Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

‘Really?’

‘Apparently, my SOCOs were told they had to look for it. That would be you, would it?’

‘No,’ said Libby guiltily. ‘It was Lewis. He said he was going into the police station to tell you.’

‘I was told he’d been asking for me, but I wasn’t available.’

‘Oh, right. Well, Fran is sure there’s a passage in the house, and there’s definitely a passage leading from the cellar, but it’s been blocked up with nineteenth-century bricks. Ben thought it might have been done when the grotto was built.’

‘
Ben
did? You’ve dragged him into this?’

‘No. I haven’t,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘He’s simply interested. And I have to remind you that it was your idea to go and search the house.’

‘All right, all right. So, this passage. Ben suggested the search there?’

‘No!’ Libby was impatient. ‘Lewis did. There’s this suggestion of a passage linking Dark House and Keeper’s Cob, and we thought …’

‘And you were right, of course.’ Ian sighed. ‘Did Fran say so?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby unwillingly. ‘What now? Will it be excavated?’

‘It’ll be searched to see if there’s any trace of Ramani’s body being down there. If the tunnel’s blocked at the house end, I don’t see how anyone there could be involved.’

‘Apart from being murdered,’ muttered Libby.

‘Look, we’ll instigate a more thorough search of the house if Fran thinks there’s a secret room or passage there. But I’m blowed if I know what relevance it has.’

‘Something’s hidden there,’ said Libby. ‘Something that Roland knew about and told Ramani, who told someone else, who then murdered her and finally murdered Roland.’

‘It’s that important? Why hadn’t Roland already disposed of it, then?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps, as we said, he was telling porkies.’

‘But well enough to convince Ramani and whoever she told.’

‘Thing is,’ said Libby, ‘I doubt if it could be a fortune left by Godfrey Wyghtham for his wife. If all his silver or whatever it was had been buried he would have dug it all up after the war. It’s more likely to be smuggled goods from the late eighteenth century, isn’t it?’

Ian sighed heavily. ‘I have no idea. We’ll search, anyway. There may just be some evidence in the god-forsaken hole that will link to the murderer.’

‘What about the Johnny person?’ asked Libby. ‘It seems very odd that he didn’t hear or see anything, or know anything about the grotto, living so close to it, and having to go through it to get to the main house.’

‘He’s been questioned more than once, Libby,’ said Ian, ‘and believe me, it doesn’t surprise me that he doesn’t know anything.’ He cut the line.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again.

‘Andrew! Thank you for calling back.’

‘And what do you want me to investigate this time, Libby?’ asked Professor Wylie, sounding amused.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘I’m so sorry. It looks as though that’s the only reason I ever want to speak to you.’

‘Well, it is, mostly,’ said Andrew, with a laugh. ‘Come on then. Tell all.’

‘A job for the County Archives, methinks,’ he said when Libby had finished.

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘So, Dark House, Dark Lane, formerly Wyghtham Hall owned by Godfrey Wyghtham who enlarged it in 1643 and died some twenty years later. And was he involved with the Battle of Maidstone?’

‘Oh, you know about that?’ said Libby. ‘Oh, of course you do. Well, perhaps you could also talk to Edward Hall. He’s involved, too.’

‘Dr Hall?’ Andrew sounded surprised. ‘Where does he fit in? He’s an expert on the seventeenth century of course, and in particular the civil wars.’

Libby explained.

‘Right,’ said Andrew. ‘First I’ll do a bit of digging at the County Archives, and when I’ve got a bit more you can introduce me to Dr Hall. What’s he like?’

‘Very good-looking, very well-dressed and very selfish. Thinks of his subject before everything else, and thinks everyone, including the police, is prejudiced against him because of his colour.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, now you’re forewarned. Is there anything else you need to know?’

‘I don’t think so. If there is, I’ll ring you.’

‘Thanks, Andrew, you’re a pal. Have you seen Rosie lately? Fran and I were saying we haven’t heard anything since the Aldeberge business.’

Andrew sighed. ‘She’s gone off to the States. They love her books there, apparently, and she’s doing the grand book tour.’

‘What about Talbot?’

‘He’s with me, which is a bit rough on him, as he only has the balcony to go out on, but luckily he’s so lazy I don’t think he minds. Cats are adaptable.’

‘You might as well take him on permanently,’ said Libby, ‘the amount of times Rosie leaves you to take care of him.’

‘Oh, I’m thinking of it, don’t worry. He and I get on well. Two old buggers together.’

Later in the evening, it being Wednesday, Ben, Libby and Peter joined Patti and Anne in the pub after rehearsal.

‘So, I hear you’ve found out more about your murder?’ said Patti, after Ben had supplied them all with drinks.

‘Not found out, but I’ll update you,’ said Libby and did so, starting from when they’d left the church on Monday morning.

‘So it’s two murders now?’ said Anne. ‘Same person?’

‘The police assume so, but there’s not much to go on so far.’

‘You know,’ said Peter, pushing a lank lock of hair off his forehead, ‘it may be nothing to do with this so-called treasure.’

They all turned to look at him.

‘It could simply be that they were having an affair.’ He leant back and looked down his aristocratic nose at them. ‘Simplest is often best.’

‘Quite right,’ said Ian, appearing like a genie from the bottle.

Libby made room for him at the table while he refused offers of a drink.

‘They’re making me coffee,’ he said. ‘I guessed I’d find you here.’

‘Are you on or off duty?’ asked Ben.

‘Off, of course,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘I always am when I come here. Ah, thank you.’ He accepted his tall white cup of coffee from an indifferent waitress.

‘I can’t think why you want to socialise with us when I cause you so much trouble,’ said Libby, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.

‘Because I can thrash out ideas and listen to fantasies here, and I can’t at the office.’

‘What do you want to thrash out?’ asked Patti.

‘And what fantasies?’ asked Peter, looking pointedly at Libby.

‘Your point about the victims having an affair. It’s become the single most important factor, and therefore we’re looking very closely at Carl Oxenford and Adelaide Watson. It’s become clear that they were both aware of the affair, even though at first they denied it.’

‘Because they thought they’d come under suspicion,’ said Patti.

‘They did anyway,’ said Libby, ‘but I must say I’m impressed with Adelaide as an actress. When I was with her that Monday night I’d never have known.’

‘Watson himself wasn’t as impressive,’ said Ian.

‘Thoroughly unpleasant,’ agreed Libby.

‘So what about the treasure?’ asked Ben. ‘Does it or doesn’t it exist?’

‘We’ve no idea. The reason we’re trying to track it down, or find a reference to it, is simply to see if it could be a motive for murder. But no one’s seen it and no one knows anything about it.’

‘Or professes to,’ added Libby. ‘We’ve just said Adelaide’s a good actress.’

‘And you said her son was keen to help with the search,’ said Ben.

Ian turned to Libby. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘I told him he couldn’t, so there didn’t seem to be any need.’

‘Which son?’

‘Julian. Works in the city, I believe. He didn’t seem to know about the supposed treasure, but his eyes lit up at the thought.’

‘If there was anything there,’ said Anne, ‘who would it belong to?’

Everyone looked at her.

‘Good question.’ Ian nodded. ‘It would depend on the traceability.’

‘If it was eighteenth-century contraband I don’t suppose it could be proved who it belonged to,’ said Peter.

‘But if it was family silver it could possibly be traced to the Wyghtham family,’ said Libby.

‘It wouldn’t be reported to the Crown or whoever, then?’ Anne turned to Ian.

‘It’s the Finds Liaison Officer now,’ he said, ‘but depending on where it was found, yes, it would be. And the coroner would still have to look into it. If it’s in the house, it could be said to legitimately belong to the current owners, but if it’s in the grounds it’s a difficult one.’

‘If Roland had been alive he’d have said it was his regardless,’ Libby said. ‘Or just not told anyone.’

‘Then his problem would have been getting rid of it,’ said Ben. ‘He doesn’t sound to me like a collector, and if he’d tried to sell anything obviously old or valuable it would have set off alerts, unless he knew exactly who to go to.’

Ian looked at him with interest. ‘Indeed. And he worked in Brussels. And spent a lot of time in Amsterdam.’

Patti looked from one to the other. ‘And?’

‘Illegal art and antiquities routes,’ explained Libby. ‘At least, I think that’s what they’re talking about. And talking about illegal routes, are we going to look into the eighteenth-century smuggling aspect of those tunnels?’

‘You can,’ said Ian, ‘but I’m actually more concerned in catching a double murderer.’

‘But if there are tunnels, that could also be a motive for murder, like the Wyghtham connection. Smuggled stuff left behind.’

‘Brandy? After two hundred years? Tobacco? Not worth it,’ said Ian.

Libby frowned. ‘But wasn’t money involved somewhere?’

‘The customers paid the smugglers, the smugglers paid the French,’ said Ben.

‘I thought …’ Libby tailed off, staring at the table.

‘Thought what?’ asked Patti.

‘I’ve got this vague memory of money being involved with the smugglers. Being smuggled. I don’t know where it came from.’

‘They exchanged wool for goods at one point,’ said Peter.

‘The owlers, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Mainly on Romney Marsh, which isn’t that far away, after all, but then there was some act or other and it stopped. I shall look it up.’

‘Or get Andrew to do so?’ asked Ian.

‘I’ve already asked him,’ said Libby sheepishly.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ asked Ian of the table in general.

‘There are lots of smuggling stories in the area,’ said Patti. ‘Kent and Sussex were almost the worst in the country because they were closest to the French coast.’

‘There were families controlling huge bands of free traders,’ said Peter. ‘I did a certain amount of research once, thinking I might base a play on it.’

‘Oh, that would have been good,’ said Libby. ‘Audiences love anything with local references.’

‘Not with my record they don’t,’ said Peter, and got up to go to the bar.

‘Tact, Libby,’ said Ben. Anne looked puzzled. ‘Both his last plays have culminated in murder, even though it wasn’t his fault.’

‘Oh, I see. The Monastery …’ Anne shifted in her wheelchair and cast a hesitant look at Peter’s back.

‘Would he let me look at the research, do you think?’ said Libby in an undertone.

‘If he’s still got it,’ said Ben.

‘Still got what?’ Harry draped himself over Libby’s shoulder. ‘Come on, I’m behind in this conversation.’

Peter looked over, grinned and turned back to the bar.

‘I shall go and help my helpmeet,’ said Harry, uncoiling himself. ‘Hold the thought.’

‘What thought?’ asked Libby, smiling in spite of herself.

‘The one about what you were going to tell me.’

Patti and Anne were laughing and even Ian looked amused.

‘I don’t know why he doesn’t go on the stage like the rest of you,’ said Ian.

‘I think he’d clam up,’ said Libby, watching Harry and Peter at the bar. ‘He clowns around with us, but put him on a stage and he’d stop being himself.’

Peter and Harry returned carrying the drinks between them.

‘Now,’ said Harry, squeezing a chair between Peter and Ben. ‘Fill me in.’

Between them, Libby, Ben and Peter repeated the conversations.

‘You’ve still got all that smugglers stuff,’ said Harry, flinging an arm round his beloved’s shoulders. ‘It’s all in the bureau.’

Peter shrugged. ‘You can have a look at it. There’s a couple of books there, too.’

‘Thanks, Pete.’ Libby turned to Ian. ‘If I find anything useful I’ll tell you, shall I?’

Ian laughed. ‘You usually do.’

Later, walking home through the frosty high street, Ben said ‘What did you mean about money earlier? Money laundering?’

‘I don’t know,’ sighed Libby. ‘I’ve just got this feeling that there was something going on to do with money and the smugglers. I can’t remember whether I found out about it when we were looking into those tunnels at Creekmarsh, or it’s just a memory of reading Dr Syn.’

‘The Rudyard Kipling poem,’ said Ben slowly, ‘does that mention people being paid for allowing their homes to be used to store the goods?’

‘No, it only says the little girl may be given a doll if she keeps quiet, with a cap of Valenciennes, remember?’

‘So it isn’t that,’ said Ben.

‘Maybe Andrew will turn something up,’ said Libby.

‘And will it help find the murderer?’ Ben glanced sideways with a grin.

‘Gawd knows,’ said Libby.

Chapter Seventeen

Thursday passed with no word from the police or Andrew Wylie, but when Libby returned from a supermarket run on Friday, she found a message on the answerphone.

‘Libby, I’ve found something interesting, I think,’ said Andrew. ‘Are you free? Would you like to come here, or shall I come to you? And will I be able to have a look at Dark House sometime?’

Libby rang Fran.

‘Shall we both go to Andrew’s? Easier for you.’

‘If you like, but I’m quite happy to come over to you. Guy wants to see Ben, anyway, so we could combine the trip.’

‘Oh, lovely! Shall I see if Harry can squeeze us in?’

At three o’clock, Fran arrived closely followed by Andrew, brandishing a brand new tablet.

‘Much better for research,’ he explained, swiping the screen and demonstrating a page of ancient text. ‘Look, I can make it much bigger. So much easier to decipher.’

‘So it is,’ said Libby, amused. ‘Sit down, and I’ll bring the tea. And a lovely piece of apple cake I bought from that vegetarian stall in Canterbury.’

When they were settled, and Libby had put more wood on the fire, Andrew began.

‘I decided to look up Wyghtham Hall, rather than Dark House. Your Godfrey inherited it from his uncle, and believe it or not, it began life as a hunting lodge for someone close to the court of the day. The Wyghthams seem to have acquired it in around 1536, which accounts for its mostly Tudor appearance, but successive owners have always added to it – or improved it, as they would say.’

‘When was the name changed, and who by?’ asked Fran, as Andrew took a sip of tea.

‘I’m coming to that. Godfrey, as you know, fought on the Royalist side in the civil wars, although it was very much a Hobson’s Choice. But he kept his little manor, and it passed to his eldest son on his death.’

‘April 1664,’ remembered Libby.

‘Right.’ Andrew nodded. ‘There seems to be a gap in the records after that, but in the mid-seventeen hundreds it pops up again as the property of one William Goodman. Now, Goodman turns out to be a name that is synonymous with smuggling in the area.’

‘Ah!’ Libby breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

‘There isn’t anything to say he was a smuggler himself, but he was definitely one of those who not only turned a blind eye, but actively encouraged it. He was a local magistrate, and even though, after the Smuggling Acts of 1736 and 1746, the regulations and punishments were tightened up, there is considerable evidence of him turning a blind eye, if not, as I say,  actively encouraging smuggling.’

‘So would he have been storing goods?’ asked Fran.

‘It’s certainly possible. He was allowing contraband through the area and as a person in authority had influence in the right places. I would think he received his fair share of brandy and tobacco.’

‘That wouldn’t be treasure, though.’ Libby frowned and Andrew twinkled.

‘Ah, but what happened later! Do you know much about the Napoleonic Wars?’

Libby looked up nervously. ‘N–no. Should I?’

‘Well, you know the basics, surely?’ Andrew looked from Fran to Libby, eyebrows raised.

‘Waterloo and Trafalgar?’ said Fran.

‘Elba and Saint Helena?’ said Libby.

‘Wellington and Nelson?’ they said together.

‘Yes, all of those.’ Andrew sipped his tea. ‘One thing that isn’t generally known, or studied, at least, is the subject of the French Prisoners of War.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Libby sat up straight. ‘Now, hang on, I do know a bit about this. Weren’t they held in the prison hulks in the Medway?’

‘Yes, they were, among other places, including the Thames estuary and just off Sheerness. Terrible places, even worse than the prisons of the day, which were bad enough. And have you heard about the escapes?’

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Were there any? I thought it was impossible.’

‘Oh, yes, there were escapes. And do you know who helped them escape?’

‘No?’

‘The smugglers.’

‘Wow!’ said Libby.

‘Good Lord!’ said Fran.

‘In this area? But we’re not near the sea here,’ said Libby.

‘We’re not that far, as the crow flies,’ said Andrew. ‘And the route those French prisoners were sent on was purposely devious. A lot of them were landed at Whitstable – ’

‘Whitstable?’ echoed Libby. ‘But if they were landed there, why did they come here? Couldn’t they have been transported back to France direct from Whitstable?’

‘There were various reasons, not all of them fathomable. But you must know – in fact you
do
know – that the whole area is peppered with smugglers’ haunts. You told me that you suspect a tunnel leading from Dark House to a pub in Keeper’s Cob, and you’ve told me about other tunnels you’ve discovered in the past. Anyway, it’s a fascinating subject, and I’ll give you some of the sources I found.’

‘How did they do it, though?’ asked Fran. ‘I thought French ships stayed off the coast and smaller boats went to and fro with the contraband. Is that what they did with the prisoners?’

‘Sometimes. But they also got transported direct to France.’

‘How could they do that? Surely they’d be spotted by the French in the channel? We were at war,’ said Libby.

‘But not entirely,’ said Andrew.

Libby sighed. ‘I don’t understand. We either
were
at war, or we weren’t.’

‘Oh, we were. But although trade had been blocked, both the French and the English realised that a certain amount of trade had to take place between the two countries and a limited number of licences were issued. And then Napoleon allowed smugglers entry, providing further outlets. And this was where the prisoners were landed. And something else was being smuggled in.’

‘Into France?’ asked Fran.

Andrew nodded.

‘Well, what?’ said Libby.

‘Bullion,’ said Andrew.

Both Fran and Libby gasped.

‘Bullion?’ repeated Libby. ‘Gold?’

‘Mainly gold in the form of guineas,’ said Andrew. ‘And they built special, fast boats to do it.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Libby. ‘English smugglers were smuggling gold into France. What for?’

‘Because Napoleon needed gold to pay his troops.’

‘So who was giving it to him?’ asked Fran.

‘British merchants.’

‘British?’ squeaked Libby. ‘No! That would be treason.’

‘But it was happening. It was such big business that special boats, known as “guinea boats” were built in Deal and could be rowed across the Channel in five hours. When they were forbidden in England, they simply went to France and built them there, under the protection of the French government.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Libby.

‘So are you saying,’ said Fran, ‘that these guineas might have been smuggled through here?’

‘There is some evidence that this was a house on the smuggling route even after William Goodman. It was tenanted by a Reverend Mostyn, for whom there seem to be no records, so I expect it’s not a real name or a real person, but the estate stretches quite a long way, and includes most of Keeper’s Cob, so it would have been a protected smugglers’ area, from the owling trade through to Victorian times.’

‘That could definitely be the treasure Roland told Ramani about,’ said Libby, turning to Fran. ‘Blimey! Suppose it’s true?’

‘It would belong to the Crown,’ said Andrew with a smile. ‘Don’t go getting excited.’

‘Oh, I know, but if it was true, Roland would never have given it up.’

‘Black market?’ said Andrew. ‘Very difficult.’

‘Yes, but as Ian and Ben reminded us, Roland spent a lot of time on the continent in exactly the right area for the illegal arts and antiquities smuggling routes.’ Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We don’t even know if his story of treasure was true.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ said Fran, ‘that if somehow he knew this house was used for bullion smuggling, he would have made it into a story to impress Ramani Oxenford.’

‘Even though it wasn’t her era?’

‘She was a historian. It wouldn’t matter,’ said Fran.

‘That doesn’t work.’ Libby shook her head. ‘She told Edward, and he’s a Civil War authority.’

‘True, and he was – or is – certainly looking for that connection.’

‘This is all very interesting,’ said Andrew. ‘Will you explain? And can I have more tea?’

Between them, Libby and Fran went into slightly more detail, including the story of their own investigations so far.

‘It seems to me,’ said Andrew, leaning back and sipping his fresh cup of tea, ‘that you’re chasing moonbeams.’

Libby looked gloomy. ‘I know. It looked so perfect at first. Godfrey Wyghtham left some silver behind for his wife when he went off to Maidstone in 1648 and it’s still here.’

‘But except for that tiny notation in the parish records, there’s nothing,’ said Fran. ‘And he came safely back here and died some years later. If he had left something here, it would have been retrieved.’

‘Unless he forgot where he’d put it,’ said Andrew, laughing.

‘I doubt that,’ said Fran. ‘Would you?’

‘I wouldn’t, but I know people who might.’

‘Rosie,’ nodded Libby. ‘She even forgets where she’s put Talbot.’

‘So, has this got you any further?’ asked Andrew, changing the subject.

‘Well, yes.’ Libby looked at Fran. ‘We know there must be tunnels, and possibly secret passages in the house itself.’

‘Think of when it was first built,’ said Andrew. ‘Catholic persecution.’

‘Priest holes,’ said Libby.

‘Quite probable.’

‘Roland found it, perhaps?’ suggested Fran.

‘And there was something in it?’ Libby looked at Andrew.

‘Oh, I doubt that, unless they left a rosary behind when they were escaping. No, if there is any sort of treasure, I think the best bet is gold from a guinea run.’

‘So where were these smuggling runs, then? Are they still traceable?’ Libby leant forward, elbows on knees.

‘Some are, and a lot of the old names are still there.’ Andrew reached down into his briefcase and brought out a small pamphlet. ‘Here. This is all about the smuggling routes and the Prisoners of War.’ He opened it and pointed to a picture – very fuzzy and in black and white. ‘See?’

Libby and Fran both leant to see it and gasped.

‘It’s Dark House!’ said Libby.

Andrew smiled triumphantly. ‘It certainly is. And this booklet gives the route on which it stood.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?’ said Libby indignantly.

‘I’d only have had to backtrack to the beginning, wouldn’t I?’ said Andrew, still grinning. ‘This way, you’d already absorbed the background information, so the picture makes sense.’

‘I can see you were a good lecturer,’ said an amused Fran.

‘I’m going to make more tea, and then we can have a look at that route,’ said Libby, getting to her feet and collecting mugs.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Andrew, once more brandishing his tablet. ‘I’ve done it all on here.’

Libby stood with her mouth open for a moment, then retreated to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were seated at the small table in the sitting room window, Andrew’s tablet between them.

‘Now look,’ he said, swiping the screen. ‘This is the map of the route in that booklet.’ Up came a rather amateurish hand-drawn map. ‘And this is the modern Ordnance Survey map overlaying it.’

Andrew had highlighted the old route in thick black lines in order to show up against the multi-coloured OS map.

‘I still don’t understand why, if the prisoners were landed at Whitstable, they had to go up to London and back out again,’ said Libby.

‘They didn’t always,’ said Andrew. ‘As far as I can make out, some of them came this way, and were then taken down another route to go with the guineas. But the only boats that were supposed to go to France, not the guinea boats, left from places like Tilbury, so the prisoners had to be taken there and smuggled aboard.’

Libby shook her head. ‘It’s so complicated.’

‘It is, but interesting, isn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘I think we should investigate the Dark House tunnels and see where they go.’

‘According to this booklet, they go to Keeper’s Cob, which you know, and down to a church –’ Andrew peered at the map ‘– here.’

‘Good lord, that’s St Mary’s, the Rev. Toby’s church!’ said Libby.

‘That’s where the notification in the parish records is,’ said Fran.

Yes.’ Andrew nodded. ‘I found a reference to his memorial tablet.’ He smiled at them both. ‘So there you have it. All your ends neatly tying together.’

‘And adding up to nothing,’ sighed Libby. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Andrew – what you’ve done is brilliant, but it probably doesn’t do anything to catch a murderer, does it?’