‘But not Stephen. He didn’t tell us anything. Will you tell us why? When it’s over? Will he confess?’
DC Burnham leaned forward. ‘The baby was his, and his DNA was found on the bedspread, and all over her house and car. He wasn’t very careful. He’d be better admitting it.’
‘What about motive?’ asked Libby. ‘Was it jealousy?’
‘Probably,’ said DCI Murray, ‘but we’re not over-concerned with why, madam. Just who, how and when. And Mr Pringle is the who, he had the means for the how, and was available for the when. I can tell you that he and the deceased had been having a relationship for some time. At least a couple of years, apparently.’
‘He did say he knew her,’ said Libby, relieved to find the shaking was getting less. ‘But I thought it was just a passing acquaintance. But wait a minute – he was married up until a year or so ago.’
‘Yes, madam. So his wife told us.’ DCI Murray looked smug. ‘Another woman was apparently the cause of their split.’
‘Paula!’
‘It would seem so, from evidence found at her house. Yes. He was very careless.’ He leant forward conspiratorially, ignoring DC Burnham’s disapproving expression. ‘It appears the young lady fell against the marble fireplace.’
‘So it was an accident?’
DCI Murray nodded. ‘In a way. I doubt if she fell there all by herself, though.’
‘So what about the bedspread?’
‘The throw? We think he wrapped her up in it and put her in her car, intending to drive it away. I think the fire sirens scared him off. He certainly didn’t bother to clear away any evidence from inside the house, and there was plenty.’ He sat back, looking pleased with himself. ‘He’d never have got away with it.’
Ten minutes later, after assuring themselves she wasn’t a quivering wreck, the police presence left and Libby went straight to the phone. While she was still explaining things to Fran and thanking her for her prompt action there was a heavy pounding on the front door.
Ben, Peter and Harry crowded into the room overwhelming her with hugs, kisses and, from Harry, a large bottle of scotch.
When she’d sorted them all out, found seats for them all, pacified a now furious Sidney and found glasses for the scotch, she slumped into the cane chair and began to explain.
‘So he must have been seeing Paula for months,’ said Peter, when Libby finally ran out of steam.
‘While she was still seeing James, certainly. Before that weekend when she said they’d conceived.’
‘It was years, according to DCI Murray,’ said Libby.
‘That was why he agreed to come over here and stage manage,’ said Harry, with the air of one who has had a light bulb moment.
Libby nodded. ‘And I thought he fancied me. That’ll teach me.’
‘He went to some trouble to make it look as though he did,’ said Ben, patting her hand. ‘I was very jealous.’
‘You old bugger, you weren’t,’ said Peter. ‘You knew the old trout didn’t fancy him back.’
‘So what exactly did Fran say?’ asked Harry.
‘She told me yesterday she didn’t think I was right about David, but today she said she’d had this dream about opportunity. And that made me think about what you’d said. And Stephen was right here when she was telling me, and suddenly I realised. He was the only one who had the opportunity to cut the wire, he knew who would be underneath it, or not, and he knew about the photographer coming.’
‘Do you remember I couldn’t get hold of either Paula or him that night I phoned everybody?’ said Peter. ‘I suppose they were together.’
‘Maybe, and then when he got home there would have been this message. She must have already told him about the baby and her intention to snaffle James,’ said Ben.
‘So he decided to frighten her again. He almost admitted that to me,’ said Libby, shuddering and causing three willing hands to vie with each other to top up her scotch.
‘The fire, of course, that must have diverted attention away from him up at Lendle Lane,’ mused Harry.
‘I would have thought it would have been the opposite,’ said Ben. ‘More people around the village late at night.’
‘I don’t suppose he intended to kill her, he probably just lost his temper. We still don’t really know how she was killed, do we?’ said Peter.
‘She hit her head on the fireplace.’ Libby shuddered again, and Ben heaved himself over to sit on the arm of the cane chair to put his arm round her. The chair uttered a protesting creak and Sidney swore from underneath it. ‘DCI Murray said he thought it was an accident, but Stephen panicked. And the fire engines disturbed him, like Ben said.’
‘There you are then,’ said Peter, ‘spur of the moment, I would have thought, then he drove back and collected the bedspread to wrap her in to make it look as though … oh, no, she was left in her car.’
‘He had to use something of hers rather than his, or something from his car, or wherever he killed her, so it didn’t link back to him,’ said Harry. ‘Hey, I’m getting good at this.’
The other three looked at him with disapproval. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘I don’t think it was that well thought out,’ said Libby. ‘The police think he wrapped her in the bedspread to move her. That’s all there was to it. What I don’t understand is why David didn’t see it.’
‘He’d just found his daughter dead,’ said Ben gently. ‘I don’t suppose he was seeing or thinking straight.’
‘We actually suggested Stephen right at the beginning, didn’t we?’ said Libby. ‘He was the obvious one for cutting the wire.’
‘But we didn’t know he knew Paula. How could we have done?’ said Peter.
Libby shook her head. ‘We couldn’t. I was surprised when he admitted it to me the other day.’
‘Do you know what’s so awful?’ said Ben, absentmindedly stroking Libby’s hair.
‘All of it?’ said Libby, squirming slightly.
‘No, the fact that it wasn’t James’s baby and David committed suicide for nothing.’
‘If only he’d waited,’ said Harry.
‘It would still have come out about him being the father of both of them, and he was really worried about that, as well. Incest does not go down well in village life.’ Peter swallowed the last of the whisky in his glass and stood up. ‘Come along, pet. Let’s leave these two to recover from all the traumas. And you’ve got some prepping up to do while I go and tell the rest of the family.’
When they’d gone, Ben threw a log on the fire and sat down opposite Libby.
‘All right now?’ he asked softly.
‘I don’t think I shall ever be all right again,’ said Libby, with a shaky laugh.
‘I don’t suppose you were ever in any danger,’ said Ben.
‘No, I don’t think he thought I knew anything, although he did begin to look a bit wary when I mentioned a couple of things which obviously struck chords. I just can’t believe how calm he was. He only lost it right at the last minute when he saw the police cars.’
‘And Sidney saved the day,’ said Ben. ‘Your Onlie Protector.’
Libby reached a hand down to pat Sidney’s tail, which was all she could reach.
‘So, nightmares over?’ Ben stood up and took her hands.
‘I don’t suppose so.’ Libby looked at their clasped hands. ‘I really don’t know how anybody gets over anything like this. All those people in books who shrug it off and go on to the next murder without a backward glance. I shall have nightmares for ages.’
Ben pulled her to her feet. ‘You’d better feed Sidney,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said Libby, leaning gratefully against him.
‘Because, purely on account of the nightmares, of course, I’m going to take you upstairs, no more arguing, and put you to bed.’
‘Just me?’ she asked, looking up at him.
‘Just us,’ he said.
Libby smiled and kissed him.
‘I’d like that,’
she said.
First Chapter of Murder at the Laurels
‘HOW MANY MORE DO you want, then?’ Libby Sarjeant pushed a wisp of damp, rusty-coloured hair off her brow. ‘I can’t turn them out like sausages.’
Guy Wolfe grinned at her from behind his neat goatee beard. ‘You can’t turn them out at all unless you haven’t got anything else to do,’ he said. ‘You’re one of the most unreliable suppliers I’ve got.’
‘Thanks.’ Libby tried to look outraged and failed. ‘Suppliers, is that what we are? I thought we were artists.’
‘To me you’re suppliers. Now, I’m an artist.’ He turned to look smugly at the rows of greetings cards behind him.
Libby snorted. ‘That’s prostituting your art,’ she said.
‘No it isn’t. It’s being practical. Think of all the Laughing Cavalier and Stag at Bay cards that are sold each year.’
‘I didn’t know you were that famous.’ Libby picked up her basket and slung it over her shoulder.
‘Only among a certain well-informed set,’ said Guy, and laughed as her mouth dropped open. ‘I’m teasing, Lib.’
‘Oh.’ Libby turned towards the door and then remembered. ‘You never said how many more you wanted. And if you do, do you want them all the same?’
‘I’ll take whatever you can produce, and as long as it’s pretty, it doesn’t matter what the view is. You sell quite well, you know.’
Libby smiled, her turn to be smug. ‘I know. Especially –’
‘Since you turned detective?’
‘No, I was going to say especially that one –’
‘The view through the window?’
‘With the yellow roses, yes.’
‘The punters loved that. Was it from imagination?’
‘No, I visited the cottage once.’ Libby sighed. ‘It was beautiful. I wanted it.’
‘Was this when you were house hunting? What was it Peter and Harry called it?’
‘The search for Bide-a-Wee. Yes, it was then.’
‘But Nethergate’s miles from Steeple Martin.’ Guy perched on the edge of the old oak table that did duty as a counter.
‘When I was house hunting I wasn’t looking particularly in Steeple Martin. Just something small and somewhere else.’ Libby turned her head and looked out of the window. ‘Nethergate was somewhere else, as well as Steeple Martin. Just too expensive.’
‘Seaside location, you see.’ Guy narrowed his eyes and put his head on one side. ‘Wish you’d moved here instead, now?’
Libby sighed again. ‘In a way. It’s all been very difficult.’
‘Murder usually is,’ said Guy.
Libby nodded mournfully.
‘Look, why don’t I take you to lunch? You need cheering up, and Sophie can mind the shop.’
Guy’s daughter looked up from her magazine and nodded vaguely. ‘No customers, anyway,’ she said.
Guy made an exasperated sound and slid off the table. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking Libby’s arm. ‘Let’s leave her to it.’
‘She’s right, though, there aren’t any customers,’ said Libby, as they walked along Harbour Street towards Guy’s favourite pub. ‘Don’t be too hard on her.’
Guy grinned. ‘I’m not really. Sophie works for me and lives with her mother. A remarkably well-adjusted child. Just very modern.’
‘Hardly a child, and of course she’s modern. Did you expect a Renaissance maiden?’
‘I’d have preferred it. Look what happens to modern misses. That Paula, for instance,’ said Guy, referring to the murder case Libby had been involved with in the spring.
Libby shuddered. ‘I’d rather not even think about her, thank you.’
‘Well, ignore her, then, but I want to know the inside story. People do ask, you know.’
‘What people?’ said Libby, surprised, as they went into the cool interior of The Swan.
‘Those customers there aren’t any of,’ said Guy. ‘When they see your name, if they’re local, they always say, “Oh, she was involved in that murder, wasn’t she?” and I waffle and mumble.’
‘Carry on waffling and mumbling then,’ said Libby sitting at a table. ‘How on earth do they know, anyway?’
‘Local papers, local radio. It was hardly low profile, was it?’
Libby accepted her half of lager. ‘No, but it’s still not something I want to talk about.’
‘Ah, but it got you together with the lovely Ben, didn’t it?’ said Guy, slyly.
‘Sort of,’ said Libby, frowning.
‘Only sort of?’ Guy looked at her down-turned face and decided not to pursue the subject, despite his normal elephant child curiosity. ‘So,’ he said, casting round for a new subject. ‘How are the kids?’
The telephone rang as soon as Libby opened the door of Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane later on that afternoon. She fell down the step and answered it, breathing hard.
‘Libby, it’s Fran. How are you?’
Libby sat down on the stairs with a bump.
‘Goodness, Fran, how are you? Haven’t heard from you for ages.’ She fended off the advances of Sidney, the silver tabby, who was determined to convince her he was starving to death.
‘No, sorry. I kept meaning to ring you, but somehow … I don’t know.’ Libby did. Fran felt uncomfortable about the circumstances of their friendship.
‘Well, the thing is,’ Fran went on, ‘I’ve had a call from my cousin Charles to say it’s my Aunt Eleanor’s birthday today. Apparently, the rest of the family are all going to see her this afternoon.’
‘Yes?’ said Libby, puzzled.
‘Well, Aunt Eleanor’s in The Laurels, just outside Nethergate.’
Should have known, thought Libby. Coincidence upon coincidence.
‘So you’re coming down, then?”
‘Not today, I can’t,’ said Fran, ‘but tomorrow. I just wondered if we could meet up for a drink.’
‘Funnily enough, I’ve just come back from Nethergate. A little gallery there sells my paintings. There’s a nice pub there called The Swan.’
‘That’d be great. The only thing is, I’m car-less at the moment –’
‘Would you like me to pick you up at the station? I could take you to your auntie’s.’
‘No, no,’ said Fran hastily, ‘that wasn’t what I meant. I thought, when I’ve seen Auntie, perhaps I could ring you and we can both make our way there. Or I could catch a bus to you.’
‘You’ll be lucky, there aren’t any,’ said Libby, amused. ‘No, you ring me when you’re ready and I’ll meet you at The Swan. And why don’t you come back with me and stay the night? We could have dinner at the caff.’
‘Are you sure?’ Fran sounded wary. ‘I wouldn’t have thought anyone would want to see me.’
‘Don’t be daft. You practically saved my life, didn’t you? Everyone will be delighted to see you.’
There was a pause. ‘What about Ben?’ asked Fran. ‘Won’t he mind me being there?’
‘What’s it got to do with Ben?’ said Libby, pulling a face.
‘Won’t he be around?’
‘Maybe. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, Fran.’
‘Oh. I thought …’
‘Yes, well, it didn’t quite pan out.’
‘But what happened? It all seemed …’
Libby sighed. ‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Now, have you still got my mobile number? And come to think of it, have I got yours?’
Fran switched off her mobile and stared reflectively at what she thought of as her Betjeman kitchen. When she was a child, she lived in a world epitomised by John Betjeman’s business women and their bathrooms stuck precariously on the back of tall grimy buildings, issuing steam into grey morning air glimpsed through a yellowing train window. Of course, she didn’t know Betjeman then, but as soon as she heard his overstuffed cushiony voice reading that poem on the radio, she knew she had found a soulmate. She didn’t feel quite so at home with his statuesque tennis and rowing girls, their lives
bore little relation to hers, but his affection for Metroland and Cornish churches, and dates in tawdry dance halls, was as if her own thoughts had taken form and set themselves to paper.
It all boiled down to nostalgia, of course. As a child, Fran could summon up nostalgia for things that she had never even experienced, for places she had never been. She lived in an ever-changing world of her own, now flying up to those grimy bathrooms in Camden Town, then conveyed in a bumpy carriage through a concealed tunnel in rock to a hidden valley in the West Country, next climbing a small green hill above a sea of cow parsley in the Suffolk countryside. Every book she read was measured for its ability to transport her to the place between its covers and her favourites were, and remained, those that did. There were others, borrowed from the library, that she never owned and therefore never read again, but their atmosphere lingered round the edges of her memory like coloured smoke.
She supposed that was part of the reason that she became an actress. She wanted to write, but the words eluded her. She could never transport herself to one of those magical places, so she became other people, able to live in their lives, in their penthouse apartments, seedy bed-sitting rooms, country vicarages, nuclear shelters. She had children of all ages, many husbands and lovers and several different parents. Along the way, she acquired a real life husband and three children, but she was never really comfortable with them. They were too real. Her real husband got fed up with her constant search for the magical place and left her. The children stayed and helped her attain a sort of reality, partly because then she had to stop moving. Until the money ran out and she finally ended up in Betjeman land with a stuck-on bathroom three floors up looking out over the criss-cross railway lines of central London. Somehow, the Betjeman flat wasn’t as romantic as she had thought it might be. The blue and white lino in the kitchen was cracked and the window sealed up with blistering grey paint, while a plastic ventilator whirred dustily in the top right-hand corner of the glass. The geyser probably pre-dated Betjeman and dribbled occasional hot water from a reluctant rusting arm, and Fran clung on to her dreams.
In a world that owes its existence to dreams, those that don’t conform to the stuff of those dreams are soon edged out to the perimeter. There were women with slimmer figures than Fran’s, prettier faces and fewer years than hers, and they were there for every audition, every part. Eventually she admitted defeat, and that was when she’d met Ben.
Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series Page 30