Murder in Steeple Martin (8 page)

Chapter Ten

H
ARRY PHONED DURING
M
ONDAY
afternoon.

‘Guess what.’

Libby groaned. ‘Not more earth-shattering events. I don’t think I can cope.’

‘No, listen. Lenny’s gone home.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes. Apparently he came downstairs after breakfast and announced that he’d packed and was going home. Luckily, Pete didn’t have to go anywhere today, so he drove him to the station.’

‘Where’s Pete now?’

‘At his mother’s. Why?’

‘I just wondered if Lenny had said anything more. You know, about yesterday.’

‘Well, that’s obviously why he went, but I don’t think he said anything. Pete didn’t say.’

Libby put the phone down thoughtfully. If Lenny was gone, perhaps the incidents would stop. He had to be the catalyst. It was because he was here, because someone was afraid of what he might say, that these things had happened. Libby still didn’t fully understand the relevance of the falling roof; that couldn’t have been directed at Lenny, but only to damage the play. And, for that matter, why the sabotaged bridge? No one could have expected Lenny to be on it. Perhaps they were simply warnings. She went back into the conservatory and stared at a painting drying on the easel. She must stretch some more paper, she thought, but stayed where she was, staring at nothing.

If Lenny had come down for the play, big with his secret, someone must have thought that he would let it out. That someone must then have thought that it would come out anyway, whatever it was, with all the interest that was being aroused. Then yesterday, they had visited the original sites – of course. Libby stood up straight. That had to be it. It had to be something to do with the murder. But what? Hetty’s father, known to be at loggerheads with Warburton, had disappeared, so where was the mystery?

Perhaps, she thought, covering the painting and beginning to collect brushes for washing, Hetty’s father was still alive? And – no. That was ridiculous. He would be in his late nineties. She shrugged and went back into the kitchen.

Rehearsal that night went well. Libby was able to do a straight run, with nearly all the costumes and most of the scene changes. The roof, due to popular demand, was now to be carried on, rather than flown in. They managed to get to the pub just in time for last orders.

On the way home, Libby told Ben of her conclusions.

‘Much the same as I thought myself. Lenny must have known that we would start probing, so he scarpered before we could.’

‘Didn’t Peter ask him on the way to the station? I hardly saw Pete tonight, and I couldn’t very well ask him in the pub.’

‘He tried, apparently, but Lenny clammed up. Said it was nothing to do with him.’

Libby put the key in the door. ‘Coming in?’

‘People will talk.’ Ben grinned.

‘They are already.’

He kissed her just inside the front door before she turned the light on. Her body definitely felt as though it belonged to a teenager, she decided, and pulled away before she fell down.

‘Coffee?’ she asked, in a high voice.

‘Coffee, tea or me? Isn’t that the phrase?’ He followed her into the kitchen.

‘Not this time it isn’t.’

‘Another time? Soon?’

‘Don’t badger me, Ben.’

‘I’m sorry. Coffee, please.’

It was even harder to break away when he left and she had to hang on to the door-frame to stop herself running after him. I’m in a cleft stick, she told herself, climbing slowly up the stairs.
I’ve
actually got to give
him
the green light, now I’ve taken the initiative away from him. How do I do that? I’m too old. I can’t remember.

The next morning Libby was surprised to receive a phone call from James.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, after civilities had been exchanged, ‘if my mother has said anything about Peter’s play?’

‘In what way?’ hedged Libby.

‘Well, she seems very worried about it. I can’t quite make out whether she’s worried that Peter hasn’t written it well, or that it isn’t going to be performed well, or what.’ James did indeed sound puzzled, as if this conundrum was not the sort of thing that came up at the gym or the golf club.

‘She did come to see me,’ admitted Libby, slowly, ‘but I think she was more worried about dragging the family name through the mud.’

‘Ah. That would make sense, of course.’

‘Would it?’

‘Oh, yes. Ma’s always been rather hot on that sort of thing. She really can’t cope with Peter and Harry, you know. I think she was hoping that you would be able to drag him back on to the straight and narrow.’

‘Me?’ Libby laughed, and remembered Millie coupling them together. ‘I couldn’t compete with the beautiful Harry in a month of Sundays.’

‘No,’ James agreed, rather too readily, Libby thought. ‘And I wouldn’t expect you to. Pete’s my brother and I love him as he is. Do
you
think the play’s going to drag us through the mud?’

‘No, I don’t think so. The story’s passed into local folklore, hasn’t it? Everybody knows it. Your Aunt Hetty agreed to it, so did your Uncle Gregory, and surely they’ve got the most to lose, reputation-wise.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. They’ve never taken much part in local social life, you see. Whereas Ma and my cousin Susan have positions in the neighbourhood.’

‘And you? Don’t you have a position to keep up?’ asked Libby.

‘Not really,’ said James.

‘Oh.’ Libby felt deflated. ‘Well, anyway. I don’t think it’s going to hurt anybody. Especially now Lenny’s gone home.’

‘Ah, yes. Ma didn’t seem too chuffed about that, either. In fact, she has been a bit peculiar these last few days.’

‘Has she? Do you think she’s all right, James?’

There was a long enough pause for Libby to ask if he was still there.

‘Yes, I’m still here.’ Another pause. ‘Listen, Libby, I haven’t said anything to anybody yet, but you know last week when I called to tell you Paula couldn’t come to rehearsal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well – it wasn’t just shock.’ Libby heard him take a deep breath. ‘She’s pregnant.’

‘
What
?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it yours?’

‘She says so.’ He sighed. ‘Ma will be pleased, I expect. Means I’ll settle down and give her grandchildren.’

Libby spluttered. ‘But I thought you’d dumped her?’

‘Tried.’ James sounded uncomfortable. ‘My responsibility now, though, isn’t it?’

‘James.’ Libby tried to sound authoritative and grown up. ‘You’re not going to marry her, are you?’

‘Well, not yet, anyway. Don’t know. Ma would want me to.’

‘Well, don’t make any hasty decisions.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Is she going to carry on in the play?’

‘Yes, she says she’s coming back to rehearsals. I’ve been helping her with her lines.’

‘Good boy. Do you want me to say anything to anybody?’

‘No, I’ll tell Pete.’ She heard him sigh again. ‘I suppose I’d better tell Ben and Aunt Het and Aunt Flo, too.’

Libby sat down suddenly on the cane sofa. ‘Flo? Flo Carpenter? Is she still alive?’

‘Good Lord! Haven’t you met Flo? Auntie Flo, of course, as we were brought up to call her. Very much alive. Not at Home Farm any more, of course. No, she lives in Maltby Close in the middle of the village. I thought you would have known.’

‘No.’ Libby made a mental note to have a quiet word with Peter about this.

‘I’m surprised Lenny didn’t go and see her while he was down. He was always very fond of her. Or perhaps he did?’

‘I have no idea.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Do you still know her well? I mean, do you think she’d mind me going to see her? She does know about the play, I suppose?’

‘Oh, yes, she knows. Hetty asked her and she was tickled pink at being played by a pretty young girl, I gather. She definitely wants to come and see it. So I’m sure she’d like to see you. Hang on – I’ve got her phone number here, somewhere.’ Libby heard rustling. ‘Here we are.’ James gave her the number. ‘It’s number six, Maltby Close. You know, those rather nice small blocks of sheltered housing.’

‘Yes, I know. And thanks, James. Remember, don’t make any hasty decisions about Paula.’ Libby stopped short of urging him to have a DNA test. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help about your mother. If you could just put her mind at rest about dragging the family in the mud –’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I expect she’s starting senile dementia or something. Thanks for listening.’

For the rest of the day, Libby worried and wondered alternately about James and Flo Carpenter. On James’s behalf, she felt outraged fury. Peter and Ben had obviously been right about Paula, who, in turn, had read James so accurately. Trapped in a scenario that belonged in the fifties, James would no more abandon her than he would his mother. To be fair, Libby acknowledged, he had to take responsibility for the pregnancy. Whatever happened to safe sex, she wondered.

Flo Carpenter, on the other hand, might be a source of information that both she and Peter had ignored for the play and, by inference, for the two sabotage attempts. Still wondering whether she wasn’t making proverbial mountains out of irrelevant molehills, at about four-thirty Libby lifted the phone and dialled the number James had given her.

‘Mrs Carpenter?’

‘Yes?’ The voice was obviously elderly, but by no means infirm.

‘My name’s Libby Sarjeant –’

‘Oh, the one that’s doing Peter’s play?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’ Libby grinned, pleased at this ready recognition.

‘I’m coming to see it, you know.’

‘Yes, so James tells me. I hope you won’t think we’ve taken liberties with you all.’

‘Oh, no, dear. Hetty showed me the book – what do you call it?’

‘The script.’

‘That’s right. Well, I read it – bit difficult to read – not like a real book – but it seemed fine to me. And that young Paula’s playing me, isn’t she? What can I do for you?’

‘I wondered if I could come and talk to you some time? You know, get some of your impressions of those days. It would help me enormously.’ Libby crossed her fingers at this bending of the truth.

‘Of course, dear, but I don’t see how I can help,’ came the doubtful reply. ‘I mean, Peter got it all from Hetty, and you’ve talked to her as well, haven’t you?’

‘Not a lot, actually. She keeps herself to herself, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, that’s true. Well, come any time you like, dear. I’m always glad of company. Have you had your tea?’

‘Er – no –’ Libby replied, visions of cucumber sandwiches floating before her eyes.

‘Come down here and have it with me, then. You’re not far, are you?’

‘No – Allhallow’s Lane,’ confirmed Libby, ‘but I don’t want to impose –’

‘Don’t be silly, girl. You’ve got to eat. Now I’ve got a nice steak and kidney pudding in the saucepan, how about that? Plenty for two, with some potatoes and a bit of cabbage.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Libby doubtfully.

‘Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t, would I? I’ll see you in about half an hour – all right?’

Libby agreed that it was and put the phone down, lifting it almost immediately to ring The Pink Geranium.

‘Harry, is Peter home today?’

‘Yes, dear heart, he’s right here getting in my way. I’ll pass you over.’

‘Hallo, you old trout. Got over Sunday’s shenanigans?’

‘I have – how about you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine. TLC from Harry all evening – and didn’t I lay it on – and all ill-effects had gone. Is that all you called about, my welfare?’

‘Well no, not entirely. I’ve just been invited to supper with Flo Carpenter – or tea, as she called it.’

‘Good heavens. There’s an honour. Good cook, Auntie Flo, if you’re not a veggie, of course.’

‘You never told me she was still alive and living here.’

‘Well, don’t make it sound like an accusation, dearie. I never thought about it. After all, in our little entertainment she’s not exactly germane, is she?’

‘I suppose not. Do you happen to know if she likes wine? I’d like to take something with me.’

‘She’ll have plenty – had a good cellar, old Carpenter. But she likes a drop of stout, so you could take her a bottle or two of that. Oh – and you’ll be in good company, she smokes like a trooper.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ said Libby wryly. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without you pandering to my ego.’

‘You’d get above yourself, that’s what. Listen, Flo likes to go to bed early, so when she chucks you out come over to us for a nightcap. Harry’s closed this evening.’

Libby wrapped herself in her cape after tidying herself up and trying to do something with her hair, and set off for the eight-till-late to buy stout and cigarettes.

Maltby Close led off the High Street and consisted of a converted barn and several other buildings constructed in the same style. Flo lived in the original barn and opened the door immediately to Libby’s knock.

‘Come in, ducks, come in.’ She stood aside for Libby to enter. ‘Bit warm in here, so I’ll take your coat straight away.’

Gratefully, Libby peeled off her cape, juggling with basket and carrier bag at the same time. It was indeed a bit warm and she felt perspiration break out in all the expected places and some unexpected ones.

‘Oh, ta, dear,’ said Flo, accepting the carrier bag, ‘just what I like. I opened a bottle of the nice claret for you – I hope you like red?’

Libby assured her she did and was led to a modern sitting-room furnished with enough antiques to stock a couple of shops. Two overstuffed chairs stood either side of an electric fire and Flo waved her to the one on the right.

‘Glass of wine, now, or would you prefer something else?’

‘Wine would be lovely.’ Libby subsided into the armchair amid a billowing of scarves and unwound one from her neck, while accepting a large glass of red wine from her hostess.

‘So, what was it you wanted to ask me?’ Flo sat down in the armchair opposite and poured stout carefully into a tall glass, giving Libby the opportunity to study her. Shorter than Hetty, she was wiry and bird-like, her plentiful grey hair twisted neatly on top of her head. Huge red spectacles dangled on a jewelled chain over an obviously expensive cashmere jumper. She put the glass down after an appreciative sip and lit a cigarette.