Read Online Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) by Frances Evesham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frances Evesham
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like the usual amateur archaeologists. No dirt under your nails.” His smile exposed a gap between the front teeth.
“We wanted to ask you about John Williams. He was at University with you.”
The smile faded. “Haven’t seen him for years. Heard he topped himself. Read it in the papers. The man was a waste of space. Huh.” He downed a glass of sherry in one gulp and poured another. “Sure you won’t?” He waved the glass. Not the man’s first drink of the day, judging by the bulbous nose and red cheeks. Libby turned towards Max, remembered they weren’t speaking and looked down at her hands.
Max said, “Some of his photographs were in a local exhibition. Jemima Bakewell was there.”
The professor frowned. “Was she, by George? Shouldn’t have been.” His mouth snapped shut, as though he’d said more than he should. Libby leaned forward, elbows on her knees. The man was half drunk. She intended to take advantage of the fact, and find out everything she could. “Tell me about Jemima Bakewell and John Williams and the others. You were friends, weren’t you?”
“Used to be. Not any more. Had a falling out, you know, over some stupid business, back when we were young. Huh. Something to do with Jemima’s beads. She lost ’em, accused us of stealing the things.” The professor waved a hand. “Can’t remember the sordid details. Far too long ago. Went our separate ways. Haven’t seen ’em since then.”
“Those beads. Miss Bakewell said she found them.”
“Maybe she did. They’re fine examples of Iron Age amber. We were just students, then.” His laugh turned into a cough. “Seen more beads than I could shake a stick at since. Nothing like the first time, though. Beauties, they were.” The professor wiped his face on a large blue handkerchief. “Hot one, today. Must be a storm coming.”
“When did you last see Miss Bakewell?”
He folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it with care into his jacket pocket. “Not since we were students.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “But you only live a few miles apart. You must have bumped in to each other, at conferences or such like. I mean, she studies the Classics, you’re an archaeologist...”
The professor’s ruddy face deepened to an unhealthy purple. “You calling me a liar? Huh!”
Max’s lip twitched. He’d scored a hit. “And the beads?”
The professor’s eyelids flickered. “Those beads. Yes.” Libby could hardly keep a straight face at the sudden grunts and exclamations. Maybe they were involuntary, like a twitch. His students must have fun with them. “Made of amber. Know anything about amber?”
Sensing a lecture, Libby interrupted, “I’m sure you know all the myths surrounding the beads.”
“Myths? I don’t deal in myths, young lady.” The glare would silence a roomful of the rowdiest undergraduates. “Stuff and nonsense. The beads are mentioned in the records. From the grave of a high status woman, one would imagine. Possibly stolen by vandals. Yes. Grave robbery’s a taboo, you know. Always was. Some nonsense about the beads being cursed. Huh! Made up in recent years. Glastonbury’s the place for myths and legends. King Arthur, lot of tosh. Good for tourism, that’s all. Huh.”
“Have you been to Glastonbury, lately?”
“Not since the last excavation, three, four years ago. Place is full of tourists, these days.”
Max asked, “Where were you two days ago?”
“Me? What day was it, now? Tuesday? Huh! Yes. Spent the morning in tutorial with a student, then lunch with colleagues. Leaving do. And, now, I have work, so if you’ll excuse me...”
***
The professor poured more sherry into a crystal glass and let them find their own way out. “Take me back to my car,” Libby demanded.
“You’ve had far too much wine. I’ll drive you home, and when you get a free day, we’ll come back to get your car.”
Another silent drive, then, and Libby wouldn’t be first to speak. After a few
“We wanted to ask you about John Williams. He was at University with you.”
The smile faded. “Haven’t seen him for years. Heard he topped himself. Read it in the papers. The man was a waste of space. Huh.” He downed a glass of sherry in one gulp and poured another. “Sure you won’t?” He waved the glass. Not the man’s first drink of the day, judging by the bulbous nose and red cheeks. Libby turned towards Max, remembered they weren’t speaking and looked down at her hands.
Max said, “Some of his photographs were in a local exhibition. Jemima Bakewell was there.”
The professor frowned. “Was she, by George? Shouldn’t have been.” His mouth snapped shut, as though he’d said more than he should. Libby leaned forward, elbows on her knees. The man was half drunk. She intended to take advantage of the fact, and find out everything she could. “Tell me about Jemima Bakewell and John Williams and the others. You were friends, weren’t you?”
“Used to be. Not any more. Had a falling out, you know, over some stupid business, back when we were young. Huh. Something to do with Jemima’s beads. She lost ’em, accused us of stealing the things.” The professor waved a hand. “Can’t remember the sordid details. Far too long ago. Went our separate ways. Haven’t seen ’em since then.”
“Those beads. Miss Bakewell said she found them.”
“Maybe she did. They’re fine examples of Iron Age amber. We were just students, then.” His laugh turned into a cough. “Seen more beads than I could shake a stick at since. Nothing like the first time, though. Beauties, they were.” The professor wiped his face on a large blue handkerchief. “Hot one, today. Must be a storm coming.”
“When did you last see Miss Bakewell?”
He folded the handkerchief into a neat square and tucked it with care into his jacket pocket. “Not since we were students.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “But you only live a few miles apart. You must have bumped in to each other, at conferences or such like. I mean, she studies the Classics, you’re an archaeologist...”
The professor’s ruddy face deepened to an unhealthy purple. “You calling me a liar? Huh!”
Max’s lip twitched. He’d scored a hit. “And the beads?”
The professor’s eyelids flickered. “Those beads. Yes.” Libby could hardly keep a straight face at the sudden grunts and exclamations. Maybe they were involuntary, like a twitch. His students must have fun with them. “Made of amber. Know anything about amber?”
Sensing a lecture, Libby interrupted, “I’m sure you know all the myths surrounding the beads.”
“Myths? I don’t deal in myths, young lady.” The glare would silence a roomful of the rowdiest undergraduates. “Stuff and nonsense. The beads are mentioned in the records. From the grave of a high status woman, one would imagine. Possibly stolen by vandals. Yes. Grave robbery’s a taboo, you know. Always was. Some nonsense about the beads being cursed. Huh! Made up in recent years. Glastonbury’s the place for myths and legends. King Arthur, lot of tosh. Good for tourism, that’s all. Huh.”
“Have you been to Glastonbury, lately?”
“Not since the last excavation, three, four years ago. Place is full of tourists, these days.”
Max asked, “Where were you two days ago?”
“Me? What day was it, now? Tuesday? Huh! Yes. Spent the morning in tutorial with a student, then lunch with colleagues. Leaving do. And, now, I have work, so if you’ll excuse me...”
***
The professor poured more sherry into a crystal glass and let them find their own way out. “Take me back to my car,” Libby demanded.
“You’ve had far too much wine. I’ll drive you home, and when you get a free day, we’ll come back to get your car.”
Another silent drive, then, and Libby wouldn’t be first to speak. After a few
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