Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Let your mother lie down, Hetty …’ Aunt Connie pushed the door shut quietly. ‘You go and see if the fire’s still in down the cookhouse. Put the kettle on.’

  Hetty moved awkwardly on the uncomfortable mattress, one arm clutched round Millie, her head throbbing and a paralysing ache in her throat. Aunt Connie pushed her mother gently down beside her and Hetty lowered her eyes.

  ‘Hetty.’ Her mother laid a cold hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘That Warburton. He’s done this. Hasn’t he?’

  ‘Has he?’ Hetty whispered, staring at her mother, confusion in her eyes.

  Hetty’s mother sighed and closed her eyes. ‘He’s told your father.’

  Hetty continued to stare at her mother until Aunt Connie’s voice broke the silence.

  ‘They’ve gone, Hetty. Go and get that kettle on.’

  Unwillingly, Hetty dragged herself to her feet, her head swimming. She felt sick, and had to lean against the wall until the nausea subsided. The long row of huts was quiet, the glow of individual cooking fires and half open doors casting tiny pools of light, while slight movements gave away the presence of interested watchers in the shadows.

  ‘Go on, Het. They’ve gone now. You’re all right,’ someone called, and the chorus was taken up. ‘You’re all right, Het. Don’t worry, Het. Evil bastard, ain’t ’e?’

  Then Flo was beside her.

  ‘Warburton stirred it, Het.’

  ‘Mum said.’ Hetty hugged her arms round herself, shivering. ‘How did she know?’

  Flo shrugged. ‘You can’t do anything here. ’Course she knew.’

  ‘Everything?’ Hetty’s frightened whisper stopped Flo as they walked slowly down the line towards the cookhouse.

  Flo smiled ruefully. ‘I expect so, Het. Everything.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘DO AS WELL AS this on Tuesday and you won’t have anything to worry about.’

  A self-congratulatory murmur rustled through the cast, accompanied by a few smug smiles.

  ‘Oh, and tomorrow the bar here will be open, so we won’t have to rush.’

  A ragged cheer greeted this revelation and Libby turned to where Harry lounged in the seat beside her.

  ‘Finished up at the caff?’

  ‘Hardly anybody in except Ben.’ He sent her a sly look.

  ‘Was he?’ Libby turned her attention back to the stage, where Peter was doing a final safety check with Stephen, and stood up. ‘Well, before you stir things up any more, I think we should get down to the pub.’ She flung her cape round her shoulders and smiled at him sideways. ‘Oh, did I miss you that time? Pity.’

  Harry scowled and sauntered down to the edge of the stage.

  Ben wasn’t in the pub when they arrived and Libby tried not to mind. Peter bought her a drink and they settled down to organise a rota between themselves for checking on the theatre. Monday during the day was no problem as the brewery was installing the bar, but it was tonight that worried Libby.

  ‘It’s no use you going up there at night, Lib,’ said Peter. ‘If there is a big baddy around, he’d have you away in no time. You can prowl around during the hours of daylight, but Harry and I will have to take the night-time shift.’

  ‘I’m just a tad busy tomorrow night, ducks,’ warned Harry. ‘I won’t be finished till after midnight.’

  ‘Then I’ll get Ben to help.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby abruptly. ‘No, you can’t. You were the one who said don’t tell him.’

  ‘Stephen?’ said Harry.

  ‘He’s already gone home tonight, and he doesn’t exactly live locally, does he? We can’t ask him to patrol the theatre in the dead of night. Although,’ Peter added thoughtfully, ‘he was pretty pissed off tonight. Said it meant the incidents were directed at theatre after all, and nothing to do with Paula.’

  ‘We know they weren’t to do with Paula, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘I think he meant we should still be worried about security.’

  ‘Well, he’s right, we are,’ said Libby, ‘but we still can’t ask him to drag out here to patrol the theatre.’

  ‘Well, who, then? I can hardly ask Uncle Greg.’

  ‘Lenny?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘Lenny? But he’s not coming down until Tuesday – and I’d be surprised if he comes then.’

  ‘He’s already here.’ Libby dropped her bombshell with a smug grin.

  ‘What?’ said Peter and Harry together, sitting upright as though choreographed.

  ‘Staying with Flo.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Peter crowed with laughter. ‘The old devil.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that it’s still possible at that advanced age,’ said Harry, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could ask him.’ Peter frowned down into his drink. ‘But I can’t see him being keen to help under the circumstances.’

  ‘Well, as long as we’re together, I could come with you, couldn’t I? I mean, the werewolf won’t get me while I’ve got a big strong man with me, will it?’

  ‘Depends on the werewolf, duckie,’ grinned Harry. ‘It might be after the big strong man.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Libby.

  ‘Look,’ said Peter, ‘I think we’re being a touch paranoid here. We’ll pop up and do a double check now, and leave it at that. If anything’s different in the morning, we’ll think again.’

  A quick patrol of the theatre before Harry returned to The Pink Geranium and Peter escorted Libby home to Sidney’s effusive welcome sufficed that night, and the following morning the theatre was exactly the same as it had been the previous night. Peter looked smug, his expression clearly saying “I told you so”. The bar was set up in the corner of the foyer and Peter, the designated licensee, had great fun sorting it out to his satisfaction.

  The dress rehearsal rather fell apart after the comparative slickness of the previous day, but Libby put it down to nerves and wrote an enormous cheque for drinks all round to christen the new bar, after which Stephen did a solemn check of every lock and bolt before insisting on escorting Libby home.

  Uncomfortably aware that she had been virtually ignoring him over the past week, Libby acquiesced as graciously as possible.

  ‘Did you park your car in Allhallow’s Lane again?’ she asked, as they walked down the drive towards the High Street.

  ‘No, we just passed it, didn’t you notice? Now the car parking area is ready it seemed silly not to use it, especially as I haven’t been needed as an escort.’

  Libby looked at him quickly. ‘Sorry, Stephen. I haven’t been ignoring you, really. It’s just been a difficult week.’

  ‘A rather puzzling one, I should say,’ he said, hunching his shoulders inside his coat. ‘First we’re cancelling the show, then we aren’t, then we don’t know. Peter still doesn’t seem certain.’

  ‘It’s his mum. He’s worried about her, and James.’

  ‘Why? I can understand him being worried about James, he must be shattered, but what’s the matter with his mum?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Libby squirmed. The last thing she wanted to do was be disloyal to Peter.

  ‘She’s not playing the bereaved grannie, by chance, is she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Libby truthfully, because she really wouldn’t have thought so. But apparently Millie was doing just that.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, either,’ said Stephen, grinning at her over the top of his thick scarf. ‘I would have thought she’d have been quite pleased to have her baby boy’s nemesis bumped on the head and seen off.’

  ‘Stephen! That’s a terrible thing to say,’ said Libby, grinning back at him all the same.

  ‘Well, she was a mess, wasn’t she? A right little p.t.’

  ‘Gosh, Stephen! I didn’t realise you knew her that well.’

  Stephen smiled wryly. ‘And I didn’t realise you knew what p.t. meant.’

  ‘I’m a middle-aged divorcee with grown-up ch
ildren, not a dinosaur. Did you know her before this?’

  ‘This being what? The play? The new theatre? What?’

  ‘Both. Before I invited you to help. Pleaded with you, actually.’

  ‘I’d met her. You know what am-dram’s like in a small area. Everybody knows everybody else.’ He grinned again, suddenly. ‘And you pleading with me was a great boost to my flagging ego. Even if you were pleading for a stage manager instead of a man.’

  ‘Oh, Stephen. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, don’t be. It’s not the first time I’ve read the wrong signals.’ His lips tightened, and Libby wondered who he was thinking of.

  Feeling much more charitable towards him, she offered coffee with almost genuine enthusiasm, but was relieved when he refused.

  ‘I can’t actually see the offer as the usual euphemism,’ he said wryly, ‘and I’m pretty sure there’s no chance of that in the future, either, so I’ll just make my weary way home.’

  ‘Oh, golly,’ said Libby.

  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Lib. I know when I’m outclassed, and I should have known it was my expertise you needed, not my body.’

  Libby stared, not knowing how to answer.

  ‘Go on, go and have a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.’

  Embarrassed, guilty and relieved, Libby watched him walk almost jauntily down Allhallow’s Lane.

  After enjoying slightly less than the recommended good night’s sleep, Libby found Tuesday was a difficult day. She went to see Flo and Lenny in the morning, amused to find them sitting either side of Flo’s electric fire like an old married couple.

  ‘Think I’m going to move down,’ Lenny confided as he saw her to the door. ‘Be near me family. Not that we’ll get hitched or anything. Flo’s not bothered about that.’

  Libby leant forward and kissed him. ‘Well, I think that’s marvellous,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you a non-wedding present.’

  He cackled. ‘And good luck for tonight, girl.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’

  Peter and Harry were unobtainable all day, and Libby loitered round the theatre on her own for a couple of hours before going home and gazing gloomily at her neglected painting.

  Sidney, who had joined her, looked round suddenly and leapt lightly to the floor, padding away to the front door. Libby followed and found him investigating a large white envelope addressed in a neat and purposeful hand.

  Inside was the sort of card that Libby herself always wanted to find, but never could; the sort of card that she put in a drawer and promised to frame, but never did.

  ‘Break a leg, Libby,’ it read, ‘in spite of everything. Ben.’

  Not “love, Ben” just “Ben”, Libby thought, and had to swallow a childish lump in her throat. She had to face the fact that she was a passing fancy, despite what he had said after their dinner together. Someone in the family had annexed his allegiance and Libby was out in the cold.

  ‘He didn’t even have the decency to tell me what the problem was,’ she said to Sidney, trying to work up a justifiable anger. Sidney, losing interest, strolled into the kitchen and jumped up next to the bread bin.

  Fran phoned during the afternoon and, after wishing Libby luck, asked if the spare room would be available on Thursday night.

  Libby felt guilty for wishing Fran wasn’t coming down at all, but professed herself delighted, nevertheless.

  The next phone call was from Sergeant Cole, who didn’t wish her luck.

  ‘We need to come down and interview all the people involved with the incidents at your – ah – hall. Will most of them be there tonight?’

  Libby was so surprised she laughed. ‘I should say so!’ she said. ‘But you won’t be able to interview them.’

  Sergeant Cole’s voice took on a minatory quality. ‘I must remind you that this is a murder investigation, Mrs Sarjeant.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Sergeant,’ said Libby, injecting a little ice of her own into the conversation. ‘Tonight, not only will the entire cast of The Hop Pickers be at the theatre, so will all the crew, members of the press, the Mayor and 200 assorted members of the public.’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. Libby could picture the sergeant desperately trying to think of a way to stop the entire proceedings.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Same tomorrow, minus the Mayor and the press,’ said Libby, trying not to sound smug. She heard a gusty sigh.

  ‘And the same the rest of the week, I suppose?’

  ‘And twice on Saturday,’ smirked Libby, ‘and all sold out.’

  Sergeant Cole sighed again. ‘Perhaps I could trouble you for a list of names and telephone numbers, then, madam?’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get in touch with them all during the day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I don’t have everyone’s numbers. Peter Parker does, though.’

  ‘Does he, now? Thank you very much madam.’

  ‘Sergeant, before you go, does this mean you think there’s a connection between Paula’s death and our little accidents?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call them “little”, madam,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Someone could have been seriously hurt.’

  ‘Or killed.’

  ‘Indeed, madam. Well, I’ll – er – leave you to your – er – play.’

  Libby thought for a moment. ‘Sergeant, I have two complimentary tickets for my – er – play tonight,’ she said, ‘if you feel you would like to see it. You know – see what’s going on.’

  There was another short silence. ‘That’s very kind of you, madam, I’m sure,’ he said, sounding vaguely surprised. ‘I’ll ask the inspector.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you might bring DC Burnham,’ said Libby, mischievously.

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll have to see won’t we, madam,’ said Sergeant Cole hurriedly. ‘Very kind of you, anyway.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Libby, ‘I’ll leave the tickets at the box office.’

  It wasn’t until after she’d hung up she realised he hadn’t answered her question about the connection between Paula’s death and the theatre. Instead, she’d reinforced the idea by suggesting he came to see the play. How dumb could you get.

  By half past six, she was a mass of quivering nerve endings. Her best burgundy velvet dress had a mark on it and her hair was even more fly-away than usual. With shaking hands, she dragged on a bottle green satin jacket and wound a green and red scarf artistically round her neck.

  ‘I look like a bloody Christmas tree decoration, but that’ll have to do,’ she told Sidney as she fell over him at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing at her cape at the same time. ‘Wish me luck.’

  The atmosphere at the theatre was as charged as any normal first night would be, without the added tingle factor of it being the opening production, in the presence of various local dignitaries, the press and local radio, and, unknown to anyone else, the police. Libby was interviewed live by an energetic young man whose enthusiasm nevertheless did not extend to actually watching the performance, and she posed with the cast for pictures for the local press, who appeared slightly more interested in the murder than in those still alive. She darted into the dressing room to say good luck at the three minute bell and darted out again in time to escort the Mayor in to the auditorium, after which she took her seat at the back and tried to stop herself from running out of the theatre.

  ‘It’s because you’ve got no control over it now,’ said a voice behind her and she looked round to see Ben. He smiled and squeezed her shoulder before moving down the aisle to take a seat with his family. Libby was so stunned she missed the first lines of the play.

  At the interval, she dived through the pass door, unwilling to face anybody until afterwards, in case her mounting excitement should be quelled by an incautious remark from some member of the audience.

  ‘It’s going brilliantly,’ she told an euphoric cast. ‘Just keep it up, don’t let it slip or rest o
n your laurels.’

  ‘We’re not that dumb, Lib,’ said someone, and she felt foolish.

  ‘Here.’ Peter put a large whisky in her hand. ‘Get that down you, girl, and stop wittering.’

  ‘What about the family?’ she asked him. ‘Are they enjoying it?’

  ‘No idea.’ Peter shrugged. ‘I’ve made a point of avoiding them. Time enough for that later.’

  Ben smiled at her again as she came out of the pass door at the end of the interval. Heart thumping, she smiled nervously back and made quickly for her seat just as the lights went up on stage. She noticed Sergeant Cole and DC Burnham in the house manager’s seats, which she had ruthlessly wrested from acting-house-manager Peter just before the performance, and hoped they were enjoying themselves and weren’t intending to arrest anybody after the final curtain.

  The second act started a little hesitantly, but soon got into its stride and Libby found herself marvelling at this company, who had never done anything together before, producing such a professional performance. It seemed, when the lights went down for the final time, that the audience agreed with her, to judge by the storm of applause that broke out. The cast lined up, looked at one another with huge grins and bowed triumphantly.

  They were still bowing to a delighted audience when Libby staggered out to the bar and ordered a large scotch from Harry. ‘I’ll go round the back way to the dressing rooms,’ she told him. ‘I can’t face the crowds yet.’

  ‘Don’t blame you, ducks. It’ll be all luvvies and darlings, won’t it?’

  ‘Well, it will in the dressing room, to be fair,’ said Libby, and noticed the auditorium doors opening. ‘Right, I’m off.’

  The next half hour passed in a daze for Libby. Congratulations were flung about like confetti, sticky moments were relived and gasped over and all the while the Wildes, Parkers, Fishers and Dedhams stood in a group in the foyer and watched impassively.

  Eventually, Peter collected Libby firmly by one reluctant arm and dragged her over to the receiving line.