Patti looked shocked, but Anne laughed.
‘They wanted to get fed, not have you regale them with unsavoury tales of my past,’ said Libby.
‘You’ve been in quite regularly, haven’t you?’ said Harry, ignoring her.
‘Yes, at least once a month,’ said Anne.
‘Do you live here?’
‘Anne does, but Patti’s from St Aldeberge,’ put in Libby.
‘Gawd’elpus, the lady vicar!’ said Harry.
Patti burst out laughing. ‘I take it you know our story, then?’ she said.
‘The old trout’s told us about the ghastly murder in the church,’ said Harry. ‘She always has to ask our advice.’
Peter appeared with a drink for Harry.
‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ he said. ‘Nobody else does.’
‘So, have you been putting the lovely Ian right?’ Harry asked Libby, ignoring his beloved completely.
‘Yes. Now say “thank you, Peter, darling, for my nice drink”.’
Harry looked across at Peter, now re-seated, and exchanged a grin with him. ‘I shall thank him nicely later,’ he said with a wink.
‘I’m sorry for talking about it with Harry and Peter,’ said Libby, ‘but I usually do. They don’t tend to get names, though.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Patti. ‘It’s quite like being famous. After all, it’s in the public domain, now, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t been following. Is it?’
‘Yes, it was on Kent and Coast TV the night after Marion Longfellow’s murder, and in the Nethergate Mercury at the weekend,’ said Patti.
‘Jane didn’t tell me,’ said Libby.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t Jane working on the story,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t suppose she tells you about everything that gets reported in the paper.’
‘I shall call her tomorrow. And Campbell McLean hasn’t got back to me. I think I let slip there’d been more than one murder at the time. He said he was forbidden to talk to you.’
‘Do you know him? He seemed quite pleasant,’ said Patti. ‘He didn’t interview me, but I did speak to him to show him where to stand and so on. He didn’t mention the second murder to me, but he knew about it.’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t been inundated with media, then,’ said Libby. ‘Murder in the church is bad enough.’
‘It’s your Ian and the Bishop. They’ve managed to muzzle the media between them. I don’t know how.’ Patti shook her head.
‘It won’t last,’ said Libby. ‘If it’s been in a local paper or on local TV a stringer will pick it up and the big boys will get it.’
‘Not if a Section D notice is slapped on them, surely?’ said Harry.
‘Do they still have those?’ asked Libby doubtfully. ‘After all the media leaks over the last year or so?’
‘They wouldn’t get taken to court if they didn’t,’ said Harry.
‘But our murder isn’t sensitive material, or a terrorist threat, so they wouldn’t slap a D Notice on it, would they?’ said Patti.
‘No, but maybe it’s simply a request because it’s the church? Perhaps the media are just playing nicely for once?’ Libby looked from one to the other.
‘Can you see that?’ Harry laughed. ‘No, it’ll all be out there for the world to pick over soon enough, betcha.’
Events were soon to prove him right, Libby found when she popped out to the eight-til-late the following morning.
‘Terrible, this witchcraft murder at St Aldeberge, isn’t it?’ said Ali as he handed her the change.
‘What?’ Libby gaped. ‘Where?’
‘Here.’ Ahmed opened a red top in front of her. ‘We thought you would know.’
‘I do,’ said Libby, gazing at the creatively photographed Willoughby Oak and the inset of St Aldeberge church. ‘Is it in any of the others?’
‘Ah!’ said Ahmed. ‘One of your cases, then is it?’ He and his brother began riffling through copies of red tops and broadsheets alike, and finally pushed three across to her. Gloomily, she bought them and knocked on the door of The Pink Geranium. Harry, with one look at her face, let her in.
‘You were right,’ said Libby, sitting at the big pine table in the right-hand window. ‘Look.’
Together they read the three pieces, none of which contained much actual information, mainly speculation, and eventually Libby came across the source of the pieces, Tim Bolton, actually quoted in one of them.
‘He was cross with me because I wouldn’t tell him anything, and I put Ian onto him, too, to prevent him contaminating the Willoughby Oak site.’ Libby sighed.
‘Was there anything there?’
‘Apparently, but Ian didn’t think it was necessarily to do with the murders. Now, how did Tim Bolton manage to slide under the radar?’
‘Because he’s concentrating on the Oak and the witchcraft angle. Even though the murder in the church is mentioned in the copy, it’s not a headline. No one noticed.’
‘Or did, and didn’t care,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Oh, poor Patti. She’ll be besieged now.’
‘Ian won’t be too pleased, either,’ said Harry. ‘Want a coffee?’
The light was flashing on the answerphone when Libby got home. The first call was from Patti, the second from Fran, the third, unsurprisingly, from Campbell McLean and the fourth from Jane Baker at the Mercury.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, Libby,’ said Jane, sounding hurt.
‘The police and the vicar were trying to keep it quiet,’ said Libby.
‘But we had it in the paper last weekend. Why didn’t you tell me it was one of yours?’
‘Low profile, Jane. You ought to know that. I’ve had Campbell McLean on, too.’
‘Well, you would. If you do know anything that’s printable, will you tell me?’
‘Of course, we always do,’ said Libby, ‘but at the moment there’s nothing to tell. And it’s ages since the first murder anyway. This blasted piece Tim Bolton’s put out has just revived interest.’
‘Who is he, anyway?’ asked Jane.
‘A partner in Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s production company. Used to be Lewis’s producer. We met him at a party at Lewis’s. He was interested in the Willoughby Oak for a programme on witches.’
‘Oh, of course it’s the 400th anniversary of the Pendle Witch Trials coming up, isn’t it?’
Libby was always surprised at the amount of general knowledge Jane had at her fingertips.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing more to tell you at the moment, and we’re not investigating anyway. Just providing the odd bit of gossip for Ian to help him along.’
‘All right. As long as you let me know first if anything happens,’ said Jane.
After asking after Jane’s husband Terry and daughter Imogen, Libby listened to the message from Campbell McLean, to which she didn’t bother to reply, then called Fran, who was angry.
‘That bloody man,’ she said. ‘He could ruin everything.’
‘Tim Bolton? Why? How do you mean?’
‘There are going to be people all over the Willoughby Oak now.’
‘But Ian’s got it tagged as a crime scene,’ said Libby. ‘They can’t get near it.’
‘A piece of blue-and-white tape fluttering in the breeze won’t stop the sightseers. And there’s no one on duty out there.’
‘It’s not an actual crime scene, though, Fran. Ian couldn’t afford to keep someone out there all this time.’
‘But it is a crime scene,’ insisted Fran. ‘Maybe not a murder, but I’m pretty sure that’s where the drugs come from.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Libby was silent from sheer surprise.
‘Drugs? What drugs? The only drug in this case so far is the suxamethonium chloride,’ she said when she found her voice.
‘No, the drugs that are being run up the river to Felling.’
Libby was silent again for a long moment.
‘How do you know about that?�
� she said eventually.
‘Well, aren’t they?’
‘I heard gossip,’ said Libby unwillingly. ‘Someone said the police were watching the Felling harbour side. Or dock side – no. Quay. That’s it. But apparently the river’s too narrow and shallow to bring anything up to Felling. Anyway, I heard it was illegal immigrants, not drugs.’
‘I don’t know about that, but drugs are coming into Felling and being distributed at the Oak. Under cover of one of those awful Satanist meetings.’
‘That was a pretty big moment,’ said Libby. ‘When did it come to you?’
‘When I read the piece in the paper. You know how it is, it was just there in my mind as a fact, like I know that Guy’s in the shop at the moment and Sophie’s out with Adam.’
‘Have you told Ian?’
‘No. How will he take it? You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?’
Libby told her about yesterday’s visit to St Aldeberge and Ian appearing in the pub last night.
‘And Harry was saying he bet it didn’t stay under wraps for long, and this morning, there it was in the papers. I’d better call Patti and see how she’s getting on.’
‘Swamped with bloody reporters, I should think. Listen.’ Fran sounded brisk. ‘If she’s got any sense she’ll have taken the phone off the hook, so I’ll drive over there and try and get in to see her. I’m nearer than you are.’
‘OK. Call me when you can.’
Drugs? Illegal immigrants? Libby shook her head. It was all getting far too complicated. It was time to try and get life back into perspective. Which probably meant learning lines.
It was while dozing in front of the fire later in the afternoon with her script open on her lap that the phone rang.
‘It’s me,’ said Fran. ‘We were right. Ghastly reporters and cameramen, including Campbell. I fobbed him off, and luckily the police were there to keep most of them off the vicarage doorstep.’
‘Which was the aspect they seemed most interested in?’
‘Oh, the witchcraft, naturally. I hate to think what the gutter press are going to cook up.’
‘And nothing about illegal immigrants or drugs?’
‘That aspect hasn’t come under consideration yet, has it?’ said Fran. ‘That’s merely speculation on someone’s part and my bloody mind.’
‘I think,’ said Libby, ‘that Ian may have people looking into the drugs connection because of the sux. Someone must have got hold of it illegally – it’s not available outside operating theatres, is it?’
‘I expect he has. We must remember we’re not privy to an entire investigation. We only ever know the bottom-line human part, and not always that, either.’
‘But in this case, at least we’ve supplied him with helpful gossip.’
‘I hope it doesn’t upset the applecart, though,’ said Fran. ‘Patti was worried about her flock being upset. Oh, by the way, she said was there any possibility you could go over before church on Sunday for a quick run-through? She doesn’t want to bother you during the week again, and if she can just keep up the momentum until the service with a weekly rehearsal that should be enough, she says.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Libby, ‘although I’d really rather my Sundays were sacrosanct.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Fran, ‘you and Ben come here for supper tomorrow, stay the night and pop into St Aldeberge on the way home.’
‘It’s not exactly on the way home, though, is it?’
‘Oh, Libby! How ungrateful! We’re nearer than you are. And I’ll see if Jane’s mum will babysit so they can come, too.’
Jane Baker’s mother had a self-contained garden flat in Jane and Terry’s Peel House. Since moving in, from being a cantankerous and rather unlikeable women, jealous of Jane’s good fortune in inheriting Peel House from her godmother, she had become distinctly softer, and, luckily, doted on her granddaughter.
‘Well, it would be nice,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll ask Ben.’
‘Tell him, don’t ask. It’ll get you away from panto, too.’
It was easy, then, to tell Patti she could only spare a little while on her way home on Sunday morning. ‘But of course I want to help.’
‘Oh, sorry, Libby,’ sighed Patti. ‘I tend to forget that other people’s Sundays aren’t work like mine.’
‘No, it’s fine this week because we’ll make a detour to you on our way home, but if we could organise some other time after that. Although it’s difficult with most people working through the days and me having rehearsals in the evening.’
‘Several of them don’t work and could always brief those that do,’ said Patti hopefully.
‘In that case, at the risk of you losing your Wednesday afternoons, we could do it then, possibly?’
‘We’ll check Sunday morning, shall we? We can always rehearse the hymns and carols at normal choir practice.’
So it was arranged that Libby and Ben would present themselves at the church at ten fifteen on Sunday morning. Ben, amiable as ever, didn’t mind and was pleased to have the invitation to supper at Coastguard Cottage.
‘I think,’ said Libby, as she got out of the car on Saturday evening and went to lean on the railings above the beach, ‘that if I ever lived anywhere but Steeple Martin, it would have to be by the sea.’ Ben joined her to look towards the sea rippling with creamy splashes and a soft susurration onto the sand.
‘But you won’t leave your cottage,’ he said, and Libby felt a twinge in her stomach.
‘We can’t leave the village, anyway,’ she said, turning the conversation away from the difficult subject of Steeple Farm, where it was obviously headed, ‘because of your mum. Not to mention Uncle Lenny and Flo.’
‘Mum, yes, she’s my responsibility, but the others aren’t,’ said Ben. ‘Come on, let’s go in. It’s not that warm.’
Jane and Terry had managed to persuade Jane’s mother to babysit, and were already ensconced on the sofa in front of the fire, which crackled with huge logs, being a much deeper and wider fireplace than Libby’s small Victorian one.
‘Not that she needed much persuasion,’ said Jane. ‘She’s perfectly happy to sit in front of our TV rather than her own. So, tell us all about the St Aldeberge murders.’
Fran and Libby exchanged an uncomfortable look.
‘There’s no more we can tell you than you’ve already seen,’ said Libby. ‘Patti was besieged yesterday, thanks to this bloody Tim Bolton. Fran went down to help.’
‘Yes, and to be perfectly honest, Jane, there really is no more to it than the murder of two flower ladies from the church. We think the first one was spite of some kind – she wasn’t a particularly nice woman – and the second murder was because the victim knew something about it. That’s what Ian thinks, as far as we know.’ Fran offered glasses of fizz to Ben and Libby. ‘Just to start off with,’ she said. ‘We go on to the cheap stuff later!’
With common consent the subject of the St Aldeberge murders was dropped and Jane asked after the panto. She herself had been briefly a member of the Oast House company, just after Libby and Fran had first met her and she had few friends in the area. Now, she was established in her job, was able to work part of the week at home, had an adoring husband, a reasonably compliant mother and a gorgeous baby daughter.
‘I haven’t been to Steeple Martin for ages,’ she said. ‘I still remember that lovely birthday party you held for your mum at the theatre, Ben.’
‘When your sister sang for us, Terry,’ said Ben. ‘It was a good do, wasn’t it?’
They all fell silent, remembering the aftermath of the party when Terry had been attacked.
To everyone’s relief, Jane started telling them about all the local events she and her team had been covering recently, including the sillier ones.
‘And then there’s the Literary Musical festival over the Golden Hind pub. Priceless. According to the organiser: “Esoteric music with erudite criticism.” Sadly I fear no Quo!’
‘Sounds like something Hinge and Brack
et would send up,’ laughed Libby.
‘Who?’ Terry frowned.
‘Difficult to explain,’ said Ben, also laughing.
‘Two men,’ explained Guy, who was a fan, ‘who dressed and performed as genteel ladies of a certain age with a background in light opera and operetta.’
‘I still don’t know what you mean,’ said Terry. ‘I’m too young. Aren’t I?’ He grinned at his wife.
‘So am I, darling, but I know who they are. I bet your sister does, too. We’ll have to dig something out on the internet and show you.’
‘So what else is going on in Nethergate and beyond that’s capturing your attention?’ asked Guy. ‘I must apologise for not keeping up these days.’
‘I don’t suppose you really want to read about missing dogs and presentations to the playgroup, do you?’ said Jane. ‘Although there is some suggestion of an undercover police operation with Revenue and Customs going on somewhere in the vicinity. We’ve had no confirmation, but you know how rumour spreads.’
‘Drugs?’ asked Libby, desperately trying not to look at Fran.
‘Could be, or illegals.’ Jane shrugged. ‘You ought to know how much of a problem that is.’
‘Don’t we just,’ said Libby. ‘Poor buggers.’
No one asked if she was referring to the police or the immigrants.
‘Think it’s the same operation as the police keeping an eye on Felling?’ Libby asked Fran when she helped carry plates into the kitchen.
‘It’s the same area, but one lot could be an investigation into drugs, the other into illegals. Nothing to do with us, except as far as the Willoughby Oak connection,’ said Fran, taking a perfect lemon meringue tart out of the Aga. Libby had to agree.
‘Coincidence, though,’ she said next morning, just before she and Ben left for St Aldeberge.
‘I expect there are covert operations going on all the time,’ said Fran. ‘After all, Kent’s a county with a large coastline and the biggest entry port from Europe. Revenue and Customs have a huge job here.’
‘That’s true. Oh, well, we’d better go. See if Ian’s had any more luck amongst the faithful.’
When they arrived at the church, Patti looked harassed. ‘I’m sorry, Libby, but could you just take the kids through their bit?’
Murder by Magic Page 15
