Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to get ourselves into trouble with people who are all dead,’ said Libby.

  ‘But there are people still alive,’ said Flo. ‘There must be. That there baby, for one.’

  ‘But it was adopted. And no one knows where Amy went to have it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Flo picked up her wine glass. ‘Bet you someone knows.’

  ‘But they’re nearly all dead, now, Flo. There’s only Una in the village.’

  ‘What about your dad?’ Flo turned to Ben. ‘He was here.’

  Ben looked surprised. ‘So he was. But he’d have been too young to know anything about it, surely?’

  ‘What, thirteen? Fourteen? In 1939?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Ben was frowning. ‘I could ask him.’

  ‘We didn’t ask your mum about Burton and Taylor in case it upset her,’ said Libby, ‘so why should we ask your dad?’

  ‘You know it’s filtered through to them,’ said Ben, ‘especially after Cy and Colin coming to Steeple Farm. I’ll see.’

  ‘You watch it, Libby, gal,’ said Flo. ‘You be careful, stirring up hornet’s nests.’

  ‘Remember last time,’ said Lenny darkly, wiping a foam moustache from his neat real one.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Libby. ‘But it’s not me, now, it’s everybody else. It seems to have spread, this story, so that everyone’s looking into it.’

  ‘To be fair,’ said Ben, ‘Lib was asked to talk to Harry’s friend by Harry, and it’s just snowballed. Especially once there was a murder.’

  ‘Yeah, we saw about that, didn’t we Len,’ said Flo. ‘Guessed it were your one.’

  ‘It’s not my one,’ said Libby. ‘But it was Dolly’s great nephew. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yeah. Met him once, when Margaret brought him and Lisa down.’ Flo shook her head again. ‘Terrible for that family. Lost Margaret’s Roy, too.’

  ‘Lisa and Patrick’s dad? Yes. Awful.’ Libby paused. ‘Did you ever meet Ada? Dolly’s mum?’

  ‘No. I didn’t marry my Frank until a few years after the war, did I? After Het had come back. Didn’t know anybody but Het for a bit.’

  Libby sighed. ‘It’s just so weird that it’s all linked up. And all because I asked Joe up at Cattlegreen about anonymous letters.’

  ‘See? I told you, stirred up a hornet’s nest, gal, that’s what you’ve done,’ said Flo.

  Libby glowered and Ben laughed. ‘And she should be relaxing and getting in the mood for panto tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so I shall take her home and take her mind off everything else.’

  Flo cackled and Lenny guffawed.

  ‘And you two have got dirty minds,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘I’m ashamed of you.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘SO MAUD BURTON WENT off to stay with her sister and do Red Cross work in Curtishill,’ said Libby the following morning. ‘Which means she’s got links with both villages.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran on the other end of the phone. ‘We’ve already worked that one out. What else we need to know is what secrets she knew that were worth blackmailing people for.’

  ‘Nothing real here in Steeple Martin except for poor Amy,’ said Libby. ‘What did you manage to find out about her baby?’

  ‘I got a free trial on one of the genealogy sites and looked her up in the Births Marriages and Deaths, but I didn’t have the baby’s Christian name. However, there was one surprise – the birth was registered in Maidstone. There’s no baptismal record, but that’s not surprising as the baby was illegitimate.’

  ‘And was it a boy?’

  ‘Oh yes. And registered as Brissac. Both parents on the certificate.’

  ‘So, she didn’t go far.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘You don’t think she actually went to her aunt – Julian’s mother?’

  ‘She could have done, although it would have been a rather uncomfortable situation.’

  ‘No more uncomfortable than going miles away to live with someone you didn’t know. And there wasn’t as much traffic between the towns and villages in those days, was there? Especially once the war started. And Stephanie might have felt quite protective of the baby, belonging to her son.’

  ‘I would have thought she’d be scared of it spoiling his chances,’ said Fran.

  ‘But he died. I wonder what drove him to it?’ mused Libby. ‘Then it would be all she had left of him.’

  ‘So do you think Stephanie Brissac adopted him? Brought him up as her own?’

  ‘She could have done. When the police tried to get in touch after Amy’s death, the report said she wouldn’t talk about it. The child would have been – what? Late teens, by then.’ Libby sighed. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Who was it said Amy kept in touch with the boy? Sent cards for his birthday? It would explain that, wouldn’t it? If it had been a legal adoption she wouldn’t have known where he was.’

  ‘And that,’ said Libby, ‘is another link to Maud Burton.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Arranging illegal adoptions. Perhaps she arranged it all!’ Libby was getting excited now. ‘She had a sister and brother living in Curtishill, who she probably stayed with during the war, so she would have known the Brissacs.’

  ‘But didn’t your friend Una say that Maud went away after Amy came back?’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean to say she wasn’t instrumental in the whole adoption process, and helping keep Amy out of the way during her pregnancy. And then maybe,’ said Libby warming to her subject, ‘that’s what gave her the idea of helping other people hide things.’

  ‘Babies?’ Fran sounded sceptical.

  ‘There were hopping babies,’ said Libby, ‘except that they were usually born nine months later, like Amy’s. A few were born during hopping.’

  ‘Or miscarried while hopping,’ said Fran slowly.

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ said Libby, ‘except she wouldn’t be able to blackmail hoppers. She wouldn’t know where they lived.’

  ‘We’re building bricks of straw, here,’ said Fran. ‘I think I’ve forgotten the whole point of the thing now.’

  ‘Yes, I keep feeling like that. I mean, I only really agreed to look into Cy’s poison pen letters. That’s where it all started.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fran with a sigh, ‘at least we’re a little further forward. Shall I tell Ian?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby. ‘If he can make any sense of it. Or pass it on to his mates at Maidstone nick.’

  It was several hours later, mid-afternoon, as it began to get dark, that Libby had a brainwave. Switching on the computer, she entered “1951 census” into the search engine. It took some time to track down what she wanted, but eventually, she found it. “Mrs Stephanie Brissac, 68 and Julian Brissac, 11.” At an address in Curtishill. Libby sat back, feeling smug. So Amy had named her baby after his father. And Stephanie had kept him.

  Then she went to the next census, 1961, and neither of them were there. She frowned. Stephanie could be dead, of course, she would have been 78, and Julian could possibly have been called up. How would you find that out? Army records? She picked up the phone.

  ‘Would someone aged 21 in 1961 have been called up?’ she asked a surprised Greg.

  Ben’s father laughed. ‘Are you at it again, young woman?’

  ‘Yes.’ She giggled. ‘I’m sorry, Greg. It’s actually only nosiness now. All the investigation into the murder and the attack on Harry’s friend is firmly in the hands of the police, but there were a couple of points that Fran and I were interested in.’

  ‘So Fran’s in it with you now? Oh, dear. When you two get together …’

  ‘I know. We egg each other on. Anyway, do you know?’

  ‘About call up? What age did you say?’

  ‘21 in 1961.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’d have been called up anywhere between 1957 and 1960, depending on his circumstances. It all ended in December 1960, but he could well still have been serving in 61. The last conscripts were demobbed in 1963, I believe.�
��

  ‘Thank you, Greg. I knew you’d know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should be encouraging you,’ he said with another laugh, ‘but good luck with it, anyway. Will you come and tell me all about it when you’ve got all the answers?’

  ‘I will,’ promised Libby.

  The first night of Hey, Diddle, Diddle and the Oast House Theatre was lit up from the tip of its white cone to its huge double doors, which now stood open. Libby approached with a strange feeling somewhere around her solar plexus and a distinct and almost unquellable urge to flee. Peter watched from the lighting gallery as she pushed open the inner glass doors.

  ‘Cheer up, petal,’ he said. ‘They don’t shoot directors these days.’

  Libby gave him a tremulous smile and went into the auditorium, where she surveyed the empty stage, set outside Mother Hubbard’s huge shoe-house. The theatre was coming to life.

  An hour later and the opening chorus raised the roof. As Libby had predicted, the presence of a live audience, warm and welcoming, had a tonic effect on the performers, and the Oast House Theatre’s good pantomime reputation soared higher.

  In the bar afterwards, Libby was surrounded by friends and relations of her cast, all telling her how good their daughter/son/husband/wife was. She agreed with them all. Amy, Maud, Cy and Patrick seemed a long way away.

  But the next morning, they crashed back into her world – or rather, one of them did – when the phone rang.

  ‘Julian Brissac,’ said Fran without ceremony.

  ‘Junior?’ asked Libby, wiping egg from her chin.

  ‘Junior. Was called up.’

  ‘I guessed that, too,’ said Libby. ‘I checked with Greg.’

  ‘It was difficult to track him down,’ said Fran, ‘because he’d changed his name.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But I did.’ Fran couldn’t keep the note of triumph from her voice. ‘Because I had a light bulb moment.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I thought about the name –’

  ‘Barkiss,’ said Libby.

  ‘How did you know?’ Fran sounded almost explosive.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Libby. ‘As soon as you said changed his name it came to me. The similarity. I wouldn’t have thought of it without you, though.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Fran, obviously not completely mollified.

  ‘So why did he do that?’

  ‘Julian Brissac sounds rather highbrow, doesn’t it? Perhaps he didn’t want to get beaten up by his fellow squaddies.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Libby. ‘So presumably, Larry is his son?’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ said Fran, ‘and now living not a million miles from here.’

  ‘Here? Nethergate?’

  ‘Near both of us. Steeple Cross.’

  ‘No!’ Libby sat down at the kitchen table and idly ran her finger around her egg cup to catch stray yolk. ‘Not another one of those awful neo-Georgian places where Monica lived?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s got an address in Steeple Cross. Should we pay him a visit?’

  ‘No!’ yelped Libby. ‘Don’t be daft, Fran. On what excuse? For goodness’ sake, we’ve never met the man, and anyway, Ian would be furious.’

  ‘I’ve told Ian already,’ said Fran. ‘He’s going to see him later today.’

  ‘So leave it to him. Honestly, Fran, how do you imagine we would get away with going to see him?’

  ‘I’d have thought of something.’

  ‘So how had Ian not found him before now?’ asked Libby.

  ‘He would have done, but I don’t think he was trying very hard. Or rather the Maidstone police weren’t. They were still trying to pin the murder and the attack on Cy on to those youths.’

  ‘But Ian told us they didn’t do it.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop them trying, though, does it?’

  ‘I would have thought someone with a connection to both victims was a much better bet,’ said Libby.

  ‘Exactly, which was why Ian’s been listening to us, and in this instance with good results. I found Larry through the census again.’

  ‘What about Julian? His father?’

  ‘No mention. I expect he’s dead.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been very old, only 70,’ said Libby. ‘Every chance he’d still be alive.’

  ‘Old people’s home?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Not at 70, not unless he has Alzheimer’s or something similar.’

  ‘So if we can’t visit, how about a trip out to Steeple Cross? We could just have a look at what sort of house he lives in. And have a drink or something. Is there a pub there?’

  ‘You’re worse than I am these days,’ grumbled Libby. ‘All right. Give me an hour or so to get myself sorted.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Fran. ‘I forgot. How did last night go?’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘No prompts and good audience reaction. Bob and Baz were the stars of the show again.’

  ‘Of course they were,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, I’ll pick you up in an hour, OK?’

  Libby trailed upstairs to shower and dress. What was she thinking of, she asked herself? Going off on a wild goose chase to gawk at someone’s house. It was like stalking.

  But it didn’t stop her experiencing a slight thrill at the thought of some action. The snow had curtailed most activities since before Christmas, although to be fair, in this particular adventure there hadn’t been much adventuring to do. The odd visit to the suburbs of Maidstone was about it.

  The lane to Steeple Cross was only just passable, snow piled up either side against the banks, the poles and wires of the bare hop gardens towering above them. The strange deep cut lanes of this part of Kent were almost claustrophobic, and could be quite frightening to visitors who occasionally got lost in them. Libby preferred the longer way round to get to Steeple Cross, which led through lanes at least wide enough to allow two cars to pass.

  At last they came out on to the ridge below which a cluster of houses huddled round a church. Hop gardens lay to one side, while snow-covered fields lay to the other, a wood topping the rise on the other side of the shallow valley. After negotiating the crossroads at the bottom of the slope, they passed the house they had both visited the previous summer and went on into what could be called the village centre. This was merely the lane bending round the church to accommodate a couple of large old houses which looked as though they might at any moment fall into the middle of the road. A few smaller cottages were scattered around the church, one of which turned out to be a pub.

  ‘Do you think it’s open?’ said Libby, peering out of the side window.

  ‘Is it past eleven o’clock?’ asked Fran, steering into the open space in front of the building.

  ‘Yes. Shall we try?’

  ‘Might as well, now we’re here. See if they serve coffee.’

  The door opened into a dark, uninhabited space. A single, red-shaded light burned behind the small bar.

  ‘Marie Celeste,’ whispered Libby.

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ The voice came from behind them. Libby lurched sideways in alarm and knocked over a small table.

  The man who smiled at them wore a collarless shirt over what looked like a grubby white T-shirt. Both were stretched over a burgeoning beer belly.

  ‘We were wondering if the pub was open for coffee?’ said Fran, recovering first.

  ‘I can do that,’ said the man going forward and lifting a flap on the bar. ‘Got the Kardomah machine all switched on ready.’

  Who for? wondered Libby, as they followed him to the bar.

  ‘Is it worth opening at lunchtime mid-week?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘Libby!’ said a shocked Fran, giving her a nudge.

  The man, however, didn’t appear offended. He merely shrugged and said ‘We get a few people in. Passers-by like yourselves. Few regulars.’ He held up two cups. ‘White?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ they said together.

  ‘Now,’ he said, while his back was turned, ‘this isn’t a day for
a sight-seeing trip, so what are you two ladies doing in a place like this?’ He turned round with the two filled cups. ‘Visiting, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ignoring a warning look from Fran. ‘Well, sort of. We’re looking for Larry Barkiss.’

  Fran made a sound between a hiss and a tut.

  ‘Larry?’ The landlord raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure?’

  ‘You know him then?’ said Libby.

  ‘I should say so.’ The landlord accepted Fran’s proffered money. ‘He’ll be in about – oh, ten minutes?’ He put the money in the till. ‘But what the – I mean – can’t see you two ladies having anything to do with Larry.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Fran.

  The landlord looked from one to the other. ‘You don’t know him, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, good luck is all I can say. I’ll point him out when he comes in.’

  Libby and Fran took their coffees to one of the small round tables, dark and much polished, and the landlord switched on the small red-shaded wall lights around the low-ceilinged room.

  ‘This wasn’t a good idea,’ whispered Fran. ‘What possessed you to say we were looking for him?’

  ‘Well, we’ve more or less found him, haven’t we?’ said Libby.

  ‘But what will we say to him?’

  But there, Libby had to admit she came unstuck. ‘It was your idea to visit him in the first place,’ she said in defence. ‘I said it was a daft idea. Then you said let’s come over here and scout round. I still said it was daft. And now you’re complaining because we’ve found him.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I think I must be getting a bit bored.’

  Libby eyed her friend with sympathy and a certain degree of schadenfreude. ‘I said so.’

  ‘Said so? To who?’

  ‘Ben. Some time ago. I know you’ve been busy this Christmas, but let’s face it, happily married, settled in Nethergate – what is there to do?’

  ‘I thought I might do that creative writing course I thought about before – do you remember?’

  ‘Or, on the other hand, we could ferret out some more mysteries,’ said Libby. ‘When the weather gets better.’

  ‘You change like the wind,’ said Fran. ‘You weren’t going to have anything to do with any more murders or mysteries, and you were only saying that to me the other day. Do be consistent.’