Murder by the Sea (3 page)

‘There’s a couple you could go for,’ said Libby, ‘depending on the ages of the others in the cast.’

‘How about Tom and I overseeing design and build, then we’ll train one of the others up to SM for the run.’ Ben beamed round the table. ‘That would work, wouldn’t it?’

There was a murmur of agreement, and Peter sighed. ‘OK. But what about director?’

‘You,’ said Libby.

Peter groaned. ‘I thought you might say that.’

‘Oh, come on Pete,’ said Ben, ‘You’ve thrown your weight about during the other productions. You could do it legitimately this time.’

Peter scowled. ‘You can push family feeling just so far, you know,’ he said to his cousin. Ben grinned.

‘OK. What do we do about casting?’

Further discussion about auditions and pre-casting took them to the end of the bottle and Harry’s assistant Donna was summoned with another. Harry appeared out of the kitchen and removed his apron.

‘Have I been co-opted for anything?’ he asked, pulling another chair up to the table.

‘You’re too busy every night, love,’ said Peter.

‘I can do the bar a couple of times, can’t I?’ said Harry. ‘I did it for
The Hop Pickers
and
Jack and the Beanstalk
.’

‘If you’re free,’ said Peter. ‘Thanks.’

‘How’s Fran?’ asked Harry. ‘I thought of her today when I saw that item about the body at Nethergate.’

‘We were there,’ said Libby proudly. The other faces round the table looked at her in horror and spoke with one voice.

‘Oh, no!’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Libby crossly. ‘Not involved. We couldn’t help it. Fran lives on Harbour Street and all the police and everything were down by The Sloop only fifteen yards away. Guy was there, too.’

‘So what was it all about, then?’ asked Tom. ‘I haven’t listened to the radio and I didn’t have time to watch the news before I came out.’

‘A body was found on that island in the middle of the bay,’ said Harry. ‘The police think it was dumped, apparently, and that it could be an illegal.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Libby. ‘Illegal immigrant, you mean?’

‘It was on the news this evening. I have the radio on in the kitchen.’

‘One of those poor buggers that try to get in through the tunnel, I suppose,’ said Ben.

‘A bit far round for him, then, isn’t it?’ said Tom. ‘The tide might carry him if he’d fallen off a boat, but how did he get all the way across Kent from Folkestone if he came by tunnel?’

‘All I know is they think it was dumped,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t blame me.’

‘And don’t worry about me,’ said Libby, looking virtuous. ‘Fran and I won’t be involved this time.’

Fran was watering the pots in her tiny yard outside the back door the following morning when she heard a knock at the front. Leaving Balzac, her beautiful black and white long haired cat, to investigate the watering can, she went inside, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

‘Mrs Castle?’ The young woman on the doorstep was small, slight and brown haired. Little brown mouse, thought Fran.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Jane Maurice from the
Nethergate Mercury
.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes. I wondered if you’d been invited by the

local police to investigate the – um – murder that

was discovered yesterday?’

‘Murder? Yesterday?’

‘You’ll have heard it or seen it on the news? And it was in the
Mercury
this morning.’

‘I don’t take the
Mercury
,’ said Fran, ‘and if you mean the body discovered on the island yesterday, I didn’t know it was murdered.’

‘The police think it might be,’ said Jane Maurice.

‘That’s why I thought they might have consulted you.’ She was fidgeting now, obviously having expected to be invited inside. But Fran was having none of it.

‘I can’t think why anyone should have consulted me, especially about a body.’ She made as if to close the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me –’

‘But Mrs Castle –’ began Jane, trying to step forward.

‘Thank you, Miss – er. Goodbye.’ Fran closed the door and leaned back on it, her heart thumping. How had that happened?

She went slowly back to the yard, where Balzac greeted her with a chirrup. It was that last case, she thought, bending to stroke his head. Her part in it had been discovered by the local paper and her name had appeared more than once as “Inspector Connell’s special investigator”. Neither of them had confirmed it, and eventually, the paper had stopped including her. But they remembered, obviously.

As a reluctant psychic, Fran had been useful to the local police force once or twice, with a certain amount of help from an over-excitable Libby, but she wasn’t comfortable with any of it. Libby would have had them setting up a psychic detective agency if she’d had her way, but Fran just wanted to be an ordinary person in an ordinary house now that she had Coastguard Cottage. Besides, one of her children was due to visit this weekend, complete with censorious husband, and she didn’t think they would approve of anything even slightly out of the ordinary.

‘Did you see that item on the news last night?’

said Libby later, on the phone. ‘Harry said that on the radio they said it was an illegal immigrant.’

‘Yes, and I had a reporter round here this morning.’

‘You what?’

‘Some girl from the local paper came round to ask me if I’d been consulted by the police.’

‘Oooh!’ said Libby. ‘You’re famous!’

‘Oh, stop it, Libby. You know I’ve never wanted any of this. You’re the one who always wants to go charging in to investigate things.’

‘If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be living here, would you?’

‘I’d still have Coastguard Cottage.’

‘But you wouldn’t know the rest of us. Or Guy.’

‘Once I was living six doors down from him, I expect I might have met him,’ said Fran. ‘He said he’d have wangled an introduction somehow.’

‘Oh, so you’ve talked about it?’

‘Of course. I admit that my – er – involvement with you and Ben has somewhat changed my life, but I think Guy and I would have met anyway.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘So what did you say to this reporter? Did you tell her we’d actually been on the spot?’

‘No, of course not. And don’t you go getting in touch with her, either.’

‘No, I won’t. Anyway, what I really rang up about was the panto. Did you mean it when you said you’d do props?’

When Fran rang off, she went to the window to look down Harbour Street towards The Sloop. The sky was greyer today, and both the
Dolphin
and the
Sparkler
were still moored up. She could see the two old boat owners, George and Bert, sitting outside The Blue Anchor, but no one else was around, which was odd for high summer. She wondered vaguely if perhaps Harbour Street had been blue-taped by the police, and was just going to open her door to look and see when there was a knock.

A tall young man dressed rather like a central casting geography teacher stood outside holding a briefcase.

‘Mrs Castle?’ he said, stepping forward before she could block the way. ‘Good afternoon. I’m from Kent and Coast Television, and I wondered if you would consider undertaking a psychic investigation into the body on Dragon Island on our behalf?’

Fran felt sweat break out along her hairline.

‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ she said.

The reporter looked down his nose at her. ‘According to the reports, you do.’

‘What reports?’ Fran pulled herself together.

He smiled. ‘From the
Nethergate Mercury
, for one. It’s quite well documented that you’ve helped the police on at least one occasion.’

‘And I don’t intend to do it again.’ Fran closed her lips tightly together.

The reporter leaned nearer with a smile. ‘Come on, Mrs Castle. This would be great publicity for you. And of course, we wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing.’

‘Publicity?’ Fran recoiled in horror. ‘What on earth would I want publicity for?’

The reporter frowned. ‘Your job?’ he said.

‘My
job
? I don’t have a job.’

He looked confused for a moment, but rallied. That was
his
job, of course.

‘I was told that you did this for a living.’

‘I
what
? Where on earth did you get that from?’

‘Like the police, I have to protect my sources.’ He smiled again, but less convincingly.

‘Well, whoever they were,’ Fran paused, tellingly, ‘
Jane Maurice
was wrong. I live here, on my own –’ damn, she shouldn’t have said that ‘– and I don’t have a job, unless you count helping in the art gallery along the road. I’ve given my opinion to the local police on occasion, but that’s it. And now I’d like you to leave.’

The reporter looked stunned. Fran stood up. ‘Please?’ she said.

Slowly, he stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We really seem to have messed up this time.’ He held out his hand. ‘No hard feelings? I assure you, we were acting from the best of intentions.’

Feeling guilty, Fran took his hand briefly. He wasn’t so unpleasant really.

‘Which were?’ she asked.

‘The intentions? Well, we thought maybe you could identify the victim –’

‘He’s an illegal immigrant.’

‘Sorry, yes, but they don’t know where he came from. Just that he appears to be.’

‘That police investigation is ongoing, I believe.’

‘Yes, of course, but –’

‘You thought I might help you steal a march on them?’

‘And prove that people like you are genuine.’

Fran sniffed. ‘There are television programmes that try and do that,’ she said.

‘And no one believes them,’ said the reporter, triumphantly. ‘This would have been a genuine, news programme investigation.’ His eyes registered shock as he uttered the final damning words.

Fran was amused. ‘Into me.’

He lifted his shoulders in resignation and bent to pick up his briefcase. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said, and shook her hand again. ‘You wouldn’t like to come and work for us, would you? You’d make a great investigative reporter.’

Fran laughed, relaxing at last. ‘Maybe that would be interesting,’ she said, ‘but, to be honest, I’m a bit shy. I don’t really like meeting new people.’

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Castle, and I’m really sorry to have bothered you.’ He went past her towards the door.

‘And don’t listen to Jane Maurice in future,’ said Fran as she held the door open. ‘She seemed a nice little thing, but I refused to talk to her, so why she thought I’d talk to you I can’t think.’

‘She probably thought you would be swayed by a vision of fame and riches,’ laughed the reporter.

‘So did you,’ Fran reminded him, ‘so you were both wrong.’

He handed her a card. ‘If there ever is anything you want to talk about, will you give me a ring?’

‘Do you mean about this investigation?’

‘Anything, Mrs Castle, anything at all. If you think the Isle of Wight has fallen into the sea, just call me. I’ll take you seriously.’

She watched him walk up Harbour Street towards The Swan, noting that the blue tape was in place, then closed the door and looked at the card.

‘Campbell McLean,’ she read out loud. She went to the window and looked out, but he’d disappeared. ‘Well, Campbell McLean, we’ll see about you. And now for young Maurice.’

She found her mobile and looked up the number of the
Mercury
.

‘News desk,’ said a tired voice.

‘Jane?’ Fran said gently.

‘Mrs Castle?’ Jane’s voice perked up immediately. ‘I’m so glad you called –’

‘You won’t be,’ interrupted Fran.

‘Oh?’

‘Who told Kent and Coast Television about me?’

There was silence.

‘Don’t worry, I know it was you.’ Fran sighed. ‘And don’t you ever do it again. For a start, you know nothing about me. I am most definitely not a psychic investigator, or whatever they’re called, I work occasionally in the art gallery in Harbour Street.’

‘But –’

‘No buts, Jane,’ said Fran. ‘That’s all I do and all I want to do.’

‘What about Goodall and Smythe?’

It was Fran’s turn to be silenced.

‘Goodall and Smythe?’ she repeated. ‘What about them?’

‘You did psychic research for them.’ Jane’s voice was accusing.

Fran sighed again. ‘Not really. I used to go into houses for them if there was a suggestion of any –

um – unpleasantness. That’s all.’