Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Not with Paula?’

  ‘No, apparently she had to go out. He didn’t sound too bothered.’

  ‘He doesn’t really want to be with her, love,’ Harry patted Peter’s cheek.

  ‘Not much comfort, though, is it?’ said Peter. ‘Still, it’ll keep Mum off our backs for a bit, I suppose, at poor old Jamie’s expense. Never happier than when messing about with babies, my mama.’

  Libby reflected on this unlikely picture of the vacuum- packed Millie of her recollection. ‘Golly,’ she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE TELEPHONE WOKE LIBBY again in the morning. Sidney, who was playing draught excluders across her bedroom doorway, severely impeded her progress and, once more, the answerphone cut in.

  ‘Libby, it’s Hetty. Please phone me back.’

  Libby seized the receiver before Hetty could cut her off.

  ‘Hetty, I’m here. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Libby? Is that you? Not the machine?’

  ‘No, it’s me. I didn’t get to the phone in time.’

  ‘More trouble, gel. Sorry about this.’

  Libby felt her heart – or something else underneath her ribcage – give an unsettling lurch. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, through a mouth gone suddenly dry.

  ‘Someone tried to set fire to the theatre.’

  Libby was aware of several things at once. A feeling that all the blood had drained from her head to her feet, that Sidney was nudging her arm and yowling for breakfast and that it was raining.

  ‘It’s all right. Ben saw it and called the fire brigade. It’s only the back bit – and there’s not much damage.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby swallowed hard. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Early hours of this morning. It had started raining, too, so that helped.’

  ‘What was Ben doing up at that time?’ Libby blurted out, regretting it immediately.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hetty sounded surprised, as well she might, thought Libby. ‘Lucky he was, though.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for letting me know, Hetty. I’d better get down there, I suppose. Does Peter know?’

  ‘Yes, Ben phoned him earlier. He didn’t phone you. Said he didn’t want to worry you.’

  After Hetty had rung off, Libby sat down heavily and allowed Sidney to crawl all over her. She desperately needed someone to talk to, but who? Peter had become distinctly unsympathetic and Ben – Libby refused to think about Ben.

  Feeling friendless, she let herself out of the cottage half an hour later, leaving Sidney on guard. The rain was still in the air as a sort of miasma, but its earlier heavier downpour had left sinister puddles in the ruts of Allhallow’s Lane and progress was slow as Libby attempted a stepping stone advance.

  At the back of the theatre, she met the residue of the fire crew and a black-coated individual who turned out to be an investigator, who asked her questions with accusation in a watery blue eye.

  Finally convinced that the last thing in the world she would have done was to destroy the theatre, he left her and poked about a bit more along the blackened back wall. Libby stood miserably watching him, her cape wrapped tightly round her, until one of the fireman took pity on her and told her that there was no real damage – the gentleman had spotted it so quickly. Pity she couldn’t think of anybody who might have done it, but he expected it was the same crowd of hooligans who’d had a field day with local schools recently. Libby tried to keep her face expressionless and thanked him, before turning away, wondering whether she ought to go up to The Manor to see Hetty, or just go home.

  Her dilemma was resolved unexpectedly by the appearance of Millie, hurrying up the drive in designer wax jacket and green wellies.

  ‘Mrs – er – Libby.’ She pulled up, panting, in front of Libby. ‘I’ve just heard. Isn’t it awful?’

  ‘The fire?’ asked Libby, cautiously.

  ‘Yes, of course. Peter’s friend just told me.’ Faint colour appeared in her cheeks at this euphemistic description of Harry. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, it was a bit of a shock,’ Libby agreed. ‘The firemen and the investigator are still there, so I thought I’d leave them to it.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing you can do, is there, dear?’ Millie turned and took Libby’s arm. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  Surprised, Libby looked at her and shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t have time. I fed Sidney, though,’ she added inconsequentially.

  ‘Sidney?’ Millie withdrew her arm.

  ‘My cat.’

  ‘Oh.’ Millie let her smile come back. ‘Well, why don’t you come back with me? I don’t bother to cook breakfast just for myself these days but I’m sure we could both do with something.’

  Puzzled, and on the point of refusing, Libby stopped. She had to get to the bottom of Millie’s change of attitude somehow – what better way than this?

  ‘Thank you – that’s very kind of you. If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

  What stupid platitudes we do come out with in the guise of social behaviour, she thought as Millie disclaimed. Of course it was trouble to cook for somebody else – especially unexpectedly. On the other hand, Millie wouldn’t have offered if, for one reason or another, she hadn’t wanted to. Perhaps, thought Libby, as they started to walk, James had told his mother about Paula and the baby and Millie wanted to talk about it. Though why on earth she would want to talk to me, thought Libby, goodness alone knows.

  Steeple Farm was at the other end of the village. The road wound up between banks until they could have been miles from civilisation. Millie was not a conversationalist while she was walking, but the silence, which Libby thought at first was total, was, in fact, charged with a hundred tiny, unidentifiable sounds – insects, rustling undergrowth, birdsong, far-off farmyard sounds, even, modified and gentled by distance, the sound of a tractor. A watery sun appeared between sullen black clouds, and Libby looked up at the house, some of its small-paned windows molten in the sun, two of them staring blackly from under eyebrows of thatch. Libby shivered. What should have been a picture book cottage somehow wasn’t.

  ‘Come in.’ Millie opened the heavy oak door and Libby stepped into an anachronism. The hall floor, which she guessed was flagged, was covered in a thick red carpet, the walls painted cream, with gilt touches in the wall lights, switches and chain store picture frames. A teak telephone table, complete with cushioned seat and space for directories, stood by the stairs. Millie led the way into the kitchen, a magazine dream in pale wood and stainless steel, and pulled out a chair from the matching table.

  ‘Coffee? Or tea?’ she asked, shedding her jacket and going to a door at the far end of the kitchen, which proved to contain a coat lobby.

  ‘Tea, please.’ Libby tried to remove her cape unobtrusively and got one arm trapped.

  ‘Let me take your – er –’ offered Millie, coming forward revealed in smart skirt and jumper and court shoes. Libby breathed heavily and managed to relinquish the cape.

  ‘Bacon and eggs?’ Millie was plugging in an all-singing, all-dancing kettle.

  ‘Lovely. What a treat,’ said Libby, smiling brightly.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? I find I don’t eat terribly well now I’m on my own. Peter insists that I go to his friend’s restaurant, but I’m not very fond of vegetarian food, I’m afraid, so I don’t go often. James comes for Sunday lunch most weeks of course.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby, not able to think of anything else.

  ‘It’s a shame, really, because since I’ve had this new kitchen installed, I don’t really get the chance to use it. I always wanted something like this, but Peter’s father wouldn’t let me change it. It’s lovely now.’ She looked around with satisfaction. ‘So bright.’

  ‘What was it like before?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, shelves – the old dresser – no storage, really, except the larder. And that dreadful Aga, of course. Not even one of the new ones – an old cream one, it was. Terrible to cook with.’ She slid bacon under a grill
and broke an egg into a pan. Libby tried not to feel outraged on behalf of the old kitchen and watched as the sliced bread went into the toaster.

  ‘I could live with just my microwave, I think, couldn’t you?’ Millie put a delicate translucent cup of pale tea in front of Libby, whose Assam-conditioned nose caught a whiff of Earl Grey.

  ‘I quite like my Rayburn, actually,’ Libby confessed and watched Millie’s unreal eyebrows shoot up into her helmet of blonde hair.

  ‘Really? Well, I suppose if you’ve never had one before they can be quite a novelty.’

  ‘I expect that’s it,’ agreed Libby, chastened.

  ‘There. You’re looking much more cheerful now.’ Millie smiled. ‘Drink your tea. I won’t be long.’

  By the time Libby had battled her way through the weak, perfumed liquid in front of her, Millie had served up two antiseptic-looking plates of bacon, egg and toast.

  ‘Terrible for the calories, of course,’ she said chattily, as she sat down and shook out a snowy napkin. Libby shot her a suspicious glance but decided there was nothing untoward in this remark and picked up her knife and fork.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ Millie fixed a bright eye on Libby and chewed her toast thoroughly.

  ‘Eh?’ Libby dropped a piece of squishy fried egg back on to her plate.

  ‘At the Oast House. What will happen?’

  Libby frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Will it be repaired? As a theatre? I wouldn’t have thought it would be worth it. Throwing good money after bad, I’d call it.’ Millie put her knife and fork together neatly and picked up her coffee cup.

  ‘Ah.’ A lot of things became clearer to Libby. Millie’s astonishing friendliness, for one thing. ‘I’m sorry, Millie. Harry can’t have explained properly. There was a fire, but Ben spotted it and called the fire brigade before it did any real damage. We’ve just got rather a black wall at the back, that’s all.’

  Millie’s mouth had remained open throughout this explanation and her colour, much to Libby’s interest, had fluctuated from red to white and back to red again. Finally, she closed her mouth with an audible snap and stretched it into a smile.

  ‘What a relief for you all, then,’ she said, her voice sounding like chalk on a blackboard. ‘Harry’s so dramatic.’ She picked up her knife and fork and poked viciously at a piece of bacon.

  Harry’s so mischievous, Libby corrected mentally. She could just hear him giving Millie a gleefully exaggerated version of the fire. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud, ‘it is a relief. At least it won’t affect the play. We can carry on with rehearsals and nothing has been damaged.’

  Millie’s smile remained fixed. ‘Of course,’ she said, and abandoned what remained of her breakfast, pushing the plate away with a jerky movement.

  Libby felt uncomfortable. ‘May I help you with the washing up?’ She stood and collected her plate and cup.

  Millie came to life. ‘No, no. It’ll all go in the dishwasher. Such a boon, aren’t they?’ she added, with a return to her former manner.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Libby, who no longer had one.

  ‘I shall buy one for James, of course.’

  Libby’s mind skittered around trying to follow Millie’s quantum leap of conversation. ‘Oh?’ she said.

  ‘He’ll need one, won’t he? Him and – the baby.’

  She knows, then, but what a strange way of putting it, thought Libby. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be very handy, but the washing machine’s the most essential thing with a new baby, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘He’s got a lovely washing machine in his flat. I expect he’ll move it down here when he comes.’

  ‘Oh, he’s moving into Paula’s cottage, is he?’ Made the decision, then, thought Libby.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Millie, vaguely. ‘It’s bound to be better than hers.’

  Washing machine, not cottage, interpreted Libby, and wondered if she should offer congratulations on impending grandmotherhood. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate.

  ‘Thank you so much for breakfast,’ she said at the door. ‘It was lovely to be looked after for a change.’

  ‘Any time,’ said Millie, and Libby sensed the withdrawing into herself as Millie closed the door almost before she’d finished speaking.

  The sun had retired hurt once again, and Libby sloshed through muddy puddles back to the village. Ferocious brambles caught at her cape as, more than once, she was forced into the hedge to let arrogant four-wheel-drive vehicles push past her. She found herself thinking longingly of town and metalled roads with pavements and by the time she reached The Pink Geranium, had decided what to do.

  ‘Harry?’ She pushed open the door and called.

  ‘Hallo, dear heart.’ Harry appeared from the kitchen in his leather trousers, pink shirt and an enveloping white apron. ‘What can I do for you? Come for a bit of tea and sympathy?’

  ‘No, I’ve just had that, thanks.’ Libby pulled out a chair and sank down.

  ‘Oh?’ Harry raised an eyebrow and sat astride a chair opposite. ‘And who was the dispenser?’

  ‘Millie.’ Libby enjoyed the reaction to her revelation and giggled. ‘And it’s all your fault. You told her about the fire and she came rushing up to gloat.’

  ‘Did she?’ Harry leaned his elbows on the table. ‘And were you there?’

  ‘We met on the drive, so she didn’t actually see what damage had been done. She just assumed I was devastated and carted me off home for breakfast. I admit, I was puzzled at first. Then, of course, I told her that we had no damage. She was riveted.’

  ‘I bet. So all her efforts were wasted?’

  ‘Efforts?’ repeated Libby, startled.

  ‘Conciliating you.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes. She couldn’t get rid of me quick enough when she realised she couldn’t gloat. Poor old Peter. Fancy having a mother like that. Did you know she ripped out a perfectly good kitchen – and an Aga?’

  ‘Her loss was our gain, dearie.’

  ‘Oh – I see. The dresser?’

  ‘All of it. It doesn’t fit as well in our cottage as it did at the farmhouse, but it looks better than the seventies Formica that we had before. And I adore the Aga.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Libby sat up straight. ‘Look, I’m off to London this morning and I don’t know what time I shall be back. Could you ask Peter if he would take tonight’s rehearsal until I am?’

  ‘This is so sudden. What are you doing in London?’

  ‘I’m going to see Lenny.’ Libby stood up.

  Harry shook his head. ‘Pete won’t like it.’

  Libby refrained from the obvious retort. ‘I can’t see why not.’

  ‘He just wants to let it lie. I think if he could, he’d give up the idea of the play.’

  Libby was shocked. ‘Peter? After all his hard work? Don’t be silly, Harry. He’s been saying that for the last week but he doesn’t really mean it.’

  ‘Well, it does seem to be fated, dear, doesn’t it? I think Ben’s much of the same opinion.’

  ‘Ben?’ Libby’s voice rose. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He came to the cottage. He and Pete were closeted together for ages. I was quite jealous.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. I’m going. I was going to ask you for Lenny’s address.’

  ‘Well, that would be no good, ’cause I’ve not got it. Flo would have, though.’ Harry got up to see her to the door.

  ‘Thanks, Harry.’ Libby stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘You’re a pal.’

  Back in the cottage she revised her opinion. She had just put down the phone after obtaining Lenny’s address from Flo when the phone rang again.

  ‘Libby?’

  Her breathing quickened.

  ‘Hallo, Ben.’

  ‘What’s all this about you going to see Lenny?’

  That was quick of Harry, she thought. ‘I thought I would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought he
might tell me what he was worried about. So that we could put a stop to this stupidity once and for all.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘Why? You were saying only the other night that Lenny would know what was going on. We discussed it, remember?’

  Ben was silent.

  ‘Anyway,’ Libby went on, after a decent interval, ‘I’m going to see Lenny. Now we’ve had the fire, I think it’s even more important to get to the bottom of all this.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And by the way, how come you spotted the fire so quickly? Hetty said it was the middle of the night. What were you doing up at that time?’

  Libby heard a quick intake of breath even as she berated herself for sounding so suspicious.

  ‘I was coming home,’ Ben replied, coldly.

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby and felt her stomach fall untidily round her boots. ‘Well, I must get on. I want to be back in time for rehearsal tonight.’

  ‘Why don’t you cancel it? It would be much easier. I understand you’ve asked Peter to take it?’

  ‘They need every rehearsal they can get if we’re to open on time,’ said Libby firmly, although her insides felt like mush. ‘And now, I really must go. Goodbye, Ben.’

  Resisting the urge to howl all over a protesting Sidney, Libby went upstairs and changed into what she considered appropriate for visiting London.

  Not that this was exactly London, she reflected, as she negotiated Bromley’s one-way system, which seemed designed to confuse the enemy and keep them well away from Bromley itself. When she eventually navigated herself into a broad tree-lined avenue she felt completely wrung out.

  Coniston House was one of many large, detached Edwardian villas that stood back from the pavement protected by a broad sweep of gravelled drive. Inside, Libby sniffed surreptitiously and was rewarded by an indistinct smell of polish, cocoa and disinfectant, nothing more suspicious. She was relieved.

  Underneath the curving majesty of a mahogany staircase, a little table, illuminated by a gold-shaded lamp, was enhanced by a young lady of almost greetings-card perfection.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked Libby, with a glowing smile and in accents reminiscent of Millie’s.