Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) (11 page)

Chapter Eighteen

‘You’re lucky Andrew wasn’t offended,’ said Fran later, when the professor had gone.

‘I know. He found it funny.’ Libby was washing mugs in the kitchen. ‘And it is interesting. Fascinating, in fact, but I honestly don’t see Roland bothering to do all that detailed research, do you? Just to get Ramani into bed?’

‘Was it Peter or Harry who said the whole reason for the murder could be as simple as the affair? Either Adelaide or Carl bumping off the two of them because of that?’

‘Or both of them in cahoots,’ said Libby. ‘Yes, it’s possible, except that they’re both alibied up to the hilt. Carl was miles away at a conference or something and Adelaide was in London.’

Fran perched on the kitchen table. ‘So if we wash out the treasure motive – sadly – we need to find another reason for the murders. Because I really don’t think we have two separate murderers. Too far-fetched altogether.’

‘OK.’ Libby sat on the other side of the table. ‘What are the usual motives for murder?’

‘Money, fear, revenge – ’

‘Revenge is a very unlikely motive.’

‘All right, but money and fear are strong.’

‘Sex? Love?’

Libby shook her head. ‘Only if someone is in between you and the object of desire. In this case both partners in the affair were killed and there isn’t anyone else in the equation.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Fran, slowly.

Libby looked interested. ‘So Adelaide might have killed Ramani in order to get Carl? But then why kill Roland?’

‘To get him out of the way so the road was clear?’ Fran put her head on one side and considered. ‘Too far-fetched again.’

‘There could have been someone else,’ said Libby. ‘Someone who wanted Carl, so killed Ramani, then Roland found out so he had to be killed, too.’

‘Well, that fits Adelaide,’ said Fran. ‘And we do know now that she and Carl knew one another better than anyone thought.’

‘Still doesn’t feel right, though, does it?’ Libby stood up. ‘Come on, let’s forget all about it and go and watch an old film or something until it’s time to go out.’

Later, in The Pink Geranium, they found Peter waiting for them on the sofa in the window, with Adam and the pretty PhD student in attendance. Harry popped a dishevelled head out of the kitchen and shouted.

‘I took your pollo verde out of the freezer, so you’d better eat it!’

Libby blushed as the other customers regarded her with amusement.

‘So where are you with the case of the murders in the dark?’ asked Peter, when wine had been brought and poured.

‘Nowhere,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve begun to think your theory of a wronged wife or husband may be the true one, despite the fact that we’ve found out all sorts of fascinating historical things from Andrew.’

‘Such as?’

‘Did you know that the English were selling gold to Napoleon –’

‘To pay his troops, yes,’ said Peter.

‘Oh, bum. You know everything,’ said Libby.

‘But I don’t,’ said Guy. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘Me neither,’ said Ben. ‘You weren’t very forthcoming when we arrived earlier.’

‘Because we hadn’t got anywhere, that’s why,’ said Libby.

‘But we’ll tell you now, because it’s fascinating,’ said Fran.

Between them, with occasional interjections from Peter, who obviously knew all about it, they told Ben and Guy of the guinea boats, the French prisoners of war, the prison hulks and the smuggling routes.

‘I’ve got a lot of that in the notes I made,’ said Peter when they’d finished. ‘Harry did say.’

‘But you didn’t give them to me,’ said Libby. ‘And anyway, you wouldn’t have had those lovely overlaid maps that Andrew had.’

Peter looked amused. ‘I expect I could have worked it out.’

‘Andrew enjoyed doing it,’ said Fran, soothingly. ‘It gives him something to do.’

‘But we’re no nearer catching a murderer,’ said Libby, peering gloomily into her glass of red wine.

‘To be fair, it isn’t your job,’ said Guy.

‘What might be a good idea,’ said Ben, topping up glasses, ‘is to go for a day out and try and get as far as possible along one of those smuggling routes. I do like the sound of the Bogshole Brook.’

‘Bogshole Lane is still there,’ said Libby. ‘And so is Convicts’ Wood. It was on Andrew’s map.’

‘So you could walk it?’ said Guy, looking interested.

‘Well, you might,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘I don’t see me doing it.’

‘Not even in the interests of research?’ grinned Ben.

‘You ought to know our old trout doesn’t do exercise,’ said Peter. ‘Ah, here’s Adam to take our order. Saved by the bell.’

As they lingered over coffee at the end of the meal, Fran turned to Libby.

‘Would it be a good idea, though? To investigate the smuggling routes?’

‘I can’t see why. They’re hardly likely to be in use today, are they?’

‘Not for their original purpose, no. But it might be interesting.’

Libby shrugged. ‘You and Guy go off on a hike then.’

Fran looked at her closely. ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh, I’m just fed-up that we’ve got nowhere after trying so hard,’ sighed Libby. ‘Even though I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.’

‘But we’ve found out some really interesting facts,’ said Fran. ‘And we can still have a look at the Dark House tunnels.’

‘If Ian allows us to,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s face it, there’s nothing we can do that the police can’t. And Edward can be just as useful to them as he was to us, and so can Lewis. And even Andrew – Ian knows him, too, if he wants to consult any more expert witnesses.’

Fran sat back in her chair. ‘In that case, we might just as well forget all about it and go back to normal. After all, you’ve still got the panto to occupy you.’

‘That’s true,’ said Libby, looking mournful. ‘I’ll have to be content with that.’

Exasperated, Fran turned to Ben. ‘For God’s sake, cheer this woman up. She’s going into a decline.’

Harry appeared at the table.

‘She’ll have to lose some weight first,’ he said, dragging over a chair. Libby hit him.

‘I suppose you could always ask the vicar of the church at Steeple Cross if he knows where the entrance to the tunnel was,’ said Peter, gazing thoughtfully out of the darkened window.

All eyes turned towards him.

‘Why?’ asked Libby, suddenly looking a little brighter.

‘Didn’t you say the woman went there? Looked at the parish records? Must have seen that message or whatever it was?’

‘Yes?’ Fran looked puzzled.

‘Suppose she was also looking for the tunnel. Suppose her inamorata had found out something about it and told her?’

‘I don’t see what difference that would make,’ said Libby. ‘If she knew …’

‘Then someone also knew about it and wanted to keep it quiet?’ asked Ben.

‘And that someone found out Watson knew –’ began Guy.

‘Or he
told
that person he knew,’ said Libby, getting excited.

‘So it must be someone Watson and Ramani knew,’ finished Harry.

‘Well, of course it was.’ Libby was scornful. ‘Whatever the reason, it always had to be someone who knew them both.’

‘There’s no way we have the resources to find out about the people they knew,’ said Fran. ‘We only know about the people immediately concerned. Carl, Ramani and Roland will have hundreds of social and family contacts between them, and the only people who can look into that are the police. But we can ask the Rev. Toby about a tunnel to his church, or ask Patti to ask him.’

‘We could ask Adelaide,’ said Libby.

Everyone looked at her.

‘I thought you were going to give up and be an ostrich?’ said Fran.

Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘I was.’

‘Give up? Our Lib?’ Harry let out a crowing laugh. ‘Never!’

‘I was,’ said Libby. ‘But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Adelaide.’ She glanced at Fran. ‘We could tell her about the smugglers’ tunnels. And the Prisoners of War.’

‘The what?’ Harry topped up Peter’s glass and took a healthy sip. ‘In the last war?’

‘No, the Napoleonic,’ said Fran, and turned back to Libby. ‘We could, of course, if you think it would get anywhere.’

‘I don’t know, do I? But it’s better than sitting doing nothing.’

‘Or completing that Christmas order for me?’ asked Guy.

‘Or looking after me?’ said Ben.

‘Or directing the pantomime?’ said Peter.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Libby over their laughter. ‘I’ll do all that too.’

Tomorrow being Saturday, Ben didn’t go into the estate office, so Libby didn’t feel she should go off investigating while he was at home, and instead worked in the conservatory on Guy’s painting, “Christmas in Nethergate”, in the morning, took him for a drink at lunchtime and spent time preparing a special meal for Saturday night. Ben watched with amusement until, after a very good boeuf bourgignon and a bottle of Shiraz, he leant across the kitchen table and took her hand.

‘You don’t have to go overboard, love. I don’t feel neglected – not at the moment, anyway – and I much prefer you to be doing something that you’re interested in, stopping short of getting hurt, of course.’

Libby lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘I don’t know what I did to deserve you,’ she said.

‘Nor do I,’ said Ben. ‘Now, are we going to do all this washing up, or are we going to sit on the sofa and pretend we’re teenagers?’

Sunday dawned cold and frosty again.

‘It’s the beginning of December,’ said Libby, turning the central heating thermostat up a notch. ‘Should I go up to Joe and Nella’s and see about a tree?’

‘Already?’ Ben leant back against the Rayburn rail.

‘Otherwise the best ones will have gone.’

‘Are they open on a Sunday?’

‘Yes. We could go and find a tree and get some flowers for your Ma.’

‘We could,’ said Ben. ‘But let’s have breakfast first.’

Joe and Nella’s Cattlegreen Nursery was just outside Steeple Martin on the Canterbury Road. The “boy” Owen, came out to meet the car.

‘You come to tag a tree, then, Libby?’ he said, with an enormous grin.

‘We can take it away today, Owen,’ said Ben. ‘See? I’ve got the big car.’

Owen nodded wisely. ‘I’ll get a spade then.’

When Libby found the right tree for the window of number 17, Ben dug it up and Owen loaded it onto a trolley.

‘Made some hot chocolate,’ he said over his shoulder as he wheeled the tree to the car.

Ben raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s very proud of his hot chocolate,’ whispered Libby. ‘We must have some.’

Inside the nursery shed, Joe took Libby’s payment while Owen fetched the hot chocolate.

‘And we want some flowers for Mum,’ said Ben.

‘Sunday lunch, then, is it?’ said Joe. ‘Bet she don’t want chrysanths, your mum.’

‘No, thanks, Joe. What have you got?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Look at these lovely white ones. And you could put some of those berries with them. What are they, Joe?’

‘Hypericum.’ Joe put his head on one side. ‘Yeah – that’d look pretty. Shame my Nella’s not here. She knows.’

Owen re-appeared with the chocolate.

‘Oh, that’s lovely, Owen.’ Libby beamed at him.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Ben, taking a lava-hot sip. ‘Thanks, Owen.’

‘So you chasin’ any murderers, these days, Libby? You and that Fran?’ Joe handed Libby her card and receipt.

‘Of course she is, Joe,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘And smugglers.’

‘Smugglers?’ said Owen, round-eyed.

‘Old smugglers,’ explained Libby. ‘Like the ones you see in books, like pirates.’

‘Ooo-argh!’ intoned Owen solemnly.

‘Exactly,’ said Libby.

‘They old owlers and such?’ said Joe.

‘Yes, and the brandy and tobacco runners,’ said Ben. ‘Libby’s found a house with a tunnel.’

‘All the old houses had a tunnel back in them days,’ said Joe. ‘Old Hall had one goin’ to the church here. I bet your Manor’s got one tucked away somewhere.’

Libby caught Ben’s eye. ‘All right, I promise we’ll look for it. Do you know anything else about the smugglers, Joe?’

‘Oh, it were common knowledge. Everywhere between here and Whitstable, here and Nethergate, down to the Wytch at that there Creekmarsh, and o’ course Deal. They was all routes. Every big ʼouse stored something for the Gentlemen.’

‘Even after all the acts of Parliament?’

‘No one took no notice, did they? Gentlemen were more powerful than them Ridin’ Officers.’

‘What about the French prisoners?’

‘Oh, yeah. They was brought through, too. And that gold, an’ all.’

Libby and Ben stared at Joe in amazement.

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Libby eventually. ‘We’ve only just found it out from the County Archives.’

Joe shrugged and grinned. ‘Local family, see. All the stories get passed down. Bet you didn’t know that.’

‘So you know about the guinea boats,’ said Libby. ‘Did any of that gold come this way?’

‘Don’t know all about it. My old great-great-great grandfather or summat, he got paid for takin’ it down to Whitstable with the prisoners.’

‘What?’ yelped Libby.

‘Calm down, Lib,’ said Ben, patting her shoulder and laughing.

Joe was laughing, too. ‘I told you afore, Libby, you got to go and talk to the old locals. Better than all those old papers.’

‘So you haven’t got any papers, then?’ asked Ben.

‘No, but we got a couple of old pictures. You come up the house sometime and we’ll show you.’

‘After all our research,’ said Libby, as they fastened their seat belts and prepared to drive back to the village, ‘and Joe knew all about it.’

‘But you wouldn’t have known what to ask him about if you hadn’t done all your research,’ said Ben reasonably. ‘And he’s talking about this area, not Steeple Cross or Keeper’s Cob.’

‘Oh, hang on! Draw a line from Steeple Martin to Keeper’s Cob and it goes right through Steeple Cross. It’s a straight run.’

‘And straight inland from Whitstable,’ said Ben, thoughtfully. ‘Although you do have to go through Canterbury.’

‘But Canterbury wouldn’t have been as big as it is now. You could have skirted it.’

‘Anyway, I thought you’d given up on the tunnels and the smugglers?’ Ben gave her a sideways grin.