Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series)

by Cookman, Lesley

  ‘What was that?’ Ben appeared at the back door. ‘Talking to yourself again?’

  ‘I give the best answers,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘Tea?’

  She told Ben about the discoveries of the morning and the beginnings of the research into smuggling.

  ‘I’m going to ask Andrew again. He’s good at County Archives and things. We might find something.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as though it would help to find Roland and Ramani’s murderer,’ said Ben, sipping tea thoughtfully.

  ‘It might help find out why, though. If there really is some kind of treasure, isn’t it more likely it was left there during the smuggling years, and someone knew about it?’

  ‘It would have been found years before now,’ said Ben. ‘And what about this tunnel you think leads to the grotto? That must have been discovered, if it was there, when the grotto was built in – what? The Victorian era?’

  ‘Adelaide doesn’t seem to know much about it, but I bet Andrew could find something. And if the grotto was built in the Victorian era, the tunnel would have been blocked by then. The bricks in the cellar were nineteenth-century, Lewis said.’

  ‘Could have been blocked at the same time, then,’ suggested Ben.

  ‘Oh, yes, so it could.’ Libby gazed pensively into her mug. ‘We need help.’

  ‘You’re getting hooked on all this research again,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t know why you don’t just join the local history society and be done with it.’

  Libby grinned. ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it! But I need history to have purpose, not simply for interest’s sake.’

  The landline rang.

  ‘Andrew?’ said Libby, snatching up the handset.

  ‘No, Ian. I was ringing to let you know that a tunnel has been found under the Victorian grotto.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Apparently, my SOCOs were told they had to look for it. That would be you, would it?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby guiltily. ‘It was Lewis. He said he was going into the police station to tell you.’

  ‘I was told he’d been asking for me, but I wasn’t available.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, Fran is sure there’s a passage in the house, and there’s definitely a passage leading from the cellar, but it’s been blocked up with nineteenth-century bricks. Ben thought it might have been done when the grotto was built.’

  ‘Ben did? You’ve dragged him into this?’

  ‘No. I haven’t,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘He’s simply interested. And I have to remind you that it was your idea to go and search the house.’

  ‘All right, all right. So, this passage. Ben suggested the search there?’

  ‘No!’ Libby was impatient. ‘Lewis did. There’s this suggestion of a passage linking Dark House and Keeper’s Cob, and we thought …’

  ‘And you were right, of course.’ Ian sighed. ‘Did Fran say so?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby unwillingly. ‘What now? Will it be excavated?’

  ‘It’ll be searched to see if there’s any trace of Ramani’s body being down there. If the tunnel’s blocked at the house end, I don’t see how anyone there could be involved.’

  ‘Apart from being murdered,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘Look, we’ll instigate a more thorough search of the house if Fran thinks there’s a secret room or passage there. But I’m blowed if I know what relevance it has.’

  ‘Something’s hidden there,’ said Libby. ‘Something that Roland knew about and told Ramani, who told someone else, who then murdered her and finally murdered Roland.’

  ‘It’s that important? Why hadn’t Roland already disposed of it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps, as we said, he was telling porkies.’

  ‘But well enough to convince Ramani and whoever she told.’

  ‘Thing is,’ said Libby, ‘I doubt if it could be a fortune left by Godfrey Wyghtham for his wife. If all his silver or whatever it was had been buried he would have dug it all up after the war. It’s more likely to be smuggled goods from the late eighteenth century, isn’t it?’

  Ian sighed heavily. ‘I have no idea. We’ll search, anyway. There may just be some evidence in the god-forsaken hole that will link to the murderer.’

  ‘What about the Johnny person?’ asked Libby. ‘It seems very odd that he didn’t hear or see anything, or know anything about the grotto, living so close to it, and having to go through it to get to the main house.’

  ‘He’s been questioned more than once, Libby,’ said Ian, ‘and believe me, it doesn’t surprise me that he doesn’t know anything.’ He cut the line.

  Almost immediately, the phone rang again.

  ‘Andrew! Thank you for calling back.’

  ‘And what do you want me to investigate this time, Libby?’ asked Professor Wylie, sounding amused.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘I’m so sorry. It looks as though that’s the only reason I ever want to speak to you.’

  ‘Well, it is, mostly,’ said Andrew, with a laugh. ‘Come on then. Tell all.’

  ‘A job for the County Archives, methinks,’ he said when Libby had finished.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So, Dark House, Dark Lane, formerly Wyghtham Hall owned by Godfrey Wyghtham who enlarged it in 1643 and died some twenty years later. And was he involved with the Battle of Maidstone?’

  ‘Oh, you know about that?’ said Libby. ‘Oh, of course you do. Well, perhaps you could also talk to Edward Hall. He’s involved, too.’

  ‘Dr Hall?’ Andrew sounded surprised. ‘Where does he fit in? He’s an expert on the seventeenth century of course, and in particular the civil wars.’

  Libby explained.

  ‘Right,’ said Andrew. ‘First I’ll do a bit of digging at the County Archives, and when I’ve got a bit more you can introduce me to Dr Hall. What’s he like?’

  ‘Very good-looking, very well-dressed and very selfish. Thinks of his subject before everything else, and thinks everyone, including the police, is prejudiced against him because of his colour.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, now you’re forewarned. Is there anything else you need to know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If there is, I’ll ring you.’

  ‘Thanks, Andrew, you’re a pal. Have you seen Rosie lately? Fran and I were saying we haven’t heard anything since the Aldeberge business.’

  Andrew sighed. ‘She’s gone off to the States. They love her books there, apparently, and she’s doing the grand book tour.’

  ‘What about Talbot?’

  ‘He’s with me, which is a bit rough on him, as he only has the balcony to go out on, but luckily he’s so lazy I don’t think he minds. Cats are adaptable.’

  ‘You might as well take him on permanently,’ said Libby, ‘the amount of times Rosie leaves you to take care of him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m thinking of it, don’t worry. He and I get on well. Two old buggers together.’

  Later in the evening, it being Wednesday, Ben, Libby and Peter joined Patti and Anne in the pub after rehearsal.

  ‘So, I hear you’ve found out more about your murder?’ said Patti, after Ben had supplied them all with drinks.

  ‘Not found out, but I’ll update you,’ said Libby and did so, starting from when they’d left the church on Monday morning.

  ‘So it’s two murders now?’ said Anne. ‘Same person?’

  ‘The police assume so, but there’s not much to go on so far.’

  ‘You know,’ said Peter, pushing a lank lock of hair off his forehead, ‘it may be nothing to do with this so-called treasure.’

  They all turned to look at him.

  ‘It could simply be that they were having an affair.’ He leant back and looked down his aristocratic nose at them. ‘Simplest is often best.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Ian, appearing like a genie from the bottle.

  Libby made room for him at
the table while he refused offers of a drink.

  ‘They’re making me coffee,’ he said. ‘I guessed I’d find you here.’

  ‘Are you on or off duty?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Off, of course,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘I always am when I come here. Ah, thank you.’ He accepted his tall white cup of coffee from an indifferent waitress.

  ‘I can’t think why you want to socialise with us when I cause you so much trouble,’ said Libby, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

  ‘Because I can thrash out ideas and listen to fantasies here, and I can’t at the office.’

  ‘What do you want to thrash out?’ asked Patti.

  ‘And what fantasies?’ asked Peter, looking pointedly at Libby.

  ‘Your point about the victims having an affair. It’s become the single most important factor, and therefore we’re looking very closely at Carl Oxenford and Adelaide Watson. It’s become clear that they were both aware of the affair, even though at first they denied it.’

  ‘Because they thought they’d come under suspicion,’ said Patti.

  ‘They did anyway,’ said Libby, ‘but I must say I’m impressed with Adelaide as an actress. When I was with her that Monday night I’d never have known.’

  ‘Watson himself wasn’t as impressive,’ said Ian.

  ‘Thoroughly unpleasant,’ agreed Libby.

  ‘So what about the treasure?’ asked Ben. ‘Does it or doesn’t it exist?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. The reason we’re trying to track it down, or find a reference to it, is simply to see if it could be a motive for murder. But no one’s seen it and no one knows anything about it.’

  ‘Or professes to,’ added Libby. ‘We’ve just said Adelaide’s a good actress.’

  ‘And you said her son was keen to help with the search,’ said Ben.

  Ian turned to Libby. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘I told him he couldn’t, so there didn’t seem to be any need.’

  ‘Which son?’

  ‘Julian. Works in the city, I believe. He didn’t seem to know about the supposed treasure, but his eyes lit up at the thought.’

  ‘If there was anything there,’ said Anne, ‘who would it belong to?’

  Everyone looked at her.

  ‘Good question.’ Ian nodded. ‘It would depend on the traceability.’

  ‘If it was eighteenth-century contraband I don’t suppose it could be proved who it belonged to,’ said Peter.

  ‘But if it was family silver it could possibly be traced to the Wyghtham family,’ said Libby.

  ‘It wouldn’t be reported to the Crown or whoever, then?’ Anne turned to Ian.

  ‘It’s the Finds Liaison Officer now,’ he said, ‘but depending on where it was found, yes, it would be. And the coroner would still have to look into it. If it’s in the house, it could be said to legitimately belong to the current owners, but if it’s in the grounds it’s a difficult one.’

  ‘If Roland had been alive he’d have said it was his regardless,’ Libby said. ‘Or just not told anyone.’

  ‘Then his problem would have been getting rid of it,’ said Ben. ‘He doesn’t sound to me like a collector, and if he’d tried to sell anything obviously old or valuable it would have set off alerts, unless he knew exactly who to go to.’

  Ian looked at him with interest. ‘Indeed. And he worked in Brussels. And spent a lot of time in Amsterdam.’

  Patti looked from one to the other. ‘And?’

  ‘Illegal art and antiquities routes,’ explained Libby. ‘At least, I think that’s what they’re talking about. And talking about illegal routes, are we going to look into the eighteenth-century smuggling aspect of those tunnels?’

  ‘You can,’ said Ian, ‘but I’m actually more concerned in catching a double murderer.’

  ‘But if there are tunnels, that could also be a motive for murder, like the Wyghtham connection. Smuggled stuff left behind.’

  ‘Brandy? After two hundred years? Tobacco? Not worth it,’ said Ian.

  Libby frowned. ‘But wasn’t money involved somewhere?’

  ‘The customers paid the smugglers, the smugglers paid the French,’ said Ben.

  ‘I thought …’ Libby tailed off, staring at the table.

  ‘Thought what?’ asked Patti.

  ‘I’ve got this vague memory of money being involved with the smugglers. Being smuggled. I don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘They exchanged wool for goods at one point,’ said Peter.

  ‘The owlers, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Mainly on Romney Marsh, which isn’t that far away, after all, but then there was some act or other and it stopped. I shall look it up.’

  ‘Or get Andrew to do so?’ asked Ian.

  ‘I’ve already asked him,’ said Libby sheepishly.

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ asked Ian of the table in general.

  ‘There are lots of smuggling stories in the area,’ said Patti. ‘Kent and Sussex were almost the worst in the country because they were closest to the French coast.’

  ‘There were families controlling huge bands of free traders,’ said Peter. ‘I did a certain amount of research once, thinking I might base a play on it.’

  ‘Oh, that would have been good,’ said Libby. ‘Audiences love anything with local references.’

  ‘Not with my record they don’t,’ said Peter, and got up to go to the bar.

  ‘Tact, Libby,’ said Ben. Anne looked puzzled. ‘Both his last plays have culminated in murder, even though it wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘Oh, I see. The Monastery …’ Anne shifted in her wheelchair and cast a hesitant look at Peter’s back.

  ‘Would he let me look at the research, do you think?’ said Libby in an undertone.

  ‘If he’s still got it,’ said Ben.

  ‘Still got what?’ Harry draped himself over Libby’s shoulder. ‘Come on, I’m behind in this conversation.’

  Peter looked over, grinned and turned back to the bar.

  ‘I shall go and help my helpmeet,’ said Harry, uncoiling himself. ‘Hold the thought.’

  ‘What thought?’ asked Libby, smiling in spite of herself.

  ‘The one about what you were going to tell me.’

  Patti and Anne were laughing and even Ian looked amused.

  ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t go on the stage like the rest of you,’ said Ian.

  ‘I think he’d clam up,’ said Libby, watching Harry and Peter at the bar. ‘He clowns around with us, but put him on a stage and he’d stop being himself.’

  Peter and Harry returned carrying the drinks between them.

  ‘Now,’ said Harry, squeezing a chair between Peter and Ben. ‘Fill me in.’

  Between them, Libby, Ben and Peter repeated the conversations.

  ‘You’ve still got all that smugglers stuff,’ said Harry, flinging an arm round his beloved’s shoulders. ‘It’s all in the bureau.’

  Peter shrugged. ‘You can have a look at it. There’s a couple of books there, too.’

  ‘Thanks, Pete.’ Libby turned to Ian. ‘If I find anything useful I’ll tell you, shall I?’

  Ian laughed. ‘You usually do.’

  Later, walking home through the frosty high street, Ben said ‘What did you mean about money earlier? Money laundering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ sighed Libby. ‘I’ve just got this feeling that there was something going on to do with money and the smugglers. I can’t remember whether I found out about it when we were looking into those tunnels at Creekmarsh, or it’s just a memory of reading Dr Syn.’

  ‘The Rudyard Kipling poem,’ said Ben slowly, ‘does that mention people being paid for allowing their homes to be used to store the goods?’

  ‘No, it only says the little girl may be given a doll if she keeps quiet, with a cap of Valenciennes, remember?’

  ‘So it isn’t that,’ said Ben.

  ‘Maybe Andrew will turn something up,’ said Libby.

  ‘And will it help find the murderer?
’ Ben glanced sideways with a grin.

  ‘Gawd knows,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday passed with no word from the police or Andrew Wylie, but when Libby returned from a supermarket run on Friday, she found a message on the answerphone.

  ‘Libby, I’ve found something interesting, I think,’ said Andrew. ‘Are you free? Would you like to come here, or shall I come to you? And will I be able to have a look at Dark House sometime?’

  Libby rang Fran.

  ‘Shall we both go to Andrew’s? Easier for you.’

  ‘If you like, but I’m quite happy to come over to you. Guy wants to see Ben, anyway, so we could combine the trip.’

  ‘Oh, lovely! Shall I see if Harry can squeeze us in?’

  At three o’clock, Fran arrived closely followed by Andrew, brandishing a brand new tablet.

  ‘Much better for research,’ he explained, swiping the screen and demonstrating a page of ancient text. ‘Look, I can make it much bigger. So much easier to decipher.’

  ‘So it is,’ said Libby, amused. ‘Sit down, and I’ll bring the tea. And a lovely piece of apple cake I bought from that vegetarian stall in Canterbury.’

  When they were settled, and Libby had put more wood on the fire, Andrew began.

  ‘I decided to look up Wyghtham Hall, rather than Dark House. Your Godfrey inherited it from his uncle, and believe it or not, it began life as a hunting lodge for someone close to the court of the day. The Wyghthams seem to have acquired it in around 1536, which accounts for its mostly Tudor appearance, but successive owners have always added to it – or improved it, as they would say.’

  ‘When was the name changed, and who by?’ asked Fran, as Andrew took a sip of tea.

  ‘I’m coming to that. Godfrey, as you know, fought on the Royalist side in the civil wars, although it was very much a Hobson’s Choice. But he kept his little manor, and it passed to his eldest son on his death.’

  ‘April 1664,’ remembered Libby.

  ‘Right.’ Andrew nodded. ‘There seems to be a gap in the records after that, but in the mid-seventeen hundreds it pops up again as the property of one William Goodman. Now, Goodman turns out to be a name that is synonymous with smuggling in the area.’

  ‘Ah!’ Libby breathed a sigh of satisfaction.