Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘So what about Vi? She’s not online, surely?’

  ‘Nah. First I ʼeard about Vi was when we was all in the ʼall fer something or other and she was complaining about being swindled. So I listened, and she’d ʼad a phone call. And she, poor mug, gave all ʼer details and the money disappears from ʼer bank. And she says it was this Derek Chandler. So I says did she bother to call back, and o’ course, she says she didn’t take the number. So I says, leave it with me, and I phones again and tells ʼem what’s what.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Oh, then I calls the police. No, I didn’t bother your Ian. I just called the nick in Canterbury and told ʼem all about it. And they sends round this nice lady officer to talk to me and Vi. And they ʼauled ol’ Chandler in. Accordin’ to ʼim, it was a scam, someone usin’ ʼis name. It’s a well-known one, accordin’ to the solicitors’ society, or ʼooever they are. Anyway, Vi got ʼer money back – don’t ask me ʼow, and that was the end of it.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Libby, as Lenny came back with a tray. ‘I didn’t know anything about this.’

  ‘No reason why yer should. Told Het, but she don’t gossip.’

  ‘No, she just always seems to know things when we need them,’ said Libby. ‘How did Monica Turner blame you?’

  ‘I couldn’t follow it. If I hadn’t turned this bloke down ʼe wouldn’t’ve gone after Vi or something. Didn’t matter that ʼe’d gone after Vi before me.’ Flo shook her head and reached for a dainty Spode teacup. ‘Silly cow.’

  ‘He didn’t go after her, then?’

  ‘If ʼe did, she wasn’t sayin’. Make ʼer look a fool, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Has she got email?’

  ‘I dunno. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered. And did the police manage to trace the scam emails?’

  ‘No idea, duck. I wasn’t a victim, see, only Vi, and she wouldn’t say anythin’ to me after, would she?’

  ‘Scared of what Monica would say?’

  ‘Yeah. Not so much as a thank you, I didn’t get.’

  ‘I wonder how he got on to you in the first place?’ said Libby. ‘Sticking a pin in the directory?’

  Flo was scornful. ‘Use yer brain, gal. What’s this place? Gracious livin’ fer the over fifty-fives. Over sixty-fives, more like. All owner-occupied. Not cheap. Stands to reason occupiers got a bit stashed away, and old – so they’ve lost their marbles.’

  ‘Except they haven’t,’ grinned Libby.

  ‘No – most of us are all right. Some a bit – well, like Vi. Not up to the minute.’

  ‘And that’s why she looks up to Monica Turner. Is she up to the minute?’

  Flo shrugged. ‘No idea. Gets most of ʼer opinions from the gutter press, I reckon.’

  Libby was thoughtful. ‘She knew who the victim was. She got that from the press, I suppose.’ Libby glimpsed the corner of The Independent tucked down by Flo’s chair.

  ‘Well, o’course she did, we all did.’

  ‘But when she said “that man”, it was almost as though it was personal. Do you think she had a relative at Dellington? Perhaps who’s buried in the churchyard?’

  ‘We’d ʼa heard about it, I reckon. Any grievance she had against the world she told everybody.’

  ‘Well, that’s most helpful, Flo.’ Libby stood up.

  ‘Now you’re not pokin’ yer nose in again, are yer? No good’ll come of it.’

  ‘It has in the past, though, hasn’t it?’ said Libby, bending to kiss Flo’s cheek. ‘I’m going to see your vicar, now.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘As a member of her flock I’m entitled to,’ said Libby, with a grin. ‘Bye, Lenny.’

  In fact, the idea of seeing Bethany Cole had only just occurred to Libby. Although Monica Turner and Vi Little both attended church in Canterbury and Flo was at the very least agnostic, Libby reckoned most of the other residents of Maltby Close would attend their local church, and Libby wondered if anyone else had been targeted by the spurious Derek Chandler.

  The vicarage stood on the corner of her own lane, the lilac tree overhanging the wall, now bare. Libby had never opened the high painted gate in all the years she had lived here, and felt as if she was entering the Secret Garden.

  The path, overgrown with weeds, led indeterminately between what had once been flower borders, to a wide front door under a weather-beaten porch. Not finding a bell, Libby rapped sharply on the door..

  After a while, the sound of bolts being drawn increased Libby’s feeling that she had stepped into a fairy tale, a feeling that the face that peered out quickly dispelled.

  ‘Hello? Goodness, we haven’t had anyone come to this door since we’ve lived here! Did you want me? I’m Bethany Cole.’

  Libby sighed with relief. Bethany’s round, pretty face was surmounted by abundant light brown hair drawn back into a thick and untidy plait. She looked far too young to be a vicar.

  ‘Hello, yes,’ began Libby. ‘I’m –’

  Bethany laughed. ‘Oh, I know who you are! You’re Libby Sarjeant and you live just down the road here. If I didn’t already know about you, Patti would have filled me in. Come in, come in.’

  Libby followed her into a dark hall, along a passage and into what was almost a different house. Light, airy, and welcoming, the big kitchen looked out on to a wide terrace and a drive.

  ‘Oh, I see! People come in this way,’ said Libby, realising that the drive came out in the high street. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Bethany cheerfully. ‘You found me anyway. Sit down, do. Tea?’

  ‘Do you mind if I don’t? I keep being fed coffee and tea!’

  ‘Oh, so do I!’ said Bethany sitting down on the opposite side of the huge table. ‘I’m afraid “More tea, vicar” has come to mean more than a cliché to me. Now, what did you want to talk to me about? The murder? Or that man who tried to prey on my parishioners?’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Libby. ‘Are you a mind-reader? Or has Patti been talking to you? She didn’t mention she knew you.’

  ‘We all know each other, at least vaguely. We’re in the same diocese, and women priests tend to stick together. I gather you’re quite close friends?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we are. We see one another once a week, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, yes, when she comes over to see Anne on a Wednesday. She sometimes pops in here if she’s early.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise. She’s sometimes been to see me before Anne gets home. She never told me.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t been here that long, and I take it you aren’t likely to be a member of my congregation!’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Libby made a face. ‘But you’re the one the ukulele group approached about using the church hall, aren’t you?’

  ‘Actually, it was my churchwarden, Tom. I don’t know whether you know him?’

  ‘Tom? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘He’s a friend of Lenny and Flo’s,’ said Bethany.

  ‘No, I don’t know him,’ said Libby, ‘but it was Flo who told me about you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘When she was talking to me about Monica Turner.’

  ‘Ah! Yes, I heard you had a bit of an altercation with her the other day.’

  ‘Do you hear everything?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Most things filter through.’ Bethany grinned. ‘Gossip becomes sanctified when told to a vicar. And it’s often so very righteous.’

  ‘Oh, I bet it is.’ Libby laughed, deciding she liked Bethany Cole. ‘Did the leader of the group get in touch with you?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea. I’ve had very little to do with it. Tom’s is the name on the board outside – he’s the caretaker as well as my churchwarden.’

  ‘Oh, well, perhaps I’ll ask Flo to introduce me. Although she’ll think I’m making use of her again.’ Libby sighed. ‘I do seem to get in touch with people just because I think they can tell me something.’

  ‘But at least you ge
t in touch. That’s important, especially to older people.’

  ‘Most of the older people I know get out and about more than I do,’ said Libby.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Bethany, with a smile. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  Libby was startled. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘If I tell you that several of the ladies in Maltby Close were targeted by Derek Chandler, will that help?’

  Libby gasped. ‘They were? How do you know?’

  ‘For a start, Monica Turner wasn’t keeping quiet about Vi Little’s brush with him.’

  ‘No, that’s when Flo got on to the police.’

  ‘Ah, you know about that. Well, it turned out that it had happened to several of them, and they were too ashamed to tell anyone about it. It appeared, after the police had investigated, that someone was using Mr Chandler’s name and company to run a scam. The money was recovered.’

  ‘But how? How would they have discovered a hidden bank account? None of the victims knew the bank details, did they?’

  ‘No, they were merely asked to give their bank details. I believe the trail wasn’t very well hidden. They looked into who had taken the money from each of the victims, and although there were different names, eventually they were all tracked to one account, although the owner of the account has never been found. The banks, on the authority of the police, removed the money and gave it back to the victims. But if Flo hadn’t raised the alarm, whoever it was would have got away with it.’

  ‘I suppose it couldn’t have really been Derek Chandler?’

  ‘I expect the police would have looked at him very carefully, don’t you?’ Bethany stood up and went to fill a kettle. ‘I’ve decided I do want tea, now. Want a cup?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Libby shrugged off her cape. ‘This is a lovely kitchen.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? It was pretty awful when we moved in, but they let us modernise. At our own expense, of course.’

  ‘Do you have another house elsewhere?’ Libby knew Patti didn’t but assumed when she retired she would move in with Anne, so the question didn’t arise.

  ‘We kept our old flat. Well, I say ours, it was John’s really. We rent it out, and when I retire we’ll sell it and buy a hovel in the country.’

  ‘Do you still get moved around a lot?’

  ‘There aren’t enough vicars to do that!’ laughed Bethany. ‘I’m lucky, I’ve only got this one and Steeple Mount, but Patti’s got – how many? – four? Poor woman gets so stressed. She’d be lost without her churchwardens.’

  ‘Yes, she was saying she didn’t even know that the widow of the murder victim was a parishioner in Shott until her churchwarden told her.’

  ‘Was she?’ Bethany sat down again, pushing a mug towards Libby. ‘I didn’t know that. In fact, I don’t know much about the murder at all, except that it was in my churchyard and the bishop wants to do some sort of blessing and cleansing on the place. I told him he couldn’t until the police have finished.’

  ‘They talked to you, then? The police?’

  ‘They had to, didn’t they? I think the nice police inspector who came to see me was a bit shocked that I was a woman.’

  ‘If it was DCI Connell, he’ll more than likely have been thinking “Not another one”. He knows Patti quite well.’

  ‘Tall, very dark hair, and an intense face?’

  ‘That’s Ian. He’s a friend, actually, and he investigated Patti’s murder.’

  ‘Oh – the one in her church? That was horrible, wasn’t it? And you investigated, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well – sort of.’

  ‘And now you’re investigating this one? Oh, that’s good. Patti says you always get your man.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby with a groan. ‘I’m not really an investigator, you know. It’s more that I get involved despite myself – and then there’s Fran, of course, but you wouldn’t be interested in that side of things.’

  Bethany put her head on one side. ‘Oh, don’t be so sure. Patti’s told me all about Fran. And she’s actually saved lives, hasn’t she? Well, as the man said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio”.’

  ‘I didn’t believe in anything like that,’ said Libby, ‘but I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes, and Ian has, too. Which is why he asks her to look at things, sometimes. Which is how I come to get involved.’

  ‘Patti said that you get involved without Fran, too.’

  ‘Because I’m incurably nosy,’ said Libby, burying her nose in her mug. ‘Which is a sin, I’m sure.’

  Bethany laughed. ‘A new commandment – “thou shalt not be nosy.” It’d never take off.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘You aren’t nosy. I barged in on you for no good reason and all I’ve done is pick your brains.’

  ‘Such as they are to pick, and anyway, I’m just as nosy. Just that the dog collar –’ Libby had noticed she wasn’t wearing one ‘rather inhibits one.’

  ‘It didn’t inhibit Father Brown,’ said Libby.

  ‘Different times,’ said Bethany.

  ‘Well, thank you, anyway. I’ve got something to work on.’

  ‘You didn’t say why you’re investigating this one. Apart from it being in your own village, of course.’

  ‘Nosiness at first, but now someone we know has been arrested and it’s got a bit personal.’

  Now it was Bethany’s turn to gasp. ‘How dreadful! Is he local? Do I know him? I’m assuming it’s a man.’

  ‘He lives in Shott, the same as the victim. His name is Mike Farthing.’

  ‘Farthing’s Plants! No! He’s such a nice man. We’ve been asking his advice on the garden. He was going to come over and look at it, to see what was worth saving. You know, where you came in.’

  ‘He is a nice man, and rather a special friend of my cousin’s.’ Libby saw no need to say that the special friendship had only started last week. ‘And your front garden looks as if it could have been idyllic once. Very Secret Garden.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought when I first saw it,’ said Bethany. ‘But tell me, why has Mike Farthing been arrested?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a bit complicated, and we’re not supposed to know,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Bethany. ‘I’m a priest, remember? But if I can help in any way, please let me know. I’m loving this village and the church, but my parishioners are all on the well – elderly side. It would be nice to get to know some younger people.’

  ‘Thanks for classing me as younger,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But why don’t you come down to the pub on a Wednesday evening when we meet Patti and Anne? You and your husband, of course.’

  ‘Could we? You wouldn’t mind?’ Bethany looked delighted.

  ‘Of course not. It would be nice for Patti and Anne, too.’

  With expressions of mutual esteem, Libby and Beth parted at the gate of the Secret Garden, and Libby trudged the few yards to her front door. It was fully dark now. She heard a slight noise, but she completely missed the shadow which detached itself from the alley beside the end of terrace cottage.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Libby swam into consciousness, wondering why Ben was looming over her, and why she felt so dreadfully sick.

  ‘I’ve rung for an ambulance,’ Ben was saying. ‘They said don’t move you.’

  ‘What?’ Libby became aware of little pinpricks of cold on her face and other shapes moving behind Ben.

  Harry was suddenly beside Ben.

  ‘Don’t move, you silly old trout. Someone hit you.’

  ‘Hit …?’ Oh, that was the thumping, nerve-shattering pain in her head, then. She closed her eyes.

  ‘No, Lib – darling? Stay with us.’ That was Ben. She made an effort to open her eyes and suddenly there was a blue light and someone else bending over her. And, thankfully, she slid back into blackness.

  She awoke to the white slickness of a hospital room. Someone moved beside her, but it wasn’t Ben, it was Ian
.

  He smiled. ‘You’re back. I’ll fetch Ben.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Libby tried to clear her throat and Ian immediately held a glass of water to her lips. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ben came back from the Manor to find you lying outside your house in the snow. He realised someone had hit you and called the ambulance. Someone saw the call and relayed it to me, recognising the name and address, and I arrived just as you were being loaded into the ambulance. At the same time as the vicar, too. She said you’d been to see her.’

  Libby tried to concentrate. ‘Yes. I only had to walk about a hundred yards. I didn’t see anything. Did I?’

  ‘We don’t know. It’s unlikely that you would remember anyway. Remember when Harry got hit on the head? And Ben, come to that.’

  ‘But why? I’d been to tea with the vicar. Why would anyone …?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it for now.’ Ian stood up. ‘I’ll send Ben in. They’re keeping you in overnight –’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Since about six. It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘I can’t even remember what day it is.’

  ‘Nearly Friday.’ He stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘Now stop thinking.’

  Ben appeared as soon as Ian left, and Libby found herself crying. He said nothing, but enfolded her in as much of a hug as he could.

  ‘Silly,’ she croaked after a while. ‘I’m all right, aren’t I?’

  ‘No permanent damage,’ smiled Ben, sitting back on the chair at the side of the bed. ‘If it was the same person who hit Vernon Bowling, their aim was off.’

  ‘The snow,’ said Libby. ‘It was snowing.’

  ‘It had just started.’

  ‘I slipped.’ Libby’s eyes opened wide. ‘I remember. As I got level with the house – I slipped. Perhaps nobody hit me after all.’

  ‘No, love. You were face down with a lump the size of a cricket ball on the back on your head.’

  ‘But when I came round I was facing upwards. There was snow on my face.’

  ‘Yes, because I turned you over as soon as I found you. After that we didn’t dare move you.’

  ‘We?’