Murder by the Sea - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Which flat was Aunt Jessica’s?’ said Fran. ‘This ground floor one, wasn’t it?’

  ‘If you can call it ground floor,’ said Libby. ‘It’s first floor at the back, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, because we’re built on a slope away from the cliff. That’s why Mrs Finch has her own front door at the back.’

  ‘Is Mike in?’ asked Fran. ‘I don’t want to disturb him.’

  ‘I’ve already asked him if he minded if you came in. He doesn’t, but says he’s going out soon, so perhaps we’d better go in to him first,’ said Jane, lifting her hand to knock on the door.

  Mike, as good-looking as Libby remembered him, opened the door with a smiling but watchful face.

  ‘And this is the clairvoyant lady?’ he asked, as Jane made introductions. Fran looked surprised.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’m clairvoyant,’ she said. ‘I just pick up things, now and again.’

  ‘I shall have to watch the silver, then, won’t I?’ he said with a short laugh. Jane looked at the ceiling and Libby stared. Fran smiled.

  ‘Shall we leave you alone?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No, I’m fine. If you wouldn’t mind me wandering round a bit?’ Fran turned to Mike.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, sitting on a chair at the table and indicating that his guests should do so, too.

  So, they sat and watched Fran walking round the room, occasionally trailing her fingers over a surface. She stood still by the window with her head bowed.

  ‘Was this Jessica’s bedroom?’ she asked suddenly.

  Jane looked surprised. ‘Yes, it was. I thought it ought to be the sitting room because it has a view of the sea.’

  Fran turned back to Mike. ‘Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked to see your bedroom?’

  He smiled, shrugged and stood up to lead the way. Fran simply stood in the doorway, then, shaking her head, had a quick look in the kitchen and went back to the sitting room.

  ‘Thank you, Mike,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have been so intrusive, but it was on your landlady’s behalf.’

  ‘And Terry’s,’ said Mike. ‘To get to the bottom of his attack.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ agreed Fran quickly.

  With renewed thanks, they left the ground floor flat and Fran asked if she could go down to see Mrs Finch.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Jane.

  ‘If you like,’ said Fran. ‘Do you think she’d be more comfortable?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jane ruefully. ‘I think I told you, she thinks of me as a sort of interloper. You’d do better on your own. She does know you’re coming.’

  ‘What did she say about it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not much. It was a bit like asking if she’d let the plumber in.’

  ‘And what did Mike say when you asked him?’ said Fran.

  ‘I told you, he was fine. It’s just that he was going out.’

  Fran nodded. ‘OK, then, we’ll go round to Mrs Finch’s front door. Coming, Libby?’

  Mrs Finch was small and thin, with abundant white hair and a crimplene suit in pale green.

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ she said, as soon as they were in her small, overcrowded front room.

  ‘Jessica Maurice,’ said Fran bluntly.

  ‘Hmph,’ said Mrs Finch, sitting down abruptly in a tapestry covered armchair opposite the large television.

  ‘You knew her well, I believe?’

  ‘I knew her. Used to come on our ’olidays. Good little guesthouse, this was.’ She looked round the room. ‘This was the dinin’ room.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Libby.

  ‘In the fifties. Come every year, we did, even after the kids had grown up. Then the old man died and Jess turned this place into flats. So I moved in.’

  ‘The old man?’ asked Fran. Libby frowned at her.

  ‘Your husband, Mrs Finch?’ she said.

  Mrs Finch looked at Fran in surprise. ‘That’s right, o’ course,’ she said. Fran blushed.

  ‘And did you ever know what Jessica had done before she ran a guesthouse?’

  ‘Did some sort o’ war work, like most of us,’ said Mrs Finch with a sniff. ‘Munitions, I was. She was in some sort of govn’ment office. Quite posh, she was.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘That niece of hers is the same.’

  Libby hid a grin.

  ‘And that’s all you know about her?’ persisted Fran. ‘Did she ever have any visitors?’

  ‘Whatcher talking about, gal? O’ course she had visitors! A dozen every week through the summer!’

  ‘Come on, Fran,’ said Libby, getting to her feet. ‘I think we ought to leave Mrs Finch, now.’

  Fran reluctantly followed suit.

  ‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Finch, just as they were opening the door, ‘there were always them foreigners who came to see her. Every couple of years they’d turn up for a couple o’ days and go off again.’

  ‘Foreigners?’ Fran turned back eagerly.

  ‘Yeah. Dark, they was. Every year. Eyetalians.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘SO WHERE DOES THAT leave us?’ asked Jane after Libby had related the story of the visit to Mrs Finch.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran. ‘They could have been friends from the war, couldn’t they?’

  ‘There were lots of Italian prisoners of war,’ said Libby. ‘And Italians who were already over here were interned. Some of them were deported.’

  ‘Why do you need to know?’ asked Terry, who had now moved upstairs to Jane’s flat and lay in state on the sofa.

  ‘It was unexpected,’ said Libby with one eye on Fran, who was looking distracted.

  ‘So did you get anything about the house?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Only really in Mike’s sitting room,’ said Fran slowly.

  ‘You thought that had been the bedroom, yes,’ said Jane eagerly. ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran, and looked up, meeting Jane’s eyes. ‘You’re going to have to let me think about it. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s anything to do with Terry.’

  ‘Or his attacker?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘Or rather, no. It isn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jane looked disappointed. Terry, unconcerned, reached out and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, doll,’ he said.

  ‘Doll?’ muttered Libby. ‘What decade does he think this is?’

  ‘We’re back to the fifties,’ grinned Fran in response. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Jane, we’ve got to go now. We’re meeting Ben and Guy in The Swan for a meal,’ said Libby.

  ‘I promise I’ll think about the impressions I got from this evening,’ said Fran, ‘and I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be here all day if you want to come back,’ said Terry, fixing his eyes on Fran.

  ‘Right, thank you,’ said Fran. ‘Come on Lib, we’ll be late.’

  ‘So what was that all about?’ asked Libby, as they got into Romeo.

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘That look Terry gave you.’

  ‘He was trying to tell me something,’ said Fran, ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘About the house?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly. Or perhaps he was trying to warn me off.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want Jane involved? Maybe he knows who it was after all?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Libby turned the car round in The Tops car park and started back towards The Swan. ‘So what about Aunt Jessica’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran stared out of the windscreen. ‘I’m going to have to think about that, too.’

  Libby parked in The Swan’s car park and turned to face her friend. ‘Look, this isn’t important, you know. This was just to oblige Jane and because you had a feeling about the house. You don’t have to get worked up about it.’

  ‘I know, I know. But now I’m hooked.’ Fran gave Libby a small smile. ‘I know I’m incons
istent and a damned nuisance, but there it is.’

  Guy and Ben were waiting for them in the bar.

  ‘How did it go?’ Guy pulled out a chair for Fran.

  ‘So-so,’ said Fran.

  ‘I still don’t know why you’re bothering,’ said Ben. ‘This isn’t a murder investigation, is it? Are you just keeping your hand in?’

  ‘Fran says she’s hooked,’ said Libby. ‘I think she’s peeved because the body on the island turned out to be a dud.’

  ‘Libby!’ Fran frowned.

  ‘Anyone know how that investigation’s going?’ asked Guy. ‘There hasn’t been anything in the paper.’

  ‘Don’t know. When you phoned Ian did he say anything, Fran?’ Libby said.

  ‘Phoned Ian? What about?’ Guy looked sharply at Fran.

  ‘I didn’t phone him.’ Fran looked away. ‘He isn’t in charge of Terry’s case, so it was pointless.’

  ‘And you don’t think your feeling about the house is relevant anyway?’ Libby leant forward to try and catch Fran’s eye.

  ‘No.’ Fran looked back at them all. ‘Have you asked for the menu?’

  The other three looked at one another and Libby sighed. ‘That’s that, then,’ she said.

  ‘So, come on then,’ said Libby the following morning. ‘What’s going on?’ She perched on the edge of the garden chair clutching her phone. ‘God, I wish you still lived round the corner. I’d much rather talk to you face to face.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job for me I don’t,’ said Fran, sounding amused. ‘And nice though living in Steeple Martin above The Pink Geranium was, Coastguard Cottage is a darn site better.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘Go on then, tell me all.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because I’m nosy,’ said Libby. ‘And we’ve always done these things together.’

  ‘Always? For the last eighteen months, maybe.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Come on, there was something there, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Honestly, Libby, I’m not sure.’ Fran was silent for a moment. ‘Something happened in what was Aunt Jessica’s bedroom. I saw a bed, and a woman, and then it all went black.’

  ‘You didn’t show it,’ said Libby.

  ‘No. I wasn’t facing any of you just then, and because I recognised the feeling, I just closed my eyes and waited until it had passed. She was probably Aunt Jessica.’

  ‘So not Simon Whatsit?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. And I have no idea when it was. It wasn’t during the war, because she wouldn’t have been using that room as a bedroom, would she? Not when she lived in the whole house. So it must have been after she turned the house into flats. Unless she used that room as a bedroom when the house was a B&B, too. Anyway, that’s all I got. Nothing from anywhere else in the house, not even Mrs Finch’s. So there’s nothing to tell Ian. He’s not a cold case unit, after all.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. What will you tell Jane?’

  ‘The truth, I suppose. There’s nothing to connect Terry’s attack to Peel House, and no more to be found out about Aunt Jane.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Libby. ‘What about the Italian connection?’

  ‘Again, no idea. You were right, they were probably friends she made during the war. Perhaps internees who were let out to work on the farms, or something. Lots of them did that, didn’t they?’

  ‘Some of them stayed here, after the war, too,’ said Libby. ‘I hope they were happy. They had a terrible time at first. People who’d lived here for years with their families and had businesses, ice cream shops, barbers and restaurants, had their businesses smashed up by ordinary people, and then they were just rounded up and interned. Dreadful.’

  ‘Terrible,’ echoed Fran at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Well, we don’t know who Aunt Jessica’s friends were, so it’s no use speculating,’ said Libby.

  ‘No.’ Libby heard uncertainty in Fran’s voice.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Come on, out with it. There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  ‘No, not really, just a feeling.’

  ‘About the Italians?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said you had no idea about them?’

  ‘I know, and I don’t. There’s just a sort of muzzy aura around them.’

  ‘Well, don’t force it. Perhaps it’ll come to you,’ said Libby.

  In Coastguard Cottage, Fran clicked off her phone and went to stand at the window. The view across the bay to the lighthouse always soothed her, and today, with the sun shining and seagulls swooping in the sky, it was as idyllic as a postcard. In fact, Libby’s paintings of this view sold well as postcards.

  Her phone rang again.

  ‘Mrs Castle? Fran?’

  ‘Yes? Who is this?’

  ‘Campbell McLean. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, how are you?’ said Fran, frowning at the handset.

  ‘I had to tell you, your instinct about Budgen was right.’

  ‘Illegal pickers?’

  ‘Exactly. A triumph! And all thanks to you and Mrs Sarjeant.’

  ‘Well, not quite,’ said Fran. ‘You picked the farm.’

  ‘Yes, but Mrs Sarjeant was the one who made the connection.’

  ‘Not that it turned out to be the right connection,’ said Fran.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘Look, I’d like to tell you about it. Could I buy you both lunch?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Fran. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Shall I come to Nethergate? There’s that nice little Italian restaurant in the High Street, isn’t there?’

  ‘Luigi’s, yes,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll call Libby – Mrs Sarjeant – and ask her to meet us there, shall I?’

  ‘I’ll book a table for one o’clock,’ said Campbell McLean, and rang off.

  Libby was as excited as Fran expected her to be.

  ‘Do you think it’s something to do with the body?’

  Fran groaned. ‘Please, God, no,’ she said.

  ‘Why not? That’s what you were supposed to investigate in the first place. And now Jane’s aunt’s gone out the window you haven’t got anything else to do.’

  ‘I was supposed to be taking up a hobby, remember?’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, the writing. Well, think about how much more you’ll have to write about,’ said Libby gleefully. ‘I might go into Canterbury and get the train down to Nethergate. Then I can swell Campbell McLean’s expense budget on red wine.’

  The journey involved a long and tortuous bus-ride through the villages on the way to Canterbury, but it was a beautiful day and Libby sat on the top deck enjoying the view. Then there was short walk from the bus station to the railway station (Libby still hated the way the younger generation said “train station”) and a slow rattle through more villages to Nethergate.

  The walk down the hill in Nethergate to Luigi’s was probably the most difficult part of the journey, dodging holiday makers who seemed unable to grasp the concept of forward movement, or even staying on the pavements.

  ‘Tourists,’ she gasped, subsiding into a chair between Fran and McLean. ‘How annoying are they?’

  ‘Libby, you were a tourist here once. Don’t be horrible.’

  ‘I bet I wasn’t as bad as they are,’ grumbled Libby, pushing her basket under her chair. ‘Think they own the place.’

  Campbell McLean chuckled. ‘There probably wouldn’t be a Nethergate without tourists,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, I shall have to be more tolerant. Now tell us what’s been going on.’

  But McLean insisted on providing them with a drink first, and then ordering lunch. After which, he sat back and surveyed the two women.

  ‘Well, you know I wasn’t too pleased about our investigation into the body on the island being scuppered, nor was I too pleased about the farm investigation, but we were co-operating with the police, so I went along with it.’

/>   ‘And?’ prompted Libby.

  ‘As we talked about last Monday, we arranged for another reporter – no one who normally appears on screen – to apply for work at the farm with a hidden camera and microphone. To cut a long story short, it turns out Budgen is part of a scam still working to bring in illegal workers. Who was it mentioned all those strawberries left to rot?’

  ‘Me,’ said Libby.

  ‘Farmers are really worried about it, apparently. So those that were in on a scam stayed on it. But among the people they’re bringing in now are Moldovans and Transnistrians. Remember Transnistria?’

  Fran and Libby both gasped.

  ‘Mind you, there are still people from Eastern Europe who can come in legally, but can’t work. So there are some of those, too.’

  ‘So have the police arrested anyone?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Budgen and two of the people running the so-called “agency”. They’re chasing up other leads to the suppliers of the false documents, and many of the workers have been taken to a holding centre.’

  ‘Oh, poor things,’ said Libby.

  ‘I know,’ said McLean. ‘And when you look round Nethergate and see how many foreign workers are here doing all the jobs the British don’t want to do, you’d think these people would be welcome, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘The same as the Italians,’ murmured Fran.

  ‘Italians?’ McLean looked puzzled.

  ‘The war-time interned Italians,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve been talking about them recently.’

  ‘Oh.’ McLean looked up as a waiter arrived bearing plates. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you think he’s one?’ asked Libby in a stage whisper.

  ‘Ssh!’ said Fran. ‘One what?’

  ‘A migrant worker. He’s a very dark-looking Italian.’

  ‘A lot of them are,’ said McLean, amused.

  ‘I only ask, because –’ began Libby, until Fran trod on her foot. ‘The Italians look a lot like the Eastern Europeans, don’t they?’ she finished lamely.

  ‘The Romanian language is a lot like Italian,’ said McLean, ‘and apparently Moldovan and Transnistrian are very like it, too.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘what happened next? Has Budgen been talking? How long had he been involved?’

  ‘Oh, some years,’ said McLean. ‘In fact, it turns out that he has a connection to another case, very loosely.’ He suddenly sat up straight in his chair. ‘Which, of course, is the one I told you about before.’ He beamed triumphantly.