‘and you spent every day at the hospital until you were certain he’d recover.’
Angela laughed. ‘I suppose you never stop wanting to look after them, do you? No matter how old they are.’
The excitement died away, the café returned to its normal state of soporific calm, and Bear rested his head on Libby’s lap, eyes pleading for treats. As she tickled his favourite spot, just behind a front leg, Angela’s phone rang.
She made an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, do you mind if I take it? It’s the verger. I expect he's calling about my shift this afternoon.’ Angela worked in the cathedral as a volunteer guide.
She answered the phone with a cheery ‘Hello,’ but a second later, the smile froze on her face. Colour drained from both cheeks, leaving Angela looking pale and shocked. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her eyes flickered.
Libby put out a hand, afraid her friend was about to faint, but Angela recovered enough to talk. ‘Are you sure? It can’t be true – I mean – it was only yesterday…’
Her hand shook and the phone fell, spinning and rattling, onto the floor.
‘Is everything OK?’ Libby bit her lip at such crassness. What a stupid thing to say when it was blindingly obvious things were very far from OK.
Angela was mumbling, shaking her head. ‘It’s dreadful. I can’t believe it…’ She gasped for air.
Libby squeezed her elbow. ‘Breathe out, now. Slowly.’ Angela shuddered, regaining control. ‘That’s better. Now, tell me. What’s happened?’
‘It’s Giles – Giles Temple – he’s been working at the cathedral library.’ Libby had never met Mr Temple, but Angela had spoken of him once or twice. Whenever she mentioned his name, her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s – he’s had an accident.’
‘Is it serious?’
Angela nodded, lips quivering. ‘Very. I’m afraid he’s dead.’
2
Librarian
‘Is your friend ill?’ One of the women serving at the counter hurried across the room, sympathy in her eyes.
‘She's had a nasty shock.’ Libby avoided going into details. Soon enough, everyone working in the cathedral would know about Giles Temple’s death.
‘Well, she'd better have a cup of tea, that's my advice. It's the best remedy for shock. Poor Mrs Miles. I’ve seen her many time, working in the cathedral. Very kind, she is. Couldn’t be nicer. No airs and graces, like some folks working at the cathedral.’
The woman bustled about, bringing a pot and cups on a tray. Libby, with superhuman self-control, asked no questions of Angela as she poured tea, added milk and several spoons of sugar, and waited until her friend drank every drop.
As Angela settled the empty cup back in its saucer, hands still shaking, a touch of colour returned to her cheeks. The threat of a fainting fit gradually receded, and Libby gave way to curiosity. ‘Now, give me the facts. What happened?’
‘The librarian found Giles this morning when he opened the room. He’d been—’ Angela swallowed and finished in a rush, ‘He'd been strangled. With a chain.’
‘Strangled? You mean, accidentally?’ Not another suspicious death in Somerset, surely. ‘What do you mean by a chain? Some sort of necklace?’
Angela shook her head, as though trying to clear it. ‘No, it’s a chained library, you see. The chains are attached to valuable books and bolted to the shelves to prevent anyone wandering off with a priceless volume. So many books in the library are irreplaceable.’
Her high-pitched laugh sounded dangerously close to hysteria.
Libby concentrated, determined not to miss a single word as Angela explained. ‘There are keys, you see. One locks the gate to the library, and another attaches each chain to a book.’
Tears glittered in Angela’s eyes. Libby, horrified as she was, couldn’t help a familiar spasm of excitement in her stomach. She felt it at the beginning of each of her amateur investigations, and every time she’d succeeded in uncovering the criminal. ‘And one of the chains was used to strangle the victim?’ Libby winced as the shocking image took shape in her head.
‘Apparently. It happened last night. Giles was working late; he often did…’ Angela picked at a tissue, pulling it to shreds.
Libby sipped the dregs of cold tea left in her cup, trying to make sense of the information. ‘Are all the books chained?’
‘Only those from before the eighteenth century.’ Talking about the details of the library arrangements had a calming effect on Angela, so Libby let her talk. At least her teeth had stopped chattering. ‘You know, early copies of the King James version of the Bible, illuminated manuscripts from the sixteenth century, books of maps, translations of religious books into different languages. All that sort of thing…’
Angela screwed the remains of the tissue into a ball, looked around for somewhere to put it, opened her handbag and dropped it inside.
‘Which book did the chain in question come from?’
Angela blinked. ‘I’ve no idea. Does it matter? Giles was a historian, so I expect the book was part of his research.’
‘I bet Chief Inspector Arnold will be holding a press conference,’ Libby murmured. ‘Nothing he likes more than seeing his name in the papers and his face on the screen, and the national press will love this story. In fact, it’s probably on the internet already.’ Libby fell silent but her pulse raced. Another suspicious death in Somerset!
‘There’s more.’ Angela fiddled with the strap of her bag.
‘Go on.’
‘They found something else. An object at – at the scene.’
‘Come again?’
‘A knitted scarf.’
Libby puffed air through her lips. ‘Anything special about it?’
Angela’s gaze faltered. She avoided Libby’s face and focused on her own clenched hands, where the knuckles gleamed white. At last, she took a shaky breath and whispered, ‘Hand-knitted in orange wool.’
Libby opened her mouth but closed it again. Was a hand-knitted scarf significant? It was winter after all. Everyone wore scarves and hats. On the other hand, how often did a man willingly wear a hand-knitted garment, especially a bright orange one? Most males never learned to knit, though a few did, of course. Fishermen; they were famous for it. And hadn’t one Archbishop of Canterbury knitted jumpers? Still, he was the exception, rather than the rule. Most men wore hand-knitting only when the garment was made by a wife, girlfriend, or mother. In other words, a present, and one they felt duty bound to use.
Angela’s reaction struck Libby as odd. Still pale and distressed, she seemed suddenly embarrassed.
