‘And now I’m going to have to kill you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I knew you were a couple of interfering old biddies the moment I saw you. Walking clichés, the pair of you.’
Johnny had edged round the table.
‘Oh, not you. You’ll keep quiet as always.’ Carl moved towards Fran. She backed up against the table.
‘Just how do you propose to kill us?ʼ asked Libby. ‘You may not have noticed, but my son and his colleague are outside. And what with? There are three people in here, you can’t get us all.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said Carl, and drew a small gun from his pocket. Libby’s jaw dropped and she thought she might faint.
‘It’s a gun!’ she stuttered.
‘Very bright,’ said Carl.
‘You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this,’ said Fran.
‘Another cliché! You have been watching too much bad television, haven’t you? I’m sure you don’t need reminding that Johnny just pointed out the entrance to the tunnel? I have nothing to come back for.’
‘Were you in on it, too? The scam?’ asked Fran, sounding much calmer than Libby, whose heart was beating so hard she was sure everyone in the room could hear it. Added to that was a pair of legs which felt that they might give way any moment and she couldn’t have framed an intelligent question if her life depended on it.
‘I found out. They were going to leave. After Ramani died, Watson tried to talk me into going in with him. Bastard. Stole my wife, then tried to compensate me. It’s all right, though. I know where everything is. Clever, my wife. Had all the documentation filed.’
‘Why didn’t the police find it?’ blurted Libby.
‘Oh, it was gone before she died.’ Carl smiled again. ‘Anyway, we’re wasting time here. This isn’t a story where the murderer explains everything away at the end just to show off. Open that door, Templeton.’
Johnny shuffled over to the door he’d shown them earlier.
‘Now, you two, get in there.’ He pointed the gun straight at Libby, and she stumbled backwards towards the door. ‘And you.’ He pointed the gun at Fran. ‘And that’ll be the last anyone sees of you for a very long time.’
‘Really, Doctor Oxenford?’ said a calm voice, and, miraculously, Ian appeared in the doorway behind Carl.
‘Genie from the bottle,’ whispered Fran, as she caught Libby’s sagging body.
Peter cancelled rehearsal that night. Libby spent the next day lying on the sofa with Sidney recovering from shock and embarrassment, but by Wednesday was feeling bright enough to take the rehearsal and hope that Ian would be able to join them at the pub afterwards. Also in hope, Fran and Guy had come to Steeple Martin and booked in for a meal at The Pink Geranium with Patti and Anne.
After a rehearsal spent mainly responding to eager questions about “her ordeal”, Libby, Ben and Peter went to the pub. Ben had barely taken a drinks order when Ian appeared. To his discomfiture, everyone round the table clapped.
‘First of all,’ said Peter, ‘how did you know where they were?’
‘We were, believe it or not, on our way to talk to Doctor Oxenford about his wife’s empty bank account. When there was no reply at his house, I remembered seeing Libby’s car in the car park. Quite distinctive, your car.’ He grinned at her. ‘And then, your very intelligent son, wondering why you two had suddenly reappeared to be followed by someone he didn’t know, had the sense to ring me. Oxenford followed you because he overheard the call you had from Johnny Templeton and surmised he was about to spill the beans. Simple really.’
‘But you were only just in time,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve promised Adam washing for life, if he likes.’
‘So it was all a scam?’ said Ben. ‘The guineas, and everything?’
‘Fran got it almost right. Roland asked Ramani if she could find this treasure. She used to go and prowl round the house when Adelaide was in London, but, of course, she found nothing.’
‘She missed the jewellery,’ said Edward, who had joined them.
‘She did. But she found the priest’s hole. Some of the stuff they stole was stored there, before being transferred to Johnny, before going through the tunnel to Keeper’s Cob – yes, we’ve been along it now – and away. We were right when we said he was in the right place on the arts and antiques trail. It all went to Europe. He and Ramani had new accounts, new names, the lot.’
‘So they were definitely going?’ said Fran.
‘Oh, yes. Then Carl found out. What he found he hasn’t yet said, but then he decided he might as well take it for himself. She wasn’t interested in him, and he couldn’t really have cared less about Adelaide – ’
‘Poor woman,’ said Libby.
‘So, he killed her.’
‘But how?’ asked Ben. ‘I thought he was away the night she was killed.’
‘He was a doctor,’ said Ian. ‘He cut her throat – sorry,’ he grinned round at the expressions on the faces around him, ‘but very carefully, so that she didn’t die immediately. He wrapped her in a blanket, put her in the car, carried the body to the grotto, knowing that neither Adelaide nor Roland would be there. He’d already begun to blackmail Templeton about his involvement with the scam and the fact that he was being supplied with drugs by Watson. In fact, that was why he chose the grotto, so Templeton could be on the spot to find the body when he, Oxenford, told him to. He probably put Watson’s body there too for the same reason, then he left her to bleed out, drove the car away and dumped it, claiming it had been stolen and she was the victim of a burglary gone wrong. So she died some hours later, by which time his colleague had collected him and he was miles away in Hertfordshire. If the weather had been colder she might have survived for longer, but it’s doubtful.’
There was silence round the table for a moment, then Guy asked: ‘What about the Watson man?’
‘He was busy trying to get rid of any trace of their little business. Carl confronted him about the escape plan and Carl just killed him. Simple as that. He hasn’t given us much detail about that so far. He’s a very clever man and completely unfazed by his arrest.’
‘He’s a bloody good actor, too,’ said Libby.
‘So there never were any golden guineas?’ said Anne.
‘No. Ramani came across the story of them, she and Roland rigged up the fake Institute and wrote to all the people on or near the smugglers’ routes who could just have had guineas stored in their cellars, but only those houses identified by Johnny’s circle of “friends” as having items worth stealing. Then Ramani would go along and present her – quite genuine – credentials and be given licence to poke around the house. Often the burglaries weren’t noticed for some time. She never took anything large. We’ve matched up a lot of the reports of theft, now. All from those houses you saw listed.’
‘Well, I’m glad it’s all over,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve never been so scared in my life.’
‘You?’ cried Libby. ‘You were as cool as a cucumber, while I was going completely to pieces!’
‘I’m a good actor, too,’ said Fran, giving her a grin.
‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘now that our women have survived yet another almost disastrous adventure, Guy, I suggest we keep them away from each other until Christmas.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Ian.
Burham Heath, May 30th 1648
Godfrey Wyghtham leant on his musket and surveyed the tents and horses gathered in a disorganised rabble. They’d done it now. The Earl of Norwich had been proclaimed leader of the Royalists here only yesterday; leader of a largely untrained, poorly-equipped army, who were going to – what? To march on the capital and demand that the King be set free and the bloody Parliamentarians banished? Oh, yes, he could see that happening.
And who were they up against? General Fairfax, commander-in-chief of the New Model Army. Godfrey sighed. They might just as well turn tail and flee now in his opinion, not that his opinion was often sought. He thought of his Rebecca as he’d last seen her, standin
g at the gate with little Tom in her arms, Mary and Elizabeth clinging to her skirts. He was thankful that at least he’d hidden the money she might need should he fail to return to her. She knew where to find it, but who knew what renegades might be roaming the county looking to steal and – God forbid – rape. If she could get to his little hoard, she and the children would be able to make for the coast, Dover, Deal or Walmer, where she’d be safe. Evelyn was taken care of, her lawyer father made sure of that.
He turned to go inside the tent he shared with Knivetton and Fleetwood, who were both snoring already. He wondered which, of the three of them, would survive this debacle. Which of their names would be written in history. Or would they all three be unrecorded, their bodies in unmarked graves, unknown victims of a dreadful conflict. He put down his musket and began to pray.
An excerpt from
MURDER IN A DIFFERENT PLACE
The next Libby Sarjeant Mystery
by
LESLEY COOKMAN
Chapter One
The watcher on the cliff stood hidden against the backdrop of trees, as the sea turned into a boiling, mud-coloured devastation; the wind wrenched the tiles from the roofs and flung them into the air like playing cards. Satisfied, the watcher turned away.
‘It’s such a gorgeous place,’ said Libby Sarjeant, leaning back in her deck chair. ‘Pity we had to come here for a funeral.’
‘Pity old Matthew had to die,’ said her friend Peter Parker reprovingly.
‘Yes, of course. What I meant was –’
‘It would have been better if we’d come here for a nicer reason,’ her significant other, Ben Wilde, replied for her.
‘Thanks, Ben, I would have managed that on my own.’ Libby looked over the shaded deck towards a figure standing at the edge looking out to sea. ‘What’s up with Harry?’
‘Are you being deliberately insensitive this morning or what?’ said Peter, standing up. ‘What do you think’s wrong with him?’
Libby looked towards Ben. ‘I am being a bit stupid, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, darling, you are.’ Ben patted her hand.
‘Sorry, Pete. Harry knew Matthew before any of the rest of us, didn’t he?’
‘Not exactly. We knew Matthew as a leading light in the Kent drama scene. Harry knew him in London. Matthew introduced us.’
‘Yes, I knew that,’ said Libby. ‘At that press club. I didn’t realise Matthew was a journalist at the time.’
‘He was a fairly influential editor by that time,’ said Peter.
‘And he came from the Isle of Wight,’ said Ben. ‘I never knew that, either. Although I didn’t know him as well as you did.’
‘I love his cousins,’ said Libby. ‘Priceless, all of them.’
‘And obviously very close,’ said Peter, casting an anxious glance at his partner, Harry, who still stood surveying the sea. ‘They’re coming down here for tea, you said?’
‘So they said yesterday.’ Libby stood up and peered up towards the house halfway up the cliff. ‘It’s a bit of a climb for them.’
‘They must be used to it. Didn’t one of them say they had a beach house down here as well?’
‘They used to.’ Libby frowned. ‘It seemed to be a subject to be avoided, though.’
Harry turned away from the sea.
‘He loved his cousins,’ he said. ‘They were brought up together, apparently, in the big house.’
‘The big house?’ repeated Peter.
‘It used to stand up there.’ Harry pointed. ‘It was called Overcliffe Castle. An early Victorian folly, really.’
The other three looked at him in surprise.
‘How do you know?’ said Peter, eventually.
Harry shrugged. ‘Matthew told me. Told me all about the cousins.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me when we were organising the trip?’ Peter was frowning, now.
‘Well, it wasn’t as if I actually knew the cousins, was it?’ He turned back to his contemplation of the sea.
The other three looked at each other.
‘He’s been more affected by it than we have,’ said Libby. ‘He must have known him better than we did.’
Peter nodded. ‘He did. I think Matthew looked out for him when he was in London, and I know they kept in touch after Harry moved down to Steeple Martin with me. He was a lovely old boy.’
‘So Harry’s lost a sort of father figure?’ said Ben.
‘I think so. It’s so unlike him to be this … I can’t think of the word.’ Peter shook his head.
‘Reserved. Buttoned-up. Down.’ Libby sighed. ‘All those things. And he got worse at the reception.’
‘Wake, dear, wake,’ said Peter. ‘It wasn’t a wedding.’
‘Well, it’s a shame. Poor Matthew dying, and now Harry’s upset. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’
Ben cocked his head on one side. ‘Now, why do you say that? You know you were as intrigued as we all were when we got the invitation.’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘Why on earth did these women invite us out of the blue? We hadn’t been in touch with Matthew for years. At least I hadn’t.’
‘Only Harry had, I think,’ said Peter. ‘And you couldn’t wait to find out why we were invited, admit it.’
‘I know,’ admitted Libby reluctantly, ‘but now, however beautiful the Island is, and however lovely Overcliffe is, I think it might have been a mistake.’
‘Well, don’t say it in front of them,’ said Harry, suddenly appearing beside her, as a clatter of stones on the wooden steps announced the arrival of three ladies looking remarkably like characters from an Agatha Christie novel, complete with long strings of beads hanging over their long floral frocks.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ said the first one. ‘Here we are at last! Come on Honoria, sit over there. Amelia, you can go next to Libby – Harry, dear boy, sit next to me.’
‘Do stop organising us, Alicia,’ said the one referred to as Honoria, in a deep, thundery rumble. ‘We’re not in the classroom now.’
‘No, dear, I know,’ said Alicia, ‘but I’m sure these good people have been wondering why we asked them to Matthew’s funeral in the first place. And I want to get on with it.’
‘We all liked Matthew,’ said Libby, unsure what she was expected to say.
‘Yes, dear, we know. He used to tell us all about the plays and pantomimes you put on in Kent, and he was terribly excited about your lovely theatre. He came to the opening, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did, although that was rather overshadowed –’
‘By a murder. Yes, we know.’ The third member of the trio, Amelia, spoke in a soft, fluttery voice, that Libby was certain held a hint of steel.
‘Um.’ Harry’s voice, unnaturally hesitant, broke in. ‘I hope I’m not going to upset anyone, but Matthew always spoke about four of you.’ He looked questioningly at the three sisters.
They all nodded, and Honoria and Amelia looked at Alicia. ‘Go on, dear,’ they said together.
‘That’s just it, you see,’ said Alicia. ‘Celia was our youngest sister. And we think she was murdered.’
For more information on Lesley Cookman
and other Accent Press titles, please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
More titles in the Libby Sarjeant Series
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) Page 27