‘They’re booked in at the caff,’ said Adam. ‘I’ll see you later. I’ll pootle along with them.’
The Reverend Patti Pearson drove to Steeple Martin every Wednesday afternoon from her parish of St Aldeberge to have dinner with her friend Anne Douglas in The Pink Geranium. After dinner, they usually met up with Libby, Ben and Peter in the pub. It was so that evening after a fairly disastrous pantomime rehearsal.
‘I’m really not happy about our new Dame,’ said Libby when asked by Anne what she was looking fed-up about. ‘Tom, our usual Dame, has gone and moved away, bother him, and we’ve had to find a new one.’
‘What’s wrong with the new one?’ asked Patti.
‘I shouldn’t say this, really,’ said Libby, looking uncomfortable, ‘but he’s an Ac-Tor, dahling. Happier doing gritty drama, but thinks if Sir Ian McKellen can play a Dame, he can. Not always the way.’
‘A Dame,’ pontificated Peter, ‘is always a bloke in a dress. She is not a drag queen, although there have been notable exceptions to that, but then, they were incomparable drag queens. The humour comes from this big, down to earth guy wearing the most outrageous costumes and not even attempting to appear feminine.’
‘I love a good Dame,’ sighed Harry theatrically. He had accompanied Adam, Patti and Anne to the pub after closing the restaurant. ‘I’d make a very good Dame.’
‘Too camp, ducks,’ said Peter fondly. ‘You could do it, Ben.’
‘I have in the past,’ said Ben surprisingly.
‘Really?’ All eyes turned to him.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Libby.
‘When I did that TIE tour, remember? I told you that.’
‘TIE?’ asked Patti. ‘What’s that?’
‘Theatre in Education,’ said Libby. ‘You know, those small troupes who go into schools and teach sensitive subjects by performing plays about them.’
‘Or even proper plays,’ said Ben. ‘And pantomimes.’
‘So it was pro, then?’ said Adam. ‘Paid?’
‘A pittance, but yes, paid,’ smiled Ben.
‘Why don’t you take over, then?’ asked Anne.
‘Not done,’ said Libby with sigh. ‘Remember we agonised over that panto director the other year? We didn’t know how to sack him, but in the end we didn’t have to. He admitted defeat and left of his own accord. But we’d need a bloody good reason to get rid of Sir Larry.’
‘Is that his name?’ Anne’s eyes were round.
‘No, just what we call him,’ explained Ben with a grin.
‘Let’s not talk about panto,’ said Harry, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘I want to hear all about this latest murder.’
Chapter Seven
Fran was once more sitting by Libby’s sitting room fire when Adelaide Watson arrived the following morning.
‘This is my friend Fran, Adelaide,’ said Libby. ‘She and I have – er –’
‘Yes, I know.’ Adelaide’s smile was a little strained. ‘You’re the psychic. Lewis told me.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Libby exchanged a quick look with Fran. ‘Do sit down. I’ve got the coffee on – or would you prefer tea?’
‘Oh, coffee, please. Thank you.’ Adelaide perched on the sofa and looked round. ‘Lovely cottage.’
‘Thank you. Not as grand as your place, though.’
‘No,’ said Adelaide, sounding wistful.
‘How are you feeling, now?’ asked Fran. ‘It must have been such a shock.’
‘It was,’ said Adelaide. ‘And it keeps getting worse.’
‘Worse?’ Libby came back with a tray of mugs, cafetière, and milk.
‘Well, it’s the questions. Roland’s had to go into Canterbury again today, and both the boys have been interviewed. The police seem to think someone in the family must have killed her, even though the boys had never even met her.’
‘I thought you said there was a new suspect?’
‘Yes.’ Adelaide took the mug Libby held out to her. ‘This man who came to Carl’s door to ask for Ramani. Carl had never seen him before.’
‘So who was he?’
‘Carl doesn’t know. The police were at his house at the time, and they whisked this person off straight away.’
‘Unlikely to be the murderer,’ said Fran. ‘Going to the victim’s house and asking for her. Why draw attention to yourself in that way?’
‘Double bluff?’ suggested Libby.
‘Or perhaps the police already knew something about him?’ said Fran.
‘I don’t know. And I can hardly ask, can I?’ said Adelaide.
‘So why have they asked Roland back again?’ asked Libby. ‘I know he had to go in yesterday.’
‘And he wasn’t pleased.’ Adelaide sighed. ‘He wouldn’t tell me why he had to go back today. They haven’t wanted to talk to me again.’
‘You’re not likely to have cut someone’s throat,’ said Fran. ‘They obviously think this is a man’s crime. Do we know the results of the post mortem?’
Adelaide looked bewildered.
‘They aren’t likely to tell anyone that unless it throws something up,’ said Libby. She turned to Adelaide. ‘Are you sure you’re happy about staying out there?’
‘No, I’m not.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s a lovely house, but it’s so remote. You wouldn’t think you were in the south-east commuter belt, would you? I never wanted it in the first place.’
‘But you keep spending money on it,’ said Libby.
‘I know. To try and make it more – oh, I don’t know. More homely, I suppose.’
‘That’s why you spend so much time in London,’ said Fran.
‘Yes. It was different when Roland worked locally, but even then – I think he only bought the house to impress people.’
‘That sounded bitter,’ said Libby.
Adelaide smiled. ‘I suppose it was. I’d sell the bloody place if it was up to me.’ She put her mug down and sat up straight, looking determined. ‘Now, what I wanted to say was would you look into this murder for me? I know you’ve done it before.’
Libby and Fran exchanged wary looks.
‘We can’t go round asking questions, you know,’ said Libby. ‘The police get very upset.’
‘But you know the chief inspector, don’t you? Couldn’t you find out things from him?’
‘No.’ Fran was firm. ‘He’s not allowed to tell anyone what goes on in an investigation unless that person is relevant. And he hates us interfering.’
‘But you must be able to find out something?’
‘Well, I don’t know what,’ said Libby. ‘Unless there’s something you could tell us that, perhaps, you wouldn’t want to tell the police?’
Adelaide shifted on the sofa and her eyes slid sideways. Libby gave Fran a significant nod.
‘Well,’ began Adelaide, ‘there is something …’
‘Yes?’ prompted Libby, after a moment.
‘I shouldn’t really say this.’ Colour had seeped up Adelaide’s neck and appeared mottled in her pale face. ‘But, you see … well, if I told the police, Roland would know. And he – he’s not – I mean – ’
‘Just tell us,’ said Fran. ‘We’re not likely to tell Roland, are we?’
‘I think Roland had an affair with Ramani.’ Adelaide’s words came out in a rush. Libby and Fran sat in silence staring at her. ‘You see why I don’t want to tell the police?’
Fran nodded slowly.
‘Do you think he killed her?’ asked Libby.
The colour left Adelaide’s face as quickly as it had arrived. ‘God, no! He’d never do that, and anyway, he was on the other side of the channel.’
And, thought Libby, look how quickly he got home on Tuesday.
‘But if you tell the police what you think they would question him about it, and your life would become unbearable?’ guessed Fran.
‘Yes, because he would know I’d told them.’
‘What makes you think they did have an affair?’ asked Libby. ‘I thought you sai
d you hardly knew Carl or Ramani and had never even seen her.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Adelaide.
‘Your husband said neither of you had ever laid eyes on the woman. Although I didn’t actually hear all of that conversation as I was making coffee.’ Libby frowned. ‘Ian hadn’t confirmed that the body was Ramani’s, so how could Roland be saying that? He shouldn’t have known who the body was.’
‘That was me. He wanted to know why you and I were witnesses to something, so I told him. I don’t think your inspector was too pleased.’
‘Oh, right. So carry on. Why did you think they were having an affair, and when did you see her? And,’ said Libby, with a flash of inspiration, ‘why didn’t you recognise the body?’
Adelaide sighed, and Libby poured her more coffee. ‘I’ve always known when Roland has an affair. There’s something about him, and I know when he worked here he was known in the company as a –’ she paused.
‘Randy old sod?’ suggested Libby.
‘Yes. He was always so – oh, you know – hail fellow, well met. One of the lads. Loved being Captain of the local golf club, and always a great one for the ladies, as they say.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I was used to it, so I knew there was someone in his life over the last few months. I assumed it was someone in Brussels, it would be easy for him to have someone over there, but then one day I was driving up to Keeper’s Cob and I saw … I saw …’ She lowered her eyes.
‘Roland and Ramani?’ Fran said gently.
‘Yes. In Roland’s car. I almost didn’t see it – you know what these lanes are like and it was parked in the trees. I’m afraid I drove past and then stopped and walked back. They didn’t see me.’
‘How did you know it was Ramani?’ asked Libby.
Adelaideʼs colour came back. ‘I had to go to the doctor for a routine matter and I saw her then. She came into the surgery briefly.’
‘But you didn’t recognise the body?’
‘No. I only saw her head, and her hair was concealed somehow. When I saw her with Roland (and I saw her again when I dropped him off at Ashford one time) she looked a real glamour girl.’ The corners of Adelaide’s mouth turned down. ‘I think sometimes he pretended he was going to Brussels when he wasn’t and she would pick him up. I suppose while Carl was in surgery so she could have the car.’
‘Do you think that’s why Carl called you? Did he know, too?’
‘I don’t know.’ Adelaide’s expression was agonised. ‘That’s what I thought straight away. And especially when he said the car had gone.’
‘I think he probably did know – or suspect, at least,’ said Fran. ‘It makes sense. And he will probably tell the police, too.’
‘I suppose he will,’ said Adelaide with a sigh. ‘Perhaps that’s why they recalled Roland this morning.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do, then,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll start making enquiries immediately. They’ll check where he was on Sunday night and we can’t do that sort of thing.’
‘I suppose so.’ Adelaide put down her mug. ‘But I do feel better for talking about it.’
‘Any time,’ said Libby. ‘And if I were you, I’d force your husband to sell that house.’
‘I don’t think I care what he does with it now. I’m going to move back permanently to London.’
‘What about the garden and the swimming pool?’ asked Libby.
‘Oh, I hope they’ll be allowed to finish that. It would add to the value. After all, if it is sold, I’ll get half.’ Adelaide stood up. ‘Thank you for listening, and if you get any sort of inspiration,’ she turned to Fran, ‘I hope you’ll let me know.’
‘Do you think she means she’s going to leave him?’ said Libby as she watched her guest turn her car and drive slowly towards the high street.
‘It sounds like it,’ said Fran. ‘And not a moment too soon, as far as I can tell.’
‘But she’s so scared of him. She wilts when he’s there. And he’s quite horrible – I don’t know how he’s managed to have affairs.’
‘You saw him at his worst, don’t forget. He wasn’t out to impress you, he was just angry.’
‘I suppose so.’ Libby collected the coffee tray and took it into the kitchen. ‘That was a bit of a facer, though, wasn’t it? I had no idea she was lying on Tuesday night. Do you want more coffee?’
‘No thanks. What do you think we ought to do?’ Fran perched on the edge of the table.
‘Do? Well, nothing. As I said, the police already know by now that Roland was having an affair with Ramani, if we assume Carl suspected it as well as Adelaide, so they’ll be looking in to his alibi. We can’t help.’
‘No.’ Fran looked thoughtful. ‘I do hate being hamstrung, though.’
‘We’ve got so used to being able to investigate, that’s the trouble. This time, we can’t.’
‘Unless I have any further – what did she call it? – inspiration,’ said Fran.
‘We didn’t tell her about the first one. But she obviously knows all about you.’
‘I’m still a bit confused about that, you know. The victim was alive, I’m sure of it.’
‘I’m not sure what that means. For some reason I assumed she’d been killed somewhere else and dumped there, but you think she was killed in the grotto?’
‘Otherwise, why was I staring up through the trees? Do you think I should tell Ian?’
‘I don’t think so. After all, they’ll be a bit nearer actual time of death now, and they’ll know if she was killed in situ .’
‘Maybe. But it’s frustrating.’
Fran slipped off the table and went back into the sitting room just as Libby’s landline rang.
Wiping her hands on a tea towel, Libby picked up the phone.
‘Libby, it’s Ian. Listen, I know this is slightly unconventional, but I need your help.’
Chapter Eight
‘You what?’ Libby looked across at Fran and mouthed “Ian”.
‘We’re sure that there was something between Mr Watson and the victim, but neither Mr Oxenford, Mrs Watson or Mr Watson himself will tell us.’
‘Why do you think there was? Did someone tell you?’ Libby perched on the arm of the sofa, eyebrows waggling furiously at Fran.
‘Under questioning they’ve all avoided certain themes, although I can’t think why. But when Mrs Oxenford’s things were searched there was a distinct discrepancy between what we had been told about her personality and the clothes she owned. And Mr Watson inadvertently said something that made us think he knew that side of her personality.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Libby. But I want you to see if you can get anything out of Mrs Watson that she might not be willing to tell the police.’
‘Spy on her?’ Libby bit her lip.
‘Helping the police,’ corrected Ian.
‘I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and Ian, have you got a time and place of death, yet?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Ian, sounding surprised. ‘She was killed where she was found, but the time of death’s quite a lot later than we thought. Why?’
‘Will you have a quick word with Fran, then?’ Libby handed over the phone and listened to Fran explaining her dream to Ian. She handed the phone back.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the pathologist. It could be very helpful. So will you see what you can get out of Mrs Watson?’
‘I’ve said, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.’
‘What did he want?’ asked Fran. Libby told her.
‘Well, we can legitimately look into it, now,’ said Fran, ‘but I don’t see how we can split on Adelaide when she told us all that in confidence.’
‘That’s what I thought. Oh, bum. I meant to ask about the new suspect. How can we find out about him?’
Fran thought for a moment. ‘Adelaide said she saw Ramani and Roland at Ashford International. That looks as though sometimes Roland wasn’t going to Brussels when he said
he was. It also means they meant to be together for a while.’
‘But not long, or Carl would miss Ramani.’
‘Right. So, a hotel near Ashford International?’
‘There are hundreds – thousands.’
‘Not thousands, Lib, although more than there used to be. Now, what’s more likely, a town or country hotel?’
‘Town – more impersonal. One of the chains. But how’s that going to help us find the other suspect?’
‘It isn’t. I’m just trying to think of a way to point Ian in the right direction without betraying Adelaide.’
‘And that would be how?’
‘If we could identify them together at a hotel.’
‘Fran! Have you run mad? What do you propose we do? Trail round every hotel in the vicinity of Ashford and ask if they’ve seen a white British male in his fifties with an Asian woman in her thirties? Don’t be daft.’
Fran sighed. ‘No, you’re right. We’ll just have to persuade Adelaide to tell Ian what she suspects.’
‘I wish we could talk to Carl,’ said Libby. ‘How could we do that?’
‘We can’t,’ said Fran.
‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. I’ll give Adelaide time to get home, then ring her.’
‘It would be better to speak to her face to face.’
‘Oh, I can’t face another drive over there.’
‘Come on, I’ll drive. And we’ll go straight up Dark Lane this time, no faffing around Keeper’s Cob.’
There was no fog around that day, although it was still cold under a threatening sky. Fran drove off the Canterbury Road and down towards The Dragon, where she turned right into Dark Lane.
‘Fran, look! Stop!’ Libby pointed to the ginnel which ran behind The Dragon. To where, on the steps of a white-painted house, hand raised to knock on a blue painted door, stood Adelaide.
‘The doctor’s house?’ murmured Fran, but Libby was already out of the car running towards Adelaide.
‘I’m so glad we caught you,’ panted Libby, as Adelaide turned, startled, just as the blue door opened and a slight, dark-haired man stood there, looking equally startled.
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) Page 5