Murder and the Glovemaker's Son

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Let’s wait until we get inside,’ said Libby, as they arrived at the pub. Ian lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

  Somehow, their favourite round table was free and they managed to distribute themselves around it while Ben and Guy went to buy drinks. Patti, as usual, tried and was refused.

  ‘Something to tell me?’ asked Ian, once drinks had arrived.

  ‘Ask you, really,’ said Libby. ‘We were wondering about Gilbert. And it sounds as if you were, too.’

  ‘What were you wondering?’ Ian looked from Andrew to Libby. With a resigned sigh, Andrew told him.

  ‘Very vague,’ he finished, ‘but I was a little uncomfortable.’

  ‘I can’t say that I have anything more concrete,’ said Ian, after a moment, ‘but I tend to agree with you.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was surprised. ‘You don’t usually agree with me.’

  ‘I’m agreeing with Andrew,’ said Ian. ‘And I’m trained to be suspicious. I wondered from the first why the esteemed Professor Harrison came haring down here desperate to see Tristan Scott when there was really no need to.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t, was there?’ said Ben. ‘Michael and his team had already told Lucas it wasn’t genuine and he’d removed it.’

  ‘I suppose he might not have known that,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, he did,’ said Andrew. ‘And if he was that worried he would have called the V&A and checked. He kept his links there – and as I said to you, old academics never retire!’

  ‘I think I need to talk to Michael Allen and see if there are records of when Nathan Vine submitted the letter to the museum,’ said Ian. ‘Or someone does.’

  ‘And find out when,’ said Libby. ‘The dates have been terribly vague. At first I thought we were talking about when Ben was a boy, because Hetty said Russell used to visit then, but it looks as though it was only a few years ago.’

  ‘The more recent it all is, the more likely we are to find records,’ agreed Ian. ‘Duncan Lucas’s tablet, which he had with him, had very few emails, neither did his phone.’

  ‘Maybe if he used a dedicated email server they would be on his laptop?’ suggested Fran. Libby looked bewildered

  ‘Oh – and another thing,’ said Libby. ‘Farm Cottage. Why is there police tape round it?’

  ‘So that people won’t go into it,’ said Ian blandly. ‘Like you.’

  Libby opened her mouth to protest indignantly and shut it again when everyone laughed.

  ‘No really, Ian,’ said Ben. ‘Did you find something up there?’

  ‘We think so. In the shed.’ Ian shot Libby a sly smile. ‘Possibly printing materials. And don’t you dare say anything to anyone.’

  ‘Printing materials?’ Guy looked interested. ‘You mean for forging fake documents, don’t you?’

  ‘I might.’ Ian grinned. ‘As I said, not a word to anyone.’

  Anne was practically falling out of her chair with excitement. ‘Who was it lived in the shed?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘The original owner of the fake letter,’ said Guy. ‘So, you see...’

  ‘Not in the shed exactly,’ said Libby.

  Ian was watching them all with amusement. ‘Well, I’m pleased you’re all so interested,’ he said, ‘but no more – er – helping, if you don’t mind. And try and steer the family away, Ben, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Hardly family,’ said Ben. ‘Only Richard. My other family are on Mum’s side.’

  ‘And you were going to ask your sister about Russell and Nathan, weren’t you?’ said Libby.

  Ben shot a quick look at Ian. ‘Yes, I was. Is that allowed?’

  ‘What were you going to ask?’

  ‘If she remembered Russell and Nathan. If she or her husband were in the Chess Club.’

  ‘If I remember rightly,’ said Ian, ‘not that I was involved back then, but I would have thought she might not have done.’

  ‘But, you see,’ said Libby, ‘I don’t remember the Chess Club, or Russell, or Nathan. And I would have thought I would.’

  ‘I think it was just before your time,’ said Ben. ‘I hadn’t moved back, either.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby thought about it. ‘So there’s been quite a gap.’

  Ian finished his coffee. ‘Well, I must get off.’ He stood up. ‘Try not to let anything else happen in Steeple Martin, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what he thinks we can do about anything,’ said Libby, as she watched Ian’s tall figure go quickly out of the door. ‘And why’s he gone off so early?’

  ‘He’s still got to drive wherever it is he goes,’ said Fran, ‘and he has to get up in the morning.’

  ‘What about this Gilbert, then?’ said Anne. ‘What are you going to do about him?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ said Libby.

  ‘I agree,’ Andrew nodded. ‘If Ian, and by extension, the police, know that there might be some doubt about his -’ he clicked his fingers impatiently.

  ‘Integrity,’ supplied Libby. Everyone looked at her in surprise. ‘I can be intelligent sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘Integrity, then,’ said Andrew with a grin, ‘I don’t think we need to worry. And after all, he isn’t trying to steal anything from Ben’s family, is he?’

  ‘Or from anyone’s family,’ said Ben. The only things there are to steal are the original house archives, which strictly speaking don’t belong to the family anyway.’

  ‘But the family own the house,’ said Andrew, ‘and therefore, the documents that go with the house. If the family that owned the house back then still existed it would be different.’

  ‘Very complicated, this family history, isn’t it?’ said Guy. ‘Glad I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Well,’ said Edward, ‘it’s all very interesting, but I don’t think I’ve managed to contribute much. If you could keep an eye on the property market for me, Libby…’

  The following day Libby suddenly had nothing to do. The Glover’s Men had gone on to their next stop, the incident room had shut down and there wasn’t even the summer show to prepare for. The cleaners had been in to prepare the theatre for Friday’s one-nighter, Ben was back at the microbrewery and Harry and Guy were preparing their businesses for the summer rush. Libby mooched round the conservatory trying to decide what to do and felt depressed.

  ‘I ought to get a job,’ she told Sidney. ‘I’ve said it before. There must be something I could do.’

  The paper currently being stretched on the draughtsman’s board in front of her mocked silently. ‘All right, I know I’ve got painting to do,’ she grumbled. ‘I just don’t know what to paint.’

  Eventually, she gathered up sketch book, charcoal and pencils and set off for Nethergate. The seascape always inspired her, and she had a fancy to go round the bay and perhaps have a go at the lighthouse on the northern tip.

  At the top of the high street, she turned left to drive along the top of the downs, and dropped down to where the lighthouse stood guarding its few coastguards’ cottages, which Guy had told her would one day fall in the sea, as they were getting closer and closer to the eroding cliff edge. Very sad, she thought, turning into the car park by the lighthouse.

  Inevitably, the sun had gone in. She climbed out of the car, pulled on her emergency jacket, gathered her materials, and set off to look for a suitable vantage point. The chalk cliffs were alive with insects and offered nowhere to sit safely, so she walked slowly along until she came to a bench she remembered from a previous visit here with Ian and Fran and sat down with relief. She now looked down on the harbour, The Sloop Inn, Mavis’s Blue Anchor cafe and away to her right, Fran’s Coastguard Cottage.

  And immediately below her, at the bottom of the cliff path, Richard Wilde.

  Libby nearly fell off the bench.

  For a moment, she couldn’t actually make sense of what she was seeing. Richard had gone home, hadn’t he? Yesterday morning. And he didn’t know Nethergate – or she assumed he didn’t. So what was he doing here? She stood up, intendi
ng to hail him, and then sat down again. No – if he wanted to see her or Ben he would have told them he was here. Andrew? Was he here to see Andrew? And, she thought, he didn’t know where Fran lived, or he wouldn’t be walking nonchalantly along Harbour Street.

  She found her phone in her bag and called Ben.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell us he was going there?’ Ben sounded as puzzled as she was. ‘Nethergate’s got no connection to the family, or to the murders, has it?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Libby. ‘Do I go down and speak to him? He’s sitting down outside Mavis’s now. Or will it embarrass him?’

  ‘I expect it will, but it would be best for him to be aware that this is our stamping ground and he’s likely to trip over at least one of us if he stays here.’

  ‘And I’m in full view of Mavis and not far from the gallery, so I’ll be quite safe.’ Now why had she said that?

  ‘Safe? Well, of course you’ll be safe. Yes, go on then. I’m very interested to know what he says.’

  So am I, thought Libby, so am I.

  She made her way over to the cliff path and scrambled somewhat inelegantly down it to where it debauched on to the small car park behind the cafe and pub. Richard was now nursing a tall mug and staring out to sea, where one of the two tripper boats was chugging towards the harbour.

  ‘Richard!’ she called brightly. ‘Whatever are you doing here? I thought you’d gone back to Norfolk.’

  Richard, who had started violently at the sound of his name, now turned and stared at her in what looked to Libby like horror.

  ‘I -’ he began, stopped and cleared his throat. ‘I could – er – say the same thing.’

  ‘Hardly!’ said Libby with a laugh. ‘This is our local seaside town, and Fran and Guy live here – just along there – and Andrew lives at the top of the hill. You obviously didn’t know?’

  ‘Er – no. I – um – just felt like a break.’

  ‘Your stay in the huts got you in the mood, did it?’

  ‘Yes, it did.’ Richard stopped squirming and pulled himself together. ‘I just thought I’d like a proper holiday, so I stopped for lunch in Canterbury and investigated the area. This looked like a nice quiet seaside town.’

  ‘It is.’ Libby pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. ‘Where are you staying?’

  Richard nodded towards the other end of Harbour Street. ‘The Swan. It’s very comfortable.’

  ‘What do you plan to do while you’re here?’

  ‘Just relax. Try a few different places to eat. Thought I’d check out the pavilion place.’

  ‘The Alexandria? That’s been recently restored. Our company usually put on a summer show there, but we’re not this year.’

  ‘Oh, pity,’ said Richard without conviction. He put down his mug and stood up. ‘Well, I must be getting on.’

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘Must you?’

  Richard reddened. ‘Don’t want to waste the day,’ he muttered. ‘Nice to see you, Libby.’

  Oh, no it wasn’t, she wanted to retort, but instead simply stood with him. ‘I’m going this way, too,’ she said, although this was fairly obvious, it being the only way you could go.

  They walked uncomfortably together along Harbour Street until they came to Guy’s gallery.

  ‘Fran’s husband’s place,’ said Libby. ‘Come and have a look round while you’re here.’

  ‘Er – I will,’ said Richard. ‘Cheerio for now.’ He turned and shambled smartly off towards The Swan.

  Libby turned to face an open-mouthed Fran.

  ‘What was he doing here?’

  ‘He says,’ said Libby pointedly, ‘he’s here having a quiet break.’

  She explained how she had seen him completely accidentally.

  ‘Not very likely, is it?’ said Fran, taking her place behind the counter. ‘Guy’s out the back painting again.’

  ‘It just might be true,’ said Libby, ‘but he seemed very uncomfortable. What would he be doing here, though? As Ben said, Nethergate has no connection to the family business or the murders.’

  ‘Then his visit isn’t connected, either,’ said Fran.

  Libby paused and stared hard at Fran. ‘That means that you think he is connected.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Fran looked puzzled. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You said he’s connected to the business and the murders. And Nethergate isn’t. Well, that’s what it amounted to.’

  Fran stared down at the counter. ‘Yes, I think he is. But I don’t know how.’

  ‘The same as you were worried about him at first?’

  Fran looked up. ‘I don’t know. I think I was more worried about him not being who he said he was then, but Ian’s checked that out, hasn’t he?’

  ‘As he did with Gilbert. Who you also weren’t sure about.’

  ‘Pull up that stool,’ said Fran. Libby pulled. ‘Now, let’s work out what he could be doing.’

  ‘Doing here, or doing in respect of the – er – case?’

  Fran smiled. ‘The case first, of course.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t know.’ Libby sighed. ‘After all, there’s nothing valuable in those archive documents, although I do wish he’d left them with Ben. He had no right to go off with them. And it wasn’t him in Steeple Martin with Nathan Vine, it was his father, and according to him and Hetty he didn’t get on particularly well with his father, and left home for good before Russell started going down to meet Vine.’

  ‘And knew nothing about the whole letter business until Ben got in touch through social media,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, he says not, but I wouldn’t mind betting he’d read or seen something about it in the press. He would have noticed because of the name.’

  ‘But he knew nothing of the Shakespeare connection to the Manor?’

  ‘He says not. And that he’d not gone through all his father’s old papers.’

  ‘He probably hadn’t,’ said Fran. ‘They wouldn’t have meant anything to him, would they? And he hadn’t even been to the house. Hadn’t he asked his father to bring him, but his father didn’t – or wouldn’t?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Libby. ‘Well, in that case, he really is nothing to do with the archives and the fake letter. And following from that, nothing links him to either of the murder victims.’

  ‘Unless he knew one or other of them in a completely different capacity – which would be a hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘So,’ said Libby, ‘just what is he doing here?’

  ‘He was embarrassed, you said,’ said Fran.

  ‘More horrified, actually.’

  ‘Shall we,’ said Fran, after a moment, ‘take a stroll down to the square? He might be sitting at one of the tables outside.’

  ‘Not if he thinks I’m in danger of coming out of here and seeing him. Anyway, you’re working.’

  ‘Sophie’s upstairs. I can call her down.’

  ‘Well, we could walk along Victoria Place or Cliff Terrace, I suppose. We might spot him from there, although I would think he’d be in hiding now.’

  ‘But why?’ Fran frowned. ‘And, you know, my instincts aren’t working properly any more. I was wrong about him and Gilbert in the first place, and I’m wrong again.’ She sighed, then went over to the door to the flat above and called Sophie.

  Five minutes later, they were walking along Harbour Street towards the square, then, keeping their eyes on The Swan, the venerable old inn that stood on the seaward side, they climbed up to Victoria Place. At the end of this, where it opened on to the cliffs was a small car park and a couple of benches, where Fran and Libby decided to sit.

  ‘Nothing much going on down there,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know what you expected to see.’

  ‘I don’t know, either.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I’m trying to force things that aren’t there.’

  It was pleasant sitting there in the sun, but after a minute or two, Libby began to get bored.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she
said. ‘He’s not going to emerge just to please us. We might as well go. Or Jane will see us and wonder why we haven’t come in.’

  Their friend Jane Baker lived in Cliff Terrace, just above Victoria Place, and was the assistant editor of the Nethergate Mercury, part of a group of local newspapers, although that was almost a misnomer these days when they were mostly online feeds.

  ‘All right.’ Fran sighed and stood up, shaking out her skirt as she did so. ‘It was a silly idea anyway. Oh!’ She stopped and put her hand on Libby’s arm. ‘Look at that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Down by The Alexandria – where it goes round to the back.’

  Libby peered down. A sort of mini-promenade led from the front of The Alexandria round both sides, lit with the same coloured lights as the square and Harbour Street at night. And here, leaning on the railings overlooking the beach, was Richard Wilde.

  ‘He’s got someone with him!’ said Fran. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘How should I know?’ said Libby, then ‘Oh! I do, though. It’s Philip Jacobs. Well!’ She turned to Fran. ‘They only met on Sunday.’

  ‘It looks,’ said Fran, squinting into the sun, ‘as if they’ve met several times since then.’

  ‘It does.’ Libby smiled. ‘Do you know, Harry’s famous gaydar didn’t scent this one out. Is that why he was embarrassed, do you suppose?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Fran, with a grin. ‘Poor bloke. Perhaps his home circle isn’t quite as liberal as ours.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Libby, as they began to retrace their steps back to the gallery, ‘they really only met on Sunday?’

  ‘From what we could see up there,’ said Fran, as they passed the front of The Alexandria, ‘it looked a newish friendship. And it explains why Richard was in such a hurry to get away. He would be wary of exposing himself to anyone else, wouldn’t he? Better to come down here and hide it away.’

  ‘Not knowing we have eyes everywhere!’ said Libby.

  ‘Poor Richard,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t know how you’re going to tell him we know and it’s fine with us.’

  ‘Well, we won’t have to, unless he comes back to Steeple Martin,’ said Libby. They came to a stop outside the gallery and she groaned. ‘Oh, blimey – I forgot! I’ve got to walk all the way up the cliff path to the top to get to the car.’