Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  Libby watched him in silence for a moment. ‘Well, maybe we could find out a bit more about her as a separate project.’

  Cy looked back at her and smiled. ‘Harry said you were a nosy cow.’

  ‘He was right,’ said Libby ruefully. ‘Look, how am I going to find out if there are any mad gay-bashers in your circle, or in particular in the Hop Hall Players? We’ve done the meet-the-author thing, and it didn’t help much except to upset poor Lisa. I can’t offer to come and run rehearsals – not that you’d want me to – because of our own panto. And I have the feeling that this weather is going to have us all in a right state over the next few weeks, so I wouldn’t want to be trying to get over here anyway.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Cy sighed. ‘I’m just hoping Colin will be able to get back at the weekend. The airports are on alert, apparently.’

  ‘So actually best to leave it to the police for now?’ said Libby after a moment. ‘Their golden hour went a long time ago, so I should think things will go quite slowly, especially if their resources are stretched by the weather.’

  ‘Don’t keep harping on about the weather.’ Cy went to the window and looked up at the sky. ‘OK. But I’ve got a suggestion. Why don’t you go and talk to Sheila? She’s been around a lot longer than most of us. Tell her why you’re asking, and that I don’t mind.’

  ‘Didn’t you or Colin say she came from a hopping family, too?’

  ‘I think so.’ Cy looked doubtful. ‘Not sure. She, or her family, were in at the beginning of the Hop Hall Players, at any rate.’

  ‘She won’t mind, will she?’

  ‘Not if I ask her.’ Cy went to the phone. ‘Shall I call her now?’

  ‘Will she be in? I don’t want to be too much longer,’ said Libby. ‘I can always call her from home if she’d prefer.’

  ‘No, she – oh, Sheila? It’s me. No, I’m fine, love. Colin went off this morning, back on Saturday, if the snow doesn’t stop the flights. Yes, yes, I know. Now, listen, Sheila, you remember Libby who came over on Friday? Yes, that’s the one. Well, you know I told you she was going to have a little look into my letters for me? No, love, this was before we knew about Patrick, or my accident. Anyway, I wondered if she could talk to you about the old days. No, nothing like that. We just wondered if there was any reason, you know, going back a bit, why Paddy and I should have been attacked. Yes, I know, and the police think it was gay-bashing, but there could be something else, couldn’t there?’ Cy turned to Libby and, raising his eyebrows, shook his head. ‘You know more about it than anyone, love, don’t you? That’s why I suggested it. Oh, yes, it was me. Shall I? You sure? Yes, she’s here now. Well, I will, if that’s all right. She won’t stay long, she wants to get home before it snows. Shall I come with her? No? Oh, OK. Yes, love, I’ll talk to you later. And thank you.’

  He put the phone down and turned to Libby. ‘Well, she wasn’t keen at first, but when I said I’d suggested it she changed her tune. She says to pop over now, if you like, and I’m not to come with you.’ He pulled another comic face. ‘That sounds ominous, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I expect she might be embarrassed talking about you being gay if you’re there,’ said Libby. ‘Thank you for suggesting it, anyway, even if it doesn’t get us anywhere.’ She sighed. ‘I expect it will be a case of the police plodding away and getting a result in the end. They usually do.’

  ‘Do they?’ said Cy.

  ‘In every case I’ve been involved with, yes,’ said Libby. ‘They get a bit of help, from my friend Fran, sometimes, who’s psychic.’

  ‘Is she?’ Cy’s eyes brightened. ‘Perhaps she …?’

  ‘Maybe, if there’s no progress from the police I’ll bring her over.’ Libby smiled. ‘Harry didn’t want to involve her, I think.’

  ‘Doesn’t he like her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. In fact he let the flat over the restaurant to her when she first moved down here. My son Adam’s got it now.’

  ‘We must come down after Christmas,’ said Cy, as he helped her on with her cape. ‘Treat you to a meal at Harry’s – or are you sick of his food?’

  ‘Oh, no, I love it,’ said Libby. ‘Especially his Mexican stuff.’ She opened the front door. ‘Now, which one’s Sheila’s?’

  Cy pointed across the road at an identical bungalow to his own, with rather less vegetation surrounding it. It looked slightly less friendly.

  ‘Do you want me to pop back in here after I’ve seen her?’

  ‘No, it might look as though I was getting you to spy on her or something,’ said Cy. ‘She can be a bit touchy sometimes. Not quite in step with the modern world, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was curious. ‘Yet she’s quite happy with your relationship?’

  Cy shrugged. ‘I think she ignores it. You must know a lot of elderly women who – well, who –’

  ‘Who are fag hags?’ grinned Libby. ‘Yeah – me, for one!’

  Cy laughed and winced. ‘Still takes me unawares a bit,’ he explained breathlessly. ‘Go on, off you go, or you’ll get caught in the snow.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Give me a ring.’

  ‘I will,’ said Libby, and set off across the road, thinking that she really must buy herself a proper winter coat if the winter was going to carry on like this.

  Sheila’s front door was painted a faded red, and was either a replacement, or had been hardboarded over. The chrome letter box and doorbell were pitted, and the house in general had an unloved and uncared-for appearance. Libby rang the bell.

  ‘Come in.’ The door opened as Libby took her finger off the bell push.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, and followed her slightly unwilling hostess into the room on her right.

  A three-piece suite in what Libby believed was called “uncut moquette” sat formally in front of a gas fire mounted in a mock stone fireplace. A table covered in two cloths, one chenille and one lace, stood in the window, surmounted by a vase of dead twigs. A large glass-fronted china cabinet against the back wall contained – well, china. Libby waited to see where she should sit.

  Sheila took the armchair facing the window and waved a hand in the general direction of the sofa. Libby sat, carefully.

  ‘What do you want to ask me?’ said Sheila, smoothing her brown skirt over her knees and straightening her back.

  ‘I think Cy told you,’ began Libby nervously.

  ‘He thinks I might know something from years ago about his family and Paddy Stephens’s family.’ Sheila’s voice was unemotional, but Libby thought she could sense something behind the words. Sheila did know something.

  ‘Only because you were all families who came down hopping,’ said Libby. Sheila looked surprised.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she said. ‘I’m local.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘LOCAL?’ ECHOED LIBBY. ‘BUT Cy said –’

  ‘Cy don’t know everything.’ Sheila looked amused. ‘Here, do you want a cuppa? I was going to have one just before Cy phoned. Thought I’d wait. Kettle’s boiled.’

  Thankful at the sudden thaw in the emotional temperature, Libby agreed, despite the fact that Cy’s coffee was still sloshing around inside her.

  ‘Right.’ Sheila stood up. ‘Won’t be a minute then.’

  ‘Um,’ said Libby, also standing up. ‘I suppose I couldn’t use your loo, could I? I should have asked Cy, but –’

  ‘I know, love,’ said Sheila, positively oozing camaraderie now. ‘Difficult with men, isn’t it? Just through there, see?’

  The bathroom hadn’t been updated for a good thirty years, Libby thought, and had that smell peculiar to old bathrooms where no modern products were used, either cosmetic or cleansing. As if to confirm her thoughts, she noticed a large container of Vim powder under the sink. She rinsed her hands, hesitating to dry them on the rather threadbare towel hanging underneath the wall heater, and went back to the sitting room, where Sheila was pouring tea from a flowered china teapot into matching cups. Libby smiled involunta
rily.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘Proper tea.’

  ‘Don’t hold with teabags,’ said Sheila comfortably, handing Libby a cup and indicating that she should sit down again. ‘Now, I know you want to get back before the weather closes in, so I’m not going to keep you long. I’ll just tell you about the families.’ She sat down in her armchair and crossed her feet at the ankles. ‘Well, now. Cy’s mum was adopted. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, and she had her original birth certificate with her mother’s name on it?’

  ‘Did she?’ Sheila looked interested. ‘I never knew that. What was the name?’

  ‘Rather a strange one. Cliona Masters. Cliona. Have you ever heard of that before?’

  Sheila shook her head. ‘Sounds a bit Irish, to me.’

  ‘So it does!’ said Libby. ‘Or Scottish, maybe?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘Could be. Anyway. Young Josephine was adopted.’

  ‘Fostered, actually, Cy said.’ Sheila looked annoyed at the interruption. ‘Well, you see, there were no formal adoption papers. Would there have been an organisation that dealt with fostering, or adoption around that time? The end of the war?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Mollified by the question, Sheila sat back in her chair. ‘Well, the Red Cross, of course. They had their little place, then there was the Sally Army, and the medical missions. And every garden had a vicar visiting. There’d be plenty to organise something for a little –’ she stopped. ‘Well, for a baby.’

  ‘So is that what Josephine was?’ asked Libby. ‘That’s what she thought she was.’

  Sheila looked mysterious. ‘She didn’t come from a hop garden, didn’t Josephine. Local family, the word was.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Libby put her cup and saucer down. ‘Her mother was a good girl, then?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Sheila, with a sniff, ‘but not exactly a hopping baby.’

  ‘And you knew her? As a girl?’

  ‘I knew of her,’ said Sheila. ‘She didn’t live round here, then.’

  ‘How did you know her, then?’

  ‘Word gets round,’ said Sheila gnomically.

  Libby frowned. ‘You mean, there was talk about some family? Whose daughter might be this Cliona?’

  Sheila shook her head. ‘It was Josephine’s parents. We all knew them.’

  ‘So they had been around then? But where did you all live in those days? Near the hop gardens?’

  ‘In the village,’ said Sheila. ‘Josephine’s parents, they lived there, too, but after they got Josephine, they moved away. Then blow me down if I don’t end up living opposite her. Course, I didn’t say anything to her.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Libby was surprised. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘It was a shameful thing in those days,’ said Sheila.

  ‘But it’s never the baby’s fault.’

  ‘Maybe not, but no point in bringing it up. Anyway, she wouldn’t have known me. She was a baby when she was – er – given away.’

  ‘Did you pick?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Sheila looked away. ‘My dad – he wasn’t too keen on the hoppers.’

  Libby had a vision of the young Sheila sneaking away from home to play with the rowdy hoppers.

  ‘So what about Paddy’s family? Were they local, too?’

  ‘No, they came down from London. Hoxton, I think it was. Funny, it’s fashionable now, Hoxton, isn’t it? But they were bombed out while they were down here, so they never went back. Farmer found them a little place to rent. Hovel, it were, really, but they were grateful.’

  ‘So who was in the family then? Paddy and Lisa’s mother?’

  ‘No, only young Dolly. It was just Paddy’s grandma and Dolly. Paddy’s mum and his Uncle Bertie were born after the war, after their dad had come back.’ Sheila looked sadly down at her cup. ‘It’s such a shame. Margaret only lost her husband last year, and now she’s lost Paddy. I feel really bad about that.’

  Libby was respectfully quiet for a moment.

  ‘So there’s nothing in any of this to make us think there might be something that links the two men? Cy and Patrick?’ she said eventually.

  Sheila looked up and Libby was surprised to see her eyes full of tears. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I’m really sorry if I’ve upset you,’ said Libby awkwardly. ‘I certainly didn’t mean too.’

  ‘No.’ Sheila cleared her throat. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m just being silly. It’s the waste, you see. After all those boys during the war – it’s another young life wasted.’

  ‘Did you know many who were killed in the war?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not personally,’ said Sheila, ‘but you heard of them, all the time. It was the girls …’

  ‘The girls?’ prompted Libby after a moment.

  ‘Who were left behind. And the babies.’

  ‘Ah. Did you see many of those? Were they pickers?’

  ‘Poor girls. Taken advantage of. Little b–’ she looked up quickly. ‘Well, you know.’

  ‘I know. But you said there were people there to help them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I told you, the Red Cross. Dreadful things happened, though. People took advantage.’

  ‘Did they?’ Libby didn’t know quite where they were going now.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Sheila nodded vigorously. ‘Wicked advantage. Course, it was everywhere during the war. Women, as well as men.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘You knew some of those, as well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sheila’s mouth shut like a rat trap and Libby decided to get away from the subject.

  ‘Do you know what was in Patrick’s letters?’ she asked, more for the want of something to say than anything else.

  ‘Insults.’ She shrugged. ‘About his being queer. Same as Cy. Stupid.’

  ‘I just wondered,’ said Libby, ‘because there’s quite a bit of similarity in their backgrounds. Both sons of mothers who were born at the end of the war in the same area.’

  ‘So were a lot of others,’ said Sheila.

  ‘So no one you can think of would have had anything against either of them apart from being – er – queer.’

  ‘Both nice boys. Can’t see what anyone would have against either of them.’

  Libby sensed a return to the rather buttoned-up Sheila who had met her at the door. She wondered what had prompted it.

  ‘Well, thank you, Sheila.’ She stood up. ‘I should go now, before I get stuck in the snow.’

  Sheila nodded and stood up, smoothing down her skirt again. Libby had turned towards the door when a framed photograph on top of the china cabinet caught her eye.

  ‘Is that you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sheila.

  ‘And is that your brother? And your father?’

  ‘Yes. And my father.’ Sheila went past her and pulled the door open. Libby took the hint. At the front door she turned back.

  ‘I’m so grateful, Sheila, really. And Cy will be, too. It’s sad that he didn’t know any of this before his mother died.’

  ‘Just as well, perhaps.’ Sheila shrugged. ‘And if you’re thinking I should have told her, well, how was I to know she didn’t know her background?’

  ‘That’s very true.’ Libby nodded appeasingly.

  ‘Anyway, glad to help Cy. Been a good boy, he has.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘And that Paddy. So sorry about him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘Well, thank you again. ’Bye.’

  ‘Bye, dear,’ said Sheila surprisingly. ‘I expect I’ll see you again.’

  Libby thought she saw Cy behind a net curtain in his sitting room, and half lifted a hand. She couldn’t wait to tell him what Sheila had said, but respected his view that Sheila wouldn’t appreciate seeing Libby dive back in to report. Although, she thought, pulling away from the kerb, surely it was only to be expected?

  The forecast snow had still not fallen by the time Libby got back to Steeple Martin, and when she checked the weather site on her computer before phoning Cy, she saw th
at it was now forecast for Thursday. Even nearer to Christmas. She sighed and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, then changed her mind. Lunch was called for, not tea.

  But before lunch, she must call Cy.

  He was duly surprised at what Sheila had said, and equally as surprised as Libby that she had never said anything, either to Josephine or himself.

  ‘She said it was because it wasn’t done in her day, or words to that effect,’ said Libby. ‘No need to bring it up, I think was what she said. But if your mother knew she’d been adopted, fostered or whatever, surely she would have been pleased to know who her real parents were?’

  ‘I would have thought so,’ said Cy. ‘It’s odd. Mind you, Sheila’s a bit odd normally.’

  ‘Is she? She was a bit wary at first, but after that she was fine.’

  ‘No problems, then?’

  ‘She did get a bit tearful at the end, though.’

  ‘Tears?’

  ‘When she spoke about Paddy. His death really seemed to upset her.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, it would. She knows the family. Was she friends with their Aunt – Polly, was it?’

  ‘Dolly? She mentioned a Dolly.’

  ‘I think so. She and Sheila would have been about the same age and went way back. I suppose that’s why I thought she’d been a hopper.’

  ‘She didn’t mention being friends with the family back then. Apparently it was only Aunt Dolly and her mother who were down there during the war. Patrick’s mum and uncle were born after the war.’

  ‘Right. Well, she’s never talked much about it. I supposed I just assumed.’

  Libby was thoughtful. ‘Do you suppose Lisa would talk to me about the family? About Auntie Dolly?’

  ‘She might, but why? I thought you said we were going to leave it alone?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’m being nosy again, aren’t I? Just that what Sheila said threw up more questions. But when it comes down to it, none of them have anything to do with the letters, the attack on you or Paddy’s murder. So I ought to butt out and leave you and the police to it.’

  But Libby’s antennae, having been switched on, were harder to switch off. All through heating soup, eating it, loading the washing machine and staring at her easel, she was thinking about Cy, Paddy and their antecedents. She was certain there was something to find out, but she didn’t know what it was. And, as she’d said to Cy, it didn’t appear to be anything to do with the letters or the attacks. So basically, it was nothing to do with her!