Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Er – I’m going back to The Manor, thanks, Stephen. Hetty invited me to dinner.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Right. See you tomorrow, then.’ Without looking at either of them, he turned abruptly and went out of the auditorium.

  ‘I don’t think he’s my best friend, you know, Lib,’ said Ben.

  ‘Awful, wasn’t it? I don’t know what to do about him. Does he really fancy me, or am I imagining it?’ Libby frowned. ‘He could just be being protective.’

  ‘Was that pigs I heard landing on the roof?’

  ‘Well, he could be, couldn’t he? Otherwise I’m taking the most awful advantage of him.’

  ‘He didn’t have to do it, you know. He enjoys being needed and he knows he’s good at his job. He’s one of the best set builders and designers I know.’

  ‘Yes, but now he’s going to fit the seats.’

  ‘We’re all going to do that,’ said Ben.

  ‘I was going to do a without-cast technical on Friday.’

  ‘Stop making difficulties, woman,’ he turned to her in the semi-darkness and shook her gently. ‘Do a with-cast tech on Thursday, instead. You’ve gone through the lighting and sound plots, and they’ve got the hang of the scene changes –’

  ‘If nothing breaks,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ben, and kissed her.

  It wasn’t a very long kiss, but Libby felt as though she’d been filleted.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ben, and had to clear his throat. ‘I just wanted to shut you up.’

  ‘You did,’ croaked Libby.

  ‘I said I wouldn’t rush you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby.

  He turned her round and pushed her through the auditorium doors. ‘Go on, you go outside. I’ll just lock up.’

  As they walked up the drive, Ben reached out and took Libby’s hand, tucking it into his pocket. Neither of them said anything.

  Dinner was served at the long kitchen table. Gregory and Lenny both came down, although Lenny was still very subdued. Gregory did his best to be a charming host, and succeeded, Libby seeing in him the young man who had bowled Hetty over and unwittingly caused the whole chain of events which, even now, were having their effect on his family. They drank a very good wine, chosen by Hetty, to Libby’s surprise, and afterwards Hetty allowed them a brandy, to be taken in the sitting room.

  ‘Let me wash up, Hetty,’ said Libby as they left the table.

  ‘Goes in the dishwasher, girl. Ben’ll help you load it, but leave the pans to me. I like to do them meself.’

  ‘Strong woman, your mother, isn’t she?’ said Libby as they stacked plates together.

  ‘She’s had to be.’

  ‘Millie’s not very like her.’

  ‘No. Takes after their father, I gather. Apt to act first and think afterwards.’

  They both stopped and looked at each other.

  ‘Yes, well. So Hetty takes after their mother, then?’

  ‘Peas in a pod, so I’ve heard. I only remember her vaguely, but she looked just like my mother does now, I think.’

  ‘You look like your father.’

  ‘Do I? That’s good. I’ve always thought of him as a remarkably good-looking man.’

  Libby threw a dishcloth at him.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and get our share of the brandy before they finish the bottle.’

  Later, Ben walked Libby home – ‘So that I can have something stronger, this time.’

  ‘No rushing,’ she warned him, wanting him to all the same.

  But he didn’t. They sat companionably by her fire, which she lit as soon as she came in, drinking the last of her precious scotch. Sidney deigned to honour them with his presence, even going so far as to forsake Libby’s feet for Ben’s. Ben appeared duly sensible of the honour.

  When he left, he kissed her again, but gently.

  ‘See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Rehearsal’s at seven-thirty.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Nine – 1943

  THE LORRY WAS PARKED outside by ten o’clock at night and one by one the families carried out their belongings. Hetty took it in turns with her mother to look after Millie, who was infected by the excitement and the enthusiastic shouts of the other children, some of whom had been put to bed early to make up for the lost night’s sleep ahead of them but had failed to stay there, escaping while their mothers and elder siblings were busy with the lorry.

  It was midnight when they were ready to leave, and Ted hadn’t returned home. Lillian shrugged, climbed on to the lorry and reached down for Millie. ‘Best we get going,’ she said shortly, and Hetty ran round to the other side to look for Flo.

  ‘Come on. We’re ready. Where’s your mum?’

  ‘Already on, with Gran. Where’s your Lenny?’

  ‘Helping lift the kids on round the other side. Oh, don’t make up to him, Flo. It makes him miserable.’ Hetty paused with her hand on Flo’s arm.

  Flo grinned. ‘Wasn’t going to.’

  ‘You can’t help making up to Lenny – or anyone else. Comes natural, don’t it?’

  Flo regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Suppose so. Like old Carpenter.’

  ‘But not Warburton, eh?’ said Hetty, and they both giggled.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east when the lorry lurched to a halt and Hetty sat up rubbing her eyes. Still clasping Millie, she got awkwardly to her feet, stiff and aching from the cramped journey. She clambered down in to the farm yard, aware of Frank Carpenter standing over near the oast house, already talking to Flo whose hand in her hair and out-thrust hip proclaimed her interest in the older man, however much she tried to deny it.

  ‘Come on, Het.’ Lenny jerked his head in Flo’s direction. ‘We got work to do even if she hasn’t.’

  They began to unload their belongings from the lorry and Hetty wheeled the hopping box across to what they called the Common, where the rows of hoppers’ huts stood. It was a good farm. Only two years ago, the huts had been rebuilt, long stone buildings with corrugated iron roofs replacing the ramshackle wooden sheds. Hetty parked the hopping box outside number 26, hoisted Millie more securely onto her hip and made her way back to the yard to collect the hopping pot and anything else she could carry. She passed Flo carrying assorted bags and wearing a satisfied grin.

  ‘Old Carpenter making up to you again, is he?’ whispered Hetty as they passed.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Flo tossed her head and then ruined the effect by giggling. ‘I’ll see you later – when we’ve finished.’

  Hetty nodded. They had the whole day to themselves to settle in, because the other pickers wouldn’t arrive until later in the afternoon and picking wouldn’t start until the following day.

  Lenny joined her outside the hut, and then Lillian arrived with the padlock and key. The familiar smell of damp greeted them as they opened the door and Lenny hoisted up the roll of lino and rolled it inside.

  ‘I got to go back with the lorry now, Mum,’ he said, straightening up. ‘I’d help whitewash if I could, but the lorry’s got to be back before eight.’

  ‘Go on then, son,’ Lillian reached up and kissed him, ruffling his hair. ‘See you at the weekend. Look after yer dad.’

  ‘Bye, Lenny.’ Hetty kissed him too, and Millie held out chubby baby arms to him. Lenny buried his face in her neck and blew a raspberry. Millie squealed with delight.

  ‘Say goodbye to Flo for me.’ Lenny looked round but Flo was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’ll see her at the weekend.’

  Hetty began to walk back to the lorry with him. ‘Don’t pay any attention to her, Len. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘A flirt,’ said Lenny shortly. ‘She’ll get into trouble one of these days, you see if she don’t.’

  ‘Ah, she knows what she’s doing,’ said Hetty confidently.

  ‘No, she ruddy doesn’t.’ In the half light of dawn, Hetty knew her brother had coloured fiercely. ‘She’ll lead the wrong one on, one of these day
s.’

  ‘No.’ Hetty shivered in spite of herself. ‘Not you, any rate.’

  ‘No, not me.’ Lenny sounded miserable. ‘But I’d like to wring her neck, sometimes.’

  Hetty watched as he climbed back on the lorry with the other men who were travelling back to the empty street, and waved with the wives and children as it pulled out of the farmyard. She stood watching absently as it disappeared up the rutted track while the bustle around her subsided as the yard emptied.

  ‘Little Henrietta, isn’t it?’

  Hetty swung round and came face to face with a short stocky man, his dark rough jacket and waistcoat unbuttoned over his shirt, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers. His face was shadowed, but she felt a leap of apprehension as she recognised him.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Warburton.’ She edged sideways to get past him, but he stepped neatly into her path.

  ‘Growing up, ain’t yer?’ His Kentish burr was soft, but Hetty heard menace in his tone. ‘Pretty little thing, now.’

  Hetty’s stomach lurched and she found that she was shaking.

  ‘I got to get back to help me mum, Mr Warburton. She’s got the baby, you see …’

  ‘Of course she has, Hetty – that’s what they call you, isn’t it? Hetty?’

  ‘Er, yes. Me friends do,’ Hetty mumbled as he fell into step beside her.

  ‘Oh, I’m your friend, Hetty. Never you doubt that.’ He laughed and spat, and Hetty shuddered. ‘Never you doubt that. You tell your mum, and all. Warburton’s your friend.’ He swung away from her, still laughing softly, and Hetty’s ears rang with the unmistakable emphasis he had placed on the last word. Wrapping her arms around herself, she ran through the chilly morning back to the hut and safety.

  Chapter Ten

  HARRY PHONED DURING MONDAY afternoon.

  ‘Guess what.’

  Libby groaned. ‘Not more earth-shattering events. I don’t think I can cope.’

  ‘No, listen. Lenny’s gone home.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently he came downstairs after breakfast and announced that he’d packed and was going home. Luckily, Pete didn’t have to go anywhere today, so he drove him to the station.’

  ‘Where’s Pete now?’

  ‘At his mother’s. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered if Lenny had said anything more. You know, about yesterday.’

  ‘Well, that’s obviously why he went, but I don’t think he said anything. Pete didn’t say.’

  Libby put the phone down thoughtfully. If Lenny was gone, perhaps the incidents would stop. He had to be the catalyst. It was because he was here, because someone was afraid of what he might say, that these things had happened. Libby still didn’t fully understand the relevance of the falling roof; that couldn’t have been directed at Lenny, but only to damage the play. And, for that matter, why the sabotaged bridge? No one could have expected Lenny to be on it. Perhaps they were simply warnings. She went back into the conservatory and stared at a painting drying on the easel. She must stretch some more paper, she thought, but stayed where she was, staring at nothing.

  If Lenny had come down for the play, big with his secret, someone must have thought that he would let it out. That someone must then have thought that it would come out anyway, whatever it was, with all the interest that was being aroused. Then yesterday, they had visited the original sites – of course. Libby stood up straight. That had to be it. It had to be something to do with the murder. But what? Hetty’s father, known to be at loggerheads with Warburton, had disappeared, so where was the mystery?

  Perhaps, she thought, covering the painting and beginning to collect brushes for washing, Hetty’s father was still alive? And – no. That was ridiculous. He would be in his late nineties. She shrugged and went back into the kitchen.

  Rehearsal that night went well. Libby was able to do a straight run, with nearly all the costumes and most of the scene changes. The roof, due to popular demand, was now to be carried on, rather than flown in. They managed to get to the pub just in time for last orders.

  On the way home, Libby told Ben of her conclusions.

  ‘Much the same as I thought myself. Lenny must have known that we would start probing, so he scarpered before we could.’

  ‘Didn’t Peter ask him on the way to the station? I hardly saw Pete tonight, and I couldn’t very well ask him in the pub.’

  ‘He tried, apparently, but Lenny clammed up. Said it was nothing to do with him.’

  Libby put the key in the door. ‘Coming in?’

  ‘People will talk.’ Ben grinned.

  ‘They are already.’

  He kissed her just inside the front door before she turned the light on. Her body definitely felt as though it belonged to a teenager, she decided, and pulled away before she fell down.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, in a high voice.

  ‘Coffee, tea or me? Isn’t that the phrase?’ He followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Not this time it isn’t.’

  ‘Another time? Soon?’

  ‘Don’t badger me, Ben.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Coffee, please.’

  It was even harder to break away when he left and she had to hang on to the door-frame to stop herself running after him. I’m in a cleft stick, she told herself, climbing slowly up the stairs. I’ve actually got to give him the green light, now I’ve taken the initiative away from him. How do I do that? I’m too old. I can’t remember.

  The next morning Libby was surprised to receive a phone call from James.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, after civilities had been exchanged, ‘if my mother has said anything about Peter’s play?’

  ‘In what way?’ hedged Libby.

  ‘Well, she seems very worried about it. I can’t quite make out whether she’s worried that Peter hasn’t written it well, or that it isn’t going to be performed well, or what.’ James did indeed sound puzzled, as if this conundrum was not the sort of thing that came up at the gym or the golf club.

  ‘She did come to see me,’ admitted Libby, slowly, ‘but I think she was more worried about dragging the family name through the mud.’

  ‘Ah. That would make sense, of course.’

  ‘Would it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Ma’s always been rather hot on that sort of thing. She really can’t cope with Peter and Harry, you know. I think she was hoping that you would be able to drag him back on to the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Me?’ Libby laughed, and remembered Millie coupling them together. ‘I couldn’t compete with the beautiful Harry in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘No,’ James agreed, rather too readily, Libby thought. ‘And I wouldn’t expect you to. Pete’s my brother and I love him as he is. Do you think the play’s going to drag us through the mud?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. The story’s passed into local folklore, hasn’t it? Everybody knows it. Your Aunt Hetty agreed to it, so did your Uncle Gregory, and surely they’ve got the most to lose, reputation-wise.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. They’ve never taken much part in local social life, you see. Whereas Ma and my cousin Susan have positions in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘And you? Don’t you have a position to keep up?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not really,’ said James.

  ‘Oh.’ Libby felt deflated. ‘Well, anyway. I don’t think it’s going to hurt anybody. Especially now Lenny’s gone home.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Ma didn’t seem too chuffed about that, either. In fact, she has been a bit peculiar these last few days.’

  ‘Has she? Do you think she’s all right, James?’

  There was a long enough pause for Libby to ask if he was still there.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ Another pause. ‘Listen, Libby, I haven’t said anything to anybody yet, but you know last week when I called to tell you Paula couldn’t come to rehearsal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well – it wasn’t just shock.’ Libby heard him take a deep breath. ‘She’s pregnant
.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘She says so.’ He sighed. ‘Ma will be pleased, I expect. Means I’ll settle down and give her grandchildren.’

  Libby spluttered. ‘But I thought you’d dumped her?’

  ‘Tried.’ James sounded uncomfortable. ‘My responsibility now, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘James.’ Libby tried to sound authoritative and grown up. ‘You’re not going to marry her, are you?’

  ‘Well, not yet, anyway. Don’t know. Ma would want me to.’

  ‘Well, don’t make any hasty decisions.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Is she going to carry on in the play?’

  ‘Yes, she says she’s coming back to rehearsals. I’ve been helping her with her lines.’

  ‘Good boy. Do you want me to say anything to anybody?’

  ‘No, I’ll tell Pete.’ She heard him sigh again. ‘I suppose I’d better tell Ben and Aunt Het and Aunt Flo, too.’

  Libby sat down suddenly on the cane sofa. ‘Flo? Flo Carpenter? Is she still alive?’

  ‘Good Lord! Haven’t you met Flo? Auntie Flo, of course, as we were brought up to call her. Very much alive. Not at Home Farm any more, of course. No, she lives in Maltby Close in the middle of the village. I thought you would have known.’

  ‘No.’ Libby made a mental note to have a quiet word with Peter about this.

  ‘I’m surprised Lenny didn’t go and see her while he was down. He was always very fond of her. Or perhaps he did?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Do you still know her well? I mean, do you think she’d mind me going to see her? She does know about the play, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she knows. Hetty asked her and she was tickled pink at being played by a pretty young girl, I gather. She definitely wants to come and see it. So I’m sure she’d like to see you. Hang on – I’ve got her phone number here, somewhere.’ Libby heard rustling. ‘Here we are.’ James gave her the number. ‘It’s number six, Maltby Close. You know, those rather nice small blocks of sheltered housing.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And thanks, James. Remember, don’t make any hasty decisions about Paula.’ Libby stopped short of urging him to have a DNA test. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help about your mother. If you could just put her mind at rest about dragging the family in the mud –’