Murder in Bloom

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Hello, Mr Maiden,’ said Libby. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘It’s DS Maiden, now,’ said Ian, smiling at his junior officer. Maiden blushed.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Fran. ‘To think I’ve known you since you were in uniform!’

  ‘This is a formal interview,’ warned Ian, ‘so Mrs Castle should really not be in the room.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish. If we were at the police station, yes, but not here,’ said Fran briskly.

  Ian looked sideways at his sergeant, who grinned back innocently.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘No tea for me.’

  Maiden’s face fell. Fran patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll make you some,’ she said. ‘Is that all right, Libby?’

  ‘Of course it is. Pour us a glass of wine while you’re there.’ Libby turned back to Ian who was looking even more disapproving. ‘Carry on.’

  The interview was little more than a reiteration of the information Ian had already received from both Fran and Libby. He listened to their theories while DS Maiden got more and more interested and forgot to take notes.

  ‘So aren’t you going to satisfy our curiosity now?’ asked Libby, returning from the kitchen with the bottle of wine. ‘Did you find the entrance to the tunnel from the house?’

  ‘No,’ said Ian. ‘In fact, we don’t think there is an entrance there any more. The end of the tunnel is simply packed earth with no suggestion of a door.’

  ‘Have you tried to get through the earth?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Even if we did, Dale couldn’t have done, whether she was coming or going.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘so what about the other tunnels?’

  ‘Other tunnels?’

  ‘The ones to the pub and the church.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be any use to someone escaping the house, would they?’ said Ian, finally accepting a cup of tea from Fran.

  ‘But if she was coming from the river,’ said Libby. ‘Maybe she knew how to get out at the church. Or even the pub. Frank showed us where they thought the tunnel had come out in his cellars.’

  ‘With someone waiting for her who would then lug her body all the way back to the ice-house?’ Ian shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘She needn’t have been killed then,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Suppose she just ran away and hid – say in the tunnel where Libby fell in. Or in the ice-house – she could have climbed up into it. Libby and I didn’t get down to the sailing club until some time after she’d gone. Perhaps she was waiting until the fuss had died down.’

  ‘But you showed Ian where you thought she’d been and the police were swarming all over the area. She wouldn’t have been able to get out for ages,’ Libby said.

  ‘Or until someone came and found her.’

  ‘It would have to be someone who knew the icehouse was there, and who was agile enough to climb up to it,’ said Ian. ‘No, I’m afraid we’re stymied at the moment. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that that’s for publication.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ they reassured him. ‘But what about Cindy killing Tony West?’ asked Fran. ‘Did you find her prints?’

  Ian sighed. ‘Yes. She was extremely careless. And they were the prints we hadn’t identified previously.’

  ‘Why did you pull Lewis in?’ asked Libby.

  ‘It was the discovery of the carver’s mallet. At first, if you remember, the cases weren’t officially linked, so the prints weren’t identified. Dale’s prints didn’t get into the system until later.’

  ‘And did you find out when she’d come into the country?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Oh, yes. She wasn’t exactly subtle about it. Landed at Gatwick on her false passport as bright as a button. Went back and reappeared on Sunday.’

  ‘But why did she kill West?’ said Libby. ‘He was on her side if he helped her get away.’

  ‘There’s one thing we haven’t thought of,’ said Fran, ‘although you probably have, Ian. Libby and I haven’t.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Libby.

  ‘We only have Cindy’s word for it that he helped her get away.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked nonplussed. ‘Have we?’

  ‘She said Gerald killed Kenneth. We believed her at first.’

  ‘We can’t be sure that he didn’t,’ said Ian.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Ian shook his head. ‘A whole team of professionals got permission to try and talk to him, but it was hopeless. He has no idea about anything – even who he is – now. We showed him photographs,

  but it was hopeless.’

  ‘So what did the solicitor say? West’s solicitor?’

  ‘And Gerald Shepherd’s, as it happens,’ said DS Maiden, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Really?’ Libby and Fran looked at each other. Maiden looked at Ian, who nodded.

  ‘West sold Creekmarsh to fund Shepherd’s nursing home. He was given power of attorney about a year before Shepherd “disappeared”. West said nothing about the fact that Shepherd hadn’t run off with Miss Dale, even though there was speculation in the press. Kenneth never asked the police to find him, there was only a statement purporting to come from him through West.’

  ‘So West was mixed up in it all right from the start,’ said Libby. ‘But why?’

  ‘That we don’t know either,’ said Ian.

  ‘What about Shepherd’s will?’ asked Fran.

  ‘As he’s still alive there’s a legal complication about our access. How we get round that I’ve no idea.’ Ian looked glum.

  ‘And have you decided the skeleton is Kenneth?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely.’ Ian looked at them in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘We were working on that assumption, but no one had confirmed it,’ said Fran. ‘Funnily enough, we didn’t have access to the DNA.’

  Ian laughed. ‘You seemed to manage fairly well without official access.’

  ‘Intelligent guesswork,’ said Libby smugly.

  ‘And an extremely helpful policeman,’ added Ian.

  ‘Who shouldn’t really talk to you about anything.’

  He turned to his sergeant. ‘Should he, Maiden?’

  Maiden’s ears turned pink. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Another thing,’ said Fran. ‘Why was Superintendent Bertram on the spot so much? Surely she should have been back at the office superintending.’

  ‘New promotion,’ said Ian.

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby. ‘Making her mark. We thought it might be because the case was higher profile than we thought.’

  Ian and Maiden exchanged looks.

  ‘Shepherd was a famous actor,’ said Ian. ‘And we did think it was his body at first.’

  ‘That puzzles me,’ said Libby with a frown. ‘Because the first reports said it was a male between thirty and fifty, and Shepherd was well over sixty when he disappeared. And you didn’t know it had been Shepherd’s house then, did you?’

  ‘Libby! Of course we did. Just because Osbourne-Walker hadn’t seen fit to tell us about his slightly unorthodox purchase of Creekmarsh didn’t mean to say we didn’t immediately do a search and discover who was the previous owner. And that West was his power of attorney.’

  ‘So you linked the murders straight away?’ said Libby.

  ‘I wasn’t on the case then,’ said Ian, ‘but yes, of course they were linked. We’re not as dumb as all that, you know. And we do have access to all sorts of information the public don’t.’ He sent Libby a significant glance.

  ‘See,’ said Libby to Fran, ‘we always say the police get there before we do.’

  ‘But we’re always grateful for
certain unorthodox help,’ said Ian with a grin.

  ‘When you can bring yourselves to accept it,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, we did this time,’ said Ian, ‘and it let Osbourne-Walker off the hook.’

  ‘Didn’t save Cindy’s life, though, did it?’ said Libby. ‘Why do you think she was killed?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t for the documents in that briefcase. Her passport was there and her marriage certificate, but that was all. There were no documents relating to Kenneth or Gerald Shepherd and no details of the home he was in.’

  ‘So if we hadn’t found Frank for you, you might never have found Gerald?’ said Libby.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ said Ian.

  ‘Yay!’ said Libby.

  ‘Did Cindy kill Kenneth?’ asked Fran.

  Ian and Maiden both looked startled. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Ian. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest it. We’re not even sure how he died.’

  ‘How did Cindy die?’ asked Libby suddenly. Everyone froze.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, either,’ said Ian eventually, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘And have you found the cellars?’ asked Fran.

  Ian sighed. ‘As I said before, I don’t think any entrances exist to tunnels or passages anywhere.’

  ‘Frank showed us his map and said that there were cellars at Creekmarsh,’ said Libby. ‘They must still be there.’

  ‘Have you proved whether Cindy got into the icehouse from the water or the land? Or through the tunnel?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Oh, really!’ Ian stood up. ‘I’ve been extremely forbearing, but this is too much. You know I can’t tell you anything more. And don’t go poking around any more, either,’ he added, ‘or I’ll lock you both up.’

  ‘He wasn’t that mad,’ said Libby, as she shut the door behind the two men, ‘or he’d never have said that.’

  ‘And he is grateful for our information,’ agreed Fran, ‘he had to admit that.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby, fetching the wine bottle, ‘what do we do now?’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  OVER THE WEEKEND FRAN and Guy had pre-wedding things to do and Ben and Libby began to make lists of what needed to be done at Steeple Farm. The sitting room and the kitchen were the most obvious rooms needing resurrection, and although Libby had fairly firm ideas about interior decoration, or the lack of it, the job before them was beginning to look insuperable.

  ‘I wish Lewis would project manage it after all,’ said Libby with a sigh, picking at a piece of unsuitable wallpaper on the wide chimney breast. ‘We don’t know this other chap, do we?’

  ‘He’s a friend of Mog’s,’ said Ben, ‘and comes with excellent credentials.’ ‘It’s more telling him what to do than his ability to do it,’ said Libby. ‘It’s easy in this room,’ said Ben. ‘Strip everything.’ ‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘but what about the kitchen?’

  She continued to worry about it all through Sunday until Ben told her he’d change his mind about going to live there if this was what she was going to be like.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, sinking down on the sofa and gathering Sidney onto her lap. ‘I know I’m being a pain.’

  ‘You don’t really want to move, that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it?’ said Ben, coming to sit beside her.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Libby. ‘I would love to live there, but I still love this cottage. I can’t have both.’

  ‘Perhaps you could sign this over to the children?’

  ‘Adam would be the only one to use it,’ said Libby. ‘Mind you, he’d probably be delighted.’

  ‘Let’s leave it on the back burner for a while,’ said Ben. ‘It’s the wedding of the year on Friday, after all. Fran might have things she’d like help with.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Libby. ‘She’s so organised. All we’ve got to do is take the bride and groom to the venue.’

  ‘Separately,’ said Ben. ‘They won’t have a car the next day, then.’

  ‘I think Guy’s got a taxi booked to the airport. He’s giving her a traditional surprise honeymoon.’

  ‘Great! Where?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a surprise then, would it?’

  But Libby’s real problem was that the Creekmarsh mystery was still churning away in the back of her mind. She wanted to know what Cindy was after, why she’d killed Tony West and if she’d killed Kenneth.

  After Ben had left for The Manor on Monday morning, she rang Fran and asked in which library it was she’d located the documents relating to Creekmarsh.

  ‘Here in Nethergate,’ said Fran. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d just like to have a look at them,’ said Libby. ‘I know you’ve seen them and there isn’t anything useful, but I was curious. I thought I might ask Frank for a look at those maps he’s got, too.’

  She could almost hear Fran shrugging. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know what you hope to find.’

  ‘Nothing probably,’ said Libby.

  Once again, she trudged up to The Manor to borrow the Land Rover. Neither Hetty nor Greg were to be seen, but Ben waved from the stable yard, now used as a machinery store.

  On an impulse, she drove up to Steeple Farm and walked right round the house before making a circuit of the paddock and the garden. It was a beautiful place, no doubt about it, but was it really her? Niggling away in the back of her mind was Fran’s assurance that she could not see Libby living there, even though Fran had tried to say she was probably losing her grip. Libby sighed, went back to the Land Rover and climbed in.

  The Nethergate library was in part of the old civic hall and the reference section was right at the back in a modern extension. The librarian, intrigued that she’d been asked for the same documents twice in a short time, fetched them immediately.

  ‘Do I have to wear white gloves?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the librarian earnestly. ‘They aren’t very valuable.’

  Libby raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  Sure enough the only pages of interest were the same ones Fran had been allowed to copy, but Libby was soon immersed in the day-to-day minutiae of Creekmarsh in the mid-nineteenth century, marvelling at the amounts of food, servants and animals recorded. It was while reading the faded writing detailing expenditure in July 1843 that she came across an item that caused an adrenalin-fuelled tingle up the back of her neck.

  It seemed to be payment to a blacksmith for the creation of an iron door, locks and keys.

  ‘The strong room,’ whispered Libby. ‘Now where did Fran find mention of it in the papers she copied?’

  But in those papers, it was merely a passing reference to buildings as part of the estate, including ‘an ice-house and a strong room’. Libby sat back and looked at the two references. Why had the ice-house and the strong room been coupled together? Was it because they’d been created at the same time? Was the strong room outside the house as the ice-house was? She began to look backwards through the accounts books to see if she could find anything else, but there was nothing. The library held no original architectural drawings, but the librarian did volunteer that the original garden designs were kept at the central library in Maidstone as they were thought to be very old and valuable.

  Libby rushed outside and rang Lewis. His phone went straight to voicemail, so she tried Adam.

  ‘Has Mog had sight of the original garden designs?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘The – what? Whose designs?’ said Adam sharply.

  ‘Old ones. Very old.’ She heard him call Mog and ask him the same question.

  ‘No, he didn’t know there were any. Where are they?’

  Libby explained and asked if he knew where Lewis was.

  ‘Closeted with his TV people in the house,’ said Adam. ‘Is it important?’
/>
  ‘Well,’ said Libby, thinking quickly, ‘if the garden there is going to feature in the series, what better than to have the original designs to work from?’

  Excitedly, Adam relayed this to Mog, who then grabbed the phone.

  ‘Libby? I’m going to interrupt Lewis right now. Where are these drawings?’

  ‘Maidstone Central Library,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know whether we need permission to see them. The librarian at Nethergate didn’t think so. I suppose technically they belong to Lewis now, anyway.’

  ‘Unless they were donated to the library by a former owner,’ said Mog. ‘I’ve known that to happen. Anyway, I’ll go and interrupt Lewis and call you back.’

  Would the original designs show the strong room, though, wondered Libby, as she sat on a low wall near the library and waited for Mog’s call. Probably not, if the work was being paid for in 1843. The designs for the garden would date back much further than that. On the other hand, it might show the icehouse, and maybe the strong room without its sophisticated iron door.

  Libby was sure in some way that the strong room, like the ice-house, had a role in the Creekmarsh mystery. Was Cindy hidden there before she was killed? Is that where she ran to when she disappeared?

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Libby? Lewis said he didn’t know anything about them, but that we should go and have a look. Do you think we should phone them first?’

  ‘The library? Perhaps we should. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. We’d not get there in time to have a good look. Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mog sounded deflated. ‘OK. Will you and Ad meet me there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, sliding off the wall. ‘I’ll call them when I get home, then I’ll let you know what time.’

  Fran rang when Libby reached home.

  ‘Have we ever seen a photograph of Tony West?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Libby, dumping her basket on the table. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a thought,’ said Fran. ‘Would Lewis have one?’

  ‘Maybe. I know he’s busy at the moment.’ She explained what had happened about the garden design.