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

by Cookman, Lesley

  ‘You’ve already got Andrew doing your historical donkey work,’ said Ben. ‘Leave the poor man alone.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Edward. ‘Even if I don’t get a post in Kent.’

  ‘And meanwhile, you’ve got an exciting little adventure tomorrow,’ said Harry. ‘So, cheers.’

  Wednesday morning was back to misty and frosty. Libby drove carefully along Dark Lane, trying to ignore the trees pressing in on her left and the wavering shapes looming on her right. She turned on to the forecourt of Dark House with a sigh of relief.

  Adelaide opened the door before she’d got out of the car.

  ‘Did you know all your friends are coming to look at the tunnel?’ she asked without preamble.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘I’m going, too.’

  ‘But you’re here to help me.’ Adelaide’s chin went up.

  ‘Adelaide, did you ever wonder about the reason for your rather unpleasant assumption of superiority?’ asked Libby conversationally, as she pushed past Adelaide into the main hall.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Adelaide’s voice went up an octave and Libby turned to face her.

  ‘I mean – you have taken advantage of me from the moment I came over here – at your request, I may add – when Ramani’s body was found. I have offered to help, you have asked for help and help both Fran and I have tried to give. In return, you’ve lied to us and treated us, particularly me, like servants. So why is it? You came across when I first met you as rather a mousy woman, intimidated by her husband.’

  ‘I was.’ Adelaide now adopted a mulish expression.

  ‘I know, anyone would have been. But since then, presumably because he is no more and you found out more about him anyway, you’ve become seriously arrogant and complaining. So you can get on with packing your things on your own. I’m going outside to wait for the grotto party.’

  Adelaide stepped forward, her expression now anxious.

  ‘Oh, Libby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be like that. I really don’t want to do this on my own, and you’ve been so kind.’

  Libby looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure. If you tell me why you lied, and what about …’

  Adelaide looked away, and Libby watched a tide of pink wash up her neck. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, it does, obviously. I mean, was I there on that first night as a witness to your conversation with Carl, to see that you didn’t know him or his wife well?’ This had only just occurred to Libby, and she was rather proud of it.

  Adelaide opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Libby realised she’d been right. She nodded.

  ‘That was why you switched to speakerphone, wasnʼt it? I thought that was rather an odd thing to do.ʼ She waited for a reply, which didnʼt come. ʻSo, where are your clothes? Come on, if I’m going to help, I’d rather get on with it.’

  Adelaide looked back in surprise, but without saying a word, turned and went up the stairs to the main bedroom, where Libby and Fran had been last week.

  ‘The police have been in here,’ she said. ‘You were right. All I want is the stuff from the drawers and the wardrobe.’

  Libby picked up a black plastic sack. ‘In these?’

  Adelaide shrugged. ‘I couldn’t go back and get cases.’

  ‘Right, I’ll start on the wardrobe, and you can tell me all about just how well you really knew Carl and Ramani.’

  Adelaide stared at her, then slowly opened a drawer in the dressing table and began taking things out before throwing them on to the bed.

  ‘I told you before. I saw Roland and Ramani together.’

  ‘Yes, you told me eventually. What you haven’t told anybody is how well you knew Carl. Julian said he was around when Roland went away.’

  Adelaide gasped, her hand going to her throat. ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘Unethical, certainly,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘You were his patient, weren’t you? Still are, I expect.’

  ‘We were friends,’ muttered Adelaide. ‘That’s all. Ramani used to go off to London and Roland to Brussels. And neither of us knew anyone else.’

  ‘And when Roland and Ramani were at home?’

  ‘Then we didn’t see much of them. Well, Ramani not at all. I told you that.’

  ‘Was Carl disappointed that she wouldn’t stay down here?’

  ‘I think so. He wanted to get her away from London, I know that.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘How?’ Now Adelaide sat on the bed and just stared.

  ‘Edward Hall, of course. He’s known her longer than anyone else.’

  ‘I wonder why he isn’t the chief suspect, then,’ said Adelaide venomously.

  ‘The little matter of an unbreakable alibi.’

  ‘They can always be broken.’

  ‘Not when it’s a live television programme.’ Libby crossed her fingers behind her back.

  ‘Oh. But when? They say they don’t know exactly when she – Ramani – died.’

  ‘On the Sunday night, live from somewhere up north.’ Bugger, why had she started this lie?

  ‘He could have flown down.’

  ‘Not at night.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Adelaide stood up and went back to the dressing table.

  ‘So when did you start to spend so much time in London?’ Libby started pulling things off hangers.

  ‘When Roland spent more and more time abroad. And – ’ Adelaide stopped abruptly.

  ‘And Ramani began spending more time in Steeple Cross?’

  Adelaide turned her back and Libby grinned. Right again, Mrs Sarjeant.

  So Carl was using Adelaide to keep him warm at night when Ramani went off on her own. Was that before Roland started seeing Ramani? And was Roland the reason Ramani began to spend more time in Steeple Cross? And was any of this a motive for double murder? Libby sighed and stuffed another coat into her sack.

  After another half an hour most of the drawers and all the wardrobe had been cleared.

  ‘You start taking the bags downstairs,’ said Libby, breaking the half-hour-long silence. ‘I’ll finish the shelves.’

  Adelaide shot her a look, but picked up two bags and left the room. Libby began methodically to check the shelves and drawers, finding odd buttons, safety pins and a grubby cotton bud. And the corner of a brown envelope.

  She was just about to throw it into the bin that they’d been using for rubbish, when something caught her eye.

  ‘Oh, this is just too ridiculously like a detective story,’ she muttered to herself, nevertheless going to the window and holding the paper closer.

  Printed in the corner of the envelope were the words “Institute of Napoleonic Studies”.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Libby stood still, staring at the envelope. There was no printed address beneath the words, just a jagged tear. She heard Adelaide returning and tucked it up her sleeve.

  ‘Finished?’ said Adelaide, sounding tired.

  ‘I think so,’ said Libby. ‘I haven’t checked the top of the wardrobe.’

  Adelaide paused, looking at her quizzically, before picking up a hanger and sweeping it across the top of the wardrobe, releasing a cloud of dust.

  ‘That’s it, then. Thank you so much for your help.’

  Libby handed her a black bag and took the other herself, before preceding her down the stairs.

  ‘Shall I help you get these into the car?’

  ‘Would you?’ Adelaide’s manner had definitely changed. ‘Then I’ll get straight off.’

  Eyeing the other woman’s rather dusty appearance, Libby said ‘Back to the hotel?’

  ‘No, thank God. Back to the flat. That inspector knows where to find me. And Julian.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby clicked open the boot, which was already fairly full of bags and cases. ‘Shall I put these on the back seat, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’ Adelaide opened the door and pushed her own bag inside. When all the bags were loaded, she held out the keys to Libby. ‘Woul
d you give these to the police, please? I don’t want to come back here.’

  Libby took them gingerly. ‘I don’t really think I ought to.’

  ‘There’ll be police at the grotto, won’t there? You can give them to them. I don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘All right.’ Libby stood back as Adelaide climbed into the car. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? Does Carl know you’re going?’

  Adelaide’s face tightened. ‘He does. And I’ll be fine. You’ve got my mobile number if you need me. Thanks again.’

  The window glided up and Adelaide drove neatly out on to the lane. Libby watched her go with mixed feelings.

  ‘Oh, you’re here.’ Fran came up behind her.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just seen Adelaide off the premises.’ Libby turned to her friend. ‘I’ve just found something peculiar.’

  ‘Tell me about it as we go,’ said Fran. ‘Edward and Andrew are waiting at the grotto.’

  ‘Andrew? Who asked him?’

  ‘Edward, apparently.’

  ‘Has he told you what he told me about Ramani in London?’

  ‘No. What?’

  Libby told Fran of all she had learnt from Edward and Adelaide in the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘So what do we get from all that?’ asked Fran, as they approached the grotto. ‘Carl and Adelaide were having an affair, either as a result of Roland and Ramani having an affair, or because they were both lonely. And they both lied about it. And Ramani probably did know Julian Watson, and carried on seeing other men in London even after she was married to Carl?’

  ‘That’s what it sounds like. I expect Ian knows all that by now, but I found something else.’ Libby stopped and pulled the piece of paper from hr sleeve. ‘Look.’

  ‘Is this the something peculiar?’ Fran took the piece of paper. ‘Good God.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Caught in the back of a drawer.’

  ‘So we don’t know if it belonged to Adelaide or Roland?’

  ‘I somehow doubt it was Roland’s. He wouldn’t have left anything around for Adelaide to find while he was away, and he was never here when she wasn’t.’

  ‘Do we know that?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Well, no. I assumed, because he always wanted Adelaide to pick him up.’

  ‘At least it proves that one or other of them knew something about the smugglers and the guinea boats.’

  ‘Is that a leap of the imagination, though?’ asked Libby with a frown.

  ‘Perhaps we should give it to the police?’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Libby looked over her shoulder to where the police tape stretched across the entrance to the grotto. ‘Are there any police there?’

  ‘Just one poor constable to keep an eye on us.’

  ‘Only Adelaide gave me the keys to the house. She said to give them to the police.’

  They stood looking at one another for a moment.

  ‘Dare we?’ said Libby.

  ‘Adelaide gave you the keys. I think you’d be perfectly within your rights to pop in and check on things.’

  ‘Shall we tell Edward and Andrew?’

  ‘About the piece of paper? They probably have more knowledge about it than we have.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Edward and Andrew were standing looking down into the hole under the stone bridge in the grotto.

  ‘We waited for you,’ said Edward, his white smile splitting his face. ‘It’s a bit of a climb down.’

  ‘What have they actually found?’ asked Libby, as Edward started down the ladder.

  ‘Tunnels going back towards the house and forward to Keeper’s Cob,’ said Andrew, ‘not news, exactly, but confirmation.’

  Standing at the bottom of the hole, they could see the brick built tunnels leading away in both directions.

  ‘There’s a fall of rock in the Keeper’s Cob tunnel,’ said Edward, ‘but the one leading back to the house has been properly bricked up.’

  ‘So there’s no way the bodies could have been brought here that way?’ said Fran.

  ‘None.’ Edward shook his head. ‘Do you want to have a look?’

  The tunnel towards Keeper’s Cob was low and dank. Andrew and Edward both had powerful torches, but it didn’t stop it feeling claustrophobic.

  ‘Creepy,’ said Libby, and shivered, as they came upon the fall of rock that blocked the tunnel.

  Edward clambered over the lowest rocks and shone his torch into crevices.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said coming back down, ‘but there wouldn’t be. The police have been all over this place.’

  ‘Let’s go back and look at the other tunnel,’ said Fran.

  The tunnel towards the house was wider and taller and appeared to be better built. It ended abruptly in a brick wall.

  ‘There’s nothing to see,’ said Libby. ‘Why did Ian say we could come and see it?’

  ‘He wanted an opinion on the date of construction. Lewis couldn’t come, so Edward asked me,’ said Andrew. ‘It’s quite exciting.’

  ‘And what’s your opinion?’ asked Fran.

  Andrew looked at Edward. ‘Difficult, isn’t it?’

  Edward was peering at the walls and tapping the ceiling, which was also brick. ‘Nineteenth-century?’

  ‘That’s what we thought when we were here before,’ said Libby.

  ‘It is,’ said Fran.

  Libby looked at her. ‘That’s what Ian wanted from you, isn’t it?’

  Fran was frowning. ‘There have been deaths here.’ She looked up at Libby. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Shall we go into the house and see if we can find the passages and the tunnels from there?’ asked Libby.

  ‘The house?’ Edward turned to look at her. ‘Is that woman still there?’

  ‘No. She gave me the keys.’

  ‘What?’ Edward looked over his shoulder towards the opening to the grotto. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘No, so keep it quiet.’

  Edward turned without another word and led them back to the entrance. Once at the top of the ladder, he turned to the police officer. ‘That’s it, we’re done,’ he said. ‘Have you got to stay here?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m off back to the station.’ He moved a large wooden pallet over the hole. ‘You can see yourselves out?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll just go and check on my son’s tools before we go?’

  ‘Tools?’ The officer raised an eyebrow.

  ‘My son and his colleague were landscaping the new swimming pool when the first body was found, and everything’s been left here,’ Libby explained.

  ‘Swimming pool, blimey. Fine, you go and have a look.’ He sketched a vague salute and went off to his car on the forecourt. Libby led the way through the arch in the hedge to where Mog’s tarpaulin covered all the tools, and where the carefully-dug earth round the perimeter of the empty pool had been spread all over the garden.

  ‘I hope she pays them overtime after this,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘I hope she pays them, period,’ said Fran. ‘I bet she tries to get out of it. Come on, let’s go in through the kitchen.’

  ‘Now,’ said Edward, as they grouped round the kitchen table, ‘how do we go about this?’

  ‘The door we found before,’ said Libby. ‘Have the police checked it out?’

  ‘We told them about it, so I should think so,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s go and look.’

  ‘Before we do,’ said Libby, ‘I want to show Edward and Andrew this.’ She pulled out the piece of paper and put it on the table.

  ‘Well!’ said Andrew.

  ‘I’ve never heard of this Institute,’ said Edward.

  ‘It’s a proper printed envelope, though,’ said Libby. ‘Not a mocked-up one, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘One way to find out,’ said Edward, bringing out his phone.

  ‘Wish I’d brought my tablet, now,’ said Andrew, gazing enviously at Edward’s phone.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t show up in s
earches, although there is a French Foundation, the Fondation Napoléon and an Institute on Napoleon and The French Revolution at Florida University, of all things. But no British Institute.’ Edward scrolled through a few more searches.

  ‘Or at least, not one with an online presence,’ said Fran.

  ‘Even if it didn’t have its own website, it would be mentioned on others,’ said Edward. ‘So what do we think about that?’

  They all looked at each other.

  Libby shrugged. ‘It can’t be coincidence,’ she said. ‘If either Roland or Adelaide – or even Ramani – was following the same trail we have, they would have found out about the links with the French prisoners of war and the guinea boats. And tried to find out something about it.’

  ‘Paper analysis,’ said Andrew suddenly. ‘Your detective chief inspector should be able to find out which paper that scrap is.’

  ‘It’ll be standard manila,’ said Libby. ‘You can buy it in packs from every supermarket, apart from stationers.’

  ‘You said it isn’t a home mock-up,’ said Fran, pulling the paper towards her. ‘So it could be a proper printer.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘No, I know what it is. One of those online companies where you can order anything with anything printed on it. We got the leaflets for The Manor done by one of them.’

  ‘Of course. All Ian would have to do was find out which one.’ Fran sighed and leant back. ‘Do we think it is a mock-up? And if so, how did it happen?’

  ‘Goodness knows. Perhaps Ian can ask Adelaide.’

  ‘But would she tell him?’ asked Edward. ‘No, I think we need to find out ourselves.’

  Libby regarded him with some amusement. ‘Oh, we do, do we? And what happened to poor old Sir Godfrey?’

  He grinned across the table at her. ‘Oh, I’m hooked, now. Fully paid-up member of Libby’s Loonies.’

  ‘Libby’s what?’ said Andrew and Fran together.

  ‘Harry being silly,’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s the boy with the restaurant?’ said Andrew.

  ‘He’ll thank you for the “boy”,’ said Libby. ‘Yes, that’s him. He’s decided that everyone who makes friends with me is slightly odd.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s not right,’ said Fran with a sigh.