Murder Dancing

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t think any of us are insured to drive it. Just Stan.’

  ‘Oh, dear. And you have to have a special licence for carrying passengers, don’t you?’

  Jonathan nodded. ‘I really don’t know what we’re going to do without him.’

  ‘I’d like to go out.’

  Libby and Jonathan looked round to face a small, dark person with a rather intense expression.

  ‘Have you met Paul, Libby?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Libby held out her hand. Paul took it and held it limply for a moment.

  ‘There’s a grotto near here, isn’t there?’ he said.

  ‘A grotto?’ Libby thought back to the Victorian grotto she had seen a couple of years ago in the grounds of a local house. ‘I know one, but it’s in someone’s garden.’

  ‘No, this is like a prehistoric tomb. I saw it on television. You must know it.’

  ‘I don’t know anything like that round here.’ Libby frowned.

  ‘I know what he means.’ A blond youth came forward and also held out a hand. ‘Hello, I’m Lee. We saw it on TV back in London and it struck a chord because we were coming here.’

  ‘What was it, then?’ asked Jonathan.

  ‘It was one of these stones, you know, like Stonehenge, but there’s just one of them.’

  ‘Sounds like Grey Betty, that’s just one stone,’ said Libby.

  ‘That’s it, but they’ve found this mocked up tomb right near it,’ said Paul. ‘Somebody or other was saying it was a scandal and threatened the – what was it? – something of the site.’

  ‘Integrity?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘Could be.’ Paul nodded. ‘I had a fancy to see it. Is it far?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I see if I can find out anything about it?’

  ‘I just thought it might be, you know, interesting,’ said Paul with a shrug, but Libby thought his eyes looked very sharp. She turned and went back to the office.

  ‘Can I borrow the computer?’ she asked Ben. ‘We’ve got a request for a little jaunt.’

  After a bit of searching, she found an online news item which obviously referred to Grey Betty and its impostor neighbour.

  ‘It’s not open to the public, though,’ she told Ben. ‘It was found when the current owner of the property was doing some work.’

  ‘I wonder why this Paul wants to look at it?’ said Ben peering over her shoulder at the screen.

  ‘No idea, but if a couple of them want to go, I’ll take them in your car, if I may.’

  Ben gave his consent and Libby went back to the sitting room.

  ‘We can go and look at Grey Betty, if you like,’ she announced to the room at large, ‘but not the grotto, sadly.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Better than nothing.’

  Jonathan, Lee and two or three others protested at this somewhat churlish response, but Libby grinned.

  ‘We’ll wait until Harry’s served lunch, shall we?’ she said. ‘He’ll be up soon.’

  Max, Damian, Ben and Sebastian joined them when Harry, accompanied by Peter, arrived with lunch, and the outing was discussed.

  ‘Why does he want to go?’ Max asked Libby quietly, watching Paul, who was enthusing about the grotto to a small group of dancers.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m quite willing to take him and a couple of others, just to get their minds off this – thing.’

  ‘It seems a bit ghoulish to me.’ Max poured himself a mug of coffee.

  ‘Ghoulish?’ Libby was surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘Aren’t witches supposed to dance round standing stones?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Libby unwillingly. ‘I thought it was more Druids and people.’

  Max sent her a shrewd look. ‘And weird Morris dancing traditions?’

  ‘Well – yes. I take it Andrew’s been talking.’

  ‘He’s told me about some of your exploits, you know that. That’s why I was hopeful … Tell me, do you think this could all have something to do with witchcraft? Real witches, I mean.’

  ‘I honestly don’t think so,’ said Libby. ‘For a start, there aren’t any real witches. The ones Fran and I have come across have all been using so-called witchcraft and Devil worship as a cloak – or an excuse – for some very unpleasant goings on.’

  ‘Like the cockerel?’

  ‘That’s just part of the trappings. No, sexual deviance and drugs, mainly. You know, like Aleister Crowley.’

  ‘Oh, he was the writer who led some kind of quasi-religious movement, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s him. Nasty.’ Libby picked up her own mug. ‘Anyway, it’s all dangerous nonsense, and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t got anything to do with Stan’s murder.’

  ‘Or all our incidents in London?’ Max shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Have you told Ian all this?’

  ‘Your DCI? Well, I did just mention it. He didn’t actually dismiss it.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Libby brightly, ‘I’d better keep a close eye on young Paul while he’s dancing round our standing stone, hadn’t I?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the end, Peter accompanied Libby, Jonathan, Alan, Lee, Paul and Will in Ben’s latest Range Rover.

  ‘How did you know the standing stone was near us?’ asked Libby, as she negotiated the turn off the main road towards Steeple Mount.

  ‘I recognised the name of the village,’ said Will, ‘although I realise now it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘No, our village is Steeple Martin, this one’s Steeple Mount. There’s also a Steeple Cross. We form the three points of a triangle.’

  ‘Is there a story behind this Grey Betty?’ asked Alan.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Libby, ‘but I don’t know the details.’

  ‘Betty was supposedly a wife who misbehaved and got turned to stone,’ said Peter. ‘A bit like Lot’s wife.’

  ‘But it’s older than that, obviously,’ said Alan. ‘That legend sounds a bit like our Pendle legends – sixteen hundreds.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re true,’ said Libby.

  ‘Real witches,’ said Paul.

  Glancing in the mirror, Libby saw Alan and Jonathan exchange glances across Paul, who sat between them.

  ‘The stone itself – is it a dolmen?’ asked Lee from one of the back seats, where he sat with Will.

  ‘Part of one, possibly,’ said Peter. ‘I’d never heard of this fake tomb nearby, but that’s what probably gave the estate owners the idea. More likely to be a menhir, I would have thought.’

  Libby drew into the car park at the top of the village. ‘We have to walk from here, I’m afraid. It’s not far.’

  ‘They won’t care,’ said Peter, as they followed the dancers out of the car park. ‘They’re all as fit as fiddles and tough as old boots.’

  Indeed, they sped up the path towards the standing stone like mountain goats. Libby panted up behind Peter and stopped thankfully at the bench provided at the top.

  ‘Where’s Paul?’ muttered Libby. ‘Don’t tell me we’ve lost him already.’

  But Paul reappeared round the side of the stone waving excitedly.

  ‘I’ve found the tomb!’ he yelled.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Libby under her breath.

  The other dancers were clustered round him.

  ‘… and the plaque says the stone is used for ancient rites every year,’ he was saying as Libby and Peter joined the group.

  ‘Yes, the local Morris sides celebrate May Day up here every year,’ said Libby.

  ‘But it must have its roots in older ceremonies,’ said Paul.

  ‘It might, but as far as I know the May Day celebrations here started in the nineteen fifties,’ said Peter. ‘Not very ancient.’

  Paul looked disgruntled, but Alan laughed. ‘Like our horrible ghoulish trade in the witches. All recent.’

  ‘Our?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I believe Alan comes from the Pendle area,’ said Libby. ‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?
The ballet?’

  Alan went bright red. The other dancers murmured encouragement and patted him on the shoulders and back.

  ‘Well, I hope you get the credit for it,’ said Peter.

  ‘Oh, no, Damian and Max will get that,’ said Alan.

  ‘Why would Max get any credit for it?’ asked Peter.

  ‘He devised it,’ said Alan, looking surprised.

  ‘No more than the rest of us,’ said Paul.

  ‘Paul,’ said Libby hastily, ‘you said you’d found the grotto, or whatever it is.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Paul cheered up. ‘Look, round here.’

  He beckoned round to the other side of the stone. The ground fell away down a bank covered in vegetation. At the bottom, it had been cleared away to reveal what looked like the entrance to a Neolithic monument.

  ‘It isn’t even fenced off!’ exclaimed Lee. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t open to the public, Libby?’

  ‘It said it wasn’t on the report I saw,’ said Libby. ‘It’s on private ground.’

  ‘I’m going down,’ said Paul. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Libby.

  Lee looked from Paul to Libby. ‘I’ll go down with him,’ he said.

  ‘So will I,’ said Will.

  Paul had already plunged down the bank. Will and Lee followed more slowly.

  Jonathan sighed. ‘Do you want me to go and haul them back up?’

  ‘Leave them for a bit,’ said Peter. ‘There’s no “Private” sign, is there? If they’re challenged, they can say they didn’t know.’

  ‘Why was Paul so keen to come here?’ asked Libby. ‘He’s a funny little person, isn’t he?’

  ‘He says he’s interested in customs and things,’ said Alan. ‘He used to keep asking me things about the Pendle Witches. I kept telling him there were only modern customs and legends surrounding them, but he went on and on about Beltane and Samhain.’

  ‘Sow-what?’ said Jonathan.

  ‘It’s pronounced Sow-in but spelled S-a-m-h-a-i-n. Hallowe’en, as we know it,’ said Libby. ‘Sort of.’

  Peter turned to Libby. ‘Why has no one mentioned this before?’

  ‘Wha –? Oh, I see what you mean.’ Libby looked at Jonathan. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this?’

  Jonathan looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Fran and I took you out specifically to find out if there was anything in anyone’s background that might give a clue to the incidents in London or down here.’

  ‘But why would Paul’s interest in that sort of thing have anything to do with it?’

  Alan snorted. ‘Oh, Jon! Can’t you see? I admit I didn’t think of it before, but it’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  Jonathan’s frown cleared. ‘Oh! You mean the cockerel and all that stuff? The witches?’

  ‘Well, it’s a link, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Thank you for picking it up, Pete.’

  ‘Oh, you’d have got there sooner or later,’ said Peter, looking thoughtfully down the slope to where the other three had disappeared into the undergrowth. ‘Meanwhile, what do we do about it?’

  ‘Tell Ian when we get back,’ said Libby promptly.

  ‘Do we have to?’ Jonathan looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Of course we do,’ said Peter. ‘This is a murder investigation, and as Libby will tell you, not telling the police something only makes you look guilty when they find out about it in the end.’

  Jonathan looked at Libby. ‘I suppose that’s right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’ve all been mixed up in enough cases to have seen it happen. And it only complicates matters.’

  ‘Should we mention it to Paul?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Libby.

  Peter wandered over to where a plaque told the brief story of ‘Betty’. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It says here she was a witch. That explains a lot.’

  ‘Only Paul’s interest,’ said Libby. ‘I’d better look her up when we get back. She’s probably connected somehow to Cunning Mary and the Willoughby Oak.’

  ‘Who?’ said Jonathan and Alan together.

  ‘A so-called witch from around the same time as the Pendle Witches, who was hanged from a tree locally called the Willoughby Oak. A nasty little group held meetings there supposedly in her honour. They ended up nearly killing someone.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Jonathan looked nervously at Alan. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be doing this after all.’

  ‘That is exactly what someone’s been trying to do,’ said Libby. ‘Put you off. Shut down the production. Don’t give in.’

  ‘But we’re probably going to have to,’ said Alan. ‘The police aren’t going to let us carry on, are they?’

  ‘Once they’ve finished with the theatre they might,’ said Peter. ‘It’s Thursday today, and you were due to open when? Tuesday?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ said Libby. ‘Nearly a week. They could well be finished by then, and it isn’t as if you’ve lost a dancer.’

  ‘That sounds a bit heartless, you old trout,’ said Peter, ‘but I see what you mean.’

  ‘Not sure I’d want to carry on,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Oh, come on, Jon,’ said Alan robustly. ‘You know the old show biz tradition. Would Stan have wanted us to stop?’

  ‘Yes, he probably would,’ said Jonathan. ‘He’d have wanted us all in sackcloth and ashes.’

  Libby laughed. ‘In that case, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Come on, let’s hike the others out of the mausoleum.’

  Peter went down the slope and disappeared from view. They heard him calling, and eventually Will and Lee appeared out of the undergrowth looking dishevelled.

  ‘Peter’s had to go right inside that tomb or whatever it is to find Paul,’ panted Will, as they climbed up beside the others.

  ‘He would insist on going right inside,’ said Lee. ‘He was as excited as a schoolboy.’

  Eventually, Peter emerged, propelling a sulky-looking Paul.

  ‘Last time I take you anywhere,’ he said as he pushed the dancer up the slope. ‘He deserves a dressing-down from Max, if you ask me.’

  ‘Why? What did he do?’ asked Libby, as they began to make their way down the other side of the hill towards the car park.

  ‘Tried to run away, then jumped out at me like some idiotic schoolboy.’ Peter brushed down the sleeves of his jacket. ‘It was bloody dusty in there.’

  ‘I bet it isn’t a mock-up,’ said Paul suddenly. ‘That’s a story they’ve put out.’

  ‘The archaeologists proved it,’ said Lee. ‘We saw it on that programme.’

  ‘And what about the witches?’ said Paul. ‘They dance round that stone.’

  Libby and Peter caught each other’s eyes uneasily.

  ‘So what if they do?’ said Alan. ‘They’re just as much play-acting as we are, Paul.’

  ‘No,’ said Paul stubbornly. ‘I don’t believe they are.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Paul,’ said Lee in a tired voice. ‘Enough already. There are no such things as witches and you know it.’

  Paul simply shook his head and strode on ahead. The others followed anxiously.

  Back in the vehicle, Paul said he wanted to do some shopping, and could they go to a supermarket on the way home.

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘There’s a perfectly good mini-supermarket in the village.’

  ‘They won’t have what I want,’ said Paul.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Alan. ‘They’ve got most things. I’ve been in there.’

  ‘They won’t,’ mumbled Paul, and sat back with his arms folded.

  ‘Honestly, he’s like a sulky child,’ Libby muttered to Peter.

  Peter cast her an amused look. ‘And you never are?’

  ‘How dare you!’ Libby tried to toss her head and hit it on the grab handle. ‘Ow.’

  They arrived back at the Manor as it was getting dark and were met by Ian coming out of the theatre.

  ‘Ah, just the people I wanted to see,’ he said.
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br />   ‘Yes, that’s mutual,’ said Libby, grabbing Jonathan’s reluctant arm. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  ‘What’s this about, then?’ asked Ian, once inside the foyer.

  ‘Tell him, Jonathan,’ ordered Libby, as Peter joined them, having ushered the other dancers into the Manor.

  Jonathan recounted his story to Ian, prompted by Libby, who stood by triumphantly waiting for the reaction.

  Ian sighed. ‘Why has no one said anything about this before?’

  Jonathan looked uncomfortably at Libby. ‘We didn’t think about it.’

  ‘It was Pete who spotted it,’ said Libby. ‘The boy’s obsessed with witchcraft and ritual.’

  ‘Not that again,’ groaned Ian.

  ‘Do you think he might be obsessed enough to sabotage Pendle?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I’ve no idea, but not enough to kill Willis, I would have thought,’ said Ian. ‘Which one is Paul?’

  ‘Small and dark. Looks a bit Celtic,’ said Peter. ‘Intense.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I didn’t interview him, but I didn’t get the impression he was the best interviewee. Better get him in, then.’

  ‘What did you want to see us, for?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I wanted to inform the dancers that I’m afraid we have to search their rooms,’ said Ian, with an apologetic look at Jonathan. ‘Sorry, but it is a murder investigation.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Jonathan. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Will they be able to go on next week?’ asked Libby, as they went back outside.

  ‘I should think so. Tobin asked me earlier. The problem is rehearsing. You can’t have the theatre back yet.’

  ‘I know,’ Libby said to Peter as they made for the kitchen and Ian went to beard the dancers, including Paul, in the sitting-room, ‘let’s ask Beth.’

  Bethany Cole was the vicar of the church which stood at the bottom of Maltby Close, almost opposite the Manor drive.

  ‘Ask her what?’ Ben stood at the sink filling the big kettle.

  ‘If the boys can rehearse in the hall until they can get back in the theatre,’ said Libby.

  ‘Already done it.’ Hetty’s voice came gruffly from the larder. ‘Flo’s letting ’em have Carpenter’s Hall.’

  The original barn in Maltby Close had been a barn belonging to Flo’s late husband, Frank Carpenter. It now provided a communal space for the residents of Maltby Close to hold gatherings, parties and concerts.