‘Just the kids?’ Libby looked round at the crowd huddled together in a corner of the Narthex. ‘Not them?’
‘They’re all a bit upset, and all of them aren’t here.’
‘What’s upset them?’
Patti sighed. ‘The police. Ian’s had a team here interviewing all the men and taking DNA samples.’
‘Ah. Who isn’t here?’
‘Sheila and Alice, of all people. The men are all here.’
‘Get them all together. It’ll take their minds off it.’
Looking anguished, Patti went over to the group. Libby watched as she talked earnestly to them, waving her hands for emphasis. Ben arrived, having been looking round the graveyard for interesting tombstones.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked. Libby told him. Just then, Patti came back with relief on her face.
‘It’s OK, they’ve decided to get on with it.’
‘Good. Let’s start them off.’ Libby clapped her hands and led the way into the nave.
The short rehearsal went as well as could be expected with a crowd of under-rehearsed and inexperienced adults and children. Libby told them she’d be over at four thirty again on Wednesday, if as many people as possible could make it and beat a hasty retreat. However, as she and Ben prepared to leave the church, Kaye and Patti caught up with them.
‘We’re worried about Sheila and Alice,’ said Patti.
‘Neither of their husbands are regulars at church, but they were both seen by the police,’ said Kaye. ‘And now Sheila and Alice haven’t shown up. Do you think that’s significant?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose I could pop in to Alice’s house on my way home.’
‘No,’ said Ben. ‘We’re in a hurry, remember. Anyway, that might be insensitive. Better to give her a ring.’
‘If you want to know what the problem is,’ said a voice behind them, ‘we can tell you.’
Chapter Twenty-two
All four turned and found themselves facing Gavin Brice and Maurice Blanchard.
‘Gossip,’ said Maurice, his disapproving expression growing even more pronounced.
‘It’s hardly gossip.’ Gavin’s cheerful face was sombre. ‘The police have taken DNA samples from all the men. They already had mine, because I found – er –’
‘Marion Longfellow, yes,’ said Libby.
‘The trouble is, a few men refused.’ Maurice snapped the words.
‘Ah.’ Libby looked at Patti and Kaye. ‘I think I see.’
‘What?’ The two other women looked bewildered.
‘Any man refusing would be immediately suspected of having something to hide,’ said Libby.
Patti’s mouth dropped open and Kaye gasped.
‘I don’t know Sheila’s husband but I do know Bob,’ said Libby. ‘I’d find it difficult to believe he had the energy to play around. Or murder someone.’
Maurice made a sound like “pshaw” and stumped off into the church.
Gavin’s face fell. ‘I don’t think anyone can imagine me doing it, either.’
‘I’d be grateful, then,’ said Libby. ‘And I don’t suppose you know much about witchcraft, either.’
It was Gavin’s turn to look bewildered. ‘Eh?’
‘The – um – accoutrements – you know – round the – er –’
‘Body,’ Gavin said. ‘Oh, yes. Is it witchcraft? I thought Devil Worship or something. Dennis Wheatley sort of thing.’
‘I think it comes to the same thing in this case,’ said Libby.
‘Who’s Dennis Wheatley?’ asked Patti.
‘A writer famous in his day for writing occult novels,’ said Ben. ‘The Devil Rides Out and To The Devil a Daughter were the most well known, I think.’
‘Well it’s all most unpleasant, whatever it is,’ said Gavin, shaking himself like a wet dog. ‘And it doesn’t belong in a church, or with anyone connected with a church.’
And he, too, turned and stumped off towards the church.
‘I think he was quite sad not to be considered as a bit of a roué,’ said Kaye, watching him go.
‘Then he’s an idiot,’ said Patti. ‘Come on, Kaye. Time to minister to the faithful.’ She turned to Libby and Ben. ‘Thanks again for coming. I’m sorry to have involved you in this.’
‘Pleased to help,’ said Libby, patting the vicar’s arm, while Ben made an indeterminate sound of vague assent.
‘So what do we think of that?’ said Libby, as Ben drove out of the village.
‘I don’t think anything of it, frankly.’ Ben looked over his shoulder and took a right-hand turn.
‘This isn’t the way home,’ said Libby, surprised.
‘It’s a short cut,’ said Ben. ‘You’ve not looked at a map since you first went to St Aldeberge from Nethergate. This joins up with our main road just after the Steeple Mount turning.’ He sent a quick, triumphant grin. ‘It’s just a bit narrower.’
Luckily, they didn’t meet anything coming the other way, or Libby felt certain they’d have had to back up for miles, but it certainly was quicker.
‘I’ll go this way in daylight,’ she said, as they emerged on to the main road, ‘but I don’t think I’d risk it after dark.’
Peter joined them for Sunday lunch at Hetty’s, but Harry was stuck at The Pink Geranium.
‘Closing Sunday evenings,’ said Peter, sipping a frosty glass of sémillon. ‘And has decided he’s not going to open Mondays any more, either, even at Christmas.’
‘Can’t have Sunday dinner on Sunday evenings,’ said Hetty, plonking a large rib of beef before Ben and handing him a carving knife.
‘No, Het, I know,’ said Peter. ‘He doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t eat the meat, anyway.’
‘Hmm.’ Hetty sniffed as she placed blue-and-white dishes of enormous antiquity on the table, filled with an array of perfectly cooked vegetables.
‘I wish I could do roasts like this,’ sighed Libby.
‘Can’t do your fancy stuff,’ said Hetty, ‘so we’re quits.’
Libby gave her almost-mother-in-law a fond smile.
‘So,’ said Peter, helping himself to roast potatoes, ‘what are you going to do with all these rooms you’ve got here now?’
‘Difficult,’ said Ben, topping up Libby’s glass. ‘We’ve been put off by what happened here in the summer.’
‘I know you have,’ said Peter, ‘but it’s months, now.’
The Manor had been renovated and its guest bedrooms revamped with en suite bathroom “pods” before the ill-fated writers’ weekend. The hop pickers’ huts had also been renovated and were let out on a self-catering basis, as was Steeple Farm, but so far the Manor’s rooms had stood empty.
‘At least Mum has it to herself,’ said Ben.
‘Didn’t mind having people here,’ said Hetty. ‘Different.’
‘What you could have,’ said Peter, ‘is a mini festival.’
‘What sort of festival?’ asked Libby.
‘Literary. Well, not literary exactly, but a book festival, mainly for readers. See if you could get some well-known writers along.’
‘We couldn’t afford it,’ said Libby. ‘You couldn’t expect famous people to come out here for nothing.’
‘No, but you could sell tickets and put them in the theatre. They could stay in the Manor.’
‘Meanwhile, we’ve still got the panto to occupy us,’ said Libby, ‘and my Queen isn’t coming along as I’d like.’
The talk fell to pantomime and other local topics, including the application of a supermarket giant to put a small store in a disused pub at the end of the village, which was generally agreed to be ruinous for the other shops.
‘After all,’ said Libby, ‘we’ve got Nella and Joe’s farm shop and the eight-til-late. They would be put out of business.’
‘That’s something for Ben to get on to his council pals about, then,’ said Peter.
Later that evening, curled up on the sofa with the laptop, Libby was idly searching local news
sites when she came across an item about a dawn raid on a drug smuggling ring. It had no relation to the St Aldeberge murders, but it made her think.
‘You know,’ she said to Ben, who was pretending to watch a natural history documentary, ‘if Fran’s right and there’s a drugs connection to our murders, and she’s sure there is, with landings at Felling and distribution at the Willoughby Oak, then they would be coming in at the St Aldeberge inlet.’
His eyes opened. ‘Hmm,’ he said.
‘And Mrs Bidwell’s and Mrs Longfellow’s cottages overlook it.’
‘And aren’t themselves overlooked.’
They looked at each other and grinned. ‘That’s it!’ they said together.
‘Hold hard,’ said Ben, ‘if we’ve thought of it, you can be sure Ian has. If there really is a surveillance operation up at Felling, then the inlet is the only place drugs can be coming in.’
‘So why isn’t there a surveillance operation at the inlet?’ said Libby with a frown.
‘That’s a point,’ said Ben also frowning. ‘We’ve gone wrong somewhere.’
‘Not necessarily. Maybe the Felling operation isn’t actually concerned with the river? After all it’s so narrow and shallow I don’t know how any boat could get up to the Quay anyway. Maybe it’s coming in somewhere else.’ She clicked on a map of the area and an enlarged map of Felling appeared on the screen.
‘Yacht basin,’ said Ben. ‘There must be another river if they’ve got yachts there.’ He widened the view of the screen. ‘Yes, here, see. Right out the other way. It flows into the yacht basin and out into the creek down to the inlet.’
‘That’s it!’ said Libby excitedly. ‘Of course! It’s loaded at the Quay to go up river. So it hasn’t come in by boat at all.’
‘Or, if it has,’ said Ben, ‘it’s been landed somewhere else and brought up by road.’ He sighed. ‘Thank goodness this isn’t our problem.’
‘It might not be, but if it helps find out who killed Mrs Bidwell and Mrs Longfellow …’
‘There’s still not anything you can do about it,’ said Ben, patting her shoulder. ‘Now, what do you say to a little nightcap?’
‘I’d say make it a large one and you’re on,’ said Libby.
Libby phoned Fran on the Monday morning.
‘Fancy a recce?’ she said. ‘I want to put a theory to the test.’
‘What theory?’ asked Fran warily.
‘About drug smuggling and Felling. And no, it isn’t dangerous, and as far as I know we won’t be trespassing.’
‘That sounds as though it could be dangerous and we probably will be trespassing.’
‘No, promise,’ said Libby. ‘Can you meet me in Felling?’
‘Yes, it is going to be dangerous,’ sighed Fran. ‘Where in Felling?’
‘Is there a car park near the Quay?’
‘I don’t know! I’ve never been there. I’ll find the nearest one and then meet you on the Quay. When are we going?’
‘Today? This afternoon?’
Fran sighed again. ‘Two o clock, then.’
‘Great.’ Libby beamed at the phone. ‘See you later.’
Libby drove into Felling under the great stone gatehouse and straight on to the ring road she’d been told about at the meeting in the vicarage. It would be difficult to get out without being seen, she realised. The ring road was almost like a castle wall, enclosing the whole small town. She went over a bridge and saw a tourist information finger post pointing to the Quay, with the large blue and white “P” next to it, meaning she would be able to park.
Fran was already there, leaning on the stone wall above the moorings.
‘That’s the tiny little river to the St Aldeberge inlet,’ she said pointing to where a narrow stream ran out of the basin. ‘And that’s the other way, straight inland.’
From the other end of the basin, a much broader river went under the bridge Libby had crossed.
‘Ben and I discussed this last night,’ she said, ‘and no one can be smuggling anything in from the inlet. There just isn’t room. So why are the police watching the Quay?’
‘Because something’s coming in from the other direction?’ said Fran.
‘No, we thought of that and it doesn’t make sense, because there’s nowhere else for them to go.’
‘So why are we here?’
‘To try and find out if there is another way out. You see, I suddenly realised something. Joan Bidwell’s and Marion Longfellow’s cottages both overlook the inlet, so something could have been landed there and they could have seen it. But if whatever it was couldn’t get up to Felling, it must have gone somewhere else.’
Fran’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why are we here?’
‘I mean, it must have gone some other way to Felling.’
‘Or nothing was landed there at all. If there’s no way up-river from there, the murders and the police operation here probably have nothing to do with each other.’
‘I’m just sure they have,’ said Libby. ‘I want to have a look round the area. Look there’s a public footpath sign over there.’
With Fran reluctantly following, Libby struck off down the footpath, which led them over a small footbridge and on to marshy, reedy ground at the other side of the yacht basin.
‘You know,’ Fran called, as she picked her way over the soggy ground, ‘the one thing we’ve done nothing about is to find out who could have killed Mrs Bidwell in the church.’
‘Oh, I expect the police are on to that,’ Libby called back and came to a stop. In front of them, the river ran sluggishly between reedy banks, tussocky grass stretching out on both sides. A stile set into a low hedge led onto another footpath winding away from the river.
‘Not easy to get anything up or down river this way, either,’ said Fran, after they had stood surveying the scene in silence for a long moment.
‘No.’ Libby swivelled and looked down the other footpath, which led away into a stand of trees.
Fran narrowed her eyes. ‘However …’ she said slowly.
Libby waited. ‘What?’ she said, finally.
‘Over there. Behind those trees. That’s the Dunton Estate.’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘The Willoughby Oak!’ breathed Libby.
‘Of course, it’s just a coincidence.’ Fran looked at her doubtfully.
‘No such thing as coincidence,’ said Libby. ‘Shall we go and see where it goes exactly?’
‘No, we might be seen.’
‘But it’s a public footpath!’
‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Some of the Dunton Estate’s still private – this might lead straight up to a large wire fence.’
‘OK, but it’s a shame.’ Libby turned and surveyed the scene, including back the way they had come, to the yacht basin, the Quay and old town beyond. ‘It wasn’t a waste of time coming here after all.’
‘No, but I expect if you’d looked at a map properly you could have seen it.’
‘Only an ordnance survey map, not a normal one,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s go back and see if there’s a museum or anything.’
The museum was housed in a small Georgian building facing the town square, which also contained the tourist information office. There was a good deal of smuggling memorabilia and maps of when the marshy ground beyond the Quay had actually been sea. The Dunton Estate, they discovered, bordered the sea wall in those days.
‘Would that have been when the witches were about?’ asked Libby in a low voice.
‘Probably.’ Fran turned to the door into the tourist office.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the bored-looking woman behind the counter. ‘We were wondering if you had anything about the Willoughby Oak?’
The woman reached into a folder and pulled out a leaflet.
‘Funny,’ she said, ‘you’re the third people to ask about it in a week. Pity we haven’t got more.’
‘Right,’ said Libby, not knowing whether to pursue this or not, but Fran decid
ed for her.
‘And there’s nothing in the museum?’ she said.
‘There’s a blown-up photograph and drawing, the same as in the leaflet, with a plaque underneath, but, again, it’s the same as the leaflet.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fran, and withdrew into the museum.
‘Tim Bolton?’ said Libby, as they shuffled round the walls looking for the Willoughby Oak.
‘Expect so. I wonder who the third person was? Wouldn’t have been the police.’
‘A week,’ mused Libby. ‘So it wouldn’t have been someone looking for info to use in Marion Longfellow’s death.’
‘No, but could be someone trying to find out more about it. The details did get out.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby came to a stop in front of the two blown-up pictures. One was a photograph obviously taken some time in the recent past, the other a drawing dating from the early nineteenth century. ‘Well, I suppose we’ve come to a dead stop.’
‘We can’t always be lucky,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, we might as well go. Did you pick up those smuggling leaflets?’
They retired to a small café on the square, cunningly known as the “Tea-Square”, which, as Fran said, probably meant nothing to most people.
‘So, what were you saying earlier about Mrs Bidwell’s murder?’ asked Libby, when they were sipping fragrantly steaming Assam from bone china cups.
‘Seeing that you show no signs of letting up on this case, I wondered why we haven’t heard more about how she was killed.’ Fran stirred her tea thoughtfully. ‘I mean, that was the most mysterious event of all, wasn’t it?’
‘You mean that no one could see how she had been killed?’
‘Yes, although that’s been solved now, it was this drug – what’s it called?’
‘Succo – something. Sux for short.’
‘And it’s a muscle inhibitor?’
‘It’s used particularly for intubation, so the doctors can slide –’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Fran hurriedly. ‘What exactly would happen?’
‘The body becomes paralysed. Can’t breathe or call out, or anything. There wouldn’t be any thrashing about, or anything to call attention to the fact. And no smell of bitter almonds like prussic acid in the old detective stories.’
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