amateur investigation.’ The Dean’s wife folded her arms across her chest, the gesture uncertain, defensive. ‘I expect you want to know about my relationship with Giles Temple.’
‘If you're prepared to tell me, it would certainly save a lot of time.’
‘I expect it’s all over Wells by now. I was friendly with Giles Temple, but I’m sorry to have to disappoint you. My husband knows about it and there’s no mystery.’
She watched Libby’s face. Libby, keeping her expression blank, waited in silence. The Dean’s wife clicked her tongue as if irritated and continued. ‘Giles and I were at university together. Giles studied for a PhD while I was an undergraduate. We had a brief romance, just a few dates, but it didn’t go anywhere. We stayed friends and kept in touch. He was happily married and so am I. Our relationship was no secret, and I didn’t kill my old friend.’
Amelia’s wide blue eyes looked Libby full in the face. Either she was telling the truth, or she was a very accomplished liar.
Libby began, ‘I didn’t say—’
Amelia interrupted. ‘I expect your informants told you I met Giles for a drink a few days ago.’ Libby smiled, hoping she looked enigmatic. ‘We discussed my husband’s birthday. He’ll be sixty next month. Giles found a book my husband might enjoy.’
She looked beyond Libby, fingering a gold hoop earring. ‘The Dean enjoys medieval history. Giles discovered a fifteenth century Book of Hours for auction next week in Bridgwater. He offered to accompany me, although it will probably fetch a huge amount of money. From internet bidders, you know. Far too much for my pocket. Anyway, I won’t be going now. Not on my own. I’ll have to think of another gift.’
A slight tremor of Amelia Weir’s lips betrayed hidden feeling. Was Giles Temple just a friend, as she claimed? ‘If that’s all?’ The door was already closing and Libby had to step away. She could hardly jam her foot against the elegant grey paintwork.
Thoughtful, she returned to the car. Amelia Weir had gone to considerable trouble to set out the story. Libby could easily check the facts. The Knitters' Guild would know whether the Dean’s birthday was imminent, and the local auction house used a catalogue. Amelia had anticipated the need to explain her relationship with the murder victim. However, she’d not supplied an alibi for the time of his death. Libby could not remove either the Dean or his wife from the list of suspects. Not yet.
As Libby started the engine, Angela Miles returned her call. ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk when you rang. I had an appointment with Joe Ramshore at the station, and he tells me the inquiry’s moved on. I’m no longer the only police suspect.’ She laughed. ‘I’m so relieved. I wish I hadn’t bothered you with it all…’
‘Don’t worry,’ Libby said. ‘I’m sure hounding you was just spite on the chief inspector’s part.
