Murder and the Glovemaker's Son

by Lesley Cookman

  As she began the steep walk up Steeple Lane, she remembered when she had been brought up short on a previous occasion by Fran. This was worse. It was one thing, your best friend letting you know you weren’t as good as you thought you were, but quite another having your life partner telling you you weren’t a very nice person. She felt an uncomfortable ache in her throat which presaged a bout of uncontrollable crying, and swallowed hard. She stopped and turned to look over the little hollow into which the little River Wytch ran in a desultory trickle.

  ‘Come on, Libby, pull yourself together.’ She spoke out loud, annoyed to hear her cracked voice. She turned back to face up Steeple Lane towards Una’s cottage and came face to face with Steeple Farm and it’s creepy thatch eyebrows. Uttering the worst swear word she knew, she took in a bushel full of air and stomped off up the lane.

  ‘’Allo, me duck! And what’s rattled your cage?’ Una had come to the door wearing a large apron and wiping her hands on a striped towel.

  ‘Oh, just the walk up the hill!’ Libby tried to laugh it off. ‘Not as fit as I was.’

  ‘I don’t do it at all these days,’ said Una. ‘I allus get someone to give me a lift. But you ain’t as old as me, me duck. You should be fine. Come you away in.’

  Seated in Una’s cheerful sitting room, Libby began to recover her equilibrium.

  ‘What I wanted to ask, Una,’ she said, ‘was - when Nathan Vine was your neighbour, did you see the shed he had built?’

  ‘Shed?’ Una looked bewildered. ‘No, me duck. Builders, ’e ’ad – that Johnny Darling for one – but I dunno what they were doing. Why? Who says he had a shed?’

  ‘Johnny Darling,’ said Libby. ‘A security shed, he said.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know. But there was bad blood between Nathan and Johnny, mind.’

  ‘Do you know what about?’

  Una looked shifty. ‘Not my place to say.’

  ‘Come on Una. Nathan’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Money.’ Una shut her mouth tightly.

  ‘Nathan owed Johnny?’

  ‘That’s what was said.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Who said he owed Johnny? Johnny?’

  ‘And others.’ Una looked round as though afraid someone was listening. ‘We didn’t say before, but there was talk going round that he wasn’t payin’ up for lots of things. ’Im and that other bloke.’

  ‘The other bloke – Greg Wilde’s relative?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know. They was different from us, see. Went out with Sandra and Elliot and belonged to the Chess Club.’ Una looked thoughtful. ‘Mind you, Johnny belonged to the Chess Club, too. P’raps that’s where they met.’

  ‘You don’t think Sandra would know any more about it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Might do, duck. You already asked her though.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, refraining from saying she’d already asked Una, too. ‘Oh, well, it was worth a try.’ She stood up. ‘Now I’ve got my breath back I’ll go back down the hill.’

  ‘All right, me duck, if you’re sure that’s all?’

  ‘Yes, it was just something Johnny said when we saw him this morning.’ Libby smiled and kissed the smooth old cheek. ‘Thanks, Una. I’ll see you soon.’

  Feeling marginally better, Libby walked away down Steeple Lane, glancing as she did so at the low cottage next to Una’s that had belonged to Sandra Farrow and her first husband. Suddenly, she stopped. Where had Farm Cottage been?

  She turned round slowly. Beyond Una’s cottage, they’d said. But it had fallen down. Been left to rot.

  Libby sniffed the air like a retriever. Time to go a-hunting.

  Beyond Una’s cottage the land flattened out. On her left, it still fell into the small wooded cut where the Wytch had finally petered out, but on the right it was a wide expanse of agricultural land, planted with some kind of wheat crop. Libby wasn’t well up on crops. Rounding a slight bend, she came across a few buildings, most looking abandoned. And beyond them, what appeared to be the shell of a small house.

  ‘Farm Cottage!’ Libby whispered to herself, and strode on towards it.

  Half of it had indeed fallen down, into a pile of brick at the back, but the front still looked reasonably intact. She stopped at the gate.

  Once it had been a charming cottage with a green-painted front door in the middle, a sash window either side and two above, with a chimney in the middle of the roof, exactly like a child’s drawing. Now you could see through the windows to open farmland beyond. And, Libby noticed, another building.

  She pushed open the gate, which objected a bit, and stepped through into the overgrown garden. She managed to navigate her way through fallen masonry and vengeful vegetation to the side of the cottage where she came to a halt, prevented from going any further by the remains of a high fence. Between the broken palings she could see what looked like a reinforced large coal bunker, presumably the “security shed” Johnny had built. But it certainly didn’t look big enough to house people, so whatever it was for, it was more for storage than anything else. Libby scowled at it, noting the heavy – and shiny – new padlock attached to the hasp of the door.

  She tried to see if there was any sign of recent activity but couldn’t, and finally, after acknowledging that she was beginning to feel a little nervous, she clambered her way back out of the garden and began to retrace her steps.

  Now she was wondering what to do. Go back home? Go to the Manor? Go and see how the get-out was going? She hadn’t had any lunch, and she wondered if Ben had. Should she go back and send him a text saying lunch was ready? Pretend nothing had happened? Or should she wait for him to get in touch? And do what, she wondered. Apologise? No. She shook her head. She should be the one to apologise, if anyone. Possibly for years of bad behaviour.

  When she reached the bottom of Steeple Lane where it turned back into the high street, she rang the Manor.

  ‘Hetty, is Ben there? Has he had any lunch?’ An odd request, she knew, but Hetty was unlikely to ask questions.

  ‘He’s just had a sandwich in here with me,’ said Hetty. ‘He’s finishing off in the theatre with that Tristan.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby. ‘Thanks, Het. Tell him it’s curry tonight.’

  She hoped, anyway. As long as she had all the ingredients...

  As she passed the Pink Geranium, Harry popped out like the genie in Aladdin.

  ‘Something tells me,’ he said, ‘that someone is in the mood for try-it-out soup.’

  Libby looked up at him blankly. ‘What?’

  ‘Lunch, dear heart. Ben’s up at the theatre and you’re wandering the streets like a lost soul. Come along.’

  He took her arm and piloted her into the restaurant, pushing her down in a chair at the table in the window, which was already set for two, including a bottle of red wine and a basket of fresh bread.

  ‘How -’ she began. Harry tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Pour the wine, woman. I’ll fetch the soup.’

  This was one of Harry’s standards, a soup made at times when the Geranium was closed and there was a surfeit of leftover vegetables. Libby was often the beneficiary of these bouts of creativity, although today it had revived the weepiness that had come over her in Steeple Lane. Harry ignored it, merely passing her a handful of paper napkins before fetching the soup bowls. Neither of them spoke until Libby had almost finished her bowlful.

  ‘Thank you, Hal,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Ben came out of Maltby Close looking aloof and aristocratic and you followed ten minutes later looking hot and bothered. Then Ben disappeared up the Manor Drive and you went haring off up Steeple Lane. I could be making five out of my simple sums, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Libby, scooping up the last of her soup. ‘And that was gorgeous. I won’t ask what was in it.’

  Harry gave an artistic shudder. ‘No, don’t, dear heart.’ He topped up thei
r glasses.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ said Libby.

  Harry shrugged. ‘I will if you want me to, but if it’s private, and I guess it is, then you won’t want to tell me.’

  ‘Well, I do want to tell you, because you’re always honest. Remember when Fran got the hump about me?’

  ‘Yes, and quite right, too.’

  ‘Well now Ben’s done it.’

  Harry sat back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘Out of the blue, or for any particular reason?’

  ‘To be honest, Hal, I think he might have had more than he could take.’

  Harry nodded and rested his chin on his hands. ‘We rather wondered how long it was going to take,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Libby gaped.

  ‘Have you all felt the same way about me for ages?’ she asked eventually, in a small voice.

  ‘What way?’ Harry put his head on one side.

  Libby closed her eyes. ‘That I’m a rude and nosy old cow.’

  Harry snorted. ‘Well, yes, obviously.’

  Libby’s eyes flew open. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, you asked.’ He leant forward and patted her hand. ‘Come on, you old trout, it’s part of your charm.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve told myself. Excused myself,’ said Libby. ‘But I do always like my own way, and I am rude to people. I was horrible to the young DC up in the incident room.’

  ‘Look, Lib. Yes, you are – or can be – rude. Sometimes you speak without thinking and don’t put things as tactfully as you should. But hell – so do I! And that’s why you leap into situations, as well, and why you get into trouble with so many investigations. But listen.’ He pushed her glass towards her. ‘Why do you think Ian lets you carry on poking your nose in? Why do people come and ask you to investigate? Why did I?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Libby looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘Because you’re actually quite good at all this, you daft bat! And if Ben gets fed up now and then – well, I’m not surprised. I expect he sometimes feels a bit responsible for you, and he does, after all, bear the brunt of the whirlwind.’

  ‘Whirlwind?’

  ‘You, idiot. So drink up, go outside and have one of your increasingly rare fags, and cheer up.’

  Libby gave him a tremulous smile and stood up. ‘I always said you were my best friend.’

  ‘Notwithstanding the elegant Mrs Wolfe?’

  ‘Even her,’ said Libby, and gave him a huge and rather damp hug.

  Eschewing the suggested cigarette, Libby took her courage in both hands and walked up the drive towards the Manor and the theatre. The forecourt was full of vehicles, including the lorry that transported the collapsed booth theatre and people. As she hesitated, wondering whether to try and enter the theatre through the front or the back, Ben appeared pushing a wheeled flight case. He saw her, stopped and grinned. Libby’s insides did something peculiar.

  ‘Have you had any lunch?’ he called.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Just wondered how things were going. Can I help?’

  Ben looked surprised. ‘No we’re fine, thanks. They’ll be gone soon, then I’ll do a quick look round and pack up. Tristan’s already checked out of Steeple Farm.’

  ‘Is he here? Should I say goodbye?’ Libby realised they were going to treat this morning’s episode as if it hadn’t happened and felt obscurely cheated. Oh, well, she’d deal with that later.

  ‘He’s in the house rounding up his last actors. I’ll just finish up here and be home in about half an hour.’ Ben resumed his pushing.

  Libby went in to the Manor and found Tristan in the large sitting room Hetty gave over to visitors.

  ‘I came to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘I hope it hasn’t been too traumatic.’

  ‘No.’ Tristan gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I think we’ve been a lot more trouble than we were worth, and I’m sorry. But in the end it’s turned out well for us, and we appear to have got more work out of it.’

  ‘Just don’t let those people on your board loose on the cultural side of things,’ said Libby. ‘They’re hopeless.’

  Tristan sighed. ‘They are, rather. Gideon was the only one who understood the theatrical world. And he was very keen on Shakespeare.’

  ‘Well, I would imagine anyone who worked for National Shakespeare would be,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, no. He’s just a commodity to them. Most of them couldn’t tell you a thing about him.’

  ‘Heavens.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Well, good luck with the rest of the tour. Where are you off to next?’

  ‘West, now. Marlborough next weekend.’

  ‘Few days off, then.’

  ‘There’ll still be stuff to do,’ said Tristan. ‘More publicity.’

  ‘Of course.’ Libby held out her hand. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, despite everything else.’

  ‘And you.’ Tristan shook her hand. ‘And again – sorry.’

  Libby went home. As she passed The Pink Geranium she gave Harry a thumbs up and received a wink in return.

  Now she could start thinking about her revised picture of Nathan Vine and his security shed.

  The landline was ringing as she came through the door and Sidney shot out.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You sound breathless,’ said Fran.

  ‘I’ve just come in – I was outside when the phone began to ring.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Do you want to get your breath back?’

  ‘No, it’s OK, I’ve got some news for you.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ said Fran.

  Libby sat down on her favourite step and proceeded to bring Fran up to date with everything that had happened over the last two days, leaving out the situation between her and Ben.

  ‘So you see, things have changed somewhat,’ she finished, ‘and Nathan doesn’t look like a good guy anymore. But I can’t fathom what that shed is for.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you tell Ian?’ said Fran. ‘It could have a bearing on the case.’

  ‘It was Nathan’s, not Duncan Lucas’s,’ said Libby.

  ‘Didn’t you say, though, that there was a new padlock on the door? That couldn’t have been Nathan, could it? Could it have been Lucas? Before he was killed? We know he was in Canterbury.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby chewed her lip. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll report it in. And don’t you think it’s funny that the villagers didn’t say anything about Vine? Or Russell Wilde, come to that.’

  ‘Apart from knowing everything by osmosis, villagers can be remarkably close-mouthed,’ said Fran. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘And Fran -’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just -’

  ‘Just what? Come on, Libby.’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘Wondering what? For goodness’ sake, Libby. You’re not usually so reticent.’

  ‘No, that’s the trouble, isn’t it? I’m not. Ever.’

  Silence fell, and Libby’s solar plexus began to play up again.

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Fran at last. ‘Who have you upset?’

  ‘How -? Oh. Well, Ben, actually.’

  ‘Ben?’ Fran gave a shout of laughter. ‘What was the straw that broke the camel’s back?’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve been expecting it, too, have you?’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Harry.’

  ‘Yes. He ambushed me in the high street.’

  ‘Did he give you a good talking to?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Libby with a reluctant smile. ‘But he made me feel better. And Ben was perfectly normal when I went up to say goodbye to Tristan.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Libby told her.

  ‘I wouldn’t wonder if he didn’t think anything of it,’ said Fran. ‘Looked at rationally, he didn’t do much, did he?’

  ‘He told me off.’

  ‘And some of us have wondered why he hasn’t done it before.’

 
‘That’s more-or-less what Harry said.’ Libby sighed. ‘Do you really think I’m making too much of it?’

  ‘I do, so stop dwelling on it, but take it as a warning.’

  Libby instinctively bristled, then realised that what Fran was saying was right.

  ‘OK, boss, I will. Now I’d better get on and leave a message for Ian. I did actually tell that nice DC I was rude to that I’d leave him a message about Michael and Bel leaving.’

  ‘Go and do it, then.’

  Libby went into the kitchen and put the kettle on before sending Ian a text about Bel and Michael and “another matter” on both his mobiles. Up to him, now. She had had just poured boiling water into the teapot when her phone rang.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Ian. ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t have to ring me back,’ prevaricated Libby.

  ‘I know, that’s why you sent me a text. But I have, so what is it.’

  Libby repeated all her information and waited to be told off for trespassing in the garden of Farm Cottage.

  ‘And you want to know what’s inside?’ was all Ian said.

  ‘It’s a new padlock,’ said Libby weakly.

  ‘And a new hasp?’

  ‘It looked it.’

  ‘In which case, we will definitely look into it. And no, you can’t come with us.’

  ‘What about Johnny Darling and Philip Jacobs?’

  ‘What about them?’

  “They knew Nathan Vine and Russell Wilde.’

  ‘Yes, they did. And yes, I shall probably talk to them. But again, you can’t come along.’

  ‘No.’ Libby pulled a face at her mug. ‘But it’s interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. And now, Libby, I must go back to work.’

  ‘Sorry. Will you -’

  ‘Yes, I’ll keep you informed where I can.’ The phone went dead.

  Libby, realising that Ben would be with her shortly, fetched another mug and poured out her own tea.

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Ben coming in to the kitchen from the back garden and making her jump. ‘What’s been happening?’

  Libby told him what Una had said, and what she’d seen in the garden of Farm Cottage.