Murder on the Run

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘He isn’t the killer.’

  Ian supressed a smile. ‘How do you know?’

  Libby looked down. ‘I just do,’ she mumbled.

  ‘We are, however, still continuing to look for him,’ said Ian. ‘He has questions to answer at the very least. Now, if you want to, you can see if Mrs Conway needs anything. She was very shocked.’

  Libby nodded and stood up as athought occurred to her.

  ‘What about electricity?’ she said. ‘Surely it had been turned off. That’s what I couldn’t understand about the light that the neighbour saw.’

  ‘The electricity was still on, amazingly,’ said Ian. We’re checking with the solicitors who are supposed to manage the estate. Now Mrs Samuels is dead, perhaps we can persuade them to open up a bit.’

  ‘How much am I allowed to say and to whom?’ Libby asked.

  Ian regarded her speculatively. ‘I shouldn’t say this, but apart from the media, and that includes your friend Jane, you can talk about it to most people. In particular, the Harriers.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You suspect one of them?’

  Ian shrugged. ‘Maybe. But it was Lisa Harwood’s connection to them that seemed to lead to this whole chain of events.’

  ‘OK.’ Libby nodded. ‘Let things slip, sort of?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Ian stood up. ‘Do you want me to take you up to Mrs Conway?’

  ‘Do you think you ought to? Just to say it’s all right with you?’

  Ian gave her an odd look. ‘When did that ever matter to you?’

  ‘It always does,’ said Libby, affronted, as she stalked ahead of him to the stairs. ‘I gather she’s in her room?’

  Faith was sitting in a chair by the window, while a uniformed officer, looking almost as unhappy as she did, stood by the door trying to be inconspicuous.

  ‘Mrs Conway,’ said Ian, going over to Faith, ‘Mrs Sarjeant is here. Would you like to see her?’

  ‘Oh, Libby.’ Faith raised a lacklustre face. ‘Yes, of course. Andrew’s coming over as soon as he can.’

  Ian and Libby exchanged an interested look.

  ‘We can go now, officer,’ said Ian. ‘Thank you, Mrs Conway. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. We’ll be in touch.’ He passed Libby in the doorway. ‘And I’ll be in touch with you, too.’

  When the door closed behind the two men, Libby crossed the room to Faith.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘What horrible news.’

  Faith nodded, her eyes turning to the street outside. ‘But I think that’s why I came over in the first place. I think I was sure that something had happened to her.’

  Libby frowned. ‘Did she ever give you any indication that something might happen to her?’

  ‘Not really. I believe she’d talked to some family members about returning the estate to my family, but I don’t know what their opinion was, or who they were. But I can’t think she’d be in danger from family.’

  You’d be surprised, thought Libby.

  ‘Did Ian – DCI Connell – give you any idea of when she might have been killed?’

  Faith shuddered. ‘No. He said she’d been in a freezer.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby shifted from one foot to the other, wondering what she ought to do next.

  ‘Oh, look.’ Faith pointed. ‘There’s Andrew.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby with relief. ‘I’ll go, then, and meet him in the hall. I hope everything’s – ah – all right.’

  She escaped down the stairs and met Andrew with his foot on the bottom step.

  ‘She’s waiting for you,’ said Libby.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Andrew looked suspicious.

  ‘Ian asked me in because he thought Faith needed someone with her.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m here now,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Yes, thank goodness,’ said Libby. ‘See you soon.’

  She just stopped herself from telling him to be careful.She loaded her shopping into the car and drove slowly home, trying to work out what it was Ian wanted her to do. Spread the news of Rowena Samuels’ death? That Roly was still missing but believed to be hale and hearty?

  The shopping put away, she called Fran.

  ‘If you’re asking me,’ said Fran, when she’d heard the latest news, ‘I think we should tell Sophie. Then she can work out what to say to her members.’

  ‘Don’t you think Ian wants to get our impressions? Personally, I mean.’

  ‘Short of calling a meeting of all interested parties, I can’t see how we could. I’ve had an idea, though. I’m pretty sure they keep in touch via their Facebook page. I’ll see if she can get us on there. If I do, you mustn’t post there, just watch and listen.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Fran. Let me know later.’

  She called Ben to update him on the dinner situation, then Cassandra.

  ‘I guessed it was important because they all shot off from here a little while after you left,’ said Cass. ‘I don’t suppose they found Roly, too?’

  ‘No, from what Ian said, he’s not top priority, so presumably they don’t think he had anything to do with either of the deaths.’

  ‘Oh, well, thanks for telling us. If we see him again we’ll let you know, of course.’

  ‘I should let the police know first,’ said Libby. ‘And I doubt you’ll see him again if he was aware of the police presence this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Cass. ‘How are your pots doing?’

  Libby thought guiltily of the beautifully planted pots Cass and Mike had given her a year or so ago, now lurking, unloved, at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ she said. ‘You know.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Cass. ‘I’ll have to come over and have a look.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Libby brightly. ‘Well, look, I’ve got to go. I’m expecting calls from Ian and Fran.’

  Well, she said to herself as she ended the call, she was expecting a call from Fran, and from what he’d said, shewould be surprised if Ian didn’t call, too.

  Fran called while she and Ben were watching the news before dinner.

  ‘Sophie has added us both to the Facebook page,’ she said, ‘although she thought we ought to go and talk to them again.’

  ‘Good idea!’ said Libby.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran. ‘I think it would look a bit odd. Much better to let the news – such as it is – slip out.’

  ‘That’s what I said to Ian, actually.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘And he, or his officers, have already got access to the Harriers’ page, so he can look at the conversations. Oh – that’s the drawback. They know about that, because they all posted their GPS results and talked to the police about them, so they won’t speak freely. Or write freely.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Fran went quiet for a moment. ‘I’ll speak to Sophie again, but I think she’s already leaked some of the news.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on the page, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘This,’ said Ben, when she told him what had happened, ‘is when you need a smart phone. You’ll have to keep your laptop open on your lap all the time.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and start dinner now, then I’ll come and have a look.’

  There was a brief mention of the discovery of Rowena Samuels’ body, although no details, and certainly not connecting it in any way to the death of Lisa Harwood. Libby dished up her risotto and took her computer to the kitchen table.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, as Ben took a seat opposite her.

  ‘No. Especially as you appear to have Ian’s permission to go ferreting.’

  Sophie had posted on the Harriers’ page: “Heard today that Roly has been sighted, although not found yet. Fingers crossed.”

  “Can’t understand why he’s gone in the first place.” commented Kirsty Trent.

  “Well that’s something. Silly boy,” said someone else.


  “Who saw him?” asked Steve Reid.

  “And where?” asked Nick Heap.

  Libby jumped in her chair. ‘Don’t tell them, Sophie!’ she said aloud.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘What?’ Ben almost choked on a mouthful of risotto.

  ‘Sorry.’ Libby put down her fork. ‘I just realised something. I don’t think we should have put this on Facebook. Someone’s just asked where Roly was seen.’

  ‘Natural enough question, I would have thought,’ said Ben, recovering.

  ‘Yes, but Ian particularly wanted to gauge reaction among the Harriers, which means, although he didn’t actually come out and say it, he suspects the murderer is one of them. And if Roly is scared of someone and has run away to hide, then to give his whereabouts away is signing a death sentence.’

  Ben looked dubious. ‘That’s a lot of leaps into the unknown.’

  ‘Butlogical,’ said Libby. She looked back at the screen and was relieved to see that Sophie hadn’t answered the question.

  ‘I’m phoning Sophie,’ she said and went to fetch her mobile. However, Sophie was engaged. Libby, frustrated, sat down and began to eat her cooling risotto while keeping an eye on the screen. After a few moments a new comment appeared.

  Sophie: “Don’t know exactly where. I expect the police don’t want to give that information out.”

  Nick Heap: “You got that information from the police? How come?”

  Steve Reid: “Got connections, has our Soph! Remember the two women who came to see us at the pub? Her stepmother and the other one? They do stuff with the police. They’ve been in the paper.”

  Kirsty Trent: “They’re looking for Roly?”

  Sophie: “I don’t know. That’s all I’ve been told.”

  Libby’s mobile rang.

  ‘I guessed it was you, Libby. I was on the phone to Fran.’

  ‘I gather from the Facebook page she told you the same thing I was going to. Don’t tell them where he was seen.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t think I intended to, but just as well she warned me. I’m not going back on the page for a bit. I’ll let it stew.’

  ‘Good idea – and well done, Sophie.’ Libby ended the call and showed Ben the page. There were a few more comments from other members of the Harriers, but nothing of immediate interest.

  ‘I feel quite drained,’ said Libby, pushing both plate and laptop away from her. ‘So much has happened.’

  ‘A quiet night in, that’s what we need,’ said Ben. ‘Go on, you go and sit down and I’ll clear up. See what’s on the TV.’

  To Libby’s relief, they were undisturbed on Thursday night. On Friday evening there was to be a meeting of the prospective cast of The End Of The Pier Show, to which Susannah would be coming, and apart from that, the day was her own. Not for the first time she wondered if she really ought to get a proper job. Selling the odd picture wasn’t exactly a regular income, neither was the occasional royalty payment from the sale of pantomime scripts.

  ‘A parasite, that’s what I am,’ she told Sidney. ‘Living off Ben.’

  Although, she admitted to herself, that wasn’t true, either. Number 17 was hers, mortgage-free, and the remainder of the lump sum settled on her at the divorce had been invested wisely and produced a decent enough amount every month. She was very lucky, really. But – bored.

  And that was the problem. That was why she got involved in all these cases. Each time, she could have walked away, but she hadn’t, although every time she said she would. So, of course, people expected her to take an interest now. But Fran wasn’t bored. She’d married Guy and had an interest in his gallery and shop. As Libby had had an interest in turning the Manor into an arts training centre, a venture that had failed in its second attempt – due, naturally, to a murder.

  No amount of deep and introverted thinking was going to change the fact, however, that Libby was bored. Last autumn they’d actually had the Manor full of dancers, while they rehearsed and then performed Max’s Pendle. Then she’d had plenty to do. She wondered again if it would be worth trying to revive the writing and painting courses at the Manor, but reluctantly decided against it. Hetty was getting on, after all, and it wouldn’t be fair on her.

  Just as she’d decided to look up Open University courses online, the landline rang.

  ‘Libby, it’s Andrew Wylie.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Andrew. How’s Faith?’

  Andrew paused. ‘All right, I think. I haven’t seen her today, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ For some reason, Libby had been sure he would stay overnight at the pub. Just shows, she thought, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  ‘No, what I’m ringing about is Notbourne Court.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby again. ‘But that does concern Faith, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Only if the estate somehow comes back to her, and personally, I don’t see how it could. Stephanie Hays willed it quite specifically to Christobel Harris, Rowena’s mother. But that’s nothing to do with why I’m ringing. I’m testing the water, you see.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Well, yes. You see, I’ve found a couple of mentions in the archives which intrigue me. And I don’t know if I should mention them to Ian Connell or not.’

  Libby’s boredom vanished.

  ‘What are they? And where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Maidstone. I can’t take any of this away – so I wondered – I don’t suppose you’d be free to come over and have a look, would you? It doesn’tmatter if you can’t –’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ said Libby.

  The new purpose-built Kent History and Library Centre wasn’t far from the old building, and when Libby had parked she found Andrew waiting for her outside.

  ‘What is it that’s so important?’ she asked, as she followed him inside.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, ‘but first we’ve got to be frisked!’

  The security was understandable, Libby thought, as there were priceless documents held here, and heaven help anyone who took in a pen and tried to deface them.

  Andrew led her to a workstation, nodded to a librarian, or curator, perhaps, and opened a large and venerable ledger. At first Libby had no idea what she was looking at.

  ‘I almost missed it,’ said Andrew pulling on white gloves. ‘There. See?’

  ‘Er – no.’

  ‘The caves. Dug out at the end of the eighteenth century.’

  Eventually Libby managed to see what he was talking about. The old document, some sort of land register, spoke of the mining of tunnels and the creation of a dining room.

  ‘Dining room? Is that what it says?’

  ‘A touch euphemistically, yes.’ Andrew smiled at her. ‘Remind you of anything?’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Not unless it’s the tunnels we found before.’

  ‘This is old Lord Cheveley’s idea. When the Court was rebuilt.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I remember when I looked it up online, it said it had been rebuilt in 1790. There was a painting of it in its heyday. Gorgeous.’

  ‘Right.’ Andrew pulled out another document, much faded, but with a seal still intact. ‘And this.’

  Again, Libby tried to read it, but was defeated. ‘Tell me what it is, Andrew. I’ll never read that.’

  ‘This is asserting that these chambers belong to the Abbey of Notbourne.’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

  ‘But there isn’t an Abbey …’ Libby stopped, her eyes widening. ‘No! I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Oh, yes. In fact, further on in these documents, it asserts that Lord Cheveley wished to keep up the traditions inaugurated by Sir Francis Dashwood, and there are sketches of some of the decoration used inside.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to see.’

  ‘No, they are pretty – er – ripe. Anyway, it appears that like several others, they carried on some form of the Hellfire Club for most of the nineteenth century, mostly underground – in both senses – in defiance of the puritan on the thron
e. Whether they were still going on into the early twentieth, I can’t find out. However, there is one last thing.’ He moved the book and other papers aside and brought out a document Libby had seen before.

  ‘Oh, this is the auction notice, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. I’d already found this in myoriginal searches – so had Faith – but further than Chestnut Cottage I hadn’t really looked. But …’ he turned over two more pages. ‘Here.’

  ‘“Tunnels and dining room purported to belong to the former Notbourne Abbey,”’ she read. ‘So they’re still there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. This was over a hundred years ago, remember.’

  ‘We’ve got to find out.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that. But I think we’d be better telling Ian. That’s why I wanted your opinion.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? These organisations going on down the centuries. You didn’t know about our last adventure, did you?’

  ‘With the dancers? Not really. Why, they didn’t have Mad Medmenham Monks too, did they?’

  ‘No, but someone connected to them had belonged to a similar organisation in the sixties.’

  ‘I believe there are still similar things going on today,’ said Andrew. ‘I even heard of something connected to the grotto at Steeple Mount.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen that. Really? But that’s a fake, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters. It’s the atmosphere that counts,’ said Andrew. ‘After all, these tunnels are fake, aren’t they? A fake Abbey.’

  ‘So they are. Oh, Lord!’ She looked up suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered – sex parties.’

  ‘Eh?’ Startled, Andrew stepped back.

  ‘Someone said our first victim was mixed up with sex parties.’ Libby looked at Andrew in horror. ‘You don’t think …?’

  ‘It’s a coincidence,’ said Andrew. ‘I definitely think I must tell Ian. Or someone.’

  ‘Ian, definitely,’ said Libby. ‘Not Faith.’

  He eyed her oddly. ‘No, not Faith.’

  He went to ask if he could photograph relevant passages of the document, then tidily cleared them away.

  ‘I’ll buy you a coffee, and we can ring Ian.’ He led the way outside. ‘Where can we get coffee?’