Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t know.’ Libby could almost see Fran shaking her head in confusion. ‘It might not mean anything.’

  ‘How about Maltby Close? That leads up to the church, the hall and the churchyard and the police concentrated on the residents when they first discovered the murder. Could that be it?’

  ‘It could, I suppose.’ Fran paused. ‘No, nothing. Look, I’ve got to go. We’re busy in the shop again.’

  ‘OK. Let me know if you think of anything else.’ Libby switched off her phone and moved restlessly to the window. Outside, the sky was an unremitting grey, but the ice in the ruts had melted. She switched on the tree lights and sighed deeply.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ben, appearing from the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t really know. Fran has just been having a moment and I can’t think what it means.’ She recapped the conversation for Ben and looked at him hopefully.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, sitting down in front of the fireplace and rustling the Sunday newspaper. ‘I don’t understand Fran’s moments at the best of times.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Libby, ‘you were the one who introduced us. When she was working for Goodall and Smythe – not to mention you.’

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t mean to say I understand them. You’re better at interpreting than I am.’

  ‘I think that’s simply wish fulfilment or something,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Occasionally they provide a hint, and my imagination does the rest.’

  ‘Except for the occasions where she has actually saved someone’s life,’ said Ben. ‘Go on, go away and fidget at it, but don’t be late for lunch.’

  Libby stood still in the middle of the sitting room. ‘Indecision,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You could, of course, leave it alone. Ian’s looking into whatever leads you gave him yesterday, so he’s bound to turn something up soon.’

  ‘But Fran says he’s looking in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Fran’s not infallible.’

  ‘No.’ Libby made up her mind. ‘I’m going to see Flo. Maybe she can help.’

  ‘They’re coming to Hetty’s for lunch.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘Why? What does it matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Libby made for the door, picking up her cape on the way. ‘I’ll be back to wash and brush up before lunch.’

  From the frostiness of yesterday, the day was now unseasonably warm. The high street was quiet, the only shop with lights on the eight-til-late, with the large, colourful pantomime poster prominently displayed in the window. Libby paused to smile at it before crossing the road to Maltby Close.

  The sound of singing floated towards her, and she realised Matins was about halfway through. That meant, thankfully, that Monica Turner would be somewhere in Canterbury attending her church.

  ‘Hello, gal.’ Flo looked surprised to see her visitor. ‘We’re seein’ you later, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, I know, Flo, but you see …’ Libby trailed off. ‘Oh, hello, Lenny.’

  Lenny twinkled at her. ‘Come in, love. You’re lookin’ a bit put about.’

  ‘I am,’ said Libby. The room, as usual, was over-warm, so she shed her cape and took the chair offered by Flo. ‘I mean … you know Fran has her – um – moments?’

  Flo looked at her shrewdly. ‘Yes. Never been sure if I believe in ʼem, but there’ve been times, haven’t there?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, ‘there’ve been times. Well she’s had one about this murder. At least, we think it’s about the murder.’

  ‘And where do we come into it?’ asked Flo.

  ‘That’s exactly it, Flo. I’ve no idea. She started off by telling me it was all wrong. That Ian was more-or-less looking in the wrong direction. And you came into her head.’

  Lenny looked shocked. ‘Well, we didn’t do ʼim in, gal!’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t, but why did you come into her head? You hadn’t got anything to do with it.’

  ‘Course we do,’ said Flo, lighting a cigarette and squinting against the smoke.

  ‘Eh?’ said Libby and Lenny together.

  ‘That Chandler. Him who tried to diddle me. And says ʼe didn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’ Enlightened, Libby heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Of course. So do you think it means Chandler killed Bowling?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, gal. But it do provide a link, don’t it?’

  ‘It certainly does. I just wish Fran’s moments were a bit clearer.’

  ‘I ʼspect she gets pictures and they remind her of things – you know, without her realisin’.’

  ‘Sub-consciously.’ Libby nodded. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. Well, now we’ve solved that, I’ll go back to Ben. He’s fussing.’

  ‘What about – you? Gettin’ involved. Well, ʼe won’t stop you now, will he? Go on, then, see you later.’

  Libby retrieved her cape and set off back down Maltby Close. Some of the windows displayed fairy lights, some miniature Christmas trees, others the ubiquitous spray-on snow. She was obscurely comforted by this, the evidence that those who could be said to be in their declining years (although there was nothing declining about Flo and Lenny) were still decorating their homes for, and enjoying, Christmas.

  A car swept round the corner and had to brake sharply. Without looking, Libby knew this was Monica Turner, back from church in Canterbury. Sure enough the lady, still in her red coat, glared at her through the windscreen. Beside her sat mousy Vi Little, hanging on to the door handle for dear life.

  Libby smiled sweetly and looked over her shoulder as she heard the heavy church doors opening.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ she said out loud, as Monica Turner turned her attention to driving her car straight at the congregation emerging from the church. They all stood still, mouths agape, until at the last moment she wrenched the wheel round and drove round to the back of the Close and the residents’ car park.

  Bethany saw Libby watching and waved. Libby wandered over, exchanging greetings with a few of the members of the congregation.

  ‘She often does that,’ said Bethany, still in her cassock and purple stole of Advent. ‘One day she’ll lose control and mow us all down.’ She looked Libby up and down. ‘How are you now?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’d just like to know who did it.’

  ‘The murder and you, I suppose.’

  ‘I think so. The police think it’s the same person, but I don’t see why.’

  ‘I’m sure they have their reasons. And what about your psychic friend? Hasn’t she any ideas?’

  A tall dark man with a goatee came up behind Bethany and tweaked her thick blonde plait. She turned and smiled at him.

  ‘This is my husband John, Libby. John, this is Libby Sarjeant.’

  ‘Oh, the lady who got knocked on the head. How are you now?’ He shook Libby’s hand.

  ‘Very well, thank you. I must go. It’s Sunday, and that means lunch at the Manor.’ She smiled at them both and turned to go.

  ‘I hope you find some answers,’ said Bethany quietly. ‘I’m sure you don’t believe in it, but I’ll pray for you.’

  Libby reflected on this as she once again made her way down Maltby Close. Were Fran’s psychic moments and Bethany’s prayers going to help her find answers? And would it matter if she didn’t? The police would, eventually, and meanwhile there was real life to be getting on with, a pantomime to produce and Christmas to be got through.

  Her thoughts turned to Denise Bowling. This was one Christmas she wouldn’t forget, poor thing. Cooped up in hospital, refused help by her husband’s friends – she stopped short. That was it. Denise had gone to Derek Chandler for help that evening and he had refused. And why had Denise gone to him in the first place? Protection? Which he wouldn’t provide? So she’d gone home, and … She started walking again. Why had Derek Chandler refused to help?

  ‘Obvious,’ she said out loud. ‘He didn’t want to get involved with the polic
e. Because he was a drug user.’

  But that wasn’t enough. He’d been a drug user long before this and, as a solicitor, he must have been involved with the police regularly, not to mention when the accusations were made against him by Flo, so it must be something else. Which was, of course – murder!

  She hurried back down the high street and up Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ She burst through the door; Sidney leapt off Ben’s lap and hid under the table.

  ‘Got what?’ Ben put down the paper and Libby explained. ‘It’s possible,’ he said, ‘but why?’

  ‘Bowling threatened him? About the old lady scam. Remember, Denise heard her husband being threatened over the phone.’

  ‘Did you tell me that bit?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter – she did. And that must have been him.’

  ‘Tenuous.’

  ‘All right,’ said Libby exasperated, and plonked herself down on the pouffe.

  ‘Also, Chandler would be cutting off his source of supply, if Bowling was the source.’

  ‘It would make more sense if Chandler had been murdered,’ said Ben, returning to the paper. ‘Are you going to go upstairs before we go to Hetty’s?’

  Libby trailed thoughtfully up the stairs contemplating this notion. Yes, it would make more sense, but there were still problems. And the same problems applied whoever was the victim. Unless the murderer was a member of the ukulele group, how would they know that Bowling or Chandler were going to be in Steeple Martin that night?

  Of course, thought Libby, as she changed into suitable clothes for lunching at the Manor, there had been a good deal of local publicity about the Christmas concert and the fact that the group were taking part, including, if she remembered rightly, many of their names. So people could have known. But no one but a member of the group would have seen Bowling go into the churchyard – or, indeed – persuaded him to go.

  She made an exasperated sound and struggled to get a brush through her hair. It really was time she let this go.

  Libby and Ben walked back along the high street towards the Manor drive. Suddenly, Libby was aware of a familiar sound behind her – part hiss, part hum. She turned round and confronted Monica Turner in her mobility scooter.

  ‘Hello again, Monica,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Tell me, just why did you hit me over the head?’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Libby was aware of Ben cautiously moving round behind Monica, who continued to stare at Libby without saying a word. Libby noticed, however, that she was shaking.

  ‘You see,’ she continued, ‘when I heard your scooter behind me, I suddenly remembered hearing it that night, just before I blacked out. So I knew it was you. Why?’

  Monica shivered. ‘Your fault,’ she muttered, her hands closing on the controls of the scooter. Ben sneaked an arm in and switched it off, miming a phone call as he did so.

  ‘What was my fault? The ukulele group?’

  ‘Those people. The noise. The disruption.’

  ‘There was hardly any noise, I heard them. And they never went on after nine thirty – ten at the latest. So you were angry because they were there? And so why,’ said Libby, taking a deep breath and crossing her fingers, while watching Ben make a thumbs-up sign, ‘did you kill Vernon Bowling?’

  This time, Monica jerked into life. ‘I didn’t!’ she howled. With lightning speed, she switched on the scooter and swung it violently to the left, where it careered into the middle of the high street – and Flo and Lenny.

  Surprisingly, Flo managed to leap aside, while Lenny got caught on the hip and went sprawling on the ground. Ben leapt for the scooter, which was now coming back towards him, and grabbed the controls, while Libby, Ali, and Ahmed from the eight-til-late and their customers all hurried to the aide of Flo and Lenny. Flo was swearing.

  ‘You go to Ben, gal,’ she said, when she caught her breath. ‘I always knew the old girl was barmy, but … go on. I’ll get someone to take us to Hetty’s. Police’ll be on their way, won’t they?’ she looked quizzically at Libby’s white face. ‘Yes. Off you go.’

  Libby arrived to where Ben was holding the controls of the scooter, while Monica Turner sat slumped inside.

  ‘She hasn’t said a word.’ Ben shook his head. ‘Ian’s sending a car.’

  Almost as he spoke, a sleek black car drew up alongside them. To Libby’s surprise and relief Sergeant Maiden – or was it Inspector Maiden now? – got out and smiled.

  ‘We’ll take over, Mrs Sarjeant,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Do you know ...?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Mr Wilde explained, ma’am. I believe DCI Connell will be in touch very shortly.’

  Libby and Ben stepped back as Maiden and a plain-clothes female police officer gently manhandled Monica Turner into the back of the unmarked police car.

  ‘What happened?’ A breathless Bethany Cole appeared at her side.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Libby, feeling weak and a little inclined to cry. Ben put his arm round her.

  ‘I really think we’d be better going up to my mother’s now,’ he said smiling at Bethany. ‘I just need to see how the other walking wounded are.’

  But Flo and Lenny had been loaded into the doctor’s car, they discovered; the doctor having seen the whole thing from the front window and were being driven to Accident and Emergency in Canterbury.

  ‘Best thing, I suppose,’ said Libby, after they thanked the assembled Steeple Martin residents. ‘Hips are no joke at Lenny’s age.’

  Hetty took her reduced lunch party philosophically. ‘They can have it cold termorrer, unless they get back here this afternoon,’ she said. ‘But they’ll want to keep ʼim in at ʼis age, the old fool.’

  ‘It wasn’t Lenny’s fault,’ said Libby. ‘If anything it was mine.’ And she burst into tears.

  Hetty and Ben were still mopping her up when Ian walked into the kitchen and surveyed the scene with surprise.

  ‘I know,’ said Libby with a sniff. ‘Not like me.’

  Hetty supplied large glasses of Mouton Cadet, plus a small one for Ian, and put the meat and vegetables back into the warming oven.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Ian asked, so Libby did.

  ‘And she said she didn’t kill Bowling. As if she really meant it. But why did she hit me, then? She said it was my fault.’

  ‘In her head, it is,’ said Ian. ‘Apparently, once she’d got over the shock in the police car, she began talking. That nice DC Spinner had the nous to put her on speakerphone and get through to me. The whole office heard it and it’s been recorded. So I came straight here.’

  ‘So what was it all about?’ asked Ben. ‘Why did she attack Lib? And why did she kill Bowling?’

  ‘She didn’t. In her head she was killing Derek Chandler.’

  Libby let out a deep sigh. ‘See? Othello after all.’

  ‘What?’ Ian looked confused.

  ‘Wrong man,’ said Hetty surprisingly. ‘Roderigo instead of Cassio.’

  Libby and Ben smiled.

  ‘So what does she say happened?’ asked Libby. ‘I suppose she knew Chandler was a member of the uke group?’

  ‘Yes. And she had been swindled out of her savings by him, although she wouldn’t admit it.’

  ‘Why didn’t she get them back? Flo and Vi got theirs,’ said Libby.

  ‘Because she was too proud to admit she’d been taken in. And when she saw Bowling go round to the back of the churchyard she thought it was Chandler, whom she’d only ever seen briefly. She used to watch them every week.’

  ‘Behind the net curtains,’ said Ben.

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, according to her, she followed Bowling – or Chandler – to the churchyard and began berating him about her money. And probably demanding it back. From what we could gather, of course, Bowling was saying he didn’t know what she was talking about and she lost it. Much as she lost it today. Then she found out it wasn’t Chandler after all, and for some reason blamed you for it. You w
ere the reason the group had come to the village, therefore it was all your fault. She rather degenerated into a lot of biblical ramblings at that point.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘She won’t – um – she won’t –’

  ‘Go to trial? I shouldn’t think so. I expect the doctors will find her unfit to plead, especially at her age.’

  ‘What I still don’t understand,’ said Ben, ‘is why Bowling went into the churchyard in the first place.’

  ‘This is the biggest irony of all,’ said Ian with a sigh. ‘Bob Alton’s son is buried there, and Bowling used to go and pay his respects. Robinson told us that when we asked if any of them knew why he would be in the churchyard. I don’t suppose he ever got over those deaths at Dellington.’

  ‘‘I remember now – Fran said he came from Steeple Martin. Did Bob Alton know Bowling used to visit the grave?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No.’ Hetty shook her head. ‘He would’ve been angry about that. He hated Bowling.’

  Libby, Ben and Ian looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Edie’s had ʼim over fer tea. I met ʼim there. Nice bloke.’

  Ian left shortly afterwards, Ben, Hetty and Libby ate their delayed lunch, although Libby for once didn’t have much of an appetite, then Libby called Fran.

  ‘Hey listen. The murder. It was “Murder’s Out Of Tune” after all.’

  It was Monday evening before Ian was free to give his now familiar round-up and explain some of the things that still puzzled Libby. Hetty magnanimously allowed the gathering to take place at the Manor, and Ben wheeled Lenny in his borrowed wheelchair up the Manor drive. His injury hadn’t been as bad as at first feared, and he was rather enjoying his new invalid status. Fran and Guy drove over from Nethergate and Edie and Lewis from Creekmarsh. Ian arrived as Ben and Libby were dispensing drinks.

  ‘You know this is very irregular,’ he said accepting a mug of coffee from Hetty.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Harry, lounging with his feet almost in the fireplace. ‘You know you do it every time.’

  ‘First of all,’ said Libby, ‘I want to know what it was Denise Bowling wanted from me, and who it was she heard threatening her husband.’