Libby accepted the inevitable and over the next two days tried to forget about the little local murder and concentrate on the pantomime, her painting, and her cousin. Cassandra had decided to stay on for a few more days, but although Libby offered to take her out, or at least cook for her, Cassandra seemed to be perfectly content on her own, or, as Libby suspected, driving herself over to Farthing’s Plants. Fran was busy helping Guy in the shop, and Ben was spending a lot of time in the estate timber yard, a busy place in the run-up to Christmas.
The Wednesday evening rehearsal went as smoothly as it could with several key cast members off with the inevitable winter bugs, and Libby found herself reading the parts, alternating between Fairy Godmother and Principal Boy.
‘I’ve had enough!’ she said to Ben, after dismissing a grateful cast fifteen minutes early. ‘Is it worth rehearsing with so many not here?’
‘You’ve got to keep up momentum, dear heart.’ Peter appeared through the auditorium doors. ‘Come on. Time for a restorative drink. Your reverend friend will be in the pub by now.’
Sure enough, Patti and Anne were already in the snug by the fire. Libby looked round for Cassandra and Mike, but they were nowhere to be seen.
‘Harry said she’d gone out about five,’ said Patti.
‘Over to Mike’s,’ said Ben. ‘I think they might be serious.’
‘Oh, how nice! That’s your cousin, isn’t it, Lib?’ Anne moved her wheelchair closer to the table.
‘Yes. He owns Farthing’s Plants,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, and Patti, several of these people are your parishioners.’
‘So I gather,’ said Patti. ‘The trouble is, they don’t all come to church, and as I’ve got four parishes to look after, I just don’t know them all. I told you, I had no idea Mrs Bowling was an occasional member of the congregation in Shott.’
‘But you know Ron Stewart?’
‘Well, yes, because he’s a personality, and it was suggested that he become a patron of the joint parishes show. Can’t say I know him well, though.’
‘What about Alan Farrow in Itching. Would you know him?’
‘Farrow? Is that Sandra Farrow’s husband?’ Patti looked surprised.
‘Libby let out a breath. ‘That’s what I was coming to. I knew Sandra when she lived here.’
‘She did? I didn’t know that. I only know here because Mrs Bowling – what did I say her name was, Anne?’
‘Denise.’
‘Oh, yes, well, Denise Bowling had asked this Sandra Farrow to keep her company when I went to see her. I told you I’d have to, didn’t I?’
‘And what was she like?’ asked Libby.
‘Sandra or Denise?’
‘Both, really.’
‘Is she still at it?’ Ben and Peter returned to the table with drinks.
‘At what?’
‘Asking questions,’ said Ben. ‘She can’t stop.’
‘It’s natural.’ Patti shrugged. ‘It’s an unusual and horrible thing to happen on your own doorstep, as I know. Naturally, Libby’s curious about it. We all are.’
‘That told you, poppet.’ Peter patted his cousin on the shoulder. ‘Take the word of a vicar.’
Patti blushed. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, wise words,’ said Ben, ‘and absolutely right. No wonder you’re a rev.’
Libby was still looking smug when Ian brought a flurry of snow through the door with him.
‘Snow?’ the word floated round the bar as the flakes melted.
‘Just started,’ said Ian. ‘I don’t think it’ll settle.’
Ben got up to fetch Ian’s coffee.
‘So, no Harry tonight?’ Ian looked round.
‘Not finished yet,’ said Anne. ‘He was very busy.’
‘Pre-Christmas rush,’ said Libby. ‘He’ll be in if he can.’
Ben returned with the coffee.
‘Your cousin gone home?’
‘No, we assume she’s gone over to see Mike Farthing,’ said Peter. ‘It’s becoming quite a love story.’
‘Really.’ Ian frowned. ‘We still haven’t let him off the hook you know.’
‘You can’t suspect him of having anything to do with that cannabis factory, surely?’ said Libby.
‘You know I can’t tell you that, Libby.’
‘What can you tell us, then?’
Ian cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘And there was I, hoping for a nice quiet chat at the end of the day.’
‘But …’ began Libby.
‘Leave him alone, Libby,’ said Patti, laughing. ‘He doesn’t always come here on a Wednesday to consult you.’
‘Oh.’ Libby felt the tell-tale colour coming up her neck. ‘Sorry. Just on your way home, then, were you?’
‘I was actually.’
Anne leant forward, elbows on the table. ‘So where do you live, then? Is Steeple Martin on your way home from Canterbury?’
‘Sorry about these nosy women, Ian,’ said Peter. ‘But you know them by now.’
‘It’s a question I’ve been waiting for you to ask for years, now,’ said Ian. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Ben.’
‘I never thought of it,’ said Libby slowly, ‘but I suppose, yes, it is odd, the way you come here late on a Wednesday …’
‘Odd?’ Ian laughed. ‘Well, perhaps I won’t, then.’
‘No, no!’ said Libby hastily. ‘We look forward to seeing you.’
‘And picking my brains.’
‘Oh, hell,’ said Libby.
‘Don’t worry, you’ve been very helpful in the past, as you know. And, as it happens, you might be now.’
Everyone sat forward and Ian laughed again. ‘Here go – what was it? – Libby’s Loonies – again.’
‘All right, you may mock,’ said Libby. ‘What can we do?’
Ian looked round the table. ‘I just wondered if any of you knew, or could find out anything about other members of the ukulele group. We can only go so far, and in-depth screening of every member is going to take resources we don’t really have.’
Ben, Peter, Patti, and Anne all looked at Libby.
‘Well, go on, then. Tell him,’ said Peter.
With a grin of triumph, Libby launched into the tale of her investigations.
‘And tell me,’ said Ian, when she had come to a breathless finish, ‘why were you asking all these questions?’
‘Er …’ said Libby, and the others laughed.
‘Sheer nosiness,’ said Ben.
‘Well, I can’t pretend it hasn’t helped,’ said Ian, ‘but I’d be shot if anyone at the station found out.’
‘Oh, your Sergeant Maiden knows,’ said Libby.
‘And is sensible enough not to mention it,’ said Ian. ‘So, tell me again about Derek Chandler. That’s definitely something we can look into.’
Libby told him.
‘And Robert Alton – we did know about his son, but maybe we’ll dig a bit deeper.’
‘But he didn’t know Vernon Bowling was who he was until he saw his name on a list,’ said Libby. ‘And what about Ron Stewart’s house?’
‘Yes, we’re looking into that. We’ve tracked down the architect.’
‘And the homophobic angle?’ asked Peter.
‘Lewis called me on Sunday, if you remember. We didn’t know all the details, but it had already emerged. Mrs Bowling said her husband was quite upset about it.’
‘So was anyone else in the group homophobic?’ asked Libby.
‘It isn’t quite the sort of question you ask,’ said Ben.
‘Actually, it is,’ said Ian, ‘when phrased correctly. “Were you aware of Mr Bowling’s homophobic attitude?” quite easily leads on to “and do you think someone might have felt strongly enough …” and you’re almost sure to get a sense of whether the person agrees or disagrees.’
‘And have you?’ asked Libby.
‘Not yet. We’re going to have to go back over all the statements and ask some more questions.’
‘Oh, dear, they won’t like that,’ said P
atti.
‘No, but this will be “In the light of new evidence”. We don’t have to tell them what evidence.’
‘So, is there anything I can do?’ Libby asked brightly.
‘No, Libby.’ Ian was laughing again. ‘Just keep your ears and eyes open – though I hardly need to ask you to do that, do I?’
‘And her nose twitching,’ added Ben.
‘And ask Fran if she’s seen anything.’
‘Cassandra asked her that when we first heard you were talking to Mike,’ said Libby. ‘And she said “Plants” – which I suppose was fairly obvious.’
‘Not necessarily. We could have been asking for his alibi.’
The door opened and Harry came in with a flurry of long scarves.
‘Ah! The traditional Wednesday night police interrogation.’ He flung off coat and scarves and threw them in the general direction of the coat stand. ‘Can I get anybody a drink?’
A general shuffling of position made room for Harry while he went to the bar with his order.
‘So, what’s new?’ he asked when he came back to sit astride his favourite chair.
They told him. He regarded Libby seriously.
‘Actually, petal, wouldn’t it be better if you got your cousin to back off a little bit? She’s just assumed Mike’s innocent, and while I like him – hell, we gave the bloke a bed for the night! – we don’t really know anything about him.’
‘He’s right, Libby,’ said Ian.
‘But you don’t have anything against Mike,’ Libby protested. ‘Except that he’s a plantsman and helped Bowling design his garden.’
‘And who better than a plant and nursery man to design a cannabis factory?’ said Peter. Libby scowled at him.
Ian stood up. ‘I must be off. Any more titbits you hear please pass them on. Goodnight all, and, Libby, be careful.’
Anne broke the short silence which followed his departure.
‘Do you realise he still managed not to answer our question?’
‘What question?’ said Patti.
‘Where does he live?’
Chapter Eighteen
Libby relayed the results of her visits and Ian’s comments to Fran the following morning.
‘So you see, he would like to hear anything you – er – see.’
‘And you consider you’ve got carte blanche to continue ferreting around?’
‘Well, he didn’t say not to.’ Libby wandered out into the kitchen with the phone.
‘Honestly, Lib!’ Fran laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible. Which angle are you going after now?’
‘I can’t see I’ve got any angle, really. I can’t pretend to be crusading on to prevent a miscarriage of justice against Mike, not after everyone warned me off last night.’
There was a short silence.
‘What?’ said Libby.
‘I don’t think Mike has anything to do with the murder.’
‘But …?’
‘Plants.’
‘You said that before,’ said Libby with a sigh.
‘It’s just all I can see. And I know that given his job, it’s self-evident, but there’s something …’
Libby let another beat go by.
‘So what shall we do? Shall we go and see him? You’ve never been there.’
‘What about your cousin?’
‘What about her?’
‘Should we take her with us?’
‘Good lord, no! I suppose I should tell her we’re going, though.’
‘If you do,’ said Fran, ‘she’ll either insist on going with us, or go over on her own. Or has she gone back to London?’
‘Not as far as I know. She wasn’t in last night, and if she got back before we left the pub, she certainly didn’t come looking for us. Harry thought she’d gone to Mike’s.’
‘See? She’ll insist on protecting him.’
‘OK. I won’t tell her. When are we going? Shall I meet you in Shott?’
‘Yes, we can meet in car park of The Poacher. Then we can have lunch there after we’ve seen Mike.’
Pausing only to ring Ben’s mobile to tell him she was going out with Fran, Libby flung on her latest cape and strode out to the car.
On the way through Itching, she looked out for Perseverance Row, but didn’t spot it. In The Poacher’s empty car park, she prepared to wait for Fran.
‘Your mate not with you?’ Sid Best was leaning down looking in the window. Libby let it down.
‘Waiting for her, actually. Then we thought we’d come and have lunch with you.’
‘Bit early for lunch.’
‘No, we’ve got to go somewhere first.’
‘Ah.’ Sid tapped the side of his nose. ‘Investigating.’
Libby’s face began to heat up. ‘Sort of.’
Just then, the little black and cream Smart car turned into the car park and Sid stepped back.
‘I’ll see you later, then,’ he said. ‘Good hunting.’
‘We’re committed to lunch here now,’ said Libby as she approached Fran.
‘Let’s hope we’re not thrown out of Mike’s nursery and end up having morning coffee instead,’ said Fran, preparing to drive out of the car park. ‘Which way?’
‘You know,’ said Libby pensively, as they drove round the green and into Rogues Lane, ‘we haven’t decided what we’re going to say.’
‘No. Tell him what you found out yesterday?’
‘He knows. I told him and Cass yesterday lunchtime. He told me Sandra’s new name.’
‘Right. So – what?’
‘My pots? He and Cass were going to come round last Saturday to sort them out, then they didn’t.’
‘It was only an excuse, you said so.’
‘Still, I could ask, couldn’t I? And – I know!’ Libby was struck with sudden inspiration. ‘Floral decorations for the theatre for the concert – you know, holly and mistletoe and ivy and stuff.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Fran doubtfully, ‘but you always go to Joe and Nella for those sort of things.’
‘I still will. This is An Excuse.’ Libby pointed. ‘Look – there’s the turning.’
But when they drew up on the forecourt of Farthing’s Plants, they found they didn’t need an excuse after all, as Cassandra came rushing out of the office.
‘Oh, Libby, they’re here again!’ she wailed.
‘What?’ Libby climbed out of the car, realising as she did so that two sleek dark cars were parked unobtrusively to the side of the forecourt. Unmarked police cars.
‘They’re talking to him in the office, and two others are in the glasshouses. They won’t let me or the boys leave, either.’ Cassandra took a deep breath and Libby interrupted.
‘Who are the boys and who’s here?’
‘The boys?’ Cassandra looked confused.
‘Yes. You said “the boys”.’
‘Oh, Gary and Patrick. They work here. They’re in the shop.’ Cassandra gestured vaguely behind her.
‘When did you get here?’ asked Fran, joining them.
Cassandra looked from Fran to Libby. ‘I – er –’
‘I think,’ said Libby to Fran drily, ‘that means she was here all night.’
‘Um.’ Cassandra’s face glowed pink.
‘Where can we go to sit down?’ asked Fran. ‘There’s not room for us all in my car.’
‘Mine’s over there.’ Cassandra jerked her head. ‘I – I think I’ve got my keys.’
‘If they won’t let you leave, they aren’t likely to have let you keep the keys,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll just have to stay here. Now, I asked you before, who’s here?’
‘Policemen, who do you think?’
‘It’s not Ian?’
‘No, I’d have told you. It’s a different branch or something.’
‘Ah.’ Libby’s eyes wandered to the glass houses. ‘Drugs squad.’
‘How do you know?’ Cassandra gasped.
‘It’s an obvious inference,’ said Fran, ‘under the circumstances.’
‘And I hate to tell you,’ said Libby, ‘but I think you’re about to come under the spotlight.’
Cassandra turned to see the purposeful approach of a stocky officer.
‘Mrs – er – Freeman? Would you come with me, please?’
Cassandra opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
‘Go on, Cass. Might as well get it over with,’ said Libby. ‘Call if you need me.’
‘And you are?’ The officer turned to Libby with a frown.
‘Mrs Sarjeant, Mrs Freeman’s cousin.’
‘Do you know Mr Farthing?’
‘Only as a member of the ukelele group.’
‘Ah! You’re a member?’
‘No.’ Libby shut her mouth like a trap.
‘Now, look –’ the officer began to bluster and Libby drew herself up to her full five feet and two inches.
‘I suggest you apply to Detective Chief Inspector Connell for any further information.’ She turned to get in to Fran’s car. ‘Good day.’
Fran hastily climbed into the driver’s seat and began to turn back towards the drive.
‘Was that wise? You’ve probably antagonised that officer, and he’ll make it worse for Cass.’
‘No, he’ll ask Cass about me, and she’ll explain. Oh, God, I wish she hadn’t met up with Mike now!’
Fran glanced at her. ‘Have you changed your mind about him, then?’
‘No, I haven’t, but if she hadn’t recognised him in the first place she wouldn’t be under the microscope, would she? I’m going to call Ian.’
‘I doubt if he’ll appreciate that.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not having my cousin interrogated like a common criminal.’
Both of Ian’s numbers went to voice mail, so Libby left ‘call me back’ messages on both of them.
‘What now?’ asked Fran, as she drove back through Shott.
‘How about Itching? Perseverance Row? See if we can find Sheila Brown as was.’
‘You can’t knock at every door asking for her.’
‘We could see if there’s a shop.’
Fran snorted. ‘Itching’s even smaller than Shott. It won’t have a shop. I didn’t even notice a pub.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby peered out of the window as they climbed the small hill out of the village. ‘Church?’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 12
