Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

Peter, Harry and Libby all watched in silence as Ben ushered Fran out of the pub, then took her arm as they started down the street.

  ‘That his latest squeeze, then?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Peter was still looking after the retreating backs. ‘Just work colleagues, I’d guess. Not really his style, is she?’

  ‘Neither’s Li–’ began Harry.

  ‘Me.’ Libby scowled at him. ‘I know. We’ve already been there. But at least she’s tall and beautiful.’

  ‘And mystic.’ Peter grimaced.

  ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, Lib, you don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you?’ Harry scoffed.

  ‘I dowse all the time,’ said Libby. ‘It helps me not to die from salmonella.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The old pendulum trick. You know, like they used to do over the stomachs of pregnant women to see what sex the baby was.’

  ‘And now they’ve got amniocentesis,’ said Peter, ‘there’s progress.’

  ‘So how do you use it?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I ask it if the food’s safe for me to eat. I don’t keep my kitchen like you do, after all.’

  ‘You’re dead right there. In fact I’m surprised you haven’t killed that walking stomach yet.’

  ‘Sidney can manage the odd sparrow and field mouse, so whatever I give him can hardly hurt him, can it?’ Libby finished her drink and sighed. ‘And what the hell are we doing talking about cats and dowsing when Paula …’ she broke off and looked away.

  ‘I know.’ Peter leaned forward and put his hand over hers. ‘It’s a bastard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shall we go back?’ asked Harry eventually. ‘I don’t feel like food, somehow. And I can always do us something back at the caff.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Peter stood up and held out a hand to Libby. ‘Let’s try and get back to normal.’

  ‘Don’t forget Fran’s coming this evening,’ said Libby. ‘That’s hardly normal.’

  ‘Neither’s murder,’ said Harry gloomily.

  ‘Are we actually supposed to be there when she comes?’ asked Peter, ushering them out of the pub. ‘I assumed she was just going to meet Ben.’

  ‘I thought he told us because he wanted us to be there. We’ve all got vested interests in the theatre.’ Libby picked her way between tourists.

  ‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out if he rings us and tells us she’s there. There was no mention of time, was there?’

  ‘No, so let’s not bother,’ said Harry, ‘and I’ll do us a scrummy lunch and we can drink our way through the afternoon.’

  Peter flung an arm round his shoulders. ‘Harry’s recipe for forgetfulness, eh?’

  ‘And a very good idea,’ said Libby firmly. ‘I think there’s quite a lot I need to forget.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  NONE OF THEM WAS given a chance to forget, as Ben brought Fran into The Pink Geranium just after five o’clock.

  Libby, replete with red wine and vegetarian lasagne, waved a languid hand.

  ‘Find anything out?’ she asked.

  Ben frowned at her. ‘Fran’s only just arrived. She wondered if anybody wanted to go up to the theatre with her.’

  Peter stood up. Despite a steady consumption of alcohol during the afternoon he appeared completely sober, although Libby was pretty sure he wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll show Fran round, if you like,’ he said.

  ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant, Pete,’ Ben perched on the edge of a table. ‘It would be just to answer any questions she had. Or to answer any that you had.’

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ Harry pushed his chair back and folded last Sunday’s Observer review section. ‘Fran? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thanks. Perhaps later,’ said Fran, looking very much as though she didn’t want to be there, thought Libby.

  ‘Come on, then. We’ll all go, shall we? Fran, shall I lead the way?’ Libby flung her cape round her shoulders and marched past Ben and out into the High Street.

  Fran fell into step with her as they walked up the drive towards the theatre. ‘Can I ask you a few questions?’ she said, looking sideways at Libby.

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why you’re so scratchy about Ben.’

  Libby felt a blush rising up her neck and her scalp prickled with perspiration.

  ‘Scratchy?’ she repeated.

  ‘I’d sort of got the impression from Ben that you were – well – an item. But you’re not, are you?’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ asked Libby, her heart thumping arrhythmically in her chest.

  ‘No. I just thought it. Well, felt it, I suppose. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Libby pushed a hand through her hair. ‘We’ve been friends for years. I’ve known him for years, anyway. Peter’s an old friend and he introduced us ages ago. I just began to see him a bit more after I moved here and we started the theatre project.’

  ‘Oh, well, I get things wrong.’ Fran shrugged. ‘That’s the trouble with people telling you you’re psychic. You begin to think you are.’

  Libby turned to look at her in surprise. ‘Aren’t you, then?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always had this thing – you know – when you know who’s ringing before you answer the phone, but so have a lot of people, and I don’t count the times I was wrong. And occasionally I get these feelings. As though I actually know what’s happened, or what’s going on. As though somebody’s told me.’

  Libby slowed down as they approached the doors of the theatre, and waited for either Ben or Peter to unlock.

  ‘So how did you start to use it for work?’

  ‘It happened by accident, as Ben said. I used to work for an estate agent who sent me out with buyers, and I found myself telling them stuff about the houses, or the street. When I told one lot about a violent murder, we lost the sale and I got the sack.’

  ‘Gruesome.’ Libby watched as Ben unlocked the double doors. ‘So then what happened?’

  ‘The clients went to another agent, Goodall and Smythe, as it happened, and told them all about it. They got in touch with me and offered me a job.’ Fran followed Libby into the foyer. ‘Hey, this is nice.’ She looked around with a pleased smile.

  ‘So, no nasties in this particular woodshed?’ asked Peter, coming in behind them.

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it,’ said Fran, ‘but don’t forget, I can easily be wrong.’

  ‘Where’s Harry?’ Libby looked back down the drive. ‘Isn’t he coming?’

  ‘No, he decided it was our problem and he’d stay behind and clear up, ready to have the kettle on for us when we go back.’

  ‘He’s very worried, isn’t he?’ asked Fran. ‘More worried than you are.’

  Ben, Peter and Libby all looked at her.

  ‘About the murder, I mean. Sorry. You don’t want to know about that.’ Fran looked down at her neatly booted feet.

  ‘We do in a way, Fran.’ Ben patted her shoulder. ‘If it’s connected to the theatre. Or any of us.’

  ‘I – I don’t think so. But please don’t take it for gospel, Ben. I told you, I’m not sure any of this really works.’

  Peter and Libby looked at each other. ‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘I’m glad to hear Harry doesn’t seem to be in the picture, in any event. Come on, let’s go up on stage.’

  Fran opened her mouth as if to protest, but Libby, catching her eye, shook her head. If Peter was happy believing Harry was in the clear, let him carry on believing it. She was sure no one she knew had anything to do with Paula’s death, and she refused to think otherwise.

  They made a tour of the theatre, in which Fran took an intelligent interest. When they finally returned to the foyer, she wandered back into the auditorium, hands thrust deep in the pockets of her coat. A very nice navy coat, Libby thought, but a bit too smart for her. She sighed, and watched as Fran detoured round the smart new
seats and stopped in front of the stage.

  ‘Honestly,’ she said, turning round, ‘all I can see is what’s here. There’s a nice feeling in the building, but you all know that. I don’t suppose that’s what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘It’s exactly what we wanted to hear.’ Peter went towards her with a broad smile. ‘It means we can carry on with the play and the opening.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘I told you, we’ve all put a lot of work into it. And I’m sure Paula would want us to carry on.’

  Ben came forward and tucked his arm through Libby’s. She tried not to flinch. ‘We could do it in her memory,’ he said, ‘she’d love that.’

  ‘That’s a bit tacky, isn’t it?’ Libby didn’t look at him.

  ‘Paula was tacky,’ said Peter.

  ‘She was, wasn’t she?’ laughed Fran, and then stopped, looking shocked. ‘Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.’

  Ben grinned. ‘I’m glad we’ve had it confirmed, anyway,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the caff.’

  ‘I wasn’t much use, was I?’ said Fran, as she walked beside Libby back down the drive.

  ‘Oh, yes, you were,’ Libby assured her. ‘You’ve single-handedly got the play going again. As long as the rest of the cast want to carry on and we can re-cast Paula.’

  ‘You’ll have no trouble with that, will you? In my experience there are always more females than parts for them.’

  Libby looked at her. ‘You’ve done amateur drama, then?’

  ‘A bit. Back-stage, mostly. Where I used to live.’

  ‘You’re welcome to come and join us,’ said Libby, ‘although we’re a bit of a rag-bag at the moment. Some of us belonged to other groups in and around the area, and some of them are brand new, just villagers who wanted to be involved.’

  ‘It’s an impressive set-up. Ben’s done a lovely job on the theatre. And you used to be a professional, he said?’

  ‘Oh, years ago, and I didn’t get very far. Before I had the kids.’

  ‘I know the feeling. I had to stop eventually.’ Fran stopped suddenly, looking as though she wished she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Acting?’ Libby gasped. ‘You too?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I wasn’t going to say.’

  ‘Oh, you must join us, then. I could do with some back-up.’ Libby stopped walking and turned to face Fran. ‘This is great.’

  Fran smiled and looked at her feet again. ‘I couldn’t actually,’ she said, ‘I live in London.’

  ‘London? But I thought Ben said …?’

  ‘I don’t think he did. He said I work occasionally for him and for Goodall and Smythe. But as you rightly said, their head office is in London. I just get sent to various different areas. I met Ben when Goodall and Smythe were handling one of his developments, and I’ve done a few projects for him since.’

  ‘I see.’ Libby turned and started walking again. ‘So you won’t be around to help me have a poke about in all this?’

  Fran looked interested. ‘Is that what you’re going to do?’

  ‘I told Ben I wasn’t a Miss Marple, but I would like to get to the bottom of these incidents. Not the murder,’ she said hastily, ‘but the other stuff. It doesn’t seem to be connected. And I’d like to put everyone’s minds at rest.’

  ‘I could, I suppose,’ said Fran slowly. ‘I’m freelance, so I don’t have to be back for work or anything. I could take a few days off.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ Libby was excited. ‘You could come and stay with me. If you don’t mind cats, that is.’

  ‘No.’ Fran looked amused. ‘I love cats, but I can’t have one in the flat.’

  Ben and Peter already had large mugs of tea in front of them by the time Libby and Fran arrived at The Pink Geranium.

  ‘Guess what,’ said Libby, casually bumping into a table and knocking the Observer on to the floor.

  ‘She’s off,’ said Peter, bending to retrieve the paper. ‘You can always tell.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Libby huffily.

  ‘Sit down, you old trout,’ said Harry. ‘Tea, Fran? Or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ said Fran, sitting down next to Libby. ‘Don’t you mind being called an old trout?’

  Libby looked surprised. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said, shrugging her cape off her shoulders.

  ‘Anyway, what’s the news you are so obviously big with?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Fran’s going to come and stay with me for a bit to see if we can’t get to the bottom of things.’ Libby was triumphant. ‘What do you think?’

  From the silence round the table, it was obvious that universal pleasure was not on the menu.

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to leave things alone, Lib?’ Ben said tentatively.

  ‘But you were the one who introduced Fran.’ Libby was indignant.

  ‘I know.’ Ben sighed.

  ‘If things have settled down we don’t want to stir them up again,’ said Peter, hooking one ankle over the arm of his chair. ‘Especially for Harry.’ He reached behind him to pat whichever bit of Harry he could reach.

  Harry scowled down at his lover’s head. ‘Why me?’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘Er – my fault.’ Fran cleared her throat. ‘I thought you seemed more bothered about – um – things, than the others.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry removed Peter’s hand from his thigh and strode into the kitchen. Peter sighed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Fran.

  ‘That’s all right. I should have been prepared for a few negative reactions, shouldn’t I?’ said Ben, looking quickly at Libby, whose stomach rolled over. There it was, that teenagerish thing again.

  ‘So what do you think, then, Fran?’ she asked. ‘Do you come down anyway?’

  Harry came in with mugs of tea and just about refrained from banging them down on the table.

  ‘Er – I don’t know,’ said Fran, looking nervously at Harry’s eloquent back.

  ‘Let’s just drink our tea, shall we?’ said Ben, comfortably. ‘No need to make any decisions just yet.’

  ‘Except about the play,’ said Libby.

  ‘I think you should go ahead.’ Harry turned round and swung himself onto a chair. ‘You were all enjoying it until these things happened – and your bloody family got in the way,’ he added spitefully to Ben and Peter.

  ‘Harry!’ said Libby.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Peter, reaching across and patting Harry’s arm. ‘He’s right. We’ll go ahead.’

  ‘Shall I call the cast, then?’ asked Libby, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘No, dear heart, I’m more tactful. Let’s not put their backs up about being disrespectful to Paula.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ muttered Libby.

  Fran leaned over to Libby. ‘Give me your phone number anyway,’ she said quietly, ‘and I’ll ring you.’

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you think …?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I’ll ring you,’ she said.

  Libby delved into her basket and found a pen and an old shopping list. Writing her number on the back, she passed it over to Fran and looked round quickly to see if anyone else had noticed. Ben, Harry and Peter all seemed to be deep in conversation about the progress of the play, and she sat back and took a comforting swallow of tea. She was still confused about both her own and Fran’s relationship with Ben, but somehow instinctively trusted Fran. What they would find out about the goings-on in Steeple Martin, or within the Wilde, Fisher and Parker families she had no idea, but whatever it was it had to be better than the present state of suspicion and turmoil.

  ‘I must go,’ said Fran, standing up. ‘I hope I’ve been of some help, even if it was negative.’

  Ben stood up, came round the table and gave her a kiss. ‘It was a great help,’ he said, ‘you appear to have saved the play.’

  Fran glanced quickly at Libby. ‘Oh, good,’ she said.

  Libby
smiled. ‘Thank you for coming, Fran,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

  Fran nodded and held out her hand formally to Peter and Harry, who both ignored it and followed Ben’s example by kissing her on the cheek. She blushed slightly and, before anyone could say anything else, had disappeared through the door.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Ben. ‘Now all we’ve got to worry about is getting the play back on track.’

  Oh, yeah? thought Libby, sitting back in her chair. That’s what you think.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LIBBY WENT HOME FEELING vaguely dissatisfied. Ben and Peter seemed to have completely forgotten their previous unwillingness to carry on with the play, which made her think Paula’s murder had somehow negated what she now thought of as the sabotaging incidents. Which meant they assumed that the murder and the incidents had all been perpetrated by the same person and was therefore unconnected with the Family. Strange how she was coming to think of it in capital letters.

  It was after ten o’clock when the phone rang. Sidney fell inelegantly onto the floor as she surged up from her chair to answer it.

  ‘Libby? It’s Fran.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was startled. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.’

  ‘Sorry, but I thought you seemed anxious to – well, to find out …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby hastily, ‘I am.’

  ‘Do you still want me to come down?’ Fran sounded hesitant.

  ‘Of course. If you want to. Does this mean that you think there is something to investigate?’

  ‘There’s something. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but perhaps if I was down there I could make some sense of it. It might be nothing, though. You’d have to be prepared for that.’

  Tempted to say anything would be better than nothing, Libby simply assured her that she would be delighted to have her to stay.

  ‘Would tomorrow afternoon be too early?’ Fran asked.

  ‘No, not at all. I don’t know yet what Pete’s sorted out about the play, but if he’s persuaded them all to carry on, I expect we’ll have to rehearse like mad starting as soon as possible, which will probably mean tomorrow. You could come to rehearsal. If you think it would help.’

  ‘That’s great. Oh, and Libby,’ Fran was sounding hesitant again, ‘you needn’t worry about Ben and me. There’s nothing going on.’