‘Hmm,’ said Libby, and clicked through to another profile. ‘This one’s even worse.’
‘I know.’ Rosie sighed again. ‘You see, I really did need you to check it with me. I was almost going to arrange to meet this one.’ She clicked on to another profile. ‘Here.’
Libby frowned. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that face,’ she said. ‘Where does he come from?’
‘Just says Kent. I suppose you could have seen him around if he lives in this part of Kent.’
Libby was still frowning. ‘I’ve seen him recently. Don’t meet him until I’ve remembered, will you?’
‘I won’t meet him at all,’ said Rosie, and closed the laptop. ‘You’ve made me see sense. Now, tell me what you’ve been so busy doing?’
Relieved, Libby gave her an edited version of the recent events in St Aldeberge.
‘And yesterday, Ian Connell gave Ben and me a hint about the murder method, only we can’t find it. Fran can’t either.’
‘What did he say?’
‘It sucks.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well, he then said – just sucks.’
‘Sucks.’ Rosie frowned. ‘It rings a bell. I did some research a year or so back … Have you checked the spelling?’
‘How else could you spell sucks?’
‘I’m almost positive –’ Rosie paused. ‘Have you tried S U X?’
Libby, looking faintly astonished, opened the laptop again and typed S U X into the search engine.
‘An airport? Sexual racism?’
‘Let me look.’ Rosie pulled the screen towards her. ‘There, look. I knew I knew it: succinylcholine, also known as suxamethonium chloride or just “sux”.’ She pushed it back to Libby with a triumphant grin. ‘I have my uses.’
Chapter Twelve
Astonished, Libby read the description. Ben came to read it over her shoulder.
‘It explains everything,’ said Libby, ‘but that means it must have been either that other old vicar or the churchwarden.’
‘Why?’ said Ben and Rosie together.
‘Because Mrs Bidwell was killed in her pew, and they were the only people who went near her.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Ben. ‘Anyone could have gone up to her afterwards. Was anyone else in her pew? Or did people stop to say goodbye to her?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose they must have done. But you’d have to be very close to inject someone, wouldn’t you?’
‘Let me see.’ Rosie pulled the laptop back towards her. ‘It can be injected intravenously when it works almost immediately, or intramuscularly when it takes a bit longer. But even then, she wouldn’t have been able to call out. And how did they detect it? Doesn’t it say it disappears after twenty-four hours?’
‘It occurs naturally in the body, and breaks down …’ Libby frowned at the screen, then up at Ben. ‘So how do they know this is what she died of? By the time the post mortem was done it would have gone.’
‘Ian did say something about a very clever forensic pathologist,’ said Ben. ‘Obviously there was a reason for them to decide she didn’t die a natural death. And now, if you’ve finished your tea, I suggest we eat, or you’ll be late, Libby.’
Rosie didn’t see him wink.
They discussed the drug throughout dinner, Rosie becoming more and more animated.
‘She’ll be using it in her next book,’ said Ben, as they closed the door thankfully behind her.
‘Probably.’ Libby went to collect plates. ‘I’m going to pop up to the theatre in a bit, or I’ll feel bad.’
‘To justify your lie to Rosie?’ Ben grinned. ‘I’m going anyway. I’ve got something to do in the workshop. And the hirers aren’t always as careful with our stuff as I would like.’
The Oast House Theatre, converted by Ben and run by him, Peter and Libby, with help from other members of the family occasionally, and Harry when he could get away, was hired out to other companies occasionally, and had recently seen a run of five nights of comedy. It had been very successful, but trying for the beleaguered technical staff of the theatre. Visiting comedy acts and their managers were sometimes careless of any existing sets or lighting and sound rigs. Damage was frequently done, sighed over and repaired or replaced. Subsequently, hiring charges had gone up and hirings themselves had gone down.
Libby and Ben found Peter in the lobby bar checking stock, the pantomime director looking harassed and talking earnestly in a corner with a young woman who looked supremely uninterested, Bob and Baz, the perennial funny men, working on a piece of business on stage, and the rest of the cast including the rehearsal pianist, sitting around looking bored.
Libby sat in the back row of the auditorium and Ben went backstage to the workshop.
‘I don’t think it’s going well, dearest,’ said Peter’s voice in her ear. ‘All is not well in the ranks.’
‘I thought this director had experience,’ Libby murmured back.
‘He has, but not with a company like this.’
The Oast House theatre was not run as a normal amateur theatre company, but a trust. Libby, Ben, Peter and his brother James were all on the board, and their productions were a mix of amateur and professional. Libby herself was an ex-professional actor, and professional musicians, choreographers and directors were frequently brought in. The dancers for the panto chorus these days, after a series of elephantine mistakes, were usually retired pro-dancers, young women who had left the business for motherhood or marriage – sometimes even both.
‘Did we look into him?’ asked Libby, watching as the director made his way to the front of the auditorium and clapped his hands for attention.
‘Oh, yes, but I’ve now discovered that this company he was supposed to be director of in Surrey is a tiny little church society with a grand name. It’s a toss-up between him leaving and us firing him.’
‘Oh, we can’t fire him,’ said Libby. ‘Poor bloke. Perhaps we could give him a production assistant?’
‘He’s got one. Young Kylie.’
‘Oh, good God,’ spluttered Libby. Kylie being one of the youngest, most enthusiastic, and clumsiest of the youth theatre members.
‘What were we saying at Het’s yesterday?’ said Peter, plopping down in the seat next to her and swinging his legs over the seat in front. ‘Nothing to do with us this year?’
‘What are you saying?’ Libby shot him a nervous look.
‘That at least one of us might have to intervene.’
‘Look, I’ve already taken over once recently. When the cow fell on the fairy. People will say I’m a jinx.’
‘They’ll say more than that if this farce is allowed to continue,’ muttered Peter, watching the director trying to keep control of his cast, while chorus members stood around in boneless attitudes of boredom.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Libby after ten minutes, ‘he couldn’t direct himself out of a paper bag.’
Another ten minutes. ‘Who chose the songs?’
‘He did, with the help of his wife.’
‘Who’s playing the Queen. Haven’t seen her yet. What’s she like?’
‘You saw her when she auditioned. And you said yesterday you’d been keeping an eye on her.’
‘Yes, but I assumed she was a bit shy, what with being in a new place. And I was being metaphoric.’
‘Here she comes now.’ Peter gave her a sharp nudge, as a woman entered cautiously from upstage, hesitated, looked round and said: ‘Do I go down here, dear?’
Libby buried her face in her hands, before recovering herself and following Peter back into the lobby, where he went straight to the bar and poured her a stiff whisky.
‘So what do we do?’ he asked, after pouring himself a gin and tonic. ‘This can’t be allowed to go on. We’ve got a reputation to keep up.’
‘Why haven’t you told me before?’ said Libby, sitting down at one of the little white wrought iron tables.
‘I thought it would get better. I was going to give it to the e
nd of the week and invite you down, but you pre-empted me.’
‘Why hasn’t Ben told me?’
‘He hasn’t seen it, really. He potters in during the day, mostly, and they’re only just about to start construction, so he hasn’t kept up with it. He has wondered why he hasn’t had a production meeting since it was cast.’
‘No, he said that. Has the director approved his designs?’
‘I don’t know. Come on, let’s go round the back and ask him.’
They crept through the auditorium and the pass door and round the back of the stage into the workshop, where they found Ben standing in the wingspace looking on with horror. He turned towards them.
‘This is terrible!’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Pete?’
‘That’s what Libby just said. We’re holding an impromptu council of war. Come back to the bar.’
‘We can’t let it go on,’ said Ben. ‘My family own this place, and we’re all directors. All the work we’ve put in to make it as near pro standard as possible – this would send it straight down the pan.’
‘I don’t honestly think he wants to go on,’ said Peter, ‘but he doesn’t know how to get out of it.’
‘I don’t suppose the cast are that bad,’ said Libby. ‘After all, we know Bob and Baz are OK, and Tom, and even young Amy’s fine, although she’s so young. It’s just they aren’t being directed. And don’t look at me like that,’ she added as both Peter and Ben sent meaningful looks her way.
‘Well, who else can take over?’ asked Peter reasonably.
‘You could,’ said Libby. ‘Even Ben could.’
‘Thanks for the faint praise,’ said Ben.
‘You know what I mean. Unless any of our straight play directors would take it on?’
‘So we are agreed, then?’ said Peter. ‘He has to go?’
‘Unless we can find some way of helping him, yes,’ said Libby.
‘Definitely,’ said Ben. ‘But give it until the end of the week. You never know, he might suddenly perk up.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Peter. ‘I said I’d meet Harry in the pub. Might as well make the most of it before he starts opening on Sundays and Mondays for Christmas.’
They found Harry draped over the counter talking to Jim the barman, who was idly polishing glasses.
‘Well, well,’ said Harry. ‘The theatrical contingent. What’ll you have, darlings?’
Seated round a table by the fire, Harry handed round drinks and sighed.
‘Oh, go on. What’s happened now?’ he said. ‘You all look like you’ve lost a pound and found a penny.’
They explained their concerns between them and Harry put his chin in his hands and listened.
‘Sack the bugger and his wife, you direct, Pete, and you take over Queenie, ducks.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Problem solved.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Peter, ‘but we do have lives to lead.’
‘You do it every other year,’ said Harry. ‘What’s different?’
Peter and Libby looked at one another.
‘Nothing, I suppose. But how are we going to sack him?’ asked Libby. ‘I feel awful about it. After all, we gave him the job.’
‘Think about it. Sleep on it,’ said Harry.
‘But I really don’t want to take over direction,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking over as Queen, unless there’s someone else who would like to do it.’
They ran through the names of people who had auditioned for the part of the Queen, but found no one else who could take it on. Two of them had been cast in other productions and the other two were not up to the part.
‘What this will do to our investigation …’ Libby stared into the log fire.
‘Libby, it isn’t your investigation, it’s the police’s investigation. Ian’s, in fact.’ Ben patted her hand. ‘Fran can always keep an eye on it for you.’
‘Fran!’ Libby looked up excitedly. ‘She could do the Queen!’
The three men looked doubtful.
‘I can’t see our Guy liking that. She hasn’t done it since before they married, has she?’ said Peter.
‘She played the Baroness to our Ben’s Baron,’ said Harry. ‘The year of the unpleasantness at Anderson Place.’
‘Don’t talk about our wedding like that,’ said Peter.
Harry snorted with laughter. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘She wasn’t entirely hooked up with Guy at that time,’ said Ben. ‘He might not take to the idea.’
‘Oh, come on, dearie,’ said Harry, leaning across to pat Libby’s cheek. ‘You know you’d love to play the Queen.’
‘I did deliberately stay away this year,’ said Libby.
‘Only because you thought people would say you hogged the best parts. And you’ve taken over before, once in that same production Fran was in, and again when the cow fell on the fairy,’ said Ben.
‘You’re a fraud, you old trout,’ said Harry. ‘You love it really.’
‘If,’ said Libby darkly, ‘it comes to it, I shall do it. But next year, I want to be the witch.’
‘I’d be careful about saying that just at the moment, petal,’ said Peter. ‘You’ll have the dark forces gathering around us as we speak.’
‘Yes, tell us the latest goss,’ said Harry. ‘We haven’t heard for ages. Oooh –’ he pretended to think. ‘Not since, let me see, yesterday lunchtime.’
‘No need to be sarky,’ said Libby, as Ben got up to fetch more drinks. By the time he came back, she’d filled the other two in on the evening’s surprising revelations by Rosie.
‘I’m still not sure about that woman,’ said Harry.
‘Neither am I,’ said Peter. ‘She seems incredibly self-centred.’
‘Perhaps it’s being a writer?’ suggested Libby. ‘You know, being on your own all day. You’ve only got yourself to think about.’
‘There are writers who have families, dearie,’ said Harry. ‘They aren’t all self-centred. No, it’s just her. She’s an oddity.’
‘She’s a bloody nuisance,’ said Libby, ‘but she was useful today. At least we think she was. If we can find out from Ian if it is this succo-stuff that’s the murder weapon. And if it is, how on earth did they track it down?’
Chapter Thirteen
Libby called Fran in the morning to tell her about the previous evening’s discoveries, and no sooner had she switched off the phone, than it rang again.
‘I’m afraid it has come to pass, petal,’ said Peter. ‘I knew he didn’t want to carry on.’
‘Oh.’ Libby sank down on the step below Sidney on the stairs. ‘Our director. He’s quit?’
‘Appeared on the doorstep half an hour ago. Apparently his wife is missing the family and friends they’ve left behind in Surrey.’
‘Bloody hell, it isn’t Australia! It’s an hour up the M20,’ said Libby.
‘This is an excuse, Lib. Let him have the dignity of that. He had the grace to apologise for leaving us in the lurch, and actually said he thought we’d better off without them.’
‘Oh, bless him. I feel bad, now.’ Libby stared down at her feet. ‘Are they actually moving back?’
‘Apparently so. They’d only let out their house, so they’ll go and stay with their son until the tenants move out. He said his wife couldn’t bear to miss Christmas in their old home.’
‘I wonder why they moved here in the first place?’ said Libby.
‘A desire for rural retirement. Lots of people do it and regret it. It’s a bit different here from suburban Surrey.’
‘It is.’ Libby sighed. ‘So, am I Queenie or directrix?’
‘How archaically learned, darling. Queenie, I suppose, as I can’t play her.’
‘Oh, you could, you could,’ giggled Libby.
‘No, dear, Hal could. But still, it’ll have to be you, and I’ll direct. I’d better have a meeting.’ Peter sighed heavily. ‘Is Ben up at The Manor? Could you both come to me tonight?’
Assured
that they could, Peter rang off and Libby called Fran back.
‘It’s annoying,’ she said. ‘But we can’t let the rest of them down. And there’s actually plenty of time. You wouldn’t like to do it, I suppose?’
‘No, my acting days are over,’ said Fran. ‘Besides, last time I did it, I was still living over The Pink Geranium. It’d be a bit of a nuisance driving from here every night.’
‘I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘No help for it, I suppose. Anyway, did you look up that succo stuff?’
‘Yes, and it looks incredibly hard to detect unless a post mortem’s done very quickly. Ian’s forensic pathologist must have been very clever indeed. I thought tox screen results took weeks to come back though.’
‘That’s perhaps why they’ve only just confirmed it was murder. We must find out.’
‘Why must we? You’re going to have enough on your plate without this.’ Fran laughed. ‘I shall enjoy seeing you up there again. And how’s Pete taking to directing once more?’
‘I think he’s going to rather enjoy it. It was a shocking mess, you know.’
‘Well, before you get immersed in being a Queen – what is it again? Sleeping Beauty?’
‘Yes. I sleep for one whole scene then I’m awake again.’
‘Well, before you do that, do you want to go and have a look at the Willoughby Oak?’
‘You’ve found it?’
‘I told you I knew where it was. Do you want to come?’
‘Today?’
‘Yes, if you’ve got time. I thought we might go this afternoon.’
‘I’ll be over after lunch,’ said Libby, and switched off the phone.
Under a gloomy sky, Libby parked on Harbour Street at just after two o’clock. She joined Fran in her little Smart car and they set off towards St Aldeberge. Fran turned inland, however, just before the village,, crossed a small bridge, and soon turned on to a rutted lane that led upwards to an empty field, where a huge old tree stood creaking in the sudden wind.
‘It’s impressive,’ said Libby, after they had stared at it for several minutes. ‘Where exactly are we?’
‘On the outskirts of the Dunton Estate. That’s over the rise in that direction.’ Fran waved a hand to her right. ‘It belongs to them, but it’s fairly obviously used for something by others, even though it’s dead.’
Murder by Magic Page 9