Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘You were right,’ Ben said to Libby.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked.

  ‘Patrick showed his sister a couple. And Lisa had this mad idea that it was somebody in the society, so she wanted to see how everybody reacted when she came down.’

  Libby was dubious. ‘But everybody’s reactions would be horror under the circumstances,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t show her anything. And her boyfriend obviously didn’t like the idea.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ said Colin, frowning. ‘I didn’t know she had one.’

  ‘There was this guy there who looked as though he was,’ said Libby. ‘I’m probably wrong. I can’t think why someone didn’t stop her coming down.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she was thinking clearly,’ said Ben.

  ‘Why did she think it was someone in the society?’ asked Libby.

  ‘The letters referred to it,’ said Cy. ‘You knew he did the costumes?’

  Libby and Ben nodded.

  ‘There was a rather explicit reference,’ said Colin delicately. ‘We had a couple, too, didn’t we?’ he looked at Cy. ‘Well, you did.’

  ‘So it does look like it’s directed at your sexuality rather than anything else,’ mused Libby. ‘And I wonder if it’s just people in the society? Any other members – er –’

  ‘Gay?’ supplied Cy. ‘Not that I know of, and I think I would.’

  ‘What did the police say?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Nothing much.’ Colin shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t even tell us who the other man was at first. We heard on the TV.’

  ‘And you don’t know of any incident in Patrick’s life that would make an enemy of someone?’ said Libby.

  ‘Or why someone would choose to victimise his family?’ Ben added.

  Cy shrugged and winced again. Colin sighed and shook his head. ‘He was a nice boy,’ he said. ‘Younger than us, of course, only in his twenties, but clever. Very clever. Mind, his dad never really got used to the fact that he was gay. Accepted it on the surface, course, but a bit uncomfortable.’

  ‘It’s that generation,’ muttered Cy.

  ‘Looking at Lisa, I would say that her parents are – or were – our generation,’ said Ben, with a look at Libby, ‘and we’re hardly like that.’

  Cy’s highly coloured face developed an even deeper hue. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  Ben smiled grimly. ‘Doesn’t matter. What does matter is the effect this bastard is having on everybody.’

  This has got him angry, thought Libby. I wonder what he’ll say when we’re alone?

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Colin, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘And to be honest,’ said Libby, thinking the conversation needed a slightly different direction, ‘I don’t think my input did much to cheer things up. It all fell apart, rather, didn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ said Colin, ‘I don’t think so, Cy, do you? They all seemed pleased with what you had to say.’

  ‘They did,’ said Cy. ‘It did help, Libby, and I know you thought Col’s little speech was a bit tacky, but it’s true. I want the panto to go on, and I know Paddy would have done, too.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘I wish I could do more, but I’m a bit tied up with ours. Is there anything you’d like to ask me about it, though, while I’m here?’

  There was, as it happened. Cy even fetched his copy of the script, and while he and Libby pored over it, Colin made Ben another cup of coffee.

  ‘Cy called Patrick Paddy,’ said Ben, leaning against the work surface in the kitchen watching the kettle. ‘Are they an Irish family?’

  ‘Gawd love you, no!’ said Colin, fetching a fresh mug. ‘Mum and Dad both come from East End families who came down hopping. They were some of the first Hop Hall players.’

  ‘Can’t be many of those left,’ said Ben.

  ‘Sheila comes from one of those families, I think, and there are a couple of oldest inhabitants who were founder members.’

  ‘They must really be ancient,’ said Ben, accepting his coffee. ‘If they were old enough to be pickers when they began their plays, or whatever they were.’ Libby had given him a potted background to the case and characters as far as she knew it the previous night.

  ‘I think they must have been teenagers then,’ said Colin, leading the way back to the front room. ‘I don’t know much about them.’

  ‘I bet Libby would like to meet them,’ said Ben quietly, looking across to where his inamorata was gesticulating wildly over the script, Brillo-pad hair flying and whisky glass in grave danger of losing its contents.

  ‘Really?’ Colin gave him a quick look. ‘I suppose I could find out …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ben, going to sit down again, ‘she’ll ask if she does.’

  ‘But I thought she wasn’t going to get involved with our – er – well, with the – er –’

  ‘Investigation?’ Ben’s smile was crooked. ‘If she gets any time off from her own panto, she’ll be investigating, don’t you worry. Even though the police are. She’ll think she’s got an angle they don’t have.’

  ‘Harry said that.’ Colin nodded. ‘She’ll look at things they would brush aside. But,’ he turned to look Ben full in the face, ‘I got the impression you weren’t very happy with her getting involved?’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Ben. ‘She’s got herself into some sticky situations in the past, but it’s part of her, and I have to accept that. Besides,’ he glanced across at Cy, ‘there are a few living casualties of this one, aren’t there? Something needs to be done.’

  ‘And you think your Libby’s the one to do it?’

  ‘She’ll give it a try, anyway,’ said Ben.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘WHAT DID YOU THINK?’ Libby slid her eyes sideways to Ben’s profile as he manoeuvred away from the bungalow.

  ‘About the pantomime?’ He picked up speed and changed gear.

  ‘Well, yes, but about Cy and Colin.’

  ‘And the case?’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘you did seem to be showing a bit of interest.’

  ‘In Lisa. It got to me a bit.’ Ben swung the car round a corner and headed towards Detling Hill.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps that’s what gets to me, too.’

  After a few minutes, Ben sent her a quick glance. ‘Did you mean that? Is that really why you do it?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby sadly. ‘It’s usually because I’m asked, and I never see the bodies, or the people who are really upset, do I? I think if I did I’d probably be put off for ever.’

  ‘That’s what I’ll have to do then,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘Aversion therapy.’

  ‘But it does get to me,’ she continued. ‘The fall-out gets to me. How many people murder affects. It’s always staggering. I mean, look at all of us during The Hop Pickers. And Fran and her family when her auntie died.’

  ‘But after that you haven’t actually been personally involved with anybody,’ said Ben. ‘It’s when you see the effect, like Lisa. And Cy’s face, I suppose.’

  ‘So you’re a bit more sympathetic now?’

  Ben didn’t answer for several minutes. Libby knew better than to push it.

  ‘I suppose I am, if you really can make a difference,’ he said eventually. Libby kept quiet. After a few more minutes he said, ‘I’ll even help, if I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, shall we?’

  He gave her a quick look and a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We will.’

  Saturday dawned grey and chilly. The threat of snow was still occupying all the weather forecasts, but looked as though so far it was holding off. Libby and Ben were both due at the theatre for non-rehearsal-type panto duties. Ben was overseeing and contributing to construction of scenery, Libby was checking box office receipts and reviewing costumes. Which made her think of Patrick Stephens.

  Peter was wandering around the backstage area when she went to look for Ben.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I am
a co-owner,’ he said amused. ‘And as far as I know, I’m script editor for Hey Diddle Diddle, too.’

  ‘I know, I know. But still, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Just checking.’ He looked up into the flies. ‘Set’s looking good. Ben’s in the workshop if you were looking for him.’

  ‘Well, I was, but seeing as I’ve bumped into you, how much do you know about Cy’s panto society?’

  Peter looked surprised. ‘Hardly anything,’ he said. ‘You probably know more than I do. Why?’

  ‘Did Harry tell you that the murder victim is – was – a member as well? He did costumes.’

  ‘Yes, Patrick Stephens. He was a friend of Cy’s – and Colin’s. He’s actually an apprentice to a dress designer or something. Or was.’

  ‘They didn’t tell me that,’ said Libby, disgruntled.

  ‘Did they think it mattered?’

  ‘I don’t know. They knew about the family, but didn’t seem as upset as you would think, if he was a friend. And Colin didn’t say anything about it when he asked us over last night.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Ben came with me.’ Libby smiled. ‘He’s going to help.’

  ‘Help –’ Peter frowned. ‘Do you mean he’s going to help you investigate?’ Libby nodded. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Ask him,’ said Libby, as Ben approached in paint stained jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘You’re going to help her investigate?’ Peter turned a puzzled look on his cousin.

  ‘I haven’t seen the fall out from a case as closely as this since –’

  ‘The Hop Pickers. Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, this time, I happen to agree with Libby that the police are unlikely to look further than the obvious, which is the gay aspect. Libby thinks there might be something else.’

  ‘That’s not quite true,’ said Libby. ‘I did think that, but since Patrick was murdered, and he’d been receiving letters too, I’ve rather changed my mind.’

  ‘He’d been receiving letters, too?’ Peter frowned. ‘So why do you think it’s something other than being gay, Ben?’

  ‘Because they’re both in the same group. We haven’t heard of any other related crimes, have we?’

  ‘No reason why we should,’ said Libby. ‘As I say repeatedly, the police don’t tell outsiders anything.’

  ‘No, but when the murder was reported on television they might have said something like “It is being linked to a similar case in –” well, I don’t know, but a similar case.’

  ‘Have they linked Cy’s attack and Patrick’s murder now?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Oh, yes, because Cy and Colin showed them the note they got.’

  ‘And has there been anything else on the news?’

  ‘Not on the radio,’ said Libby.

  ‘Local radio?’

  ‘No, national. I don’t listen to local radio.’

  ‘Well, what about local ? You’ve got a mate at Kent and Coast, haven’t you?’ said Peter.

  ‘I wouldn’t say a mate, exactly,’ said Libby. Campbell McLean was a reporter for Kent and Coast Television’s news programmes and had helped and in turn been helped by Libby and Fran a couple of years ago.

  ‘It’s an idea, though, Lib,’ said Ben. ‘You could call him, couldn’t you? He’d know if there was anything the police knew that they weren’t letting out.’

  Libby looked at him pityingly. ‘Just think about what you just said.’

  ‘I – er – oh.’ Ben looked dashed.

  ‘What he might know,’ continued Libby, ‘is the existence of any other crimes – murders or attacks – which are similar but haven’t been linked by the police. In public.’

  ‘I expect that’s what I meant,’ said Ben.

  ‘I expect it is, too,’ said Peter, patting him on the back. ‘Come on, if you’ve finished here, let’s go and have a drink.’

  Libby went and locked the big back doors to the theatre and the wardrobe store, while Ben attended to the workshop. Peter made sure the alarm was set and they left the building.

  ‘Do you think,’ said Ben, looking back at the Oast House as they made their way down the drive, ‘that we ought to have other people on the theatre committee?’

  ‘What more than us three?’ Peter looked shocked.

  ‘What made you think of that?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I suppose it was going to see that other lot last night,’ said Ben, turning up the collar of his jacket.

  ‘Why?’ Libby frowned. ‘They weren’t that brilliant, and it didn’t look as though they had a particularly active committee. Although I don’t know how you could tell.’

  ‘It was just – oh, I don’t know – they seemed a more community-based outfit than we are. Run by the people for the people sort of thing.’

  Peter and Libby both looked at him in surprise, then looked at each other.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Peter slowly, ‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Libby, ‘but to be honest, I’m not sure it would be the better for it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Well, don’t forget I spent quite a few years with my old society, and the politics of the committee there were staggering. There were loads of rows, a concrete hierarchy and some very dodgy artistic decisions.’

  ‘No new writing,’ nodded Peter. ‘I remember.’

  ‘No hiring of professionals,’ said Ben.

  ‘That was rescinded when they realised how much they could make on a one-nighter,’ said Libby, ‘and come to think of it …’

  ‘Yes, yes, but not now, Lib,’ said Peter. ‘We need to talk about Ben’s suggestion.’

  ‘Looks like the pub again, then,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘Goodness knows what we’d do without alcohol.’

  ‘If they had a down on new writing,’ said Peter, putting glasses on the table ten minutes later, ‘how come they let you write pantomimes?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Libby, slipping her cape off and holding her hands out to the fire. ‘I snuck in under the wire, somehow, and I saved them money. So I carried on doing it. But nice little Colin made me think last night. He said I should be earning money from the scripts, and I’m not.’

  ‘What happens, then?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Oh, I let the old society hire them out. No one pays performing licence fees, but I’m not sure the society don’t charge a hiring fee.’

  ‘Then it should be yours!’ Ben said indignantly. ‘Don’t tell me they don’t pay you?’

  ‘No.’ Libby shrugged. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘In that case, you silly old trout,’ said Peter, ‘you get all the copies back from the old society and refuse them the right to hire any more. We’ll do it. Or you will, but first of all you’ll have to make sure that anyone who might have hired in the past knows that. Have you got a list of the people who used your scripts?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t always get told.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ exploded Ben. ‘I shall be having words about this.’

  ‘Oh, who with?’ Libby looked interested. ‘I didn’t know you still had contacts over there.’

  ‘We both have,’ said Peter darkly. ‘Say no more and leave it to us. Now, back to the Oast House committee.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Ben, calming down, ‘after that little bombshell, which should have been the business of a committee, I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Peter, languidly crossing his legs. ‘We own the theatre – or the family does – we designed and converted it and we decide what’s best for it.’

  ‘I didn’t though,’ said Libby. ‘And I’m not family.’

  ‘You are almost,’ said Ben.’

  ‘And you directed the first play, asked in by me,’ said Peter. ‘And we made you a director of the company.’

  ‘We’re not a charity, though, are we?’ asked Libby.

  Peter raised his brows. ‘No.’

  ‘What
are we then? Shouldn’t we be paying our actors if we’re a proper theatre?’

  ‘We own the building,’ said Ben. ‘We’re directors of the Oast House Theatre Trust. Profits go back into the trust which pays for upkeep and any extra goes into The Manor’s coffers. We all do it for nothing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘So the company’s a separate thing?’

  ‘The actors, you mean? Not really. We ask them to come and play, they come and play. They don’t pay a membership fee. If they’re cast they become members of the company for the duration. That’s all.’ Peter frowned over his beer. ‘Why are you suddenly so concerned.?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was Ben asking about a committee. I’ve never thought very hard about it before.’

  ‘Well, don’t think about it now. We’re not going to have one. If we need advice about anything, we know people to ask. Which, by the way, was something I wanted to talk about.’ Peter looked from Ben to Libby and back.

  ‘Advice?’ echoed Libby. ‘From us?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Peter. ‘I was thinking about new writing again. We haven’t had any since – well, since –’

  ‘The Hop Pickers. We know,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, how about you writing something? And I know I still tend to think of that play as a bad experience, but it did draw the village together.’

  ‘Me?’ Libby was surprised. ‘But I don’t …’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve just been talking about it. You write panto.’

  ‘Different from plays.’ Libby looked at Peter. ‘Would you like another local story?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve recently heard about one.’

  Peter pulled at his top lip. ‘Only if you could be sure it wouldn’t have any nasty ramifications,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  So Libby told them about Amy Taylor and Maud Burton.

  ‘I don’t know what happened after Amy’s suicide except they found the letter paraphernalia at Maud’s. I expect I could find out – Jane’s paper’s probably got back issues on fiche. Or computerised by now, I suppose.’

  ‘A bit sad, though,’ said Ben. ‘No happy ending.’

  ‘I could make one up,’ said Libby. ‘Have another character who’s an onlooker, perhaps. Who marries the vicar in the end?’