LS 13 - Murder in a Different Place

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Except we’ve no way of finding out any more about it.’

  ‘Unless whoever threatened Harry shows his or her hand.’

  ‘So we need to make sure Harry’s never alone?’ Libby looked worried. ‘And if this is the person who killed Celia, he might not care about killing other people, too.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean,’ said Fran, with a wry grin. ‘But I also think the blue book is the best clue we’ve got.’

  ‘But we can’t open it.’

  ‘I think we could try.’ Fran stood up. ‘I’ll go and get it. It must be completely dry by now.’

  ‘Even if it is, and we do manage to open it, the writing would be unreadable.’

  ‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ Fran went inside and returned with the little blue book.

  ‘I’ll get a knife,’ said Libby. ‘We could possibly slide a knife between the pages, unless they’re stuck into a solid wodge.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Fran absently, turning the book over in her hands. Libby watched her for a moment, then went to fetch the thinnest knife she could find from the kitchen.

  ‘There’s something here after all,’ said Fran, as Libby handed her the knife. ‘Perhaps the damp was masking it.’

  ‘And perhaps you just didn’t know enough background.’

  ‘No, because I get flashes without background sometimes, don’t I? I don’t know what it is, though.’

  Libby frowned. ‘Then how do you know there’s something in there?’

  ‘It’s a sort of series of pictures. Flashes – a bit like lightning, or one of those annoying TV documentaries where they swing the camera all over the place.’

  ‘Can you make out anything at all?’

  ‘No, it’s more like – well, colours really. But there’s definitely something there.’ Fran laid the book on the table. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can do.’

  She inserted the tip of the knife carefully under the cover and began to work it gently back and forth. Suddenly, the knife slid all the way in and the cover was loose. Fran removed the knife and looked at Libby.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Open it, of course. See if there’s anything there.’

  Fran opened the cover, and they both peered down at the first page.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Libby, ‘not even faded nothing.’

  Fran picked up the book and ran her thumb over the edge of the pages. ‘We might be able to get some of these open. Feel.’ She handed the book to Libby.

  Libby frowned as she investigated the edges, cover and back. ‘Why would we be able to open it now? Why not the other day?’

  ‘It’s completely dried out now,’ said Fran.

  ‘But usually when that happens, the pages stay stuck together for ever,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not necessarily. This has now become “air-dried”, although we didn’t do it as a conservator might. Try and fan the pages.’

  ‘How do you know so much about it?’ Libby handed the book back.

  ‘I had a friend who worked in the British Library.’ Fran gently ran her thumb across the pages again and, sure enough, they began to fan. Slowly, and not individually, but the book, it appeared, was open.

  Chapter Eleven

  Libby gasped.

  ‘I think you’re magic.’

  Fran looked up and grinned. ‘I just picked up a lot of trivial information in my wicked past.’

  ‘You’ve never been wicked,’ said Libby. ‘Can we open it properly?’

  Fran carefully opened the first page that came away freely. ‘Barely readable.’

  ‘But can you tell what it is?’

  ‘Address book,’ said Fran, ‘as far as I can tell.’

  Libby moved her chair closer. ‘The print’s OK, it’s the writing that’s faded.’

  Fran opened another page. ‘This one’s worse.’

  ‘Can you find the “L” section?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t know, why?’

  ‘See if Lucifer’s there.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be listed under a nickname,’ said Fran, opening a couple more pages. ‘I think this is a waste of time after all.’

  ‘Can you read any of the names?’

  ‘Just.’ Fran peered closely at the book. ‘Here: “Andrew Foster”. The address is – Wycliffe – Terrace, is that?’

  ‘No post code,’ said Libby.

  ‘Probably before the new system came in,’ said Fran. ‘No phone number, either. There was, by the look of things, but washed away.’

  Libby sighed. ‘I thought we’d got somewhere, then. You’re still not getting anything from it?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I think we should give it to the boys. Guy’s really good with this sort of thing, and if he can make any sense of any of the names, Harry – or even Peter – might recognise them.’

  ‘And meanwhile, we do what?’

  ‘Have a look at the Island?’

  ‘Just us two?’

  ‘Why not? The boys have gone off on their own.’

  ‘We’ll wait until they come back, though, won’t we?’ Libby stood up. ‘Then we can tell them about our visit up top.’

  It was almost twelve o’clock before Harry, Peter, Ben, and Guy appeared from the direction of Candle Cove.

  ‘Did you miss us?’ Ben grinned up at Libby as he made for the steps.

  ‘We wondered where you’d got to. We’ve been back ages.’

  ‘No joy with the girls, then?’ said Harry.

  ‘Not really, although we did learn that they’d all been off the Island in the fifties, so something could have happened then that they don’t know about.’ Fran handed the blue book to her husband. ‘I’ve managed to get this open, but we can’t decipher much. Would you have a go? Then Harry might recognise some names.’

  Harry looked dubious, but Guy took the book eagerly. ‘Book restoration! Years since I did this.’

  ‘Told you,’ Fran said to Libby.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Libby asked as Peter and Harry made for the sitting room.

  ‘We walked right through Candle Cove into the next little bay and up to the cliff top,’ said Ben. ‘There’s a footpath that leads across a field to a lovely little pub.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ Libby grinned. ‘So you just had to stop and have a pint?’

  ‘We actually had coffee,’ laughed Guy, coming to sit at the table with an assortment of items he appeared to have assembled from the contents of the kitchen cupboards.

  Harry came back to the deck and peered at Guy’s assemblage. ‘Can I watch?’

  ‘I think that’s the idea,’ said Guy.

  ‘We’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’ Ben strolled over and slung an arm round Libby’s shoulders.

  ‘Out to explore, like you did. Only in the car.’

  ‘It’s lunchtime,’ said Peter, reappearing from the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll have a pub lunch,’ said Fran. ‘We’ll see you later. Come on, Lib.’

  Leaving the four men clustered round the table while Guy worked on the blue book, Fran and Libby climbed once more to the top of the cliff, past the sisters’ house and The Shelf.

  ‘Which way, then?’ said Fran, ‘and whose car shall we take?’

  ‘Yours?’ suggested Libby. ‘Although you’ve brought Guy’s. Yours would have been great for navigating these little roads.’

  They climbed into the car and drove out of the car park.

  ‘Turn left when we get to the main road,’ said Libby. ‘We can drive right along the coast road towards Freshwater.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ asked Fran when they were out on Military Road, the sea on their left, as sparkling and blue as any holiday brochure, and the gentle landscape on their right. Ahead, they could see the promontory of Freshwater.

  ‘I don’t know. Ahead is Freshwater and Tennyson Down. And there’s the Needles. I haven’t been here since I was a child.’

  ‘Can we go a
cross to the other side? I’d like to see the forest and see if we can’t see a red squirrel.’

  ‘OK. Look there’s a turning coming up – try that.’

  Fran took the lane on the right, which proved to be as narrow as some of those they had discovered in Kent the previous November and December.

  ‘Now which way?’ Fran peered around for a signpost.

  ‘We want one which says Newport and nothing does,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, this way – right. And then we’ll find a turning on the left, I suppose.’

  Eventually, by way of Brighstone Forest, Calbourne, and Carisbrooke, they found their way to Parkhurst Forest.

  ‘But nowhere to eat,’ said Libby.

  ‘Let’s go back to Carisbrooke. There was a pub there,’ said Fran.

  However, as they attempted to take a short cut back to Carisbrooke they came across a tiny pub set back from the road, with a blackboard outside announcing “Fresh Food – 12 till 2”.

  The inside was typical of seventeenth-century inns, dark, but lightened with fresh cream paint and a cheerful-looking barmaid reading a newspaper.

  When they’d both ordered sandwiches and drinks, they were directed to the garden, where they found a table under a spreading beech tree.

  ‘Hello.’

  Libby squinted up into the face of a tall, well-built woman some ten years younger than she was.

  ‘You were at Matthew DeLaxley’s funeral on Tuesday, weren’t you?’ The woman held out her hand. ‘Amanda Clipping.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Libby stood up and took the outstretched hand. ‘I’m Libby Sarjeant. You were pointed out to us as being the daughter of the DeLaxleys’ oldest friends.’

  ‘Fran Wolfe,’ said Fran, also standing and shaking hands.

  ‘Yes, I was there as a deputy for my parents. I’m afraid they’re a bit frail to travel these days.’ She looked at them quizzically. ‘Were you friends of Matthew’s from his London days?’

  ‘Yes, although we live in Kent,’ said Libby. Did you know him well?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t, although I wish I had. He sounded a lovely old boy.’

  ‘He was. Fran didn’t know him either, but the rest of us did.’

  ‘I thought I didn’t see you at the funeral,’ said Amanda, with a slight frown at Fran. ‘Yet you said …’

  ‘The sisters came to us for drinks yesterday and were telling us all about some of their old friends – and Matthew’s, of course,’ said Libby.

  A waitress came up behind them and unloaded plates of sandwiches and two frosted glasses.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m disturbing your lunch.’ Amanda began to turn away.

  ‘No, it’s perfectly all right,’ said Libby, wondering how she could prolong the conversation and perhaps winkle some information out of the woman.

  ‘I ought to get back to my friends anyway.’ Amanda gestured to a table on the other side of the garden where one man sat on a bench and another, his back to the garden, sat in a wheelchair.

  ‘Oh, yes – you were all at the funeral, weren’t you?’ said Libby.

  ‘Don’t tell me the sisters pointed my friends out to you, too? They don’t know them.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Libby hastily. ‘I just remember seeing you all. They were friends of Matthew’s too, were they?’

  Amanda raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘In a way,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to your lunch. Nice to have seen you.’

  Before Libby could think of anything to say, Amanda had turned and walked back to her table.

  ‘She’s telling them all about us,’ muttered Fran into her glass.

  ‘Are they looking at us?’ asked Libby. ‘Not that she could have told them much about us – just that we were London friends of Matthew’s.’

  ‘You did say we came from Kent.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They know where to find us – and therefore Harry.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Libby, sitting up straight and directing a minatory look at her friend.

  ‘Someone’s on Harry’s case, aren’t they? All they know so far is what Harry looks like.’

  ‘And you’re suggesting …? Don’t be daft. Amanda wasn’t around in the fifties if we’re still looking at the illegitimate baby theory.’

  ‘What about the old boy in the wheelchair?’

  ‘We can’t see how old he is, and to be honest, although I said I did, I don’t remember them from the funeral. Wait, though –’ Libby frowned. ‘He could be Lucifer, I suppose?’

  ‘Now we’ve got our two stories muddled,’ said Fran. ‘And we’re getting stupidly suspicious.’

  ‘You started it,’ accused Libby, ‘saying they were after Harry.’ She picked up her sandwich.

  Fran sighed. ‘I know. But that was what came across.’

  Libby stopped in mid-bite. ‘What? You mean …?’

  Fran nodded. ‘It was just a flash.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I thought you’d realise.’

  ‘I’m not bloody psychic,’ said Libby, and laughed. ‘Sorry. No pun – if that was a pun – intended.’

  ‘No.’ Fran sighed. ‘I wish I wasn’t, either. It’s infuriating. I feel as though I absolutely know something for certain, yet have no way of validating the knowledge.’

  ‘What exactly was it you knew?’

  ‘As she came over, I knew they – all of them – were looking for Harry. That’s why I stood up, even though I hadn’t even been at the funeral. I knew.’

  ‘I wondered why you did that,’ said Libby. ‘But is it a “good” looking, or a “bad” looking?’

  ‘I would have thought it could only be bad.’

  ‘So we’ve solved the mystery? Already? They killed Celia, too?’

  ‘I can’t feel any link to that,’ said Fran, ‘but maybe I wouldn’t. I’m not connected to that.’

  ‘You haven’t been connected to other things you’ve known about.’

  ‘I have in a vague way, if you think about it. I’ve no connection to Celia at all, I didn’t even know Matthew.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby grudgingly. ‘So we still don’t know. We’re going to have to investigate the Clipping.’

  ‘Or her parents.’

  ‘Maybe that’s her dad!’ Libby brightened up.

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘The sisters knew the parents, didn’t they? They’d have recognised him. After all, they spotted both men, Alicia confirmed it. And Amelia had certainly taken notice of the younger man.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to have to do some investigating, whatever,’ said Libby. ‘If they’re after Harry, we need to know.’

  ‘So does Harry.’

  ‘How do we go about it?’ Libby finished her sandwich and pushed the plate away. ‘And do we start now, or go and see the red squirrels?’

  ‘Finish our drinks first, go and see the squirrels, if possible, and then go back to Overcliffe. We can be thinking about what to do on the way.’

  ‘Look – they’re going,’ said Libby and buried her face in her glass.

  As she passed, Amanda Clipping paused by their table. The younger man continued pushing the elder towards the tiny car park.

  ‘It was nice to meet you. Are you staying on the Island?’

  ‘Yes, just for a few more days. We’re off to the forest now, to see what we can see,’ said Libby.

  ‘You must be sure to see all our attractions. We’ve got more per square mile than anywhere in the country.’ Amanda bestowed on them a benign smile, and passed on.

  ‘Did you get a good look at the men?’ whispered Libby.

  ‘The younger one. About forty, dark hair, checked scarf, quite slight. The older one was wearing a cap and a scarf and was very bundled up.’

  ‘I wonder why? It’s not exactly cold.’

  ‘He’s old and in a wheelchair,’ said Fran.

  ‘He might not be,’ said Libby darkly. ‘He could be in disguise.’

  Fran looked at her in amusem
ent. ‘You’ve been reading too many detective novels,’ she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Parkhurst Forest provided a glimpse of a red squirrel and far too much evidence of small winged biting things. After half an hour, Libby decided it was time to go back to Overcliffe.

  ‘We’ll die of blood poisoning, otherwise,’ she said, as they made their way back to the car. ‘And besides, we need to talk about the Clipping.’

  ‘I don’t see what we can do,’ said Fran. ‘Except, I suppose, look up census records if they’re available. Nineteen fifty-one would be nearest. There wasn’t one during the war, was there?’

  ‘Who would we look up? Her parents? She wouldn’t have been born then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Those men. They could just have been friends of hers, but it’s very odd to take friends to a funeral. Pity the three Graces didn’t ask to be introduced.’

  ‘Perhaps they could now,’ said Fran, unlocking the car. ‘Write notes to all the attendees, thanking them for coming.’

  ‘But they said they didn’t know a lot of them.’ Libby climbed in and buckled the seat belt. ‘So they couldn’t.’

  ‘They know the Clippings’ address. It’s the old family house,’ said Fran.

  ‘Let’s go and ask Alicia, then.’

  ‘If she’ll write?’

  ‘No, I was just going to ask her where the house is.’ Libby grinned. ‘Then we can go and snoop at it.’

  Conveniently, when they got back to Overcliffe and parked the car, Alicia was coming out of The Shelf’s front door.

  ‘Just collecting post,’ she said waving what looked like a batch of junk mail. ‘All rubbish, of course, but they will keep sending it.’

  ‘What are you going to do with The Shelf?’ asked Libby. ‘Sell it? Or let it like Ship House?’

  ‘We haven’t decided yet,’ said Alicia, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘We saw Amanda Clipping while we were out,’ said Fran. ‘With her two friends. Did you say you didn’t know them?’

  ‘I can’t say, I did, dear.’ Alicia frowned. ‘But they must have known Matthew, I suppose. Perhaps Matthew was a mutual friend? After all, Amanda does work in London, and Matthew did for years, so …’