Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Brissac!’ she blurted out.

  Sandra and Una looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Brissac! That’s it,’ said Una. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A report I found on the internet,’ said Libby. ‘It mentioned a Mrs Stephanie Brissac as being a living relative at the time of Amy’s death.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ said Una, looking at her admiringly.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby, keen to get back to the story, ‘what happened to the child?’

  ‘Don’t know that, dear, but Maud did.’

  ‘Did she? How?’

  ‘Amy told her, of course. And kept in touch somehow, with the babe. And Maud helped.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Used to drop hints, did Maud. We were a farming family, but we were local, so Maud and me got a bit friendly, like. After the war, this was, because she went off to do her voluntary work after Amy came back here.’

  ‘So Maud didn’t do Red Cross work here? At the Manor gardens?’

  ‘No, duck. And I don’t know why, neither. That was a bit of a puzzle.’

  ‘Then she came back?’

  ‘Amy come back in 1940. Maud went off then, and Amy talked to me a bit. That was how I knew about Julian. Then Maud come back – oh, must’ve been 1946? Her parents were dead and the shop was sold, but she had their little house in Lendle Lane.’

  So that explained that, thought Libby.

  ‘And they became friends again?’

  ‘Well, duck, neither of ’em had married. The rest of us had husbands and kiddies by then, so they was more or less on their own. So they palled up. Ran everything between them. Amy lived at the vicarage until her dad died, then she and her mum bought their little place on the Nethergate road. Leastways, I s’pose they bought it. Could’ve rented it, I suppose. Then her mum died, and there she was on her own. And then that there new vicar comes along.’ Una tutted and shook her head. ‘And Sandra was here by then, weren’t you, duck?’

  Sandra nodded and turned to Libby. ‘My husband and I bought the other three cottages in this row and turned them into one house. Well, just two of them, at first, until the one next door to Una became available.’

  Una chuckled. ‘I always say she’ll push me under a bus one day just to get her hands on my place.’

  Sandra smiled, a little sadly. ‘Not any more, Una. I don’t need the space, do I?’

  Una patted her arm. ‘Just joking, duck. Want any more tea?’

  Sandra and Libby both declined.

  ‘So you were saying,’ prompted Libby, ‘the new vicar came along. Mr Greene, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Like Cluedo, yes,’ said Sandra, ‘although no one knew that, then.’

  ‘And Sandra’s hubby was one of the churchwardens,’ said Una, ‘so he saw a lot of what went on.’

  Libby looked at Sandra, who shook her head. ‘Not a lot, really,’ she said. ‘But it’s a hazard vicars have to put up with. Single women of – shall we say mature years. And poor Mike Greene was single, which was even worse! So they took him meals, offered to darn his socks, Maud even asked him to hear her confession!’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Libby.

  ‘And Amy already ran the Sunday school, so she was in a privileged position, in a way. Which of course is why Mike asked her to play at one of his musical evenings. We were there, actually.’

  ‘And that’s what started it all off,’ said Una, with some relish. ‘Cor! It was war, it was.’

  ‘Then the letters started,’ said Libby.

  ‘They did.’ Una nodded. ‘And when Vicar got one – well! He does this sermon about it and holds a meeting for anyone who got one to come along. And everyone who got one went. Even Maud.’

  ‘Then they stopped?’

  ‘And then,’ said Sandra, ‘my husband found Amy’s body.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘YOU’RE MRS ELLIOTT?’

  ‘Mrs Brown,’ corrected Sandra. ‘My husband was Elliott Brown. Did you find that on the internet, too?’

  ‘It was in the report on the coroner’s inquiry,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry I got it wrong.’

  Sandra smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter. Elliott’s a better surname than Brown, anyway.’

  ‘So that’s why he went to the vicarage – because the vicar knew Amy and because Mr Brown was a churchwarden?’

  ‘No, he sent the police to the vicarage. He ran back here to telephone – luckily, we had one – then went back to the body. Jack actually found it.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Our dog. A black Labrador. Elliott didn’t normally go near the pond because Jack used to try and go in. But that day Jack insisted. And you know how insistent Labradors can be.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Libby had never actually had a dog, but had been made aware of some of their baser behaviour by those belonging to friends. ‘So then the police went to Amy’s house and found her letter?’

  ‘That they did, me duck,’ said Una. ‘And there’s Maud Burton carrying on something terrible about her best friend being dead, weeping and wailing all over the vicar.’

  ‘So how did they come to find out it was Maud who wrote the letters? In the internet report it merely said she had been found in possession of materials. Not exactly helpful.’

  ‘I don’t know any of those details, I’m afraid,’ said Sandra, ‘but as far as we can make out, the police went to question Maud about the accusation in the letter.’

  ‘And o’course, she had to tell ’em she knew all about it, ’cause I’d already told ’em.’ Una had the smug expression back on her face. ‘They come to see me, see, when they came to talk to Elliott, and he said I knew them both from before the war.’

  ‘So did they search her house just because she knew about the baby?’

  ‘Don’t know, duck.’ Una shrugged. ‘But she got a telling off from the coroner and then she disappeared, like. Ashamed, I reckon. Couldn’t face any of us.’

  Libby wondered whether to tell them that it was now almost certain that Maud had been murdered and decided not to.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said instead, ‘that Maud could have been frightened of anyone after that? Someone who was really angry about the letters? Or Amy’s suicide?’

  Sandra and Una looked at one another.

  ‘Frightened her enough for her to run away?’ asked Sandra. ‘I can’t think of anybody.’

  ‘No, duck. I reckon she was just ashamed,’ said Una. ‘Specially with the vicar and all. Going on like that when she’s driven her best friend to do herself in.’

  ‘Do you think she admitted that to herself?’ asked Libby. ‘Would she have thought it was her fault?’

  ‘Didn’t matter if she did or she didn’t,’ said Una. ‘Everybody else did.’

  ‘But what was so awful about it?’ Libby persisted. ‘She’d only had a baby, for goodness sake. And you said several people knew anyway.’

  ‘It was different in them days,’ said Una. ‘Shocking. And the letter called her some names and was going to tell everyone, it said. Amy couldn’t have stood that. Specially when she was so gone on the vicar.’

  ‘It was different.’ Sandra spoke softly. ‘It seems incredible that only half a century ago living together was still called living in sin, girls were still sent away when they were pregnant and forced to have their babies adopted and homosexuality was not only illegal, but thought by some to be a disease of which you could be cured.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby shook her head. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot. And it was all going on right up to the sixties, wasn’t it?’

  Sandra nodded.

  ‘I remember watching a documentary about the forced adoptions and the homes,’ Libby went on, ‘a few years ago with my daughter Belinda. She was horrified. It was almost as if she was blaming me for it all because I was actually alive when it was still happening.’

  ‘Well, there you are, duck,’ said Una. ‘Young Amy Taylor was ashamed and killed herself, and Maud Burton was ashamed of herself and ran awa
y. So there you are.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, wondering if she’d actually learnt anything new, or useful for Ian. ‘Thank you for talking to me.’

  ‘So you said it was to do with another investigation?’ said Sandra. ‘May we ask what it is and how you’re involved? Oh –’ she held up a hand ‘– we know you and your friend have been involved in things before. We read about them, don’t we Una?’

  ‘Well.’ Libby squirmed a bit and stared at the fire. ‘It was another set of anonymous letters actually. Recent ones.’

  ‘Not from Maud,’ said Una with a chuckle. ‘She’d be dead by now. Older than me, she was. They both was.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘but Maud was involved with some of the victims.’ Not quite true, thought Libby, but she had sent at least one letter to Sheila.

  ‘So she went on doing it?’ said Sandra. ‘But why? Was she asking for money?’

  ‘I’m not sure, although I think she probably was. She’d been doing it before she ever started sending them here,’ said Libby, wondering how far she ought to go.

  ‘Now there’s wicked,’ said Una. ‘I never liked her, mind.’

  ‘Has it helped?’ asked Sandra, seeing that Libby was readying herself to leave.

  ‘It’s told me quite a lot I didn’t know,’ said Libby, ‘and I’m very glad to have met you both. Are you celebrating tonight?’

  ‘Not me, duck,’ said Una. ‘I shall have hot chocolate and go to bed at me normal time.’

  ‘I’m going to a dinner party,’ said Sandra. ‘Very small affair, but good friends. Are you?’

  ‘A friend’s having a party over towards Nethergate,’ said Libby. ‘I think it might be quite a big one. We’re staying overnight.’

  ‘Well, have a good time, duck,’ said Una, getting up and coming to the door. ‘And if you want to drop in for another chat, you can come any time.’

  It was almost dark as Libby started back down Steeple Lane. The village sparkled below her like a Christmas tree and she could barely make out the pond now, but shivered as she looked over to it. As the lane plunged between its high banks, she looked to her left to make out the looming, thatched bulk of Steeple Farm and shivered again.

  What was it about that house? She’d had the creeps about it ever since her first visit, with Peter’s mother, mad Millicent. And even with Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s approval of the venture, he being something of an expert in renovation, and all Ben’s hard work, she still didn’t like it. And Ben still did.

  They drove over to Creekmarsh at half past seven. Lewis had the drive lit with garden flares, presumably from the stock he was laying in for when the house become a bona fide “venue” for conferences and weddings. Libby had to admit it looked spectacular. In the grand hall there was a huge log fire and a large bowl of mulled wine on a side table. Edie, resplendent in black and sequins, took their coats and handed them to a young woman dressed in traditional black and white looking a little over-excited.

  Lewis came leaping down the impressive staircase to greet them.

  ‘Got yer mulled wine yet? Come on, then. Up to my room. We’re going to eat up there, it’s warmer. Come on, Mum. You can leave it to little Charlene here to show people in.’

  Charlene, eyes shining, nodded vigorously.

  Lewis’s “room” was the solar, a beautiful room with huge windows, still uncurtained.

  ‘I like to look out at it all, even at night,’ he said. ‘And look. You can see the church now the trees are bare.’

  The little church on the other side of the lane that led to Creekmarsh was spotlit.

  ‘They’ll be ringing the bells at midnight,’ said Lewis. ‘Now, come and meet some people.’

  Libby and Ben were introduced to a few of Lewis’s London friends, who were all, apparently staying overnight. Fran and Guy arrived a few moments later, and Edie scurried off to make sure the food preparations were underway.

  ‘It’s a lot of work for Edie,’ said Libby, when Lewis approached with a bottle of red wine to top up their glasses.

  ‘She loves it,’ said Lewis. ‘And we’ve got the caterers in. And they’ll be leaving breakfasts all ready before they go.’

  ‘What about the bedrooms?’ Libby looked round the room. ‘There must be ten couples here.’

  ‘So? We’ve got twenty bedrooms,’ said Lewis. ‘And Edie’s moved into Katie’s bit of the house, so she’s quite separate.’

  ‘Did she want to go down there?’ asked Fran. ‘I thought it might be a painful for her.’

  Lewis shrugged. ‘No, she seems to like it.’ He nudged Fran. ‘Hasn’t got the power like you!’

  Dinner was beautiful. Simple food, well cooked and presented, with nothing and nobody left out. There was a vegetarian alternative for each course – ‘I took old Hal’s advice on that,’ said Lewis – and different wines to accompany them. Libby was enchanted.

  To Ben’s horror, Lewis proposed party games after dinner, but in the end even he joined in with Charades and made a fool of himself along with everybody else. Just before midnight, Lewis made them stand at the solar windows, which he opened, so they could hear the bells, then after a quick chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”, he dashed off down the stairs and reappeared to supervise the fireworks. Capering about in the dark with rockets going off behind him, he seemed like a figure from a fairy tale.

  ‘But definitely a Grimm fairy tale,’ said Fran, looking down on him with a smile.

  It was two o’clock before Libby was able to drag Ben away to their allotted bedroom.

  ‘Nice,’ she said, approving the boutique-style bedroom and adjoining en-suite. ‘I could get used to this.’

  Ben came up behind her and kissed her neck. ‘We could do something like it at Steeple Farm,’ he murmured into her shoulder.

  Libby closed her eyes and swore inside her head. Out loud, she said, ‘But that would spoil it. It’s only fun if it’s a treat.’ She turned and put her arms round him. ‘Happy New Year, Ben,’ she said. ‘And now, let’s get some sleep!’

  He smiled. ‘And to you, my love,’ he said. ‘I hope all our dreams come true this year.’

  And that, thought Libby with foreboding as she undressed, wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  OVER BREAKFAST IN LEWIS’S kitchen on New Year’s morning Libby told Fran and Guy about her meeting with Una and Sandra.

  ‘So I don’t see it gets anyone any further,’ she said, ‘but I suppose I ought to tell Ian. Not today, though. He wouldn’t thank me for disturbing him today.’

  ‘I don’t think policemen get New Year’s Day off,’ said Guy. ‘You could give him a quick ring on his mobile, surely? Leave a message?’

  ‘Is it important enough, though?’ said Libby.

  ‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘there’s the Brissac connection. The fact that Amy’s baby’s father was her cousin and Maud knew about it.’

  ‘But I’m not sure that would be counted as a murder motive,’ said Libby, ‘and it has nothing to do with Patrick’s murder.’

  ‘It can wait, can’t it?’ said Ben. ‘After all, it is our only day off until Sunday week.’

  ‘Day off?’ Lewis came into the kitchen after seeing some of his other guests off the premises. ‘What are you doing then?’

  ‘Panto,’ said Libby. ‘You know all about it. You’ve booked a ticket with Adam.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Not real work, though is it?’ Lewis swung a chair round and sat astride it.

  ‘You want to try it,’ said Ben.

  ‘It’s not paid work, no,’ said Fran, ‘but believe me, as one who has been in one of Libby’s pantomimes, it’s very hard work.’

  ‘And today we’re having drinks with my parents and Pete and Harry, if you remember,’ said Ben, ‘so let’s leave murder and all its works out of the picture for at least one day.’

  Libby leant over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Very good idea,’ she said.

  Messages left on Ian’s mobile phone, however, ha
d other ideas, and in the middle of the small, but convivial drinks party at Peter and Harry’s cottage later that day, Libby’s phone rang. She went into the kitchen to answer it among the shelves crammed with mismatched china.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Ian. ‘Tell me what you’ve ferreted out this time.’

  ‘I didn’t ferret,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘It came to me. Honestly. And I was so cross about one thing that I almost didn’t want to tell you.’

  ‘There are things you’ve not told me in the past,’ said Ian.

  ‘I know, but not like this.’ She proceeded to tell him about Freddy’s report of trouble at Cy’s Maidstone job.

  ‘Why hasn’t he said anything about this?’ Ian sounded as irritated as Libby had been. ‘God save me from people who think things aren’t relevant.’

  ‘Then there’s a couple of bits and pieces I picked up yesterday afternoon,’ she went on. ‘Again, volunteered by Freddy’s gran.’

  ‘Not Aunt Dolly? Confusion reigns.’

  ‘No, listen,’ said Libby and reported the afternoon’s conversation with Una and Sandra. ‘So I’m just telling you in case there’s anything there you can use. And now Ben’ll be furious because he wanted today off from “murder and all its works” as he put it.’

  Ian laughed. ‘Right, you can now go back to him, and I won’t bother you again today. Tomorrow, I might.’

  ‘I’ll only be available until about three.’

  ‘Panto, is it? OK, if I need to I’ll call in the morning. Oh – and happy New Year.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ben, as she walked back into the sitting room. ‘Ian.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s it. He doesn’t want to ask me any more questions. Not that I’ve got any more answers.’

  Hetty tutted from her place on the sofa beside Greg. ‘I don’t know how you get mixed up in all these things, gal.’

  Harry came and sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘It was my fault this time, Het,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, love,’ said Hetty, patting his leg. ‘Just don’t want no one to get hurt.’

  Peter adroitly changed the subject to the pantomime and the chances that the ticket sales might be down because of the weather and Ben gave him a grateful grin.