‘I’ll come as soon as I can after rehearsal,’ said Libby. ‘I might even let them off early!’
‘And what,’ said Ben, as she tucked her arm through his and set off down the lane, ‘do you imagine you’re going to find out?’
‘I don’t know. But at least I’ll get a look at them. And maybe one of them will look guilty when he sees me.’
‘And supposing not many of them attend?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ said Libby. ‘And I shall just send Fran a text.’
The pantomime cast were gratified but confused to be dismissed at half past nine and Libby left Ben and Peter to lock up the theatre on their own while she hurried down the drive towards the high street and the pub.
Sandra was in the snug, a room often appropriated by the theatre crowd, who were now milling disconsolately round the main bar. Libby went into the snug.
Eric Robinson looked up without enthusiasm, Mike Farthing with embarrassment, Sandra with a smile of welcome, and Lewis, to Libby’s surprise, with a grin and a wink.
‘What do you want to drink, petal?’ He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, while the rest of the company looked on with sour expressions.
Libby put in her order and sat down.
‘I’ve come to say how sorry I am about the change of plan.’ She looked round the table. ‘But under the circumstances, Sir Andrew felt he had no choice.’
The heads around the table nodded gloomy acquiescence. Lewis came back with her drink.
‘Do you know everybody, Lib?’ he asked. ‘I expect they all saw you at the other meeting, but you don’t know people, do you?’
Libby could have hugged him.
Apart from the four Libby already knew, there were only four others. Alan Farrow, pleasant, balding, and moustachioed, Chester Lucas, a jovial black man with a huge smile, Derek Chandler, with a pinched face, rimless glasses, and a comb-over, and Ron ‘Screwball’ Stewart, tall, his legs stretched out in worn jeans, with the sort of face usually described as ‘lived-in’. Libby eyed these last two with interest.
Chandler was almost too like the central casting version of a provincial solicitor, while Stewart was aiming for the same status as ‘ageing rock-star’. They both seemed familiar, but Libby guessed that she would have seen pictures of Stewart over the years, and Chandler would probably have been at the previous meeting in the theatre.
‘Er – I didn’t tell you,’ said Robinson, clearing his throat and looking shifty, ‘Mrs Sarjeant was attacked last week.’
All eyes turned to Libby.
‘It’s all right,’ she said hastily, ‘I’m quite recovered, but I did have to spend the night in hospital.’
Chandler looked at Robinson. ‘And is it connected …?’
‘The police think so,’ said Libby. ‘They’re assuming the same person who murdered Mr Bowling had a go at me.’
The members of the ukulele group exchanged furtive glances. There was definitely something going on here, thought Libby, although, to be fair, the Farrows and Chester Lucas just looked puzzled.
‘You know,’ said Sandra suddenly. ‘I think it would be a good idea for Libby to look into this for us.’
The men all looked at her, astonished.
‘Well, Libby’s had a lot of experience investigating murders,’ Sandra continued, ‘as I’m sure some of you know. And it looks as if this whole situation is damaging us as a group, especially since … er … since –’
‘Mrs Bowling’s suicide attempt,’ said Libby.
‘And several people have already left,’ said Robinson reluctantly.
Ron Stewart gave a grunt and sat up straight. ‘What would you do?’ he asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘How would you investigate? The police are already asking questions.’
‘Lib would be asking different questions,’ said Lewis. They all looked at him. ‘She’s good, y’know. She helped me out of a bit of bother.’
Stewart shrugged and looked round at his fellow members. ‘Can’t hurt. Give it a go.’
Ron Stewart slipped to the bottom of Libby’s suspect list.
‘I’d be happy to ask some questions on your behalf,’ she said, wishing Fran was there, ‘but I’m not a professional. I’m just more likely to look at odd things than the police are.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ said Derek Chandler in a thin voice. There was a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. ‘I think it could well work against the police investigation. We wouldn’t want to impede that.’
‘You’ve asked me questions, Libby,’ said Mike. ‘What did you find out?’
Libby recognised the challenge in Mike’s normally peaceable face. ‘Do you really want me to tell you in front of everyone?’ she asked.
Surprised, Mike looked round the table. ‘Well …’ he began.
‘I would like to know,’ said Libby, turning to Derek Chandler, ‘why, after she left my house, Denise Bowling rushed round to see you before attempting suicide. Why would she do that?’
Chandler looked even more uncomfortable. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Actually, it is. She had just been to see me to ask me to look into her husband’s murder.’ Libby crossed her fingers and didn’t dare to look at Sandra. The rest of the table looked interested and slightly apprehensive. ‘She became upset. So something said in my house prompted her to – to – to try and kill herself. I think that makes it my business.’
Chandler’s eyes slid sideways to meet Robinson’s, then across the table at Ron Stewart. ‘She didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Did she ask you anything?’ said Lewis. Chandler looked as though he’d been bitten by a butterfly.
‘No.’
‘Well, there,’ said Libby. ‘So asking me to look into your friend’s death wouldn’t work, would it? If no one would answer my questions. If everyone said it wasn’t my business.’ She stood up. ‘Once again, I’m sorry about the concert. I’m even sorrier about Mr and Mrs Bowling and my own rather uncomfortable episode. I’d help if I could, but obviously it isn’t a good idea.’ She smiled round the table. ‘I’ll let you know who Sir Andrew is able to get to replace you in the programme.’
Back in the other bar, the usual suspects were gathered round their table by the fire.
‘So?’ asked Ben, as Libby sat down. ‘Where did that get you?’
‘Precisely nowhere,’ said Libby, finishing the half pint of lager that Lewis had bought her and picking up the one waiting for her. ‘I was surprised to see Lewis, but I think he came to support me – although how he knew I’d be there I don’t know. And he’s leaving the group anyway.’
‘Well, you can ask him,’ said Peter. ‘Here he comes.’
‘You stirred ʼem up a bit, Lib.’ Lewis sat down with a grin. ‘They’re arguing among themselves now. I told ʼem I was leavin’ and so was Edie. Very down in the dumps they are.’
‘It strikes me that Derek Chandler and Dr Robinson don’t really want anybody asking questions,’ said Libby.
‘Dead right, kid. Something funny goin’ on, I reckon, although I don’t think either of them would have killed Bowling, however much of a tonk he was.’
‘Screwball Stewart surprised me, though. I wouldn’t have thought he would welcome some member of the public asking questions. He normally keeps a really low profile, doesn’t he?’
‘What did he say?’ asked Peter. Libby explained. ‘Ah, well, putting you off the scent I expect.’
‘Well, I’d keep quiet,’ said Ben. ‘He’s coming towards us.’
Ron Stewart stopped by the table, looming over Libby.
‘If he hasn’t found anybody for the concert,’ he said, ‘would you tell Sir Andrew I’ll do a solo spot?’
Chapter Thirty-two
Everyone stared. Stewart kept his eyes on Libby’s face.
‘Well, I will, of course,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s exceedingly generous of you. I – er – I don’t rea
lly know what to say.’
He smiled briefly. ‘Just say you’ll tell him.’
Libby stood up. ‘Tell you what – why don’t I ring him now? It’s not much after ten.’
Stewart raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine.’
Libby moved away from the table and pressed buttons on her mobile. Andrew answered almost immediately.
‘You’re never going to believe this, Andrew, but Ron Stewart’s just offered –’
‘What did I tell you!’ Andrew almost exploded in her ear.
‘Andrew – no, listen. He offered. He’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?’
There was a bubbling noise at the other end of the line, like a kettle coming to a boil.
‘All right, put him on.’
‘So gracious,’ murmured Libby, and handed the phone to Stewart and tactfully went back to rejoin her friends.
‘Did you suggest that?’ she whispered to Lewis.
‘No of course not. Wonder why he’s done it?’
‘Coming back,’ muttered Ben.
Stewart handed the phone back to Libby. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
‘Andrew?’
‘I’m sorry, Libby. I jumped to conclusions. He’s offered to do an acoustic set with another member of – what’s their name? His band.’
‘Jonah Fludde. How very kind.’
‘Yes, apparently,’ Andrew coughed self-consciously, ‘he’s always been a fan of mine, and the charity is one he regularly contributes to, so he’s prepared to do it.’
‘How lovely.’ Libby was aware of Stewart standing tall and silent, watching her. ‘I’ll talk to you about the programme and stuff in the morning, shall I?’
‘Yes, and – thank you, Libby.’
‘No problem.’ Libby switched off her phone. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Stewart. This is very generous of you. Will I be able to collect some publicity material from you at some point?’
He inclined his head. ‘Tomorrow morning? Better not waste time. Come to the house. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll see you then.’
There was silence round the table as Ron Stewart walked back to the snug, said a few words, and then left the pub. Conversation broke out within both groups.
Libby told her table what Sir Andrew had told her.
‘So Ron Stewart doesn’t look like a suspect for Vernon Bowling’s murder,’ said Ben.
‘Do you think he’s got something to tell me, though?’ asked Libby, frowning. ‘After all, he suggested I should look in to the murder, and now he’s invited me to his house. It’s a bit odd.’
Lewis nodded. ‘Certainly when you think how reclusive he is. It surprised me when he joined the group and was willing to do the concert. Even let Robinson use his name in publicity.’
‘You let him use yours,’ said Peter.
‘Yeah, but I’m a media tart.’ Lewis grinned across the table at him.
‘Shall I go with you?’ asked Ben.
‘Do you think you should?’ asked Peter. ‘He’s asked for Libby.’
‘He could hardly object,’ said Ben.
‘He could,’ said Lewis. ‘He invited our Lib, and if he has got something to tell her, he probably won’t if you – or anyone else – is there.’
‘True,’ said Ben, ‘but I wish you weren’t going on with this.’
‘I know.’ Libby squeezed his hand. ‘But I’m very cross about having been bashed on the head, I feel guilty about Denise Bowling, and I need to find out about Mike Farthing on behalf of Cass. It’s personal.’
‘Will you ask Fran to go with you, then?’
‘Same thing applies,’ said Lewis. ‘He’s obviously got some – I dunno – thing about Libby. He asked her to investigate. Then when the group said no, he’s found a way of getting her to see him privately. I don’t think he wants anyone else around.’
‘Why couldn’t he just ask to see her then?’ said Peter. ‘Why go through all this rigmarole?’
‘Because of who he is,’ said Lewis. ‘You ask to see someone private, like, and everyone’s speculatin’ like mad. This way, it’s perfectly normal.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Ben. ‘Still, at least we all know where you’re going and when.’
‘I don’t think he means to attack or kidnap me,’ said Libby, with a laugh. ‘He wouldn’t have made the arrangements in front of you all, otherwise.’
There were signs of the meeting in the snug breaking up. Mike Farthing came over to Libby’s table.
‘Er – I hope we weren’t rude to you, Libby?’
‘Not at all, Mike,’ said Libby brightly. ‘Actually, I might drop in on you tomorrow. I have to be out your way in the morning.’
‘Really?’ Mike looked nervous. ‘Cass won’t be there.’
‘I know, but she’ll be down later tomorrow, won’t she?’ Libby smiled, still brightly. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Now what are you playing at?’ asked Ben when Mike had gone.
‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? I shall be driving right past his nursery, so I’ll pop in and see if I can’t get something out of him without Cass being around.’
Lewis and Peter laughed. ‘You won’t stop her, you know you won’t,’ said Peter. ‘It’s a stubborn old trout.’
On Saturday morning Ben went off to fetch the Christmas trees from Cattlegreen Nursery and Libby phoned Fran to tell her what was happening.
‘I can’t come with you,’ said Fran, ‘I’m in the shop all day and it’s already really busy.’
‘No, that’s all right,’ said Libby, mightily relieved that she wasn’t going to have to tell Fran she wasn’t wanted. ‘And I thought I’d drop in on Mike after I’ve seen Stewart.’
‘Be careful, Libby,’ warned Fran. ‘Don’t go doing anything stupid.’
‘More stupid than getting bashed on the head? No, I won’t, I promise. And everyone knows where I’m going, so if I need rescuing there’ll be a posse all ready to gallop in.’
Libby took the more direct way into Bishop’s Bottom, avoiding Itching and Shott. Ron Stewart’s house looked more settled into its environment than Vernon Bowling’s more recent structure, although it was obvious that both had been designed by the same architect, if not built by the same builders. As predicted, huge gates stood in a high brick wall halfway up a gravelled drive. Libby had to get out of the car to speak into a metal box, but before she’d said more than ‘Hello’, the gates began to open. She hurriedly scrambled back into the driver’s seat and edged the car between them.
The drive widened out in front of the house, which was smaller than she’d thought at first. Built in the mock-Georgian style, Libby thought it would have looked more at home in an estate of upmarket executive homes, although the planting around it softened the edges. Ron Stewart stood at the top of a flight of shallow stone steps, hands behind his back.
‘Hello,’ said Libby breathlessly. ‘Am I late?’
A sardonic eyebrow was raised. ‘As we didn’t specify a time, no. Come on.’
Libby followed him into a wide hall, from which a central staircase rose. Dark panelling aped an era different to the exterior of the house, and abstract art on the walls clashed with both.
‘Thought you might want to see the studio,’ Stewart threw over his shoulder. ‘This way.’
He led the way to the back of the hall, where Libby was surprised to find a modern lift. He grinned at her expression.
‘Unexpected, isn’t it? But people with a lot of gear come here. Don’t want them lugging it all up those stairs.’
Libby got into the lift with him, and it rose smoothly, past an upstairs galleried landing and on to a much lighter corridor.
‘Here we are. More me, if you know what I mean.’ Stewart opened the door and they turned into the corridor, which led straight into a huge, light room filled with recording equipment, two vocal booths and vast mixing desks.
‘Wow!’ said Libby.
Stewart grinned and sat down behi
nd one of the desks, waving to another chair. Libby sat.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
His eyebrows rose in surprise.
‘I thought you wanted publicity material?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Libby. ‘But you could have sent that over to the theatre.’
Stewart stretched his long legs out in front of him and contemplated the rips in the knees. ‘Clever.’
Libby shook her head. ‘Not very. You tried to get the ukulele club to ask me to look into Bowling’s murder. There must be something you know that you don’t want to tell the police, but you think I could help.’
He was silent for a long time, then looked up and waved a hand to indicate the studio. ‘See this? He was very taken with this.’
‘Yes?’ prompted Libby, when he fell silent again.
‘See,’ he leant forward, his elbows on his knees, ‘I’ve always smoked a bit.’
Libby, assuming he meant cannabis rather than tobacco, nodded. Went with the territory.
‘So did Vern. Got into drugs when he was at that lab. We go – went – way back.’
‘Did you know him at the time of the experiments?’
‘Oh, yeah. They all blamed him, you know, although he was doing what the bloody government told him.’
Libby suddenly had a glimmer of sympathy for Vernon Bowling. She hadn’t thought of him as a victim, too.
‘Anyway, when I had this place built he loved it, and started asking about strengthened floors and how it worked. I had no idea what he was on about, but I told him my architect designed it and knew what I wanted, so he got the name of the architect, and next thing I know is he’s having a house built practically next door.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind really, and I thought the missis might be able to be mates with Vern’s wife. Course, we didn’t really know her, then. We’d never, you know, gone out together. Different crowd. Vern and I used to get together, but that was about it.’
He leant back and stretched. ‘I asked her to bring up some coffee, but I think she’s forgotten. I’ll give her a bell.’ He picked up a mobile and pressed a key.
‘Hello, sweets – you forgot that coffee? Oh, right.’ He put the phone down. ‘Coming right up.’
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 22
