‘What’s the matter? This time in the morning?’
‘I think she’s had one of her “moments”,’ said Ben, ‘but she wouldn’t tell me.’
Libby struggled to sit up and took her tea.
‘I’ll call her in a minute,’ she said. ‘Did she say it was urgent?’
‘No, because when I said I’d wake you she said it wasn’t.’
‘Right. I’ll come downstairs.’
‘Finish your tea first,’ said Ben. ‘It’s only a quarter to eight.’
Ten minutes later, leaning against the Rayburn and watching Ben eat toast, Libby called her best friend, Fran Wolfe.
‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ she began.
‘Sorry, Lib, but I woke up with this – this sort of picture in my head.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was like a ruin. And it was dark. But I was staring up at the sky, or what I could see of it, and I couldn’t move or call out. Any ideas?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby heavily. ‘I’d better tell you about it.’
‘I’ll come over,’ said Fran. ‘Make a big bowl of soup.’
‘She didn’t even ask what it was,’ said Libby as she switched off the phone.
‘Of course she didn’t,’ said Ben. ‘She phoned here because whatever it was she saw or felt connected somehow to you. So now she knows you’ve more to tell her than a simple telephone call would take.’
‘OK.’ Libby pushed herself away from the Rayburn. ‘I’ll go and have a shower.’
By the time Fran arrived just after ten o’clock, Libby had chopped piles of vegetables for soup and had a new recipe for quick bread ready to go in the oven.
‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘Too early for lunch.’
When they were both seated by the fire in the sitting room, with Sidney the silver tabby sitting bolt upright on the hearthrug between them, staring into the flames, Libby began her story.
Fran let her go on to the end without interruption, although her eyes widened when Libby mentioned the grotto.
‘So Adam’s a suspect?’ said Fran slowly, when Libby had finished.
‘Well, not really, but they have to look into him.’
‘Ridiculous.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Whoever it was planned this. If Adam ever hurt anybody it would be on the spur of the moment in self-defence.’
‘How do you know it was planned?’
Fran looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure. It just was. I don’t know how I knew that any more than I know why I had the dream. Although I suspect that was because you and Ad have a close connection with it. Why haven’t you told me before?’
It was Libby’s turn to look surprised. ‘Do you know, I have no idea. Normally I’d have told you immediately.’
‘There was probably a reason.’ Fran looked mysterious.
‘A psychic one?’
‘Probably.’ Fran looked up and smiled. ‘Anyway, now we need to know what the dream was about.’
‘The body, of course,’ said Libby. ‘Only you dreamed it was you.’
‘It doesn’t help, though. After all, you know that the body was found in the grotto with its throat cut.’
‘Yes. And Ian says it was probably put there the night before.’
‘Probably?’
‘Well, I can’t see someone carrying it in there in broad daylight.’
‘What about time of death?’
‘I don’t know. Late Sunday night or early hours of Monday morning, I suppose. That’s not the sort of thing Ian would tell me, but those seem to be the times the police are concentrating on for the alibis.’
Fran frowned. ‘Was she killed where she was found?’
Now Libby really looked bewildered. ‘I’ve no idea! Why?’
‘Just wondering …’ Fran stared pensively into the fire.
‘But what about?’
‘About her. The victim. Why didn’t I feel that darkness – you know? The suffocation.’
‘Because she wasn’t suffocated, I suppose.’
‘Mmm,’ said Fran doubtfully.
‘Oh, let’s forget it for now.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’ll go and start lunch.’
‘It’s much too early for lunch.’
‘Yes, but the bread’s got to bake and the longer the soup’s on the better it will be.’
Fran followed her into the kitchen.
‘How’s the panto going?’ she asked.
‘Oh, same old, same old. We have a new principal boy, Olivia, who read Drama and English at Kent uni. She’s not bad. How’s life down beside the seaside?’
Fran lived with her husband Guy in Coastguard Cottage on Harbour Street in Nethergate. Guy’s art gallery-cum-shop was a few doors along, over which was a flat in which his daughter Sophie occasionally stayed.
‘Oh, much the same. Did I tell you Chrissie’s latest plan?’
Chrissie was one of Fran’s daughters, married to the rather stuffy Bruce.
‘Go on, what’s she up to now?’
‘She wants to move them all to France.’
‘France? What for?’
‘Because baby Montana will learn to be bi-lingual and they can start a vineyard. Start, mind.’
Libby exploded with laughter. ‘From scratch? Can you just imagine! And what does Brucie-baby have to say about this?’
‘This hasn’t so far been revealed. I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Libby added stock to the softened vegetables in the pan. ‘Now, do you want another coffee?’
‘Are you going to have to get more involved with this?’ asked Fran, when they had returned to sit by the fire.
‘You mean the Dark House business? I will if they continue to suspect Adam.’
‘Of course they won’t,’ said Fran. ‘But they might make it uncomfortable for him.’
‘And for Mog. And for that poor Johnny, who I suppose is at the top of the list.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Nothing really. Ad thinks he’s an old hippy who’s found himself a comfortable billet.’
‘Does he drink?’
‘Just because he’s an old hippy? I’d have thought he was more likely to be going round in a fug of dope. Why, anyway?’
‘I thought about the local pub. Wouldn’t they know about what goes on up there?’
‘I called in there when I was looking for Dark House,’ said Libby, frowning at the memory. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was an old hippy’s favoured drinking place. Rather more “county” than “country”, if you know what I mean. And it’s not really near the house.’
‘From what you say, the house isn’t really near anywhere.’
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But I don’t know the area. There might be another pub, or even another village, nearer than Steeple Cross.’
‘What about Keeper’s Cob?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been there.’ Libby noted the look on Fran’s face. ‘What? Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
Fran beamed. ‘Of course I am. Hurry up with the soup.’
Chapter Six
‘If we go in from Keeper’s Cob,’ said Fran, peering ahead at the road where Dark Lane led off to the right past The Dragon, ‘we go straight along here and turn right at the crossroads.’
‘I think so,’ said Libby nervously. ‘It was dark and foggy. I didn’t really know where I was going.’
‘It’s foggy now,’ said Fran. ‘Eerie.’
‘You wait till we get into that lane,’ said Libby. ‘It’s proper scary.’
Sure enough, at the crossroads a signpost pointed right towards Keeper’s Cob. This lane, too, grew narrower and headed slightly downhill. Fran kept in low gear, and as they rounded a bend. Libby pointed.
‘There. There’s Dark Lane.’
‘But no village,’ said Fran. ‘It must be further on.’
She drove on, going further downhill until another lane branched off to the right with an old-fashioned and battere
d fingerpost, which read “Keeper’s Cob ½”. Cautiously, she turned in.
Here, the road surface was covered in fallen leaves the way Dark Lane had been, and the trees once more closed in around them, wavering in the mist.
‘Told you,’ said Libby. ‘Scary.’
A small house, originally painted white, appeared on a slight rise to their left. A thick-set man stumped around the corner leading a flock of noisy hens and didn’t spare them a glance. Fran ploughed on.
At another bend in the road stood a short row of terraced cottages, two with smoke issuing from the chimneys, and almost opposite them a lowering building with dilapidated thatch. Fran stopped the car, and they could hear a faint squeak from an indistinguishable sign swinging from a rusty arm.
‘Pub,’ they said together.
‘Do you think this is Keeper’s Cob?’ asked Libby. ‘There’s not much of it.’
‘Perhaps there’s more further on,’ said Fran. ‘And this can’t be the only way in.’
‘Let’s go and ask in the pub,’ said Libby. ‘We can always say we’re lost.’
‘Which is true,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t think I could find my way back.’
She pulled in to the side of the road and switched off the engine. ‘God, this is isolated.’
‘And yet if you look on a map it’s densely populated. Big commuter area.’ Libby got out of the car.
‘This doesn’t look like commuter heaven.’ Fran looked round at the terrace of cottages and back up towards the small white house.
‘Come on, let’s find out.’ Libby led the way towards the black door of the pub, pausing to look up at the sign. ‘Can you see what it says? I suppose it is a pub?’
‘The Feathers,’ said Fran, squinting. ‘See? You can just make out the three feathers.’
‘Hmm,’ said Libby and pushed open the door.
To their surprise, the tiny bar was full. The all-male crowd fell silent as they walked in, and Libby clutched Fran’s arm.
‘Excuse me,’ she said in a quavering voice, and cleared her throat.
‘Is this Keeper’s Cob?’ Fran asked in a much stronger voice. Libby glanced at her admiringly.
‘Aye.’ A few voices answered.
‘And is this the only pub?’ asked Fran, improvising wildly. ‘Only we were looking for The Dragon.’
‘Don’t know how you come ʼere, then,’ said one large, red-faced man with watery blue eyes. ‘Dragon be down t’other end of Dark Lane. Steeple Cross.’
‘Ah. Could you tell us how to get there, only we appear to be lost,’ said Libby, feeling better and backing Fran up. ‘Where’s Dark Lane?’
‘Back up along,’ said another. ‘Do be a bit difficult.’
‘Best go through village,’ someone else offered. ‘Towards Canterbury.’
‘Towards Canterbury?’ echoed Fran and Libby together.
‘Aye.’ Several faces looked surprised.
‘Through village,’ the landlord came out from behind the bar and pointed. ‘Carry on and you’ll see a signpost for Steeple Martin and Canterbury. Go towards Steeple Martin and then you’ll see a sign for Steeple Cross.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Libby. ‘Thank you so much.’ She turned and almost pushed Fran out the door.
‘You know where we are?’ said Fran, as they made their way back to the car.
‘No, but I know what we’ve been doing. Going round in circles. I bet there’s a whole network of tiny lanes criss-crossing each other. Designed to confuse the unwary traveller, I reckon.’
They got into the car.
‘Confuse, why?’ asked Fran as she started the engine.
‘Smuggling,’ said Libby. ‘This part of the world was where the eighteenth-century smuggling gangs brought their stuff up from the coast. I bet you anything you like that pub back there was one of the meeting places.’
‘Perhaps Dark House was, too. Perhaps there’s a tunnel. Didn’t you say something about a grotto?’
‘Yes, but that’s Victorian. Although I suppose it could conceal an older tunnel.’ Libby peered around her as the lane broadened out and took them through a few more houses. ‘I also bet there’s a short cut from that pub, or near it, to Dark House. It must be almost behind, as the crow flies. And,’ she turned to Fran, ‘I bet that Johnny was in there.’
‘Why?’
‘There was a particularly shifty-looking individual who melted back into the shadows as soon as we came in. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Ah. With a pony tail.’
‘That’s the one. But why did he? He doesn’t know who we are.’
‘We don’t know who he is, either,’ Fran pointed out.
‘No, but he seemed uncomfortable.’
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ said Fran as they emerged on to the Canterbury Road. ‘We might as well go back to yours now. I don’t fancy driving back along those lanes again.’
‘I know. I suppose they might be better in summer.’
‘When the woodland would be denser? No thanks. Spring maybe, as long as the sun was out. I’d hate to live up there.’
‘Me, too,’ said Libby with a shudder. ‘Come on, time for a nice cup of tea.’
Lights were twinkling in Steeple Martin as they approached. Late November, and the sky was already darkening. The mist drifted down the high street and swirled into Allhallow’s Lane, almost obscuring the track at the end.
‘Will you be all right driving home in this?’ asked Libby, as she let them in to number 17.
‘It’s main road all the way,’ said Fran, ‘and I’m not that much of a wimp.’ She frowned. ‘It was just those lanes. That whole area. Weird.’
‘I’m glad it’s not just me,’ said Libby, going to move the kettle onto the hotplate. ‘Now, I’m going to see if there’s any life left in that fire.’
‘What I can’t imagine is why anyone, especially people like the Watsons, would choose to live there,’ said Fran.
‘You didn’t see the actual house,’ said Libby, giving the grate a good riddle. ‘It’s quite lovely, but just so isolated. Although, if I’m right, The Feathers and that little collection of cottages aren’t that far behind it. We must see if we can find out.’
‘When will Adam and Mog be allowed back?’
‘No idea. If they’re still suspects they won’t be allowed back until they’re cleared. I wonder how Ian’s getting on with Carl Oxenford?’
‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘you didn’t really say much about him.’
‘There wasn’t much to say. I don’t know if he identified the body as his wife.’
‘Ah, yes. What was her name?’
‘Ramani.’
‘I think it’s almost definitely her,’ said Fran. ‘That kettle’s boiling.’
‘Well,’ said Libby, five minutes later when they were sitting down with large mugs of tea, ‘what shall we do now?’
‘There isn’t anything we can do,’ said Fran. ‘No one’s asked us to interfere.’
‘I could ring Adelaide and ask if she’s all right.’
‘It’ll sound like morbid curiosity.’
‘No it won’t. She asked me to go over last night. It’ll be a perfectly legitimate enquiry.’
Fran looked doubtful. ‘All right. You know best.’
‘That’s the first time you’ve ever said that,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘Oh, bugger.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t got the Watsons’ number. She rang me last night. I didn’t ring her.’
‘Lewis will have it.’
‘He’s on a shoot in Somerset, I can’t really disturb him.’
‘What about Adam?’
‘I suppose Mog might have it.’ Libby picked up her phone and pressed speed dial. ‘Ad? How are you? Won’t they? Oh, dear. I bet Mog’s not best pleased. Listen, Ad, have you or Mog got the Watsons’ number? She called me last night and I went over there, and I want to see if she’s OK. Yes, yes, I’ll tell you all about it. Come to supper
– or are you working tonight?’ She looked at Fran and made a face. ‘Oh – thank you, darling. Now what about supper? OK, see you then.’
She put the phone down and scribbled something on the edge of the television listings magazine. ‘In case I forget,’ she said.
‘You got the number, then?’
‘Yes. Ad and Mog can’t go back to the house because the garden is completely out of bounds and they’re even digging up part of what they’d already done. Mog’s furious, apparently.’
‘Go on, then. Ring the lady up.’ Fran sat back in the armchair and cradled her mug. ‘Let’s see you do your caring stuff.’
Taking a deep breath, Libby picked up the phone again and keyed in the number.
‘Oh, hello, Roland,’ she said screwing up her face in distaste. ‘It’s Libby Sarjeant here. I was just calling to see how Adelaide was. Yes? Oh, thank you.’ She turned to Fran. ‘I thought he wasn’t going to let me speak to her. Oh, Adelaide. How are you this morning? Adam tells me they’re digging up the garden?’ She listened for a while, making various affirmatory noises until she suddenly sat upright. ‘They have? Who? And why? Oh, so it was Ramani. Oh, dear.’ She went quiet again, and Fran leant forward, trying to catch what was being said.
Eventually, Libby nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I can’t come today, but I’ll pop round in the morning. No, no trouble. Or would you like to come here? You would? Right, I’ll give you directions.’
‘So what’s happened?’ asked Fran when Libby had ended the call.
‘Quite a lot,’ said Libby. ‘They’ve got another suspect.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Someone who called at the Oxenfords’ house asking for Ramani. That’s all Adelaide knows, but the body was her. Carl’s distraught.’
‘And she’s coming here tomorrow?’
‘She wanted me to go today, as you heard, but I thought it might do her good to go somewhere else. If the police need her Ian knows where she’ll be.’
‘Did she say anything about her husband?’
‘No. I shall grill her tomorrow. I suppose you want to be here?’
Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Now, why would you think that?’
Later, Adam came to supper and Libby told him all she knew.
‘Not much, really,’ she said, as she and Ben cleared the kitchen table. ‘But we’ll find out more tomorrow. Now, we’re off to rehearsal, but as it’s Wednesday, Patti and Anne will be in the pub later. Are you coming?’
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) Page 4