‘I’m fine, lovie,’ said Edie. ‘You come along in out of the cold. We’ll leave the door open for Fran.’
In the kitchen a kettle sang on the hob and on the big scrubbed table sat a huge lemon drizzle cake on an old-fashioned cake stand. As Libby sat down, they heard the crunch of wheels on gravel, and in a moment Fran blew in through the door.
‘Now,’ said Edie, when they were all seated, with tea and cake. ‘You’ll want to know about that nice inspector. Ian, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. What did he want to ask you?’ said Fran.
‘Well, he just wanted to know what that Bowling man had said about my Lewis and if there was anyone else whoʼd said the same thing.’ Edie drew herself up and folded her arms. ‘I told him, I didn’t listen to anything any of ʼem said. Didn’t hold with it.’
‘But you kept on going to the group?’ said Libby.
‘Well, I enjoyed the playing. And the company, when Lewis was there. And I know Mike. Nice boy.’
Libby suppressed a smile at Mike Farthing, sixty-five if he was a day, being referred to as a boy.
‘But nobody else was nasty about Lewis?’ asked Fran.
‘Nobody I heard, but you can’t never tell, can you?’ Edie shook her head. ‘There was that Stewart person, some sort of pop star, dunno what he was doing there, but he was thick with that Bowling, so I never had nothing to do with him. And that Doctor Whatsisname. He was the leader. Not sure about him.’
‘You didn’t speak to Bob Alton?’ asked Fran.
‘Bob …? Oh, I know. Old boy from Nethergate. Always looked sad. Yes, I spoke to him. Quiet, but lovely.’
‘He used to go for the company, he said,’ Libby put in. ‘He’s been to see Fran.’
‘About the murder?’ Edie’s eyes sparkled. ‘I could ask him round here, couldn’t I? He might like a chat.’
‘He might,’ said Libby, failing to suppress another smile. ‘What about the solicitor?’ She turned to Fran. ‘What was his name?’
‘No idea,’ said Fran.
‘Derek Chandler.’ There was scorn in Edie’s voice. ‘You won’t want to have nothing to do with him. I told you. He was another one thick with that Bowling and Stewart. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Libby.
‘He’s the one that tried to swindle that woman out of her savings. Lives in your village. Vi Little.’
Chapter Sixteen
The stunned silence that followed this statement was obviously a surprise to Edie.
‘You didn’t know about that?’ She looked from one shocked face to the other. ‘Thought she’d told everybody.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Libby, recovering. ‘I thought you didn’t know anyone in Steeple Martin except Hetty.’
‘And Flo,’ said Edie. ‘That woman with the mobility scooter was going round telling everybody in her close about it. Dunno why she didn’t hire the town crier.’
‘What, she even told Flo? I thought they were daggers drawn.’
‘Nobody likes her, but she wanted the world to know about her mate’s troubles. Don’t know what good she thought it’d do. Only made her look barmy.’
‘What happened, then?’ asked Fran. ‘How did he swindle her?’
‘Well,’ Edie looked away evasively, ‘actually, turned out he didn’t have nothing to do with it. So he said.’
‘But what happened, Edie!’ Libby leant forward and fixed her eyes on the older woman’s face.
‘Oh, she made some kind of investment through him – or his firm – and it lost money.’
Libby sat back, looking puzzled. ‘Well, that happens, sometimes.’
‘Yes, but turned out it was on their paper, like, but not really from them. And when they looked, the money wasn’t there. And he said he’d never told her about it, and didn’t know nothing about the company, neither.’
‘So somebody was pretending to be from the solicitors and she believed them?’ said Fran.
‘Something like that. But we was all sure he had something to do with it. Shifty, ʼe is.’
‘Who’s we?’ asked Libby.
‘Flo and Hetty and a couple of others from Maltby Close, and Dolly Webley from New Barton Lane. Oh, and Una, up Steeple Lane.’
‘Goodness! I didn’t realise. Why haven’t you been to see me?’
‘We’re all old biddies,’ chuckled Edie. ‘Flo lets us meet in the room they’ve got named after her old man. We have a good gossip and a cuppa. Dunno why Hetty hasn’t mentioned it.’
‘I’ve met Dolly and Una,’ said Libby. ‘You remember, Fran? Auntie Dolly, and Freddy’s grandma Una?’
Fran nodded. ‘So you’ve all talked about Vi Little’s problem?’
‘That woman –’ Edie turned to Libby. ‘What’s ʼer name? Mobility scooter?’
‘Monica Turner.’
‘Yes – ʼer. Well, she comes in when we’re there – can’t very well stop ʼer, can we? – and tells us all about it. Then the next time we see ʼer, we ask what’s ʼappened. And she says this Chandler’s denyin’ it. Was in the paper.’
‘The local?’ asked Libby.
‘Yeah – your mate’s paper – the Mercury.’
‘Well, thank you, Edie, that’s really useful,’ said Libby. ‘Do you mind if we tell Ian?’
‘Your nice inspector? No, you go ahead, lovie. Would’a told ʼim meself if I thought it was useful.’
Half an hour later, they left Edie’s warm kitchen.
‘Shall I tell Ian, or will you?’ asked Libby, as they stood outside on the gravel drive.
‘It’s really nothing to do with me,’ said Fran. ‘But if I were you, I’d check with Jane about the piece in the paper. It might be completely irrelevant.’
‘Well, of course it is,’ said Libby, much struck. ‘It’s nothing to do with Vernon Bowling, is it?’
‘Unless he was scammed as well, but it sounds to me like one of those that are used on the elderly and vulnerable, not on an astute cannabis grower.’
‘True.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, maybe I won’t tell Ian. I might ask Flo, though. And Jane.’
On impulse, when Libby reached Steeple Martin, instead of going straight through the village and home, she turned left up Steeple Lane. Past Steeple Farm she drove, and on to the row of cottages where Una lived.
She got out of the car and looked over the road to where she could see the dewpond, half surrounded by bare trees, the little river Wytch dribbling sluggishly into it. Below that, the village lay spread out like a whimsical painting. Libby turned and knocked on the farthest green front door.
‘Well, my duck! Haven’t seen you for a bit.’ Una pulled the door wide.
‘Hello, Una.’ Libby stooped to kiss the little woman’s cheek. ‘How are you?’
‘Just dandy, I am, you ask your Auntie Flo.’
‘Yes, I’ve just been hearing how you all meet for tea and a chat. Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
Una looked surprised. ‘You don’t want to know about us oldies, duck. Now, tea?”
Libby knew she’d never get away with a refusal, so nodded and followed her hostess into the sitting room. Una, wearing her usual thick hand-knitted jumper and comfy slippers tottered through to the kitchen and soon came back with a tray. Libby jumped up to take it from her.
‘How’s Sandra?’ she asked, referring to Una’s next door neighbour. ‘I haven’t seen anything of her for ages.’
‘Didn’t you hear, duck? She went and got married again. Very quiet it was. Lives over to Shott, now.’
Shott, again. ‘No, I didn’t know. Who’s in next door now?’
‘No one, dear. They let people use it now and again, but her husband, he says they’ll have to do it up before they sell it, and he’s worried it might disturb me.’ She twinkled at Libby. ‘So let ʼem have mine it when I go, I reckon.’
Libby laughed.
‘So what is it you want to know, then?’ asked Una, handing over a proper cup and saucer.
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Libby looked up in surprise. ‘Nothing, actually. Edie was just talking about you this morning and I realised I hadn’t seen you for – oh, must be a year, now.’
‘Oh, I thought it must be about this ʼere murder.’ Una appeared unconcerned.
‘Why – what on earth would you know about that?’
‘Sandra’s new husband and her. They’re in that banjo group.’
Libby’s mouth fell open for the second time that morning. Una gave a nod of satisfaction.
‘Very pally with that Vernon Bowling’s missis, she is. Phoned me to tell me all about it last Wednesday. They didn’t know, see. They’d been away to see her husband’s son’s new baby.’
‘Well!’ Libby sat back in her chair and regarded the other woman in awe. ‘How is it you always seem to have so much information?’
‘Just an older version of yourself, duck.’ Una chuckled. ‘Nosy, I am. I’ll tell her you asked after her.’
Ten minutes later, Libby excused herself.
‘How’s Freddy, by the way? Is he still enjoying himself over in Maidstone?’ she asked as she left.
‘He says so. Seems to come back a lot, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t come home. Now you come in again, my duck. Don’t be a stranger.’
Libby drove back down Steeple Lane, on into the high street and parked almost outside The Pink Geranium. Harry waved, but Libby indicated that she was going up to see Cassandra. Harry opened the door.
‘Mike’s there,’ he said. ‘Come in here for a minute.’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ asked Libby, as she followed him inside. ‘It’s Monday, you’re closed.’
Harry sighed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I have to come in to sort out the books and the ordering? Pete works all morning, and, let’s face it, we live practically next door. It’s no hardship.’
‘So why have you stopped me from going up to see Cass?’
Harry grinned evilly. ‘I thought you might walk in on a scene of debauchery.’
‘I was going to knock, not barge in.’
‘Anyway, he’s only been there half an hour, I thought they ought to have a bit of time alone.’
‘Thoughtful.’
‘It was, wasn’t it? And now you can yell up the back stairs and ask them if they would like coffee.’
‘I expect she’s already given him coffee.’
‘Don’t make difficulties. We want to know what they’re talking about, don’t we?’
Libby eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’s all this about?’
Harry patted her arm. ‘I’m getting as nosy as you, petal, that’s what.’
‘All right. I’ve got stuff to tell Cass, anyway.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll call them down and you can hear.’
Libby went into the back yard and called up the spiral staircase. Cassandra appeared at the top.
‘Harry’s got the coffee on and I’ve got something to tell you. Do you and Mike want to come down?’
Cassandra looked over her shoulder and Mike came out behind her. They both started down the stairs.
‘Well,’ began Libby, when they were settled at the big table in the window, ‘Cass will have told you, Mike, what Lewis said yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ said Mike doubtfully. ‘I don’t see what help it is.’
‘You were the one who suggested homophobia as a motive,’ said Libby.
‘The reverse, actually dear,’ said Harry. ‘Someone killing Batty Bowling because he was homophobic.’
‘Same thing.’ Libby brushed it away. ‘And then Edie confirmed it this morning. And told me that the solicitor, Derek Chandler, apparently tried to swindle Vi Little out of some money. You know, the friend of the Turner battleaxe. And then I saw someone else who told me that a mutual acquaintance has moved to Shott and is a bosom buddy of Mrs Bowling. And her husband’s in the ukulele group.’
Harry regarded his friend with amusement, Mike and Cassandra with bewilderment.
‘So you’ve found all this out,’ said Harry, ‘and what are you going to do with it?’
‘Er …’ Libby looked round at the three faces. ‘Actually, I don’t know.’
Mike turned to Cassandra. ‘How does she do it?’
Cassandra shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never been around before when she’s been mixed up in murder.’
Harry gave a theatrical shudder. ‘How awful. Sounds like a murder mystery.’
‘It is – oh, I see what you mean. A book.’ Cassandra was now looking even more confused.
Harry grinned at her, then turned back to Libby. ‘So, dear heart, what are you going to do?’
Libby’s face fell. ‘Well, nothing I suppose.’
A silence fell.
‘Unless,’ said Cassandra suddenly, ‘Mike is arrested.’
‘What?’ Mike started to get up, but Libby flapped a hand at him.
‘What she means is that then I would be compelled to investigate on your behalf.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Mike, looking nervous.
‘Oh, she’d never make things worse for you,’ said Harry. ‘In fact, she’s been known to make things better. If she believes in you, of course.’
‘Oi!’ said Libby. ‘I am still here, you know.’
‘All right, petal, all right.’ Harry patted her arm. ‘Drink your nice coffee.’
‘I’m awash with tea. Elderly ladies always ply one with tea.’
‘Who was the acquaintance who knew the Bowlings?’ asked Cassandra.
‘She used to be Sandra Brown, and lived up Steeple Lane. Then she remarried and moved to Shott. I should think she’s about your age, Cass.’
Cassandra’s eyes slid sideways to Mike and quickly back to Libby. ‘You don’t know her name now?’
‘I think I do,’ said Mike. ‘One of our members married a widow called Sandra a couple of years ago. Very smart woman with silver hair.’
‘That’s Sandra!’ said Libby. ‘What’s her husband’s name?’
‘Alan Farrow, and actually, they don’t live in Shott, but Itching. In Perseverance Row.’
‘What does he do? Was he a particular friend of Bowling’s?’
‘I didn’t think so, and I think he’s retired.’ said Mike. ‘I didn’t know his wife was a friend of Bowling’s wife.’
‘And are you suddenly going to discover a reason to stage a reunion with the lovely Sandra?’ asked Harry.
‘No.’ Libby glared at him. ‘As I said before, only if there’s a threat to someone I know.’
‘And it’s not really surprising that people should know each other in small communities like ours,’ said Mike. ‘I bet there are lots of people with friends in all the villages.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Libby, ‘but when Ian showed us the list of people in your group none of us knew any of the names except Patti. Now I come to think of it, I’m surprised she only recognised Ron Stewart, as she’s vicar of the church in Shott.’
‘She’s in charge of several parishes, isn’t she?’ said Mike. ‘And not many of us go to church.’
‘True. She didn’t even know the Bowlings until her churchwarden told her.’
‘And what’s this about old Vi Little being swindled?’ asked Harry. ‘Mind you, she’s such a wet weekend, anyone could do it.’
‘You know her?’ said Libby.
‘Course I do. She won’t come in here, because Monica Turner told her not to, but I see her around the village.’
‘That’s not a motive for murder, though,’ said Cassandra. ‘It wasn’t the solicitor who was murdered.’
‘No.’ Libby let out a sigh. ‘In fact, the only one who’s got a real motive is poor old Bob Alton.’
‘Unless, of course, there’s someone else who had a son who died at Dellington,’ said Harry.
Chapter Seventeen
‘What?’ Cassandra and Mike stared at Harry.
‘Yes, said Libby, annoyed. ‘How did you know? I haven�
��t told you yet what Fran said.’
‘You’re not the only one who Googles, dear. His name came up when I was looking our Vernon up.’
‘Oh.’ Libby turned to Mike and Cassandra. ‘You see, this nice Bob Alton went to see Fran. His son was one of the victims of the tests at Dellington. He said he didn’t connect Vernon with them until he saw his name in a list of the people appearing in the concert.’
Mike nodded. ‘That’s true. I only know the names of some of the members. The others are just Bill, or Jim, or something. I only knew Vernon because of his house and garden.’
Harry was regarding him curiously. ‘Exactly how long had Bowling lived in Shott? It was a new house, as Ron Stewart’s was, Libby says.’
‘Not that new. Ron’s been there longer, about five years. Vernon – oh, about three years.’
‘Did they live in the area before that?’ asked Libby.
‘No, or not that I knew.’ Mike looked faintly surprised. ‘I never asked.’
‘And it never came up in conversation? That’s unusual,’ said Libby.
‘Not everyone swaps life stories as soon as they’ve met, petal.’
‘No, but you say things like “I had a plant like that in my old garden in … in …” oh, I don’t know, Manchester, say.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ said Mike. ‘I don’t know where Ron Stewart was either.’
‘I still think it’s really odd for him to be in this group, you know,’ said Libby thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps Batty Bowling blackmailed him into it,’ suggested Harry.
‘More likely to be Eric,’ said Mike. ‘He was the leader of the group. I don’t know how he got Stewart on board, either.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, standing up, ‘there we all are, still discussing it, even though our pet snufflehound can’t do anything about it.’
‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘I would like to know, though.’
‘What? How Eric got Screwball Stewart to join his group?’
‘And everything else. Why have he and Bowling got the same house. Who suggested that Mike had a connection with the cannabis factory. What happened with the swindling solicitor. Was anyone else the relative of a Dellington victim.’
‘How many beans make five?’ Harry gave her a friendly squeeze. ‘Go on home, you old trout, and concentrate on your pantomime. Plenty of mysteries to solve there – like why the dame hasn’t learnt her lines and why the principal girl can’t sing.’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 11
