Murder Repeated

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘It was to be a surprise.’ Ben sounded exasperated. ‘You can turn anything into an argument, can’t you?’ He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and walked round to the front of the bar.

  ‘Argument? I’m not arguing!’ Libby pulled nervously at her jacket. ‘I was just...’

  ‘Just what?’ Ben looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘The first comment you made was negative. They always are. I’m surprised you even allowed me to set up the brewery.’

  ‘Ben!’ Libby was horrified. For a long moment they just stared at each other, until finally, Ben dropped his taut shoulders and his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lib. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  Libby moved hesitantly towards him. ‘You really want to do this?’

  He looked up. ‘Yes, Lib. I do.’

  ‘I won’t have to work here, will I?’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, my darling, you won’t!’

  Fran put her head round the door. ‘There’s a policeman here,’ she said.

  Ben and Libby looked at each other, eyebrows raised, then went outside to join Fran, who was subjecting a young uniformed constable to an alarmingly superior stare.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he managed to stammer out, ‘but this area -’

  ‘Isn’t a crime scene,’ said Libby kindly.’

  The officer looked uncomfortably over his shoulder. ‘Well...’

  Ben stepped forward. ‘These are different premises, officer,’ he said. ‘Mine, in fact.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the officer, going rather red in the face. He swallowed hard and struggled to pull a notebook from his pocket. ‘And could I have your name, sir?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Ben, to the accompaniment of grins from Libby and Fran. ‘Ben Wilde, the Manor and the Manor Brewery, Steeple Martin.’

  The officer, looking agonised, stuffed the notebook back in his pocket.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m just here -’

  ‘We understand, officer,’ said Libby. ‘We’re locals and you’re not. But we aren’t trying to get into the Garden.’

  ‘The garden?’ he repeated. ‘But the hotel...’

  ‘The hotel is called The Garden,’ said Ben. ‘Haven’t they told you that?’

  The officer looked confused, then took a step forward and said confidentially, ‘They haven’t told me much, actually. Just that I’ve got to keep an eye on the premises. They’ve got some forensic people coming down, apparently. Specialists.’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby nodded. ‘And they don’t want anything messed up before then. Do you happen to know if Colin Hardcastle has been located yet?’

  Looking even more confused, the officer shook his head. ‘Er – no. I mean – I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, tell DS Trent we were here,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sure she’ll vouch for us.’

  The officer nodded, stood irresolute for a moment, then turned away towards the front of the Garden.

  ‘To be fair,’ said Fran, watching his retreating back, ‘no one knew anyone would be here.’

  ‘And it isn’t actually yours, yet, is it?’ said Libby, eyeing Ben sideways.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ said Ben, looking guilty, ‘it is.’

  ‘What?’ said Fran and Libby together.

  ‘Well, the freehold is.’ Ben turned to lead the way back inside.

  ‘But you said,’ protested Libby, ‘you didn’t know why it hadn’t been sold when I said why hadn’t it been turned into a house.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’ Ben led the way round the bar and opened a door into a what appeared to be a store room. ‘The last tenant still owns the lease. He can’t sell the freehold. But I don’t know why he’s hung on to it so long.’

  ‘And what happens now?’ asked Fran.

  ‘The solicitors are getting on to the tenant. I expect we’ll find he or she is dead and nobody’s bothered to tell us. It’s part of the original Manor Estate, you see. Even the Garden Hotel was at one time. Everything from the bottom of our drive to the Canterbury Road in one direction and Steeple Lane and the Nethergate Road in the other. We’ve got maps up at the house – I’ll show you some time.’

  ‘And most of it’s sold off?’ said Fran.

  ‘Gradually, over the years.’ Ben pulled a canvas cover from a tall bench and revealed barrels. ‘No cellar, which makes it ideal for us. The barrels could be changed whenever we wanted.’

  ‘When was the Garden Hotel sold off?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Don’t ask me.’ Ben was poking around on the bench. ‘Probably some time in the eighteen hundreds – long before our family bought it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I just wondered. About the history of the building. How old would you say it was?’

  ‘I would have said seventeen hundred and something,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps it was just the land that was sold off?’

  ‘And the buyer built the house. Not as a hotel, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘Whereas this was,’ said Ben from behind a large cupboard. ‘Originally an alehouse – you know, where they hung a sheaf of corn or something over the door for the ill-educated peasants who couldn’t read.’ He poked a dusty, grinning face round the cupboard door. ‘In this case it was a hop pocket. Naturally.’

  ‘What is a hop pocket?’ Fran whispered to Libby.

  ‘It’s a jute sack which the dried hops would be put into for sale to the brewers,’ explained Libby.

  ‘So this would be going back to its original purpose,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Ben came back to them, dusting his hands. ‘Now I’m restoring the hop gardens – the only thing that’s new is the brewery.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have brewed the beer themselves, then?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Probably, but it wouldn’t have been a brewery as they are today. Anyway, what do you think?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Fran. ‘As long as it doesn’t put Tim’s nose out of joint, as Libby said.’

  ‘I like the building,’ temporised Libby. ‘As long as you aren’t going to end up spending every hour of the day and night working.’

  ‘No, I’ll put in a manager. And as for Tim – he’s fine. He’s expanding his restaurant and he carries a range of drinks. We’ll be an alehouse – going back to the roots. Just selling our own beer.’

  ‘Is there living accommodation?’ Libby looked up at the low ceiling.

  ‘Yes, stairs through that door.’ Ben pointed. ‘Now the thing I was thinking about...’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, listen. We were talking about it on Sunday – and I mentioned it earlier.’ Ben grinned into both their faces. ‘Bat and trap!’

  ‘What?’ said Fran. ‘You’ve mentioned that a couple of times and I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Libby and Ben explained between them.

  ‘And what I thought was,’ continued Ben, ‘we could get the pub going and if Hardcastle would let us use the pitch, we could set up a team here.’

  Libby was looking interested. ‘Now that’s not a bad idea,’ she said. ‘I bet all the new “locals” would love that.’

  ‘You mean the ones who’ve bought a little place in the country?’ said Fran with a grin. ‘What do they call them? DFLs?’

  ‘Down From London, yes,’ said Libby.

  ‘Although,’ said Ben, ‘a lot of them don’t mix. They’re probably a bit disappointed that this village doesn’t provide an alternative wine bar for them, rather than a village pub.’

  ‘We’ve got the caff!’ said Libby indignantly. ‘That’s Mexican, and vegetarian. Couldn’t be trendier if it tried.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘And that’s a word I hate.’

  ‘And your Fiona Darling’s trying to mix with the village,’ said Fran.

  ‘She’s not my Fiona Darling,’ said Libby with a sniff. ‘And I bet she’s doing that because she’s disappointed, like Ben said.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ben, opening another door and revealing a steep st
aircase, ‘I shall need someone to come in and do the renovations.’ He grinned over his shoulder.

  ‘Ted Sachs!’ said the women together.

  ‘Well, perhaps just to get a quote from – I don’t fancy actually employing him. I shall use the Tindall brothers as usual. If they can fit me in. They did the brewery, after all.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s an excellent idea,’ said Libby. ‘How soon can you start?’

  Ben and Fran burst out laughing.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Ben. ‘Only five minutes ago you weren’t happy about it!’

  Libby felt herself going pink. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  Outside once more, Ben led them down the lane, which really was little more than a dirt track which petered out in front of a five-barred gate, behind which a large golden retriever greeted them with a violently wagging tail.

  ‘Oh, you’re beautiful!’ said Libby going to stroke the head which was now resting on the top of the gate, tongue lolling.

  ‘Careful!’ said Fran. ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘No, but I do,’ said Ben. ‘This is Colley. No idea why they called him after another breed of dog, but there you are.’ He went over and joined Libby and Colley, who was now in a positive frenzy of excitement. ‘Where’s your mum, old boy?’

  ‘Dad’s here, old son!’ said a voice from behind them, and Libby turned to see a large figure emerging from the undergrowth carrying a shotgun.

  ‘Dan!’ said Ben, holding out a hand. ‘You don’t know Libby, do you?’

  Dan stepped forward and shook the proffered hand. ‘We’ve not actually met, but living in this village you can hardly help knowing of her!’ He turned to Libby and held out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Libby.’

  ‘And this is Fran Wolfe,’ said Ben. ‘We just came to look over the old Hop.’

  ‘Oh?’ Dan looked interested. ‘Want to come into the house? Moira’s around somewhere.’

  He led the way through the gate, where they were nearly knocked over by an enthusiastic Colley. The house looked to be roughly the same age as Edward and Ian’s, but Georgian grey stone instead of white, and slightly bigger. Colley pranced ahead of them through the open front door.

  ‘Why have I never met him before?’ Libby whispered to Ben.

  ‘You don’t usually go into the back bar at the pub,’ said Ben. ‘He’s often there. They both are, sometimes.’

  At that, a woman emerged to meet them. Her long curly hair was bound round with a trailing scarf, and her ankle length velvet skirt and waistcoat came straight out of the early seventies.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Moira.’ She looked past Libby to Fran. ‘And I know who you are. I’ve always wanted to meet you.’

  ‘She’s fascinated with the whole psychic stroke supernatural stuff,’ explained Dan, his expression saying only too clearly what he thought. ‘Now, coffee?’

  Chapter Nine

  Seated at a kitchen table which almost equalled Hetty’s in size, Moira supplied them all with coffee.

  ‘So, what were you looking at the old Hop for?’ asked Dan, looking at Libby. ‘It’s nothing to do with the body that you found, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t find it!’ said Libby, shocked. ‘Is that what they’re saying in the village?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘I expect it’s people jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Natural, in a way,’ said Moira. ‘You’ve been involved with so many bodies over the years.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby glanced at Fran, who sat serenely stirring coffee. ‘Well, no, I just showed the woman who found it over the place. Come to think of it, I don’t know why she wanted me with her.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just have let her have the keys?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Me?’ said Libby.

  ‘Libby didn’t have the keys,’ said Ben. ‘It was a builder called Ted Sachs. Yes, Lib, why did she want you with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I assumed she just wanted someone to hold her hand and she doesn’t know many people here yet.’

  ‘Ted Sachs?’ Dan was frowning. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘No, none of us have,’ said Ben. ‘I’m going to get him to have a look at the Hop.’

  ‘Thinking of buying it?’ Dan looked even more interested.

  ‘He already owns the freehold,’ said Libby. ‘Comes with being landed gentry.’

  Ben scowled at her and the others laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m all for it. A pub next door! My idea of heaven.’ Dan beamed. Moira sighed theatrically.

  ‘I’ve got to get hold of the people who last held the lease – they seemed to have slipped out of sight,’ said Ben.

  ‘Old Newman?’ said Dan, looking surprised. ‘He died years ago – didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I certainly didn’t!’ Ben sat up straight. ‘Do you know who were his executors? Or who he left things to?’

  ‘His son, I expect,’ said Moira. ‘He went to live with them, and we only know because he left the key of the Hop with us so we could collect mail. They told us when he died and we returned the key.’ She looked at her husband. ‘I suppose we assumed the son was now the owner.’

  Dan was on his feet turning out the contents of a dresser drawer. ‘I’ve got his address here somewhere. Course, I don’t know if he’s still there... Ah – here we are!’

  He held out an old envelope with a torn corner.

  ‘Felling?’ Ben looked round at Libby and Fran.

  ‘Yes.’ Dan looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s where that builder comes from – Ted Sachs. Probably just a coincidence.’

  Moira was looking at Fran. ‘Don’t you feel anything about that?’ she said. ‘Coincidences aren’t always what they seem, are they?’

  Fran smiled gently. ‘Usually just that,’ she said, ‘coincidences.’

  ‘Oh.’ Moira sat back in her chair and looked sulky.

  Ben had unearthed a pencil from a pocket. ‘Got anything to write on, Lib?’

  ‘Oh, keep the envelope,’ said Dan, waving a careless hand. ‘We don’t need it any more.’

  Shortly afterwards, they were able to call a halt to the visit by Fran saying she had to get back to the gallery. Moira brightened up and said she must come and visit.

  Dan and Colley came with them to the gate.

  ‘You mustn’t mind Moira,’ he said. ‘She gets very enthusiastic.’

  ‘I’ve got one of those,’ said Ben, with a hard look at Libby.

  ‘And keep me informed about the Hop, won’t you?’ said Dan. ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  They walked back up the lane.

  ‘Looks as though the new forensic experts have arrived,’ said Ben. A large white van was parked with its back doors open at the side of the Garden, and an expensive-looking dark saloon with blacked out windows was parked in front. A uniformed policeman in a high-vis jacket gave them a hard look as they walked past, Libby’s footsteps slowing noticeably. Fran and Ben took an arm each and hurried her past.

  ‘Do you think Rachel would tell me what’s going on?’ she asked wistfully, looking back over her shoulder.

  ‘Not until they release something to the press,’ said Ben.

  ‘Are we going to lunch, then?’ Libby asked as they crossed the high street.

  ‘I really ought to get back,’ said Fran. ‘Lunch at Harry’s tends to drag on.’

  ‘Sandwich at the pub?’ suggested Ben.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Libby.

  ‘So you can ask Tim what he thinks about the Hop?’ said Ben.

  ‘We-ell...’

  ‘I think I’ll go home anyway,’ said Fran. ‘If you don’t mind. You can let me know if there are any developments.’

  Ben and Libby went in to the pub, waving Fran off as they did so.

  ‘I think she was embarrassed about us arguing,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry, Ben.’

  ‘She’s known us long enough not to worry about it,’ said Ben, giving her a squeeze. ‘Come on and interrogate Tim.’


  Settled at the bar with drinks and sandwiches ordered, Libby began the interrogation.

  ‘What do you think about Ben’ s idea for a Brewery Tap, then, Tim?’

  Tim grinned at them both. ‘Ah! Told her, then?’

  ‘We’ve just been to look at it,’ said Ben. ‘Lib was worried on your behalf.’

  ‘That was nice of you, Libby, but honestly, I think it would probably be good for both of us. Ben doesn’t plan to be open as long as I am, and doesn’t plan on doing food, do you, Ben?’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘But how exactly will it benefit both of you?’ asked Libby. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I told you, I will only be doing our own ales whereas Tim will do the full range of drinks.’ Ben looked at Tim. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Tim nodded. ‘And all the old lags who like real ales will be able to go to the Hop and moan about modern pubs.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Libby doubtfully.

  ‘And it will give me a chance to turn this place into a real destination pub,’ said Tim. ‘You know, step up the events and dining experiences – and even the hotel side. Even though we haven’t got many rooms.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Libby, still looking unconvinced.

  Ben laughed. ‘Never mind, Lib, it’ll take ages to set up, anyway. I shall have to apply for a licence, although there shouldn’t be any problem about change of use.’

  Their sandwiches appeared. ‘And now, fill me in on your latest murder.’

  ‘It’s not mine!’ said Libby, startled. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this builder?’ asked Ben.

  ‘What builder?’ Tim looked from one to another. ‘Come on, tell me all.’

  So Libby did.

  ‘Who is this woman?’ asked Tim, when she’d finished. ‘Does she come in here?’

  ‘Her name’s Fiona Darling, and she and her husband have bought a converted barn out at Steeple Well. He works in the city, or something. And this builder did some work on it for them. Ted Sachs, his name is. Heard of him?’

  ‘Haven’t heard of either of them,’ said Tim. ‘And I thought I’d been here long enough now to know all the local builders and plumbers. Does he come from here?’