Murder in Steeple Martin (6 page)

‘Oh, it was worse than this,’ said Ben cheerfully. ‘There was all the gunge from the hops all over everything as well. Smelt awful, stained everything, dreadful stuff. And the hops hurt your hands. They said that when the children went back to school in London the teachers all knew where they’d been just by looking at their hands.’

‘You know a lot about it.’ Libby climbed in to the back seat while Ben held the door open.

‘Well, of course I do. I was brought up with the hop gardens. My mother virtually ran them after the war, right up until the big growers introduced automated picking and we couldn’t compete.’

‘So when did the last pickers come down?’

‘The sixties – quite late.’

‘I thought it all stopped not long after the war.’ Libby was fascinated.

Ben set them bumping over the common. ‘Good lord, no. And when they finally did stop, several of the old ladies who had been coming all their lives moved down here for good.’

‘I’d love to talk to them.’ Libby leaned forward over Peter’s shoulder.

‘Well, you could always talk to my mother. After all, she was a picker herself.’

‘Yes, but she went over to the other side, so to speak. What about her friend, Flo?’

‘Flo married Frank Carpenter, the foreman, just after Hetty came down here. He bought the Home Farm from my grandfather just after the war. He was a lot older than Flo.’

‘What beats me,’ said Peter, twisting round to look Libby in the eye, ‘is why, when we’ve been working on this play virtually since you moved in to Bide-a-Wee, you’ve suddenly developed this overwhelming interest in it all within the last week.’

‘It’s your fault. You introduced me to your mama and started to tell me all about it.’

‘Come off it. You can’t pin it all on me.’

‘Anyway, after that there was Uncle Lenny coming down, and your mum getting uptight and –’ Libby stopped.

‘And other things. Yes, I know. Puts quite a sinister complexion on matters, doesn’t it? Quite Miss Marple-ish, really.’

‘Libby doesn’t want to be Miss Marple.’ Ben flicked her a glance in the mirror. ‘Do you, Libby?’

Peter turned and raised an eyebrow. Libby scowled.

Ben surprised Libby by driving right behind the village and turning into Allhallow’s Lane from the other end.

‘I didn’t know it went anywhere,’ she said, surprised.

‘Well, it doesn’t really. It just turns into our land, but we’ve never put up any keep out signs. It didn’t seem worth it.’

Libby opened the door and clambered out.

‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘See you at seven.’

‘Be good,’ whispered Peter, leaning out of the window. Libby thumbed her nose at him and went inside.

Chapter Eight

L
IBBY WORE HER PRETTIEST
top with her straight skirt and hoped she wouldn’t get too hot. At least Ben hadn’t collected her in the four-wheel-drive, or her skirt would have been up round her knicker legs.

‘You’re very quiet.’ Ben slid his eyes sideways as he turned on to the main Canterbury road.

‘Sorry.’

‘You do apologise a lot.’

‘S – yes.’

‘There you go again. Let’s change the subject.’

Libby turned her head to look at him. ‘You know, you’re quite different from what I’ve always thought. I had you down as a straightforward businessman, with perhaps a bit of golf and squash on the side.’

‘I’m too old for squash, but I used to play. I tried golf, but it was too slow. Perhaps I might try again. Do you play?’

‘No, I’m hopeless at sport. My ex used to say that if I took a bit more exercise I wouldn’t be so fat.’

‘Nice way with words, had he?’

‘Thank you for not saying “you’re not fat”.’

‘I would have done, but you’d have thought it was flannel.’

‘Hmm.’

They parked in one of the tiny back streets to the north of the city.

‘So do you think you’re fully
au fait
with all our background history, now? Or are there still gaps you need filled in?’ said Ben as they walked to the restaurant.

‘Sorry, have I been terribly nosy?’

‘No, of course you haven’t. Quite understandable in the circumstances. I just want to know if I can be nosy back.’

They had arrived at the restaurant and Ben held open the door. Libby didn’t reply until they were seated at a table by the window.

‘You can be as nosy as you like, I won’t mind. I might not answer you, though.’

‘I’ll risk it. How long ago did your marriage break up?’

‘Finally? Three years ago. It had been on the downhill slope for two or three before that. I think he waited until the children were old enough before he went.’

‘Do they stay with you in the vacations?’

‘Mostly, at Christmas. They spend some time with their father –’

‘And his floosie.’

Libby made a face. ‘But the rest of the time they swan about, working on building sites, that sort of thing. Dominic’s going to Europe next summer.’

‘Have they been down since you’ve been in the cottage?’

‘Belinda has. The boys haven’t. I hope I can squeeze us all in if they all tip up at the same time.’

‘You can always board out at The Manor.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘It isn’t really called Bide-a-Wee, is it?’

‘If it was I would have changed it. No, that’s Peter and Harry’s pet name for it. They found it for me. It was called “The search for Bide-a-Wee”.’

‘I didn’t realise. Are you happy there?’

Libby thought. ‘It took some getting used to after a four-bedroomed Edwardian terrace, but yes, I’m happy.’

‘Even with all the bother at the theatre?’

‘Oh, I’ve got that under control now. It was only one incident, wasn’t it? And, you know, it couldn’t have been Aunt Millie who cut the wire. Could it? I mean, how would she have got in?’

‘Oh, she could have got hold of the keys from The Manor. They hang in the old pantry along with all the others.’

‘So anybody could get them?’ Libby looked up from the menu she was studying, startled.

‘If they knew where to look, certainly. My mother never locks all the doors during the daytime.’

‘You haven’t told anyone else that it was deliberately cut, have you?’

‘No. You didn’t want me to, did you?’ Ben frowned at her.

‘Certainly not. No need for everybody to worry.’

‘And no need for you to worry – not this evening, anyway. Let’s talk about something else.’

Somehow, Libby didn’t quite know how, they did talk about something else. Several things, in fact. To her surprise, she realised when they got up to leave that they hadn’t stopped talking once and had managed to steer completely clear of the play and all its ramifications.

Libby fell silent as they approached the village and discovered, as Ben switched off the engine outside the cottage, that every muscle in her body was tense.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Thank you for being a charming guest.’

‘Would you like to come in for coffee –’ damn. She hadn’t meant to say that – ‘or do you have to get back?’

‘Now what would I have to get back for? My mother doesn’t wait up any more, you know. And I don’t have to get up in the morning.’

‘Sorry.’

‘There you go again. Apologising. I’d love coffee, thank you.’

Libby led the way into the cottage, forgetting to warn him about the step, which meant that he cannoned into her from behind.

‘Is that meant to discourage unwanted visitors?’ he asked, grabbing at the door-frame to steady himself.

‘It’s too late by then – they’re already in.’ Libby paused by the stairs to stroke Sidney. ‘This is my ultimate deterrent.’

‘A formidable beast.’ Ben and Sidney stared at one another. ‘I think I’ll let him make the first approach.’

‘Very wise,’ said Libby, going into the kitchen and taking off her cape. ‘Do you really want coffee, or something stronger?’

‘Coffee, please. I’m driving and I’ve already had a glass or two of wine.’

‘It’s not far to walk,’ said Libby, and could have bitten her tongue out.

‘Good God, Libby. You’re not actually encouraging me to stay, are you?’

‘No.’ Libby’s face was fiery. ‘I just meant, if you wanted a scotch, or something, you could leave the car here and come back for it in the morning.’

‘And have the neighbourhood rife with speculation about my car being here all night?’ He was laughing at her again.

‘Fine. Coffee.’ She turned to the Rayburn, tight-lipped.

‘Are you going to set the cat on me?’

‘His name’s Sidney.’ Libby filled the kettle and put it on the hob.

‘I’m sorry, Libby. I’m not making fun of you, really.’

Libby turned round with two mugs in her hands. ‘I know, but you make me feel foolish. I always seem to say the wrong thing.’

He sat down at the little kitchen table and smiled up at her. ‘You don’t, you know. If anyone says the wrong thing, it’s me.’

How he managed it, Libby didn’t know, but the conversation returned effortlessly to the impersonal subjects they had been discussing earlier in the evening. Half an hour later, he took his leave and she saw him to the door.

‘Sidney didn’t need to leap to your defence after all.’

Sidney was still at his post on the stairs.

‘No. Thank you.’

‘A little self-restraint is good for us all.’ He smiled at her. ‘But not for too long. Don’t worry, Libby, I won’t rush you.’ He bent forward and kissed her cheek. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon.’

What do you mean, she wanted to yell after him. Does that mean you fancy me? But she didn’t say anything. Just watched him reverse up Allhallow’s Lane. Then she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. The terrible thing was, she admitted, that she wanted to be rushed. Or was it just her desperate hormones? But if that was the case, why didn’t she feel the same with poor Stephen? And just when had she started to think of him as “poor” Stephen?

Sunday dawned as bright and beautiful as Saturday, but by mid-day, the clouds had rolled in again and a steady drizzle was doing its best to dampen everybody’s spirits. Libby met Peter and Harry for a lunchtime drink before setting off for The Manor. Peter had borrowed a four-wheel-drive from somewhere and Ben was to take his and, in view of the weather, the cast members were not required to traipse through the fields, but to meet them back at the theatre for the indoor shots.

Ben met them at the door.

‘You go ahead, I’ll bring Mum and Dad and the photographer. Dad’s not moving too well today.’

Peter turned the vehicle round and set it at the field.

‘Bloody weather,’ he said.

The huts looked dismal in the rain and Libby wondered how the hop pickers had felt, stuck out here when the weather was like this. They sat huddled inside, not speaking, until they saw the other vehicle approaching.

Ben got out and went to open the rear door for his mother as the photographer jumped down from the other side.

‘No wonder he wanted to bring the photographer,’ said Harry, with a startled glance at Peter.

Libby was horrified to find that she actually had a lump in her throat, and an extremely unpleasant feeling somewhere under her rib cage, as she watched the tall, slim, blonde
female
striding towards them, her large black nylon equipment bags slung effortlessly over her shoulder.

‘Hallo. Which one of you’s Peter? Nobby couldn’t make it, so he asked me to come instead. Vanessa Hargreaves – but just call me Van.’

‘Oh – er – yes. Delighted,’ said Peter, taking the proffered hand with a quick glance at Libby. ‘This is Harry, who helps us with – er – all sorts of things, and this is Libby Sarjeant – with a J – who is directing the play.’

‘Great. Are you a professional director?’ Call-me-Van was fishing out a microphone and fiddling with knobs and switches inside one of the black cases.

‘No,’ said Libby.

‘Yes. Well, she’s an ex-professional. Drama school trained.’ Harry hurried into the breach.

‘Oh, right. So now you’re into the old am-dram, eh?’

A bitter little silence fell, while nobody looked at each other, and then Libby noticed Ben struggling alone with his three elderly relatives.

‘Hang on,’ she called, and sloshed through the mud towards them. ‘Here, Hetty, hang on to me. Lenny, you come the other side – Ben, can your father manage?’

He turned a grateful face towards her and winked. Suddenly, she felt better.

‘Right, lovely.’ Van was bustling about the yard, oblivious to the mud and the rain in her leather jacket and huge boots. ‘So these are the people who the play is about? Have I got that right?’

They all agreed that she’d got it right.

‘OK then – if we could have you all here – in this shed –’

‘It’s a hut.’ Hetty unclamped her lips for long enough to correct her. ‘A hoppers’ hut.’

‘Oh, right. Well, can you all get in there, then?’

‘Just Lenny and me.’ Hetty took charge. ‘Gregory was never in the huts. He can stay outside.’

Libby was appalled at how grey and frail Gregory Wilde had become since she had last seen him. The skin on his face seemed so thin that you could almost see the skull beneath. He raised his peaked cap to her with an unsteady hand as Ben helped him to stand by the doorway of the hut, while Hetty, dour as usual, stood inside next to Lenny, who was obviously enjoying himself.

‘OK, that’s lovely then, yes – one more – could you just move out a little bit – Hetty – is that it? And Lenny, put your arm round her, dear – that’s it, lovely – now, er, Mr – er –’

‘Wilde.’ Gregory drew himself up. ‘Gregory Wilde.’

‘Oh, yes, right, Mr Wilde. Could you sort of bend over a bit – perhaps look inside?’

‘I think that might be too much for my father,’ said Ben in a firm voice, coming forward to take his arm. ‘You’ve got one or two of him, haven’t you? I think that will be enough.’

‘Oh.’ Van looked nonplussed, as well she might, thought Libby. ‘But I really ought to bracket these a bit – the light, you know.’

‘Bracket?’ Everyone looked confused.

‘Hedging your bets,’ explained Peter. ‘They take different exposures to see which comes out best.’

‘Nevertheless, my father will go and sit inside, if you don’t mind.’ Ben led his father away, leaving Van to do the best she could with Hetty and Lenny.

‘So this is where you stayed, is it? Could we say this is the very hut?’

‘No. These weren’t built then. Our huts were knocked down after the war.’

Lenny chuckled. ‘Hetty had ’em knocked down, didn’t you, gel? Never did like those huts, our Het.’

‘You be quiet, Lenny Fisher.’ Hetty pushed him out of the hut.

‘So where were the old huts, could we see?’

‘Nothing to see. Grassed over now.’

‘Oh, right. So – the murder. Hey, great, the readers love a murder. So where did that happen then?’

Lenny dug Hetty in the ribs. ‘Down by the bridge, weren’t it, Het?’

‘That’s where the body was found.’ Hetty gave her brother a quelling look. But Lenny wasn’t to be quelled.

‘In the ditch, weren’t it, Het? Horrible, it was.’

‘Who found the body? You?’

‘Nah. Some of the kids. They used to come and look for tiddlers. Gor, they didn’t half holler.’ Lenny smiled reminiscently.

‘Can we see?’

‘Yes, we came across the bridge yesterday, so it’s quite safe.’ Peter gestured for her to follow him. ‘You’ve no need to come, Aunt Het, or you, Lenny.’

‘Oh, I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss this for the world. You staying here, Het?’

Hetty didn’t bother to answer him, but turned and climbed unaided into the four-wheel-drive beside her husband.

‘You horrible old man,’ muttered Ben to his uncle as he came alongside Libby and took her arm. Lenny cackled.

‘Nice bit of skirt, though, in’t she? Lucky bugger having her riding beside yer. Little bit of gear shifting, eh?’

‘You really are disgusting,’ said Ben, but he was grinning as he helped Libby over the treacherous mud towards the bridge.

‘She is pretty.’ Libby gave him a sidelong glance.

‘Yes, she is. Why they have to wear those dreadful boots, though – and that hair.’

Libby smiled to herself.

‘Here we are then.’ Peter presented the bridge with a flourish. ‘The famous murder spot.’

‘Now,’ said Van juggling with cameras and recorders once more. ‘Who was murdered?’

‘Joe Warburton. Tallyman,’ answered Lenny promptly.

‘What?’

‘He measured the hops.’

‘Oh, right.’ Van was clearly puzzled, but carried on gamely. ‘And he was where?’

‘Just down there.’

Lenny leant forward at a dangerous angle to point and Libby and Ben grabbed an arm each.

‘Can I get a shot from the other side?’

‘Sure.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Here, I’ll help you with that.’

Van trod delicately across the bridge, Peter following as bearer.

‘Pete!’ Harry’s scream took them all by surprise. ‘The bridge – careful – oh, my GOD.’