As the assistant to the head girl at the Haverton Equestrian Centre, Libby's job was to ensure the yard and equine employees were immaculately prepared: hooves oiled, tack spotless and yard hay-free. None of that bothered her, but the attitude of the riders did. At weekends and evenings lazy kids moaned their arms ached if she asked them to carry their Welsh Mountain's saddle, and on weekdays, yummy mummies climbed out of their Range Rovers, expecting their Thoroughbred Crosses to be stood waiting. Why did no one want to groom and tack up their own horses? She'd begged to do it when she was a kid.
She hated Haverton Riding School. Helen, her boss, was work-shy, quick to delegate and far too soft with Kayleigh, her overweight, spoiled ten year-old daughter. Kayleigh, the worst it makes my arms ache offender, felt she was within her rights to order Libby around like a slave, a habit that quickly caught on with Melanie, the head girl.
Libby longed for her days at Low Wood Farm. Hell, she'd started to long for her days with the North West's most caustic wedding planner.
But that wasn't all she longed for.
It'd been over two weeks since she'd lost her job and Patrick had come to check she wasn't going bunny boiler. She hadn't seen him since, but she hadn't stopped thinking about him. She didn't know if she'd dreamt it, or if it really happened, but she seemed to have a memory, or something, that he'd kissed her and said he couldn't be her distraction.
Why? She wanted to ask him, but she never would. Had he kissed her? Why had he? He made no secret of disliking how she looked. He didn't fancy her so why kiss her? She had no idea, but she kept picturing him stretching, revealing that patch of perfect torso, the hair leading down to the good stuff... Oh god.
The only good thing to come of Vanessa's return, was Daisy had relented on Xander's running ban. He'd turned up the morning after Patrick got her stoned, announcing Fell Race training had begun. And god, did he mean it. Four times a week, he pushed her harder than most dance instructors had. She hadn't had abs so defined since she left the ballet.
In ménage , Kayleigh was putting her pony, Ferrero, over the jumps. Libby watched with mounting annoyance as Kayleigh's legs remained resolutely still, but the crop in her hand bashed the little Fell pony's flanks.
'Kayleigh,' she called. 'Less whip, more leg.'
Kayleigh pulled up Ferrero, scowling at Libby. 'I do know how to ride.'
'No, you know how to sit on your arse and hit that pony around the course. You're fat, lazy and a woefully ineffective rider.'
Libby wanted to regret the words the second they came out, but she didn't. And when she realised an apoplectic Helen stood six feet away, she regretted them even less.
'Olivia, how dare you-'
'Tell the truth?' Oh, what the hell... 'If you weren't such a fat, lazy and woefully ineffective riding instructor, you'd already know that I'm right.'
She walked away as Helen spat out the dreaded four words: Olivia Wilde, you're fired. At least Robbie's three month guilt money meant Libby wouldn't starve while she looked for a new job.
A new job? She ambled up from the post office, Gazette in hand, scanning the situations vacant ads. Care worker, care worker, domestic staff - all required qualifications she didn't have. The escort ads in the Manchester Evening News were looking promising. Maybe she could get a job in a hotel - being a receptionist at one of the high end boutique places around Windermere might be nice. Would Robbie fudge a reference for her? Say she worked at the Mill, not the yard. Oh, a hack on Shakespeare would cheer her up. Libby sighed, folding up the paper.
What was the point? Even a job at the swankiest hotel wouldn't distract her. It wouldn't distract her from Low Wood Farm and it certainly wouldn't distract her from ballet. She had to leave. It wasn't working. Gosthwaite, the countryside, wasn't working. What did she have left to try? Australia with her parents, or London with Paolo.
Her feet itched as they always did at times like this, begging to be laced into satin. Her toes wanting the familiar pain of being en pointe. If she moved the sofa, she'd have the whole living room, twice the space she had in Manchester. And real pitch pine floors, not three millimetres of laminated oak.
No.
'Afternoon, Libby,' Sheila called, pausing as she washed her windows.
You tried to murder Maggie. Maybe you did. I can't be your friend. Libby smiled, possibly the most insincere smile she'd ever given, and hated herself for it. What if Patrick was wrong? What if the bottles were different?
'Sheila,' Libby said, as she stood by her own filthy bay window, 'what did you give Maggie for an Ostara gift?'
No one needed to be the daughter of a body language expert for the MOD to see Sheila's guilt. She dropped her chamois leather, blinking furiously as she paled. Libby wanted to be sick. It was true. Sheila had tried to poison Maggie.
'A bottle of elderflower wine?' Libby asked, sitting on the windowsill. 'The same bottle that could've killed me. Why'd you keep it?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Sheila wrung out her cloth before persevering with her working class ethics.
Minutes passed. Would she crack? Libby didn't care how long they kept this up. This was for Maggie.
'Sheila, was it the same bottle of elderflower wine?'
'Maggie fell down the stairs. She broke her neck.'
'I know you didn't actually poison her, but did you try to?'
Sheila swallowed, hard, as she rinsed her cloth. 'You should do your windows. My mother would turn in her grave if she ever thought I'd let mine get into that state.'
'It's a building site. There's not much point. When did you take the bottle back? While she was out, or when she was already dead? Did you know she was dead? Did you see her body? Did you walk away, leaving her there, leaving her for someone else to find? Did you?'
Sheila's cloth paused and tears rolled down her face, her shoulders sagging, her eyes downcast.
'Did you take her pendant, Sheila?'
'I would never steal from her,' she said, moving onto the second bay.
'Even if she'd betrayed you?'
Sheila made broad strokes over the window, creating a soapsuds rainbow, glinting in the sunlight. 'Maggie was my friend.'
'Who needs enemies...' Libby walked away.
London or Sydney? Whichever, she had to leave. The heart of Gosthwaite had turned black.
The leotard remained in the box under her bed until nine o'clock, but after half a bottle of wine her resolve collapsed. Hyssop was out, at Patrick's no doubt, and without the tabby cat's calming influence, she needed to dance. She pulled on her favourite spaghetti-strapped black leotard and her long black legwarmers, ones so old they were threadbare at the heels. As usual, she left the shoes until last, flexing her feet, stretching her hamstrings, laying her forehead on her shins, before she slipped padding between her toes and eased on her lucky black satin shoes.
In her head, the music had started, the opening strains to Swan Lake, but this time her role wasn't a cygnet. This time, she'd take on the role she was born for, the role she'd never got to dance on stage - Odile, the black swan. She'd watched Tamara Rojo claim the role, turning through thirty-two fouett\u00e9s and Libby knew, one day, she'd do the same, but she'd be better. She'd be better, because she'd be England's own Tamara Rojo.
But instead of ruling the Coliseum, here she was, performing substandard, rusty turns in a cottage in the Lakes. In the home of Margaret Keeley, another dancer who should've been a prima ballerina, but had it ripped away from her.
The imaginary music ended, but Libby shook her head and moved into first position, ready to start again. Her ankle throbbed, unused to the punishment after only a brief warm up. This time, she'd do it perfectly.
Halfway through, with sweat pouring down her back, a knock on the kitchen window stopped her dead. Was it Patrick, coming to check she was okay? Patrick? Why was he her first thought? She unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the sofa, hiding the evidence.
There was a second round of knocking. A persistent caller - not how she pegged Patrick. Robbie maybe, was something wrong?
Libby hovered by the door to the kitchen, peeking to see who it was, but the efficient LED lights under the wall units meant she could see nothing but her own reflection and the silhouette of a male. What if it was Patrick? She stepped forwards, as did he. It wasn't Patrick. It was PC Andy, but he wasn't in uniform and he wasn't carrying flowers.
'Let me in, Libby,' he said, his voice low.
'Why?' Because I accused your mum of murdering Maggie?
'I want to talk to you.'
The door wasn't locked, left open for her to pop out for a cigarette later, but if the key were in, she might have chance to lock it. She glanced over. No bloody key.
'Libby...'
Her phone was in her bag, sat on kitchen table, too near the door for comfort, but there was no way she could make a run for it. Maybe she could blag it, calmly walk over but then call the police. The police? Oh, ha ha. Well, she could call the cavalry, at least.
With all the nerve she could muster, she headed across the kitchen, as if she were going to the kitchen door, but when she reached the table, she picked up her phone, grateful she'd not taken Robbie off speed dial. She stared at Andy through the glass pane in the kitchen door, his face turning seven levels more angry as he stepped towards her, reaching for the door handle.
Please answer.
'Libby?' Robbie said.
'Remember you said I should call you if Andy turned up?'
Robbie swore. 'I can't-'
'I have no idea why he's here, but I might need rescuing. Please.' She hung up, needing two hands free.
Her mother had trained Libby for moments like this. She could fell someone Andy's size with a leg sweep, break a few ribs with a well-placed kick, incapacitate him, but on the other hand, someone Andy's size could snap her neck in a second. He used to be SCO19, he'd know some tricks.
She backed away, towards the other side of the kitchen as he came in, keeping an escape route behind her. Sadly, that exit involved a deadlock on the front door. Five minutes. The cavalry could be here in five minutes. She just had to manage Andy for five minutes.
'What do you want?' she asked.
'To talk.' He leaned against the sink, his jaw twitching, his arms folded.
'About...'
'You know what about. My mum rang me tonight, crying.'
'So go give her a bunch of peonies.'
'She said you accused her of murder.'
'No, I accused her of attempted murder.'
'Maggie died of a broken neck. There was an autopsy. Mum didn't kill her.'
'When did she find out about Maggie and your dad?'
He studied her. 'Who did you just call?'
'Robbie.' Her heart raced too much to have any chance of hiding her tell from Andy. 'Hardly much point in ringing the police.'
His arms relaxed, undoubtedly after calculating how much time he had, and his fingers tapped out a repetitive beat on a cupboard door. 'Shagging the boss, hey? Was he why you wouldn't talk to me?'
'No.' Libby edged nearer the door, ready to flee. She could hide in the bathroom. The lock was pathetic, but it might buy her a little time until Robbie arrived. Would he arrive? 'I wouldn't talk to you because you closed your eyes and pretended I was your ex-wife.'
'It was a mistake. I'm sorry.' The drumming stopped as he looked her over. 'You've been dancing?'
Feeling naked and vulnerable, she wrapped her arms around herself. 'Please go away.'
Andy moved towards her, but a little to her left, creating a triangle between the two of them and her escape route. She'd never make it upstairs. Stupid, stupid girl.
'I don't want to fight with you, Libby. I like you, a lot. You know that.'
Oh god, how could she get out of this? Libby's stomach churned as Andy reached out, his thumb brushing her shoulder and she turned to the window, avoiding him. Patrick stood on the other side of the window, staring at her. She implored him with her eyes as Andy toyed with her strap, caressing her skin.
Help me.
Patrick darted across the patio, catching Andy's eye and Libby seized her opportunity, raising her hands to Andy's shoulder as her right leg smashed his left from under him. Using his momentum and her body weight, she toppled him just as she'd learned. Andy yelled, hitting his head on the worktop on his way down, but Libby didn't look back as she jumped over his flailing legs and ran behind Patrick.
'What the fuck's going on?' he asked, glancing back at her.
'Why are you here?'
'Rob's babysitting.'
'Fucking hell...' Andy lay flat out, winded.
Libby peeked out, clutching Patrick's t-shirt. 'Please, go away, Andy.'
He looked up, rubbing his head. 'Oh, I see.'
'You don't see anything,' Patrick said, his voice a menacing growl. 'Get the hell out of here.'
Andy laughed as he stood up. 'She doesn't hang around, does she? She hardly drew breath from fucking me to fucking Xander, then onto Robbie, and what a couple of weeks later it's your-'
Patrick grabbed him, shoving him up against the wall. 'Shut your mouth. Libby and I are friends. What are you doing here?'
'I just came to talk to her.' Andy held out his arms, laughing, showing he had no intention of retaliating. 'Calm it, man.'
'He wanted to shut me up.'
'About what?' Patrick frowned back at her, still restraining Andy.
'I spoke to Sheila this afternoon,' Libby said. 'You see, Andy, it's not just me who's asking questions. Patrick is too, and I bet Grace won't be far behind. Maybe Jack too. I'm ringing the police, the ones who'll do something about it.'
Andy closed his eyes, slumping against the wall, his fight gone. 'She didn't kill her.'
'But she tried to?' Libby asked.
Andy nodded.
'Jesus Christ.' Patrick backed away, running his fingers through his curls. 'She really poisoned the wine.'
'And Police Constable Andy Chapman appears to know all about it,' Libby said.
Patrick sat on the table, next to her. 'Sheila tried to kill Maggie?'
'No... well, yes, but half-heartedly.' Andy staring at the ceiling. 'After you found Maggie, Mum freaked and rang me. She'd dumped a lot of deadly nightshade into that elderflower wine, but she had no idea if Maggie had drunk any or not. She puts the wine in those old school bottles with levered lids, so you've no idea if they've been opened and how much is in each bottle varies. What if Maggie had a small glass, even a sip, would it show up in an autopsy?'
'When did she take the bottle back?' Libby asked.
'That night,' Andy replied, checking his watch, 'while Maggie was still out. Mum regretted it, snuck in and took it back.'
'Liar,' Libby whispered.
Andy paled. 'No, I...'
She shook her head. 'I can read you. She found the body, didn't she?'
The silence grew as Andy stared at her. She felt for him. He was protecting his mum, a noble aim, and if she hadn't felt quite so threatened, she'd have believed him when he said he liked her. Shame she'd felt threatened. Make it right, Andy.
'Yes.' Andy sighed. 'The next morning, Mum realised she'd made a huge mistake and came in to get the bottle.'
'Why didn't she tell anyone, or phone an ambulance?' Patrick asked, his voice quiet.
'Scared, guilty, relieved, terrified. You name it. But she didn't hurt Maggie.'
'But someone else might've done,' Patrick said. 'You have a witness who saw-'
'There's no witness,' Andy snapped.
'What about Becky?' Libby asked.
'Becky swore she saw the ghost of Maggie walking away from the house. Tall, long grey hair.' Andy shook his head. 'Not exactly going to stand up in court, is it? And there was no sign of foul play. She fell down the stairs.'
'Well, we'll never know,' Patrick said, 'because you did a half-arsed investigation so no one would find out what your mum nearly did. Brilliant.'
Andy hung his head in shame. 'What now?'
Patrick sighed. 'Look, I don't want your mum to get into trouble any more than you do. I've had tea at her house nearly as much as my own. But you can't just leave this.'
'And the necklace is still missing,' Libby said.
Andy stared at the ceiling. 'What necklace?'
'An emerald pendant,' Patrick said, 'Egg shaped, with some inscription engraved around it.'
'Okay, I'll look into it. Are we done here?'
'We are.' Patrick stood up, opening the door. 'But so we're clear, Andy. If you ever hassle Libby again, I will report this.'
Andy simply nodded and disappeared into the night. With shaking hands, Libby stood up, wanting to thank her new superhero, but found she couldn't speak, her head filled with the memory of Andy stroking her shoulder and his obsessive tendencies two months ago. What if... what would he have done? Had she created this monster with her summoning spells? She stared at Patrick.
'You're okay.' He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. 'He's gone.'
She clung to him, never wanting to let go. With her cheek against his shoulder, she could smell the woody tang of his aftershave. This was... home. Bugger him being a distraction, why couldn't he be her somebody? Why did he have to be Scottish?
'Life's never dull with you around,' he said, his head resting on hers. 'Now, what shall we discuss first, how you took Andy down like that or why you look all... Flashdance?'
She laughed, as tears rolled down her cheeks. 'Thank you so much.'
'Are you crying?'
She nodded. 'Sorry.'
'It's okay. I'm impervious to tears now. No more pay rises.'
'How about jobs? I need one. I'd make a great cow castrating assistant.'
'If you think cows get castrated, you don't even make it to interview. What happened to the riding school?'
'I got sacked today, which makes fourteen jobs in three years.'
He held her at arm's length, his mouth gaping. 'Fourteen jobs? You're definitely not making it to interview.'
She pushed him away, smiling. 'Like I'd really want to work for you. You'd be grumpier than Rob.'
Patrick's phone buzzed in his pocket. 'Speak of the devil.'
Libby dug out a cardigan, painfully aware how flat her chest looked in the leotard. Flashdance. God, he must think she was an utter weirdo. Was that why he couldn't be her distraction? Or was it because she looked awful? Without asking him, she poured two glasses of the red she'd started earlier, trying not to stare at his arse as he chatted to Robbie. Why did she have a knack for fancying sexy-as-hell blokes she couldn't have?
'Libs?' He handed her the phone, swapping it for a glass. 'Christ, I need this.'
Outside, they sat on the bench and after Libby spent five minutes reassuring Robbie she was fine, she lit a cigarette.
'Why did you get sacked?' Patrick asked, wafting her smoke away.
She explained, smiling when his body shook with repressed laughter. 'It's not funny.'
'Oh, it is. Fat, lazy and woefully ineffective? I'd have paid to have been there.' He sipped his wine and stretched out his long legs. 'What are you going to do?'
She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. 'I don't know. Maybe it's a sign I should move on.'
'Where would you go?' He moved his glass in little circles, swirling the wine.
'I don't know. Sensibly, I should go to Sydney or London.'
'Sydney, Australia? Bit extreme.'
'It's where my parents live.'
'Why don't you?'
'A long story.'
He laughed. 'One you're not willing to share, I bet. And London?'
'Paolo.' She hoped he couldn't see her reddening cheeks. 'My ex. He moved there just before I moved here.'
'Why didn't you go?'
'A long story.'
'You are priceless.' He elbowed her. 'But, anyway, you can't leave.'
'Why?'
'We've got a murder to solve.'
She couldn't stop her smile. We. 'Do you watch far too much CSI, by any chance?'
'Far, far too much.' He nudged her, grinning. 'So if Sheila didn't steal the necklace, who did? We're right out of suspects.'
'Sheila mentioned that Maggie had a few flings. Maybe there's another homicidal wife out there? What about the rich guy who gave her the necklace in the first place, maybe he has a wife hell-bent on revenge?'
'Lucinda Doyle? Can't really see her bumping anyone off, more like her to have them excommunicated socially.'
'Who's Lucinda Doyle?'
'Seamus Doyle's wife.'
'Seamus Doyle, the poet?'
'He has a holiday home near Windermere. He's why Maggie moved up here in the first place.'
'How on earth do you know that?'
'Because I went to a black tie shindig with his daughter, Tabitha, last New Year-'
Libby laughed. 'I can't see you in black tie.'
'I wear it very well, thank you. Anyway, Maggie was there too. Tabitha really didn't like seeing Seamus and Maggie together and it was so obvious they were having an affair. Did a valiant effort at ignoring each other, acting like strangers, but the second they were alone, thick as thieves.'
'Recognise the signs from your own sordid affairs?'
'Actually, yes.' He smiled, chinking his glass against hers.
'So it was still going on, even this year?'
He nodded. 'I asked her about it when she came to get eye drops for Hyssop. She'd been shagging Seamus for over thirty years.'
'Patrick, what does Lucinda look like?'
'Tall, blonde-'
'Like the ghost of Maggie?'
He fought a smile. 'If you do go to Sydney, do I get full custody of the cat?'
When Patrick had left, making her lock the door behind him, Libby took out the spell book, flicking through, looking for inspiration. Good luck, grounding, prosperity? A spell for Inner Power and Spiritual Guidance? Perfect. She longed to sit on the lawn, but what if Andy still lurked? Instead, she ducked out to collect a few sprigs of thyme, then double checked the door was locked before sitting in the middle of the living room.
The purple, lavender-infused candle sat on a ceramic dish inscribed with a pentagram and would supposedly help clarify her thoughts, whereas the thyme she held in its flame should increase her psychic powers. Libby watched the herb smoulder. What do I do, stay in Gosthwaite, go to London, or go to Sydney? I need a sign.
'Divine power within, bless and guide me on the path of my destiny.'
She repeated the mantra until the thyme was nothing more than ash dotted through the molten wax.
I need a sign.