Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series)

by Cookman, Lesley

  ‘Gives a bit,’ he muttered. The other three crowded round.

  Suddenly the panelling moved a little, scraping along the floor and groaning with the weight of years.

  Edward and Lewis grinned at each other in triumph.

  ‘Well, open it, then,’ said Libby impatiently.

  Lewis gave the door a shove inwards. It moved a few inches.

  ‘Torch,’ said Edward. ‘Where did I put mine?’

  ‘I bet you left it in the attic,’ said Libby.

  ‘Kitchen table,’ said Fran. ‘Hang on.’ She retrieved the torch and handed it to Lewis, who shone it through the gap.

  ‘Stuffy. Can’t see anythin’ except brick walls.’ He tried pushing the door further in. ‘Won’t budge.’

  ‘Could it open outwards?’ Libby suggested diffidently.

  Lewis and Edward exchanged amused glances.

  ‘These sort of doors open inwards, Libby,’ said Edward. ‘Less noticeable.’

  It was Fran and Libby’s turn to exchange looks.

  ‘Where are the hinges?’ said Lewis. ‘See? None out here. Must open inwards.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t think of that.’ Libby sighed.

  ‘Ice House,’ said Fran suddenly.

  Edward frowned. ‘Is there one?’

  ‘I get it,’ said Lewis. ‘We had a tunnel that led to an ice house, and to the church, and a pub once. Built along under the ha-ha.’

  ‘I fell into it,’ said Libby gloomily.

  ‘So could there be one here?’ said Fran. ‘Is there one shown on the plan?’

  ‘Where would it be, though?’ asked Libby. ‘Lewis’s was down by the creek so ice could be loaded straight into it.’

  ‘And smuggled goods,’ said Lewis.

  ‘And,’ remembered Fran, ‘the parson drew the map!’

  Edward gave an exasperated sigh. ‘What does that have to do with this place?’

  Libby turned him an innocent face. ‘Brandy for the Parson,’ she said.

  ‘“Baccy for the Clerk,”’ added Fran.

  ‘“Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!”’ they finished together.

  ‘That was about smuggling in the eighteenth century,’ said Libby, ‘but he wrote it in the nineteenth.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Lewis, ‘what about this ice house? Or do we think they didn’t have one? Is it big enough?’

  ‘This house is quite small compared to Creekmarsh,’ said Libby, ‘so it might not. Or a strong room.’

  ‘I still think we should try the County Archive for any household accounts or other material,’ said Fran. ‘Have you had a look, Edward?’

  ‘No. But I could. You think we might find something in there? But not as early as 1648, surely?’

  ‘Can I just ask,’ said Libby, frowning, ‘whose idea it was that this so-called treasure was anything to do with the Battle of Maidstone?’

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘Well,’ said Edward slowly, ‘Ramani’s, I suppose.’

  ‘Just because Roland told her it was here,’ said Libby.

  ‘So we could be barking up the wrong bloody tree altogether,’ said Lewis, giving the recalcitrant door a shove. Obligingly, it swung inwards with a groan and a scrape.

  The little party was silent for a moment.

  ‘Well,’ said Edward eventually. ‘We’ve found the cellar.’

  No one wanted to go into it, Libby claiming she’d had enough of cellars and secret passages for a lifetime, and Lewis saying he was sure nice Inspector Connell would say they shouldn’t.

  ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ said Fran firmly. ‘Whether there is anything down there or not, we ought to let the police look. And whether Roland was telling porkies or not, Ramani was still murdered and left here.’

  ‘And then Roland himself was.’ Libby sighed. ‘And both murders might have nothing to do with any treasure.’

  ‘But as Ian said, someone else might believe it and that would be a reason in itself,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, come on. Let’s just phone Ian and say we’ve found the cellar and get out of here.’

  ‘What about your moment on the stairs,’ murmured Libby, as they went back to the kitchen, leaving the cellar door open.

  Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t know, and I’m not going to worry about it.’

  ‘Well, what about the ice house, then?’

  ‘I’ve had an idea about that,’ said Lewis, turning back to them. ‘I reckon it’s inside the grotto.’

  ‘And I’ve had another thought, too,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘What?’ said the other three together.

  ‘Pope’s grotto!’ said Libby triumphantly.

  Lewis and Fran shook their heads, but Edward beamed.

  ‘Of course! Alexander Pope’s house in Twickenham – he built a grotto in what was originally the cellars so he could reach his garden on the other side of the road.’

  ‘So,’ said Fran, ‘our grotto here could be the entrance to the cellars.’

  ‘And an ice house,’ said Libby.

  ‘Pope’s grotto had a natural stream,’ said Edward, ‘if this one has it would be ideal for keeping ice cool.’

  ‘I don’t think Adelaide and Roland did anything to the grotto,’ said Lewis. ‘It was just something that made ʼem look good.’

  ‘That’s the impression I got when I asked about it,’ said Libby.

  ‘So we’ve got a possible ice house and smugglers’ tunnel leading from the grotto back to the house,’ said Fran, ‘and presumably onwards to The Feathers pub in Keeper’s Cob. We’ve been jumping to a hell of a lot of conclusions.’

  ‘Let’s go out and look at it, anyway,’ said Libby.

  ‘They’ve still got a team there, Ian said,’ Lewis reminded them. ‘We won’t be able to get near it.’

  ‘Perhaps we can get Ian to get the team to investigate it,’ said Libby. ‘After all, if there is a tunnel leading from it, that could be how the bodies were dumped there.’

  ‘It could, but it would have to have been from the other end,’ said Fran. ‘There was no one in this house when Ramani was dumped.’

  Libby looked at her. ‘How do we know that?’ she said slowly. ‘And Adelaide was certainly in the house when Roland was murdered.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  After a moment’s silence, Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. How have you got to Adelaide being the murderer?’ He sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. ‘I wish I’d never got involved.’

  Lewis patted his arm sympathetically. ‘We all feel like that at some point.’

  Libby looked affronted and Fran laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see if they’ll let us get near the grotto.’

  ‘You know,’ said Libby, as they left the house, ‘we’ve never talked to that Johnny.’

  ‘No.’ Fran frowned at her feet. ‘The police have, though. And Ian’s said nothing about him to us.’

  ‘No, but then, he wouldn’t. He’s not likely to tell us anything that isn’t to do with our connection with the case. There might be all sorts we could find out.’

  ‘There’s the cleaner, too,’ said Fran. ‘Didn’t someone say she lived in Keeper’s Cob?’

  ‘Yes. Adelaide said so. She drives here in her son’s Land Rover. He farms there. Fairbrass, her name is. But she’s not actually the cleaner. A sort of occasional housekeeper, from what Adelaide said.’

  ‘Should we try and see them both?’

  Libby looked at her in surprise. ‘How could we? We’ve no introduction or anything.’

  ‘Adam could get hold of Johnny – what was his name?’

  ‘Templeton, I think. Why would he?’

  ‘To find out what was going on. Johnny won’t know Adam has an inside source, so it would be perfectly believable.’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ said Libby, ‘but where do we go from there? Ad can hardly suggest that his mum w
ants to talk to him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we could find some way round that,’ said Fran, ‘the difficulty will be the cleaner.’

  Libby looked nervous. ‘You’re getting a bit into this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And I’m not going to give up on the passage or room or whatever it is inside the house, either.’

  ‘You said you weren’t going to worry about it,’ said Libby.

  ‘I’m not. But I’m not going to forget it. Here we are.’

  Beyond the entrance to the grotto they could see the familiar white tent and two or three white-suited figures moving around.

  ‘’Scuse me, mate,’ called Lewis.

  One of the figures turned sharply, hesitated and then came forward, pulling his face mask down.

  ‘You the people DCI Connell said was in the house?’

  ‘That’s us,’ said Lewis. ‘We were just wondering if you’d found the entrance to the passage yet.’

  Libby opened her mouth to speak and Fran trod on her foot. Edward looked surprised but said nothing.

  ‘Passage?’ White Suit raised his eyebrows. ‘We weren’t told about no passage.’

  Lewis gestured to Edward to take over. With commendable aplomb, he did.

  ‘There’s a passage which originally led from the house to Keeper’s Cob. It’s been partially bricked up.’

  ‘No one said,’ grumbled White Suit. ‘Suppose we’ll have to get down on our hands and knees under that bridge, now.’

  ‘Suppose you will,’ said Lewis, before anyone else could speak. ‘That’s where it is. We’ll tell DCI Connell you’re going down there.’ He gave a half salute and turned away, leading the other three at a brisk pace.

  ‘Before that bloke decides to call Ian and ask him what’s going on, we need to be out of sight,’ he said.

  Edward laughed. ‘Getting them to do the work for us? Clever.’

  ‘You certainly sounded sure of yourself, especially about the entrance being under the bridge,’ said Libby.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Fran.

  The other three turned towards her.

  ‘Here we go again,’ said Lewis.

  ‘What?’ Edward looked nervous and took a step backwards.

  ‘Come on, you’ve already had Fran explained to you,’ said Libby. ‘This shouldn’t faze you.’

  Edward scowled. ‘I should bow down and say “Yas, Massa” should I?’

  ‘Oh, really, Edward.’ Libby sighed with impatience. ‘You must stop being so bloody sensitive. It isn’t all about you.’ She turned to Fran. ‘I said he was selfish, didn’t I? Well, he is.’

  Edward turned his back. Lewis laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Fran. ‘We can’t do any more here.’

  They walked back to the house, where Lewis locked the back door and ushered them out to the front.

  ‘We’ll have to come with you,’ he said. ‘Ian brought us.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Fran and Libby together.

  ‘Canterbury. My car’s at the police station.’

  ‘What about you, Edward?’ asked Libby.

  ‘My car’s still in the hotel car park,’ said Edward grumpily.

  ‘Oh, snap out of it,’ said Libby wearily. ‘I’ll take you both back to Canterbury, it’s the wrong direction for Fran.’

  ‘And if you’re good,’ said Lewis, climbing into the back of Libby’s car, ‘I’ll take you to see Creekmarsh.’

  Brightening visibly, Edward paused by the passenger door. ‘Thank you, I’d love to come,’ he said, and turned to Fran. ‘Sorry if I was rude, Fran.’

  Libby grinned at her friend. ‘I’ll ring you,’ she said. ‘Get in, Edward.’

  ‘So,’ said Lewis, as they set off back down Dark Lane, ‘was that helpful at all?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Libby. ‘We think there’s a passage under the house, we also think there’s at least a hidden room inside. Whether it’s any use to Ian, I don’t know. Was it useful to you, Edward?’

  Edward slid her a sideways look. ‘I think so. Thank you.’

  ‘What are you trying to establish?’ asked Lewis. ‘Bullet points.’

  ‘OK, number one: were Ramani and Roland killed in the grotto or elsewhere? Number two: why were they killed? Was Roland killed as a result of Ramani’s death, or for a different reason? Number three: was Roland’s tale of a hidden treasure true? In fact, did he even spin that tale?’

  Edward half turned in his seat. ‘But she told me he had. Well, she actually said “they” had.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s true. But the fact remains, was it a true story?’

  ‘As you keep reminding us, even if it wasn’t true, someone could have believed it enough to kill for it.’ Lewis leant in between the front seats.

  ‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ said Libby, turning out on to the Canterbury Road. ‘Ramani’s murder looked planned. It doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Why does it look planned?’ asked Edward.

  ‘We know now that she died later than we thought, which looks like a deliberate attempt to divert suspicion or provide an alibi,’ said Libby.

  ‘How’s that?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Apparently, as far as I can make out – Ian wasn’t at his most forthcoming when he told me this – her throat was cut and she was left to – to bleed out, if that’s the right expression.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Lewis.

  ‘That’s the right expression,’ said Edward, ‘but it also means she died where she was found. The murderer couldn’t have slit her throat elsewhere and transported her there, he’d have risked her dying on the way, and the blood would be everywhere.’

  ‘So it would,’ said Libby. ‘Well, then, she could have been transported there unconscious, couldn’t she?’

  ‘And, depending on the entrances to the tunnel, easier to do it underground than risk being seen,’ said Edward.

  ‘Yes, but if one entrance is inside Dark House and the other under some pub or church that would be almost impossible,’ said Libby.

  ‘The other thing is,’ said Edward, ‘it really doesn’t look as though any of this relates to my areas of research, does it?’

  ‘Will you explain that to me?’ asked Lewis. ‘I’m dead iggerant, you know.’

  Edward enthusiastically explained the Battle of Maidstone and its putative relevance to Dark House, his discovery of Sir Godfrey Wyghtham and the note in the parish records. By the time Libby pulled up on the forecourt of the police station, Lewis was almost as enthusiastic as Edward himself.

  ‘Go and get your car,’ he said, as they climbed out, ‘and meet me here. You can follow me back to my place.’

  ‘Great,’ said Edward. ‘Your house has definite links with the smugglers, doesn’t it? And it must have links to the seventeenth century, too.’

  ‘It wasn’t built until after the Restoration,’ said Libby. ‘We found that much out last time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Edward’s face fell.

  ‘But there’s a reference to a house being there on the site in 1508, remember?’ said Lewis. ‘And wasn’t there something about the owner signing Charles I’s death warrant?’

  ‘He was one of the twelve?’ Edward’s eyes were now nearly popping out of his head.

  ‘It was only a rumour,’ said Libby, ‘and there’s no actual mention of the hall until 1569.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ said Edward. ‘I’ll go and get my car.’ He turned away, then turned back and surprised Libby by giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Libby, and sorry if I was selfish.’

  Libby shook her head as she watched him walk away. ‘I don’t know. Historians.’

  Lewis laughed.

  ‘Go on, gal, you love it. You coming back? Edie was asking after you.’

  ‘I’d better get home, Lewis. I’ll come over another day. I’m going to do a bit of digging of my own about the smuggling.’

  ‘You’re as bad as any of ʼem,’ said Lewis, giving her a quick hug. ‘Go on, then. I’m just going to pop in to tell Ian what�
��s going on.’

  Libby drove home without really noticing where she was going. Things had changed now because of the blocking of the tunnel with nineteenth-century bricks, although, she thought, that merely meant it was blocked in the nineteenth century, it could have been there for much longer. But it did seem much more likely that if anything had been hidden there it was due to eighteenth- or early nineteenth-century smuggling.

  But Roland had specifically mentioned the date to Ramani, apparently, which was why she’d got in touch with Edward. Libby sighed. Now it looked as if their theory that he was only trying to impress her was right.

  ‘Easy for him,’ muttered Libby, as she approached the village. ‘The date’s on the front of his house.’

  Once inside number 17, she hunted round for something for lunch, and called Fran.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re there. Listen, I thought of asking Andrew to do a bit of research for us.’

  ‘Again?’ said Fran dubiously. ‘Poor man’s always being co-opted for something. He must wish he’d never met Rosie.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Libby, ‘we haven’t heard anything from her for ages.’

  ‘Since that business at St Aldeberge’s really,’ agreed Fran. ‘Perhaps we should ask how she is.’

  ‘I’ll ask Andrew,’ said Libby. ‘But I really am going to ring him, whatever you say. He can always say no.’

  But there was no reply from either Professor Andrew Wylie’s landline or mobile phones, so Libby left messages on both, finished her lunch and turned to the laptop.

  Smuggling in Kent threw up many references, including several mentions of linked cellars and tunnels, some of which had lain undiscovered until the twentieth century when unfortunate farmers and gardeners fell into them.

  ‘Free traders,’ muttered Libby. ‘Owlers.’

  But owlers didn’t seem likely. This was not a marshland area, but a wooded one. Owlers were wool smugglers, and the main centre of their operations was the Romney Marsh, over to the west.

  ‘Although,’ said Libby to herself, getting up to put on the kettle, ‘we do have our own marshes and saltings. Creekmarsh is on the edge of them, where we found the tunnels from the pub to the church, and the ice-house tunnel.’