‘Because if I’m not with you you’ll do something stupid.’
‘I’m not going to resent that remark,’ said Libby loftily, ‘because I should prefer to have your company rather than going alone.’
Fran sighed deeply again. ‘I’ll pick you up,’ she said.
The road to the village of Shott led off the Canterbury road in the other direction to Steeple Cross and Keeper’s Cob.
‘This is a bit like Dark Lane,’ muttered Libby, as Fran manoeuvred round a narrow bend bordered on both sides by tall, bare trees and tangled undergrowth.
‘Not as intimidating, somehow,’ said Fran. ‘Look, here’s Itching.’
‘Bloody strange names they’ve got round here,’ said Libby. ‘Do we go straight through Itching?’
‘Signpost,’ said Fran. ‘There.’
Libby peered out at the small black-and-white metal signpost that indicated a right turn to Shott and Bishop’s Bottom.
‘Down there,’ she said. ‘Shott Lane.’
Shott Lane led downhill between more heavy vegetation. As the first thatched cottage appeared before them on their right, to the left Libby saw an old chapel with a drunken “For Sale” sign outside.
‘I bet that would be lovely if you converted it,’ she said. ‘Look – a pub.’
The lane widened out to divide round a small green. Between two cottages opposite they could see an obviously Norman church, and nearer, on the corner of another road, a long, low pub, its swinging sign announcing it to be “The Poacher”.
‘I’ll park on the forecourt,’ said Fran. ‘It’s after opening time, so we could get a coffee.’
‘The idealised view of English rural life,’ said Libby, getting out of the car. ‘No shop, no post office, no transport …’
‘You’re wrong there,’ said Fran. ‘Look.’ She pointed across the green to a small building looking like a Portakabin, “Shop” proudly displayed across its front.
‘A community one, do you think?’ asked Libby. ‘Like the one in Patti’s village?’
‘Looks like it. Come on, let’s go inside. We don’t want them to think we’re taking advantage parking here.’
The pub, like so many of its ilk, had turned itself into a restaurant for the most part. Libby and Fran approached the bar through a forest of empty tables and chairs. A rather surprised-looking landlord greeted them.
‘Morning, ladies. What can I get you?’
‘Could we have coffee, do you think?’ asked Libby.
‘Sure. How do you want it?’
When they had negotiated the niceties of the coffee menu, the landlord put their mugs in front of them and cocked an enquiring eyebrow.
‘So, don’t get visitors here at this time of the year,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘We found you by accident,’ said Fran hastily, before Libby could put her foot in it. ‘Fascinated by the names of the villages.’
‘Yeah – a lot of people are,’ said the landlord. ‘Mind you, good for us in the tourist season. And we get a lot of Americans and such like looking for their ancestors.’
‘Are there a lot of local names still here?’ asked Libby. ‘We’ve got some in my village – a lot of Hoads for instance.’
The landlord nodded. ‘We’ve got some Hoads, here, too. And a lot of Hoddens. Vicar reckons they was all one family one time.’ He grinned. ‘And a right bunch they are, too! Mostly farmers and labourers and the like. And half of ʼem live down Rogues Lane an’ all!’ He laughed uproariously.
‘Really?’ Libby smiled, a little disbelieving.
‘No, true.’ He nodded. ‘Rogues Lane’s over the green. Goes up to Bishop’s Bottom. Got Hoads and Hoddens living down there. Used to be Hodden Farm.’
‘Isn’t the farm there any more?’ asked Fran.
‘Nah. They built some great new house there instead.’
‘Who? The Hoddens?’ said Libby.
‘No. Last owners sold the land. Some of the Hoads was sitting tenants in the cottages, but the Hoddens had all bought theirs. So they stayed. New owner got the big house.’
‘New owners built it?’ said Fran.
‘Some builder built it.’
‘Not Ron Stewart?’ asked Libby.
The landlord looked surprised. ‘You know Ron?’
‘Well, no, only who he was. We did know he lived here.’
The landlord’s eyes narrowed. ‘So that’s why you came here? Now, old Ron keeps himself to hisself these days. Don’t want no fuss.’
‘No, of course not.’ Fran was soothing. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve driven along the Canterbury road from Nethergate and passed the sign for “Itching, Shott, and Bishop’s Bottom” so often, I just had to come and see what they were like.’
‘Oh, ah.’ The landlord took down a glass and began to polish it unnecessarily. ‘Well, Ron don’t live in the big house, anyway.’
‘Is the shop a community one?’ asked Libby, desperately trying to save the situation. ‘A friend of ours helps run one over at St Aldeberge. It’s very successful.’
‘Yeah.’ The answer was somewhat grudging. ‘Opens every day except Sunday. All volunteers, o’course.’
‘Yes, Patti’s is, too,’ said Fran.
‘St Aldeberge?’ The landlord now looked up. ‘That’s our Rev Patti, isn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ said Fran surprised.
‘Oh, I remember, now,’ said Libby. ‘Shott’s one of hers, isn’t it? She said something about parish boundary.’
The landlord had now become friendly again. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Poor lass has more than enough to cope with. This is the parish of St Aldeberge, Shott, and Bishop’s Bottom. Then she’s got those villages the other side.’
‘The mining villages,’ nodded Libby. ‘She does get a bit overworked. But she comes to see us nearly every week on her day off.’
‘So you’re friends of our Rev Patti. Oh, well, that’s nice.’ He leant his elbows on the counter. ‘Nasty do over at St Aldeberge’s the other year, though, wasn’t it?’
‘Very nasty.’ Libby shivered, remembering.
‘You wasn’t involved in that, was you?’ said the landlord, his eyes growing round.
‘A bit,’ said Fran uncomfortably. ‘She’s a friend. We did what we could.’
‘Oh, ah.’ The landlord suddenly leant across the bar and peered into their faces. ‘Got it!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That play! In that church place – there was a murder there, too, wasn’t there?’
‘Er – yes.’ Libby was now even more uncomfortable than Fran. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr – er –’
‘Sid Best.’ He held out a hand.
‘My –’ began Libby, before Fran broke in.
‘Fran Wolfe,’ she said shaking Sid’s hand, ‘and this is Libby Sarjeant. Now we must get on. If we go through Bishop’s Bottom we can get through to St Aldeberge, can’t we?’
‘Yes, straight up Rogues Lane. You’ll see the big house on the left.’ He grinned. ‘Give my best to Rev Patti.’
‘Not the best idea to tell him you have a cat called Sidney,’ Fran reproved as they went back to the car.
‘I didn’t!’
‘You were just about to,’ said Fran. ‘So what did you learn?’
‘That Ron Stewart is protected by the village and Sid Best saw the play last year at St Eldreda’s. He recognised us.’ Libby glanced at her friend. ‘Quick thinking of mine to introduce Patti.’
‘You didn’t, really. He was the one who took it up. And yes, it was lucky.’ Fran started the engine. ‘We’ll drive round the green slowly and have a good peer at the houses.’
The few houses round the small green were all beautifully kept and rather smug.
‘Second homes, do you reckon?’ said Libby. ‘It’s almost too perfect to be true.’
‘Commuter homes, wouldn’t you think?’ said Fran. ‘Nice church, what we can see of it.’
‘Oh, this is more like it,’ said Libby, as they turned left into Rog
ues Lane, where a row of flint cottages flanked the right side of the road, looking as though they’d grown out of the ground.
‘The Hoddens’ cottages, I suppose,’ said Fran, ‘and look. That must be the big house.’
Just beyond the cottages, on their left, a large, neo-Georgian house in red brick with white pillasters stood on a slight rise, screaming its newness to the world.
‘Wonder who lives there?’ said Libby, as they drove slowly past. ‘Not Ron, obviously.’
‘And our Sid didn’t tell us, either,’ said Fran. ‘Are we really going on to see Patti?’
‘No, of course not. She’s probably up to her ears in parish work and wouldn’t thank us for dropping in.’
‘We could ring,’ said Fran.
‘We could offer to take her to lunch,’ agreed Libby, pulling out her phone.
‘But not here,’ said Patti, after Libby had issued the invitation. ‘How about The Red Lion in Heronsbourne?’
‘Shall we pick you up?’ asked Libby.
‘No, I’ll drive over, then you don’t have to make a detour to take me back. See you in – what? Half an hour?’
‘It’ll be nice seeing George again,’ said Libby, putting her phone back in her pocket. ‘That’s another of Patti’s churches, isn’t it? St Martha’s?’
‘George told you it was,’ said Fran. ‘Now, how do we get to Heronsbourne from here?’
‘After we go through Bishop’s Bottom, shouldn’t we hit that narrow lane that leads off the Canterbury road to St Aldeberge? Then we can turn right on to that.’
‘Oh, yes, and it comes out almost opposite the road to Heronsbourne, doesn’t it?’
Bishop’s Bottom, which proved to be as small as, or smaller than, Itching and Shott, was nothing more than a crossroads with a couple of large houses on the outskirts, one of which was the twin of the big house in Shott.
‘Same builder,’ said Fran. ‘Here’s where we turn right.’
Libby and Fran had first been to The Red Lion in Heronsbourne some years ago when looking into another murder. George, the landlord, had subsequently provided them with odd snippets of information in the course of their other adventures. He beamed a welcome as they entered the bar.
‘And what is it now?’ he asked as he handed over two large coffees. ‘Had a new murder, I hear.’
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘We’re taking Patti to lunch.’
‘And we went to another one of her villages earlier,’ added Libby. ‘Shott – do you know it?’
‘Course I know it. Sid Best has The Poacher over there.’
‘Yes, we had coffee there, too,’ said Fran.
George narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah. You are looking into it, then.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Libby.
‘Ron Stewart lives there.’
‘Yes?’ prompted Fran.
‘He belonged to that group. Where the bloke was found dead. In your village,’ George said to Libby, who sighed.
‘No fooling you, George, is there? But we’re not actually looking into it. I was just being nosy. We didn’t know it was one of Patti’s churches until she told us when she said she knew Ron Stewart. Well, not knew exactly, but she’d met him.’
‘He gets wheeled out for the odd event,’ said George. ‘We have a joint Villages Show in autumn, Shott, us, and St Aldeberge, and old Screwball presents the odd prize. He’s donated a cup for something or other. Can’t remember what.’
‘What’s he like?’ asked Fran.
‘Quiet bloke,’ said George, turning to serve another customer. ‘Looks the part, though.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Libby.
‘Oh, you know, leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans, big boots. Longish hair, although he’s going a bit bald now. Leastways, he was when I saw him back in October.’
‘At the village show?’
‘No, he came in here. Gawd knows why. He uses The Poacher mostly.’
‘Was he on his own? Perhaps he had a friend who lives here,’ suggested Fran.
‘He was with someone else, but I didn’t know him,’ said George. ‘Look out – here comes the vicar!’
Patti hurried up to the counter.
‘I’ve just found something out,’ she said, in a breathless voice. ‘Vernon Bowling lives in Shott too.’
Chapter Five
When Patti had been provided with coffee and they had all ordered, they settled at a table in the window.
‘I suppose it’s not so surprising, is it?’ said Libby. ‘Some of the members of the group are bound to live in the same villages.’
‘Who set it up in the first place?’ asked Fran.
‘I couldn’t remember who it was who got in touch with us in the first place, but Ian told us last night it was Doctor Robinson, and I can’t actually remember if they approached Sir Andrew before they asked us or the other way round.’
‘Sir Andrew?’ said Fran.
‘So we don’t confuse him with the other Andrew. Prof Andrew.’
‘D’you know, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Patti. ‘And I’ve met them both.’
‘Well, while Sir Andrew is messing about down here, I suggest we don’t bring Prof. Andrew over, or we’ll get terribly confused,’ said Libby. ‘And it’s quite easy to confuse me at any time.’
‘So, if Vernon Bowling and Ron Stewart both lived in Shott and were both members of the ukulele group, we can assume they’re friends,’ said Fran, returning to the original conversation.
‘There may be others who live there, too,’ said Libby. ‘How did you find out, Patti?’
‘One of the churchwardens rang to tell me. We’ll have to include him in the intercessions. I’m not due there next Sunday, but I’ll have to go over and talk to Mary.’
‘Mary?’
‘The churchwarden. She says that Mrs Bowling is a churchgoer, although not particularly regular. I suppose I ought to call.’ Patti’s usually smooth forehead was wrinkled with worry under her heavy fringe.
‘I wonder who else comes from your villages,’ mused Libby. ‘I mean, George here knew about it. Perhaps there’s someone here?’
‘He’d have told us,’ said Fran. ‘No, the only ones from this side of the Canterbury road are Lewis and Edie.’
‘And I wonder why it was Lewis who Mrs Bowling rang on Tuesday night? Was he a friend?’
‘We don’t know it was Lewis,’ said Fran. ‘It was Lewis who went into the pub, you told me, but he could have been told about the phone call by someone else.’
‘Oh, so he could,’ said Libby. ‘You’re so logical, Fran.’
Libby’s phone warbled from her pocket.
‘Hello, Hal. Fran and I are having lunch with Patti. What can I do for you?’
‘Andrew’s coming down this evening and he’s called a meeting of the ukulele group and you.’
‘Eh? Me?’
‘You, Pete and Ben. I think he wants to talk over the advisability of allowing the uke group to continue in the concert. Oh – and your cousin’s just arrived.’
‘My c … Oh, God!’
‘You’d forgotten, hadn’t you?’ Harry sighed gustily. ‘Luckily we haven’t started on the building work upstairs. She can stay in the flat.’
‘Is she OK? Oh, how could I have forgotten? What an idiot.’
‘Yes, you are. So you’d better come home pdq. I’ll feed you all here tonight as you won’t have got anything in. Andrew will be here, too.’
‘OK, but can I finish my lunch?’
‘Yes, but hurry up about it.’
Libby switched off her phone just as their sandwiches arrived accompanied by a garnish of crisps.
‘Andrew’s holding a meeting with the ukulele group and me, Ben, and Pete tonight, and my cousin Cassandra’s arrived.’ Libby poked gloomily at her tuna sandwich.
‘Your cousin –?’ Fran and Patti looked surprised.
‘Yes.’ Libby sighed. ‘We arranged it ages ago. We haven’t seen one another for a year or so, so it seemed sensib
le to arrange a long weekend before the panto and Christmas got in the way. I don’t know how I forgot.’
‘I didn’t know you had a cousin,’ said Fran.
‘Of course I do. Most people have, haven’t they?’
Fran’s brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t think I have.’
‘I have,’ said Patti. ‘They are not the nicest of people. My extended family do not believe in women priests, let alone anything else.’
‘Well, Cass is one of the nicest people I know. Her husband died years ago, far too young, and her children all live miles away, so I ought to have kept in touch better.’
‘Where does she live?’ asked Patti.
‘London, and one of her children is in Liverpool and the other in Scotland, so she doesn’t see much of them.’
‘Does she work?’ asked Fran.
‘No, she retired at sixty. She must be nearer to seventy now, but she does a lot of voluntary work.’
‘Well, you’d better hurry up and finish your sandwich,’ said Fran, ‘and I’ll get you back home.’
‘Harry’s put her up in the flat,’ said Libby, ‘which is jolly nice of him, as I haven’t got the spare room ready. He’s going to feed us tonight, too.’
‘You do fall on your feet, Mrs S,’ said Patti. ‘If it had been me, I’d have found the poor woman trailing round the village in the snow.’
‘Oh, Cass knows all about Harry and Pete and the caff. She’s been here before, but not for years. Must have been not long after her husband died.’
‘Before I knew you?’ asked Fran.
‘Oh, yes, and before Ben and I were together. She’s met Ben, because we’ve been up to see her a few times, when we’ve been to London to see Bel and Dom.’
‘Bel and Dom?’ repeated Patti.
‘My other two kids,’ explained Libby. ‘Belinda and Dominic. Didn’t you meet them last Christmas?’
Patti shook her head and finished her sandwich. ‘Come on, eat up. You’re in a hurry.’
Fran went to the counter to pay for their lunch and Libby shrugged herself into her coat.
‘Sorry that was a bit cut short, Patti. I’d invite you over to meet Cass, but you’re bound to have a wedding or something on Saturday and services on Sunday.’
‘You’re welcome to bring her over if you’re short of things to do,’ said Patti, and turned to Fran. ‘Thank you for the lunch, Fran.’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 3
