Ben and Peter reported that all was well and Libby went back to the Manor to help Hetty clear up after breakfast. Although originally this was not going to be provided, Hetty would not allow anyone staying in her house to go unfed, and provided toast and cereal on long tables in the sitting-room.
‘After all,’ she pointed out, ‘them as is staying in the pub get breakfast, don’t they?’
Unable to refute this impeccable logic, Max had agreed, forbearing to say that those staying in the pub didn’t have to dance their way through the mornings on full stomachs. However, the dancers appreciated their cereal and fruit juice and were beginning to treat Hetty like a surrogate mother.
Tuesday passed quietly. Harry again provided lunch and spent time chatting, the results of which he gave to Libby when she called in to the restaurant on her way home in the afternoon.
‘But there’s nothing,’ he said. ‘They’re all mystified. And a bit scared, too.’
‘I wondered about that,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘They’ve got a right to be, I suppose.’
But Tuesday night turned into Wednesday without incident, and on Wednesday evening Ben and Libby decided to join their friends Patti Pearson and Anne Douglas, who were on their regular Wednesday date at The Pink Geranium. Several of the dancers were also in there, and Patti and Anne were keen to know who they were.
‘So you see,’ said Libby, when she’d finished relaying the events of the past few days, ‘we’re no further forward. They’re all a bit scared, really, although nothing’s happened since Monday morning.’
‘Are you going to tell Ian about it? Or have you already?’ asked Anne.
‘Max doesn’t want the police involved,’ said Ben. ‘Which is why he asked Libby and Fran.’
‘Really?’ Patti raised her eyebrows.
‘In a way.’ Libby felt her cheeks going hot. ‘You remember Sir Andrew? He told Max about what happened with the ukulele player last year – Max had been to the concert – and that Fran and I had been involved in, er, things before. And he thought it would be a good idea to bring the show here for a try-out. Which it was.’
‘Is it on all next week?’ asked Anne.
‘Barring accidents, Wednesday to Saturday,’ said Libby. ‘But funnily enough, almost sold out. They did all the marketing in London, and it’s still ongoing, so they’ve got masses of people coming down for it. I believe Anderson Place is practically booked out for the week.’
‘Could we get tickets for Wednesday?’ asked Patti. ‘I’ll ring up in the morning, shall I?’
‘I’ll find two for you,’ said Ben. ‘You don’t mind the subject matter?’
‘Witches?’ Patti’s eyes slid to meet Libby’s. ‘Let’s face it, I have more knowledge of them than most, haven’t I?’
Patti, the vicar of St Aldeberge along the coast from Nethergate, had fallen foul of a so-called coven of witches some years before. Libby and Fran had helped unmask them.
‘Everybody’s wondering if it’s something to do with witches. The campaign, or whatever it is,’ said Libby.
‘Disapproval of same?’ asked Anne, finishing off her glass of white wine and waving at Harry, who was flirting madly with a table full of dancers.
‘Well, yes,’ said Libby. ‘I mean, they’re terribly disapproved of in the church, aren’t they?’
‘The modern church doesn’t believe in them,’ said Patti. ‘Or at least, not as the church in 1612 did.’
‘You believe in evil,’ said Anne, fixing her friend with a steely eye. Patti blushed, and Libby wondered what the subtext was beneath this exchange.
‘Anyway, the church would hardly disapprove of a play, or a ballet, about the Pendle Witches,’ said Patti, also finishing her wine.
‘More wine, I take it?’ said Harry, appearing behind them. ‘Sancerre, again, Anne?’
‘We’ll have a bottle,’ said Anne recklessly. ‘Patti can help me drink it at home if we don’t finish it tonight.’
Harry’s lips twitched. ‘Yes’m. But may I ask if you’re going to the pub from here? Because they won’t be too pleased if you wander in clutching an open bottle of wine.’
‘Ah.’ Anne looked at Patti and giggled. ‘Didn’t think of that.’
‘You have much more and you’ll fall out of your chair,’ said Harry. ‘I shall give you one more glass.’
Anne shimmied her wheelchair left and right to demonstrate her fitness to control it and grinned at Libby. ‘Isn’t he bossy?’
Libby laughed. ‘On occasion. But very helpful.’
‘Returning to Ian,’ said Patti, when Harry had refilled their glasses, ‘are you going to tell him?’
‘Do you think he’ll be in tonight?’ asked Ben.
Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell had been a friend for some years and often popped into the pub on Wednesdays to join them all for a drink.
‘He might be,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m not sure I ought to say anything to him if Max doesn’t want me to.’
But when Ian appeared in the pub an hour later it was obvious that he already knew at least part of the situation.
‘How do you know, then?’ asked Libby, as he accepted his coffee from Ben and sat down.
‘I went in to see Harry and found him surrounded by male dancers.’ Ian grinned and nodded over to the other bar. ‘And they’re in there with some others, I see.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘Patti wanted to know if we’d told you the story, you see.’
‘Tell me now,’ said Ian. ‘Harry wouldn’t say much in front of his adoring followers.’
So, between them, Ben and Libby gave him the outline of the problems besetting Max’s Pendle Witches.
‘Did he report this in London?’ asked Ian when they’d finished.
‘Do you know, I never thought to ask,’ said Libby.
‘It doesn’t sound as though he did.’ Ian gazed thoughtfully into his coffee cup. ‘I can’t do anything unless he tells me, I suppose, but I don’t like the sound of this knife attack.’
‘Would you call it a knife attack?’ wondered Libby.
‘What would you call it? A playground prank?’ said Ben. ‘Of course it’s a knife attack, and very accurately aimed, too.’
‘You mean at this stage manager person?’
‘Stan Willis, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Apparently, so Flo tells us, he’s the image of Wally Willis.’
‘Who?’ said Ian, Patti and Anne together.
‘A London villain from the sixties and seventies.’
‘And Flo knew him?’
‘Flo and Lenny. He was a bit of a well-known character in London.’
‘So is this his son?’
‘Son or grandson,’ said Libby. ‘Stan’s only in his thirties, I should think.’
‘It isn’t a reason to go to so much trouble to slash his hand, though,’ said Anne. ‘Sins of the father and all that.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Ian. ‘In London gangland they take it out on anybody. Or they used to. Things have changed a lot now with so much corporate crime.’
‘You’re not going to do anything about it, are you?’ asked Libby. ‘I’d feel I’d betrayed Max.’
Ian raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’re quite happy about being asked in to look into something possibly dangerous instead of the police?’
Libby looked uncomfortably round the table. ‘Well, not exactly,’ she said.
‘Would anyone like another drink?’ asked Patti, standing up. ‘My round.’
Ian declined, but Anne, Libby and Ben all nodded.
‘Well, Libby – you do have the local monopoly on charmers, don’t you?’ Phillip Newcombe had approached silently from the other bar and was beaming at Ian.
‘Hello, little wasp,’ said Libby. ‘Everybody – this is Phillip Newcombe who is playing – I’m sorry, dancing – Alizon, one of the principal witches. Anne and Ian, Phillip. Oh, and this is Patti.’
Everyone murmured greetings.
When it became apparent they were no
t going to ask him to join them, Phillip cocked his head on one side at Libby and began to turn away.
‘I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘but I’m pretty sure I got the whiff of the constabulary just now in Harry’s lovely caff. And here, too. Strange, isn’t it?’
He twinkled off and Ian swore.
‘I was talking to Harry about a consignment of wine that has mysteriously gone missing. I had hoped no one had overheard.’
‘No harm done, I suppose,’ said Ben, ‘but as Libby said, he’s a wasp. Likeable, but definitely a wasp. He’ll spread that around.’
‘And on cue,’ said Libby, looking doleful, ‘here comes Max.’
‘We’ll go,’ said Patti, standing up and grasping the handle of Anne’s chair.
‘No need,’ said Libby.
‘No, it’s best,’ said Ian. ‘Thanks, girls.’ He went to open the door for them and saw them through.
‘They left their drinks,’ said Libby miserably. ‘Oh, bugger all this.’
Max arrived at their table, not looking angry, thought Libby thankfully.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is our friend Ian. You’ve just missed Patti and Anne.’
Ben looked at her as though she was babbling.
Ian nodded as he came back to the table. ‘They’ve gone back to Harry’s. We’ll collect them later.’
Libby’s eyes flew up into her hairline. ‘That’s nice of you.’
‘I can be, sometimes,’ said Ian and turned to Max. ‘You’re Max Tobin, I understand, and something tells me you want to ask me some questions.’
‘I – er – I –’ Max was floundering.
‘Do sit down,’ said Ian, the height of urbanity. ‘And before you ask, no, Libby has not reported anything officially to the police. In the same way that your dancers gathered I was a policeman, I gathered that there is something going on within your company.’
Max looked from Ben to Libby and back to Ian. ‘How …?’ he began.
‘I’m a friend.’ Ian’s eyebrows quirked. ‘Policemen can have friends, you know.’
Max was still looking wary and Ben lost his patience.
‘Max, things have been going on in your company. Not just criminal damage but actual harm to someone. I really think you ought to tell Ian.’
Max sighed.
‘We won’t make it official,’ said Ian. ‘Unless, of course, it becomes necessary.’
‘How much do you know?’ asked Max, capitulating. When he had finished his story, Ian looked thoughtful.
‘There is, in fact, sufficient evidence for you to report this to the police and for us to investigate.’
‘I would rather …’ began Max.
‘I know you don’t want to. May I ask why?’
Max looked uncomfortable.
‘You don’t want to upset the company, is that it?’ asked Libby.
‘Partly. And I don’t want it to get out.’
Ian was now looking scornful. ‘So you’re prepared to risk further incidents to avoid bad publicity?’
Max went down like a pricked balloon. ‘Sounds awful when you put it like that.’
‘It’s more for the boys than for Max himself,’ Libby tried to explain. ‘A lot of it is their own work.’
‘How?’ Ian was frowning.
‘They workshopped it. Didn’t one of them suggest the story?’ Ben said.
‘That’s right.’ Max nodded. ‘It was Alan, after we’d seen Swan Lake.’
Ian was now looking confused, so Libby explained Matthew Bourne’s innovative Swan Lake.
‘And Damian, the company pianist, devised the music, so he’d hardly do anything to harm the production. You see, I really can’t think any of them would do this sort of thing.’ Max stared earnestly at Ian.
‘You’d be surprised how many people swear that their best friend or partner couldn’t kill a fly and then discover they’re a bestial murderer,’ said Ian.
‘I know.’ Max sighed gustily. ‘But could we leave it until tomorrow? I’d like to discuss it with my company manager first.’
‘Company manager?’ asked Ian.
‘Stan Willis,’ said Libby. ‘He’s also the stage manager and the victim of the Kabuki curtain assault.’
‘Surely he will be in favour of going to the police?’ said Ian.
‘I should think so,’ said Ben. ‘He was certain someone was out to kill him after the attack.’
‘Oh? What did he say?’ asked Ian.
‘I don’t remember exactly, but it was sort of “They’ll get me next time, you see if they don’t”. None of us took it seriously.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Ian, more thoughtful than ever. ‘That sounds as though he believed it was definitely an attack on him, doesn’t it?’
‘I’ll ask him,’ said Max with resignation. ‘He’s staying here, as I am, so I’ll knock on his door when I go up.’
‘He isn’t in the bar with the others?’ said Libby.
‘No. Damian and Seb are there, but they said Stan had gone up.’
Libby explained to Ian who Sebastian and Damian were in case Ian had got muddled with all the names.
Max stood up. ‘I’ll go up, then. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’ He nodded at Ian, smiled sadly at Libby and Ben and went towards the stairs.
Ben stood up. ‘I’ll go and fetch the girls, shall I?’
‘Yes, please. They’ve still got drinks to finish,’ said Libby.
‘Well?’ she said to Ian when Ben had gone. ‘What do you think? Storm in a teacup?’
‘I think it’s more dangerous than that,’ said Ian. ‘If your friend Max won’t report it formally I shall force his hand. I’m not sure I shouldn’t also force him to cancel the production.’
‘Oh, Ian, no!’ gasped Libby. ‘All that work!’
‘And suppose something worse happens?’ said Ian.
‘What if it has?’ said Ben, appearing behind them. ‘Stan isn’t in his bedroom. And it’s been ransacked.’
Chapter Eleven
Ian was out of his seat so fast he was at the door before Libby could even stand up.
‘What?’ she said to Ben.
‘When I got into the hall Max was practically falling down the stairs. I left him there and came to get Ian. I don’t know any more than that.’
‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Why was Max nearly falling down the stairs?’
‘He’s got the wind up. He was worried by Ian’s attitude.’ Ben sat down. ‘He was trying not to think any of it was really serious and he’s realised he can’t ignore it any more.’
‘You never made it to collect the girls,’ said Libby after a moment. ‘I’ll go and get them.’
Ben nodded and Libby left the pub, avoiding the reception area.
Harry and Peter were sitting with Anne and Patti in the left-hand window, the one with the comfortable sofa and chairs, a bottle between them on the coffee table. Libby quickly told them what had happened.
‘I came to fetch you,’ she said at last. ‘You left drinks on the table.’
‘I think we’d be better keeping out of the way,’ said Patti. ‘Harry’s treated us to the wine, so we’re quite happy.’
Just then, the door opened and Ben stuck his head round.
‘Pete, Hal, could you come and give us a hand?’
‘What’s happened?’ Peter stood up.
‘Ian’s worried about Stan, and as we can’t raise him on his phone, he wants to go and look for him. I’ll have to open the theatre in case he went back there, and Ian thinks we should have a look round outside. He doesn’t want the dance crowd involved.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Libby, but with a sense of foreboding. ‘Shall we stay here?’
‘Yes.’ Ben came and patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’d only get plagued by the company if you went back to the pub.’
The men left and Patti, Anne and Libby sat and looked at each other.
‘What shall we do now?’ said
Anne. ‘I feel useless just sitting here.’
‘I think Ian’s over-reacting,’ said Libby. ‘He’s making much more of it than the rest of us did. I don’t know why he’s so worried.’
‘He’s a lot more experienced than any of us,’ said Patti. ‘He must have spotted something that got past the rest of you.’
‘Or perhaps he knows something we don’t,’ said Anne. ‘Or rather, you don’t.’ She shifted impatiently in her chair. ‘I feel so useless.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ said Patti. ‘There’s nothing we can do anyway. And we don’t know any of the people concerned.’
Anne smiled. ‘I know. I’m just over-reacting to the situation like Ian. I think I tend to dramatise things because I can’t do anything about them.’
Libby looked at her with sympathy. ‘I think I know what you mean. But I can’t think anything’s really happened. Far more likely that Stan stayed behind at the theatre to fiddle about with the set or something. Or even check his accounts. Oh, I don’t know.’ She picked up the wine bottle. ‘Do you think I could have a glass of this?’
‘Course you can. Shall I get you a glass?’ said Patti.
‘No, I’ll go.’ Libby went over to the counter and found a glass. Patti poured them all more wine and they settled down in silence to wait.
‘But his room was ransacked,’ said Anne suddenly. ‘That’s serious.’
‘But was it, though?’ said Libby. ‘He could just be very untidy. Remember that TV ad about the boy who was left home alone and his friend thought he’d been burgled?’
‘But Ian must have had a look at it now,’ said Patti, ‘and he’d know the difference.’
Libby nodded gloomily and sighed into her drink. ‘I sometimes think I’ve got some kind of reverse Midas touch. Whenever I go near anything or anybody …’ she trailed off.
Patti looked at her fondly. ‘You go near people because they ask you to,’ she said. ‘I asked you for help when I first met you, didn’t I?’
‘It wasn’t you actually,’ said Libby. ‘It was my dippy friend Alice.’
‘So it was. But look how you helped in that affair.’
‘I think I made it worse,’ said Libby.
Anne laughed. ‘She’s determined to be the Harbinger of Doom, Pats, whatever you say.’
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