Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Nay bother,’ said Peter, running hot water into the sink. ‘You and Lib get off home. She’s done enough for tonight.’

  ‘You sure?’ asked Libby, drying her hands on a paper towel.

  ‘Absolutely. Off you go and I’ll phone you in the morning.’

  Libby and Fran walked down the drive to the High Street in silence.

  ‘Come on, Fran, out with it,’ said Libby. ‘What’s wrong? Was it crap?’

  Fran walked along looking at the ground in front of her. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. I’ve already told you, it was good.’

  ‘Then what is it? Is something to do with Ben?’

  ‘Why on earth would it be something to do with Ben?’ Fran looked up.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Libby muttered. ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘There’s nothing between Ben and me, I’ve told you. No, it’s Paula.’

  ‘Paula? The murder?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘It’s just one of those facts. I know she wasn’t killed where she was found.’

  Libby was puzzled. ‘We were talking about that earlier, Peter and me. But why should that worry you?’ She looked at Fran’s averted profile. ‘Unless you know who killed her.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ said Fran. ‘But I’m worried about Millie.’

  ‘So are we. They’re getting in a doctor to see if she’s fit to be questioned tomorrow. I think we ought to find out who really killed Paula so they don’t bother Millie. No sense in upsetting the family all over again.’

  ‘It’ll upset the family anyway,’ murmured Fran.

  ‘Why? Why do you say that?’

  Fran looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh, well, you know, James and all that.’

  Libby shot her a suspicious look, but said nothing, and they walked the rest of the way back to Allhallow’s Lane in silence.

  ‘When are you going back to London?’ asked Libby later, as she handed Fran a substantial-looking scotch.

  ‘Tomorrow sometime. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?’

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘No – should there be? Like what?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I seem to have been enjoying your hospitality a bit too much.’

  ‘You bought me dinner on Saturday.’

  Fran’s lips twisted. ‘And that wasn’t an unqualified success, was it?’

  ‘Oh, come on, water under the bridge and all that.’ Libby sat down and took out her cigarettes. ‘All these problems have had a good effect on me. I haven’t smoked half as much over the last couple of weeks.’

  Fran nodded. ‘You’ve had too much else to think about.’

  ‘Certainly have,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, tomorrow I’m going to go with Peter to see Millie.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘Wise? What do you mean? She’s Pete’s mum. He needs to see how she is.’

  Fran looked agitated. ‘Will David be there?’

  ‘No idea. Probably at work. But don’t worry, we won’t upset her. She won’t need medical intervention.’

  Fran looked at her oddly. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, honestly, you don’t think Pete’s going to hurt her, do you? How could you?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I know he loves her.’

  Libby was perplexed. ‘Then what’s the matter?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing. Take no notice of me. I’m being pathetic.’

  Libby privately agreed, but couldn’t help the little niggle of doubt that kept her awake for far too long after she and Fran had gone to bed. Fran hadn’t actually demonstrated any startling evidence of psychometry or remote viewing, but Ben’s recommendation had carried some weight, and Fran was certainly worried about something. And she still hadn’t heard from Ben.

  Peter phoned while Libby was having her early morning cup of tea.

  ‘I want to go and see Mum before they get anybody else out there. Are you still coming with me?’

  ‘Do you need me? I’m not dressed yet.’

  ‘No, not really, but you said you wanted to give me moral support.’

  ‘I’ll catch you up. I’ll keep my mobile on so you can get in touch if you go anywhere else.’

  ‘I’ll go and see James after Mum. He’s a bit wobbly.’

  ‘I’ll catch up with you somewhere, then,’ said Libby, and went upstairs to tell Fran and get dressed.

  Fran was still disconcertingly edgy this morning, thought Libby as she made her way down Allhallow’s Lane in the spring sunshine. She obviously suspected someone but didn’t dare say who it was, but whether it was psychic intuition or simple deduction, Libby didn’t know. If it was deduction, she reasoned, she should have worked it out herself by now, although perhaps she was too close to all the protagonists to do that.

  Blossom decorated the orchard that bordered the lane in pink and white, and Libby could smell the lilac that hung over the vicarage wall. The daffodils were over, and the remains of the tulips bent blowsily in their beds around the horse trough. Spring had well and truly arrived, but it was failing in its duty, thought Libby. It was supposed to cheer people up, to reaffirm life and love. Instead of which, it was insensitively showing off. It should have stayed appropriately wet, windy and depressing. She hadn’t even heard from Ben since the debacle of Tuesday night, which added to her own feeling of dejection, and the little niggle of doubt which had kept her awake last night was now turning into a knot of fear somewhere in her stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  AS SHE APPROACHED THE Pink Geranium she saw James coming the other way. He looked drawn and somehow older. She pinned on a determined smile and waved.

  ‘Hi,’ he said coming to a halt outside the door.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Libby, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  He tried to smile. ‘Oh, OK, you know. Supposed to be meeting Pete. He’s been to see Mum.’

  ‘I know, I was going to go with him, but he was too early for me. Is he coming here? Shall we go in and beg a coffee from Harry?’

  James nodded and knocked on the window. Harry appeared, resplendent in his favourite leather trousers and pink shirt, covered with a long cook’s apron.

  ‘Come in, dear hearts,’ he said. ‘Pete phoned and said he’ll be along in a minute. He didn’t say you were coming, though, Lib.’

  ‘He knows.’ Libby sat down at her favourite table in the window.

  ‘Council of war, is it?’ Harry swept aside a newspaper and straightened the cruet.

  James just shook his head and collapsed into the chair opposite Libby’s. Harry frowned, sighed, and whisked off towards the kitchen. ‘Coffee,’ he called over his shoulder.

  James obviously didn’t want to, or couldn’t, talk, and Libby didn’t know what to say. The silence remained until Harry returned with a cafetière and mugs.

  ‘Have you eaten this morning, James?’ he asked.

  James looked vaguely surprised and shook his head again.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Yesterday sometime. Before the police came round.’ James frowned. ‘I think.’

  ‘When did they come round?’ asked Libby, a cold feeling settling round the knot of fear still resident in her stomach.

  ‘I don’t know. Morning, I think. I called Pete.’

  ‘Then I’m going to get you something now,’ said Harry, ‘even if you don’t think you’re hungry. You must eat.’

  ‘What did the police want?’ said Libby, when Harry had gone back to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, all sorts of things. All about Paula, and how long we’d been together … and Mum, and where she was.’ James shut his eyes. ‘I can’t remember.’

  Libby pushed down the plunger on the cafetière. ‘They’ve got to ask questions, James. We want to find out who did it, don’t we?’

  ‘Do we?’ James gave a small, mirthless laugh. ‘I don’t think I care. She …’ he stopped, looking horrified.

  ‘Caused enough trouble alive? Is that what
you were going to say?’ Libby poured coffee and pushed one mug towards him.

  James flushed. ‘No, of course not.’ He looked up gratefully as the door opened. ‘Here’s Pete.’

  Peter came in and squeezed his brother’s shoulder before sitting down next to him.

  ‘Is that coffee? Thank God for that. Susan hasn’t a clue how to make it.’ He poured himself a mug and took a scalding mouthful. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Serves you right,’ said Libby following his lead in trying to lighten the atmosphere. Not, she thought, that it was likely to remain light.

  ‘How is she?’ asked James.

  ‘Mum? She seems fine, muddled, and can’t understand why she’s staying with Susan and David, but otherwise quite bright.’ Peter sat back in his chair. ‘She’s got no memory of what happened the other night, Lib.’

  ‘That’s just as well, surely,’ said Libby. ‘She won’t mention it to the police.’

  ‘Why do they want to talk to her, Pete?’ James hadn’t touched his coffee.

  ‘Haven’t a clue. They can’t know she had anything to do with the accidents at the theatre.’

  ‘Unless they heard a mention of them when Cole and the other one came to see the play on Tuesday,’ said Libby.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Peter, looking up, ‘but even then, they wouldn’t know it had anything to do with Mum. Even the cast don’t know, and they certainly didn’t on Tuesday.’

  ‘So why, then?’ James’s voice cracked. ‘They can’t think she …’

  ‘Of course they don’t,’ Libby said in a rallying tone. ‘But we really ought to try and think who might have done, so we can point the police in the right direction.’

  ‘Oh, and they’d take notice, would they?’ Peter raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t want to be Miss Marple?’

  ‘I don’t. But we know everyone round here better than they do.’

  ‘I bet that’s what all the amateur detectives say.’ Peter leaned over and patted Libby’s arm. ‘This isn’t a book, Lib. This is real. It’s no use speculating, because we don’t know anything about what they’ve found out.’

  ‘Do they know whether she was pregnant?’ asked James.

  Peter and Libby exchanged looks.

  ‘Don’t you think she was, then?’ said Libby, with a quick frown as Peter opened his mouth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said James miserably. ‘She said she was, and she said it was mine, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Why would she have lied?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I don’t know!’ James burst out. ‘Why would she want to marry me? She didn’t love me. Why didn’t she go after the other bloke?’

  Another silence fell, and Libby made a face at Peter. Harry appeared at the kitchen door and waited.

  ‘What other bloke?’ said Peter.

  ‘I don’t know. I was sure she was seeing someone else when we broke up and I got the impression he was married. If she was pregnant, I bet it was his and she was trying to get me to take it on.’ James put his head in his hands.

  Peter nodded at Libby. ‘Sounds like it,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you go along with it?’ said Libby.

  James sat back and started playing with his mug. ‘Oh, you know. She was – well, she was convincing. I know everybody thought I was a fool, but we were brought up as gentlemen, weren’t we, Pete?’ He smiled wryly at his brother.

  ‘And look what a gentleman he turned out to be,’ said Harry, coming forward and topping up their mugs. ‘I’m doing you an omelette, young James. And make sure you eat it.’

  ‘Young James.’ Peter patted Harry fondly on the bottom. ‘He’s older than you are.’

  ‘But so much less mature,’ said Harry, and twitched away to the kitchen.

  ‘So did the police ask you about any of this?’ said Libby.

  ‘Not in so many words. They didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you’ll see them this morning at Susan’s,’ said Peter. ‘I said we’d go back when the doctor comes.’

  ‘Oh, he’s coming this morning, is he?’ said James. ‘We’d better go, then.’

  ‘You just stay and eat your omelette or my life won’t be worth living,’ said Peter, ‘then we’ll go.’

  Libby finished her coffee. ‘I’ll only be in the way,’ she said, ‘so I’ll go back and see how Fran is. She really enjoyed the play, by the way, Pete.’

  ‘When’s she going home?’

  ‘Today, sometime. Why are you so worried about her?’ Libby was exasperated.

  ‘She’s just butted in, that’s all.’

  ‘By invitation. Your cousin asked her, don’t forget.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t forget that.’ Peter looked up at her maliciously. ‘And neither can you, can you, sweetie?’

  Libby pressed her lips together and picked up her basket.

  ‘While we’re on the subject of Fran,’ she said, ‘she did wonder why we were all so sure your mother caused the accidents. She doesn’t think she did.’

  Giving James a supportive pat on the arm she opened the door.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ she said to the air, and left.

  ‘Morning,’ called a voice from across the road, as she turned towards home.

  ‘David!’ She stopped and waited for him to cross the road to her side. ‘How are things this morning?’

  ‘You mean with Millie?’ He ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘Not so good.’

  ‘Peter thought she seemed quite bright.’

  ‘Peter? Has he seen her today?’

  ‘Yes, he went up to warn her – and Susan, of course – about the police bringing their doctor to see her.’

  David stared. ‘What? I didn’t know about this.’

  ‘DS Cole came to talk to Peter last night after you said they couldn’t interview Millie. They told him then.’

  David looked furious. ‘Why didn’t he tell me? This is outrageous. They have no right to do this.’

  ‘Well, I think Peter has, as her son,’ said Libby doubtfully.

  ‘She’s a sick woman,’ said David, ‘and who knows what she might say to them?’

  Libby regarded him thoughtfully, wondering how much he knew of Hetty’s story. ‘I expect that’s why they want a doctor to see her,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a doctor, for goodness’ sake!’ David looked ready to erupt. ‘Where’s Peter?’

  ‘In The Pink Geranium with James,’ said Libby. ‘Really, David, I don’t think you need worry. Millie is their mother. They’ll look after her.’

  David made a sound that sounded suspiciously like “hurrumph”, and barged past her into the restaurant. Libby hesitated, torn between going back to see what was going on and a craven desire to keep out of it. Self-preservation got the better of her and she left, making a short detour into the farm shop to buy something for lunch.

  ‘So did you ask about where the body was found?’ said Fran, when Libby had finished telling her all about the morning’s events.

  ‘Well, no, there was no point. Peter hadn’t seen the police, and anyway, why would they tell him?’

  ‘I just think it’s important.’ Fran kept her eyes down and picked at a lettuce leaf.

  Libby sighed. ‘I’ll give Pete a ring after lunch and see if he prised anything out of the inspector, or whoever came with the doctor.’

  But Peter sounded even more cheerful when Libby rang him while enjoying a post-lunch cigarette.

  ‘They didn’t come,’ he said. ‘Apparently, Inspector Murray didn’t consider it that important, it was only that bloody idiot Cole making mountains out of mudpies.’

  ‘So we were worrying for nothing?’

  ‘Looks like it. Anyway, Mum’s off the hook. Funny thing was, David came bursting into the caff just after you went, breathing fire and brimstone about the police questioning her.’

  ‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘I’d just spoken to him. What was his problem?’

  ‘He thinks Mum’s worse than she is. I’ve told him I
’ll take responsibility for her, whatever happens, but he’s still muttering curses. I never knew he had it in him.’

  ‘Perhaps she was his one true love,’ giggled Libby, ‘like we said last night.’

  ‘God help them, then,’ snorted Peter. ‘What a pair.’

  Libby relayed this conversation to Fran, who still looked worried.

  ‘And did you find out?’ she said.

  ‘Find out? What?’

  ‘Where she was killed.’

  ‘Oh, God, you’re not still on about that!’ Libby stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. ‘No, I didn’t ask. The police didn’t come to see Millie, so Peter hasn’t seen them, either. For goodness’ sake, what does it matter?’

  Fran looked stubborn. ‘It’s important,’ she said. ‘And did you ask them about the accidents?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I told them what you thought and left them to it. Pete didn’t mention it just now. I’ll ask him later. As there’s no reason now for her to be questioned, perhaps he doesn’t think it matters.’

  ‘But it does, can’t you see? If it wasn’t Millie, who was it?’

  Suppressing the urge to ask when she was going home, Libby took the lunch crockery out to the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, Libby.’ Fran came up behind her. ‘I’ve been a right pain, haven’t I? I’ll go and put my things together and get out of your way. I ought to go now, anyway, or I’ll get stuck in the rush hour.’

  Immediately feeling guilty, Libby turned and smiled. ‘You don’t have to go yet if you don’t want to, Fran. You can even stay tonight, but I’ll have to turn you out tomorrow …’

  ‘I know, the children are coming down.’ Fran smiled back. ‘No, it’s fine. I really enjoyed the play, and I hope they find the murderer so you can all get on with your lives.’

  ‘As long as it’s not someone we know,’ said Libby, ‘that’s what terrifies me.’

  ‘Do you really think Peter, Harry or James could be a murderer?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘Or Ben?’ Fran smiled. ‘I’m sure it isn’t any of them.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose. But if it isn’t them we haven’t got any more suspects, have we?’

  ‘I expect the police have,’ said Fran. ‘And didn’t you tell me James thought she’d been having an affair with someone else apart from him?’