‘All a bit peculiar, don’t you think?’ Harry swung his feet up onto Peter’s lap. ‘Not businesslike.’
‘Oh, the police will get to the bottom of it,’ said Ben. ‘They always do in the end, especially when it’s a matter of public record.’
‘But,’ said Libby, ‘I want to know. And I’m going to find out.’
Chapter Five
Three male faces stared at her gloomily. ‘Please, Lib -’ began Ben.
‘Look, coz,’ said Peter, ‘you know perfectly well that she’ll carry on poking her nose into things regardless of what anyone says. Including Ian.’
Harry swung his feet down on to the floor and leant forward, elbows on knees. ‘Why do you do it, Lib?’
Libby started back in surprise. ‘Why...?’
‘Yes. Why do you insist on trying to find out things?’
‘Habit?’ suggested Peter.
‘Everyone wants to know, don’t they?’ Libby was floundering. ‘You all join in...’
‘But we’d be quite happy doing nothing,’ said Peter. ‘We don’t start these things.’
Libby stared for a moment. Then, pulling herself together, ‘You do sometimes. Harry did with those friends of his...’
‘That was because of a direct attack on friends,’ said Harry.
‘But lots of things happen that involve us, don’t they? The beer festival, for instance -’
‘No, that didn’t involve us. Except for you finding the body,’ said Ben.
‘Well, you don’t get much more involved than that!’ said Libby indignantly.
‘She’ll never change,’ said Peter. ‘Just make up your mind on that.’
‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ grumbled Libby. ‘Especially as Rob Maiden and Rachel Trent both asked what we knew about the village. All I’m doing is trying to find out for them.’
The three men exchanged glances.
‘Unassailably right,’ said Peter, standing up. ‘Anyone want another drink?’
On Monday morning, Libby called Fran to tell her about Maiden’s visit and ask if there was anything she should be doing.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Fran warily.
‘Well, you know. Should I be asking questions?’
‘Why?’
‘To find out...’
‘Find out what?’
‘Oh, Fran!’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘You know what! What happened? Who was the body? Why did Fiona have those keys?’
‘Look, all the police wanted to know was who might know about the history of the hotel. Give them the names you’ve got. That’s all you need to do.’
‘But don’t you want to know?’ Libby’s voice rose.
‘I don’t know.’ Fran’s voice suddenly wavered. Libby caught her breath.
‘Fran?’ she said softly. After a silent pause, she said again, ‘Fran? What is it?’
Fran’s shaky laugh floated out of the telephone. ‘I thought... I saw... Oh, Lib, I don’t know.’
‘This is a “moment”, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Right. I’m coming over. Put the kettle on.’
Fran’s ‘moments’ had, in recent years, become fewer and fewer, due, in Libby’s opinion, to her settled and comfortable lifestyle. When Libby had first met her, she had been employed by an upmarket and exclusive estate agency to go into properties on behalf of new clients, to find out if anything unpleasant had happened in those properties. On one occasion a body had been discovered as a result, apparently, of Fran standing still and listening. Over the years, she had been of help to the police in several murder cases, although DCI Connell had learnt to keep her involvement as quiet as possible. But these days almost nothing floated through the ether towards her, so this was exceptional.
Ben was already happily ensconced in his micro-brewery behind the Manor, which had been gaining a reputation in the year it had been operating, so Libby told Sidney to be good, locked up, and climbed into her car. It was a straight run between Steeple Martin and Nethergate, and these days took only about twenty minutes from door to door, as long as the traffic in Nethergate wasn’t backed up right to the top of the high street, which tended to happen in summer.
Today, however, traffic was flowing normally, although Libby couldn’t find anywhere to park along Harbour Street and had to drive into the car park behind The Sloop, the pub on the arm of the jetty, at the foot of the cliffs.
She found Fran at home in Coastguard Cottage, the front door standing open and Balzac the cat sitting in the doorway, eyes screwed up against the sunlight.
‘Come on, then,’ she said, accepting a mug of tea and sitting down on the window seat. ‘What is it?’
Fran frowned at her. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she said. ‘I wanted to think about it. I knew you’d jump to conclusions.’
‘About what?’
‘Murder.’
Libby looked at her friend in silence for a moment.
‘Well, you’d better tell me about it and let me decide,’ she said at last.
Fran sighed and sat back in her chair. Balzac, noticing the increased lap size, jumped up and began turning round preparatory to going to sleep. Fran absent-mindedly stroked his head.
‘It was last night,’ she began. ‘Guy took me to The Sloop for dinner. We’d had a good day in the shop and Sophie was out somewhere with Adam.’
Guy’s daughter Sophie and Libby’s youngest son Adam were an occasional couple.
‘And of all the inappropriate moments for it to happen, it was just as Guy was served his jam roly-poly.’
Libby grinned. ‘Gosh! Do they do that? I shall have to take Ben there. So what were you having?’
Fran grinned back. ‘Nothing! Well – the last glass of wine in the bottle, actually.’
‘OK – so Guy gets his roly-poly. What happened?’
‘I haven’t got a clue. It was just like it used to be. Remember when my old Aunt Eleanor died? And the Willoughby Oak?’
Libby remembered. In both cases, Fran had had visions – or experiences – that proved to be some kind of actual reflection of what was happening. At other times, she would just know a fact that no one had told her. Which always proved to be correct.
‘Well, I saw a sort of improvised hearth. A circle of bricks on what looked like a wooden floor. And scorch marks. And a boy.’
Libby frowned. ‘Do you think it was our hotel? With the fires I told you about? It looked as though there’d been fires on the floors.’
‘I don’t know. Your fires didn’t have bricks round them, did they?’
‘No. Terribly dangerous, with or without bricks – it’s all wooden floors in that building.’
‘Well, there we are.’ Fran leant back with a sigh. ‘Not much to go on, but it was so vivid. Oh – and there was a chair.’
‘A chair?’
‘Yes. Just one. A spindly sort of chair, a bit like a wrought iron garden chair.’
‘Well,’ said Libby after a pause, ‘it doesn’t exactly shout “Murder”, does it? What made you think it was?’
‘It was so vivid. And the boy.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I wish I could tell you what he was like, but I can’t. Just like being there, you know?’
Libby did. Not from personal experience, of course, but from having worked with Fran in the past. How she knew things as if they were solid fact. Something that several people in the past had been unwilling to accept, although Ian Connell always had.
‘Is it worth passing on?’ Libby asked, after a moment. ‘To Rachel Trent, I mean.’
‘Not to Inspector Maiden? Isn’t he SIO?’
‘He’s Deputy SIO. Ian’s Senior SIO, but office-based. It looks as though he’s now heading up an MIT from headquarters.’
‘MIT?’
‘Murder Investigation Team. Rachel tells me he’s chafing against being office-based.’
Fran laughed. ‘He won’t stay there.’
‘No. Anyway, what do we do about this “moment” of yours?’
‘It doesn
’t seem worth passing on, really, does it? After all, we know that a murder was committed – Fiona found the body.’
‘Where was the chair?’ asked Libby.
Fran was surprised. ‘Where? I told you – in an empty room. Might have been a cellar?’
‘No one’s mentioned finding a chair.’ Libby turned to stare out of the window.
‘In that case, not worth mentioning,’ said Fran. ‘I feel better now.’ She pushed Balzac off her lap and stood up briskly. Balzac stalked off in a huff. ‘Let’s go and have lunch at Mavis’s.’
Mavis owned The Blue Anchor cafe at the end of Harbour Street, next to The Sloop.
‘All right.’ Libby stood up and picked up her basket. ‘Now you’ve got it off your chest you can tell me what I ought to be doing.’
‘Libby!’ Fran turned an exasperated face to her friend. ‘Nothing! There’s no room for enthusiastic amateurs any more. We provide the team with any knowledge we might have of the history and that sort of thing, and that’s it. We’re simply witnesses, if that. I’m not even that in this case.’
‘Neither am I, really,’ said Libby regretfully. ‘If only I’d stayed with Fiona...’
‘You’re such a ghoul!’ Fran ushered her out of the door and slammed it behind them. ‘Come on. Let’s have a sandwich.’
After Mavis herself had come out to take their order, and bang down a tin ashtray beside Libby, despite the fact that she no longer – or only very rarely – smoked, Fran returned to the subject.
‘I would like to know about those keys, though.’
‘Keys?’
‘Yes. The keys Ted Sachs had. Why did he have them?’
‘I suppose the owner gave them to him. Fiona didn’t seem to be interested. Ted had told her the place could be tarted up, although I told her it would take a bit more than a tin of paint and a bit of plasterboard. She seemed to think she could get funding for her community project. It all sounded a bit airy-fairy to me.’
‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Fran squinted out over the jetty to where The Dolphin and The Sparkler bobbed quietly at anchor, waiting to take the next load of tourists out round little Dragon Island in the bay, or round the point to the bathing cove. ‘Who’s the owner?’
‘Son of the previous owners. He didn’t want to carry on the business after his father died, apparently. Hetty told us to ask Mrs Mardle-next-door because she used to work for the Hardcastles – the owners – and was very fond of the son, so Pete seems to remember.’
‘And this son gave the builder Sachs the keys?’
‘Yes. You know all about that. And Edward using him to repair his summerhouse.’
‘Where did he get him from?’
‘A leaflet, we think. I expect Ian’s asked.’
‘Where’s he based?’
‘Felling, I think. Nearer to Shott than we are, anyway.’
‘Not really,’ said Fran. ‘Just further away from Steeple Martin, which makes it even odder. If the owner is local himself, why not use a local builder?’
‘Don’t ask me. The whole affair’s suspicious. I mean – why did the Darlings use Ted Sachs? They were new to the area; you’d think they would have asked for local recommendations, wouldn’t you?’
Mavis arrived with their sandwiches and departed without a word.
‘What do you know about Mr Darling?’ asked Fran, before taking a bite of chicken and mayonnaise.
‘Nothing except that he works in the city and is often away. I’ve never even seen him. That’s why I thought Ted Sachs was him on Saturday. It’s all odd, isn’t it?’
Fran concentrated on her sandwich for a moment. ‘And why did Sachs feel it was all right to let Fiona look round the property on her own?’
‘And give her the impression that it would be perfectly in order to turn the place into a community centre?’
‘Do you think the owner even knew about Fiona and the community centre?’ said Fran thoughtfully.
‘Come to think of it, probably not,’ said Libby. ‘The tuna and cucumber’s lush.’
‘Lush?’ Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘How old are you, exactly?’
Chapter Six
Allhallow’s Lane drowsed in the afternoon sun. Libby turned off the engine and sat appreciating her surroundings. Her gaze moved from her own front door to Mrs Mardle’s, painted bright yellow. She remembered the large young man who had arrived to paint it and the window frames. He had beamed and blushed when spoken to, but who he was and where he had come from, she had no idea. However, now he was giving her a hint. She got out of the car.
Mrs Mardle, small, slightly bent, and wispy-haired, opened her door.
‘Libby! Hello, dear. All right?’
‘Hello, Mrs Mardle – yes, I’m fine. I was just wondering... that young man who came to paint your woodwork. Is he a regular painter?’
Mrs Mardle smiled gently. ‘Oh, yes, dear. That’s what he does – paints. Bit of woodwork. You know the sort of thing. Did you want some work done?’
‘We may do,’ said Libby, passing her home swiftly under review. ‘You’d recommend him, then?’
‘Oh, yes, dear! He’s my grandson.’
‘Oh!’ Libby, her grand idea collapsing. ‘Does he always work on his own?’ she asked, rallying.
‘Oh, no, dear. Lots of other people. If ever you need anything done – you know, plumbing or something, Gary’ll know the right person.’
‘Much better to have a personal recommendation, isn’t it?’ said Libby brightly.
Mrs Mardle nodded, then peered round Libby as if looking for someone else. Startled, Libby, too, looked over her shoulder.
‘I heard about that body found up at the old Garden.’ Mrs Mardle was leaning forward and whispering. ‘Flo was telling me.’
Flo stealing a march on her, thought Libby with amusement. Still, it paved the way.
‘Yes, she and Hetty said you used to work there,’ she said. ‘It must have been a shock.’
‘Oh, it was, dear, it was.’ Looking up and down the road again, Mrs Mardle held the door wide and stepped back. ‘Why don’t you come in for a minute – if you’ve got time?’
Well, that was easy, thought Libby, following her hostess into a miniature version of Hetty’s sitting room up at the Manor. Despite the warmth of the day outside, the electric fire in the hearth was glowing brightly. Mrs Mardle sat primly on the edge of the armchair to one side of it, and motioned Libby to the other.
‘I was going to ask you, dear,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Were you there when they – erm, when they...’
‘Found the body?’ supplied Libby. ‘No, I wasn’t. I’d gone home and left Mrs Darling there.’
‘Ah. This Mrs Darling... Who is she?’
‘She’s new to the village, Steeple Well, you know. Just up the road. Her husband works in the City.’
‘Canterbury?’
‘No, London. The City of London.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Mardle looked none the wiser. ‘So why was she at the Garden?’
‘Apparently, she wanted to turn it into a community centre.’
‘A what?’ Now Mrs Mardle looked thoroughly shocked.
‘A community centre,’ repeated Libby, wondering just what Mrs Mardle thought that was. ‘For – I don’t know, actually. For Arts and Crafts and...’ she cast around for something else to say. ‘Well, for people to get together.’
Mrs Mardle’s wispy eyebrows drew together. ‘Whatever for, dear? We’ve already got the pub – and your theatre; and of course Flo’s Carpenter’s Hall, and the church hall. Plenty of places for people to get together. And that Harry of yours – his cafe. Very popular, I hear.’
Libby suppressed a smile. ‘Oh, yes, very. And I have to say, Mrs Mardle, that when Mrs Darling told me what she wanted to do, I said exactly what you’ve just said.’
‘Well.’ Mrs Mardle sat back in her chair and gave her thin bosom a quick hitch. ‘Has she bought it, then? The Garden?’
‘No, she was simply lent the keys.�
��
‘Colin gave her the keys?’ Now the eyebrows were lost under the thin fringe. ‘Never! He’d never do that.’
‘Is that Colin Hardcastle? You knew him?’ Libby’s interest quickened.
‘Knew him? Bless you! I practically brought him up.’
Libby gaped.
‘Oh, yes, dear.’ Mrs Mardle nodded and leant forward. ‘See, Lil and Bert, they were so taken up with the Garden – making it work, you know, spending all hours turning it into a proper hotel and learning the business, they had no time. I started by going up there to help with the cleaning and that, but soon I was looking after Colin as well. When he came home from school, you know. And I’d have him down here at weekends, although he didn’t like that much. Preferred being up there. He loved the bat and trap – wanted to play himself, but they wouldn’t let him till he was eighteen. And it wasn’t much after that he went off, anyway. Headstrong, he was, even though he was delicate, like.’
‘Delicate?’
‘Yes. Well, he looked it. Slim, and not over tall. Thin face like his mum. Never liked football or anything like that. That was why we were so surprised he liked bat and trap.’
‘Where did he go off to?’ asked Libby.
‘Oh, college somewhere. University, they said. He came home holidays, but never for long.’
‘And Flo and Het said he wouldn’t come home to help his mother after his dad died. Is that right?’
‘Well, you couldn’t expect it, really, could you, dear? He’d never taken an interest, and he had his own job by then. In a bank was it? Something like that. But Lil was still living there, so although she closed the hotel after a bit, she didn’t sell it.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Libby, ‘is why Colin hasn’t sold it since she died. There seems no reason to keep it.’
Mrs Mardle shrugged thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know, dear. But perhaps that’s why he lent this Mrs Darling the keys. Perhaps she’s going to buy it.’
‘Not now she’s found a body there!’ said Libby.
‘No, dear, perhaps you’re right.’ Mrs Mardle gave an odd little titter.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t Colin who lent her the keys but some builder or other. We’d never heard of him. Oh!’ said Libby, as if the thought had just struck her. ‘Perhaps your Gary knows him?’
Murder Repeated Page 4
