Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘A pint? I can’t cope with these big glasses.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, do. Come on, someone, give Auntie Libby a seat.’

  One of the younger women stood up. ‘Here you are, Libby. I can stand.’

  ‘So what’s the gossip, then?’ asked Libby, as she squeezed into the vacated seat.

  ‘Uncle Lenny’s back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Uncle Lenny. My Uncle Lenny. Bert in the play.’

  Libby squinted up at the tall figure beside her. ‘I thought he didn’t visit?’

  ‘Apparently, he heard all about our little play. He just arrived. This afternoon. Turned up as large as life on Aunt Hetty’s doorstep. She wasn’t tickled pink, I can tell you.’

  ‘I bet she wasn’t. How long’s he staying?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘Until he’s seen the play, anyway. My mama is devastated.’

  ‘Is she?’ Libby was interested. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bit of a puzzle, really. She doesn’t remember anything about our real life drama, she was too young at the time, so it’s a mystery. Started telling me on the phone that I shouldn’t ever have written the play. That it would drag it all up again. I said it was a bit late for that. It’s already been dragged.’

  ‘Did she object before?’ asked Libby. ‘Or was it just because she came to see it last night?’

  ‘Not much.’ Peter shrugged. ‘More than anyone else did, funnily enough. Aunt Het told her not to be a fool, hardly anyone round here remembered it, they weren’t born then. And nearly everyone who would remember was dead. No, it’s the murder which bothers Mumsie. After all, it was her dad who disappeared leaving behind the mouldering corpse.’

  ‘Wasn’t he ever found?’ piped up the woman who’d given Libby her seat. A chorus of groans answered her, and Peter turned patiently towards her.

  ‘Paula, do you know the story of the play, dear?’

  ‘Well, yes –’ Paula giggled. ‘Sort of. I mean, I’m only in bits of it, aren’t I? There’s no point in reading all of it.’

  Taking in Libby’s stunned expression, Peter hurried on.

  ‘Well, here you are then, dear. Potted version coming up. Best that you know it all, in case you’re called on to take the lead.’

  Paula gaped.

  ‘Hetty and her mum were hop pickers who came down to Kent from London every year, right?’

  ‘Yes, I know all that bit. And Hetty’s friend, Flo. Me,’ beamed Paula.

  ‘That’s right. And Hetty fell in love with Gregory, who was the son of the squire. He got her into trouble, the tallyman from the hop gardens told her drunken old sot of a father when he came down for the weekend with her brother Lenny, and then lo and behold, nasty old tallyman is found dead, daddy disappears, Greg marries Hetty and all is tickety-boo.’

  ‘But he doesn’t marry Hetty in the play.’

  A collective sigh went up.

  ‘No, dear, because he did that a bit later, after the baby was born, so we’ve just ended it on a note of hope and explanatory notes in the programme.’

  ‘Oh. I see,’ said Paula, clearly not seeing. ‘So why –’

  ‘Enough,’ cried Peter, clapping a hand to his head and spilling a good deal of his drink. ‘I’ll bring out a book.’ He looked round the bar. ‘Anybody seen Harry?’

  ‘He went to see your cousin,’ somebody said, ‘before the rehearsal.’

  ‘And he’s not back?’

  Peter’s frown boded ill for the absent Harry, not to mention his cousin, thought Libby, her brain conjuring up an unlikely picture of Harry entwined with grey-haired, genial Ben, whose adventures with the fair sex were legendary, if Peter’s stories were anything to go by.

  ‘He said he’d be in later,’ the barman leaned over and called through, ‘when he came in earlier.’

  ‘Came in earlier?’ Peter’s frown turned into a scowl.

  ‘Oh, come on, Pete. Give the boy a bit of freedom. He slaves away in his caff every night.’ Libby tipped up her glass and was surprised to find it empty. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you another sweet sherry.’

  ‘Get one in for me, ducks,’ said a voice in her ear as she stood at the bar waiting to be served. ‘And one for me friend.’

  ‘Harry.’ Libby turned round as far as she could. ‘You’re for it. Going off to play fast and loose with other men. Hallo, Ben.’

  Harry pulled a long-suffering face and began to move towards the small bar. ‘Make mine a double, then,’ he muttered.

  ‘And how are you, Libby?’ Ben Wilde moved into the space vacated by Harry. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘No.’ Libby’s smile was forced. Cousin Ben always made her feel slightly uncomfortable. To her relief, the barman materialised before them.

  ‘Oh – er – half of lager, please, half of bitter –’ she looked doubtfully across to where Harry and Peter were deep in conversation. ‘Do you really think he wants a double something?’

  ‘Give him a Pils. And a pint for me, Jim,’ said Ben, laying a note on the bar.

  ‘Oh – I was getting these –’ Libby, flustered, was wrong-footed.

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she said ungraciously, and immediately felt ashamed.

  They carried their drinks through to the other bar and Libby handed Peter’s over. He took it without a word and turned away to speak to someone else.

  ‘Oh, dear, Harry.’ Ben grinned at the eloquent back. ‘Shall I speak to him for you?’

  ‘Oh, let him stew.’ Harry leaned elegantly against the bar. ‘Even married couples have some time off.’

  ‘Some more than others,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, we all know about you, you old reprobate. South-east England wasn’t safe after your divorce.’ Harry chucked Ben playfully under the chin.

  ‘Don’t give the lady a bad impression, Harry boy. She disapproves of me already.’

  ‘Old Libby?’ Harry gave an incredulous squawk. ‘She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Do you, ducks?’

  Libby cast around for something to change the subject. ‘Have you seen Uncle Lenny yet?’

  ‘Of course. He’s in the second-best spare bedroom, next to me,’ said Ben.

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Gruesome.’

  ‘Gruesome? Ugly?’

  ‘Just gruesome. He cackles.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Libby watched her vision of a well-built upstanding man dwindle away.

  ‘We’re none of us as we used to be, Libby.’ Ben was watching her face and it annoyed her that he had apparently read it so accurately.

  ‘So have you talked to him?’ asked Harry.

  ‘You can’t avoid it. He keeps waylaying you and saying he could tell a thing or two if given the chance.’

  ‘Oh, heavens.’ Harry put a hand to his mouth, delighted. ‘I must meet him. Hey, Pete. Uncle Lenny’s being an embarrassment.’

  Peter rejoined the group, laying a possessive arm across Harry’s muscular shoulders.

  ‘So butch,’ he murmured, a tacit sign that all was forgiven.

  ‘We have got to go and pay a call on Uncle Lenny.’ Harry leaned against Peter’s arm. ‘Tomorrow. It’ll be a hoot.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to town tomorrow, you know that.’

  ‘When you get back then.’

  ‘The caff’ll be open.’

  ‘No bookings. Donna’ll cope.’

  ‘Oh, all right then. Do you want to come and meet Uncle Lenny, Lib?’

  ‘I’ve called a rehearsal,’ said Libby regretfully. ‘I can’t back out now.’

  ‘I know,’ Harry turned to Peter, his eyes alight, ‘let’s bring him to rehearsal.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Can he walk? He hasn’t got a Zimmer or anything?’

  ‘No, he can walk. He’s a bit slow, but he can walk fine. He’s only seventy-seven, for goodness sake. Not in his dotage.’

  Harry, all of twenty-seven, looked doubtful, but said nothing.

  ‘That’s settled, then. How
’s the play coming, Libby?’ Ben shifted comfortably, changing the subject.

  ‘OK,’ said Libby, without looking at him.

  ‘It’s bloody terrible, Ben,’ said Peter. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s my script.’

  ‘Oh, surely not.’ Ben raised one eyebrow and looked sideways at Libby.

  ‘Of course it’s not his play. It’s the bleedin’ actors. Not a brain between ’em.’ Harry patted Peter’s cheek. ‘Libby’s good, Pete’s play’s good, the theatre’s bloody marvellous – we can lick this bunch into shape.’ Harry was trying to be bracing, but Libby sensed a degree of unease beneath the bravura.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ Ben looked at Libby.

  ‘I don’t think so – is there, Pete?’

  ‘Get him to organise that lot back-stage. Few ideas.’

  ‘Stephen might not like that.’ Ben shook his head. ‘You called him in, didn’t you, Libby? Where is he, anyway?’ He peered round the bar.

  ‘Over there with Paula and Emma,’ said Libby, ‘I don’t suppose he can hear us, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘If you did it gently? You know, the “… How would it be if,” sort of thing, and then let him think it was his idea,’ suggested Peter.

  ‘If you think –’ he looked at Libby again. What does he want me to say? she thought. Or do? She settled for nodding.

  ‘I’ll come down tomorrow. Tell you what –’ he turned to Harry. ‘I’ll bring Uncle Lenny down.’

  ‘Oh, fabe!’ Harry crowed and subsided into giggles as everyone in the bar looked round.

  ‘What is?’ asked a new voice.

  ‘James!’ Paula appeared magically between Harry and Peter. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  Peter looked amused. ‘Yes, baby brother. How dare you go off on your own concerns?’

  James, younger, darker and altogether bigger than his brother, grinned. ‘Can’t call my life my own, can I?’

  ‘Drink, James?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I’ll get them. Anyone else?’ James looked round at Libby and Ben, who both declined.

  ‘There’s something going on there,’ said Peter, as Paula pushed in beside James at the bar.

  ‘No!’ Harry struck an attitude. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I thought they’d split up?’ Libby watched as Paula laughed up winningly into James’s face.

  ‘James told me he was going to end it.’ Peter turned away, frowning.

  ‘Dump her? Doesn’t look as though he has, does it?’ said Harry.

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t want to be dumped,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps she talked him into staying. I just wouldn’t want to see him caught up with her, though. She’s too old for a start.’ Libby finished her drink.

  Ben looked surprised. ‘Too old?’

  ‘She’s nearly forty.’

  ‘Come off it, Lib.’ Peter laughed. ‘She’s thirty-five and looks twenty-five. James is only four years younger. Hardly toy boy territory, is it?’

  ‘She’s after him. Her clock’s ticking,’ said Libby stubbornly, ‘I just hope he realises it. She’s such a little cow.’

  ‘And such a crap actress,’ added Peter gloomily.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Harry, watching Paula coax a smile from James. ‘She’s acting the sweet little innocent well enough now.’

  The bell rang for last orders and Ben offered Libby a lift home.

  ‘I’ve only had one pint, you’re quite safe.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ Libby dithered, pulling her cape round her, adding to the protective bulk. ‘I like walking. It’s not far.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I sound like a prim schoolgirl, she thought, annoyed with herself.

  ‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘With Uncle Lenny.’ Libby offered a tentative smile.

  ‘Indeed, with Uncle Lenny. Well after rehearsals have started, yes?’

  ‘Might be better.’ She nodded. Then hesitated. ‘Ben –’

  ‘Yes?’ He turned back from the door of the car.

  ‘Why is Millie bothered about Uncle Lenny?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘She’s grown up classy, hasn’t she? Uncle Lenny might let the side down.’

  ‘You think that’s it?’ Libby was relieved.

  ‘Positive. Sure you don’t –’ he gestured towards the car and she shook her head.

  ‘Right. See you tomorrow.’

  Stupid bloody woman, Libby berated herself as she marched down the High Street towards Allhallow’s Lane. What’s the matter with you? You’re behaving like a teenager. She almost stopped dead as the shock lurched under her rib cage. No. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t fancy him, could she?

  The cold began to seep through her cape and she started off again at a slower pace. Good God, she must have softening of the brain. Fancy a reprobate like Ben Wilde? Scourge of the under-thirty population of Canterbury and all points east? An explosive chuckle escaped her. And that was the whole point. Ben Wilde hadn’t been known to go out with anything over thirty since his divorce. He would hardly be interested in an overweight, vertically challenged middle-aged female, who, as Peter so succinctly put it, was dressed by Oxfam and coiffured by Garden Centre. Sleek, lean and leggy was the Wilde choice. Fat, faded and fifty didn’t come into it.

  Stephen, however, was another matter. Obviously, her age and style appealed to him, or maybe he just couldn’t get anything better. It wasn’t that he was bad-looking, he was perfectly normal, if a trifle bland. He had more hair than Ben, he was taller than Ben and slimmer than Ben, but in the charisma department he’d been left behind. Ben exuded sex appeal, Stephen exuded dependability. The sensible woman’s choice, Libby thought, but who wanted to be sensible?

  Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane was in the middle of a terrace of three, red-bricked with small white-painted windows, and a step down to trap the unwary immediately behind the front door.

  Sidney, a large silver tabby with an unpredictable nature, glared at Libby from his vantage point half-way up the stairs as she tripped down the step.

  ‘All right, I know I’m late,’ she said and wondered why she was saying it. There was no need to apologise, no excuses to make, nobody to placate. Not now. Not at all – not ever, if she didn’t want to. But old habits died hard. After twenty years of living with other people, being on one’s own came as rather a shock and not always a welcome shock at that, if she were honest. She wove her way between assorted tables and chairs, displacing several newspapers, books and typescripts as she did so and switched on the kitchen light. Sidney had been at the bread bin again.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, as he jumped up on to the table, having tried the Rayburn once or twice and suffered the indignity of burnt paws. ‘You are not a vegetarian – neither am I. And cats don’t like bread.’

  She moved the big kettle on to the hot-plate and hunted round for the half-full tin of cat food.

  ‘There,’ she said, decanting it into a chipped Victorian saucer. ‘Get on with that and shut up.’

  She made her coffee, took it into the living room and sat down by the empty fireplace. The script of The Hop Pickers lay on the hearth, interleaved with pages of untidy notes. She picked it up and riffled through it.

  She had been so enthusiastic about this project, everything falling into place just as she was in the process of buying the cottage. Peter’s lovely play and the newly converted Oast House theatre had fired her imagination and given her an entree into the village community. But now her enthusiasm was ebbing away, leaving behind it a flat, uncomfortable sensation rather like thinking there was an extra step and finding that there wasn’t.

  ‘It isn’t fair, you know,’ she said out loud to Sidney, who spread himself out on her feet and gave a desultory purr. ‘After all I’ve been through, this bit should go right.’

  Sidney opened one eye to a slit and slowly closed it again.

  Sighing, she began to read the first page of the script where the young Hetty met the han
dsome young squire’s son Gregory. Incredible really, that this positively Shakespearean plot should be true and should actually have happened to people still living here. It really did have everything – star-crossed lovers, bullying parents, even murder. And best of all, a happy ending. Or at least in the play it was a happy ending. Looking at the protagonists today, one could be forgiven for wondering.

  Libby leaned back in her chair. Was old Hetty happy with her Gregory, even after he came back from the prisoner of war camp such a wreck? Had she anticipated having to take on the management of a hop farm when her father-in-law died because her mother-in-law was incapable? And having to bring up her young sister into the bargain.

  I bet Millie was a handful, thought Libby, and yet she had met Roger Parker and married him and had given birth to gorgeous Peter and equally gorgeous James. Libby’s face broke into an involuntary smile at the thought of Millie trying to come to terms with her outrageous elder son – a journalist who had set up home with the beautiful Harry, several years his junior, and not only that, but bought him his own restaurant into the bargain.

  How had Harry taken to village life? wondered Libby. Coming from London, where he had been assistant chef in the exclusive private club Peter patronised, right in the thick of things – the right people, the right clothes, the right things to do. Libby knew what that was like, being a Londoner herself, having moved to Kent years ago when the children were small, to bring them up in a better environment. But she had been perfectly happy. Until she realised that Derek was leaving. Or rather that she was throwing him out. Still, he had a soft landing on that pneumatic Marion.

  She stirred Sidney with her foot. ‘Bed,’ she said.

  Chapter Three – 1943

  ‘HETTY! YOUR MUM GOT her letter yet?’

  ‘Yes. This morning. You got yours yet?’

  ‘Glad to get away from your dad, I’ll bet.’ Someone else put their head out of a window and winked. Hetty blushed and lifted her chin.

  ‘Dad’ll come down weekends, same as usual,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Het. Hetty. Wait.’

  Hetty turned quickly and there was Flo, running up the street, cotton dress flying, bright blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders.