Murder on the Run

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘So.’ Harry stretched and swung his feet up onto Peter’s lap. ‘We’ve given up on the sex party theory, have we?’

  ‘There was really no evidence for them, was there?’ said Libby. ‘And I really couldn’t bring myself to do internet research on them.’

  ‘You’re an old prude, ducks,’ said Harry.

  ‘I know,’ grinned Libby.

  ‘Actually, I doubt if you would have found much,’ said Peter. He leant forward over Harry’s legs. ‘A friend of mine in London was doing an undercover feature on the Dark Web. I think most of the really nasty stuff is on there.’

  ‘I’m not actually sure I know what that is, except that there are loads of scare stories about it.’

  ‘It’s all a bit technical, and some of it is quite legal, but there are some very bad places there.’ Peter looked solemn.

  ‘I don’t want to look then,’ said Libby firmly.

  ‘No, you don’t. But people do.’ He leant back again. ‘The worst excesses of human nature.’

  Silence fell in the little sitting-room.

  ‘There aren’t many worse excesses than murder,’ said Libby after a while, in a small voice.

  ‘Oh, there are. You wouldn’t believe what some people do.’

  ‘I don’t mean war and genocide –’ began Libby.

  ‘Neither do I.’ Peter looked down at Harry’s feet.

  ‘I think we’d better change the subject, my lovely,’ said Harry. ‘It’s upsetting you.’

  Peter smiled at him. ‘Yes, you’re right. And I didn’t even look at the sites – I was just told about them. So Libby, don’t go looking.’

  Libby was by now looking sick.

  ‘I don’t think she will,’ said Ben. ‘Can I get us all another drink?’

  Fran didn’t call that evening, and Libby managed to contain her soul in patience until Monday morning before calling.

  ‘I couldn’t very well call the poor girl at midnight last night, could I? And I wouldn’t expect her to call me, either. It was just a casual question she was asking, not life-changing.’ Fran sounded nettled.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Fran sighed. ‘However, if you hang on for a moment, I’ll call up the stairs and ask her.’

  ‘Oh – are you in the shop?’

  ‘Yes, Libby. Hang on.’

  A few moments later, Libby heard a scuffling noise and Sophie came on the line.

  ‘Hello, Libby. Yes, I asked Nick last night about the gold in the chamber and he laughed.’

  ‘He laughed.’

  ‘Yes! He said if that’s what everybody had been looking for, he would have put their minds at rest.’

  ‘So he did know after all?’

  ‘He knew about that story, anyway. Anyway, look, he said if you and Step-Ma wanted to know more about it, he’d happily tell you.’

  ‘Really? What does Fran think?’

  There was an exchange at the other end that Libby couldn’t make out.

  ‘Fran’s going to ring him and set up a meeting. But this is just for your own interest, isn’t it? Not anything to do with the police?’ Sophie sounded anxious.

  ‘No, they know nothing about it,’ said Libby. ‘It’s just that I came across this little old lady –’

  ‘Yes, Fran told us,’ interrupted Sophie. ‘Look I’d better give Fran her phone back. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Little whirlwind,’ Fran said fondly after the handover had been made. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think we go and meet Nick Heap,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  To Libby’s surprise, Nick Heap had suggested they meet at The Red Lion in Heronsbourne, it being roughly halfway between Nethergate and Steeple Martin.

  ‘Does he actually live in Nethergate, then?’ she asked Fran, as they met in the car park of the pub. ‘I don’t know why, but I had the feeling he lived in Canterbury.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran. ‘It was his suggestion, and I didn’t question it. It would have made more sense, if he does live in Nethergate, to have met there. Anyway, George will be pleased to see us.’

  George Felton, landlord of The Red Lion, was indeed pleased to see them. ‘Them murders you’re looking into, eh?’ he said. ‘Chap over there said he was waiting for you two. Who’s he, then? Not another copper?’

  ‘No, a local historian,’ said Fran. ‘Can I have a coffee, George?’

  ‘And one for me, too, please, George,’ said Libby, who had never really become accustomed to drinking anything but alcohol in a pub.

  ‘Go on, you go over,’ said George. ‘I’ll bring them.’

  They approached the man at the table in the window, and Libby recognised the man from The Sergeant At Arms who told them he had been given a lift by Lisa Harwood.

  ‘Fran Wolfe.’ Fran held out her hand.

  ‘We met before.’ Nick Heap stood up and shook hands with a friendly smile.

  ‘Sort of,’ agreed Libby. ‘I’m Libby. Thanks for seeing us.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ He sat down. ‘Sophie said you’d been asking about the gold in the chapel.’

  ‘We got it all wrong, apparently,’ said Fran. ‘We’d heard about tunnels on the Notbourne Estate, and we were asking about those. And no one seemed to know anything about them.’

  ‘And then someone told me about this mythical chapel,’ said Libby, ‘and suddenly everybody knew about that. Local legend, is it?’

  ‘Can I ask why you were interested?’ Nick Heap tilted his dark head sideways, eyes wary.

  Fran trod on Libby’s foot. ‘A couple of historian friends knew about tunnels in local houses. We have an interest because we discovered some a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Really?’ Now Nick Heap was interested. ‘Would I know of your friends?’

  ‘You might know Andrew Wylie. He lives in Nethergate,’ said Libby.

  ‘Professor Wylie? Of course – I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard of him. So he’s interested, too, is he?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran paused to thank George for the coffee, which he set down with a wink. ‘He discovered the tunnels at Notbourne.’

  ‘He –discovered?’

  ‘In the archives at Maidstone,’ said Libby. ‘And then no one seemed to know anything about them until, as I said, I was told about the legend of the gold in the chapel.’

  ‘I didn’t know about that.’ Nick looked slightly disgruntled. ‘And I thought I knew most things about the area.’

  ‘Yes, we heard from a friend about the presentation you did at her daughter’s school,’ said Fran. ‘She was most impressed.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s difficult sometimes to get young people interested in local history.’ Nick relaxed. ‘So what exactly is it you want to know?’

  ‘If there’s any truth in the story of the chapel,’ said Libby. ‘The lady who told me laughed about it.’

  ‘My reaction exactly,’ said Nick. ‘There are all sorts of stories of treasure hidden in old houses, as you must have heard.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fran. Libby nodded, but they didn’t look at one another.

  ‘But the chapel – is that true?’ asked Libby.

  ‘As far as we know it’s possible.’ Nick looked thoughtful. ‘Have you heard of Mad Monk Cheveley?’

  ‘Not by that name, but wasn’t he the Lord Cheveley who lost the Court and went round in a habit?’

  Nick nodded. ‘It was rumoured that he had found a chapel underground, but the general belief was – and is – that he found a priest’s hole.’

  ‘Perhaps big enough for a Catholic family to worship in?’ suggested Fran.

  Nick sent her a quick look. ‘I see you’re on the same page as I am.’

  Fran, who disliked this kind of modern idiom, nodded.

  ‘Built in the time of Elizabeth, perhaps re-used in the Civil Wars?’ said Libby.

  ‘Exactly. It’s quite possible, although with the Court being knocked down, there’s no knowing where it came out. Where the
entrance was, I mean. Most probably bricked up.’

  ‘There would be two ends, though, wouldn’t there?’ said Libby. ‘For escape.’

  ‘Logically there would, but again, never found. The family are interesting, though.’ Nick went on to describe the Cheveley family’s history from Mad Monkbackwards, without, significantly, referring once to the allegiance to the Hellfire Club.

  Libby finished her coffee. ‘Why do you think the Lord Cheveley of 1908 or whenever it was started going round as a Mad Monk?’ she said.

  Nick looked startled. ‘I don’t know. He was known as a local character – as witness his demolition of the Court when he couldn’t sell it. And of course later, his descendent left it to people quite outside the family.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what started all this really,’ said Fran, treading on Libby’s foot again. ‘Our friend Andrew was asked to look into the history by a living descendent of the Cheveleys.’

  ‘Oh –’ Nick looked even more startled. ‘Really? I thought you’d been looking into the death of Lisa Harwood.’

  ‘You had heard about the other death, though, hadn’t you? The one at Maple Cottage?’ asked Libby. ‘It’s been in the news.’

  ‘Yes, I had, but to be honest, I hadn’t taken much notice. And I certainly hadn’t linked it to our Lisa. Do you know any more about that, yet?’

  ‘No – we’re not privy to the police investigation,’ said Fran with a smile.

  ‘But the deaths were linked?’ He looked worried. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Libby, ‘but we know the police have been questioning the descendent of the Cheveleys about it.’

  ‘She’s still here, is she?’ Nick shook his head. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t know any more about this chapel, or the tunnels,’ said Fran, ‘I don’t think we can pick your brains any further.’

  ‘I wish there was more I could tell you.’ Nick shook his head. ‘I feel as helpless as I did about Lisa. All I could add there was that she’d once given me a lift home. She kept herself to herself, as they say.’

  ‘I remember, now,’ said Libby. ‘Bishop’s Bottom! That’s where you live, isn’t it?’

  He smiled. ‘Certainly is. Do you know it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have a friend who lives there,’ said Fran. ‘Very small place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, we all know each other. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘Ron Stewart,’ said Libby. ‘Do you know him?’

  Nick Heap’s face changed dramatically. ‘Screwball Stewart? You know him?’

  ‘Yes. And Maria.’

  ‘You are well-connected,’ said Nick admiringly.

  ‘No – just local. And we’ve friends in common,’ said Fran.

  ‘You seem to have friends in common with everybody.’ Nick finished his pint. ‘I don’t suppose your friend Professor Wylie would let me have a look at his material, would he?’

  ‘We weren’t allowed to take it away,’ said Libby, ‘so he’s only got copies, and I think he gave those to the police.’

  ‘Why did the police want them?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps they think there’s a link to the dead women.’

  ‘I shall be in a constant state of anticipation now.’ Nick grinned at them. ‘It all sounds like something out of a television series rather than a simple country

  murder.’

  ‘I don’t think any murder’s simple,’ said Libby, with a frown.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Nick hastily backtracked. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to sound heartless. You didn’t know either of the victims, did you?’

  ‘No – how could we?’ asked Fran. ‘Our children knew Lisa, but that was all.’

  ‘And not well, as you said yourself,’ said Libby. ‘She kept herself to herself.’

  ‘Very wise sometimes,’ said Nick with a sigh. ‘Gossip can be a terrible thing.’

  ‘Indeed it can,’ said Fran, standing up. ‘Well, thank you for seeing us Nick, and taking time out of your day.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ Nick also stood up. ‘If you find anything more about the tunnels, or the mythical chapel, would you let me know?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby with a smile. ‘And thank you.’ She took the coffee mugs over to the counter. ‘Thanks, George.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He a regular?’

  ‘No. Once or twice he’s been in over the last year, that’s all.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘No – with a woman.’

  ‘OK, thanks. See you soon.’

  ‘Give my best to your mate Patti when you see her.’

  ‘So,’ said Libby when they were out in the car park, ‘why didn’t we trust him?’

  ‘I’m glad we both felt the same,’ said Fran. ‘He’s a perfectly friendly looking bloke and we know nothing about him, except that he’s the treasurer of the Harriers and he lives in Bishop’s Bottom.’

  ‘First of all,’ said Libby, ‘why was he so keen to meet us? I must say that didn’t occur to me at first.’

  ‘No, me neither. But he didn’t really know anything at all, so he could have just told Sophie and left it at that. He hasn’t really told us anything about the chapel.’

  ‘Just a lot of incidental family history.’

  ‘He was fishing,’ said Fran. ‘He wanted to know how much we knew.’

  ‘Or how much the police know,’ said Libby.

  ‘Let’s drive over and see if Sid knows Nick Heap. If he doesn’t drink here, he might use The Poacher.’

  But Sid wasn’t on duty.

  ‘Cash and Carry,’ said the young barman. ‘Be back later.’

  ‘Suppose we might just as well go home, then,’ said Libby as they emerged into the car park.

  ‘Or we could have a wander along here and look at Chestnut Cottage,’ said Fran.

  ‘We could. Why?’

  ‘I just felt like it,’ said Fran with a shrug.

  They strolled along the lane towards Chestnut Cottage, which, when they reached it, still had police tape fluttering outside.

  ‘I wonder where the tunnel search is going on,’ said Libby.

  ‘Somewhere between here and the ruin,’ said Fran. ‘And someone has been looking after it. Remember how smooth the grass was when we went to have a look?’

  ‘Yes, but Faith told us she’d looked up a firm to tidy the grounds, didn’t she, and then everything was put in the hands of the solicitors in London. Presumably they’re still paying maintenance people.’

  ‘And what are you two doing here?’

  Libby and Fran whirled round so fast they bumped into one another and nearly fell over.

  ‘Ian!’

  ‘Well?’ He put his head on one side.

  ‘Actually,’ said Libby, a bit confused, ‘I don’t really know. We were – um –’

  ‘We met Nick Heap,’ said Fran. ‘And we didn’t trust him. We came to ask Sid at The Poacher if he knew him.’

  ‘Remind me – Nick Heap?’

  ‘Treasurer of the Harriers and the local historian who didn’t know anything about the tunnels,’ said Libby.

  ‘So why meet him, and why didn’t you trust him?’

  It’s a long story,’ said Libby, with a sigh. ‘And where did you pop up from?’

  ‘Never mind that, get on with your long story.’ Ian leant against Chestnut Cottage’s front fence and crossed his arms as Libby began to tell him about Janet Dory and the gold in the chapel.

  ‘And he suggested meeting us,’ said Fran, ‘not the other way round. But he didn’t know anything other than the old story. And it seemed to us as if he was trying to find out what we – or the police – knew.’

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ said Libby slowly.

  ‘What?’ said Ian and Fran together.

  ‘When we told him that the Cheveleys’ descendent was the one who asked Andrew to look into the archives – little white lie, but still – he said “She’s still here, is she?” We never me
ntioned it, so how did he know it was a woman?’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Ian regarded them both with amusement.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder how you manage when you aren’t involved with a murder investigation.’ He levered himself upright. ‘First – why do you need to know more about the tunnels? You know we’ve found them, so all that needs to be known about them – and if they are connected to two murders – will soon be known.

  ‘Second –I really don’t know why you don’t trust this man who, it seems to me, was only suffering from the same condition as yourselves. Curiosity.’

  Libby felt heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks. Fran was looking at the floor.

  ‘As for how he knew the descendent of the Cheveleys – or Hays – was a woman, her presence in the area and in Steeple Martin has been talked about quite freely, I imagine, within your own families and friends? Sophie will have talked about it with the other members of the Harriers, who will naturally have been interested inthe investigation into Lisa Harwood’s death.’

  ‘But –’ began Libby.

  ‘And if you’re going to say they wouldn’t know the connection with Lisa’s murder, you only have to remember that Lisa was, effectively, the murdered woman’s tenant, and that Faith Conway was looking for her … Speculation would be as rife within their group as it is between you two.’

  Libby couldn’t look at Ian or Fran.

  Fran cleared her throat. ‘We’ll – er – get going, then,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you wanted to know where I’d popped up from?’ The amusement was back in Ian’s voice. Libby sneaked a look upwards. He was smiling.

  ‘Um – well, you know …’ she began.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ He opened the gate to Chestnut Cottage and Libby’s eyes widened. ‘Strictly off the record, of course.’

  He led them up the path to where it branched off round the side, leading to the high fence which hid the back garden from view, and opened a gate.

  The previously hidden garden was, as far as Libby could see, bare. Grass stretched as far as the eye could see, as far, in fact, as the distant ruin of what had been Notbourne Court.

  ‘Have you walked here from over there?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No.’ Ian opened a back door into Chestnut Cottage, which led into an uninteresting but functional kitchen.