‘Looks like a postcard,’ said Cassandra, as she parked just beyond the cottage.
‘It is, now,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve painted it for Guy, and one of the best sellers in his gallery is the view from the front room window. I had a picture exactly like that on my bedroom wall when I was a child, and I just keep replicating it.’
‘Couldn’t you just do prints of it?’ said Cassandra curiously. ‘Seems an awful lot of work.’
Libby shook her head. ‘No. Guy’s customers like original work. I’ve now become known as a “local artist” and the prices have gone up exponentially.’
‘Good for you.’ Cassandra got out and locked the car. ‘Come on. I want to see what your friend Fran has to say about Mike.’
‘She doesn’t know him,’ said Libby, leading the way across the road.
‘Does she have to? I’m relying on her psychic power!’
Chapter Ten
‘No, Cass, you can’t!’ Libby turned on her cousin, elbows planted firmly on her hips.
‘Why not?’ Cassandra raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s what she does, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t. Fran gets pictures in her head which her children used to call “Mother’s Moments”. That’s all. And when anyone’s tried to harness it, it tends not to work.’
‘It used to. You told me she was employed by Goodall and Smythe to check out houses for nervous buyers. And she’s been consulted by the police.’
‘But she always had something to relate to. She’s not even met Mike, or even seen a picture of him.’
‘That’s easy. We’ll call up his website.’ Cassandra strode past Libby and knocked on the blue door.
Fran peered out of the front window looking surprised. ‘It’s open. You know it’s always open.’
‘Not me,’ said Libby, making a face. She reached past Cassandra and opened the door.
Cassandra, looking chastened, stepped back. ‘Sorry. Can never seem to forget I was a headmistress.’
‘No, I’d noticed,’ said Libby. ‘It’s all right, in you go.’
Fran was sitting in the window seat.
‘So what did you want to ask me, Cassandra?’
Cassandra gaped and Libby hid a grin. ‘About Mike Farthing,’ she said. ‘She suggested you could look at his photograph on his website.’
Cassandra glowered and Fran laughed.
‘Come on, then,’ she said, and led them to the table on the other side of the room where her laptop stood, already open.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Libby, as a picture sprang up on the screen.
‘Looking up Dellington.’ Fran typed “Mike Farthing” into the search engine.
‘Farthing’s Plants?’
ʻThat’s it.’ Cassandra bent over Fran’s shoulder. ‘And that’s him.’
‘Hmm. Looks nice,’ said Fran.
‘He is.’ Cassandra cleared her throat and looked the other way.
‘But,’ said Libby, ‘he appears to be being questioned by the police.’
‘If he’s a member of the ukulele group that’s natural. They’ll all be questioned.’
‘Yes, but they already have been, on Wednesday,’ said Cassandra. ‘And he sounded–’
‘Bothered,’ suggested Libby.
Fran peered at the screen. ‘Well, nothing’s coming to mind,’ she said apologetically. ‘But it rarely does.’
Cassandra sighed and sat down abruptly on the arm of Fran’s sofa. ‘I’m behaving like a teenager, and I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Fran stood up and patted her on the shoulder. ‘This sort of thing coming on – ah – later in life, as it were, can be pretty hard. Libby and I have both had to deal with it.’
‘But you’re both younger than I am. I haven’t had any sort of relationship with a man since my husband died.’
‘Not even a flutter of interest?’ asked Libby.
‘No. I tried. I even went out with a couple of people a year or so after Colin died, but I just felt uncomfortable, and there was no … um …’
‘Physical attraction,’ supplied Libby. ‘Right, and you’ve got to have that.’
‘What, even at my age?’ Cassandra laughed shakily. ‘That’s why I feel so foolish.’
‘Because you do feel that for Mike,’ said Fran shrewdly.
‘And I’d take a bet that he feels the same for you,’ said Libby. ‘So he’d better not be guilty of something. Come on, we’re going to have a very late lunch.’
‘But how can I feel like this at my age?’ Cassandra returned to the subject as they walked along Harbour Street towards The Sloop. ‘And how could he? Look at me. I’ve got grey hair –’
‘So has he,’ put in Libby.
‘And I’m not exactly glamorous, am I?’
‘I don’t think Mike would go for glamorous,’ said Libby.
‘Stop analysing,’ said Fran. ‘I know it’s difficult – I did the same thing when I met Guy.’
‘And Ian,’ said Libby.
‘Your policeman friend?’
‘The same. He was very angry the first time Fran met him, but the next time, when he asked for her help, well, that was different.’
‘I nearly made the biggest mistake of my life,’ said Fran.
‘But Ian is – was – gorgeous.’ Libby said.
‘Is gorgeous,’ said Fran, opening the door of The Sloop. ‘And I know you’ve always secretly fancied him.’
‘Does Ben know?’ asked Cassandra, looking horrified.
‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Libby. ‘But he also knows I’d never do anything about it.’
Settled at a table in the window overlooking the tiny harbour, Fran returned to the subject of the murder.
‘Now think. Is there any reason you can think of that the police would be interested in Mike?’
‘We saw him this morning and asked him some questions,’ said Libby.
‘You asked him questions,’ corrected Cassandra.
‘And the only thing he said was that he’d helped with his garden. And with Ron Stewart’s. Oh – and Vernon lived in the first of those new Georgian houses and Ron Stewart lives in the second one, that we saw yesterday. I told you that on the phone.’
‘So they’re all friends?’
Libby looked at Cassandra. ‘I didn’t get that impression, did you?’
‘You said Mike said Vernon and Stewart were friends and shared lifts. And that they usually went for a drink after rehearsals.’
‘Meetings, he said they were. Held in a back room at The Poacher. Vernon would have been able to walk there. I expect he meant shared lifts to Steeple Martin.’
‘Only not last Tuesday,’ said Fran, frowning.
‘Is that significant?’ asked Cassandra.
‘Well, it could be, if it’s a break from the norm.’
‘But that’s nothing to do with Mike.’
‘No. It’s plants, though.’
Libby and Cassandra looked at each other.
‘Eh?’
‘What?’
Fran looked up. ‘Sorry. It just popped in. Plants.’
‘Well, yes, that’s what Mike is – a plantsman.’
‘Yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t suppose that’s got anything to do with it.’
‘No.’ Cassandra was frowning at her. ‘I don’t understand how it works.’
‘Fran’s moments?’ said Libby. ‘There’s nothing to understand. I tried to explain – things just pop into Fran’s head as though she’s always known them. And sometimes she’s had quite unpleasant experiences.’
‘Which I do not want to experience again, I can assure you,’ said Fran. ‘Which is why I try and suppress it these days.’
‘But if it’s been so helpful –?’
‘It isn’t always, and it can be very uncomfortable.’ Fran wriggled in her chair. ‘I promise, if anything does happen to strike me, I’ll let you know.’
Cassandra sat back, obviously dissatisfied, and Libby kicked her under
the table.
Their ham sandwiches arrived, garnished with crisps, which Cassandra poked at distastefully. Libby sighed.
‘Cass, if you’re going to be difficult, we’ll go home now.’
‘What?’ Cassandra looked up, surprised.
‘You’re not happy with Fran or the sandwiches, and I’m getting cross with you.’
Fran laughed. ‘And you’re never difficult, are you, Lib? Leave her alone. She’s suffering from the pangs of – well, something – for the first time in years, and under not particularly nice circumstances.’
Cassandra reached for Libby’s hand. ‘No, you’re right, Lib, I am being difficult.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Sorry, Fran.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Fran. ‘Eat your crisps.’
When they’d finished lunch, Fran took them to see Guy in his gallery, where Cassandra was shown some of Libby’s pictures, including one of the back of Dragon Island, the lump of rock that sat in the middle of Nethergate Bay, with Harbour Street, Victoria Place, and Cliff Terrace showing faintly in the background.
‘I like that one,’ she said. ‘Sort of vaguely impressionistic.’
‘Sheer laziness, I expect,’ said Guy with a grin. ‘She’s supposed to make sure I’ve got a selection, but she falls behind rather.’
‘I’m just a carthorse,’ grumbled Libby.
‘Workhorse,’ said Fran, ‘and you’re not. You hardly do any until Guy’s sold out.’
‘By the way,’ said Guy, ‘that old boy you were talking about came back while you were out.’
‘Bob Alton?’ said Fran. ‘You remember, Lib, I told you earlier. What did he want?’
‘You, actually,’ said Guy. ‘I asked if I could give you a message, but he said no, he’d come back another time.’
Fran and Libby looked at one another.
‘We’ll Google him,’ said Libby.’
‘Or ask Mike,’ said Cassandra.
‘But we can’t – at least, not yet. I think you ought to get in touch with the organiser of the group,’ said Fran. ‘You can easily do so to see what’s happening about the concert.’
‘Yes, but they had a meeting last night,’ demurred Libby. ‘I was there.’
‘But he might have heard from people who weren’t there,’ said Fran. ‘It’s a legitimate question. And you can always give the impression you’re asking on behalf of Andrew.’
‘Andrew?’ said Guy. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Not Andrew Wylie, Andrew McColl.’ Libby turned to Fran. ‘See there’s another one who thought it was our Andrew.’
‘That would be a good idea, though, Lib,’ said Cassandra.
‘Yes, but Dr Robinson isn’t going to know why one of his members wanted to speak to Fran, is he?’
‘No, that’s true,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose it’s important.’
‘The fact that he’s been in twice to see you?’ said Libby. ‘I would suspect he thinks it’s important.’
‘He’ll come back, then, won’t he?’ said Fran. ‘And if I’m at home, Guy can call me.’
‘Suppose so,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, Cass and I had better be getting back. I’ve got to cook before rehearsal tonight. I was going to put something in the slow cooker earlier, and I forgot.’
‘You’re hopeless,’ said Fran. ‘Have you got anything in?’
‘Oh, loads,’ said Libby. ‘We won’t starve.’
‘And I’ll take you all to dinner tomorrow at Harry’s,’ said Cassandra.
‘And we all have to go to Hetty’s for lunch on Sunday,’ said Libby. ‘No getting out of that.’
Cassandra checked her phone all the way home, despite Libby’s nervousness.
‘Leave it, Cass. You’d hear it if it rang. Keep your eyes on the road.’
Cassandra’s mouth was set in a thin line as she nodded. Libby sighed.
‘Drop me off when you park,’ said Libby. ‘I’m going to pop into the eight-til-late on the way home. Dinner at six thirty all right? It has to be early on rehearsal nights.’
‘Fine,’ said Cassandra, as she drew in to a parking space on the opposite of the road from The Pink Geranium. ‘Do you think I should risk ringing again?’
Libby considered. ‘I think that would be OK, actually. After all, he might have thought it would be pushy to ring you back.’ She didn’t really think this, but Cassandra looked in need of reassurance.
‘Right.’ Cassandra got out of the car. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get indoors. And I’ll see you at half past six.’
Libby crossed the road to Ali and Ahmed’s eight-til-late shop hoping they had some vegetables as Joe and Nella’s farm shop was closed. A bag of stir-fry mushrooms and beansprouts was all that seemed to be on offer, so she bought those and a small French stick, before rushing into Bob the butcher’s shop just as he was beginning to close up, and asking for chicken.
‘Why didn’t you buy it this morning?’ he asked, reluctantly going into the back of the shop.
‘I didn’t think of it then, and I’ve just told everyone I’ve got loads at home.’
‘Which you haven’t,’ said Bob, coming back with some chicken thighs. ‘Here – better flavour than breasts. Want some of my Chinese spice to go with them?’
‘Oh, yes, you’re a lifesaver, Bob. See you later?’
‘Yes, eight forty-five on the dot, Madam Director.’ Bob handed over the package and took Libby’s money.
As Libby let herself into number seventeen the phone was ringing.
‘Libby!’ said Cassandra’s breathless voice. ‘Mike rang. You’ll never believe what happened.’
‘Calm down,’ said Libby, sitting down on the stairs. ‘I thought you were going to ring him?’
‘I did, and there was no reply. Then after I’d hung up, or whatever you do these days, he rang back. Said he’d been busy in the glasshouses.’
‘Well, that would be the normal state of affairs, I suppose.’
‘No, listen! He had to be in there because the police had spent all day searching them. The place is a mess.’
‘Searching the greenhouses? What on earth for?’
‘Marijuana.’
Chapter Eleven
‘What?’
‘I know. I couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t stay long, because he had to close up – although he’d been closed all day – but said he was still happy to come over tomorrow and tell us all about it.’
‘Did they find any? Marijuana, I mean.’
‘Of course not! Well, I don’t know, actually, he didn’t say. But if they had, he’d have been arrested, wouldn’t he?’
‘I suppose he would,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘Is he sure about coming over tomorrow? I mean, I’m in no hurry.’
‘But I won’t be here for ever,’ said Cassandra, ‘so it has to be now.’
‘Hmm,’ said Libby.
‘So, anyway, I said ten thirty – is that all right?’
‘It’s a bit early,’ said Libby.
‘Ten thirty? Early?’
‘Oh, well, I suppose it depends on your point of view. But I might not be dressed, I’m warning you!’
All Cassandra could talk about over dinner that evening was Mike Farthing and why he should have come under suspicion. Libby was secretly glad she had rehearsal that evening, rather than having to sit and listen to her cousin all evening, however, she invited Cassandra to come and watch if she wanted to, rather than spend the evening in the flat on her own.
‘I’d love to, if you wouldn’t mind,’ said Cassandra, pleased. ‘I haven’t seen any of the stuff you do here. And I thought yesterday what an impressive theatre it was.’
‘OK. I go up about seven thirty to open up, so you can follow me when you’re ready.’
‘Do you go up, too, Ben?’
‘I’m in it,’ he grinned, ‘so, yes. And I keep an eye on any backstage work, too, as I’m the set designer.’
‘So we’d better get a move on, then?’ said Cassandra, standing u
p and picking up plates.’
‘Thanks, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Stick those in the dishwasher while I go and clean my teeth, will you?’
At the theatre Ben disappeared backstage and Libby went round turning on lights while Cassandra prowled round investigating.
‘It’s just like a real theatre,’ she said meeting Libby on the edge of the stage.
Libby bridled. ‘It is a real theatre,’ she said.
Cassandra went faintly pink. ‘Of course, sorry, I only meant …’
‘That we’re just a piddling little amateur theatre in the middle of nowhere?’
‘No!’ Cass made a face. ‘I admit that’s what I thought when you started on this project, and I thought it was a waste of your talent.’
‘Did you think that when I did amateur theatre when I was still married?’
‘No, I suppose not …’
‘We have higher standards and state of the art facilities,’ said Libby, ‘and we are pro-am. There are quite a few theatres like us up and down the country. I’m ex-pro, so is Ben, actually –’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes. He used to be a flyman in his youth, and he’s toured with TIE productions.’
‘Ah!’ said Cassandra. ‘I do know what TIE is.’
‘I should hope so, you being a headmistress!’
‘What is it, then?’ said a voice behind them.
‘Theatre In Education,’ said Libby, turning round. ‘Good lord, Mike! What are you doing here?’
‘I couldn’t stand my own company,’ he said with a doleful grin. ‘I was going to see if anyone wanted to come for a drink.’
As he was looking straight at Cassandra when he said this, Libby hid a grin.
‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘You can save Cass from a boring evening watching us rehearse.’
‘Oh, I –’ Cassandra began.
‘No, I mean it. Then I shall make you come down after Christmas to see the finished product without having spoilt it by seeing the shambles it is now!’
Libby watched as they left the auditorium, obviously very conscious of each other, and then turned to Ben, who had come up behind her. ‘And why did he come all the way over here to find someone to have a drink with?’ she said. ‘We have it on his own say-so that he often uses The Poacher in his own village.’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 7
