Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘You mean –’ Libby experienced that strange phenomenon sometimes described as one’s heart turning over. ‘It was supposed to hurt someone?’ It came out as a whisper. Ben nodded again.

  ‘But who? Didn’t they care? Just anybody?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I don’t think it was meant to hurt. Nobody could have been sure who, if anybody, would have been underneath it when the wire went. So it must have been meant as a – well, as a joke.’

  ‘Or a warning?’

  Ben looked at her. ‘You think that, too?’

  She looked away. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘My family?’

  Libby’s heart began to beat faster and she felt the blood surging into her face. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  He sighed. ‘Look, it’s all right. Millie is behaving a bit oddly, I know, and I couldn’t help wondering myself, but honestly, could you see her clambering up there into the flies with a set of steel cutters?’

  Libby let out an involuntary snort.

  ‘Well, there you are.’ He stood up. ‘Come and have a look round. I’ve taken all the security precautions I can think of.’

  ‘You were here earlier, then,’ said Libby, following him into the scenery dock.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Libby tried to sound nonchalant. Ben looked at her oddly, but made no comment.

  Some of Ben’s precautions seemed a bit over the top even to Libby, but she had to admit he’d been more than thorough. Her suspicions gradually receded into the background of her mind.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it all,’ she said when they finally fetched up back on the stage.

  ‘I used to have holiday jobs back-stage in one of the London theatres when I was a student.’ He tested the stability of one of the flats with a gentle hand. ‘I knew one of the flymen. I acted a bit, too.’

  ‘At college?’

  ‘And when I was married. Didn’t Peter tell you?’

  ‘No. Where?’

  ‘In London. A couple of the big amateur companies, and then in Surrey when we moved there.’

  ‘Golly.’ Libby always reverted to schoolgirl expressions in moments of confusion. ‘Does your wife still live in Surrey?’

  ‘Ex-wife, yes.’ He looked at her, amused. ‘Where’s yours? Husband, I mean.’

  ‘London. With his floosie.’

  He let out a shout of laughter. ‘What a lovely old-fashioned expression.’

  Libby grinned. ‘That’s how I think of her.’ He had bags under his eyes, too, nice friendly crinkly ones, nicer than hers. Hers were just ageing, his were attractive.

  He leaned back against the proscenium arch, arms folded, head on one side.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you, Libby?’

  ‘What?’ She blinked, feeling the blush start again.

  ‘You class me with your husband – running off with a series of floosies.’

  ‘He only went off with one – I think.’

  ‘Whereas I didn’t go off with any. Surprised?’

  ‘Er, no, of course not.’ Libby fumbled with her basket and dropped it.

  ‘Yes, you are. But you’re wrong. It was my wife who ran off. Come on.’ He pushed himself away from the wall. ‘The pub’ll be open now. I’ll buy you an early lunch.’

  Libby, a prey to conflicting emotions, as she told herself, followed him out of the theatre.

  They didn’t sit in their usual place but at a table in the other half of the bar near the fireplace. Ben fetched drinks and the bar menu and hung her aged cape up carefully on the coat rack.

  ‘So what now?’ he said sitting down and stretching his legs to the fire.

  ‘What now what?’ Libby was cautious.

  ‘The play. It goes ahead?’

  ‘Of course. Why not? Nobody’s going to pull the same stunt twice, are they?’

  ‘Hopefully not. But don’t you think we ought to try and find out why it happened at all?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything – any reason. It’s stupid. And anyway, I can’t go around like some half-baked Miss Marple asking leading questions, can I?’

  ‘You could tell the police.’

  ‘The police? Whatever for?’

  ‘That could have been a fatal accident, you know. Not just a shock.’

  Libby was silent, reflecting on the nauseating enormity of it.

  ‘I can’t tell the police,’ she said finally. ‘The others would never forgive me.’

  ‘Suppose it happens again?’

  ‘It won’t.’ She glared at him. ‘Stephen will be all over that back-stage area like creeping ivy. He’s terribly aware of all the latest Health and Safety regulations, you know. Won’t let me have more than so many people on the stage at a time, and areas of responsibility and all that. He was the one who sorted out our professional insurance, didn’t you know?’

  ‘Of course I knew. I was going to do it, but Pete told me I’d been superseded.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’

  ‘Supposing Stephen had something to do with the accident?’

  ‘What?’ Libby’s voice rose, and several heads turned their way. ‘Why on earth would he do that? You’ve seen what he’s like with me. Why would he ruin what he hopes might become some sort of meaningful relationship?’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m only playing devil’s advocate.’ He held up his hands, laughing. ‘And by the way, I ought to call him. He’ll be in a ferment of jealousy by now, wondering what we’re getting up to behind the stage.’

  A short silence fell while Libby gazed into the sullen, intermittent flicker in the fireplace.

  ‘Why are you always laughing at me?’ she said finally.

  ‘Am I?’ He seemed surprised again. ‘You do come out with the most astonishing things.’

  ‘Well, you do. You seem to find me amusing.’

  ‘And you don’t like that? You would rather I found you dull and boring? Middle-aged and provincial?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I am.’

  He shrugged. ‘So am I.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Not which bit?’

  ‘All of it. There, you’re doing it again.’

  Ben sat forward and took her hand. ‘I’m not laughing at you, I’m –’

  ‘I know, laughing with me.’ Libby withdrew her hand. ‘And I’m not used to being flirted with, either.’

  ‘Was I doing that as well? Oh, I am sorry.’ He sat back in his chair, watching her.

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. No, perhaps you’re not. I’m just not used to –’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Well, of course I’m used to men. I’ve always had men friends.’

  ‘Like Peter and Harry?’

  ‘And ordinary married men. And their wives.’

  ‘And Stephen, of course.’

  ‘Why do you keep bringing him up? And stop making me defensive.’

  ‘I wasn’t. For goodness’ sake, Libby, stop accusing me of things. I invited you out for a quiet pub lunch and it’s turning into a full-scale battle.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Libby tried to breathe deeply and began searching for a cigarette. ‘I’m a bit wound up.’

  ‘Here.’ He took her lighter and lit the cigarette. ‘You smoke too much, you know.’

  ‘That’s not going to help the cease-fire, is it?’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry – no pun intended.’

  ‘No, sorry. Forget I said it.’

  ‘But you’re right. I do. And I drink too much.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do you know any other women who go to the pub practically every day?’

  ‘Lots. You don’t sneak in on your own for a quiet tipple in the snug, do you?’

  She grinned. ‘With me fur ’at and me milk stout?’

  ‘I can just see you in a fur hat.’

  ‘I’ll go and buy one.’

  ‘That’s better.’ He reached across and patted her hand. ‘Now. Let’s have a look at the menu.’

 
After their rather tired-looking Ploughman’s Platters had been delivered by an equally tired-looking young woman in an apron announcing that big was beautiful, Libby returned to the subject uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Your family. I said to Peter the other day – it’s confusing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I thought we were rather your original run-of-the-mill family. What’s confusing about us?’

  ‘Oh, dates, times, who was here when the tallyman was murdered and who wasn’t … you know.’

  Ben laughed. ‘I can’t see that as confusing. You’re directing the play, you know who was here.’

  ‘Yes, but your Aunt Millie was here, and she’s not in the play.’

  ‘You’re really worried about Millie, aren’t you?’ Ben frowned at her.

  Libby shifted in her chair. ‘Sorry. I must sound paranoid. But she’s the only one who seems to be against the play. Nobody else is – are they?’

  ‘I think Susan was a bit uncomfortable about it at first, being a doctor’s wife and all.’

  ‘Oh, your sister. How is she? I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘Fine. Wants David to retire, of course. He works far too hard.’

  ‘But she’s OK about it, now, is she?’

  Ben pushed his plate away. ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘What about James?’

  ‘James?’ Ben laughed. ‘Why on earth would he be against the play?’

  ‘No idea. He hasn’t been around much, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s because of Paula. You saw what she was like on Monday – all over him. He’s doing his best to avoid her, that’s why he isn’t around.’ Ben sighed. ‘I think he would have moved to the village rather than Canterbury if it hadn’t been for Paula.’

  ‘That would have been nice for Aunt Millie. Both her little boys round the corner.’

  ‘Can’t think of anything worse, can you?’ Ben grinned. ‘No, that’s probably half the reason for Canterbury. Millie can’t quite come to terms with Pete’s lifestyle, so she’d be forever trying to interfere in James’s.’

  ‘I expect she wants grandchildren.’ Libby made a face. ‘Most women of her age seem to.’

  ‘Perhaps she ought to encourage Paula, then. That woman’s desperate to have a baby.’

  Libby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You said yourself – her clock’s ticking. She’s nearly thirty-eight.’

  ‘I thought Pete said she was thirty-five?’

  ‘He doesn’t know her as well as I do.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Ben looked away. ‘Yes, well, not an episode I’m proud of.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ Libby gasped.

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘Only once.’

  ‘You can’t know her that well, then.’ Libby sat back in her chair.

  ‘Once is enough. I made the mistake of walking her home after a fairly alcoholic do of some sort. She’d been coming on to me all evening, and somehow I got talked into it. Believe me, I heard all about her hopes and dreams.’

  ‘And I hope you fulfilled at least one of them,’ said Libby, squashing an inappropriate rush of jealousy.

  Ben looked back at her and grinned again. ‘I have no idea. I don’t remember anything about it, except waking up on the sofa at four in the morning considerably dishevelled and dying for water. At which point I left.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘She became very coy whenever I saw her. Sharing a secret sort of coy – you know? This was in my gallivanting days, of course. After my wife went off with her male floosie.’

  ‘There. You’re laughing at me again.’ Libby picked up her cigarette packet, sighed, and put it down again.

  ‘No I’m not. Don’t be so sensitive. Anyway, it was my peccadilloes we were discussing, not yours, so I’m the one who should be on the defensive.’

  Libby frowned down at her plate. ‘So you wouldn’t want to see James tied up with her, then?’

  ‘No, I certainly wouldn’t. That woman hides a conniving, manipulative nature under all that eyelash batting. That “silly little me” act doesn’t fool anybody.’

  ‘Well, it obviously does at first. You fell for it, and so did James.’

  Ben looked affronted. ‘I didn’t fall for it. I knew exactly what she was like.’

  ‘You still went to bed with her.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Come to that, even I don’t know that. We are assuming, given certain evidence.’

  Libby was doubtful. ‘If you say so.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got a delivery to make on Friday and I haven’t quite finished.’

  ‘Framing?’

  Libby blushed. ‘No, the paintings.’

  Ben shook his head at her. ‘Too much skiving off down the pub,’ he said. ‘You’re a terrible woman.’

  Chapter Seven

  REHEARSALS WERE QUIET AFFAIRS on Wednesday and Thursday. Nobody saw Uncle Lenny, or any of the family except for Peter, who was uncharacteristically subdued and disinclined to chatter. Paula didn’t appear, and Libby was surprised to receive a call on her mobile half-way through Thursday from James, apologising on her behalf and muttering something about stress and nervousness.

  ‘Does she think the perishing roof’s going to fall down again?’ Libby asked him. ‘Because you can assure her it won’t. We’re not using it at the moment.’

  It wasn’t that, apparently, said James and bade her a hurried goodbye.

  Dealing philosophically, and with some relief, with the absence of Paula, Libby stuck to her original rehearsal schedule and allowed them Friday off, but warned them that extra rehearsals might be slotted in during the following week.

  ‘Libby?’ The telephone shattered Libby’s peace over toast and tea and Radio Four on Friday morning.

  ‘Hello?’ She recognised the voice but wasn’t going to let on.

  ‘It’s Ben. I wondered, as there’s no rehearsal tonight, whether you would like to go out to dinner?’

  Libby struggled with herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben, but I’ve got that delivery today and I’m staying with friends overnight.’

  ‘Oh, pity. Back tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going through the lighting plot tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘How about dinner tomorrow, then? Or we could go and see that thing at the Gulbenkian, if you fancy it.’

  I ought to say no, thought Libby.

  ‘Thank you, I’d like that. Dinner, though. I want to get away from theatre.’

  ‘I take it you don’t fancy The Pink Geranium, then?’

  ‘I’m just not a vegetarian.’ Libby was apologetic.

  ‘Neither am I. There’s a couple of decent Thai places in Canterbury, aren’t there? How about one of those?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Pick you up at seven, then – or is that too early?’

  ‘No, seven will be fine.’ Not so long to wait and get nervous.

  ‘See you, then.’

  It was mid-afternoon before Libby was organised enough to leave. Sidney glared at her out of the front window as she loaded her bag into her ancient Renault.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Next Door will be in to feed you. Stop making me feel guilty.’

  ‘Hey, Libby.’

  She turned round quickly to see Harry loping down the lane.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Delivering paintings.’

  ‘You workaholic, you. Listen, I was coming with a bit of news – have you got time?’

  ‘Only just. I’m late as it is, and I’m going to catch all the traffic on the ring road now. Why didn’t you ring me?’

  ‘I did. There’s a message on your answerphone, if you bothered to listen to it, and your mobile, as usual, is switched off. Anyway, it won’t take long. You know what you were saying about publicity?’

  ‘You haven’t committed a murder specially for us, have you?’

  ‘Get you, ducky. No, Pete
just called to say he’s organised some chap to come down from some paper–’

  ‘Some chap from some paper?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Photo-journalist or something, I think he said. Stop interrupting. Anyway, he’s coming down to do a nice little piece on the original people and the original sites and then wants shots of the cast and the sets. Isn’t that lovely?’

  ‘Great. When’s all this happening?’

  ‘Sunday. So that everybody can be around during the day.’

  ‘Oh, hell. So I’ve got to call everybody, have I? But I won’t be back ’til lunchtime tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Pete and I will pass the word, don’t worry. Chinese whispers and all that. By the time we’ve finished they’ll all think they’ve got to be somewhere else on the wrong day, but I shouldn’t worry.’

  ‘Prat.’ Libby opened the car door again. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’

  On Saturday morning Sidney welcomed her with complete indifference and the expectation of another breakfast. There were four messages on her answering machine, one from her daughter, one from Peter saying Sunday was all set up and complaining that she never remembered to take her mobile with her, and one from a member of the cast saying they were going to see Granny on Sunday. One from Stephen asking if she was doing anything tonight. Nothing from Ben.

  ‘Well, why should there be?’ she asked Sidney, ‘he’ll be seeing me later.’

  She screwed up her courage and phoned Stephen, feeling guiltily thankful to find his answering machine switched on, after which she wandered round the cottage for a little while, trying to tidy up, putting some washing in the machine and finally coming to rest in the studio where she regarded a half-finished masterpiece on the easel with deep gloom.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she told Sidney.

  The walk took her, predictably, to The Pink Geranium (open for lunch on Saturdays) where she was invited to sit down. Peter was sitting at a corner table with the newspapers and pushed a batch aside for her.

  ‘Thanks for organising tomorrow, Pete.’

  ‘Pleasure, dear heart. Didn’t get hold of everybody, I had to leave messages for Paula and Stephen.’

  ‘Did they get back to you? I would have thought Stephen ought to know what’s going on at the theatre.’

  ‘Not a dicky from either of them yet, but I wouldn’t worry. Stephen’s far too conscientious to ignore a call to duty. Everybody else was quite enthusiastic – made a change.’