Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘He might have done. I haven’t had a full update. I know he rang them to say his grandmother had been Norma Cherry and he’d only just found out.’

  ‘Oh, you know about Norma Cherry, do you?’

  ‘She was quite a famous murderer, Libby.’

  ‘Was she? There’s not much about her on the internet.’

  Ian cast his eyes up to heaven. ‘Bloody internet,’ he said. ‘Norma Cherry was a serial murderess. Very much like Mary Ann Cotton a century or so before.’

  ‘Who?’ said Libby.

  ‘No time to tell you now,’ said Ian, ‘so look her up. Anyway, Norma Cherry, or Cliona Masters was also known as Norma Fleetwood. That ring any bells?’

  Libby frowned. ‘Vaguely. I’ve heard it, but not sure where.’

  ‘It was quite a cause célèbre at the end of the war. She had moved around London for several years murdering men and leaving them buried in the rubble of bombed houses. She’d take their savings – she never chose anyone who had no money – and would claim she’d been bombed out and lost her ID card.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Yes, Flo was telling me about that,’ she said. ‘Apparently, criminals could get away with anything.’

  ‘It wasn’t the easiest time to be policing,’ said Ian. ‘The authorities couldn’t look into every case, and a lot of things were taken on trust. Eventually, she did it once too often, and the sister of the last man she killed in London had met her, and put the police on to her. It took months to trace her back, uncovering more murders on the way, including a couple of children. At last they had an anonymous tip-off that she was in Kent, living with a farmer.’

  ‘And was pregnant with Josephine, Cy’s mother. Who was the tip-off from?’

  ‘No idea. It isn’t in the official reports.’

  ‘What was the farmer’s name? Sheila-over-the-road didn’t tell me.’

  ‘That’s the neighbour, Mrs Blake?’

  ‘I don’t know her surname. Probably, yes. She remembered Josephine being born and taken by someone else. She thought she’d been adopted, but it turned out she’d only been fostered by the Robinsons.’

  ‘Right. Yes, I’m sure the farmer’s name’s on file. So come on, then. What do you think happened?’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, curling her legs up underneath her, ‘Cy was supposed to tell the police about a person called Larry Barkiss who victimised him and Patrick Stephens when they were at school. Did he?’

  ‘They’re looking into it,’ said Ian. ‘He’s not known to us.’

  ‘Right, well, the other theory was that someone affected by Josephine, or her birth mother, really, was trying to damage Cy out of spite.’

  ‘Bit extreme, surely?’

  ‘Cy thought maybe Norma whoever-she-is might have left other children who were jealous of Josephine. Suppose there was another child who wasn’t fostered? Who had a very unhappy childhood?’

  Ian frowned. ‘But to take it out on someone two generations away?’

  ‘Well, how about this.’ Libby leant forward again. ‘Did you know about the farmer’s son?’

  ‘No.’ Ian’s frown grew deeper.

  ‘He had a son, John, and after Norma was arrested he took no notice of him at all, and let them take him for the Child Migration Programme.’

  ‘No, we didn’t know that.’ Ian sat forward too. ‘How did you find that out’?

  ‘Aunt Dolly. Patrick’s Aunt Dolly. She lives here. Cy must have told you.’

  ‘Yes, he did, but not that bit.’

  ‘Maybe he told Maidstone and they didn’t tell you.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Ian. ‘I was only asked to check up on them and given an outline of the case.’

  ‘And was I right? Are they suspicious of him? Or of Colin?’

  ‘I think because he didn’t report the first attack. Although as that seems to have no bearing on the further attack and the letters, I can’t see that it matters.’

  ‘But that final letter referred to Patrick’s murder. Sort of “Look what will happen to you” wasn’t it?’

  ‘Someone taking advantage of the murder and the attack. It certainly wasn’t the two oiks who’ve been arrested.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby, sitting back again, ‘that was the theory. Aunt Dolly thought it was Larry Barkiss and Cy and I thought it might be either another child Norma left behind or that poor John who was sent to Australia. At least, I suppose it was Australia. They sent them to other places, too, didn’t they?’

  ‘But in either case, it seems odd that Cy – Mr Strange – should be a target all these years later,’ said Ian, also sitting back and crossing one elegant leg over the other.

  ‘What if,’ said Libby slowly, staring into the fire, ‘what if poor John has come home? And found out all about it?’

  ‘He’d be too old, Libby. If he was a boy at the end of the war – do you know how old he was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, even if he was only – say – five, he’d be well over seventy now. That’s a bit late to start taking revenge, isn’t it?’

  ‘Someone doing it on is behalf? Like Larry Barkiss? He could be his son – or grandson, perhaps.’

  ‘And how old is Larry Barkiss?’

  ‘About the same age as Cy. Mid thirties.’

  ‘Son, then. But Larry Barkiss is supposed have bullied both Cy and Patrick because of their homosexuality fifteen or sixteen years ago. How does that tie up?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Libby scowled at him. ‘Getting me to do all your work for you.’

  ‘Don’t you usually?’ said Ian, amused. ‘Anyway, who do you suggest we talk to? Should we go and see Aunt Dolly?’

  ‘And Sheila, I should think. Now Aunt Dolly’s given us information she might have more to contribute.’

  ‘Mr Strange had already told her about Aunt Dolly. I don’t think she had anything to add.’

  ‘I bet she has,’ said Libby, darkly.

  ‘So you suspect her, do you?’ Ian looked even more amused.

  ‘She knows Cy and Colin’s habits, she could easily have got round the back of the bungalow, and she knew Cy had gone away so the bungalow would be empty. And she lived in the village where Josephine was born. I bet she knows more than she was saying. And that photograph.’

  ‘What photograph?’

  ‘The one she said was her father and her brother. That could be the farmer and the boy John.’

  ‘Now you really are getting a bit far-fetched,’ said Ian, laughing. He stood up. ‘Well, I shall go back and make my report and unofficially suggest we interview Mrs Webley – that’s Aunt Dolly, isn’t it? And possibly Mrs Blake.’ He shook his head. ‘Too many old people in this case,’ he said. ‘Glad it’s not mine.’

  ‘And I wish it was,’ said Libby as she saw him to the door.

  ‘Do you?’ He turned to look at her and she blushed.

  ‘Well, you know. Someone we know …’ she muttered.

  ‘Ah. Someone you can pump, you mean.’ He put a finger under her chin and tilted up her face. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Mrs Sarjeant – again – so don’t you go barging in.’

  ‘I haven’t!’ said Libby, indignant again. ‘I was asked to see if I could help Cy, and even you came here this afternoon to ask for my help. That’s not barging in.’

  Ian dropped his finger and kissed her cheek. ‘Ah, but I know you, you see,’ he said and turned towards his car.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby, thinking, not for the first time, that she could see quite clearly how Fran had very nearly fallen for Ian and dumped Guy.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ian suddenly, his hand on the car door. ‘What did you say about Maud Burton?’

  ‘Huh? Oh, she was the Red Cross woman –’

  ‘Yes, I know. Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘But you know about the Burton and Taylor case?’

  ‘Well, yes, I said –’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring. There’s something you might like to
know.’ Ian got smoothly into the car, slammed the door and was away down the dark lane.

  ‘Well!’ said Libby to Sidney, who had appeared on his favourite stair. ‘If that don’t beat all!’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A GAGGLE OF ENSEMBLE members gathered on stage in their new villager costumes, Freddy, the back half of the cow, wandered round in his oversized trousers looking, as usual, for his front half, and Libby, zipped into the unfamiliar fairy costume, glowered at anyone who walked past her and looked as though they might laugh.

  ‘Doc Martens and stripey tights with that, dear?’ asked Peter, stopping to survey her with a critical eye.

  ‘Might as well,’ said Libby. ‘It looks hilarious enough now, when it isn’t supposed to, so I think we’ll just have to funny it up as much as possible.’

  ‘You’ve turned her into a funny character,’ said Peter, ‘so why not? Got any Doc Martens?’

  ‘Some in wardrobe, I think,’ said a passing dancer. ‘They’re a bit out now.’

  ‘Did that make sense?’ said Peter, watching her drift onto the stage.

  ‘A bit “out”. Not fashionable any more.’ Libby sighed and wriggled. ‘Bit like me.’

  The musical director, now with his full complement of musicians, played a crashing chord which made them all jump.

  ‘Are we ready, yet? Please?’ he said. ‘We need to get on.’

  ‘All right,’ grumbled Libby, ‘give us a chance.’ She sidled on to the stage and was met with a scream of laughter.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘just you wait till I put on the funny bit. Now –’ She clapped her hands. ‘Beginners Act one, please.’ She looked sideways at the stage manager. ‘Can we have the tabs in, please?’

  Obediently, the heavy red curtains swished across the stage, the lights went down and the overture started.

  All things considered, Libby thought, it wasn’t too bad after the break of five days. Now they had to spend this week putting the final touches and trying to make everyone remember their words.

  Somebody leant forward from the seat behind.

  ‘Can I bring Cy and Colin to a rehearsal one night?’ whispered Harry. ‘They’ll be gone by the time it opens.’

  ‘Won’t that be rubbing it in with theirs cancelled?’ Libby whispered back.

  ‘No, I think Cy’s glad to be shot of it, frankly.’

  ‘I haven’t told you about Ian coming to see me this afternoon,’ said Libby, heaving herself out of the red plush chair. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Why aren’t you in the caff?’

  ‘It’s Monday and now Christmas is over we’re back to not opening Mondays. Why did he come?’

  ‘Tell you later. He’d been to see Cy and Colin.’ She clapped her hands. ‘OK, people, can we go back on that bit, please. From “The Prince’s balls” Bob. Thank you.’

  The rehearsal wound its weary way to a finish, the cast put on their own clothes, Peter, Ben and Libby locked up and walked down the drive to the pub, where Harry met them.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, ‘what did Ian have to say and why did he go and see Cy?’

  Libby explained.

  ‘I can’t believe he asked for your theory!’ said Peter.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Ben was leafing through his script, having already heard the story over dinner. ‘Shouldn’t be encouraging her.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything,’ said Libby, hurt. ‘Am I, Harry? The only involvement I’ve got now is that Colin and I went to see Aunt Dolly. Oh, but I did find out a bit more about Norma Cherry. She was Norma something else as well as Cliona Masters and quite a famous murderer. And Ian didn’t think the police knew about the farmer’s son going to Australia, so it was worth him coming to see me, wasn’t?’

  ‘Had Cy told them about Larry Barkiss?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes. They’re looking into it, but don’t think it means anything.’

  ‘A genuine red herring,’ grinned Harry, ‘like your two spinsters.’

  ‘Ah, now!’ said Libby. ‘Ian knows something about that. I mentioned them and he said there’s something I might like to know so he’s going to ring me.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said Ben, looking up. ‘Getting a bit friendly, isn’t he?’

  ‘I told him you’d got interested in the case,’ said Libby.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Ben.

  ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ Harry hooted with laughter. ‘Of the old trout?’

  Ben grinned ruefully. ‘All right, yes. I’m sure Ian’s not flirting with her.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Not worth it, eh?’

  ‘No, just that Ian’s an honourable man,’ said Ben.

  ‘Right,’ said Libby, suppressing a renegade wish that Ian wasn’t such an honourable man.

  ‘So, did I miss something? Why exactly did Ian go to see Cy?’ asked Peter.

  ‘He said it was a courtesy call on behalf of the Maidstone police, which seems a bit odd, and apparently they’re a bit suspicious because he didn’t report the first attack or the letters until after Patrick was found.’

  ‘So they think Cy’s got something to do with it?’ Harry frowned. ‘That he hit himself over the head?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘I did ask, but he wasn’t very forthcoming. Was curious as to why we’d let them stay at Steeple Farm.’

  ‘Cheek! It was virtually the police’s own suggestion!’ said Harry.

  ‘I know, I know. And he still didn’t tell me why it wasn’t considered safe for Cy to stay at home.’

  ‘Well, that was explained by the fact that his home was ransacked after he’d moved down here.’

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t know it would be,’ said Libby.

  ‘They must have suspected it,’ said Ben.

  ‘But why? All they said at the time was they wanted to do a thorough forensic examination.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Peter slowly, staring into space, ‘perhaps they thought Cy himself might try to get rid of something in the house. Perhaps they thought Cy knew what the attacker wanted.’

  The other three stared at him.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ said Harry eventually, in rather a strained voice.

  ‘I don’t, but that’s what the police might have thought,’ said Peter.

  ‘It makes sense, Harry,’ said Ben. ‘Of course we know it isn’t true, but taken together with the fact that the letters and the first attack weren’t reported until after the murder, you can see why the police might think there was something behind it – something that Cy was concealing.’

  Harry nodded morosely. ‘But he asked me for help. And when I suggested Libby, he was only too happy. He wouldn’t have done that if there was anything he was trying to hide, would he?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Libby. ‘As Ben says, we know it’s not true, but you can see how the police, who are adept at jumping to the wrong conclusion, might. And Colin was quite keen on calling Fran in, too, so he hasn’t anything to hide.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh on the police, Lib,’ said Peter. ‘You’re always saying they get there first.’

  ‘Mostly. We do give them a bit of help, now and then, you must admit.’ Libby sighed and put down her glass. ‘Anyway, I’d better get home now and do a bit of work on the second act kitchen scene. It isn’t working.’

  The three men groaned. ‘Not more words, Lib, please,’ said Ben, standing up to help her on with the old anorak.

  ‘Why didn’t you buy the old trout a new coat for Christmas, Ben?’ said Harry. ‘She’s been wearing that old blue cape for years, and now she’s wearing a disgusting old thing of yours. Why can’t you tidy her up a bit?’

  Libby looked affronted. Ben gave her a squeeze.

  ‘I like her as she is,’ he said. ‘I will buy her a new coat, the minute she says the word, but she does have a sort of bohemian style about her, you must admit.’

  ‘Am I that bad?’ Libby asked, as they walked out into the cold night again. ‘Should I
have a make-over, do you think?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Ben, tucking her arm through his. ‘I fell in love with you in your floaty draperies and charity shop bargains. Why would I want to change you?’

  ‘I’m not very glamorous,’ said Libby. ‘And I can’t do anything with my hair.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ said Ben. ‘Like a fuzzy peach.’

  Libby looked at him. ‘One that’s got a bit wrinkled sitting in the fruit bowl for too long.’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ said Ben, squeezing her arm. ‘One of the things I’ve always liked about you is your lack of vanity.’

  Libby sighed.

  She was back at the theatre the following morning checking box office receipts when the phone rang.

  ‘Oast House Theatre?’ she answered. ‘Ian? How did you know where I was?’

  ‘Ben told me,’ said Ian. ‘I just met him up at Steeple Farm.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘Yes. He goes up to check if they’re all right.’

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased about it.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Libby, ‘Just I don’t think he needs to. They’re big boys. They can look after themselves, especially as Colin can get his car out now and go shopping.’

  ‘He’s probably protecting his investment, Libby. Had you thought of that?’

  Oh, bugger, thought Libby. How many times over the past few years had Ian pulled her up about some uncharitable thought?

  ‘Yes, of course. I hadn’t. Anyway, did you want me for something?’

  ‘Remember I told you there was something you might want to know about the Burton and Taylor case?’

  ‘Yes? I was telling the others last night.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Ben, Peter and Harry.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ian, in a resigned voice. ‘Well, I told Ben, too, so can I meet you at the pub in about half an hour?’

  Libby looked at the clock. ‘About eleven? Is Ben coming?’

  ‘Yes and yes. Eleven, then?’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby and replaced the receiver, picking it up again immediately to dial Ben’s number.

  ‘What did he say to you?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing except that you’d told him I was interested in the Burton and Taylor case and he knew a bit about it.’