‘And that someone found out Watson knew –’ began Guy.
‘Or he told that person he knew,’ said Libby, getting excited.
‘So it must be someone Watson and Ramani knew,’ finished Harry.
‘Well, of course it was.’ Libby was scornful. ‘Whatever the reason, it always had to be someone who knew them both.’
‘There’s no way we have the resources to find out about the people they knew,’ said Fran. ‘We only know about the people immediately concerned. Carl, Ramani and Roland will have hundreds of social and family contacts between them, and the only people who can look into that are the police. But we can ask the Rev. Toby about a tunnel to his church, or ask Patti to ask him.’
‘We could ask Adelaide,’ said Libby.
Everyone looked at her.
‘I thought you were going to give up and be an ostrich?’ said Fran.
Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘I was.’
‘Give up? Our Lib?’ Harry let out a crowing laugh. ‘Never!’
‘I was,’ said Libby. ‘But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Adelaide.’ She glanced at Fran. ‘We could tell her about the smugglers’ tunnels. And the Prisoners of War.’
‘The what?’ Harry topped up Peter’s glass and took a healthy sip. ‘In the last war?’
‘No, the Napoleonic,’ said Fran, and turned back to Libby. ‘We could, of course, if you think it would get anywhere.’
‘I don’t know, do I? But it’s better than sitting doing nothing.’
‘Or completing that Christmas order for me?’ asked Guy.
‘Or looking after me?’ said Ben.
‘Or directing the pantomime?’ said Peter.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Libby over their laughter. ‘I’ll do all that too.’
Tomorrow being Saturday, Ben didn’t go into the estate office, so Libby didn’t feel she should go off investigating while he was at home, and instead worked in the conservatory on Guy’s painting, “Christmas in Nethergate”, in the morning, took him for a drink at lunchtime and spent time preparing a special meal for Saturday night. Ben watched with amusement until, after a very good boeuf bourgignon and a bottle of Shiraz, he leant across the kitchen table and took her hand.
‘You don’t have to go overboard, love. I don’t feel neglected – not at the moment, anyway – and I much prefer you to be doing something that you’re interested in, stopping short of getting hurt, of course.’
Libby lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘I don’t know what I did to deserve you,’ she said.
‘Nor do I,’ said Ben. ‘Now, are we going to do all this washing up, or are we going to sit on the sofa and pretend we’re teenagers?’
Sunday dawned cold and frosty again.
‘It’s the beginning of December,’ said Libby, turning the central heating thermostat up a notch. ‘Should I go up to Joe and Nella’s and see about a tree?’
‘Already?’ Ben leant back against the Rayburn rail.
‘Otherwise the best ones will have gone.’
‘Are they open on a Sunday?’
‘Yes. We could go and find a tree and get some flowers for your Ma.’
‘We could,’ said Ben. ‘But let’s have breakfast first.’
Joe and Nella’s Cattlegreen Nursery was just outside Steeple Martin on the Canterbury Road. The “boy” Owen, came out to meet the car.
‘You come to tag a tree, then, Libby?’ he said, with an enormous grin.
‘We can take it away today, Owen,’ said Ben. ‘See? I’ve got the big car.’
Owen nodded wisely. ‘I’ll get a spade then.’
When Libby found the right tree for the window of number 17, Ben dug it up and Owen loaded it onto a trolley.
‘Made some hot chocolate,’ he said over his shoulder as he wheeled the tree to the car.
Ben raised an eyebrow.
‘He’s very proud of his hot chocolate,’ whispered Libby. ‘We must have some.’
Inside the nursery shed, Joe took Libby’s payment while Owen fetched the hot chocolate.
‘And we want some flowers for Mum,’ said Ben.
‘Sunday lunch, then, is it?’ said Joe. ‘Bet she don’t want chrysanths, your mum.’
‘No, thanks, Joe. What have you got?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Look at these lovely white ones. And you could put some of those berries with them. What are they, Joe?’
‘Hypericum.’ Joe put his head on one side. ‘Yeah – that’d look pretty. Shame my Nella’s not here. She knows.’
Owen re-appeared with the chocolate.
‘Oh, that’s lovely, Owen.’ Libby beamed at him.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Ben, taking a lava-hot sip. ‘Thanks, Owen.’
‘So you chasin’ any murderers, these days, Libby? You and that Fran?’ Joe handed Libby her card and receipt.
‘Of course she is, Joe,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘And smugglers.’
‘Smugglers?’ said Owen, round-eyed.
‘Old smugglers,’ explained Libby. ‘Like the ones you see in books, like pirates.’
‘Ooo-argh!’ intoned Owen solemnly.
‘Exactly,’ said Libby.
‘They old owlers and such?’ said Joe.
‘Yes, and the brandy and tobacco runners,’ said Ben. ‘Libby’s found a house with a tunnel.’
‘All the old houses had a tunnel back in them days,’ said Joe. ‘Old Hall had one goin’ to the church here. I bet your Manor’s got one tucked away somewhere.’
Libby caught Ben’s eye. ‘All right, I promise we’ll look for it. Do you know anything else about the smugglers, Joe?’
‘Oh, it were common knowledge. Everywhere between here and Whitstable, here and Nethergate, down to the Wytch at that there Creekmarsh, and o’ course Deal. They was all routes. Every big ʼouse stored something for the Gentlemen.’
‘Even after all the acts of Parliament?’
‘No one took no notice, did they? Gentlemen were more powerful than them Ridin’ Officers.’
‘What about the French prisoners?’
‘Oh, yeah. They was brought through, too. And that gold, an’ all.’
Libby and Ben stared at Joe in amazement.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Libby eventually. ‘We’ve only just found it out from the County Archives.’
Joe shrugged and grinned. ‘Local family, see. All the stories get passed down. Bet you didn’t know that.’
‘So you know about the guinea boats,’ said Libby. ‘Did any of that gold come this way?’
‘Don’t know all about it. My old great-great-great grandfather or summat, he got paid for takin’ it down to Whitstable with the prisoners.’
‘What?’ yelped Libby.
‘Calm down, Lib,’ said Ben, patting her shoulder and laughing.
Joe was laughing, too. ‘I told you afore, Libby, you got to go and talk to the old locals. Better than all those old papers.’
‘So you haven’t got any papers, then?’ asked Ben.
‘No, but we got a couple of old pictures. You come up the house sometime and we’ll show you.’
‘After all our research,’ said Libby, as they fastened their seat belts and prepared to drive back to the village, ‘and Joe knew all about it.’
‘But you wouldn’t have known what to ask him about if you hadn’t done all your research,’ said Ben reasonably. ‘And he’s talking about this area, not Steeple Cross or Keeper’s Cob.’
‘Oh, hang on! Draw a line from Steeple Martin to Keeper’s Cob and it goes right through Steeple Cross. It’s a straight run.’
‘And straight inland from Whitstable,’ said Ben, thoughtfully. ‘Although you do have to go through Canterbury.’
‘But Canterbury wouldn’t have been as big as it is now. You could have skirted it.’
‘Anyway, I thought you’d given up on the tunnels and the smugglers?’ Ben gave her a sideways grin.
‘I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘It was j
ust such a coincidence.’
Ben drove the car to the end of Allhallow’s Lane, took the tree out of the boot and dragged it down the back alley to the back garden of number 17, where Libby had a bucket of water waiting.
‘Now let’s go and see your mum and tell her all about it,’ she said.
Chapter Nineteen
Monday morning, and two weeks since Ramani Oxenford’s body was found, one week since Roland Watson was found in the same state, in the same place. Libby decided to call Adelaide Watson.
‘Hello?’ said a cautious voice.
‘Adelaide? It’s Libby Sarjeant. I was just wondering how you were.’
‘Oh, Libby! Hello. Nice of you to call. I’m bored bloody stiff.’
‘Have they let you go back to London yet?’
‘No! I’m still in Canterbury. I’ve moved to a better hotel, though. Do you want to come over? We could have lunch.’
‘Love to,’ said Libby, thinking quickly, ‘but I was supposed to be meeting Fran.’
‘Can’t you both come?’
‘I’m sure we could.’ Libby awarded herself a pat on the back. ‘What time?’
‘Twelve thirty? Do you know the hotel in the High Street?’
‘Ah. What used to be the County?’
‘Did it? Well, I’ll meet you in reception.’
Libby called Fran.
‘Can you make it? She obviously wants to see us.’
‘And she’s gone up in the world, by the sound of it,’ said Fran.
‘Well, she can afford it, especially now.’
Adelaide, looking less mousey than usual, was waiting for them in the expensive-looking reception area of the hotel.
‘Very nice,’ murmured Libby, looking up at the beams.
‘Oh, the rooms are really modern and tasteful,’ said Adelaide. ‘if I never see another wooden beam in my life, I shan’t be sorry.’
Embarrassed, Libby hustled them out in to the high street. ‘Is your son Julian still with you?’
‘No, he’s gone back to London. They’ve been asking questions about him, you know.’
‘Who have? The police?’ asked Fran.
‘Yes.’ Adelaide made a face. ‘They keep ringing up and saying “Just a few more questions, Mrs Watson.” Honestly – why didn’t they ask them all at the time?’
‘Are they asking about Ramani or Roland?’ asked Libby.
‘Both. And now they’re saying Julian possibly knew Ramani before we did.’
‘How? He hasn’t lived with you since you moved here, has he?’
‘No, but I get the feeling they think he might have met her in London before she and Carl moved here.’
‘Is that where they moved from?’ said Fran.
‘No. Carl’s practice was up north somewhere.’
‘So why –’ began Libby.
‘Oh, I’m sick of talking about it,’ said Adelaide. ‘Where are we going for lunch?’
But she obviously couldn’t stop herself, because by the time they were halfway through their main courses, she was complaining again.
‘And I don’t want to go back there to live, obviously. But they won’t even let me go back to collect clothes! They want me to tell an officer what I want and let her go through my things.’ She sounded indignant.
‘Adelaide,’ said Libby gently, ‘they’ll already have gone through your things.’
Adelaide gasped, went red and then white again.
‘They hadn’t before Roland died, but once he was dead, and his body having been found in the grounds of Dark House, they would have searched every inch.’ She forebore to mention that she and Fran had been searching, too.
‘Don’t they need a search warrant?’ Adelaide found her voice.
‘In those circumstances, I very much doubt it, but one would have been issued as a matter of course,’ said Fran, sounding sure of her ground.
‘I know it’s not nice thinking of people going through your personal things,’ said Libby, ‘and I know I’d be dreadfully embarrassed about it. You should see the state of my wardrobe! But there’s nothing to be worried about. They aren’t judgemental, you know. They won’t imprison you for untidy drawers or an unemptied bin.’
‘But it’s not –’ Adelaide stopped abruptly. After a moment, she went on. ‘Not untidy,’ she finished, unconvincingly.
‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’ said Libby brightly, trying not to look at Fran.
Adelaide bent to her plate once more.
‘Have you seen Carl?’ asked Fran. ‘How’s he holding up?’
Adelaide’s head shot up again. ‘How should I know?’
‘You haven’t seen him?’ said Libby.
‘No.’ Adelaide almost spat the word. Then, with an obvious effort, she sat back in her chair and re-settled her shoulders. ‘So. Did the police search the house for that treasure? You said they’d asked Lewis Osbourne-Walker to help.’
‘Didn’t they tell you?’ said Fran in surprise. ‘Yes, they did, but they didn’t find anything.’ She looked at Libby. ‘Except the tunnel, of course.’
Adelaide became very still. ‘The tunnel? What tunnel?’
‘From the grotto. It seems to be blocked, but apparently it once went to a pub in Keeper’s Cob and back into your house.’
‘Really. Well, that makes me even more glad I’m not going back there.’ She gave an artistic shudder.
‘What will you do about packing up when the time comes, though?’ said Libby. ‘You’ll have to go back then.’
‘But not overnight.’ This time Adelaide looked genuinely sick. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’
‘Well, if you need someone to go with you, give me a ring,’ said Libby. ‘I’m not far away.’
After lunch, Fran had to get back to Nethergate, but Libby found herself wandering round Canterbury’s shops with Adelaide.
‘You must be bored rigid,’ she said, as they strolled into Waterstones. ‘Have you been reading a lot?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a new tablet, and I’ve been downloading books on there. And films and box sets. It’s great.’ Adelaide picked up a best-seller placed prominently on the table in the front of the shop. ‘Don’t waste my money on print books any more.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby, who did? They eventually found their way to Westgate gardens and found a bench to sit on in the weak winter sun.
‘You’ll be back in London in time for Christmas I expect,’ said Libby, struggling to find topics of conversation now that the murders seemed to be off the agenda.
‘Oh, yes – they wouldn’t be so heartless as to keep me here then. I’ve been doing my present shopping online and having it delivered to Julian.’ She shrugged. ‘He says he doesn’t mind.’
‘That’s good,’ said Libby, and looked at her watch. ‘Well, I have to be going now. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know, and as I said, if you want me to help you pack up at the house, give me a ring.’
And what have I let myself in for there? she thought as she dashed across to the car park.
As soon as she got home, she rang Fran, who was minding the shop while Guy was out on a buying trip.
‘She knew about the tunnel,’ Fran said straight away.
‘I thought so, too. And she’s worried about something the police might find in her things. And what about Carl?’
‘She’s either annoyed because he hasn’t got in touch, or she’s frightened of saying he has.’
‘But which?’
‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘I think we can take it that they are a lot closer than anyone thought at first.’
‘When she said they hardly knew one another.’
‘And neither she nor her husband knew Ramani.’
‘And,’ said Libby, ‘what about Julian knowing Ramani?’
‘Yes, that was a surprise. The police must have found something. And she wasn’t very clear about that, either. Carl’s practice was somewhere up north, but Julian met Ramani in London.’
‘Perhaps before she marr
ied Carl?’ suggested Libby. ‘We need to find out if Ramani was in London. We can ask Edward.’
‘Back on the trail again, then, are we?’ Fran sounded amused. ‘That didn’t take long.’
‘I’m not saying that we’ll find anything out that the police won’t, I’m just interested. And it might be worth telling Ian that Madam thinks there might be something of interest hidden in her things. What do you suppose she means by her “things”?’
‘Clothes? The stuff she brought down with her, or that she left in the house permanently.’
‘Toiletries? Toilet bag? Oh, no, she’d have taken that to the hotel, wouldn’t she?’ Libby frowned at the floor. ‘So it must be something left in the house all the time.
‘Or just hidden in the house. But in that case, why haven’t they found it?’ said Fran.
‘Perhaps they have. Why would we know?’
‘If they found something incriminating, or interesting in some way, they’d have questioned her about it, and they obviously haven’t.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Libby chewed her lip. ‘How can we find out?’
Fran sighed. ‘Look, against all my inclinations, I’ll get hold of Ian on his official phone and tell him what we think, while you get on to Edward and ask about Ramani’s London connection.’
Before she called Edward in his rather less swanky Canterbury hotel, Libby made herself a cup of tea, then sat down with Sidney on her lap.
‘Edward, it’s Libby. Are you busy?’
‘Not at all, Libby. I’m pleased you called, I’ve just got back from lunch with Andrew Wylie. Isn’t he delightful?’
‘Oh, he did ring you? Good. He was terribly impressed when I mentioned you.’
Edward’s rich laugh rang out. ‘I was impressed by him. And the research he’s done for you.’
‘Oh, the smugglers and the guinea boats? But do you know, all the old local families round here know the stories, too, even though they haven’t got them written down. I was gutted.’
‘That’s often the way,’ said Edward. ‘All historians know the value of oral history.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Libby. ‘Look Edward, I wanted to ask you something. Funnily enough, Fran and I were in Canterbury today, too. We went for lunch with Adelaide Watson.’
‘Did you? That was brave. But Andrew and I went to some country restaurant he knew, not in Canterbury.’
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) Page 14
