‘A fire, Sidney,’ she said. ‘That’s what we want. We need cheering up.’ Sidney’s ears twitched again and his nose got pushed even more firmly under his tail. Libby creaked down on to her knees and began riddling the grate. She had just got her fingers suitably covered in coal dust and firelighter when her phone rang. Libby swore.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the voice on the other end.
‘I’m lighting a fire.’
‘And it’s annoying you?’
‘No, you are, Harry. I’m covered in coal dust, and so is the phone now.’
‘Ring me back when you’re clean, then,’ said Harry. ‘I want to have a chat.’
Libby returned to the fire. Harry co-owned The Pink Geranium vegetarian restaurant in the village with his life partner Peter, who also happened to be Ben’s cousin. Libby had known Harry and Peter for several years; in fact it had been they who helped her find number 17 Allhallow’s Lane in what they called “The search for Bide-a-Wee”. Now Adam, Libby’s youngest child, lived in the flat above The Pink Geranium, where he helped out in the evenings to augment his earnings as an assistant to a garden designer and landscaper.
Libby had listened to Harry’s concerns over several matters in the last few years, from his last foray into heterosexuality to the arrangements for his civil partnership ceremony. He, in turn, had listened to more than his fair share of Libby’s troubles and anxieties, most frequently her ambivalence in her relationship with Ben and her rather unwholesome interest in local murders. It occurred to her, rather shamefacedly, that Harry had been more of a support to her than she had to him, so she must make the time to listen properly and help in any way she could.
‘But I can’t do that!’ she exclaimed down the phone ten minutes later, sitting on the cane sofa in front of a now nicely blazing fire.
‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘You’ve peered into other people’s private lives in the past – and without their permission, too. At least this time someone’s asking you to do it.’
‘No, they aren’t,’ said Libby, feeling hot and uncomfortable. ‘You’re the one asking me to do it. This poor man wanted your help. You suggested me.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it,’ said Harry. ‘All I’m asking you to do is look into some rather nasty letters Cy’s had. And his panto gives you the perfect opportunity.’
‘Harry, I’m taking over the fairy here as well as directing,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t possibly get involved with another panto.’
There was a short silence. ‘Ah,’ said Harry.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Libby. ‘If you can tell me a bit more about it, I could p’raps ask Fran what she thinks?’
‘I don’t think he wants anyone else knowing,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but I suppose I could take you to meet him. How would that be?’
‘Embarrassing,’ said Libby. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me and see if I come up with anything?’
‘I don’t know all the background,’ said Harry, ‘but I suppose I could tell you what he told me.’
‘Go ahead, then.’ Libby settled back into the sofa.
‘Face to face, Lib.’
Libby sighed. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, then,’ she said, ‘or are you busy prepping up for this evening?’
‘No, most of it’s done. I’ll pop round and then I can have a word with the invalid at the same time, can’t I?’
‘You can try and talk him into going back to the flat, too,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle back on.’
‘And I’ll bring some of that carrot cake you like,’ said Harry. ‘See you in a minute.’
Ten minutes later, Harry breezed into the sitting room shaking water from his navy pea coat and handing over a large greaseproof paper parcel.
‘I’ll dash up and say hello to old peg-leg first,’ he said, hanging his coat on the hook in the tiny vestibule. ‘Or he’ll hear me and start shouting.’
Libby put mugs, teapot, milk, and sugar and cake on a tray and carried them into the sitting room, where she switched on the two lamps either side of the fire and sat down, shifting Sidney out of the way. Harry appeared in the doorway and she waved him to the armchair.
‘Now,’ she said, pouring tea into mugs. ‘Who is this Cy, and what is this all about? I’m warning you, I’m not ever getting involved in any more murders, so it had better not be that.’
Harry raised his eyebrows.
‘Not ever?’ he said.
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Murder by the Sea Page 27