‘He is, but I’d book, if I were you. It’s a bit busy this week.’
‘Er – we have,’ said Bel, looking guilty.
Libby smiled. ‘Jolly good. See you when I see you then.’
She said goodbye to Hetty and followed Ben and Richard to the Hoppers’s Huts where Richard was professing himself delighted.
‘Will you come to dinner this evening?’ asked Libby. ‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble – what about the pub? Or a restaurant?’
‘The pub’s going to be busy, and Michael and Bel have booked dinner there. Our only restaurant is closed on Mondays, I’m afraid.’
‘Bel and Michael?’ said Ben. ‘Thought I recognised the signs...’
Richard looked from one to the other. ‘Ah. I might be intruding, then?’
‘Might be better to leave them on their own,’ said Libby. ‘So, dinner?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘If you wanted to see the play, we’d better make it early,’ said Ben.
‘If you can get a ticket,’ said Libby.
But Ben got a ticket, and after a hastily constructed stir-fry, took Richard up to the theatre. Libby stretched out on the sofa with phone and remote to hand and prepared to enjoy a relaxing evening.
The phone rang.
‘OK, Fran. Pin your ears back.’
When she’d finished, there was a short silence. ‘Well, say something.’
‘I was just thinking. You’re sure about this Richard?’
‘What do you mean? Are we sure he’s not a fake, too?’
‘I suppose so. Or at least hasn’t got a hidden agenda.’
‘Have you had another moment?’
‘No. I was just being naturally suspicious.’
Libby sighed. ‘You’re worse than me.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m just being realistic. Ben found him on social media – it could have been a false profile. Easiest thing in the world to fake.’
‘Stop it! For a start, why? Simple curiosity? What would he have to gain? Besides, he brought all the stuff with him.’
‘The documents. Are they genuine? Wouldn’t they have to have been kept in a controlled atmosphere or something? Remember the muniment room you saw before, and how fragile all those documents were?’
‘Hmm.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Those were a lot earlier, though, about 800 years earlier.’
‘Well, I’d check, if I were you,’ said Fran.
‘Gilbert and Michael are going to go through the documents tomorrow, I told you. They can tell us if they’re fakes, too, can’t they?’
‘Yes, and what about those two? Both of them wiggled their way into the investigation, didn’t they? No one asked them.’
‘Michael was asked. Gilbert asked him. Oh...’ Libby scowled. ‘Ian’s met them both. He’ll have checked up on them, won’t he?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Fran’s tone was sharp.
‘What’s the matter with you? You’re in a crap mood.’
‘I’m not.’ Now she sounded sulky.
‘I know what it is!’ Libby was triumphant. ‘You’re feeling left out!’
There was a pause, then Fran laughed. ‘You’re probably right, I am!’
‘You’re coming over tomorrow to see the play, aren’t you? Why don’t you make a day of it? Eat early at Hal’s?’
Fran sighed. ‘I can’t – or rather, Guy can’t.’
‘You could come on your own and he could follow.’
‘That means two cars and neither of us can have a drink.’
‘Very true. How about if I come down and pick you up? We can have lunch at Mavis’s or The Sloop and then come back here.’
‘OK – if you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Course I don’t. Besides, I’ve got a picture to deliver to Guy, so it’s a justifiable trip.’
‘Except,’ said Fran, ‘that you could have given it to him tomorrow night.’
Libby brushed this aside. ‘Doesn’t matter. What time?’
The result of this conversation was that Tuesday morning saw Libby driving to Nethergate through bright sunshine.
‘Just the day for a visit to the seaside,’ she said to Fran when she arrived, gazing approvingly at the sparkling sea and the families on the beach. ‘Do you need any more updating?’
‘Is there anything happening?’
‘No. Richard apparently enjoyed Twelfth Night, and Ben saw him ensconced in his Hoppers’s Hut. We’re leaving all the academics to get on with it today. It’s all beyond me.’
‘There’s still been a murder,’ said Fran.
‘I know, but it’s not really anything to do with us, is it?’ Libby looked at her friend sideways. ‘Is it?’
‘You were the first one to say it was our business,’ said Fran. ‘Or rather, your business. And it looks very much as if Ben’s family got involved somewhere along the line.’
‘So do you think his uncle Russell had something to do with the forgery?’
‘Maybe.’ Fran sat on the window seat, chin resting on knees. ‘He passed over all the house documents, apparently. He could have known about the suggestion that Mr Shakespeare came to Steeple Martin, or whatever it was called then.’
‘But, surely, Nathan Vine’s far more likely? If it was Russell Wilde, he would have tried to sell it, wouldn’t he?’ Libby frowned out at the blameless sea.
‘Heavens, I don’t know.’ Fran put her legs down and shook out her skirt impatiently. ‘And another thing we don’t know – was Duncan really related to Nathan?’
‘Oh, Gawd!’ said Libby. ‘It’s too complicated! And all the fault of that glovemaker’s son.’
Chapter Thirteen
The Blue Anchor stood on the harbour wall next to The Sloop. The owner, Mavis, appeared to serve Fran and Libby herself, and deposited a battered tin ashtray next to Libby, a sure sign of favouritism her rather surly manner belied.
When they’d ordered their sandwiches, Fran sat back in her chair and frowned. ‘As I said last night, I suppose we are certain that Gilbert and Michael are kosher?’
Libby was startled. ‘Of course they are! I said, Ian will have checked up on them.’
‘Has anybody looked at their identification? After all, Gilbert turned up out of the blue, and he was the one who got in touch with Michael, wasn’t he?’
‘Andrew knew him!’
‘No, Gilbert said he knew Andrew. All these people turning up out of the blue. And over something as potentially valuable as a Shakespeare artefact.’ Fran looked at her friend. ‘Nobody’s checked them, have they?’
Libby was silent for a moment.
‘But what have they got to gain?’ she asked at last. ‘They’re certifying the letter as fake. If they were saying it was genuine, I could see the point, but not this way round.’
Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just wondered. Would Andrew be able to verify either of them?’
‘Look, Andrew invited Gilbert to stay with him, didn’t he? He must have known him,’ protested Libby. ‘And Gilbert said he’s known Andrew for years. They’ve been doing research together – Andrew would have spotted a ringer straightaway.’
‘That’s true.’ Fran nodded agreement.
‘I think you’re looking for excuses to poke about,’ said Libby, smiling up at the current girl posing as a waitress who delivered their sandwiches on a somewhat shaky tray.
‘Maybe,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘You were right when you said I felt left out. Oh, the ignominy!’
‘Nah,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve both got so used to investigating, whether anyone wants us to or not, it’s a habit. It’s like when we were both still working. You got so used to being part of a cast you felt bereft when it stopped, and you used to be desperate for the next one.’
‘True. That’s one reason why I did such a lot of radio towards the end – there was a lot of it about at that time. Not now, though.’
‘So many alternative forms of entertainment,’ said Libby,
opening her sandwich and staring suspiciously at a piece of lettuce. ‘Perhaps we ought to go into games. There must be openings for voiceovers in those computer games.’
‘Computer-generated, I expect,’ said Fran gloomily. ‘Thank goodness we do still have live theatre.’
They were silent for a few minutes eating their sandwiches.
‘What’s going on with Bel and this Michael?’ Fran asked eventually.
‘Bel’s smitten. He seems to be, too, but he’s very good-looking and charming, and I would think he has women falling over themselves back in London, so I’m hoping she doesn’t get in too deep. Good thighs, too,’ Libby added pensively.
Fran choked on the last of her sandwich. ‘Oh, Libby!’ she said finally, wiping her eyes.
‘What?’ said Libby indignantly. ‘I mean due to propinquity, of course. Getting in too deep, that is, not the thighs.’
‘The young get in too deep far too quickly these days, if you ask me,’ said Fran.
‘I’m sorry to say I agree,’ said Libby reluctantly. ‘Not that I’d want to go back to the old days, and I have no objection on moral grounds but the more intimate a relationship gets the harder it is to leave it. Even after a weekend.’ She sighed. ‘Not that it will make any difference, of course. And, by the way, what’s going on, if anything, with Ad and Sophie?’
Adam, Libby’s youngest son, and Sophie, Fran’s step-daughter, had been in an on/off relationship ever since Libby and Fran met. Adam lived in the flat over The Pink Geranium, where Fran herself had lived briefly, and Sophie lived in the flat above Guy’s gallery and shop, where Guy had lived before moving in to Coastguard Cottage with Fran.
‘I don’t think anything is at the moment,’ said Fran. ‘Doesn’t Adam talk to you about it?’
‘Of course not!’ said Libby. ‘He goes all feet-shuffly if I so much as mention anything to do with guurls.’
‘Here’s Bert and The Sparkler.’ Fran nodded to the little tourist boat sidling up to the jetty almost next to them. ‘Nearly peak season for them.’
Bert’s trippers disembarked, followed by Bert himself and his “boy”, this year, his grandson Little Eric.
‘Mornin’, ladies.’ Bert fetched up beside their table.
‘Hello, Bert,’ chorused the ladies.
‘Good season, so far, Bert?’ asked Libby.
‘Not bad, not bad. No murders goin’ on, then?’
Fran smiled. ‘Not right at the moment, no.’
‘Ah,’ said Bert. ‘Won’t be long, then.’ He touched his cap and rolled away to his own table, to wait for his mate George to bring The Sparkler’s stable mate, The Dazzler, alongside.
‘Now, what did he mean by that?’ asked Libby.
‘That it won’t be long until we find another murder,’ said Fran, with a smile. ‘And he’s right, isn’t he?’
‘What, because we’ve already got one?’
‘Well, yes, but he didn’t know that. He meant we always seem to be involved in a murder investigation, so, if we weren’t right at this minute, we would be soon.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘What a reputation we’ve got.’
‘Haven’t we just,’ said Fran. ‘But we don’t do it deliberately, do we? This one just turned up.’
‘And,’ said Libby, cheering up, ‘we actually know hardly anything about it.’
‘But that’s what we’re trying to find out, isn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘Why this Duncan Lucas was killed, who he was and what did he know about Ben’s house.’
‘And who killed him,’ finished Libby. ‘Come on, let’s go back to Steeple Martin and find out if anyone has any news.’
‘I must see to the Blot first,’ said Fran, standing up.
‘The what?’ Libby looked up puzzled.
‘Oh, you haven’t met the Blot, have you?’ said Fran. ‘Come along then.’
Back at Coastguard Cottage, Fran opened the kitchen door and peered in. Libby, even more puzzled, peered over her shoulder. With a yelp, she swung round as something landed on her back. Something with very sharp claws.
Grinning, Fran somewhat painfully detached what appeared to be a ball of black wool from Libby.
‘What is that?’ gasped Libby.
‘It’s a black kitten. It looks like a blot of ink, so that’s what Sophie called it.’
‘Is it hers?’ Libby reached out and tentatively touched the tiny black nose which peeped out beneath two very blue eyes.
‘Yes. But he comes here so he can go outside. He’s too small to escape over the wall yet, so he’s quite safe in the yard.’
‘What does Balzac think?’ Fran’s black and white longhair was nowhere to be seen.
‘Asleep on our bed,’ said Fran. ‘The Blot can get annoying to a mature cat.’
‘I bet,’ said Libby, who was now stroking the Blot’s head, which was vibrating to the sound of a rich purr. ‘He is rather gorgeous, though. How did she get him?’
‘A friend’s cat had kittens and they all went except the Blot. It’s true that black cats don’t get chosen. Odd, though.’
‘Synonymous with witches and the Devil, do you think?’
Fran shrugged. ‘I’ll just take him back to the flat and make sure his food bowl’s full.’
‘And check the litter tray, I should,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll retrieve the car and pick you up there.’
‘Kids’ll be breaking up soon.’ They were driving back towards Steeple Martin between fields of ripening cereal crops and smaller ones full of sheep. ‘That means Nethergate will fill up.’
‘It also means you’ve got to get your finger out if you’re going to do the summer show at The Alexandria,’ said Fran. ‘Have you asked Susannah yet?’
‘No,’ said Libby, with a sigh. ‘In fact, I’m wondering if we ought not to give it a miss this year. It was all right for a nostalgia trip when we first did it, but it’s a bit tired now.’
‘Talk to management at the Alexandria about it,’ said Fran. ‘It is a huge commitment for everybody, especially Susannah and any other musicians she ropes in.’
‘I will,’ said Libby, ‘and I’d better do it sharpish, or they’ll be relying on us, and then they’ll have to find something else to fill the gap.’
‘But first, we want to find out about Duncan Lucas,’ Fran reminded her. ‘Although I’m wondering why we need to.’ She cocked an eyebrow at Libby.
‘To find out who killed him, of course!’ said Libby.
‘But the police are doing that.’
Libby looked shocked. ‘When did that ever stop us? Besides, Ian always asks.’
‘No, he doesn’t. He asks us as witnesses if we’re involved, like last time at the Beer Festival.’
‘Or when I discovered that body at the farm.’ Libby shuddered. ‘I’m surprised I ever managed to eat that turkey.’
Instead of going back to Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane, Libby drove straight to the Manor, where she and Fran found Michael, Andrew and Gilbert bent over the table in the formal dining room, which was now covered in old documents. They ran Ben, Richard and Bel to earth in the kitchen.
‘Hetty’s gone to hide in her sitting room,’ said Ben. ‘We escaped.’
‘Is it very boring?’ Libby asked Bel.
‘It is to me,’ her daughter replied frankly. ‘Honestly, Mum, those three in there are getting positively orgasmic!’
‘Bel!’ said Ben.
Richard laughed. ‘I know what she means. I’ve often seen it in academics. Nothing else moves them in quite the same way. If they think they’ve discovered something unusual...’
‘But have they?’ asked Ben. ‘They were gabbling on about something or other over lunch, but I couldn’t understand half of it.’
Libby filled the big kettle and slid it on to the Aga. ‘And what about Duncan Lucas? Have you heard any more about him?’
‘No.’ Ben looked surprised. ‘Well, no one would ask us, would they? We never came into contact with him.’
‘What about The Glover�
�s Men? Have they been bothering them?’ asked Fran.
Ben shook his head. ‘Apparently, the management team have packed up and gone back to London, except for Tristan, who’s been left here more or less as damage limitation.’
‘Can’t have done them any harm, though,’ said Libby. ‘A murder always attracts attention.’
‘But a fake claim to a Shakespeare letter definitely attracts the wrong sort,’ said Fran. ‘They really don’t want to start playing that up.’
The kettle began hissing steam just as the kitchen door burst open.
‘Look what we’ve found!’ said Andrew.
‘What?’ said five voices together.
‘A receipt from Nathan Vine,’ said Andrew. ‘For “various documents”.’
‘Does it say what?’ Ben went over to peer at the piece of paper.
‘No,’ said Michael, coming in behind Andrew with Gilbert in tow. ‘But at least it shows where Vine claimed to have got his fake from.’
‘So,’ Richard was frowning, ‘whatever was interesting was given – or sold – to Vine. You won’t find anything among what’s left, will you?’
‘As we’ve already found one or two gems,’ said Gilbert, ‘I think we might. There’s nothing to say Vine got much.’
‘And the existing documentation held at the archives proves that Shakespeare’s Players did come here, despite there being no formal record of that along with Dover and Fordwich,’ said Andrew.
‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘But this could mean...’ He looked across at Ben. ‘It could mean that my father caused the fake to be made.’
Chapter Fourteen
The rest of the company looked at each other uneasily.
‘Er – did you ever have reason to think your father might act – well, illegally?’ asked Ben. ‘I didn’t know him well enough.’
‘I would never have thought so.’ Richard was looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘He was rather a...stiff sort of person, if you know what I mean.’
‘Victorian Dad?’ suggested Libby.
‘You know,’ said Fran, ‘I’m only just coming in on this, but it strikes me that someone who took over the family archives because he was interested and Ben’s father wasn’t, isn’t likely to try faking the evidence.’
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