Murder and the Glovemaker's Son

by Lesley Cookman

  Everyone turned and looked at her. Richard seemed to register her presence for the first time.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s a good point.’

  Gilbert was looking dubious.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Libby. ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘I can’t really pass any valid judgement.’ Gilbert whiffled his neat moustache. ‘But...’

  ‘But you don’t agree.’ Andrew put his head on one side. ‘I think I agree with you, but I’d like to hear your reasons.’

  Richard was looking more uncomfortable than ever. ‘So would I.’

  ‘Let’s all sit down,’ said Ben, indicating chairs. ‘Did you make that tea, Lib?’

  Libby jumped up. ‘No, I was interrupted, wasn’t I? I’ll do it now.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ben. ‘Gilbert, tell us what you think.’

  ‘The lady’s – Fran, isn’t it? – point was that Mr Wilde’s father would not have done any – er – what would you say?’

  ‘Jiggery-pokery?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘Quite.’ Gilbert’s mouth twitched. ‘If he had such respect for the family archives. However, there are two points, here.’ He settled more comfortably on his chair. ‘First, he did actually pass on something to Nathan Vine, whatever it was, which doesn’t argue much respect, and second, and almost more important, to my mind, they weren’t – aren’t – family archives at all!’

  Everyone looked slightly shell-shocked at this remarkable statement.

  ‘He’s right!’ burst out Libby, to the imminent danger of the large brown teapot, which crashed unceremoniously onto the table. ‘They aren’t! They’re Manor archives – nothing to do with the Wilde family!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Gilbert bestowed a proud pat on Libby’s arm. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Of course!’ There were mutterings round the table.

  ‘It’s the Manor’s history that’s up for grabs, as it were,’ said Richard. ‘Not yours and mine, Ben. That’s a relief.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben, frowning, ‘but something illegal’s still been done, and it looks as if it’s ended in murder.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ groaned Richard. ‘I was trying not to think of that.’

  ‘Do we know anything about Nathan Vine?’ asked Fran. ‘Gilbert?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Gilbert shook his head. ‘He was in touch, obviously, about the letter in the first place, but when we said we thought – although we hadn’t yet proved conclusively – that it was a fake, he withdrew it. I never heard from him again, until this Duncan Lucas, claiming to be his nephew, submitted it, this time to Michael and his colleagues.’

  Libby was pouring tea. ‘And none of us have heard anything from Ian? From the police?’

  Fran smiled. ‘Well, Lib?’

  ‘Well what?’ said Libby nervously.

  ‘Oh, here they go again,’ sighed Ben.

  Richard, Gilbert and Michael looked puzzled. Andrew laughed.

  ‘I think an investigation has started,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a high-level meeting in the pub or The Pink Geranium, you’ll see.’

  The three other men looked even more puzzled, Libby was red-faced, Ben resigned and Fran serene.

  ‘Libby and Fran investigate things,’ he explained. ‘Murders, usually.’

  ‘You’re detectives?’ gasped Michael.

  ‘No, no!’ Libby’s voice came out as a croak. ‘We’re just...’

  ‘Nosy,’ supplied Fran.

  This broke the tension and everyone laughed.

  The door opened again and Bel’s enquiring face peered in.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  A gabble of voices told her and Libby tried to look disinterested.

  ‘Oh, is that all,’ said Bel. ‘That’s a normal state of affairs round here. It’s why I spend most of my time in London.’ She gave her mother a friendly grin.

  ‘And you were very useful in our last case,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, shush,’ said Bel, with a surreptitious look at Michael.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Libby, rushing in to cover the moment. ‘I’d better go home and see about dinner. Coming, Fran?’

  Fran swallowed half her tea and stood up, looking surprised.

  ‘I won’t just yet,’ said Ben, frowning. ‘What’s so urgent?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Libby tried a bright smile. ‘I just thought... Come on, Fran.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Fran following her friend’s precipitate departure.

  ‘It was all highly embarrassing,’ said Libby. ‘And I didn’t want anything said about the last case. Bel isn’t going out with that bloke any more, and she’s not going to want to talk about it in front of Michael, is she?’

  ‘True,’ said Fran. ‘And he is rather gorgeous, isn’t it? A real classical face.’

  ‘Classical?’

  ‘Well, it is. Straight brows, straight nose, lovely eyes, what they call a chiselled mouth, I think...’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ said Libby. ‘That makes him sound too perfect. He needs a couple of defects, surely?’

  ‘Perhaps we just can’t see them!’ said Fran wickedly.

  ‘He seems all right, actually,’ said Libby. ‘He doesn’t appear to be up himself or anything.’

  ‘You have such a lovely way with words, Libby,’ sighed Fran.

  They had just turned into the high street when a figure popped out in front of them.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t my former tenant,’ said Harry. ‘Hello, my dears.’

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ said Fran. ‘Can you fit us in tonight?’

  ‘But I -’ began Libby.

  ‘I know you were, but this saves you cooking, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, ducks, I can fit you in. Four? Or do all the other adjuncts want to come too?’

  ‘If by that you mean all our visiting academics, I have no idea. I hope not,’ said Libby. ‘Or if they do, they can come on their own. My life’s been far too taken over with all this business so far.’

  ‘They’ve all seen the play, I take it?’ said Harry.

  ‘Fran and Guy are going tonight, so early dinner, please, Hal dear,’ said Libby. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Anything for the old trout,’ said Harry, giving them each a peck on the cheek. ‘Off you go, dearies. Back here for six thirty, all right?’

  ‘Right, now.’ Fran tucked her arm through Libby’s. ‘Why are you getting nervous about poking your nose into this murder?’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Libby. ‘I said, it’s embarrassing to talk about in front of... those people.’

  ‘Because they’re academics? We’ve dealt with them before, and Andrew’s a friend. And remember Edward Hall? He actually said he wanted to be part of Libby’s Loonies.’

  Libby smiled reminiscently. ‘He was nice, wasn’t he? Ben brought his name up the other day, when we were talking about the Manor. He knew a lot about buildings.’

  ‘But his period was more the civil wars, wasn’t it? Although I suppose there’s a crossover there. Where did he go after all? Did he get his professorship in Kent?’

  ‘Andrew would know,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll ask him.’

  ‘And you’ll stop being touchy about everything?’

  Libby grinned and dug an elbow into her friend’s side. ‘I will.’

  Ben returned from the Manor and Guy arrived from Nethergate at roughly the same time, just in time to have a pre-prandial drink before leaving for The Pink Geranium, which was almost empty when they arrived.

  ‘Fills up after the show,’ said Harry, lounging over to take their orders.

  ‘Will we be going to the pub after the show?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Libby. ‘I want to know what you think of it.’

  ‘And I want to know what’s going on with this murder,’ said Guy. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got yourselves mixed up in another one.’

  ‘We haven’t, really,’ said Libby. ‘It’s nothing to do with us, or at least, it wasn’t.’ She looked at Ben.
‘You explain.’

  Ben explained the circumstances as well as he could. Harry came up and listened in.

  ‘Sounds like you need that lovely Edward bloke,’ he said. ‘He was good on houses, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘We were talking about him earlier,’ said Fran. ‘I agree it would be worth getting in touch with him.’

  ‘But that’s to find out if Ben’s uncle actually forged the Shakespeare letter,’ said Libby. ‘Not who did the murder.’

  ‘We think the letter led to the murder,’ said Fran. ‘And anyway, we wouldn’t think Ben’s uncle did the forgery himself, would we?’

  ‘I don’t know. You girls!’ said Harry, and disappeared kitchenwards.

  After dinner, Ben and Libby walked up to the theatre with Fran and Guy, and arranged to meet them in the pub later, before going back to the Manor to find out what the visitors had accomplished.

  ‘Andrew and Gilbert have gone back to Andrew’s,’ said Michael, meeting them in the hall. ‘Bel and I are just going down to the pub for dinner.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘No further progress, then? We were thinking of getting in touch with another old friend of ours, Edward Hall. He helped us out a few years ago when we were looking into a seventeenth-century house. Andrew knows him. Incestuous lot, you academics.’

  Michael laughed. ‘Only in our own fields. But yes, you’re right. Can’t say I know him, though. Where’s he based?’

  ‘That’s it – I can’t remember. He was in Leicester, but he moved.’

  ‘I’m going to look him up,’ said Ben. ‘Easier on the computer than on the phone, so I’ll go in the study.’

  Bel appeared in a flurry of floaty dress, and she and Michael vanished. Ben went to the study and Libby knocked quietly on Hetty’s sitting room door.

  ‘Kitchen,’ a voice called out, so Libby made her way down the corridor.

  ‘Have they been disrupting you terribly?’ she asked, sitting down at the table.

  ‘No, gal. I keep out of their way. Plenty of house for them to poke around in without disturbing me. Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, Het.’ Libby clasped her hands beneath her chin. ‘What do you make of all this?’

  Hetty shrugged. ‘Beyond me. Greg wasn’t much interested in what had gone on in the past, so I never knew none of it, see. Never knew that Russell, either, I told you. Not much anyway.’

  ‘What about Richard?’

  ‘Never knew him, either. Seems all right.’

  ‘Do you remember Edward, Het? When we were looking into Dark House?’

  Hetty nodded. ‘Black bloke? Liked him.’

  ‘We’re thinking of asking him about this problem. Ben’s trying to find him on the computer.’

  Hetty quirked an eyebrow.

  ‘I know. It’s a mad world, isn’t it? Computers and phones and – and – well, everything.’ Libby shook her head and laughed. ‘I’ll go and see how Ben’s getting on.’

  Just as she stood up, Ben came in.

  ‘Found him!’ He waved a piece of paper triumphantly. ‘He’s on the Medway campus, so not far away. I’ve emailed.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Libby. ‘Your mum liked him.’

  ‘I remember.’ Ben smiled at his mother. ‘You’re all right, then? Don’t need anything?’

  Hetty gave him what could have been called an old-fashioned look. Libby laughed.

  ‘When did she ever need anything?’

  ‘True.’ Ben went and gave his mother a hug. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, Mum. Don’t let those men bother you.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’ asked Libby, as they left the Manor. ‘It’s a bit early to go to the pub.’

  ‘Let’s go and see if they need a hand at the theatre,’ said Ben.

  Libby grinned at him. ‘You’re feeling like a spare part this week, aren’t you?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not used to having nothing to do. Usually visiting productions need technical help – this one doesn’t. I don’t even have to lock up every night.’

  Peter was behind the bar working out how many interval orders he had to do. Libby went to help while Ben went up to the lighting box.

  ‘I expect I’ll be in the way,’ he said gloomily, ‘but still...’

  ‘He really doesn’t like not being in charge,’ said Peter, watching his cousin go up the spiral staircase.

  ‘It’s his baby,’ said Libby. ‘Technically, he and his mum own it, he did the conversion and now we run it between us. No wonder he’s protective.’

  Peter nodded. ‘Thinks more of this than he does of you.’ He gave her a dig in the ribs. ‘Get a move on with those glasses.’

  Libby had a brief word with Fran during the interval, but the bar was too busy for more than that.

  ‘People still don’t get the idea of ordering interval drinks, do they?’ she remarked to Peter as they passed each other carrying glasses.

  ‘What did Fran think?’ asked Peter, when the audience had returned to the auditorium, and they were collecting glasses.

  ‘Very good,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t know about Guy, though. I think he’s always been a bit suspicious of our joint theatrical careers.’

  ‘But you’re not in this. Or even anything to do with it.’ Peter threw a tea towel over the beer pumps and began loading the glasswasher.

  ‘No, I know. But I think he’s always worried that Fran will be tempted back to the stage if she has too much contact with the theatre.’

  ‘Fran was very well aware of her lack of work by the time she came here,’ said Peter. ‘There’s nothing to go back to.’

  ‘There’s us. And she still does the summer show. Oh, by the way -’ She shot him a nervous look. ‘I’m thinking of knocking that on the head.’

  Peter said nothing, but raised his eyebrows.

  Libby went on to enumerate her reasons until she ran out of steam. Peter grinned.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘And I agree. Let’s tell ’em all next week.’

  ‘Have a meeting, you mean? I thought just an email.’

  ‘Personal touch,’ said Peter. ‘Hurry up with those glasses. And you’d better escape before the end of the play, or you’ll get caught in the after-show rush.’

  In the pub, Libby and Ben found not only Bel and Michael, but Gilbert, Andrew and Richard.

  ‘Bother.’ Libby turned to Tim at the bar. ‘Nowhere to bloody hide.’

  Tim grinned. ‘I could need to talk to you over – oh, I dunno – festival finances? In my new Snug?’

  ‘What new Snug?’ said Ben and Libby together.

  ‘Formerly known as The Office.’ Tim winked.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ sighed Libby. ‘We’d better socialise. Fran and Guy will be down in a minute.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Bel, as they pulled up chairs.

  ‘Helping at the theatre,’ said Ben. ‘We had dinner at Harry’s. Fran and Guy are in front tonight.’

  Richard was frowning. ‘In front of what?’

  ‘In the audience,’ explained Libby. ‘Sorry, the jargon pops out now and then.’

  ‘Ah.’ Richard still looked puzzled, so Andrew, aided by Bel, took it on himself to explain the theatrical background of the Sarjeants and Ben himself.

  ‘And here are Fran and Guy,’ said Ben, standing up. ‘You won’t want to be bored by a lot of theatre talk, so we’ll move.’

  He firmly removed himself and Libby from the big round table to a small one by the window and went to help Guy with drinks.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ muttered Fran, taking her seat beside Libby. ‘I really didn’t want to be surrounded by academics again.’

  ‘They can get a bit wearing,’ agreed Libby. ‘And Richard, despite being one of the family, knows next to nothing about theatre.’

  ‘Not everybody does, Lib, and Ben was the first in his family to go into it, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Until architecture grabbed him.’

  ‘I thought it was holiday jobs in the theatre wh
ile he was studying architecture that grabbed him.’

  ‘Well, it was. Anyway, what did you think?’

  They discussed the pared-down production of Twelfth Night, and agreed that the Olivia had managed to get the best out of the part, although still not as good, in Libby’s opinion, as the Globe’s all-male production.

  ‘Ian!’ Ben stood up. ‘It’s not your usual night!’

  ‘Just coffee, Tim,’ Ian called over. ‘On my way home.’ He sat down next to Ben. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  They all became aware of the silent table full of people by the fireplace.

  ‘What I wanted know,’ said Ian, lowering his voice, ‘was: do you happen to know where the Shakespeare forgery was?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Where it was?’ echoed Libby. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ian frowned. ‘Who had it? Duncan Lucas or National Shakespeare? I’m assuming they didn’t, or I would have had it by now.’

  ‘Lucas withdrew it from the V&A, you know that,’ said Ben. ‘So he had it.’

  Ian sighed heavily. ‘Well, he hasn’t got it now,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, golly!’ said Libby.

  ‘Stolen?’ said Fran.

  ‘Presumably. Obviously the room where he was found was searched – and had been before we got there – so probably from there. It’s certainly not in his car, or at his London address. No safe deposit boxes, or left luggage tickets or useful clues like that. I just had a faint hope that he might have left it with the management team, but I didn’t really think so.’

  ‘So it’s gone.’ Libby nodded. ‘All the trouble it’s caused. And now – murder. But why? Why steal a fake?’

  ‘Perhaps someone didn’t believe it was a fake?’ suggested Guy.

  Fran was frowning. Ian watched her. Libby turned towards her, then Ben and Guy. Eventually she shook herself and realised they were all staring.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was that a “moment”?’ asked her husband.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Ian, I’d rather not talk about it here.’

  ‘Not at the Manor, either,’ said Libby, almost whispering. ‘The others might all go back there. Back at mine.’

  They finished their drinks, waved goodbye to those at the other table and left.

  ‘What was it all about, Fran?’ asked Ian, as they walked down the silent high street. ‘What didn’t you want the others to hear?’