‘I’ll show you the tablet first,’ he said, leading the way down the central aisle, and to a dark corner beside the door to the vestry. ‘There.’
It was a stone tablet, with very little decoration, unlike several they had passed on the way. A coat of arms, very worn, headed the inscription.
“In Memorie of Godfrey Wyghtham, late of Wyghtham Hall in this parish, who departed this life April 3rd 1664 and Rebecca, wife of above died September 15th 1665”.
‘But that’s 1664,’ said Libby, ‘not 1648.’
Reverend Toby smiled again. ‘But that meant he must have been living at the Hall in 1648, or at least to have had a connection to it, even if his father was still alive and living there, do you see?’
‘He survived the war, then,’ murmured Edward, ‘and so did she. But there’s no reference to hidden treasure. What was Ramani thinking of?’
‘Come and see the parish register. Not that it mentions treasure, either. But there’s a gift to the parish.’
The relevant book was already laid out for them in the vestry.
‘This is very unusual, but there is a note under the entry for Rebecca’s death that “her portion” is given to the parish.’ The Reverend Toby pointed and Edward bent to peer at it.
‘If found,’ Edward said suddenly, looking up in triumph. ‘That’s it!’
‘If found?’ they all repeated. The Reverend Toby bent closer, then stood up with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You know I’d never noticed that! I suppose you’re better at deciphering these things than I am.’
‘So what does it mean?’ asked Fran.
‘I guess it means that there is money somewhere that, if found, will go to the church. I wonder if she had a will?’
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve done wills. And they were all lodged somewhere – Canterbury, was it? – before you could properly check them all.’
‘We could check,’ said Fran. ‘What date did old Bartholomew die?’
‘Who?’ said Edward and Toby together.
‘A man we looked into last summer,’ said Libby. ‘And he was seventeen hundreds, anyway. The wills of these people wouldn’t be recorded, would they?’
‘Not if they were made before 1660,’ said Edward, ‘and they probably were. So we’re unlikely to be able to look it up. I just wondered if there’s any other record in the church?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Toby shook his head. ‘I wonder what it means?’
‘Well,’ said Libby slowly, ‘we know that Ramani was told there was a treasure in the house. She came here to check out if there was any indication of the owner, like a good little historian, and obviously interpreted that text in the same way that Edward did.’
‘Wild goose chase?’ asked Patti.
‘No, not at all,’ said Fran. ‘We’re following Ramani’s trail, which may well lead to finding out who murdered her.’
The Reverend Toby blenched. ‘Oh, dear! I’d forgotten that.’ He escorted them to the door and shook hands with them all. ‘Will you keep me informed?’ he asked Patti, who assured him she would.
‘So what now?’ asked Libby, as they walked back down the lane towards Carl’s surgery.
‘We need to find out what Roland told Ramani,’ said Fran. ‘She would never have gone to the church otherwise. She must have known Godfrey Wyghtham’s name.’
‘But will he tell us?’ said Edward. ‘He doesn’t strike me as particularly forthcoming.’
‘The police are going to ask him,’ said Libby. ‘It’s relevant to Ramani’s murder.’
‘He could still refuse to tell them, or lie.’ Patti dug her hands in her pockets and frowned. ‘Murderers do lie to the police.’
‘You think he’s the murderer?’ asked Libby.
‘He seems to be the obvious suspect,’ said Patti. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fran doubtfully. ‘After all, he was in Brussels at the time, and if they were having an affair …’
‘I think,’ said Edward suddenly, ‘that he told her about the so-called treasure to keep her interest. And if he knew Godfrey’s name that would add weight to it.’
‘But there’s the “if found” in the parish records,’ objected Libby.
‘That might mean nothing,’ said Edward. ‘There are many odd notes in parish records. But Ramani would have taken it as confirmation of what she’d been told.’
‘Let’s just hope Ian gets Roland to set up our search,’ said Libby. ‘I was sure he’d come back to us over the weekend, but he hasn’t.’
‘Isn’t that Adelaide Watson’s car?’ asked Fran, as they approached the Oxenford house.
‘It’s surgery time,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps she’s consulting him.’
‘I don’t think he’s holding surgeries at the moment,’ said Edward.
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘They know one another far better than she admitted, don’t they?’ murmured Libby.
Back home in Steeple Martin, Libby did a little desultory housework, peered at the half finished painting on the easel in the conservatory and tried to decide what to cook for supper, all the while listening for the phone. By four o’clock in the afternoon, when it still hadn’t rung, she called Fran.
‘I can’t understand it. Ian said he or Robertson would call us over the weekend. There’s complete silence.’
‘What do you want to do? You can’t really call Ian to chivvy him up.’
‘I could call Adelaide and ask her if Roland’s heard anything from Ian. I want to know what she was doing with Carl Oxenford this morning, anyway.’
‘I doubt if she’d tell you that,’ said Fran. ‘If she’s concealed it up to now, she’s not going to spill the beans just because you ask her.’
‘I know!’ said Libby. ‘I could call Ian to tell him what we found in the church.’
‘But it’s not really relevant to his enquiry, is it?’
‘It’s not fair! Ian asked us to help, so did Adelaide, and now no one’s telling us anything.’
‘You’ll just have to contain your soul in patience, won’t you?’ said Fran, sounding amused. ‘You’re rehearsing tonight, aren’t you? That’ll take your mind off it.’
But when Libby walked up The Manor drive at a quarter to eight, her mind was still full of the Dark House murder, and it took a minute for her to realise that someone was waiting for her in the foyer of the theatre. Glancing up at the lighting and sound box at the top of the spiral staircase, she saw Peter making faces at her and pointing at the figure standing by the windows which faced on to the tiny garden, arms folded and legs apart. She approached warily.
‘Yes, Reggie? Were you waiting for me?’
Reggie turned slowly, an expression of hauteur arranged on his face.
‘I certainly was, my dear Libby. I need to tell you that I simply cannot carry on with this part the way you seem to want it.’
‘The way I want it?’ said Libby in surprise. ‘I simply want the Dame played as a traditional Dame in a traditional pantomime.’
If anything, Reggie’s nose rose even higher. ‘It is lewd and vulgar. There is no sensitivity.’
Libby laughed. ‘The traditional Dame is about as sensitive as a house brick, Reggie. Surely you’ve seen panto before?’
‘Not since I was a child.’ The nose descended a fraction. ‘And I had to be removed from the theatre.’
‘Were you scared of the villain?’
‘No. I hated the Dame.’ He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t have even tried to do this part.’
‘Were you trying to exorcise the memory?’
‘I think I was. I’ve disliked pantomime ever since, but as an actor I was convinced that I should be able to play all kinds of theatre.’
‘Are you telling me that you don’t want to continue?’ Libby was conscious of conflicting feelings of relief and worry.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to let you down, but I can’t help but feel you’d be bet
ter off with someone less –’ He stopped.
Libby grinned. ‘I know exactly what you mean Reggie. We’ll be sorry to lose you, but I quite understand. I just hope you manage to get another job – preferably better paid than this.’
He bowed, then straightened up with a determined look and said, ‘I shall forfeit the last two weeks of my salary in lieu of notice.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Libby. ‘It’s already been paid into your bank. Now, off you go and better luck next time.’
‘I knew that was coming,’ said Peter, as the defeated Dame passed out of the glass doors.
‘Did you? I didn’t think we’d ever get rid of him.’ Libby thoughtfully watched the retreating figure. ‘But now we’ve got to find another Dame.’
‘Ben,’ said Peter.
Libby looked doubtful. ‘Do you think he could?’
‘He’s done it before, remember? And he’s always been brilliant in the comedy parts.’
‘OK, I’ll ask him.’ Libby sighed. ‘At least we’ll be saving money. Perhaps we should give up having professionals in the company.’
‘You’re an old pro.’ Peter grinned at her.
‘Trouper, dear, trouper. But I’m not now. I’m not paid any more.’
‘You’re still a trained professional actor.’ Peter turned to the auditorium doors. ‘I’m going to put the workers on.’
‘Who does he mean?’ said a timid voice behind Libby’s left shoulder. ‘The workers?’
She turned to see one of the smallest dancers hovering in the doorway.
‘Not people,’ she said, wracking her brain to remember the dancer’s name. ‘Workers means the stage working lights.’
‘Oh.’ The dancer bobbed her head and followed Peter into the auditorium. Libby sighed. And that was one of the problems of having non -professionals in the company. She went to find Ben in the backstage workshop.
By the time the rest of the cast had assembled, including the two middle-aged ladies playing the Ugly Sisters – unusual, but Libby only had one Dame, so chose to make her Cinderella’s stepmother – she was able to tell them of the change in casting. She was amused to hear the murmurs of relief in her listeners, and, for Ben’s benefit, decided to start with the boudoir scene, in which he made his first entrance, and sent the ensemble home, apologising for having wasted their time. She was also amused to see that several of them decided to stay, obviously to watch Ben put through his paces.
She found it rather odd to see her excessively masculine partner in the role of Dame, but had to admit he was going to be good at it. At the end of the rehearsal he smiled across triumphantly and she gave him a thumbs-up.
‘Good,’ said Harry, emerging from the darkness of the auditorium.
‘When did you arrive?’ Libby turned round.
‘Ten minutes after Pete phoned to tell me what had happened.’ Harry winked. ‘My night off. I wanted a bit of amusement.’
Peter strolled up. ‘Come back to ours and have a drink to celebrate.’
So it was almost half past eleven when Libby and Ben returned to number 17 and found the red light flashing on the answerphone.
‘It’s Edward Hall. I think I’ve found it,’ it confided tinnily.
‘You can’t ring him back at this time of night,’ said Ben.
‘Wretched man,’ said Libby, flinging off her coat. ‘Found what? Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘I expect he thought you’d ring him back. Calm down. You can call him first thing in the morning.’
It was barely half past eight when Libby deemed it allowable to ring Edward.
‘I’m having breakfast!’ he complained.
‘Sorry.’ Libby sighed. ‘Shall I ring you in half an hour?’
‘No, hang on. I’ll pour myself another cup of coffee and take it into the lounge.’
She heard the sounds of movement and finally, Edward’s voice.
‘I decided to go back and look for Wyghtham Hall. So far we’ve been looking at Dark House.’
‘I haven’t even been looking for that,’ said Libby, ‘but I see what you mean. It makes sense.’
‘Anyway, in some old documents dating from the early seventeenth century, before old Godfrey extended the house – ’
‘Oh, that was him, was it?’
‘Yes, in 1643, the date on the front. It also has his initials entwined with the date. Anyway, before then, the cellars were in use and – get this – from one of them, a passage ran to Keeper’s Cob!’
‘Wow!’ gasped Libby. ‘That’s incredible. When Fran and I went to Keeper’s Cob we guessed that, despite all those tortuous lanes, it might be right behind Dark House.’
‘It is. I’ve found an old map and the Wyghtham land extends right to the edge of the hamlet.’
‘So they could just have wandered across the land to get there.’
‘But they didn’t. They obviously used this passage.’
‘Was it a secret passage?’
‘It doesn’t seem to have been hidden, but it goes right up under another building.’
‘Was brandy and tobacco being smuggled then? Or was that later?’ asked Libby.
‘It was actually after the Restoration that wool exports were forbidden, and in 1671 the King set up the Board of Customs. And of course, Kent was the centre of the trade.’
‘So the passage could actually be one that was used in the old “Brandy for the Parson, Baccy for the Clerk” business?’
‘It could. But what’s more, there’s no trace of it now.’
Libby frowned. ‘But that doesn’t help, does it? If it was there in the late seventeenth century, old Godfrey wouldn’t have hidden anything in it, it would be too easy to find. And he died in 1664, anyway.’
‘He might have hidden it somewhere inside the passage, and whoever had it bricked up didn’t know.’
‘What I don’t understand is why he didn’t get the treasure out and give it to Rebecca after he survived the war. She outlived him for a year, so there was plenty of time.’
‘That is a puzzle, but then, as I said, those words in the parish records are open to interpretation, and we don’t know exactly what Roland told Ramani.’
‘And I still haven’t heard when we can go and search the house,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think Roland’s being reluctant?’
‘I’m sure he is,’ said Edward. ‘He really is a most unpleasant man. I pity poor Adelaide.’
‘Roland must have some documents, don’t you think?’ said Libby.
‘Maybe, but maybe not, if we go with the idea that he simply told Ramani what she would like to hear.’
‘Oh, he is a bugger!’ said Libby. ‘He’s the key to all of this.’
Researching Wyghtham Hall on the internet wasn’t as easy as Edward had made it sound. Libby assumed he had access to resources which were denied to her, and slammed the laptop shut in annoyance just as the phone began to ring.
‘Ian!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Weren’t you expecting a call from us?’
‘I’ve been expecting it since Saturday,’ said Libby.
‘Sorry, Libby, but unavoidable circumstances. Have you spoken to Adelaide Watson?’
‘Not since last week. Fran and I went with Edward Hall to see the church on Monday. Do you want to know what we found?’
‘Later. Meanwhile, I think we might have to rethink the search of Dark House.’
‘Oh, why? Is Roland being so difficult?’
‘You could say that. Roland’s dead.’
Chapter Twelve
Libby sat down suddenly on the stairs. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Libby.’
‘How’s Adelaide? Is she all right?’
‘Physically, she’s fine. She’s staying in a hotel at the moment. Do you have her mobile number?’
‘I can’t remember. You think I should call her?’
‘She might need someone to talk to,’ said Ian.
‘Oh, no! I’m not spying on her under t
hese circumstances. Anyway, won’t her sons be there?’
‘They may be, by now. Don’t you want the details? I thought you’d be gagging for them.’
‘Ian, that doesn’t sound like you! But yes, of course I want to know – if you’re able to tell me.’
‘Neither Robertson nor I had been able to reach Watson by phone. Adelaide answered the landline, but always insisted he wasn’t there. His mobile wasn’t being answered. So on Saturday morning we went to the house. Mrs Watson wasn’t keen on letting us have a look round, but we threatened her with a warrant. He wasn’t there.’
‘And you didn’t find any secret passages or anything?’
‘No, Libby, we did not. We decided to wait before raising a hue and cry, but yesterday Mrs Watson called us to say she was actually worried because he hadn’t turned up. She seemed to feel it wouldn’t be unusual in normal circumstances, but –’
‘These aren’t normal circumstances,’ Libby finished for him.
‘Quite. So we sent a team into the house again, yesterday afternoon, then put out a media call yesterday evening. You didn’t see or hear it?’
‘We were rehearsing yesterday evening and went for a drink with Pete and Harry afterwards. So, no.’
‘Well, no joy there, except for the usual crackpot calls. So this morning we set up the usual procedures and sent a team to search the area.’
‘And you found him?’ said Libby, after a pause.
‘We found him. In, of all places, the Victorian grotto.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Robertson had the sense to instruct the team to start with that. The body was much better concealed than Mrs Oxenford’s, but still …’
‘How – ?’
‘The same as Mrs Oxenford.’
‘Oh.’ Libby felt sick. ‘Do you know when?’
‘The doc wouldn’t commit himself – a little wary after Ramani’s murder, I think – and the post mortem isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.’
‘Do you mean because Ramani died later than he thought?’
Ian sighed. ‘Apparently the signs were very confusing. We still haven’t quite worked that one out.’
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) Page 8