Campbell brightened. ‘Questioned?’
‘Because she lives over there. They talked to everyone,’ said Harry.
‘Really?’ Campbell swivelled in his chair and tried to peer past his own van into Maltby Close.
‘It’s a sort of private retirement complex,’ explained Libby. ‘There were barns there, and someone turned them into self-contained units for the better-off over-fifty-fives. There’s a community hall and, of course, the doctor’s surgery at this end.’
‘Oh, so not likely to be involved?’
‘They’re all over sixty-five, let alone fifty-five,’ said Harry.
‘So that community hall, is that where this rehearsal was?’
‘No, in the church hall, at the back of the church. I know that, because we turned them down and they asked us to suggest somewhere else. The Carpenter Room is only used by the residents of Maltby Close.’ Libby drained her coffee mug. ‘Sorry Campbell, but this time, you’ve got the edge on us. So who was the victim?’
‘Vernon Bowling.’ Campbell looked from Libby to Harry. ‘Ring any bells?’
They both shook their heads.
‘Top government scientist. No?’
‘No,’ said Libby. ‘Why would we know that?’
‘Unless he’s been involved in scandal of some sort,’ said Harry.
‘Well, it looks as though he might have been now, doesn’t it?’ said Campbell eagerly. ‘I’d better get over there and see what’s going on.’
‘Off you go then,’ said Libby. ‘Good hunting.’
They watched him trot across the road and disappear behind the big van.
‘Scientist,’ said Libby. ‘Playing the ukulele?’
‘There’s a gay television builder, too,’ said Harry. ‘Takes all sorts.’
‘Do you think this is going to bring the media down on us?’ Libby rested her chin in her hands and peered through the window.
‘That was what I was going to tell you. Andrew heard it – or saw it – on the news this morning and wanted to know if we knew any more about it. He was pretty sure the media will pay us some attention –’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Libby.
‘And that it will do us good,’ finished Harry triumphantly.
‘I thought the tickets were already selling quite well?’
‘The punters will be falling over themselves now,’ said Harry. ‘Andrew reckons we might have to put it on for another night.’
Libby frowned. ‘Does he mean the Sunday as well as the Saturday? I can’t see that being popular with the artistes – it’s the Sunday before Christmas. A lot of them will have stuff planned.’
‘He meant the Friday,’ said Harry, looking a little nervous.
‘My last rehearsal?’ exploded Libby. ‘You must be joking!’
‘I told him that, but he still wanted me to ask.’
‘He’s a pro – he knows we open on the 29th. I’ve had to let everybody have Christmas week off, or I wouldn’t have a cast, so I can’t afford to lose any more rehearsal time. As it is the cast are coming in on the 28th to do a final run.’
‘I know,’ sighed Harry. ‘I told him.’
‘Anyway,’ said Libby piously, ‘it’s awful to have to profit from a murder.’
‘I can think of quite a bit of profit made out of murder round here,’ said Harry, collecting mugs.
‘What?’ Libby glared at him.
‘You and Ben, Fran and Guy. Even Flo and Lenny in a way. And young Jane and her Terry.’
‘That’s not profit. Not money profit.’
‘You’ve also made friends with the dishiest cop in Kent,’ said Harry, nodding once more towards the window. ‘And guess where he’s coming?’
Chapter Three
Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell pushed open the door of The Pink Geranium.
‘Coffee?’ said Harry.
‘No, we don’t know anything about it,’ said Libby.
DCI Connell looked amused. ‘Yes, to the coffee, Harry, and no, I didn’t think you did, Libby.’
‘Oh.’ Libby deflated.
Harry brought a mug for Ian and sat down at the table. ‘What, then?’
‘I simply wanted to know how much you know about this ukulele group. They were in touch with you, weren’t they?’
‘Only to ask if they could rehearse in the theatre,’ said Libby. ‘Ben put them on to the church hall. Andrew’s had the most contact with them.’
‘Professor Wylie?’ Ian frowned.
‘There, see,’ said Libby, turning to Harry. ‘He did it, too.’
‘Not him, no,’ said Harry. ‘My Sir Andrew.’
‘Ah.’ Ian was enlightened. ‘McColl. I forgot he was a Sir.’
‘Well, he’s the one organising this concert, you see.’
‘So he asked a local amateur ukulele group to appear at his Christmas Concert?’ Ian’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I think they asked him,’ said Harry. ‘Putting the emphasis on Lewis.’
‘Ah, I heard he was involved.’ Ian sipped coffee and seemed to relax. ‘So that’s all you know?’
Libby shrugged. ‘Afraid so. Can you tell us what happened?’
‘Only what you can read in the papers later, or hear on the news. Vernon Bowling was found in the churchyard this morning by the sexton. His wife had actually reported him missing last night when he didn’t come home from a rehearsal.’
‘Yes, Lewis came into the pub asking for him,’ said Harry. ‘We didn’t know who it was, though.’
‘And I still don’t,’ said Libby.
‘You don’t?’ Ian seemed surprised.
‘Campbell McLean thought we ought to know, too,’ said Libby. ‘He was over here just before you.’
‘I saw,’ said Ian. ‘That’s why I came. Anyway, Vernon Bowling was the man who was involved in the scandal at Dellington, remember that?’
‘Er …’ Libby’s eyes swivelled towards Harry.
‘Dellington!’ Harry’s chair rocked backwards. ‘Yes. That experiment place.’
‘That’s it.’ Ian looked at Libby. ‘Bowling was one of the scientists at Dellington, which was a top secret government testing base.’
‘Oh – like that Porton Down?’
‘That’s it. And they were found to be testing lethal substances, which only came to light after a couple of the volunteers died.’
‘Horrible.’ Libby shuddered. ‘So is that why you think he was murdered? In revenge?’
‘It looks unlikely,’ said Ian. ‘It was a long time ago, and Bowling’s been out of the public eye for years. But,’ he sighed, ‘we’ll have to go through the other members of the group with a toothcomb.’
‘You shouldn’t be telling us,’ grinned Libby.
Ian smiled ruefully. ‘I know. It’s come to be a habit. Anyway, you don’t know any of them, so it really doesn’t matter.’
‘We do,’ said Harry. ‘We know Lewis and his mum.’
‘Oh, no. Is she a member, too?’
‘Yes. I went with her once to keep her company.’ Libby bit her lip. That wasn’t meant to come out.
Ian frowned. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know any of them?’
‘I don’t. I went once with Edie because Lewis couldn’t go that week, and she so enjoyed going, but she didn’t know any of the other members, so I didn’t actually meet them, either.’
‘Well,’ said Ian, getting to his feet, ‘I might show you a list of the other members when I’ve got it, just to see if you do know any of them. Or anything about them.’
‘And we won’t tell the Chief Constable,’ said Harry, also getting to his feet and holding the door open. ‘It’s Wednesday tonight, and we’ll be in the pub.’
‘If I’m not still sleuthing, I’ll see you there.’ Ian gave a wave and set off back to the crime scene.
‘Well, that’s a first,’ said Libby. ‘Ian asking for our help.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Harry. ‘He�
�s done it before.’
‘But not when we had no possible connection.’
‘But you have got a connection. The theatre and the concert.’
‘That’s very tenuous,’ said Libby, getting up and collecting her basket. ‘I’ll see you tonight. And you can tell Sir Andrew he can’t have the Friday.’
On Wednesday evenings, the Reverend Patti Pearson came to Steeple Martin to have dinner with her friend Anne Douglas at The Pink Geranium, after which they had formed the habit of joining Libby, Ben and Peter at the pub. Ian often joined them, especially if Libby was involved in something unsavoury. This evening, he arrived at the same time as Harry, who had left the closing of the restaurant to Libby’s son Adam, who occasionally worked for him.
‘What have you been up to now, Libby?’ said Patti, as Harry went to buy himself and Ian beer and coffee respectively.
‘Nothing,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Why does everyone automatically assume I’m involved in something?’
‘Because there was a murder here last night it follows as the night the day,’ said Anne, moving her wheelchair to allow Ian to pull up a chair.
‘In this case,’ said Ian, ‘Libby actually isn’t involved. And as we’re all here, I might as well let you all see this list of names.’
‘What names?’ Ben peered across the table as Ian brought out a piece of paper.
‘The people in the ukulele group. If any of you know anything about any of them, perhaps you’ll tell me? Uniform have spoken to most of them by now, but they’re all saying they didn’t know the victim very well.’
‘Well, they would,’ said Libby. ‘What does his wife say?’
‘Not a lot yet. She’s not even sure how he got involved with the group, just that he’d become obsessed with the instrument.’
‘Who was the victim?’ asked Anne.
‘Vernon Bowling,’ said Ian
‘Vernon Bowling? Wasn’t he that scientist back in the seventies who killed people with drugs?’ said Patti.
‘At Dellington, yes.’
‘How do you all remember him? It was years and years ago,’ said Libby.
‘There was a scandal at the time, and then it was referred to Operation Antler.’
‘Eh?’ said Harry.
‘It was the police operation looking into chemical weapons test participants who weren’t properly informed about the possible dangers.’
‘Like those poor atom bomb people?’ said Libby.
‘Who were they?’ asked Patti.
‘Military people who were at the nuclear testing sites in the fifties. They had no protective clothing and were just told to turn their backs. They suffered awful effects from radiation exposure, and they’ve never been given any compensation.’ Libby’s voice had become indignant.
‘Well, not quite like them, but similar. In fact some of the Dellinger and Porton Down victims did get compensation – or rather, their relatives did. The victims themselves were simply sent to the families in sealed steel coffins.’
‘Bloody awful,’ muttered Peter. ‘Caring society we live in, don’t we?’
‘If Bowling was involved in that I’m not sure he didn’t deserve to die,’ said Ben.
‘Ben!’ Patti turned a shocked face to him. ‘You can’t say that! I expect he was under orders, anyway.’
‘It does suggest a motive, though,’ said Libby.
‘Well, it isn’t going to be an outraged parent at this distance,’ said Ben.
‘It could be,’ said Ian, ‘the parents would be in their eighties. But it could also be a sister? Brother? Even a niece or nephew.’
‘Bit far-fetched,’ said Anne. ‘Let’s have a look at that list.’
They all peered at Ian’s list.
‘Ron Stewart – is that Screwball Stewart?’ said Patti.
‘No idea,’ said Ian. ‘Who’s he?’
‘An old ex-rock star. He lives in Shott. Well, Bishop’s Bottom, actually.’
‘Does he now? Yes, that sounds like him.’
‘How do you know an old ex-rock star, Patti?’ said Libby.
‘Shott comes within my parish boundary. His name crops up now and then.’ Patti laughed. ‘You all looked so shocked!’
‘So you don’t actually know him, then?’ said Ian.
‘Oh, I’ve met him a couple of times, but we’re not exactly on visiting terms. So I can’t go and do undercover snooping for you!’ Patti grinned mischievously.
‘Screwball Stewart,’ said Peter. ‘I remember him, don’t you, Ben?’
‘He was the drummer with Jonah Fludde. Drugs victim, wasn’t he?’
‘Jonah Fludde – I’ve heard of them,’ said Harry. ‘Seventies, weren’t they?’
‘Weren’t they all drugs victims then?’ said Ian. ‘Sorry – that’s generalising. Anyway, we’ll talk to him. Seems odd for a seventies rock star to be in a ukulele group, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Perhaps he was asked to be a draw, like Lewis?’ suggested Libby.
‘I don’t recognise any of the other names,’ said Ben. ‘Anyone else?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Are any of them from here? From Steeple Martin, I mean?’ said Libby. ‘I mean, it seems odd if they’re rehearsing here that none of the members are local. Who’s the organiser?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Ben, pulling the paper back towards him. ‘Who is it, Ian?’
‘This one –’ Ian pointed. ‘Dr Eric Robinson.’
‘Is he a real doctor?’ asked Harry.
‘What do you mean?’ Ian grinned at him.
‘I mean, a medical doctor? Or a doctor of something else?’
‘No idea – again,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll try and find out for you. Now, how’s the panto coming along?’
Everyone accepted the change of conversation, but Libby was obviously still thinking about the murder as she and Ben walked home to Allhallow’s Lane.
‘I don’t buy that old seventies story as a motive, you know,’ she said. ‘It’s too old.’
‘I’m sure Ian will dig something else up,’ said Ben. ‘And anyway, didn’t someone once say the motive was the least of the problems? It’s the “how” that’s the most important.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Libby. ‘He was hit on the head.’
‘But how was it done? Who has an alibi? Was anyone seen? That’s what they’ll be looking for.’
‘I still think the “why” is important. Anybody could have walloped him after their rehearsal and just slipped away with everyone else. They could even have been in the pub when Lewis came in to ask. I think looking into all the members to see who had a link to the victim is the only way forward. That’s why Ian came to us – to see if we knew anyone on the list.’
Ben looked dubious. ‘If it was, then he’ll be doing it – looking into the suspects. Not you.’
‘Oh, of course not,’ said Libby, suspiciously innocent.
The next morning, as soon as Ben had gone off to his office in the Manor, Libby was on the phone to her friend Fran Wolfe.
‘Ian did come to the pub last night!’
‘Eh?’
‘I told you he said he might. He told us a bit more about the murder.’
‘He did? Why?’
‘I told you yesterday,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Everybody seemed to assume I knew something about the victim and I didn’t, but Ian brought a list of the members of the ukulele group to the pub to see if anyone knew anything about some of them. And guess who did?’
‘Patti,’ said Fran promptly.
‘How did you know that?’ Libby was indignant.
‘Because of the way you said it. It had to be the least likely person.’
‘But you’ll never guess who it was she knew! Screwball Stewart!’
‘Screwball – who?’
‘Ron Stewart – known as Screwball. He was the drummer in Jonah Fludde.’
‘Jonah – oh yes, I remember. They were prog rock, weren’t they?’
‘Wow, Fran! I’m surprised you know that!’
Fran laughed. ‘I wasn’t always middle-aged any more than you were!’
‘No. Funny though, I can’t think of Jonah Fludde being middle-aged.’
‘I rather liked them. They used fiddles – and didn’t they have an oboe? I rather think they’re still going in a revised form.’
‘Really? How do you know that?’
‘I’ve seen their name on a couple of festival posters.’
‘How,’ said Libby, ‘do you get to see festival posters?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran vaguely. ‘Lucy goes to them.’
‘With the children?’
‘Oh, yes. I gather there are lots of families. Anyway, how does Patti know this person?’
‘He lives in a village that is one of hers. A place called Shott. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve seen it on signposts. So don’t tell me this Stewart’s a parishioner?’
‘No,’ said Libby, ‘she said he just crops up. She’s met him. I expect the village trot him out as a tame celebrity now and again.’
‘And you say he’s in the ukulele group? How odd!’
‘Well, yes. But what I was thinking was – how do you fancy a little drive out to Shott?’
Chapter Four
‘Libby!’
‘What? All I asked was –’
‘I heard what you asked,’ said an exasperated Fran. ‘You want to drive out to Shott and snoop around. Why, for goodness’ sake? You won’t find anything out just by being in the village – such as it is – and it’s absolutely none of your business anyway.’
‘I just thought –’
‘I know what you just thought,’ said Fran. ‘You are incurably nosy. And when you called me yesterday to tell me about it you said it wasn’t fair bringing a murder right to your own doorstep. Which, incidentally, isn’t the first time.’
‘No, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘It’s become automatic, I suppose.’
‘Being nosy?’
‘Well, yes.’ She was silent for a moment, then brightened. ‘But there’s nothing to stop me going for a little drive in the country, is there?’
Fran sighed. ‘If you’re determined, then I’ll have to come with you.’
‘Why “have to”?’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 2
