Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t know, was it?’ Libby glanced sideways at her cousin.

  ‘What do you mean? We went there for you to ask questions.’

  ‘And for you to check Mike out.’

  ‘Libby! He’s a very good – plantsman. We’ve got quite friendly over the years.’

  ‘It’s a wonder you’ve not been down before, then.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ snapped Cassandra, and turned her head pointedly towards the side window. Libby grinned.

  She dropped Cassandra outside The Pink Geranium and drove home. The answerphone light was blinking when she let herself in.

  ‘Fran? You left a message?’ Libby tucked the phone between chin and shoulder while she manoeuvred herself out of her cape.

  ‘Yes, and on your mobile, as well.’

  ‘I was driving. I told you – Cass and I went over to Mike Farthing’s. I asked you to come.’

  ‘I know you did. I was going to tell you I’ve met another member of the ukulele group.’

  ‘You have? How?’ Libby sat down by the table in the window and pulled her laptop towards her.

  ‘He came into the gallery this morning to buy Christmas cards.’

  ‘How do you know he was in the group? Did he tell you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The first thing he said was, were you and I investigating the murder? He knows who we are, you see. Then he said he was a member, so I asked him about Vernon Bowling. He got a bit tight-lipped, but said he didn’t know him well. I got the feeling he didn’t like him much.’

  ‘So you’ve seen him before?’

  ‘He’s quite a regular. He used to live in Steeple Martin and retired down here some years ago with his wife, but she died. He’s always seemed a bit sad and lonely to me.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he joined the group.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said. And then he – well, it was a bit odd. He started to say something else, like “I wouldn’t if …” and then he hesitated and said, “If I’d known there would be a murder”, but I’m sure that wasn’t what he started saying.’

  ‘Like – “If I’d known Vernon Bowling was a member”, do you think?’

  ‘It did cross my mind,’ said Fran, ‘as he’d been a bit odd when I asked about Bowling.’

  ‘Would he talk to you again, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. When he asked if we were investigating and I said no, he said “Good. Leave it to the police”.’

  ‘But people are always saying that to us,’ said Libby. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Bob Alton, but honestly, Lib, I don’t think you’d get anything out of him. And after all, you’ve got no connection with the thing, so no right to barge in.’

  ‘I know, I know. But don’t you want to hear how we got on this morning?’

  Libby repeated all the details of the conversation with Mike Farthing. ‘And Cassandra had the cheek to say she was going to have a go at my garden and Mike’s going to help her. Starting tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’s midwinter! Not exactly the time to start redesigning a garden.’

  ‘She said pots. Can she do pots in midwinter?’

  ‘She could plant some up ready for spring I suppose. You’d have to keep them in the conservatory.’

  ‘I knew it. It’s just an excuse for her to see Mike Farthing again. Honestly, Fran, it was like watching a couple of grey-haired teenagers. If we have that conversation again about her moving down here I don’t think we’d have to do much persuading.’

  ‘Hold on,’ laughed Fran, ‘they’ve only just met.’

  ‘No, they haven’t. They’ve known one another for years, apparently, through his nursery. They’ve emailed and talked on the phone – it’s just like internet dating.’

  ‘Hmm. I remember when Rosie tried that,’ said Fran.

  ‘Rosie was a different kettle of fish. She really wanted to meet a man, even though she must be the same age as Cass. Cass and Mike have a common interest, that’s what’s brought them together.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Put something in the slow cooker for dinner and think about tonight’s rehearsal,’ said Libby. ‘Why?’

  ‘I meant about the murder.’

  ‘Nothing. You just said yourself, no reason to barge in.’ Libby eyes strayed to the laptop screen, where the first page of search results for Vernon Bowling was showing.

  ‘That’s never stopped you yet.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to, now. Unless Lewis or Edie get arrested and I have to rescue them.’

  ‘Ha! Let me know if that happens.’

  Libby switched off the phone and clicked on the top result for Vernon Bowling, which turned out to be a report of his murder. The next result was his wiki entry which contained the bare facts about the Dellington experiments, and details of his subsequent career as a research scientist of no particular note. She sighed and closed the laptop. It really wasn’t her business. On impulse, she stood up and put her cape back on. She would go and ask Cass to come out to lunch, and dinner could wait.

  She was almost level with Bob the butcher’s shop when she became aware of a slight commotion ahead of her and saw a mobility scooter bearing down on her from across the road. Driving it grim-faced and malignant, was Monica Turner, terror of Maltby Close, her white hair tightly curled, her bright red coat at odds with her glowering face. And she was heading straight for Libby.

  Libby stopped. Surely the old bat wasn’t going to run her over? She passed under review anything she might have done recently to incur the old lady’s displeasure. She soon found out.

  ‘You!’ said Monica Turner. ‘It’s always your fault! And now, on top of that fornicating racket every Monday night so a person can’t sleep, it’s murder. So what are you going to do about it?’

  Chapter Nine

  Libby stared. ‘I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?’

  Monica Turner moved her vehicle a threatening yard closer to Libby and poked her head forward.

  ‘Those banjos. In the church hall – it’s sacrilege. And desecrating the graveyard,’ her lip trembled, ‘with the murder of that – that – man. And you brought them here. Disturbing the peace. As if you couldn’t be satisfied with your so-called theatre – that Hetty Wilde should be ashamed of herself.’

  Libby watched fascinated as spittle formed at the corners of Monica Turner’s improbably fuchsia lips.

  ‘Mrs Turner, I’m sorry you feel like that, but the vicar is surely the one you should talk to. She let the ukulele group hire the hall, and I don’t think she could be accused of conniving at a murder.’

  ‘Vicar! That woman’s no more a vicar than I am. I have to go all the way to Canterbury every Sunday now.’ The head poked even further forward, like an aggressive turtle.

  ‘You do? Why?’

  ‘Only place with a proper vicar.’ The spittle flew. ‘I shall write to the bishop.’ Monica Turner swung her vehicle abruptly round to cross the road and nearly knocked the postman off his bike.

  ‘Blimey!’ he said, watching the mobility scooter streak across towards Maltby Close. ‘What’s up with her?’

  Bob the butcher appeared from the doorway of his shop. ‘She was just blaming our little local murder on Libby here.’ He shook his head. ‘Among other things. Needs her bloody eyes tested. Blind as a bat she is.’

  ‘Can’t understand why it wasn’t her who was murdered,’ said the postman, mounting his bike. ‘See yer.’

  As he departed, so Libby saw Flo Carpenter hurrying across the road towards her.

  ‘What did the old bat want?’ she yelled. ‘She stirrin’ it again?’

  Libby grinned. Flo was the queen of Maltby Close, and Hetty’s closest friend. Her late husband Frank had owned the barn which had formed the basis for the select Over Fifty-fives development of bungalows, and the community hall at its heart was named after him. Sadly, not all the residents, leaseholders all, were cut from quite the same cloth as Flo,
who now arrived, panting.

  ‘She’s bin goin’ on at everybody about that uke group for weeks, and now she’s sayin’ it’s the devil’s work and serves ʼem right one of ʼem’s got himself done in. That what she’s bin sayin’?’ Flo’s accent reverted wholly to that of her East End upbringing in times of stress.

  ‘And blaming Libby for it,’ said Bob with a grin.

  ‘Silly ol’ cow.’ Flo patted her chest. ‘Cor, she do make me mad! If she’s goin’ round stirrin’ up trouble fer you, gal, she’d better watch out. I’ll ʼave the ʼole Close boycott ʼer!’

  ‘How?” asked Libby, amused.

  ‘Send ʼer to Coventry, that’s ʼow. Cor. I need something to settle me, now.’

  Libby looked at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s go and get Harry to give us a glass of wine. Won’t be as good as yours, of course.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Flo linked her arm through Libby’s. ‘Cheer-ho, Bob.’

  ‘You haven’t got your coat on,’ said Libby, as they made their way to The Pink Geranium.

  ‘Nah. Saw that old bat outa me winder and just run out the ʼouse.’

  ‘So it’s unlocked?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t matter – no crime in the Close.’

  ‘Except murder.’

  ‘Weren’t in the Close, were it? Behind church.’

  Libby opened the door of the restaurant and grinned at a surprised Harry.

  ‘We need stabilising glasses of wine, please, Hal. We’ve had an upset.’

  ‘That weren’t no upset. I’ll upset ʼer,’ said Flo, sinking down onto the sofa in the left-hand window.

  ‘I’ll pop over and lock the door, shall I?’ said Libby. ‘You can tell Harry all about it.’

  ‘All right, gal. Key’s on the mantelpiece.’

  By the time Libby got back, Hal was sitting opposite Flo, a bottle of wine and three glasses on the low table between them.

  ‘Old cow,’ he said, as Libby sat down next to Flo. ‘She had the cheek to complain about Pete and me to the parish council once, did you know?’

  ‘About what?’ Libby asked.

  ‘She didn’t think “the likes of us” should be living in the village, and certainly shouldn’t be serving it meals. What she thought the parish council could do, I’m not sure.’

  ‘She was complaining about the vicar, too,’ said Libby. ‘Apparently she has to go all the way to Canterbury to get a proper male vicar.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Flo. ‘She made a point of goin’ to the first service the poor gal held and getting up in the middle of the first prayers shoutin’ “abomination”. Well, not getting’ up, y’know. Then she turns that bloody machine round in the aisle and leaves. Rest of us didn’t know where to put ourselves.’

  ‘Poor vicar,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve not met her yet. Is she nice?’

  ‘She’s a good gal. I wasn’t sure at first, but I met your Patti, an’ I thought, “Well, she’s not so bad”, then young Bethany arrived. We all call her Beth.’

  ‘How do the rest of the Close like her?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Fine. She don’t badger us.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ said Harry surprisingly. ‘Comes in here with her husband.’

  ‘Oh, she’s married?’

  ‘Any reason why she shouldn’t be?’

  ‘None at all. All vicars used to be married, didn’t they? But the only ones I’ve met recently haven’t been.’

  ‘John’s all right, an’ all,’ said Flo. ‘Some kinda businessman. ʼE come round and mended my kettle last week.’

  ‘Mended your kettle?’ Libby repeated.

  ‘The fuse, or whatever it is.’ Flo shook her head impatiently. ‘I dunno. They ʼave these closed plugs these days. He did it, anyway. My Lenny’s no use.’

  ‘So Bethany and John have the approval of Maltby Close, all except Monica Turner,’ said Libby. ‘Has she got any friends?’

  ‘Oh, that Vi Little. She’s so mousy she just agrees with everything. And she plays bridge or whist or something somewhere every week. Dunno where.’ Flo’s accent was returning to its pre-upset normality.

  ‘Well, at least if she complains to the police about anything they won’t take it seriously,’ said Libby. ‘They know how to deal with people like that.’

  ‘They might suspect her for the murder, though!’ said Harry. ‘Serve her right.’

  ‘I can’t see her luring someone to the churchyard and beating him to death with her handbag, can you?’ said Libby, with a laugh.

  With Flo restored to good temper, Libby went into Harry’s little courtyard and called up the spiral staircase to the flat above.

  ‘Cass? Fancy a pub lunch?’

  ‘What’s wrong with my lunch?’ muttered Harry from behind.

  ‘Nothing, but you won’t charge us.’

  ‘I will, if you want?’

  Libby looked over her shoulder and grinned. ‘OK, then.’ She turned back. ‘Where is she? Have you seen her go out?’

  ‘I didn’t even see her come in,’ said Harry. ‘Shall I go up and knock?’

  But there was no need. Cass appeared at the top of the steps.

  ‘Libby,’ she said, and stopped.

  ‘What?’ Libby went up a few steps. ‘Cass, what is it?’

  ‘The police. They’re questioning Mike.’

  Libby held out a hand and pulled Cassandra down the rest of the steps and into the restaurant.

  ‘Now,’ she said, as they sat down on the old sofa again and Harry fetched a fresh glass. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I rang to arrange a time for tomorrow. He answered and said he couldn’t talk, the police were there.’

  ‘Well, that’s nothing to be worried about,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll be talking to all the uke group members.’

  ‘But they’ve already done that, on Wednesday. He told me.’ Cass looked at the wine. ‘Hal, could I have white, please?’

  Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘White? Of course.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ Cass said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Harry, disappearing into the kitchen.

  ‘Told you so,’ Libby called after him.

  ‘Told him what?’ asked Cassandra.

  ‘Nothing. Go on, so what else did he say?’

  ‘That was it. He answered the phone saying “Mike Farthing” – it was his mobile, you see – and when all I’d said was “Mike”, he just said “I can’t talk now. The police are here.” And he hung up.’

  Harry returned with a bottle of dry sémillon.

  Libby frowned. ‘Bit abrupt.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. It must be serious. What on earth can they want to talk to Mike about?’

  Harry poured wine. ‘You don’t know him very well,’ he said. ‘Not personally.’

  ‘No, and he did know Vernon Bowling. He did his garden, didn’t he?’ Libby topped her own glass up with red.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Cassandra gnawed her lip. ‘But he can’t be a murderer. He’d no reason …’

  ‘You can’t possibly know that,’ said Libby. ‘But don’t worry. Unless they haul him off to the station, I expect he’ll ring you to apologise’

  Cassandra smiled weakly. ‘What an idiot, I am. Behaving like a teenager.’

  ‘I thought that, too,’ said Libby, with a grin.

  ‘But you’ve never been close to murder before, have you,’ said Harry, sitting astride a chair and resting his arms along the back. ‘Whereas we have plenty of experience.’

  ‘Well, don’t boast about it,’ said Libby. ‘He’s right though, Cass. It comes as a bit of a shock. And if he does ring, if there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘What she means is she’s dying for a legitimate reason to poke her nose in,’ said Harry with a grin.

  ‘No,’ said Libby, trying to look shocked. ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Harry swung himself off his chair and ruffled Libby’s wiry locks. ‘Now I’ve got to get back to work. Are you staying for lunch?’

  �
��No thanks, Hal. Cass, how about a trip to the seaside?’

  ‘To see Fran?’

  ‘Yes – and we can have lunch overlooking the harbour.’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ said Cass. She drained her wine and stood up. ‘Thanks, Harry. You must let me pay for the wine.’

  ‘And break the habit of a lifetime? Get away.’ Harry removed both bottles and looked dubiously at Libby. ‘You’ve had two – should you be driving?’

  ‘We’ll go in my car,’ said Cassandra. ‘I’ve only had one.’

  While Cassandra went up to the flat to fetch her coat and car keys, Libby called Fran to apprise her of their imminent arrival.

  ‘She’s fallen for that Mike, then,’ said Harry, as she put her phone away.

  ‘Mad, isn’t it? She only met him yesterday. She’s been emailing him for years, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s a mad keen gardener and he owns a nursery.’

  ‘Oh, Farthing’s Plants. That one. Yeah, Pete told me last night.’

  Cassandra appeared at the door. ‘Come on, then, Lib. Thanks again, Harry.’

  Libby directed Cassandra out of the village and towards Nethergate, pointing out the Tyne Chapel where black masses had supposedly been held, and the road to Bishop’s Bottom which led ultimately to the Willoughby Oak, scene of more Satanic activity only a couple of years ago.

  ‘Why is there so much of that sort of thing round here?’ Cassandra asked, as they began to descend the hill towards Nethergate.

  ‘No more than anywhere else,’ said Libby. ‘Anywhere where there are old stories of witches or ancient murders is bound to attract modern-day witches. The Willoughby Oak was where they hanged a wise woman called Cunning Mary, and every year there are supposed to be carryings-on on the anniversary of her death by a black magic coven. Well, there were until a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Were you involved?’

  ‘Er – a bit. Look, we’re coming up to the square. Turn left there, and we’ll see how near to Coastguard Cottage we can park.’

  Harbour Street glowed weakly under a pale November sun. Halfway along, past Guy’s gallery and shop and Lizzie’s ice cream booth, now shut until April, Coastguard Cottage stood, its white walls and blue paintwork looking rather smug among the duller grey and flint of the other cottages.