Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

Libby and Ben decided to go home, have a cup of tea and possibly a nap before what could be an interesting evening. Harry had pressed them to stay, offering more whisky, but, as Libby said, if they were all as drunk as skunks by the time Edward arrived at seven thirty it rather negated the purpose of the evening.

Accordingly, the four of them gathered at seven fifteen feeling less sleepy than they might have done. Libby and Ben handed over two bottles of wine, and Peter handed them glasses of red.

At exactly seven thirty, Edward arrived.

‘This is lovely,’ he said looking round. ‘Love the fire.’

‘Ours is a proper one,’ said Harry. ‘Not like Libby’s piddling little Victorian one.’

Edward laughed. ‘But at least it’s a real fire.’

‘Sit down,’ said Peter, ‘and tell us how your interview with DCI Connell went.’

Libby frowned at him, but Peter was unabashed.

‘Edward will know we want to know. He could hardly not.’

Edward sighed and leant forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. ‘Of course you want to know. And you’ll have quite a few questions for me. Haven’t you, Libby?’

Libby nodded. ‘Ian left me feeling deeply suspicious of you earlier today. And I must say I felt a bit mortified, having introduced you and – ’

‘Allowed me into Libby’s Loonies,’ interrrupted Edward, with a small smile. ‘I know. But it really wasn’t like that.’

‘So what was it like? Come on, Edward – full story. When did Ramani get in touch with you and what exactly did she say?’

Edward sighed. ‘I’ve been all through this with your inspector already, so at least I know the answers. The first time she mentioned the house and the possibility of treasure was when she was up in town and I managed to get down to see her. This would have been – oh, a year ago. I wasn’t particularly interested. She didn’t say anything about the Watsons. Then, about six weeks ago, she told me she’d found out that it could possibly be connected with the civil wars. That did interest me. So I asked if I could come down and have a look at the house. She was very evasive.’

‘Did she say anything about the Watsons this time?’ asked Libby.

‘Not a lot. I have to say, I almost thought that she’d made up the civil war connection to get me interested. Anyway, I kept trying to get hold of her, and she’d return the odd text, but then went silent. So I came down. I knew where she lived, and I had actually met Carl some time ago in Leicester.’

‘Didn’t you feel awkward about seeing him, knowing you’d continued a relationship with his wife?’

‘I did, a bit.’ Edward lowered his eyes.

‘So you arrived and knew nothing about Ramani’s death?’ said Ben.

Edward nodded. ‘I arrived on the doorstep as the police were leaving and they swept me off to the police station in Canterbury. And that’s it, really.’

‘When she first mentioned treasure, did she say anything about the Napoleonic wars or the gold?’ asked Libby.

‘She said something about smuggling, but that was all. I got the impression she rather dismissed the story.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘I don’t know. I wanted to look into it, so I stayed around. There was honestly nothing underhand about it. Your inspector seems to think I knew something about what was going on – perhaps even involved with some sort of scam.’

‘Yes. Because of the fake Institute and your sudden appearance on the scene,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t entirely trust you, either.’

‘Do you now?’

‘I think so.’ Libby smiled. ‘As long as you’ve told us everything now. Mind you, it didn’t amount to much more than we knew already.’

‘Except that Ramani had told you about treasure a year ago and mentioned smugglers,’ said Peter.

‘That will have interested Cuddly Connell,’ said Harry.

‘Who?’ Edward looked bewildered.

‘The chief inspector,’ said Peter. ‘I think he is rather suspicious, and thinks you may well have known the story of the guinea boats before arriving here. Did he tell you what they found – when, Lib? Yesterday?’

‘I assume so.’ She looked at Edward. ‘Did he?’

‘Did he what?’

‘Tell you what the police found yesterday?’

‘No? I have no idea what you’re talking about. He asked me a lot of questions that seemed to relate to this fake institute, and if I studied that period.’ Libby thought she saw that faint flush on Edward’s dark cheeks. ‘In fact, he almost seemed not to believe I’m a historian. He said he’d been in touch with the university.’

‘Yes, he told me that,’ said Libby. ‘And had you studied that period?’

‘How do you imagine one becomes a history lecturer?’ Edward’s tone became peremptory. ‘I have an Honours Degree, a Master’s and a doctorate. The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries haven’t been my particular interest, but of course I’ve studied them. I wasn’t aware of the guinea boats, I have to say, nor did I know about the escape routes of the French prisoners. They are small areas of special interest.’

‘Well,’ said Harry. ‘That told us.’

‘Sorry.’ Edward looked anything but repentant.

‘Edward,’ said Ben gently, ‘do you know anything about architecture?’

‘Architecture? Well – a bit. When it’s Tudor.’

‘And do you know how long it takes to become an architect?’

‘No …’

‘Seven years. Five at university and two under the direct supervision of a qualified architect.’

Edward was looking at him warily. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘So we don’t really want your academic credentials. Just a simple answer would have done.’

Edward seemed to collapse into his chair. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looked at Libby. ‘It’s the “me, me, me” syndrome again, isn’t it?’

‘As long as you recognise it.’ Libby patted his arm. ‘Now. Get off your high horse and try and help us with sorting out this mess. What you don’t know is that Johnny Templeton was arrested and stationery with the institute’s heading found in his cottage. And it was purchased with a credit card in his name. So I expect Ian was trying to find out if you’d had any contact with him.’

‘He did mention the name. Who is he?’

‘You must have heard us mention him,’ said Libby. ‘He’s the person who found Ramani’s body.’ She went on to explain about the form letter and the theory that one had been sent to the Watsons which piqued Roland’s interest.

‘When was that?’ Edward frowned. ‘Only, as I said, Ramani mentioned smugglers to me a year ago.’

‘I didn’t ask!’ said Libby. ‘Oh, how silly!’

‘That fragment of envelope you found. Did it look old?’ asked Peter.

‘Well it wasn’t brand new. And it was stuck in the back of a drawer, so it hadn’t been put there recently.’

‘Unless it was purposely hidden,’ said Ben.

‘But from whom? I thought it was one of Adelaide’s drawers, but we think the letter was sent to Roland, don’t we?’

‘And didn’t she say she didn’t know nuffink about anyfink?’ said Harry, getting up. ‘Another drink, anyone? And I’ll get me little dainties out of the oven.’

While Harry bustled about being a host, the rest of them tried to make sense of a situation they really knew nothing about.

‘Ian says Johnny won’t say who told him to store the stationery,’ said Libby.

‘It sounds too clever to be a ruffian from The Feathers,’ said Peter.

‘Ooh, what a lovely word, “ruffian”,’ said Harry, bringing in a tray of food and ruffling Peter’s hair on the way back to the kitchen.

‘So, some devious character who we’ve never heard of,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘And why, anyway? Why tell Roland he might have a hoard of guineas hidden in his house?’

‘Why tell anyone, frankly?’ said Ben. ‘Unless you really thought there
was
a hoard.’

‘And why alert the owners if you wanted to nick it?’ said Harry, pouring wine all round.

They all looked at each other. Edward shook his head slowly. ‘None of it makes any sense,’ he said.

‘Let’s go back to the civil wars,’ said Peter, ten minutes later, when they’d all partaken of Harry’s dainties. ‘Could the letters be to allow someone to search the houses and then regretfully say they’d been mistaken, while actually looking for a civil war treasure?’

Everyone looked at Edward.

‘Don’t look at me,’ he said in alarm. ‘It wasn’t me!’

‘No, but could that be a reason?’ said Libby. ‘It sounds quite likely to me.’

‘I suppose so, but it seems like an inordinate amount of trouble to go to,’ said Edward. ‘All the expense of printing fake letters, not to mention Templeton’s credit card, just to search a house?’

‘And why couldn’t you go to an owner and say “ʼEre, mate, I reckon you’ve got some old treasure, can I look for it?” They’d be only too happy, wouldn’t they?’ said Harry.

‘Not if you planned to steal it,’ said Peter. ‘And listen. If you said a hoard of guineas, that would belong to the Crown because it was stolen from the Crown in the first place – more or less – so the owner wouldn’t be so keen to interfere. If you said it was something buried by a former owner it could well be a different matter.’

‘That’s true, but you’d have to be absolutely certain there really was something to find,’ said Ben.

‘But that’s what Ramani was doing,’ said Libby excitedly. ‘Looking into the Civil War treasure. She went to the church, didn’t she?’

‘So we’re back where we started,’ said Edward. ‘A war treasure hidden by Sir Godfrey Wyghtham. Which we haven’t found.’

‘Except for the ring and the cross you found in the chimney in the attic,’ said Libby.

‘And back to wondering who also knew and killed both Ramani and Roland for it.’ said Edward. He looked round the room. ‘And it wasn’t me.’

‘The other person who knew, possibly, was your new friend Mrs Fairbrass,’ said Harry.

‘She says she didn’t believe in the treasure. It was Lady Middleton and her daughter who did,’ said Libby.

‘And what was it happened to the daughter?’ asked Ben.

‘She fell into the grotto and was killed. Years ago.’

The sudden silence meant that everybody had the same idea at once.

‘She found it!’ said Harry, voicing the one thought.

‘If she did,’ said Libby carefully, ‘why wasn’t it found with her body?’

‘Because whoever discovered her body made away with it,’ said Peter. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘Except that the grotto wasn’t built until two hundred years after the civil wars,’ said Libby.

‘But the tunnels weren’t,’ said Edward, beginning to look interested. ‘They were only bricked up in the late nineteenth.’

‘Were they bricked up when the grotto was built, do you think?’ mused Libby. ‘And if Godfrey’s treasure – assuming that was what was hidden – was there when that was done, why didn’t the Victorians find it?’

‘That’s true. Or – the daughter could have discovered the hiding place, not necessarily the treasure,’ said Edward.

‘And there’s the other thing. About Godfrey’s wife.’ Libby looked across over the rim of her wine glass.

‘Rebecca? What?’

‘No – Evelyn. The other wife.’

Edward looked round at the four faces staring at him. ‘Yes. So – what?’

‘This document Andrew’s got – will it explain that?’

‘I don’t know. And I don’t know if it makes a difference anyway.’

‘Well, it is that document that started the story of the treasure,’ said Ben. ‘So was the Middleton daughter looking for a treasure left for Evelyn or Rebecca?’

‘It’s another red herring,’ said Libby, sighing. ‘It doesn’t make any difference at all. All we really need to know is who made up the Institute and the letter. And why.’

‘And is it the same person who killed Ramani and Roland?’ said Ben.

‘And why are we bothering?’ said Harry.

Chapter Thirty-four

On Monday morning, Adam called his mother with the surprising news that he and Mog were allowed back to the Dark House gardens.

‘Mog called Mrs Watson,’ he said.

‘And she answered?’

‘Yes. Shouldn’t she have?’

‘Never mind. So what did she say?’

‘She wants us to finish off the work and give her an invoice for work done so far. And an estimate of the end result.’

‘And will she pay for all the making good of the police investigation?’

‘She won’t know, will she? Anyway, she’s going to sell the house as soon as she’s able, so she’ll have pots.’

‘Not if she wants to buy a house on Wimbledon Common,’ said Libby, ‘which is what she told me she wanted to do. Nine million for a house there. I looked it up.’

‘Bloody hell!’ said Adam. ‘Didn’t you used to live near there?’

‘Not far,’ said Libby. ‘Your father and I had our wedding reception in that famous pub in Wimbledon village.’

‘Think if you’d stayed there,’ said Adam wistfully.

‘I’d never have had you lot,’ said Libby. ‘We had a studio flat in Streatham. Not ideal for bringing up a family. So when are you going back?’

‘This morning,’ said Adam. ‘Mog’s picking me up in half an hour.’

‘Can I come over?’ asked Libby, on the spur of the moment. ‘Johnny’s home and I’d like to meet him.’

‘Oh?’ Adam sounded wary. ‘Would Ian like that?’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,’ said Libby cheerily. ‘Johnny isn’t a suspect.’

‘You said he still had questions to answer.’

‘He does, but not about the murders.’

‘And what are you going to talk to him about?’

‘His cottage,’ said Libby, thinking on her feet. ‘How old it is.’

‘Isn’t it the same age as the house?’ said Adam.

‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve never seen it.’

‘All right, then, I suppose I can’t stop you,’ said Adam, ‘but don’t get me into trouble.’

‘Great! I’ll see you later, then.’ Libby ended the call and pressed Fran’s number.

‘Lots to tell you, and do you want to come to meet Johnny Templeton with me in about an hour?’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Fran. ‘You can tell me then.’

Although still grey, there was no mist and Dark Lane had lost its mysterious and ghostly aspect. Libby drove in to the forecourt and parked behind Mog’s van. Almost immediately, Fran’s Smart car turned in beside her.

‘So what exactly are we doing here?’ asked Fran, when Libby had regaled her with the events of Sunday afternoon and evening.

‘I wanted to see if Johnny Templeton would open up to me – or us – more than he did to Ian. And – oh, I don’t know. See if we could pick up on anything else?’

‘Tell me again,’ said Fran, as they walked over the lawn to where Adam and Mog were trying to get their work site back in order, ‘why you all thought the girl who died in the grotto –’

‘Olive Wyghtham,’ put in Libby.

‘Olive – why she’d found the treasure?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just that the grotto has featured so heavily in all of this, and she was looking there, when it wasn’t even in existence in the sixteen hundreds.’

‘Hmm.’ Fran stopped and looked towards the arch in the hedge that led to the grotto. ‘Have you heard from Andrew about that document yet?’

‘No. Should we ring him, do you think?’

‘Perhaps later. He’ll ring Ian first, won’t he?’

‘Yes, and then perhaps Marilyn Fairbrass. It’s hers, after all.’

But before they could speak to Adam, Libby’s phone rang.

‘Libby, I thought you might want to know,’ said Ian. ‘A couple of pieces of information.’

‘That’s very kind, Ian.’ Libby raised her eyebrows at Fran.

‘First, you remember the jewellery Edward found in the chimney?’

‘Yes.’

‘Apparently, they are – er – quite valuable. If they were in an auction today, their joint value would be around twenty-five thousand pounds.’

‘Twenty-five thousand!’ echoed Libby.

‘Yes, but is that enough to murder for? And how much would they have been worth in the sixteen fifties? Anyway, that’s one thing. The other is that Andrew has some interesting information from that document. We’re holding the original in case it proves to be relevant, but he has a modern translation for you to give Mrs Fairbrass. Give him a ring.’

‘And I’m allowed to do that?’ said Libby.

‘Yes, Libby, you are.’

‘Well, how about that!’ said Libby, and related the conversation to Fran. ‘Shall we go to Andrew’s now?’

‘No, we’ll go and see Johnny Templeton. Adam may well have told him we’re coming.’

‘OK, but then we ring Andrew?’

‘I’ll ring him while you speak to Adam, and say we’ll come over when we’ve finished here, if that’s convenient.’

Adam, looking awkward, led them through the arch in the hedge and down to the grotto. The pallet the constable had placed over the hole was still there. Looming over them either side were artistically place rough boulders planted with ferns and running with water. Above them, straddling the path, was a bridge.

‘Can you get to that bridge?’ asked Libby.

‘Where does the water come from?’ asked Fran.

‘I don’t know to both questions,’ said Adam. ‘All I know is the water runs into a little stream, look, over there. That feeds the fishpond further down the garden.’

‘Is that new?’ said Libby.

‘How do I know?’ said Adam, exasperated. ‘All we’ve done here is this bloody swimming pool.’

‘All right, all right,’ soothed Libby. ‘Come on, where’s Johnny’s house?’

Adam led them under the bridge, after which the path sunk down between even higher artistic walls. Libby shivered.

‘Unpleasant,’ said Fran.

Suddenly the path emerged into daylight and in front of them stood a cottage that looked as though there should be girls in bonnets with kittens playing outside.

Adam looked at his mother and Fran, then nervously knocked on the door.

Nothing happened. Adam turned away.

‘He’s not there.’

‘He is,’ said Fran, and stepped past him. ‘Mr Templeton! May we speak to you for a moment?’

There was a pause, then the door opened a crack.

‘Johnny,’ said Adam, ‘this is my mother and a friend. They just want to speak to you for a minute.’

The door opened wider and Johnny Templeton appeared, looking as though he’d stepped out of a squat in the early seventies.

‘What?’ he said.

‘May we come in, Mr Templeton?’ asked Libby stepping forward. ‘We’ve been looking into the history of Dark House and we wondered if your cottage was the same date.’

‘Why?’

Libby was stumped.

‘Because of the treasure,’ said Fran smoothly, and Libby gasped.

‘I’m going back to work, Ma,’ said Adam. ‘Check in before you leave.’

‘We will,’ said Libby.

Johnny Templeton half closed the door, but Fran was too quick for him.

‘Mr Templeton – Johnny – we know you know about the treasure. You do, don’t you?’

‘Might do.’

‘You do, because of all that stationery the police found here.’

‘That was made up,’ said Johnny.

‘I know. Who made it up?’

Johnny looked shifty. ‘I dunno, do I? I told the police.’

‘Why did you keep the stuff then, after it had been delivered?’

‘Didn’t know what to do with it, did I? Could’a chucked it out.’

‘But someone didn’t want you to, did they?’ said Fran, who was obviously on a roll. ‘And they must have told you about that treasure. Did you know about the treasure before that stationery arrived? About the golden guineas?’

An avaricious gleam showed briefly in Johnny’s muddy eyes. ‘No.’

‘What about the other treasure?’

He frowned. ‘What other treasure?’

Fran looked up at the cottage. ‘From when your cottage was built.’

‘Eh?’ Johnny looked round as if expecting jewellery to fall out of the walls.

‘Johnny, who rented you this cottage?’

‘Watson.’ Johnny was frowning again.

‘No, before Mr Watson.’

Libby looked at her friend in surprise.

‘Middleton.’

‘Lady Middleton? For how long?’

He shrugged. ‘Must be twenty years.’

‘Twenty years!” said Libby. ‘You’ve been here twenty years?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Fran suddenly switched tack.

‘When did you meet Mr Watson?’

Johnny looked confused for a moment.

‘Was it when he moved in?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Did you know him before he bought Dark House?’

Johnny stepped backwards into the house, but Fran was right after him. Libby followed into the dark interior, which smelled of rotting food and something else indefinable.

‘Look Johnny,’ said Fran, fixing him with an intense eye, probably trying to ignore the surroundings, thought Libby, ‘we aren’t the police. This is Adam’s mother. Adam’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So why don’t you talk to us? The police are still interested in you, you know that, but maybe we could help you.’

‘How?’ Johnny fumbled on the untidy table for tobacco. ‘What do you want?’

‘Who told you about the guineas and who got you to buy that stationery?’

‘No one. I dunno. Nothing to do with me. Been here all year.’

‘What, the stationery?’ asked Libby. ‘Been here for a year?’

‘When Ramani first told Carl about the treasure,’ said Fran.

‘Look, I told that copper – I don’t know nothing. It’s nothing to do with me. I never done nothing.’

‘And you don’t know anything about any other treasure?’

‘No, I swear,’ said Johnny, and for the first time sounded as though he was telling the truth.

Fran sighed. ‘Come on, Libby. He’s not going to let us help him.’

They went out into the fresh air.

‘ʼEre.’

They turned round.

‘Why d’you want to know if this place is the same as the big house?’

‘In case the treasure is hidden here, of course,’ said Fran, and turned on her heel.

Libby hurried after her, back through the sunken lane and under the fake bridge. ‘Do you really think that?’ she panted.

‘It’s a thought,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s see what Andrew’s document has to say.’

‘What? What’s that got to do with it?’

‘I don’t know, but we ought to find out. Are we going in separate cars?’

Andrew’s flat stood at the top of Nethergate, looking out over the town and the bay. Rosie’s cat Talbot greeted them at the door.

‘Doesn’t he try to get away?’ asked Libby, as Talbot sniffed the air and turned to stroll back into the flat, tail held high.

‘No.’ Andrew smiled after his black and white companion. ‘Considering how much space he had to roam at Rosie’s place, it’s quite surprising.’

‘Have you heard from Rosie?’ asked Fran, as they followed Andrew into his large, light sitting room, where armchairs were arranged round a table in the window.

‘Oh, yes. She’s still in the States, having now been invited to Canada and Hawaii.’

‘Having the time of her life, then?’ said Libby.

‘And good luck to her,’ said Andrew with a grin. ‘I told her that she will have to fight me for the custody of Talbot when she gets back.’

‘What did she say?’ asked Fran, amused.

‘That I could have him and welcome, as she had no idea when she might come back to England.’ Andrew laughed. ‘So I offered to put the house on the market for her. That shook her.’

Fran and Libby laughed.

‘What did she say?’ asked Libby.

‘She was rather peeved that I didn’t seem to mind. Now, I’ll just fetch tea – or would you rather have coffee?’

They both opted for coffee, which Andrew served with home-made apple cake, once again bought from the local farmers’ market.

‘So this document. Edward was right, it is part of a letter. There’s no indication of who it was sent to, but it appears to be giving instructions to someone to look after Sir Godfrey’s wife, Evelyn, in the event of his death. It says he has made provision for her, and that the recipient knows where to find whatever it is. That’s really all, it’s just the very difficult and flowery language of the time. So then, I decided to look for a record of Evelyn Wyghtham.’

‘Where? At the county archives?’ said Libby.

‘No, first I looked up the records of listed houses, but no mention there. So I took myself off to your church at Steeple Cross and saw the Reverend Toby.’

‘On a Sunday? Gosh, I bet he was pleased!’

‘He didn’t mind a bit. Charming chap. We had a look at the parish records, and the old marriage registers, which are even harder to read than that letter, and then we had a cup of coffee at the rectory.’

‘What did you find?’ asked Fran.

‘Godfrey married Evelyn in 1640. There is no record of a marriage to Rebecca.’

‘What?’ said Libby and Fran together.

‘But the slab in the church says “wife”, and what about the children?’ said Libby.

‘There are no records for them, either. The only reference is on the slab in the church,’ said Andrew. ‘Which means, I think, and so does Toby, that Rebecca was Godfrey’s mistress and the children by him were illegitimate. At some point before Godfrey died, Evelyn must have passed away, too. Whether he really did marry Rebecca after that isn’t clear. They could have got a licence and got married somewhere else, or even had a clandestine marriage.’

‘A clandestine marriage? An underhand one?’ asked Fran.

‘Quite common for a long time,’ said Andrew. ‘The Fleet and Newgate held most of them. There are specific records for those.’

‘Oh, I can see that.’ Libby frowned. ‘But why do you think that one page gave rise to the treasure theory? It doesn’t actually say anything.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Andrew. ‘I suppose someone at some point formulated the theory that “provision” meant money and it was hidden somewhere. But it could just as well have meant it was being kept by a lawyer. I also think that it’s a possibility, given the language in the letter, that it was written to Rebecca.’

‘Telling her to look after Evelyn? What a cheek!’ gasped Libby.

‘It’s only an opinion,’ said Andrew, with a smile, ‘but it would be quite likely that Rebecca was a maid, and maids were often seen to be legitimate targets for their masters’ lusts.’