‘Yes, because he guessed how you would feel. No – he actually knew how you’d feel. And he told me off.’
‘On my side, then, is he?’
‘Firmly,’ said Libby. ‘I always wondered how the kids would feel if I wanted to get married again.’
‘Is that why you’ve always said you wouldn’t?’
‘No, I lost faith in marriage. As I said to Adam, my ex and yours both went off with other people, so it’s no protection.’
‘You don’t get married just for protection,’ said Ben. ‘That’s medieval.’
‘No profession of commitment, then.’
‘It is, Lib. Just because some people change, it doesn’t mean they didn’t mean it at the time.’
‘So what’s the point, then? If you’re not saying “I will love and stay with you for ever”? You can do that without benefit of the law.’
Ben frowned. ‘Why did Harry and Pete get hitched, then?’
‘To prove to the world that they meant it?’
‘That’s one interpretation. Pete wanted to tell the world he loved Harry. And it probably meant more for them to do it than a heterosexual couple.’
‘We’re talking in circles,’ said Libby. ‘I love you.’ She felt herself going pink. ‘But I still don’t see the point in getting married. I wish you could talk me round.’
‘Perhaps wishing it is the first step?’ Ben smiled slightly. ‘I’ll just have to hope so, won’t I? But meanwhile, I think we’d better stick to our own establishments, don’t you?’
Libby’s mouth fell open in horror. ‘You mean –’
‘I’ll go home every night,’ said Ben. ‘You can invite me for a meal now and then, of course.’
‘That’s big of you,’ muttered Libby.
‘Meanwhile – how about dinner?’
‘You mean – er – what do you mean?’ Libby scowled at him. ‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.’
‘Oh, I am, I am. More seriously than you are. And I meant would you like dinner here tonight?’
‘Oh.’ Mollified, Libby sat back. ‘Yes please.’
Since the success of The Pink Geranium, Harry’s ‘caff’ as he called it, the pub, much beloved of calendar makers, had upped its game on the dining front, and now provided home-made food that was beginning to rival the local gastro-pub. Despite the excellence of her steak and ale pie, Libby found the meal hard going. The atmosphere was worse than it had been the very first time they had been out together, much worse, in fact. Libby was still wondering why things had changed so much between them almost without warning, when Ben asked, ‘How are young Jane and Terry?’
Libby’s heart sank. ‘Fine,’ she said.
‘They’re getting married, too, aren’t they?’ Ben said casually, not looking at her.
‘Yes.’ Libby refrained from asking how he knew. ‘And all you’re doing, you know, is causing me to dig my heels in. The more you drop hints, or issue ultimata, the more stubborn I shall be. Exactly as I am about smoking. The more the bloody government preach at me, and ban me from doing things, the more I shall insist on doing them. No one has the right to dictate to me how I live my life. I shall continue to live it according to my own lights.’ She sighed, pushed her plate away and stood up. ‘It was a lovely meal, thank you, Ben. You must let me buy you dinner some time.’ She picked up her basket, noting the expression on his face with satisfaction. ‘Good night.’
As she walked down the high street in the gathering gloom she kept her ears pricked for his footsteps behind her, but they never came. By the time she turned into Allhallow’s Lane she was feeling slightly embarrassed about her outburst. The lilac hanging over the wall wafted perfume under her nose, and the long racemes dusted her hair as she plodded along towards number 17, a red-brick terraced cottage opposite a tiny green, where Romeo the Renault sat parked under a hawthorn tree, and Sidney the silver tabby regarded the world from the window.
By the time Libby opened the door and stumbled down the step, Sidney was on his favourite stair, trying to tell her that he had been waiting there for her for simply hours.
‘Don’t lie,’ said Libby, slipping her light jacket off and tossing it, with her basket, onto the small table in the window. The lump in her throat was growing bigger and bigger, and she decided the only thing to do was drown it in a large glass of red wine. With a cigarette, she added viciously, even though she hardly ever smoked these days.
Provided with these aids to recovery, she sat down, turned on the television and promptly burst into tears.
The following morning, she packed up several small canvases to take into Nethergate for Guy’s gallery-cum-shop. She was always surprised that these paintings sold so well, but Guy wasn’t. ‘Nethergate,’ he always said, ‘is a very old-fashioned resort, with what is normally called “a nice Class of Visitor”. They much prefer an original to a mass-produced version, even though that might be cheaper. And we keep yours at a reasonable price.’
When she arrived, she found Fran in the shop, sitting beside Sophie, Guy’s daughter, going through a magazine. Guy grinned and nodded towards them.
‘Wedding magazine,’ he explained. ‘Sophie thinks it’s Christmas.’
‘She’s pleased, then?’
‘Over the moon. She’s always liked Fran. I think for a bit she was afraid I was going to team up with you.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Libby, unwrapping brown paper.
‘You’re too volatile and extrovert for me, she thinks. I need a calming influence.’
‘Too much like a bull in a china shop you mean,’ muttered Libby.
Guy put his head on one side. ‘Sometimes,’ he agreed. ‘I have heard it said.’
‘By Ben and Pete, mainly.’ Libby pushed the brown paper and string aside and stood the paintings up. ‘There.’
‘Very nice,’ said Guy approvingly. ‘A few different ones this time.’
‘Jane and Terry let me use their front windows for a different perspective,’ said Libby. ‘Now old Mrs Finch has gone, they’ve been doing up the basement flat, so I’m not in their way.’
‘To let?’ asked Guy.
‘No. They’re going to turn Peel House back into one dwelling and ask Jane’s mother if she’d like to come and live in the flat. It’s got its own entrance and the garden, so she’d be quite comfortable.’
‘But I thought she was a dragon? Fran said she was awful.’
‘She is. But Jane’s thinking ahead. Her mum isn’t getting any younger and if she needs care of any sort, Jane’s a long way away. Also, she’d be a built-in baby-sitter.’
‘Baby? She’s not pregnant?’ Guy looked aghast. ‘No.’ Libby giggled. ‘But they are getting married, and they’re not into their dotage yet.’
‘They’re having the full church do, though, aren’t they?’ Guy cast a loving glance at his fiancée and daughter. ‘Not like us.’
‘No.’ Libby couldn’t help heaving a gusty sigh. ‘What’s up, Lib?’ Guy lifted her chin with a finger. ‘Problems?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Libby looked at him unwillingly.
‘Hmm.’ Guy dropped his hand. ‘Fran, shall we go and have a coffee? Soph, will you shop-sit for a bit?’
‘Sure,’ she said, her blonde curtain of hair falling over her eyes. ‘Bring me back a latte, will you?’
‘Latte,’ scoffed Guy. ‘Why it can’t be plain and simple black or white coffee, I don’t know.’
‘Nobody of our generation does,’ said Fran, tucking her arm through his as they strolled along Harbour Street towards the Blue Anchor café. ‘Neither does Mavis, really, but she does her best.’
Mavis was flicking a cloth over the outside tables at the Blue Anchor and greeted them with a gloomy nod and a tin ashtray. Libby glanced guiltily at Guy and Fran and lit up.
‘Fran.’ Guy dug her in the ribs. ‘Come on, then, Lib. Tell us all about it.’
‘Three coffees,’ said Mavis, appearing with a tray. When Mavis returned to the interior of the café, Libby told Fran and Guy about Ben’s reaction to their marriage. Fran was horrified.
‘And Terry and Jane make it worse,’ said Libby, wiping coffee froth off her top lip.
‘Oh, God,’ groaned Fran and put her head in her hands. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said yes.’
Libby and Guy looked astonished.
‘You what?’ said Libby. ‘Don’t be so bloody daft. I told you, you’re a different type from me entirely, and what happens to Ben and me is absolutely nothing to do with you.’
‘Quite,’ said Guy, looking worried.
‘And what about this murder?’ said Fran, looking up. ‘That can’t have helped.’
‘Actually, he’s quite interested in that,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t go out looking for it, and I’ve been trying to stay clear, although I did go and see this Lewis person yesterday.’
Fran sat up straight. ‘And?’ she said.
Libby looked at her warily, scenting change in the air. ‘Don’t repeat any of this,’ she said slowly, ‘because it’s completely confidential, but I’ll give you the bare bones.’
Guy and Fran groaned together. ‘Sorry,’ said Libby, and launched into her story.
‘The police will have found most of this out anyway,’ said Guy, when she’d finished. ‘I don’t see the need for all this secrecy of the confessional.’
‘Me neither. And the identity of his good fairy – no pun intended – will come out, too, as he sold Lewis the house.’
‘Who’s the body?’ said Fran.
‘They don’t know. They were doing forensics on it, Adam said. I think they thought at first it was very old, but now they think it might be more recent.’
‘How recent?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Eighteen months?’ Libby shook her head. ‘The police aren’t keeping Adam in their confidence. And he says they’ve got a scary superintendent they call Big Bertha, who would certainly be immune to any charms of either his or mine.’
‘Was it in the wood?’ asked Fran.
‘The skeleton? Yes, near the edge. Adam and Mog are clearing a path through it. I told you, he wants to turn it into a venue.’
‘Not if the entrance is still up that dismal overgrown drive in between those broken gateposts,’ said Guy.
‘That’s the way I go in, but perhaps there’s another way.’
‘It’s not a happy place,’ said Fran.
Libby and Guy looked at her.
‘No?’ said Libby.
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘And Lewis isn’t happy, either.’
‘How do you know?’ said Guy after a pause, while Fran looked out to sea, where the Dolphin, or it could have been the Sparkler, bobbed slowly round Dragon Island.
‘I just do,’ said Fran. ‘And it’s going to get worse.’
Depressed, Libby decided to leave them to it and drive back to Steeple Martin. She was just passing the turn to Steeple Mount when the midday news came on the radio.
‘And now, what the police are calling the “unexplained death” in his London home of financier Tony West.’
Chapter Seven
‘AD, IS LEWIS THERE?’ Libby had barely got through the front door before she was dialling Adam’s number.
‘No.’ Adam sounded perplexed. ‘He went off this morning before we got here. Katie won’t tell us anything.’
Trying to remember how much Adam knew of Lewis’s story, Libby tried another tack. ‘Did he talk to the police yesterday?’
‘I don’t know. Mog and I went back to work and didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon. He’s not likely to have told us, anyway, is he?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Libby, and sat down on the stairs.
‘What’s up, Ma? Is it something to do with what he told you yesterday?’
‘In a way, yes,’ said Libby, aware of a sinking feeling in her stomach. ‘I’m very much afraid your friend Lewis is going to be even deeper in the mire than he was before.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I think the friend who sold him Creekmarsh has just been found dead,’ said Libby, quite certain she was right.
There was a long silence. ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Adam finally. ‘I guess I’d better tell Mog.’
‘Yes, I suppose you had,’ said Libby. ‘I should think there’d be a block on everything to do with the place now.’
‘They wouldn’t think Lewis would kill this bloke, surely,’ Adam said. ‘And he couldn’t have put the skeleton in the wood, either.’
‘I think it’s a little more complicated than that,’ said Libby. ‘If you do see him, tell him he can ring me if he wants. And Ad –’
‘What?’
‘I think I might talk to Fran about it.’
‘Ma!’ he said warningly.
‘No, listen. She said a couple of things this morning about Creekmarsh and Lewis and she doesn’t know either of them. I’ll have to ask.’
‘Well, don’t go getting yourselves into trouble again. You know what Ben would say.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, gritting her teeth. ‘I’d better go now, Ad. And don’t stop work yet, the police will tell you if you have to.’
‘Oh, thanks, now I’ve got something to look forward to,’ said Adam, and rang off.
Libby sat for a moment, then went and turned on the television and tried to find a news channel. Since Ben had persuaded her to install satellite, this was now easy, but none of the channels seemed to have anything on the death of Tony West. Eventually, however, a photograph flashed up on the screen with his name underneath. Libby recognised it immediately. No wonder Lewis had been keen to keep it under wraps, she thought.
Tony West had been a financier, yes, but also an entrepreneur, his fingers in many media pies, including reality TV. Libby had seen him on various television talk shows, and knew he was reputed to have what used to be known as an eye for the ladies, particularly those with very short skirts and very low tops. Not to mention an eye for the young men, reflected Libby, but she could now see what damage the relationship with Lewis could do to both of them, including the way West had used his influence to get Lewis the job on Housey Housey and subsequently his own show.
And now he was dead. And everything was going to come out. And Lewis was going to be destroyed. Of course, she thought, standing up and going into the kitchen, she could be wrong. It could be entirely the wrong Tony. But the coincidences were just too much. She moved the kettle absently on to the hotplate and stood staring out of the window. Sidney was stalking a butterfly, a futile occupation, about which he never learnt. He occasionally caught a blackbird or a mouse, to Libby’s horror, particularly as she had to clear up the resulting massacre in the house, but butterflies were far too canny. They led him a pretty chase, although Adam and Dominic said it made him look like a gay ballet dancer.
The kettle began to grumble to itself and Libby warmed the teapot. It was a proper cup of tea moment, not a time for a tea bag in the mug. When she’d poured on the water, she went back to the phone.
‘Fran, you know you said Creekmarsh wasn’t a happy place? And that Lewis wasn’t happy, either? What did you mean?’
There was a short silence. ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran eventually. ‘It just feels dead. As though the trees are keeping in all the damp and dark and depression.’
Libby shivered. ‘It does feel a bit like that,’ she said, ‘especially going up the drive. The whole area is like it. And although what I’ve seen of the house is beautiful, in a decaying sort of a way, that’s the same.’
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‘There’s been another death, hasn’t there?’ said Fran.
Libby’s heart jumped. ‘Yes. Did you see it on the news?’
‘I haven’t seen the news. But there has, hasn’t there?’
‘I think so,’ said Libby, and explained.
‘Yes, that’s right. That’s him,’ said Fran. ‘Has Lewis called you?’
‘No. Will he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fran, ‘but I think he’s in trouble now.’
‘If he wants help, would you be willing?’
Fran sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Lib. I can’t help feeling that we’d be interfering. We know nothing about this. Your only connection is Adam working in the garden. And we don’t know any of the police involved.’
‘Fran, if he really wants help and he’s in trouble, you can’t refuse to help him, can you? Not if you’ve seen something.’
‘It’s only a feeling, Lib. I haven’t seen a hanging man, or anything.’
‘But you came up with it spontaneously. Like you used to say, it was just as if you’d always known.’
‘All right, all right. If you hear anything else, or Lewis asks you, you can call me. But I really don’t want to get involved. Guy and I want to get down to planning our wedding.’
With an effort, Libby accepted the change of subject. ‘How exciting,’ she said. ‘I didn’t ask this morning. Any decisions yet?’
‘A few,’ said Fran. ‘Why don’t you and Ben come over – oh. No, perhaps not a good idea.’
‘No,’ said Libby miserably.
‘Well, how about I come over this evening and tell you what’s been going on so far?’ suggested Fran.
‘But I only saw you this morning,’ said Libby. ‘Are you sure you want to see me again? Won’t Guy mind?’
Fran laughed. ‘Libby, what’s got into you? We’ve seen one another up to four times a day in the past, and as for Guy minding! Since when has that worried you?’
‘Oh, it’s all this stuff with Ben, I suppose,’ sighed Libby.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Fran, sounding quite brisk, ‘I’ll ask Guy to drive over and take Ben for a drink, it’s probably just what he needs, and I’ll come round to you and we can kill a bottle and discuss wedding plans. How does that sound?’
Murder in Bloom Page 5