‘I really can’t imagine your mate Sheila as a ravening killer,’ said Harry when she had finished.
‘No, but she’s kept a lot of things quiet,’ said Ben.
‘Well, they can’t charge her for that,’ said Harry.
‘It looks to me,’ said Guy, wiping his small beard with his napkin, ‘as if you’ll never get to the bottom of this. It’s too far back. The only hope you’d have is if someone had kept old letters or something of that nature. And given that all the events, even Amy Taylor’s pregnancy, were in the war years –’
‘Except Maud’s death and the attacks,’ put in Libby.
‘The roots were all in the war years,’ continued Guy firmly, ‘when documentation for anything but the military was scrappy to say the least, I doubt if there’s anything left to investigate.’
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
‘So even if I can pick up something,’ said Fran, ‘there’ll be no one alive to confirm it, and no material evidence either.’
‘That’s right,’ said Guy, and patted her hand. ‘Cheer up, love. There’ll be another one along in a minute.’
Ben, Harry and Adam laughed.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Libby huffily.
‘Investigation, mother dear,’ said Adam.
‘Come on, Madam Director,’ said Ben, pushing back his chair. ‘Time to go.’ He got out his wallet and handed over his credit card. ‘My treat,’ he said.
Fran and Guy protested but Ben was firm. Libby asked if they would like to come and watch the rehearsal, but Fran said as they were all going to be together again the following night at Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s New Year party, she and Guy would go home and get an early night.
The rehearsal went as well as could be expected, and Libby stood everyone a drink at the theatre bar afterwards and wished them happy New Year. Peter, who had joined them, and Ben went round locking up while Libby checked the bar stock.
‘Er – Libby.’
She looked up and saw Freddy, the back half of the cow, hovering by the door.
‘Yes, Freddy? Got a problem?’ Libby came out from behind the bar and turned the light off. ‘How can I help?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ said Freddy, with a grin, as he came forward. ‘It’s just that my Aunt Dolly was telling me –’
‘Your Aunt Dolly?’ Libby stared at him. ‘Dolly Webley?’
‘Yes.’ Freddy looked surprised. ‘She was married to my uncle. Well, great-uncle really – my grandma’s brother. They never had any children, so they were more like grandparents to us.’
‘Well, I never!’ said Libby, sitting down with a thump that nearly turned the little white chair over. ‘So you know her family? Margaret? And Lisa?’
‘And Paddy, yes.’ Freddy looked solemn.
‘Oh, goodness.’ Libby shook her head to clear it. ‘I can’t believe this. What a coincidence.’
‘Yeah – well.’ Freddy shifted from one foot to the other and Libby told him to sit down.
‘Well, Aunt Dolly said you’d been by with a policeman today, and you’d been to see her before Christmas with someone else.’
‘That’s right. It’s part of the investigation into Patrick’s death. But your Auntie didn’t tell me about you! She said she knew all about me, and Flo Carpenter, but didn’t mention you.’
‘No reason she should, I suppose,’ said Freddy. ‘But she said you were asking about Maud Burton. Aunt Dolly never knew her, not really.’
‘She’d heard of her back in Curtishill, though,’ said Libby, wondering what was coming next.
‘Yes, but she didn’t really know her. But see, Maud Burton lived here before she went to Curtishill.’
Libby stared. ‘Really? How do you know?’
‘My grandma knew her. And the other one – Amy Taylor.’
Libby looked at him for a moment, then put her head in her hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ faltered Freddy. ‘Have I said something wrong?’
Libby lifted her head. ‘No, of course not.’ Ben came through the door from the auditorium as Peter came down from the sound and lighting box. ‘Come here and listen to this, you two,’ she said.
Freddy repeated his story and Peter burst out laughing.
‘All you needed to do was put a sign on the dressing room door, after all!’ he said. ‘You ought to have known someone in the village would know all about it.’
‘That’s actually why we were being discreet,’ said Libby. ‘We didn’t want anyone upset in case there were relatives still alive.’
‘Very laudable,’ said Peter. ‘But you’re not going to write the play now, anyway, so why the interest?’
‘Because it links up with Cy’s attack and Patrick’s death,’ said Libby, patting Freddy’s hand. ‘He was Freddy’s cousin.’ She looked at him. ‘Or second cousin. Or something.’
‘Actually no relation,’ said Freddy. ‘Aunt Dolly’s an aunt by marriage.’
‘Well, a connection, anyway,’ said Libby. ‘Freddy, I hate to ask this, but –’
‘Yes, Gran would love to talk to you,’ Freddy pre-empted. ‘She loves a good gossip about the old days.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the luck of the devil.’
‘Actually, Libby, there was something else,’ said Freddy, as Libby stood up.
‘Yes?’
‘Aunt Dolly was talking about Mr Strange, too.’
‘Mr – oh, Cy. Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Well,’ said Freddy, shuffling his feet and looking much younger than his twenty-five years, ‘you’ll say this is another coincidence, but it isn’t really.’
‘What is? said Libby. ‘Come on, Freddy, spit it out.’
‘Well,’ said Freddy again, ‘not to say knew, exactly, but his firm supplies our water coolers and top-ups. And when he used to work out of the Maidstone depot, he used to come and see our MD.’
‘So you met him?’
Freddy blushed and Libby’s mind clicked. She sat down again. ‘It’s OK, Freddy,’ she said. ‘You and he didn’t – um –’
‘Oh, no.’ Freddy was redder than ever. ‘I mean, I thought he was very – well – cool. But I knew he was in a relationship. Or rather, I found out he was.’
‘Libby? Are you coming?’ Ben was by the big double doors.
‘Yes,’ Libby called back. She stood up, took Freddy’s arm and walked him out of the building. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘Carry on.’
Chapter Thirty-two
‘NOTHING MUCH TO SAY,’ said Freddy, allowing himself to be marched down the drive. ‘He always talked to me when he came round, every couple of months just to check everything was OK, you know? And I … oh, well, I started to think maybe he was … you know …’
‘Interested?’ suggested Libby.
‘But then he started talking about his friend.’
‘Colin?’
‘Was that his name? Yes. Who he lived with. You see,’ said Freddy, turning to face Libby, ‘I didn’t know he was gay. I don’t think anyone did. But when I thought he was getting interested in me I got a bit worried. And I think he could see that. So he told me about – Colin, was it?’
‘So you got to know him quite well?’
‘Not really. But then there was this business at the depot and he moved to London. I thought he’d moved right away – like, you know, house.’
‘What business at the depot?’
‘About him being gay,’ said Freddy. ‘It was all gossip, you know, but someone told someone else and they told someone in our company.’
‘What was it though? Just that he was gay?’
‘No, someone was writing things – I don’t know – on walls, maybe. It all sounded a bit, you know, nasty.’
Libby was looking thoughtful. ‘And did you ever see Cy after you heard the gossip?’
‘No. Next we heard he’d moved to the head office. No one actually said, and then I asked the boss. He said not to talk
about it.’
‘Did he?’ Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘I wonder why?’
‘So when I said that to Aunt Dolly, she said I should tell you. She said it was important.’
‘It is, Freddy.’ Libby gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Very important. I’m so pleased you told me, and please thank Aunt Dolly for me, too, will you? She’s been a great help in all sorts of ways.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Libby to Ben, as they walked home, ‘is why Cy didn’t tell us anything about this.’
‘Did you know he’d worked in Maidstone?’
‘Yes. The first time I met them, Colin explained that they’d moved into the bungalow when the previous tenant’s lease had expired and then they saw the job in Maidstone advertised. The only thing they said about London was that Cy’d had promotion.’
‘To what?’
‘Colin said sales director, Cy said sales manager. But Freddy said he used to come round every couple of months to check that everything was OK, so it sounds as though he was in a good sort of position there.’
‘So it sounds, from what Freddy said, that he was moved to London because of some kind of homophobic trouble?’
‘Yes, but I actually asked if that had happened. Asked if it was that sort of place. You’d have thought they would have said,’ Libby complained. ‘And it’s annoyed me. I shall tell Ian about it tomorrow and then wash my hands of it all.’
‘What if Ian still wants your help?’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Libby. ‘He wants Fran’s help.’
Ben gave her a wry smile. ‘And you’ve sworn off the investigation before. What’s the betting you’ll be nosing around again by the weekend?’
‘I won’t have the time,’ said Libby. ‘From Saturday it’ll be panto, panto all the way.’
‘You’ll still be curious,’ said Ben, unlocking the door of number 17. ‘And the panto’s only on for a fortnight.’
‘Oh, it’ll all be over by then,’ said Libby. ‘Patrick’s murder was so long ago now that it’ll go on the back-burner for good.’
‘And what about Burton and Taylor?’
‘That’s in the hands of the Cold Case unit. I shouldn’t think they’ll get much on that, either.’
‘Freddy’s gran?’
Libby wavered, whisky bottle in hand.
‘Thought so,’ said Ben, removing it and unscrewing the top.
‘Freddy said his gran would love to talk to me,’ defended Libby, selecting two glasses. ‘Old ladies love talking about the past, don’t they?’
‘The one I live with does, anyway,’ said Ben, ducking.
The last day of the old year was cold. Libby spent the morning changing the bed, dusting and hoovering in order to start the new year with a clean and tidy house. Not that it would stay like it for long, but she always tried. She looked up Freddy’s number in her cast list over a lunchtime bowl of soup and called him.
‘Where does your gran live?’ she asked. ‘And when could I go and see her?’
‘I’ll give her a call,’ said Freddy, ‘then I’ll call you back.’
An hour later Libby, in a knitted hat, wellingtons and Ben’s old anorak again, was walking up the lane past Steeple Farm on her way to see Freddy’s gran. She crested the brow of the hill and turned to look back on her village. Steeple Lane itself wound down between steep banks, but at the foot of the hill where it joined the high street and the Nethergate road the village lay spread out. And suddenly, to her right, Libby caught the sparkle of water.
The dewpond. Libby looked to see if there was a way down to it, but a hedge and wire fencing prevented access. Perhaps to stop people like Amy Taylor drowning themselves in it. Someone had broken a hole in the ice, possibly for the sake of any fish lurking in the depths, which was why Libby had seen water. She stood looking at it for some minutes. The little river Wytch dribbled in at one end and presumably stopped, as she couldn’t see it reappearing. Trees stood round one side of the pond, and what looked like a path led across frosty shrubland between them until it was lost to sight over another rise in the land. Was it from here, Libby wondered, that the man – Elliott, was his name? – walked his dog and found poor Amy that Easter Sunday morning? She shivered and turned back to the lane, picking up her pace as she gained the flat.
The row of cottages where Freddy’s gran lived was a little further on. It looked to have been built around the same time as Libby’s cottage, and of the same red brick, but these had what would, in the summer, be pretty front gardens. Libby went to the green door at the end of the row and knocked.
Freddy’s gran was a surprise. A beautifully groomed, slim woman with silver hair pulled back into a fashionable upswept style, much younger than Libby had anticipated.
‘No,’ she said laughing, as she shook Libby’s hand. ‘I’m a neighbour. This is Una.’
This was more like it. A little woman with curly white hair, a knitted jumper, thick stockings and comfy slippers.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’m so glad you came. You don’t mind Sandra being here, do you? Only she might have something to tell you, too. That is, if you wanted to ask me about little Amy Taylor.’
‘Oh – oh, no of course not,’ said Libby, feeling slightly bewildered. ‘Um – do you mind if I take my boots off?’
‘Just leave them by the door, duck,’ said Una. ‘Sandra’s got the kettle on the boil. Tea?’
I must have drunk gallons of tea in people’s houses since I got into this investigating lark, Libby thought, as she took the seat by the fire which was offered.
‘So, duck, you wanted to know about Amy, young Freddy said?’
‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘it was just that her name came up in connection with an investigation I was helping with.’ No need to say how, thought Libby.
‘Ah.’ Una nodded. ‘With that Maud Burton, I’ll be bound.’
‘Yes. Freddy said you knew them both.’
Una nodded. ‘That I did, dear. Look, here comes Sandra with the tea. Let’s get that poured first.’
It was another version of Sheila’s proper tea tray, but classier, thought Libby. Proper cups and saucers, teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl. Sandra poured out three cups and sat back in her own chair. ‘Right, off you go, Una,’ she said.
‘How much do you know about Amy Taylor and Maud Burton?’ Una sipped her tea.
Libby repeated all she knew and had learnt over the past weeks.
‘Well, that’s right, duck. Except that Maud Burton was here when young Amy got into her bit of trouble.’
‘Was she?’ Libby frowned. ‘But in that case, Amy knew that Maud knew, why would she be upset by the letter?’
‘I doubt she knew who the letter was from – that’s what those letters are like, aren’t they? Leastways, the other I saw was. And they being so close as thieves, young Amy wouldn’t have thought her best friend would tell anyone.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Libby. ‘But did Maud help Amy at the time? When she had the baby?’
‘No, duck, Amy went away. See, the family thought no one in the village knew, but a few of us did. Including Maud Burton.’
‘So who were they both? Did their families live here?’
‘Oh, yes. Amy was the vicar’s daughter. Didn’t you know?’
‘Oh!’ Libby smacked a hand on the arm of her chair. ‘Yes. Flo thought she might have been.’
‘Flo Carpenter? She’s a good sort,’ said Una, putting her cup and saucer down.
‘You know Flo?’
‘Of course, me duck. All us oldies know one another. Me and Dolly Webley go down to Maltby Close for the bingo some weeks.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No cause for you to know. Anyway, young Amy was Vicar Taylor’s girl, and she’d been a bit sheltered, like. Wasn’t that young, neither, in her thirties, I think. Maud Burton was the shopkeeper’s daughter. We just had the one little shop then, where the post office is now. Well, it was a post of
fice then, too, but not so posh as it now.’
‘So what happened? Was it a picker?’
‘Pole puller, it were. Handsome chap. Course, Amy and Maud weren’t allowed to mix with the pickers. This was before the war. Once the war came, things got a bit different.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, remembering the story of Ben’s parents.
‘You’d know, duck, wouldn’t you?’ said Una shrewdly, watching her with surprisingly bright eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Libby turning faintly pink and remembering how the whole village would, of course, know the story, especially after Libby herself had produced the play telling it at the Oast House Theatre.
‘Anyway, Amy, as the vicar’s daughter, would go round with tea and bits and pieces for the families in the gardens sometimes. Sometimes she’d go with her dad when he did services over there on a Sunday. And she met this young chap. Well, not so much met. She knew him already.’
‘She did?’
‘He were her cousin,’ said Una.
Libby gasped. ‘Her cousin?’
‘There!’ said Una, sitting back and looking smug. ‘I said you wouldn’t know that.’
‘No, I certainly didn’t!’
‘Her cousin – what was his name, Sandra?’
‘Julian,’ said Sandra.
‘Yes, Julian, that’s right, he was much younger than Amy was, but she was allowed to mix with him, see. So he’d take her for a drink, or for walks. Anyway, the upshot is, when he goes off to university, she finds herself in the family way, so the family pack her off somewhere, I don’t know where, and say she’s gone off doing war work, cause that was 1939, see.’
‘What about Julian?’
‘Ah.’ Una shook her head. ‘He was killed at Dunkirk. Barely got to university, then he was off to join up. We knew about that cause Vicar told us in church. My nephew, Julian – what was his name, Sandra? French, it was.’
‘Sorry, Una, I don’t know,’ said Sandra.
Libby was wracking her brain to come up with the name of the relative she’d read about on the internet.
Murder Imperfect Page 23
