‘I’m sorry, Libby. I’m not making fun of you, really.’
Libby turned round with two mugs in her hands. ‘I know, but you make me feel foolish. I always seem to say the wrong thing.’
He sat down at the little kitchen table and smiled up at her. ‘You don’t, you know. If anyone says the wrong thing, it’s me.’
How he managed it, Libby didn’t know, but the conversation returned effortlessly to the impersonal subjects they had been discussing earlier in the evening. Half an hour later, he took his leave and she saw him to the door.
‘Sidney didn’t need to leap to your defence after all.’
Sidney was still at his post on the stairs.
‘No. Thank you.’
‘A little self-restraint is good for us all.’ He smiled at her. ‘But not for too long. Don’t worry, Libby, I won’t rush you.’ He bent forward and kissed her cheek. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon.’
What do you mean, she wanted to yell after him. Does that mean you fancy me? But she didn’t say anything. Just watched him reverse up Allhallow’s Lane. Then she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. The terrible thing was, she admitted, that she wanted to be rushed. Or was it just her desperate hormones? But if that was the case, why didn’t she feel the same with poor Stephen? And just when had she started to think of him as “poor” Stephen?
Sunday dawned as bright and beautiful as Saturday, but by mid-day, the clouds had rolled in again and a steady drizzle was doing its best to dampen everybody’s spirits. Libby met Peter and Harry for a lunchtime drink before setting off for The Manor. Peter had borrowed a four-wheel-drive from somewhere and Ben was to take his and, in view of the weather, the cast members were not required to traipse through the fields, but to meet them back at the theatre for the indoor shots.
Ben met them at the door.
‘You go ahead, I’ll bring Mum and Dad and the photographer. Dad’s not moving too well today.’
Peter turned the vehicle round and set it at the field.
‘Bloody weather,’ he said.
The huts looked dismal in the rain and Libby wondered how the hop pickers had felt, stuck out here when the weather was like this. They sat huddled inside, not speaking, until they saw the other vehicle approaching.
Ben got out and went to open the rear door for his mother as the photographer jumped down from the other side.
‘No wonder he wanted to bring the photographer,’ said Harry, with a startled glance at Peter.
Libby was horrified to find that she actually had a lump in her throat, and an extremely unpleasant feeling somewhere under her rib cage, as she watched the tall, slim, blonde female striding towards them, her large black nylon equipment bags slung effortlessly over her shoulder.
‘Hallo. Which one of you’s Peter? Nobby couldn’t make it, so he asked me to come instead. Vanessa Hargreaves – but just call me Van.’
‘Oh – er – yes. Delighted,’ said Peter, taking the proffered hand with a quick glance at Libby. ‘This is Harry, who helps us with – er – all sorts of things, and this is Libby Sarjeant – with a J – who is directing the play.’
‘Great. Are you a professional director?’ Call-me-Van was fishing out a microphone and fiddling with knobs and switches inside one of the black cases.
‘No,’ said Libby.
‘Yes. Well, she’s an ex-professional. Drama school trained.’ Harry hurried into the breach.
‘Oh, right. So now you’re into the old am-dram, eh?’
A bitter little silence fell, while nobody looked at each other, and then Libby noticed Ben struggling alone with his three elderly relatives.
‘Hang on,’ she called, and sloshed through the mud towards them. ‘Here, Hetty, hang on to me. Lenny, you come the other side – Ben, can your father manage?’
He turned a grateful face towards her and winked. Suddenly, she felt better.
‘Right, lovely.’ Van was bustling about the yard, oblivious to the mud and the rain in her leather jacket and huge boots. ‘So these are the people who the play is about? Have I got that right?’
They all agreed that she’d got it right.
‘OK then – if we could have you all here – in this shed –’
‘It’s a hut.’ Hetty unclamped her lips for long enough to correct her. ‘A hoppers’ hut.’
‘Oh, right. Well, can you all get in there, then?’
‘Just Lenny and me.’ Hetty took charge. ‘Gregory was never in the huts. He can stay outside.’
Libby was appalled at how grey and frail Gregory Wilde had become since she had last seen him. The skin on his face seemed so thin that you could almost see the skull beneath. He raised his peaked cap to her with an unsteady hand as Ben helped him to stand by the doorway of the hut, while Hetty, dour as usual, stood inside next to Lenny, who was obviously enjoying himself.
‘OK, that’s lovely then, yes – one more – could you just move out a little bit – Hetty – is that it? And Lenny, put your arm round her, dear – that’s it, lovely – now, er, Mr – er –’
‘Wilde.’ Gregory drew himself up. ‘Gregory Wilde.’
‘Oh, yes, right, Mr Wilde. Could you sort of bend over a bit – perhaps look inside?’
‘I think that might be too much for my father,’ said Ben in a firm voice, coming forward to take his arm. ‘You’ve got one or two of him, haven’t you? I think that will be enough.’
‘Oh.’ Van looked nonplussed, as well she might, thought Libby. ‘But I really ought to bracket these a bit – the light, you know.’
‘Bracket?’ Everyone looked confused.
‘Hedging your bets,’ explained Peter. ‘They take different exposures to see which comes out best.’
‘Nevertheless, my father will go and sit inside, if you don’t mind.’ Ben led his father away, leaving Van to do the best she could with Hetty and Lenny.
‘So this is where you stayed, is it? Could we say this is the very hut?’
‘No. These weren’t built then. Our huts were knocked down after the war.’
Lenny chuckled. ‘Hetty had ’em knocked down, didn’t you, gel? Never did like those huts, our Het.’
‘You be quiet, Lenny Fisher.’ Hetty pushed him out of the hut.
‘So where were the old huts, could we see?’
‘Nothing to see. Grassed over now.’
‘Oh, right. So – the murder. Hey, great, the readers love a murder. So where did that happen then?’
Lenny dug Hetty in the ribs. ‘Down by the bridge, weren’t it, Het?’
‘That’s where the body was found.’ Hetty gave her brother a quelling look. But Lenny wasn’t to be quelled.
‘In the ditch, weren’t it, Het? Horrible, it was.’
‘Who found the body? You?’
‘Nah. Some of the kids. They used to come and look for tiddlers. Gor, they didn’t half holler.’ Lenny smiled reminiscently.
‘Can we see?’
‘Yes, we came across the bridge yesterday, so it’s quite safe.’ Peter gestured for her to follow him. ‘You’ve no need to come, Aunt Het, or you, Lenny.’
‘Oh, I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss this for the world. You staying here, Het?’
Hetty didn’t bother to answer him, but turned and climbed unaided into the four-wheel-drive beside her husband.
‘You horrible old man,’ muttered Ben to his uncle as he came alongside Libby and took her arm. Lenny cackled.
‘Nice bit of skirt, though, in’t she? Lucky bugger having her riding beside yer. Little bit of gear shifting, eh?’
‘You really are disgusting,’ said Ben, but he was grinning as he helped Libby over the treacherous mud towards the bridge.
‘She is pretty.’ Libby gave him a sidelong glance.
‘Yes, she is. Why they have to wear those dreadful boots, though – and that hair.’
Libby smiled to herself.
‘Here we are then.’ Peter presented the bridge with a flourish. ‘The famous murder spot.’
‘Joe Warburton. Tallyman,’ answered Lenny promptly.
‘What?’
‘He measured the hops.’
‘Oh, right.’ Van was clearly puzzled, but carried on gamely. ‘And he was where?’
‘Just down there.’
Lenny leant forward at a dangerous angle to point and Libby and Ben grabbed an arm each.
‘Can I get a shot from the other side?’
‘Sure.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Here, I’ll help you with that.’
Van trod delicately across the bridge, Peter following as bearer.
‘Pete!’ Harry’s scream took them all by surprise. ‘The bridge – careful – oh, my GOD.’
Almost in slow motion the bridge groaned, creaked and began to crack. With sounds like pistol shots it splintered and gave way. Van, squealing in terror, was already almost across, and scrambled inelegantly on to the further bank, but Peter, baggage and all, turned a somersault, grabbed vainly at the rotting railing and fell in.
With a distinct sense of deja-vu, Libby heard the momentary silence, then the explosion of sound as everybody rushed forward. A good deal of the noise was coming from Peter, who, it appeared, was not badly hurt, other than in his dignity. Van rushed up and down the opposite bank in short bursts, wailing ‘My equipment. My equipment,’ while Lenny seemed to be doing a little dance on the spot, encouraging Ben and Harry, who were sliding down the bank to help Peter. Libby moved to a safe vantage point, ready to reach out and take the various cases as they were handed up.
Peter emerged in a rush, covered in mud and various other unpleasant detritus, swearing fluently, ‘Just like a navvy, darling,’ as Harry said, admiringly. Ben was left to encourage Van down from her side, catching her as she slid awkwardly on her bottom, whereupon she clung to him so tightly that Libby began to get quite hot under the collar. With Ben behind and Harry pulling from in front, she finally landed in a heap at Libby’s feet, still wailing.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Libby bending to assist her to her feet. ‘I can’t think how it happened. It was quite safe yesterday. I’m so sorry.’
But Van was inconsolable. They loaded her in beside Ben, and Lenny came in the back of Peter’s vehicle with Libby, with Harry driving.
‘Somebody’d had a go at that bridge.’ Peter broke the silence as they bumped towards The Manor.
Nobody answered him.
‘I saw it. Where it split. Somebody’d had a go at it.’
‘Wouldn’t take much, Pete. It was rotten anyway.’ Harry patted his knee.
‘It took our weight yesterday – and we stood on it together,’ said Libby.
‘Perhaps that was the last straw, then? Whoops, sorry.’ Harry was contrite.
‘Why would anybody do that?’ asked Libby.
‘Me. That’s what it was. To get me.’ Lenny spoke for the first time.
‘You?’ They all turned to look at him. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t matter why. Just was, I tell yer,’ and Lenny, for once quite serious, refused to say another word.
At The Manor, Van had already been hustled upstairs by Hetty, and Ben called out that he was taking his father up to his room.
‘Kettle’s on. Help yourselves.’
‘I’m going fer a lie down,’ announced Lenny and without looking at any of them he left the kitchen, his step considerably less springy than usual.
Libby and Harry looked at Peter.
‘I want a bath,’ he said.
‘Come on, then, I’ll take you home. Will you stay here and help Ben with Vanny Fanacapan, Libby?’
‘All right,’ said Libby helplessly, ‘but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’
‘Neither do I, love. Stop her suing us, I suppose.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Libby’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘You don’t think …?’
‘Hazards of the job,’ said Peter. ‘Silly cow, anyway. Am-dram, indeed.’
Libby giggled, and, suddenly, they were all laughing hysterically, clutching each other. Ben came in and looked on, astonished.
‘Are you going to let me in on it?’ he asked.
‘Release of tension, dear heart,’ said Peter, his good humour restored. ‘I’m going to have a bath and Libby is going to help you stop Call-me-Van suing us.’
‘Could she?’ Ben looked startled.
‘If she finds out that bridge was sabotaged, yes. Come on, Hal. Take me home and bathe me.’
‘Sabotaged?’ Ben turned to Libby when they were alone.
‘Peter thinks so. He says he could see it when he went down.’
‘But why?’
‘That’s what we’d all like to know.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’m getting sick of this, Ben.’
‘It can’t have any connection.’ He came round the table and pushed her gently into a chair.
‘Lenny thinks it was to get at him. He was quite serious about it.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘True.’ Libby looked over at the Aga where a kettle was beginning to sing. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
Ben laid a tray to take upstairs and found two teapots. Libby waited for the tea to draw, gazing out of the kitchen window over fields and copses, bleached of their colour by the low cloud and rain.
‘I’m going to tackle Lenny.’ Ben came back into the room and flung himself into a Windsor chair by the Aga.
‘Will he tell you anything?’
‘I don’t know. I would have thought he would want to, now, but you can’t tell with Lenny. He can be an awkward old sod.’
‘I can’t help feeling responsible, you know.’ Libby carried cups to the table.
‘Why? Because of the play? It wasn’t your idea. That’s all down to Peter and me. I’m beginning to wish we’d left well alone, now.’
‘But you couldn’t have known. After all, it was a family decision, wasn’t it? And, from what Peter said, the story was never covered up. He’s known about it since he was a child. You must have done, too.’
‘That’s what puzzles me. It almost looks as though whoever cut the wire and damaged the bridge must have a grudge against us – and possibly the theatre. Nothing to do with the story. Millie getting upset must be a red herring.’
‘Then why does Lenny think someone’s out to get him?’
‘Oh, God. I don’t know.’ Ben leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘You must be beginning to wish you’d never met this family.’
Libby gazed down at his bent head.
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘No, I don’t wish that. And maybe we’re jumping to conclusions. Perhaps they were both accidents and we’re being paranoid.’
He looked up, his eyes very bright blue in the gathering gloom of the kitchen.
‘Let’s put on some lights,’ said Libby hastily, jumping up. ‘It’s getting awfully dark.’
Hetty came in to the kitchen and lowered herself into a chair by the table. She didn’t look up.
‘Mum?’ Ben got up and went over to her. ‘How are they all?’
‘Lenny and your father are lying down and that silly girl’s in the bath. I’ve sponged off all her leather gear and she’s checked her precious equipment. None of it’s broke.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Libby sat down opposite her. ‘Are you all right, Hetty?’
‘I’m all right, girl. I’m always all right, aren’t I, Ben?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, giving her a hug.
‘You’ll stay for a bit of dinner, Libby?’ The old lady straightened thin shoulders. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of beef in the slow oven. Thought we’d have it tonight instead of lunchtime, what with this photo business.’
‘Are you sure it’s no trouble?’ Libby looked from Hetty to Ben.
‘No, we’d love you to stay,’ said Ben, and Libby blushed.
‘Can I do anything to help, then?’
‘No, it’s all done. Just got to put the veg on an
d the Yorkshire in. Have it about six, shall we? After we’ve got rid of that girl.’
‘Better make it half-past, Mum. She might take a lot of getting rid of.’
As it happened, Van was only too eager to shake the dust of The Manor off her feet, swearing that she was fine, the equipment was fine, and yes, Nobby would write the piece if they would send him all the details. Relieved, they helped her load her car and waved her on her way.
‘Ben!’ shrieked Libby as they watched her car bowling down the drive. ‘We forgot the cast. At the theatre.’
‘Christ,’ said Ben rushing inside and grabbing his jacket. ‘I’d better get down there fast. If they’re still there.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Libby threw her cape around her with such violence that it nearly strangled her. ‘Come on.’
But when they arrived at the theatre it was to find Stephen just about to lock up.
‘Don’t worry, we heard. I phoned and spoke to your mother.’
‘I wonder when that was? I didn’t hear the phone.’ Libby looked at Ben.
‘You can’t hear it in the kitchen if the door’s closed. Oh, well, all that rushing for nothing. Thanks, Stephen, we’ll finish locking up.’
‘So what exactly happened?’ asked Stephen.
‘Peter fell off the bridge,’ said Libby. ‘That’s all.’
‘And the photographer?’
‘Well, yes, she did too, only not right into the ditch,’ said Libby, wondering why Stephen was looking so suspicious.
‘Why were you there, Libby? I thought it was about the family?’
Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s the director, of course. Wouldn’t you expect her to be there?’
‘Not if it was only family,’ said Stephen, turning away.
All three of them went round the theatre turning off lights and double-checking the set, then stopped to admire the new auditorium seats that had been delivered on Friday.
‘We’ll fix these in on Tuesday – you’re not rehearsing then, are you?’ said Stephen.
‘Well, I did think I might put in an extra rehearsal –’
‘Do it Friday. Better nearer the time,’ said Ben. ‘They’ll still have two days off before the dress.’
‘OK, then, I’ll be off.’ Stephen stood irresolute, hands pushed down into his coat pockets. ‘Do you need a lift, Lib?’
Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series Page 7