Murder Most Fowl

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘No.’ The response was grudging, as Libby supposed it would be. Theft of valuable animals and now a suspected murder – it was depressing to have no clues.

  ‘Oh. Well, I’ll be getting off. Can you move the crime tape?’

  Roberts signalled to his smaller, scruffier colleague, who went down the drive and moved the tape. Libby turned the silver bullet round and drove down to where Fran sat parked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, getting out of the car and leaning in at Fran’s window. ‘I wish we could find out who owns it.’

  ‘What good would that do?’ asked Fran. ‘It was empty. If that poor soul stole the turkeys and hid them there, then got murdered, why would it be the owner’s fault?’

  ‘Maybe it was his idea? Perhaps that’s what the place is used for? Maybe the – er – body worked for him and started working on his own behalf?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Fran looked doubtful. ‘Anyway, what good would it do? Won’t get you another turkey, will it?’

  ‘I just want to know,’ said Libby. ‘OK, I’ll see you what – tomorrow? Are you coming up for drinks with Patti and Anne?’

  ‘Probably not – it’s getting too near Christmas and I’ve got to give my all to the shop tomorrow after having a day off today.’

  ‘OK – see you at the weekend.’

  Libby drove home through the darkening afternoon, wondering how she could find out more about the mysterious Cheevles Farm. And why she wanted to know. She had to agree with her family and friends that she was, in fact, a nosy old cow, but there were reasons for her curiosity, usually benign ones, and in the past it had spurred Fran’s odd ‘moments’ of psychic insight into revealing something helpful to a police case. Even to the saving of a life – occasionally Libby’s. This time, no one’s life was at stake, the poor young man found at the farm having already gone beyond help, and Bob’s livelihood was hardly threatened by the loss of a few expensive turkeys.

  In fact, Bob turned up at rehearsal that night carrying a large cardboard box and wearing a large smile.

  ‘Turkey, Lib!’ he crowed. ‘Found!’

  ‘Found?’ Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought…’

  ‘No, no! Sorry! What I meant was – I found replacements. A guy in Norfolk, predictably, had some. I drove up there today and collected them. All prepped and ready.’ He beamed round at the company, who had gathered round. ‘I even have a couple of spares.’

  The company set up a ragged cheer.

  ‘Take it straight over to Hetty,’ said Ben. ‘She can put it in the larder. It’s as good as a cold store!’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Libby, as a triumphant Bob left the auditorium. ‘Now all I have to think about is the panto.’

  ‘And present-wrapping,’ reminded Ben.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Libby, and decided not to mention finding out about Cheevles Farm.

  Wednesday was devoted to present wrapping, decorating the huge tree at the Manor and discussing food preparation with Hetty.

  ‘And what about the dog?’ asked Libby. ‘How’s he?’

  ‘Good.’ Hetty nodded over to where he sat, far brighter-eyed and with tongue lolling, staring at the tree. ‘Gets me out.’

  Hetty had been walking him every morning and Ben had been taking him out and about on the estate.

  ‘Not missing his owner?’

  ‘No.’ Hetty frowned. ‘Funny that. Sheepdogs – devoted.’

  ‘He was very upset when I found him,’ said Libby.

  ‘Came straight to you, though.’

  ‘You’d think,’ said Libby, crouching down beside the dog, who promptly put a paw on her knee, ‘that he might be scared of humans if he’d been mistreated.’

  Hetty shook her head. ‘Wasn’t mistreated. Good condition.’

  Libby shook her head and patted the dog. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jeff-dog.’

  ‘Jeff-dog?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not, indeed,’ murmured Libby, raising an interrogative eyebrow at Jeff-dog, who panted back amiably.

  ‘I suppose we ought to take him to the vets,’ she said, straightening up. ‘You know, health check, see if he’s microchipped.’

  Hetty nodded. ‘Police should.’

  ‘Yes, they should. If we see Ian tonight I’ll ask him what to do.’

  Wednesdays were traditionally the day on which DCI Ian Connell visited the pub in Steeple Martin on his way home. At least, Libby assumed he was on his way home, she’d never quite found out. Why he was so secretive about where he lived she’d never discovered, either, but he came and joined Libby, Ben and their friends the Reverend Patti Pearson and Anne Douglas. Patti was the vicar of St Aldeberge’s, a village down the coast from Nethergate, and Anne lived in New Barn Lane, Steeple Martin, and worked in the library in Canterbury. Patti had Wednesdays off, so even in a busy week like this one, she took the opportunity, as she said, to ‘play hooky’. Bethany Cole, vicar of Steeple Martin, often joined them now, since she and her husband had, in Harry Price’s words, become accredited members of Libby’s Loonies.

  This evening, Libby called rehearsal to an early finish as it was the last one before the break. Performances began on January 2nd, and they would have three rehearsals the following week, but her cast needed to have time to do all the other Christmassy things that were either desirable or necessary. The crew, on the other hand, would probably be finishing off the sets long after the cast had gone home.

  When she and Ben arrived at the pub they found Patti and Anne seated at their favourite round table, along with Bethany Cole and her husband John and surprisingly, Bob the butcher.

  ‘Bob? Aren’t you going to sit with the others in the other bar?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Thought your mate Ian might be along, and I knew you’d talk to him about all this business, so I came in here instead. I’ll go, if you don’t want me?’ He made as if to rise.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ben, handing Libby her lager, ‘but it isn’t his case, so I don’t suppose he’ll talk about it.’

  ‘What business?’ asked Anne, her sharply pointed face alight. ‘What have we missed?’

  ‘Is it about your stolen turkeys, Bob?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Yeah – don’t know how you missed it, Anne.’

  ‘Working in Canterbury, and I don’t get out much, except when Patti’s over. So what’s happened?’

  Between them, they explained to Patti and Anne. As Libby would have expected, Anne was intrigued and Patti horrified.

  ‘That poor man,’ she said, ‘and his poor dog.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the dog,’ said Libby. ‘He’s fallen squarely on his paws. Currently living with Hetty and thoroughly enjoying life. In fact, he’s one of the things I want to speak to Ian about.’

  ‘I knew I wouldn’t get away without an inquisition of some sort.’ Ian Connell had come silently up behind them, his dark hair, just tinged with grey, slightly ruffled from the wintry breeze. He turned his chocolate-coloured eyes on Libby in a mock frown. ‘So what is it this time?’

  ‘Get a drink first,’ said Libby, with what she hoped was a winning smile. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, a pint,’ said Ian, as Ben got up. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

  ‘A pint?’ said Patti. ‘Aren’t you driving?’

  ‘Good evening, Patti – and no, I’m staying with Hetty.’

  The Manor’s many bedrooms had been turned into en-suite bed and breakfast facilities some years ago, only occasionally used for visiting theatre companies and friends and relations. The last time Ian had stayed had been in September, for the ill-fated Beer Festival and its aftermath.

  Ben returned with the pint and sitting down, hitched his chair forward with an expectant air. Ian looked round at the waiting faces and laughed. ‘What are you all waiting for?’

  ‘The turkey murder,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not my case.’

  ‘Told you,’ said Libby to the others.

  ‘But of course, I did ha
ve to bail you out -’

  ‘You did not!’ said Libby. ‘I merely told them to confirm who I was with you.’

  ‘And I did.’ He looked round again. ‘So what else is it?’

  ‘The dog.’ Libby explained. ‘And he ought to be checked for a microchip, didn’t he? It might tell us who his owner is.’

  ‘If he’s chipped,’ said Ian. ‘If the victim was the owner, he didn’t look the sort to bother much about microchips and vaccinations.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then?’ said Ben.

  ‘Photographs. It’s still under the Rural Crimes remit. They should have arranged for the Animal Welfare Officer.’

  ‘They were trying to get hold of him – or her.’

  ‘And you took the dog so they didn’t bother.’ Ian shook his head. ‘I’ll get on to them tomorrow.’

  ‘We don’t want them to take him away,’ said Libby hurriedly

  ‘He’s really settled with Mum,’ said Ben. ‘She’s named him and everything. And he’s been coming round the estate with me.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Jeff-dog,’ said Libby.

  ‘Jeff-dog?’ repeated the company.

  Libby shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. He probably told her.’

  ‘What information is actually on a microchip?’ asked Patti.

  ‘An identifying number,’ said Ian. ‘That is registered on the manufacturer’s database which has the owner’s details. As long as it’s there – there are many people who don’t register the chip. If a vet has done it, they’ll usually register it anyway, but if the dog changes hands, it may not have updated details.’

  ‘Well, I think it ought to be done,’ said Libby.

  ‘It should have been, as I said,’ agreed Ian. ‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

  Thursday morning was wet and miserable. Libby was finishing off her present-wrapping when the phone rang. When she ended the call, she immediately called Ben.

  ‘Bloody police wanted to come and take Jeff-dog away!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has to be checked over by a vet. We could have told them that. I refused and said which vet, I would take him.’

  ‘What did they say to that?’

  ‘Confused muttering.’

  ‘I bet!’ Ben was laughing. ‘This is because Ian told them off about not doing it properly in the first place, isn’t it?’

  ‘I expect so. Anyway, I told them to ring me with the details, otherwise I shall take him to our own vet this afternoon and they can get the information from her.’

  The phone rang again after Libby ended the call. This time it was Ian, who was also laughing.

  ‘What did you say to them?’

  Libby told him.

  ‘Excellent! That’ll teach them to do things properly in the first place.’

  ‘That’s what Ben said,’ said Libby. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘Go to the vet this afternoon, as you said. She’ll be expecting you, and you will be met by an officer. They won’t be taking Jeff-dog away, don’t worry. And the vet will give him a thorough checkup.’

  ‘What about vaccinations?’

  ‘They don’t need them annually any more, but we don’t know if he had them in the first place. We’ll have to wait and see what comes up.’

  Predictably, Hetty insisted on coming too, although Jeff-dog happily walked out with Libby. Strapped in to the passenger seat, tight-lipped, Hetty settled back to endure. Libby gave her an amused smile.

  ‘Never been happy travelling, have you, Het?’

  ‘Don’t like being driven, gal.’

  ‘Oh? But you don’t drive yourself, do you? I’ve never seen you.’

  ‘Course I can drive. Greg taught me on the tractors when I was a gal. Used to drive the Land Rover, didn’t I?’

  ‘I never knew!’

  ‘No reason to know,’ said Hetty, and relapsed into silence.

  The vet, a woman called Sylvia whom Libby had known for years, was also amused by the situation.

  ‘I’ve come into contact a lot with rural crime, especially over the last few years,’ she told the two women as she led them into her consulting room, ‘but this is a first.’ She picked up the microchip reader and waved it over an obligingly still Jeff-dog. It beeped cheerily.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said Sylvia, going to check a screen. Her eyebrows rose. ‘Not much help to your policeman friend outside though, I fancy.’ She opened the door and called to the glum-looking officer in the waiting room. ‘It’s the name of a very respectable breeder,’ she told him. ‘Not much help.’

  ‘He can tell us who he sold the dog to, can’t he?’ asked the officer, taking out a notebook.’

  ‘She might be able to,’ Sylvia gently corrected him, ‘but she’ll have sold many from the same litter.’

  ‘Does the database record when that microchip was registered?’ asked Libby.

  Sylvia frowned. ‘I think you could find that if you looked a bit harder,’ she said. ‘But this dog is no more than four years old, I would have said.’

  ‘So can you give us the name, miss? Er – madam?’ asked the officer.

  ‘Jenny Bright, Bollover Farm, near Aldington.’

  ‘That’s actually on the Marsh,’ said Libby.

  ‘Let’s face it, the Marsh is a very sheep-y place,’ said Sylvia, with a grin.

  ‘Does he need to be outdoors?’ Hetty asked suddenly.

  Sylvia looked surprised. ‘No, he doesn’t. He might have trouble adapting to life as a house dog, but as long as he gets plenty of exercise…’

  ‘Hetty and Ben take him out every day,’ said Libby. ‘And Ben’s been taking him round the estate.’

  ‘Just what he’s been used to, I expect. As long as he doesn’t try and herd things.’

  ‘Can we transfer owner info to Hetty now, then?’ asked Libby. Sylvia looked at the officer.

  ‘Can we?’ she said.

  The officer looked confused.

  ‘Actually, probably not,’ said Libby. ‘Thinking about it, he might even still belong to the breeder, or to someone else and have got caught up in the – er – the -’

  ‘Murder,’ put in Hetty helpfully.

  The officer looked relieved. Thanking him and Sylvia, and promising to bring Sidney in for a check-up in the New Year, Libby and Hetty left, Jeff-dog trotting obediently along beside Hetty.

  ‘Nothing to stop us getting in touch with her,’ said Hetty, as soon as they were all loaded into the car.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bright woman.’ Hetty glanced at Libby out of the corner of her eye. ‘Go over there, maybe.’

  ‘What, today?’ Libby was startled. ‘It’s a bit late now.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then. Got anything on?’

  Libby frantically reviewed Friday’s arrangements. ‘Er…’

  ‘Talk to Ben.’ Hetty gave a decisive nod and settled back in her seat.

  By the time Libby delivered Hetty and Jeff-dog back to the Manor it was dark. Ben was waiting for her at Number 17, with the fire lit and the big kettle gently burbling on the hob.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked, as she flopped down in a corner of the sofa. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Only on the breeder who had him chipped.’

  ‘Oh? Who was that?’

  ‘A Jenny Bright, of -’

  ‘Bollover Farm!’ said Ben, surprised. ‘I know her! Dad had at least two of her pups in the past.’

  ‘That will probably help,’ said Libby. ‘Hetty wanted to go over there.’

  Ben laughed. ‘That’s my mum! Tell you what, I’ll give her a ring, shall I? The police may already have spoken to her.’

  Libby went to make the tea while Ben made his phone call, and when she went back to the sitting room with the mugs, he was just ending the call.

  ‘Yes, they’d already spoken to her. She was a bit surprised and very pleased that we were taking care of the dog. She would like to see him, then she might have a chance of identifying him
. So I said we’d go over in the morning. Is that OK?’

  ‘I suppose so. Hetty wanted to go tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll give her a ring now, then,’ said Ben. ‘And it’s not Christmas Day until Sunday, so relax.’

  The Range Rover was far more suitable for driving through farmland, Libby decided, as Ben bounced over a rutted lane towards Bollover Farm on Friday morning. Jeff-dog stood behind his dog guard panting happily, Hetty sat tight-lipped in the back and Libby watched the view of the Marsh changing as they drove further and further in.

  Bollover Farm was in far better repair than Cheevles Farm had been. As they pulled to a halt in front of the neat red-brick farmhouse, a man walking across the yard to the side paused to look at them, waiting until a woman emerged from the front door. Sturdy, grey-haired, and wearing a padded gilet over jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, she was Libby’s idea of a countrywoman personified.

  ‘Ben!’ she said coming forward, hand outstretched. ‘It’s been some years, hasn’t it!’

  Libby helped Hetty out of the back seat, and noticed the man still hovering in the yard, but apparently trying to look inconspicuous.

  ‘And Hetty – you haven’t changed a bit.’ Jenny Bright turned to the older woman and, to Libby’s surprise, gave her a kiss on the cheek. Hetty wasn’t a social kissing sort of person. But she appeared quite happy about this one.

  ‘And is this my old friend?’ Jenny went to the back of the Range Rover as Ben opened it to let Jeff-dog out. It was obvious he recognised Jenny’s scent, but he seemed a little confused, not quite knowing which human to turn to. Jenny crouched down and put her hand on his head. ‘Was he wearing this collar when you found him?’ She looked up at Libby.

  ‘Oh, Jenny, sorry. This is my partner, Libby Sarjeant.’ Ben butted in.

  Jenny smiled a held up a hand for Libby. ‘Good to meet you. What luck for him to have been found by someone like you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby awkwardly. ‘He seemed to take to me, so I more-or-less kidnapped him from the crime scene.’

  ‘Good job you did.’ Jenny stood up. ‘Otherwise he’d be in kennels by now.’

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He’s grown a bit.’ Jenny put her head on one side consideringly. ‘But I did the microchipping myself, so I’ll have a look. We’ve got a scanner, too.’ She grinned at them. ‘So we can find out exactly who this boy is.’