Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘The police? Why?’

  ‘It wasn’t Mrs Oxford’s house. It belonged to her daughter and was let out. Although it currently isn’t. And,’ said Libby, and paused.

  ‘And what?’ prompted Jane.

  ‘Did you know who Carol Oxford was? And her daughter?’

  ‘No.’ Jane looked bewildered. ‘Should I have done?’

  ‘Colonel Weston’s ex-wife and daughter.’

  ‘Colonel – oh, my God!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Libby nodded and looked for a bottle to top up her wineglass. ‘Nothing to do with the Turkish business, but what a coincidence, eh?’

  Jane was frowning into the darkness. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Ian Connell’s on the case now, and it was him I handed the keys over to. He’d have turned up any sort of connection by now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose he would.’ Jane’s expression cleared. ‘It was just that – well, I thought I remembered something, that’s all.’

  ‘All Weston’s dirty doings came under the microscope at the time of his arrest,’ said Libby. ‘It would have come out.’

  ‘What would, though?’ asked Jane.

  ‘What would?’ Libby realised belatedly that Jane knew nothing about the suspected trafficking, and explained, as briefly as she could.

  ‘Ah, I see. And of course because of the whole immigrant situation it’s all blown up in their faces, is that the theory?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Jane. All I know is that we’ve been putting together a whole heap of buildings with straw. If you’ve heard anything about trafficking over the last few years – to this coast, particularly – you ought to let Ian know.’

  ‘I’d let you know first,’ said Jane. She grinned and patted Libby’s arm. ‘Pass the bottle.’

  When the other guests had gone, Ben and Libby, who were staying the night, retreated to the sitting room with Fran and Guy.

  ‘What were you and Jane talking about?’ asked Fran.

  ‘She apologised again. So did I. I completely overreacted. I’ve been trying so hard to put it all out of my mind.’

  ‘I didn’t help by recreating a Turkish restaurant, did I?’ said Fran with a smile.

  ‘That didn’t occur to me,’ said Libby. ‘At least you didn’t do the food.’

  ‘I don’t think I could,’ said Fran. ‘Plain English, that’s me.’

  ‘Not so much of the plain,’ said Guy, coming to sit beside his wife. ‘That’s accusing me of bad taste.’ He looked across at Libby. ‘The paintings really are rather good, Lib. I love the new style.’

  Libby felt herself go pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Guy. It happened because I was doing something quickly for Patti. I didn’t know I could paint like that.’

  ‘Well you can knock out as many as you like. I guarantee they’ll sell.’

  ‘I might even stop painting the view from your window,’ said Libby, turning to look at it.

  ‘That window,’ said Fran. ‘It has a lot to answer for.’

  They all nodded solemnly. The window of Coastguard Cottage had figured largely in the second adventure they’d all had together.

  ‘Risking returning to the most avoided subject of the day,’ said Ben, ‘I wonder if there’s been any more progress in the case?’

  Libby sighed. ‘We’re not likely to know, now, are we?’

  Unusually, Libby and Ben weren’t going to Hetty for the traditional roast that Sunday, as she had been invited to Flo’s cottage instead. So Sunday was free.

  ‘You’re welcome to hang about here,’ said Fran at breakfast.

  ‘No, I think we’ll do something different,’ said Ben. ‘We could go out for the day.’

  Libby looked dubious. ‘I remember what happened last time we went out for the day on a Sunday.’

  ‘Nothing like that’s going to happen this time,’ said Ben. ‘You aren’t in the middle of an investigation, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby.

  Ben shook his head. ‘Look, Lib. It isn’t the end of the world, even though it was for the victims. You’re behaving like a child deprived of its favourite toy. Come on, snap out of it.’

  ‘Ben’s right, Lib,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll tell you what – there’s a great exhibition of Eric Ravilious paintings at the Dulwich Gallery in London. Why don’t you go up and see that?’

  ‘Who’s Ravilious?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He was largely responsible for the revival of English watercolour painting,’ said Guy. ‘Libby’s forerunner, if you like.’

  Libby looked interested. ‘Nothing like as good as Ravilious, but I love his work. I know it’s lovely to have it exhibited in London, but shouldn’t it be at the Towner in Eastbourne? That’s his home county, after all?’

  ‘A wider audience, I expect,’ said Ben. ‘It’s a great idea, Guy. Come on, Lib. We can get the train to Victoria and back to West Dulwich from there.’

  ‘You know Dulwich?’ said Fran. ‘I lived not far from there.’

  ‘So did I, once,’ said Ben. ‘Come on, Lib. Would you like to come with us, Fran? I know Guy won’t because of the shop.’

  ‘No, I’ll stay with Guy,’ said Fran. ‘You two have a day out on your own.’

  Persuaded, and even quite excited, Libby was ready in time for Ben to drive to Nethergate station for the next London train. For a change, there were no ‘works on the line’ involving tedious bus journeys through the Kent countryside, and they reached Victoria just before midday.

  ‘Pity our train doesn’t stop at West Dulwich,’ said Libby as they struggled through the crowds towards the platform for the suburban line. ‘We actually pass the gallery and the school, don’t we?’

  But Ben wasn’t listening.

  ‘I know I must be dreaming or hallucinating,’ he said, ‘but look over there. Next to the barrier we’ve just come through.’

  Libby’s mouth fell open. ‘Walter Roberts!’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘No, Lib!’ Ben caught hold of Libby’s arm as she surged back the way they had come.

  ‘Why not?’ Libby turned an indignant face to her beloved. ‘What’s he doing here? They live up north.’

  ‘He’s entitled to be in London, you know. Perhaps they’re visiting. Going to the theatre?’

  ‘He’s getting on our train.’ Libby peered through the crowd. ‘That means he’s going to Canterbury, at least.’

  Ben tried to peer too. ‘And he’s alone.’

  ‘And he doesn’t look like Walter.’ Libby was frowning. ‘I suppose it is him?’

  ‘You mean his clothes? Well, this is London, not Erzugan,’ said Ben.

  ‘But he looked smart. Different.’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t suggest it, but perhaps he has a –’

  ‘Lady friend?’ interposed Libby. ‘All the way down here?’

  ‘Well, whatever the answer is, we are not going back on that train just to find out.’ Ben turned her towards the platform where the West Dulwich train waited.

  ‘No, I know.’ Libby sighed and allowed herself to be led away.

  On the train, she sent a text to Fran. Walter Roberts spotted at Victoria getting the Canterbury train.

  Did you speak to him?

  No. Ben wouldn’t let me.

  Sensible.

  Libby sighed again and put the phone away.

  The gallery, one of the most beautiful, in Libby’s opinion, was attached to Dulwich College, the famous independent school for boys.

  ‘Do you know,’ whispered Libby, as they entered, ‘I don’t even know where you went to school.’

  Ben shot her an amused look. ‘Not here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Canterbury. And no – proper state grammar schoolboy, me. What about you?’

  ‘London. Girls’ grammar school. Actually we used to play the James Allen School at netball and hockey.’

  ‘James Allen?’

  ‘The sister school of Dulwich,’ explained Libby. ‘Now, come on, let’s look
at these pictures.’

  Two hours later, they emerged, blinking into the sunshine.

  ‘Tea?’ suggested Ben.

  ‘Let’s get back to Victoria,’ said Libby. ‘We can pick something up there.’

  ‘A pre-packed sandwich?’ Ben sighed. ‘We didn’t have any lunch, you know.’

  ‘I’ll treat you to a curry tonight,’ said Libby. ‘We can go to that one in Nethergate when we pick up the car.’

  ‘The Golden Spice? Why not? We haven’t been since it’s been under new management.’ Ben cheered up. ‘Come on then, there’s a train in five minutes.’

  The ubiquitous sandwich duly picked up at Victoria station, they boarded the next train back to Canterbury and Libby checked her phone.

  ‘Well?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Nothing. Eat your sandwich.’

  Despite the slideshow of Ravilious images scrolling through her mind, Libby couldn’t help returning to the puzzle of Walter Roberts and why he should be in Kent.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said suddenly to Ben, ‘he might have been going somewhere else in Kent. He could have been changing at Chatham or Rochester. Or Sittingbourne.’

  ‘Or just getting off at Bromley South,’ said Ben. ‘If we’re talking about Walter Roberts, that is.’

  ‘But if he’s got connections in Kent, why didn’t Betty tell us?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lib. Perhaps she didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘Or perhaps she doesn’t know,’ said Libby.

  ‘You’re making mysteries out of molehills again,’ said Ben. ‘Stop it.’

  Libby sighed and turned to look out of the window at the familiar countryside speeding past.

  The Golden Spice had only just opened its doors when they arrived. It had been redecorated in a much more European way, and the menu was slightly different, with fewer choices, which Libby appreciated as she always had trouble making up her mind. It also had a long glass window into the kitchen area.

  ‘Do you suppose any of them are still here from before?’ she whispered to Ben.

  ‘Any what?’

  Libby jerked her head towards the kitchen.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Ben leant back in his chair. ‘This place has got to be on its best behaviour after the last owners. Stop seeing monsters under the beds.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby smiled sweetly up at the young man who arrived to take their orders and scared him into dropping his notebook.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said some time later, wiping her plate clean with a last remnant of naan, ‘we ought to pop in and see Fran and Guy before we go home?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Ben firmly. ‘Leave them in peace. You only want to talk about the murders and Walter Roberts, and I don’t want my day spoiled. Neither will Guy, even if Fran doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Libby sat back and sighed happily. ‘That was gorgeous. I wish we had a curry shop in Steeple Martin.’

  ‘We can always order a takeaway from here,’ said Ben.

  ‘But it would be cold by the time it arrived.’

  ‘They have insulated boxes,’ said Ben. ‘Do you want anything else, or shall we get the bill?’

  It was only just getting dark when they drove back to Steeple Martin. The lights were on in Peter and Harry’s cottage, but Ben said ‘No’ just as Libby opened her mouth. She grinned.

  ‘It was a lovely day, wasn’t it?’ she said when they were seated on the creaky cane sofa with a nightcap. ‘Even Walter didn’t really spoil it.’

  ‘It was. It’s not often we get a whole day to ourselves,’ said Ben, stretching his legs out and dislodging Sidney from his lap. ‘And just think – you’ve now got something to look forward to tomorrow.’

  ‘Have I?’

  Ben grinned. ‘Walter. You can spend all day trying to find out about him, can’t you?’

  Ben set off for the timber yard on the estate early in the morning and Libby called Fran.

  ‘Morning. I expected to hear from you yesterday.’

  ‘Ben wouldn’t let me,’ said Libby.

  Fran laughed. ‘I’m not surprised. So tell me all about your day.’

  Libby extolled the virtues of the gallery and the exhibition, The Golden Spice, and finally the surprise of seeing Walter Roberts.

  ‘Ben wouldn’t let me speak to him, as I told you. But what’s he doing down here?’

  ‘He’s probably gone back, now,’ said Fran. ‘Where was it they lived? Leicester?’

  ‘No, that was Greta and Tom. The Roberts are somewhere near Manchester. Should I email Betty?’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘That we saw Walter at Victoria.’

  ‘And what do you expect her to say to that?’

  ‘Oh, you know. “Oh, yes, he was down seeing Great-Aunt Maud in Faversham” or something.’

  ‘And if she does, you’ll leave it alone, will you?’

  Libby was silent.

  ‘Come on, Libby. Tell me why it matters.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it,’ said Libby. ‘Betty told us they’d been going for several years, didn’t she? And Walter tended to stay back at the hotel on his own. She went out with other people – the woman she mentioned who she’s still in touch with and us – so she couldn’t know exactly what he got up to when she wasn’t there.’

  ‘What about Jimmy? He’d have seen him going out.’

  ‘Not necessarily. He could have gone out the back way.’

  ‘OK – to do what?’

  ‘Meet Geoff Croker. Or one of his mates. To check on the operation.’

  ‘So you’ve cast him as the Mr Big in the British end of the trafficking operation?’

  Libby chewed her lip.

  Fran sighed. ‘Do you want to tell Ian about it?’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ said Libby, ‘when you put it like that it does seem a bit pathetic. No, I won’t. I won’t even email Betty.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran slowly, ‘I think that could be a good idea.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Just to say what you said before. Bright and chatty.’

  ‘All right,’ said Libby. ‘And if I get the Great-Aunt Maud answer I promise I’ll give up.’

  After some thought, Libby decided to send a group email to the hotel guests, to tell them that all investigations seemed to have ground to a halt, and add a ‘by the way – saw Walter at Victoria on Sunday’ almost as an afterthought. Satisfied with this, and inspired by the Ravilious paintings from the day before, she went into the conservatory and started stretching paper for more paintings. Leaving three boards aside with drying paper, she went to the easel and set up the picture of The Pink Geranium.

  So absorbed was she, that Ben was actually standing beside her before she realised he’d come in.

  ‘What’s the time?’ she asked, rubbing a painty finger over her nose.

  ‘Half past one. How long have you been at it?’

  ‘All morning, really, apart from stretching the paper.’ She nodded at the three boards lying on a bench.

  ‘You didn’t do that for the little pictures,’ said Ben.

  ‘No, I didn’t use much water in those, so it didn’t matter. You stretch the paper if you know you’re going to be using masses of water, so it doesn’t split and tear.’ Libby rubbed her nose again. ‘Did you want lunch or something?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Not if you don’t want to stop. Is there any soup?’

  ‘Yes, there’s that leek and potato I made on Saturday in the fridge. I’ll have some, too.’

  Ben heated up the soup and brought bowls out to the conservatory, where they perched on stools at the bench.

  ‘What did Fran have to say?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a lot. She said to email Betty, though.’

  Libby explained her Great-Aunt Maud theory.

  ‘And have you had a reply?’

  Libby looked surprised. ‘I haven’t checked. I haven’t even thought about it.’

  ‘Do it after lunch,’ said Ben
. ‘I’ll fetch some bread.’

  After finishing the soup, Libby went into the sitting room and opened the laptop.

  ‘Only one from Greta,’ she called through to Ben.

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Just thanks for letting them know, and what a coincidence to see Walter. Did he look as grumpy as he always did on holiday.’ Libby looked up. ‘Did he?’

  ‘He didn’t look grumpy. Expressionless, really. And he was wearing a hat.’

  ‘So he was. A little pork pie one, wasn’t it? I wonder why?’

  ‘Fashion statement? He was certainly looking very English country gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, well, no use speculating. It’s probably got nothing to do with the murders or Erzugan anyway.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ said Ben, surprised.

  ‘None of the rest of you want to find out, so I might just as well give up. I said that last week.’

  ‘You did. But then you talked to Jane, and after that you saw Walter. I don’t want you to get bored and grumpy again.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ said Libby. ‘I started painting again.’

  ‘You did. But I’m sure you’ll be worrying away at our mystery underneath, whatever you say or do on the surface.’

  Libby stared gloomily at the computer screen. ‘I suppose I will. I just don’t seem to be able to help myself. And it’s so frustrating …’

  ‘I know. Look, I’ll wash these bowls up and leave you to get on with The Pink Geranium. We’ve got a rehearsal tonight, so that will take your mind off everything else. We’ve only got another two weeks before we open.’

  Two weeks sounded a long time in the professional theatre, but in the Oast Company, where rehearsals only took place three times a week and there was a five-week run to contemplate, it was a bit nail-biting. Libby went back to her painting with something else to worry about.

  In fact, the rehearsal went very well, all the soloists knew their songs, the set pieces worked and the chorus numbers were duly rousing. After a quick drink at the pub, Libby and Ben went home happily.

  The light was flashing on the answerphone.

  ‘Libby, it’s Greta here. I’ve just had Betty on the phone. Walter’s disappeared.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘What time did she call?’ said Ben.