Murder in Bloom

by Lesley Cookman

  Libby crawled back under the duvet and tentatively reached for Ben.

  ‘That didn’t take long.’ His voice was blurred with sleep.

  ‘No,’ said Libby and, smiling, closed her eyes.

  Sunday dawned sunny and Libby was filled with optimism. Adam and Ben were both still asleep when she came downstairs to Sidney’s importunings, and after she’d fed him, she went into the garden to wait for the kettle to boil.

  A soft breeze drifted through the branches of the cherry tree, now alive with bright green leaves, the white blossom only a memory, and multi-coloured aquilegia waved along the bottom of the large choisya. Sidney had disappeared over the back fence into The Manor woods, and Libby could hear a distant lawn mower. Sniffing, she agreed with Chesterton’s dog Quoodle; there was a definite smell about Sunday morning.

  She made tea and took hers upstairs with Ben’s.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said, struggling to an upright position and leaning forward to kiss her.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said, her stomach melting with the pleasure of just seeing him there, propped up against the white pillows.

  ‘Come back to bed, then.’ He turned back a corner of the duvet and waggled his eyebrows at her. She giggled.

  ‘Drink your tea first,’ she said. ‘Or it will go cold.’

  It did.

  ‘And now,’ said Libby, some time later, ‘I shall have to make more tea and go and see if Ali and

  Ahmed are open this morning.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ben lazily. ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘And I promised Ad a proper Sunday lunch, which I completely forgot about. So I’ll have to go and see what Ahmed can rustle up.’

  ‘He might have a frozen chicken,’ said Ben doubtfully, ‘but what about vegetables?’

  ‘I might have to cadge off Pete and Harry or your mum,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think they’d mind?’

  ‘I’ll give Mum a ring,’ said Ben, swinging his legs out of bed. ‘Where are my trousers?’

  ‘Do you have to put your trousers on to phone your mum?’ Libby snickered. ‘Will she be shocked?’

  ‘Idiot. My phone’s in the pocket.’

  When Libby returned from the bathroom to get dressed, Ben was back in bed.

  ‘We’ve all been invited to lunch at The Manor,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘So you can come back to bed again. We’ve got some time to make up.’

  ‘Did you force your mum into it?’ asked Libby suspiciously.

  ‘No, she was delighted to ask us. It gives her a chance to cook properly, she said. You know how she loves entertaining.’

  ‘Cooking, yes. I wouldn’t say she liked entertaining as in dinner parties.’

  Ben grinned. ‘No. I can’t see my mum in a glam frock serving goat’s cheese on a raspberry coulis, can you?’

  Libby grinned back and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. ‘No, thank goodness,’ she said, and dived back under the duvet.

  By the time Adam appeared, Ben and Libby were in the garden, respectably dressed and in deep conversation about summer flowering perennials.

  ‘Morning, Ma,’ he said, pushing a hand through tangled hair. ‘’Lo, Ben. Is there any tea?’

  ‘You can make some,’ said Libby. ‘Hangover?’

  ‘No,’ said Adam with some surprise. ‘I got a lift home from someone and he didn’t want to be late, so I was in by about half twelve. You were already asleep.’

  ‘Well, good,’ said Libby, avoiding Ben’s eye, ‘because Hetty’s invited us up to The Manor for lunch.’

  ‘Hey, great,’ said Adam, brightening. ‘But I thought you were going to do lunch?’

  ‘I was, but now Hetty’s invited us. I expect she wants to see you.’

  ‘She’s got a soft spot for you, you know,’ said Ben, sitting down on one of the slightly unstable garden chairs.

  Adam looked down at his feet. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, then, have a shower and I’ll make you some tea,’ said Libby, giving him a fond push towards the cottage.

  It was a shock later, when Libby turned on the radio while clearing up the kitchen from the previous evening, which unaccountably hadn’t been done, to hear that the midday news bulletin contained a reference to both the discovery of the Creekmarsh skeleton, although without naming the house, and Tony West’s murder. Scraping the remains of the chicken into the bin, Libby realised she hadn’t once thought about ‘the investigation’ since Ben had arrived. She smiled a secret little smile.

  Promptly at one o’clock, Ben, Libby and Adam presented themselves at The Manor. Hetty greeted them without fuss and showed them into the sitting room, where Ben’s father Greg sat, frailer than ever, but ever the courteous host. Lunch was served at the huge table in the kitchen. Adam’s eyes gleamed at the enormous rib of beef, the tureens of vegetables, Hetty’s special gravy and horseradish sauce.

  ‘Enough to feed an army as usual,’ said Ben, grinning at his mother, who wielded a skilful carving knife.

  ‘Plenty to see us through the week,’ said Hetty. ‘Take some ’ome cold, gal, put it in ’is sandwiches.’ She nodded towards Adam, who beamed back at her.

  ‘Will you be needing sandwiches next week, Ad? Or will Katie be back?’

  ‘Who’s Katie?’ asked Ben.

  ‘She’s, like, Lewis’s sort of housekeeper-secretary,’ said Adam, helping himself to roast parsnips. ‘She’s been away since – well, I don’t really know. She wasn’t there yesterday.’

  ‘She’s just gone home for the weekend,’ said Libby. ‘Lewis said she’d gone to London.’

  ‘So what’s he like then, this Lewis Wotsit?’ asked Hetty.

  After lunch, Libby offered to help with the clearing up, and, as usual, Hetty said it would all go in the dishwasher – she gave it a pat – and she preferred to do her pots herself.

  Adam, perfectly at home at The Manor, wandered into the library, which, he told them, was the perfect setting for a murder and wondered why Ben and Libby both told him to shut up.

  ‘Actually, Ad, I was going to ask your advice about something,’ Ben went on.

  ‘My advice?’ Adam looked shocked.

  ‘You must have picked up a certain amount working with Mog?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ said Adam, glancing nervously at his mother.

  ‘I need a bit of advice on what to do with that bit of the old lawn that goes down to the wood,’ said Ben, putting an arm round Adam’s shoulders. ‘Would you come and have a look at it?’

  They disappeared through the French windows and Libby watched, an amused expression on her face.

  ‘There now,’ said Hetty, coming in with a tea tray. ‘I didn’t make coffee. Thought you’d like a cuppa.’

  ‘Lovely, thanks, Hetty,’ said Libby, who was still full of Cabernet Sauvignon. ‘Does Ben really need Adam’s advice on the garden?’

  Hetty looked up. ‘If it’s that bit down by the woods, yes, he does. Can’t decide whether to chop the lot down, put up a fence or what. Not much fer ’im to do round ’ere, really.’ She passed Libby a cup. ‘So things working out for you again?’

  ‘Er –’ said Libby.

  ‘Just our Ben’s not bin happy this week. And I reckoned it had something to do with you. And that Fran and Guy getting married.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s it exactly. And Guy wants Ben as best man, and Fran wants me as – well – attendant, I suppose. All very difficult.’

  ‘And you still don’t want to get married?’

  ‘Oh, Het, I’m not sure. I love Ben, but marriage hasn’t done well by either of us in the past, has it?’

  ‘Neither it did with that Fran, nor that Guy. They was both married before, and they’re taking the chance.’

/>   ‘I know.’ Libby looked down at her cup. ‘Would you be happier if we got married?’

  Hetty shrugged. ‘Don’t make no difference to me,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why you don’t just live together. Most folks do.’

  ‘Ben’s said he’d like to move in with me,’ said Libby. ‘Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that it isn’t lovely here –’

  ‘But it ain’t your own.’ Hetty nodded. ‘Be Ben’s one day, though.’

  ‘Don’t talk about it,’ said Libby.

  ‘Have to. My Greg’s not going to last much longer – it’s a wonder he’s held on as long as he has

  – and I ain’t no spring chicken. Got power of attorney for both of us, has Ben. ’Course, there’ll be our Susan to think about too, but she’s got her own place.’

  ‘Power of attorney? Gosh, has he?’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No reason you should. Just being sensible, case anything happens. I remember what it was like when I took over here.’ Hetty stared broodingly at the carpet.

  ‘It must have been so hard for you,’ said Libby gently, after a moment. Hetty pulled herself together. ‘Yeah, well, had to

  be done, didn’t it?’ She poured more tea into her cup and looked enquiringly at Libby, who shook her head. ‘You have to get things in order, gal, so as your kids don’t have a mess to clear up. Don’t mean you’re going to die next week, just that it’s all clear and they don’t have nothing to worry about when the time comes. Hard enough without all that.’

  Libby nodded, feeling her throat constrict at the thought of this doughty old woman who had had so much to contend with throughout her life, and who still worked so hard, being so concerned to leave everyone happy.

  Hetty looked at her watch. ‘Time for Greg’s medicine,’ she said, ‘but he’s dozed off in the sitting room, so I’ll leave him to it for a bit.’

  ‘How is he?’ asked Libby, a question she rarely asked because she was always afraid of the answer.

  ‘Up and down. Likes a bit of company, you could see that, couldn’t you?’ Hetty’s faded eyes twinkled. ‘Likes you, he does. And that Adam. He’s a caution, that boy.’

  The caution then reappeared at the French windows with Ben in tow and immediately began regaling Hetty and Libby with his thoughts on The Manor grounds. Ben shrugged and smiled at Libby, coming to sit on the arm of her chair. Hetty offered tea and she and Adam settled down to talk about gardens.

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ Ben murmured to Libby. ‘How long has he been working with Mog?’

  ‘Not long. He’s helped him out with odd jobs before, but this is the first major thing he’s done. I wonder if he’ll make it into a career?’

  ‘Well, he’s learnt an awful lot in a short time, so he must be interested,’ said Ben.

  Adam’s pocket began to sing ‘Yellow Submarine’ and he fished his mobile out of his pocket.

  ‘Sorry, Hetty,’ he said, ‘just better see what this is.’

  He stood up and went to the windows, listening, then turned to Libby with an astonished look on his face.

  ‘It’s Lewis,’ he said. ‘Cindy Dale’s just turned up.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘CINDY WHO?’ BEN ASKED.

  ‘Gerald Shepherd’s daughter-in-law,’ said Libby. ‘What else, Ad?’

  ‘He’s had to go. She’s in the room with him, apparently.’ He looked hopeful. ‘Do we go?’

  Ben groaned. Libby shook her head. ‘No. I’m sure we’ll hear all about it soon. You will, tomorrow, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you go getting involved, young Adam,’ said Hetty. ‘Leave it to yer ma.’

  Ben groaned again and put his head in his hands.

  Libby laughed. ‘Oh, Het! You couldn’t have said anything worse.’

  ‘Well, you won’t let it alone whatever anyone says,’ said Hetty reasonably, ‘so might as well let you get on with it.’

  Ben looked up reproachfully. ‘Oh, Mum. expected you at least to be on my side.’

  Hetty grunted. ‘’Course I am. But she won’t take no notice of me.’

  ‘Let’s forget it,’ said Libby, feeling a blush creep up her neck. ‘Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Not what you said last night at half past eleven,’ grumbled Ben.

  Adam’s eyes widened. ‘Hey – too much information!’

  Libby’s blush got deeper. ‘Is there any more tea, Hetty?’ she asked desperately.

  Hetty cocked an eye at her and nodded. ‘Go and put the kettle on, gal,’ she said.

  Despite her determination not to discuss the Creekmarsh case, Libby thought about it while she carried the tray through to the kitchen and put the big kettle back on the Aga. Something else had occurred to her, triggered by the reappearance of Cindy Dale, a hugely surprising event in itself.

  If Tony West had been proved to have legal power of attorney, when had it been implemented? Gerald Shepherd had been missing for three years, so it must have been done before he went, which argued a degree of forethought not substantiated by the public version of the story, that Cindy and Gerald went off together while Kenneth was in Dungeon Trial. She frowned. Now she really did want to meet Cindy Dale and find out what actually happened, although the police would probably be crawling all over her for the next few days. Libby warmed the pot thoughtfully and wondered when Cindy had turned up at Creekmarsh. And, whenever she’d appeared, why?

  The rest of the afternoon passed without embarrassment or incident, and on the way back to Allhallow’s Lane, Ben suggested he and Libby should call in to see his cousin Peter and Harry. Adam said he would go back to the cottage before going to the pub.

  Peter and Harry were in a Sunday afternoon state of sloth. Libby sank into her usual sagging armchair and refused tea.

  ‘We’re awash with Hetty’s PG tips, thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Drinky-poos, then?’ said Harry, pulling his towelling robe more firmly round his waist.

  ‘Oh, go on, then,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘May I have a whisky?’

  Harry poured whisky for Libby and gin and tonics for himself, Peter and Ben. Ben, perched on the arm of the sofa, was deep in conversation with his cousin about other members of the family, notably Peter’s mother Millie, Hetty’s sister, who now lived in a comfortable home for the slightly insane, as Peter put it. Millie had suffered a complete nervous breakdown some years before, and although at first she had been able to live in her own home with a suitable carer, this was no longer an option. The last time Libby had seen her was at Peter and Harry’s civil partnership celebrations, at which she had surprised everybody by behaving impeccably, although with no idea where she was or what was going on.

  ‘How is she?’ Libby muttered to Harry. ‘I don’t like to pry.’

  ‘Pry away, ducks,’ said Harry. ‘She’s as fit as a fiddle and will probably outlive us all. Pete’s big problem at the moment is what to do with Steeple Farm.’

  ‘Why is that a problem? Can’t he sell it?’

  ‘He hasn’t got power of attorney,’ said Harry.

  ‘Blimey O’Reilly,’ said Libby. ‘All I seem to hear about these days is power of attorney. First this bloody Creekmarsh case, then Hetty this afternoon and now you.’

  ‘You asked,’ said Harry, affronted.

  ‘Sorry, Harry.’ Libby reached over and patted his knee. ‘It’s just such a coincidence. Tell me why Pete hasn’t got power of attorney?’

  ‘Because Millie went loopy before he could get it. You can’t do it unless the donor, as they’re called, is aware of what’s going on. And after she flipped, she wasn’t. So he and James will have to wait until she pops off, I suppose.’

  ‘You do sound callous,’ said Libby.

  Harry shrugged, causing his robe to gape alarmingly. ‘Got to be sensible,’ he s
aid. ‘And she doesn’t know what’s going on, does she? Anyway, it’s not as if either we or James need the money.’

  ‘So what’s Pete worrying about, then?’

  ‘It’s standing empty, and Pete feels guilty. He thinks we should let it out, but it would need a lot spent on it first.’

  ‘Really? I thought Millie had already spent a lot on it? She ripped out the old kitchen and put in that new one, didn’t she?’

  ‘Which is already dated and, as you well know, doesn’t suit the house at all. Mind you, I don’t suppose tenants would worry about that. No, it’s health and safety. A lot of the furniture would have to be replaced with fire-retardant stuff, and the insurance would be prohibitive. It’s bad enough anyway, as it’s thatched.’

  ‘Oh, I see. What a waste of a lovely old house,’ said Libby wistfully.

  ‘Here! That’s it!’ said Harry, patting her cheek. ‘You and Ben can go and live there and do it up for us.’

  ‘Oh, gee, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘I couldn’t live with that kitchen.’ She sipped her whisky. ‘I suppose it was all the fuss with Millie that made Hetty sort out their powers of attorney with Ben.’

  ‘’Spect so,’ said Harry, ‘but what about this Creekmarsh business? Why don’t I know anything about it?’

  ‘You’ve heard it on the news, haven’t you?’

  ‘All I’ve heard is a skeleton in some big garden.’

  ‘That’s the one. Creekmarsh, over the other side of Nethergate.’

  ‘Yes, and I know Ad’s been working there. How is the dear boy?’

  ‘Lovely, thanks. Creekmarsh’s owner fancies him.’

  Harry looked interested. ‘Oh, yeah? Male, this owner?’

  ‘Don’t get excited. Ad and I are bringing him to dinner at the caff sometime this week. You can look him over. Lewis Osbourne-Walker if you’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Known as Osbourne-something-else in the community,’ grinned Harry, ‘but as he’s mates with you I suppose he isn’t.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. He’s just a bit confused, having a lot of money quite suddenly and then being mixed up in what looks like a double murder.’