‘But her brother, John, was perfectly happy about it,’ said Ian, ‘according to his daughter. And then one day after John had died, Kyle suddenly gets it into his head that there could be a lot of money in the English family and he wasn’t getting his share. She says he’d already been in trouble with the police, abo-bashing, she said, which follows.’
‘Abo-bashing?’ said Colin.
‘Aborigines instead of gays,’ said Cy.
‘Oh,’ said Colin.
‘And of course he knew where his great-aunt Sheila lived,’ said Fran.
‘So he came over and they egged each other on.’ Libby made a face. ‘Horrible.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ian, ‘except that Sheila didn’t mean to kill anyone. She just wanted them upset. “Make their lives a misery”, is what Kyle said she told him to do.’
‘So she knew all about it? The attack on me?’ said Cy.
‘No. Kyle says about that that he’d been drinking. And he was in the Aird Memorial Hall that evening. He formed some kind of obsession for Lisa. And she’d left with someone else. He followed her out and Patrick followed him.’
‘Ah!’ said Fran and Libby.
‘Now it makes sense,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, well, Patrick tried to stop Kyle, who “lost it” he says. He’s quite forthcoming, now, especially since when briefly questioned, his great-aunt confirmed that he’s guilty.’
‘And so she didn’t see a gang of youths?’ said Colin.
‘No, she saw her great-nephew kicking one of her victims. She came out of the Memorial Hall and followed him because he was running. She didn’t realise he’d killed Patrick at that point.’
Cy put his head in his hands. ‘Sheila,’ he said. ‘But she helped us. She patched me up.’
‘And didn’t let you go to the police or to hospital,’ said Libby. ‘Remember?’
‘So it was Sheila writing to me?’ said Cy. ‘And my mother?’
‘And Patrick, and Margaret,’ said Fran.
‘And Maud was writing to Ada, Stephanie and Sheila,’ said Libby. ‘And now I want to know why she killed Maud and how.’
‘You said it yourself, weeks ago,’ said Ben. ‘When she heard about the Amy Taylor case and Maud’s part in it, she guessed that there would be an investigation.’
‘Which, actually, there wasn’t,’ said Ian.
‘But she thought there would be and her secret would come out, so she killed her. But how? You said there was no trace of Maud to be seen.’
‘We can only speculate,’ said Ian, ‘but we think she must have had transport. And I’m afraid we’re having to dig up the garden of her previous home.’
‘Oh.’ Libby felt a bit green about the gills, and noticed that Colin and Fran were also looking a trifle wan.
‘Did Lisa realise Kyle was after her?’ asked Ben. ‘And why didn’t anyone comment on his presence?’
‘I saw him,’ said Libby, ‘remember? I asked about Lisa’s boyfriend? He was right there in the hall. Sheila ignored him.’
‘Well, she would. Kyle used to follow her down and stay out of the way. I expect it was one of those situations where everyone thought he was with someone else.’ Ian put down his cup. ‘So there we are. An unpleasant business all round.’ He turned to Libby. ‘But without you looking into the Burton and Taylor story, Libby, I doubt if we’d have got there.’
‘Oh, I think you would. After all, you got the DNA,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, and we were already suspicious of Sheila,’ said Ian, ‘but we couldn’t see her killing Patrick or attacking Cy. She’s almost eighty.’
‘Kyle must have seemed like a godsend to her,’ said Fran. ‘Someone to manipulate, to do her dirty work for her.’
‘But, as is so often the case, the manipulated turns manipulator,’ said Ian and stood up. ‘Now, is there anything more you want to know?’
‘I want to know why you didn’t tell us about the trouble at the Maidstone depot,’ said Libby to Cy and Colin. Ian sat down again.
‘So do I, said Harry. ‘You were so keen for Libby to look into the attack, and she even asked you about if there’d been any trouble there.’
Cy looked at Colin, who had gone an unbecoming shade of red.
‘My fault,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I got into a state about the graffiti at the time and caused a bit of a fuss at the depot. That was really why Cy moved on. All my fault.’
No one spoke. Eventually, Cy looked round at the others.
‘I forgave him. And I don’t see how it would have helped anyway.’
Ian’s expression suggested that it might have done.
‘And why did Kyle attack Sheila? Ben asked.
‘He came in through the back door while Fran was there. He didn’t hear everything, so when Fran had gone he asked what she’d said. Neither he nor Sheila have told us exactly what happened, he just says it made him angry and she shouldn’t have done it.’
‘In those words?’ asked Peter with a grin.
‘Not exactly.’
In the following silence, Ian stood again and looked round t the thoughtful faces in front of him.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Libby. They all turned to her.
‘Are you coming to the pantomime?’ she said.
First Chapter of Murder to Music
THE WIND BLEW GREY clouds rimmed with silver across a darkening sky and the house was revealed in a flash of lightning. A light shone briefly from a window on the left, turned into a flickering strobe by a whippy birch. The music came to a sudden stop and the light went out.
Fran parked her car as close to the hawthorn hedge as she could.
‘I can’t get out now,’ said Libby.
‘You’ll have to slide across, then,’ said Fran, climbing out herself. ‘The lane’s too narrow to park anywhere else.’
Libby levered herself across the gear stick and caught her jacket on the handbrake.
‘Blimey,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘This woman makes things difficult, doesn’t she?’
‘Difficult? Why?’
‘No buses, nowhere to park. Doesn’t she want visitors?’
Fran laughed. ‘Not everyone lives in the centre of a village, Lib. Just because it’s a little off the beaten track doesn’t mean she’s unsociable.’
Libby looked round. The lane ran between fields that stretched to further hedges, small hills and a few clumps of trees. High summer: there was a smell of meadow with an undertone of cowpat.
‘Come on then,’ she sighed. ‘Let’s get it over.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ said Fran, leading the way to a small slatted gate set in the hedge. ‘You were just as keen to meet her as she was to meet you.’
‘She’s a celebrity seeker,’ sniffed Libby.
Fran laughed even louder. ‘She’s a famous novelist, Lib! I hardly think she thinks of you as a celebrity.’
The cottage stood, like a Victorian painting, at the end of a short path bordered by hollyhocks, roses, lupins and a few early dahlias. All that was needed was a child in a bonnet and a kitten in a basket.
The door opened and a woman beckoned them in.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Hello, Fran. And you must be Libby.’
She held out a hand and Libby shook it. The woman was only a little taller than she was herself, and not as tall as Fran. Her hair was fashionably streaked in shades of blonde, but was obviously white underneath – and distinctly untidy. She favoured, Libby was pleased to see, the same long and floaty clothes she did herself, although baseball boots peeped out from beneath the wide harlequin trousers. She looked at the woman’s round face and found herself being equally minutely studied.
‘I’m Amanda George,’ she said, ‘but only on the covers of the books. Mostly people call me Rosie.’
‘Hello,’ said Libby, suddenly feeling a little shy. The woman was at least ten years older than she was, successful and confident.
‘Well
, come on in, then,’ said Rosie, standing aside for them to pass her. ‘Go through to the garden. I thought we’d have tea out there.’
The back garden was as traditional as the front. A vegetable patch appeared to be tucked away behind a ceonothus hedge and yes – here was the cat. A black and white monster who rolled on his back as soon as they appeared.
‘Oh, ignore Talbot,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s shameless.’
‘My Sidney’s just grumpy,’ said Libby, squatting to rub Talbot’s stomach. He stretched his back legs to their full extent and purred a little.
‘Can I do anything to help, Rosie?’ asked Fran.
‘No, nothing. I’m going to boil the kettle. Do you prefer tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please,’ they said together.
‘Nice,’ said Libby, as they sat down on the cushioned chairs. ‘Lovely garden.’
‘A lot of work,’ said Fran.
‘Too much for me,’ said Libby. ‘I expect she’s got a gardener. All right for some.’
‘You’re letting your prejudice show again,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against her.’
‘I haven’t got anything against her,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘She actually seems quite nice.’
Fran snorted, and Rosie came out carrying a tray with teapot, milk jug and mugs.
‘I’ve got sugar if you want it, and I’ve put my sweeteners on there,’ she said. ‘We’ll just wait for it to draw.’
‘I do like tea from a teapot,’ said Libby. ‘I’m fighting a rearguard action against teabags in mugs.’
‘I so agree,’ said Rosie, and Libby suddenly knew what people meant when they said somebody “twinkled”. ‘Mind you, it’s handy on occasions, when you haven’t got much time.’
‘So, what’s the mystery?’ asked Fran, leaning forward with her arms on the table.
‘Straight to the point, eh, Fran?’ Rosie laughed. ‘Reminds me of my writing advice “get straight into the story”. Don’t fanny around with the back story.’
‘But that’s what we want to know, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘The back story?’
Rosie leant forward and picked up the teapot. ‘Of course it is. I’ll just pour this out and then we can get on with it.’
When they all had their cups, Rosie leant back in her chair and looked at Libby.
‘Not that I didn’t want to meet you anyway,’ she said, ‘having read about you in the newspaper and knowing you were a friend of Fran’s.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘But it did seem to be a heaven sent opportunity.’
Libby looked across at Fran and raised her eyebrows. Fran shook her head.
‘An opportunity for what?’ she prompted.
‘Well.’ Rosie sighed. ‘There’s this house, you see. I know where it is, and I know it’s been boarded up. But I need to find out more about it.’
‘For a book?’ asked Libby.
‘No, although I suppose I might turn it into a book one day. No. You see, I dream about it, and it feels as though I lived there.’ Rosie looked from Libby to Fran and made a face. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ she said. ‘You know about my experiences.’ Fran was writing her account of how she came to be living in Coastguard Cottage.
‘That’s what made me think of asking you.’ Rosie turned to Libby and smiled. ‘You know Fran’s writing about Coastguard Cottage?’
Libby nodded, although she knew little about the creative writing classes Rosie taught and Fran attended.
‘When we talked about it, she told me how you had stayed there as a child, too, and about the picture. She said you painted similar pictures.’
‘Yes. She could have shown you a postcard. Her husband makes postcards of some of the paintings.’ Libby glanced at Fran, who was looking at the cat.
‘Oh, she has. I’ve now got several.’ Rosie was twinkling again, and Libby warmed to her. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘it gave me the idea of trying to find out about the house and why I dream about it. I’m sure I’ve never been inside it.’
Libby frowned. ‘But surely you must do research for the books you write? Couldn’t you find out about it?’
‘I could, but I think I might get sidetracked and start researching that instead of writing the next book. I don’t suppose you’ve got any more free time than I have, but you might be less likely to let it take over your life.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Fran. ‘You don’t know Libby when she’s got her teeth into something. Nothing else matters.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Rosie looked back at Libby. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking.’
Libby laughed. ‘Fran’s exaggerating,’ she said. ‘And she’s as bad anyway.’
Fran smiled ruefully. ‘She’s right.’
‘So what do you think, then?’ said Rosie. ‘Would you like to look into it?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other and nodded.
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Libby. ‘After all, it’s not a murder or anything like that. It would be good to look into something just for interest’s sake.’
Rosie sighed. ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the table and straightened a spoon. ‘It’s been bothering me slightly. There’s such a strange atmosphere about the dreams.’
‘Where is the house?’ asked Fran after a pause. ‘Is it local?’
Rosie looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Just on the outskirts of Cherry Ashton.’
Fran raised her eyebrows at Libby.
‘Towards the coast the other way from Nethergate,’ said Libby.
‘Near Creekmarsh?’
‘Further over than that. Quite lonely.’
Rosie nodded. ‘The house is on one of the lanes in from the main road. On its own.’
‘Has it got a name?’
‘White Lodge,’ said Rosie. ‘And I think it may once have been the lodge for a bigger house.’
‘Who lives there, now? Do you know?’ said Fran.
‘No one,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s boarded up.’
‘Oh.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘It’ll be difficult to find anything out about it then, won’t it?’
‘We’ll find a way,’ said Fran. ‘You know we will.’
‘And you will let me know if you start incurring any expenses, won’t you?’ said Rosie.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll have any of those,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But if we suddenly get a fine for trespassing, you can pay it.’
‘Trespassing?’ said Fran. ‘Are we going to?’
‘Well, we’ll have to go and look at it, won’t we? And up close. So I expect we’ll trespass. Not inside, though. It’ll be all locked up, and I’ve never been good at breaking and entering.’
Fran sighed and shook her head. ‘See what I’m up against, Rosie?’
Rosie laughed. ‘And why she’s the perfect person to investigate. More tea?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘Could you just tell us about the dreams?’
‘Yes.’ Rosie leant back in her chair. ‘I thought you’d want to know about those.’
‘Well, that’s why you want us to look into it,’ said Fran. ‘Where are you in the dream? Inside or out?’
‘Both. Sometimes I’m in a garden – coming through a gate in a wall. It has a sort of old wooden lintel,’ she frowned, ‘which seems odd in an outdoor wall. And it’s a bit overgrown. There are stones, there, a bit like grave stones.’
Fran looked at Libby. ‘And where else?’
‘Inside. There’s one particular place which has very long windows but no furniture. Although I can hear a piano. And you know how it is in dreams, sometimes I just look round and the whole scene has changed to something else. There’s a kitchen, but it seems to be upstairs and rather shabby. Sometimes it has a bath in the same room.’ She shivered. ‘And this atmosphere. Yet I feel almost certain it’s – or it was – a happy place.’
‘And you have some kind of connection to it?’ said Fran.
Rosie nodded. ‘It won
’t let me alone, you see. I seem to dream about it almost every night, and I can’t shake it off during the day. That’s why I need to find out, to lay it to rest.’ She turned to Libby. ‘And why I can’t do it myself, or it would completely take me over. Do you see?’
‘Yes.’ Libby smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find out. Won’t we Fran?’
More titles in the Libby Sarjeant Series
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Who's Who in the Libby Sarjeant Series
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
First Chapter of Murder to Music
Murder Imperfect Page 30
