Authors: Lesley Cookman
Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) (6 page)
‘How do you make that out?’ asked Fran.
‘Well, she was bored, wasn’t she? I bet she just wandered in and …’ Libby stopped.
‘And just happened across a document about Roland’s house?’ Fran shook her head.
‘What religion was she, Edward?’ Libby turned to her guest.
‘She was an atheist,’ said Edward. ‘She broke with her family in Birmingham and more or less ran away to go to university. When I met her, she was determined to throw off all the shackles, as she put it. And she did.’ He smiled with reminiscent fondness.
‘Might she have gone to St Mary’s with Carl?’ asked Fran.
‘I’ve no idea, but I don’t think it’s so silly to think she would have gone to St Mary’s to see if she could find any trace of Dark House or its owners. She was a historian, and she’d been a researcher for a firm of heir hunters at one time, so she knew the value of church records.’
‘So, can we go?’ asked Libby.
‘What, now?’ Fran’s eyebrows rose.
‘No, not now. But can we go – perhaps Monday? Not a good idea to go at the weekend is it, with weddings on Saturdays and services on Sundays.’
‘I’m sure we could,’ said Edward. ‘Are you sure you want to be involved in this?’
‘Adelaide has asked us,’ said Libby, conveniently forgetting to mention that so had the police. ‘Anyway, before we go any further along that route, you said you wanted to see us. What about?’
Edward looked uncomfortable. ‘This is going to sound weird,’ he said. ‘Adelaide said you were friendly with the police in charge of the investigation.’
‘Yes?’ Libby was wary.
‘I wonder if you could find out if I’m a serious suspect?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other.
‘I’m not sure the police would divulge that sort of information,’ said Fran. ‘It’s not as if we’re involved in the case, we simply came in to it by accident.’
‘But Adelaide told us she’d asked you to tell the police something – after we’d seen you at Carl’s house.’
‘Yes, because she couldn’t face it,’ said Libby, ‘and because the DCI will accept what we say even if it is hearsay. That’s all. Why are you worried?’
Edward sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘It’s difficult.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘It’s being black, you see.’
Libby and Fran exchanged looks.
‘Go on,’ said Fran. ‘Are you talking about discrimination?’
‘Yes.’ Edward looked up. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but I got so used to the stop and search routine when I was younger, and even now, occasionally, I will be pulled over by traffic cops who don’t believe that a black man would be driving an expensive car.’
Libby gasped. ‘That can’t be true!’
Edward gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, it is, believe me. And I’m afraid I was convinced that was why I was pulled in so quickly when I arrived on Carl’s doorstep. I didn’t even know Ramani was dead.’
Libby was pink with outrage. ‘Ian would never behave like that!’
‘Who’s Ian?’ asked Edward.
‘DCI Connell,’ said Fran. ‘No I’m sure he wouldn’t. At least not for a racially-motivated reason.’
‘It was a uniformed sergeant and a detective constable who took me in,’ said Edward. ‘I was questioned by the DC – Robinson, I think he said.’
‘Robertson,’ said Libby. ‘Surely he didn’t bring you in off his own bat?’
‘The sergeant did, but the DC called someone.’
‘So what happened when he questioned you?’
Edward shrugged. ‘Not a lot. He just asked me what I was doing there, how I knew Ramani, where I’d been for the last week and asked me to sign a statement. Oh, and to inform the police of any change of address.’
‘And where had you been?’ asked Fran.
‘At home.’ He grinned suddenly, teeth startlingly white against the dark skin. ‘And I have plenty of people to vouch for me – even overnight.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Libby, clearing her throat.
‘So why do you think you might be a suspect?’ asked Fran.
Edward shrugged again. ‘Because I’m used to it. I would have sworn that the sergeant wanted to get at me, and I’d bet anything that my face is up there on their incident room white board.’
‘It sounds ridiculous to me,’ said Libby, ‘but I suppose we could ask, Fran?’
Fran, remembering that Ian had already asked if they didn’t think Edward turning up was “odd”, slowly nodded. ‘We could.’
‘There,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll ask Ian – carefully – and we’ll pay a visit to St Mary’s on Monday.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Shall we ask Patti if she’s got an in with the vicar?’
‘Who’s Patti?’ Edward looked from one to the other.
‘A vicar friend of ours. The thing is, most village churches round here are served by one vicar to three or four churches, so sometimes access is dificult. There are usually churchwardens one can apply to, but Patti might guarantee us entry, and a look at any documents there might be.’
‘Did Ramani actually say “document”?’ asked Fran. ‘Might it be something else?’
Edward frowned. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure she said. She’d found something in the church, so I suppose I assumed it was a document.’
‘It could be something else, then,’ said Fran. ‘I think asking Patti’s a good idea, Lib.’ She turned back to Edward. ‘We’ll give her a ring and let you know what happens.’ She smiled. ‘And try not to worry.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Libby as soon as their guest had taken his leave.
‘I don’t think he’s guilty,’ said Fran. ‘Selfish, yes, but not guilty. I’d love to know exactly what Ramani told him, though.’
‘And I’d like to know exactly what it was Roland told Ramani,’ said Libby.
‘Quite. And he isn’t likely to tell us, is he?’
‘No, but he might tell the police. We ought to tell Ian what Edward’s told us anyway, and they may be able to persuade Roland to let Edward search the house.’
‘If Adelaide doesn’t,’ said Fran.
‘I don’t think she’s that brave yet,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, who’s calling who?’
‘I’ll call Ian and you call Patti. Friday afternoon – is she busy?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember. I’ll risk it anyway.’
To Fran’s surprise, Ian answered his official mobile immediately and listened carefully to Fran’s story.
‘That’s more or less what he told us in brief. He didn’t say anything about the string of lovers, though.’
‘Will you ask Roland Watson if Edward can search the house? With us, preferably? We’re going to see if we can find this document Ramani told Edward about.’
‘I already have. I think I told you I wanted you to be there if the search went ahead, didn’t I? Well, very reluctantly, he agreed. We laid on thick that we had to find out if this story had anything to do with Ramani’s death.’
‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘that’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Ian, ‘but I’m damned if I can see why.’
‘So do we make an appointment with him?’
‘I will,’ said Ian. ‘Or rather, I’ll get Robertson to liaise between you, Libby, Hall, and Watson. Anytime that isn’t convenient?’
‘Not Saturdays. I help in the gallery. And we were going to try and look at the church on Monday, but that isn’t certain yet.’
‘Right. Robertson or I will come back to you as soon as possible.’
Libby had finished her own call to Patti and was waiting eagerly for news.
‘So, Ian’s setting up the search,’ Fran concluded, ‘but he didn’t say anything about Edward except that his story tallied with the one he told the police. What about Patti?’
‘She only knows the vicar of St Mary’s vaguely, and we were right, it is a shared parish, but she’s agreed to look up the churchwardens and give one of them a ring to see if we can go along and have a look. She also said that the churchwardens might know what we’re looking for, to save us a journey.’
‘Oh, we’d have to go ourselves, wouldn’t we?’
Libby laughed. ‘I knew you’d say that. Patti said she’ll ring as soon as she’s got any news.’
Neither DC Robertson nor Patti called back that day, nor did they on Saturday. Libby restlessly and erratically cleaned number 17 from top to bottom and began to make Christmas lists. Ben escaped to visit the timber yard on the estate and collect fresh eggs from one of the tenant farmers.
On Saturday evening they went to The Pink Geranium for dinner and found Adam in his long white apron being head waiter and watching a nervous young woman with a benevolent eye.
‘New girl?’ murmured Libby, as he presented her with a menu.
‘PhD student,’ he muttered back. ‘Very nice girl.’
Libby grinned. ‘I’ll have the quesadillas de hongos, please.’
‘And a bottle of red?’
‘Of course. Is Pete coming in?’
‘No, apparently he’s gone to Canterbury to see James.’
Peter’s younger brother James lived and worked in Canterbury and was rarely seen in Steeple Martin other than for occasional Sunday lunches at The Manor.
At the end of their meal, Harry joined them bringing another bottle of red wine with him.
‘I had your pollo verde all ready,’ he told Libby accusingly. ‘Now it’ll have to go in Adam’s freezer upstairs.’
Harry cooked mainly Mexican vegetarian food, but he made an exception in order to cook Libby’s favourite chicken dish, for which he kept separate utensils, chopping boards and pans.
‘Sorry, Hal, but it’ll keep, won’t it?’
‘Not for too long. Now tell me how Ad’s case is going?’
‘It isn’t Ad’s case,’ said Libby. ‘Or ours, really.’
‘But Ian’s asked you to help.’ Harry grinned. ‘I have little birds all over the place keeping me informed.’
‘I think Ian’s stuck. They’ve talked to the owner of the house who was having an affair with the victim, his wife and an ex-lover. All of them have watertight alibis.’
‘They’re the best sort of alibis,’ said Harry. ‘One of them will be the murderer.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Libby. ‘One of them was in France – or Brussels or something – one of them in Hertfordshire and the other at home somewhere. All alibied up.’
‘No other leads?’
‘Not unless you count the historical aspect.’ Libby explained about the “treasure”.
‘There you are then,’ said Harry. ‘Somebody thought this woman knew where it was and after getting it out of her, killed her to keep her quiet. Simple.’
Libby and Ben looked at him with wide eyes.
‘Bloody hell, Harry! You could be right!’ said Libby.
‘I often am.’ Harry preened.
‘Now you know why Ian wanted you to be on the search team,’ said Ben.
‘To keep an eye out for someone who looks as though they know what they’re looking for?’ said Libby. ‘But that wouldn’t be Edward.’
‘No?’ said Harry and Ben together.
‘He’s a historian and accomplished researcher. What’s the betting he already knows what he’s looking for?’ said Ben.
‘But not because he murdered Ramani,’ objected Libby.
‘Just watch him when you go to visit that church on Monday,’ said Ben.
‘If we go,’ said Libby. ‘I haven’t heard yet.’
‘If you do,’ said Harry, ‘remember Monday’s my day off. I’ll come and provide the escort.’
‘I remember what happened last time you provided me with an escort on a Monday,’ said Libby darkly.
Ben laughed. ‘The girls’ll be fine, Hal. They’re going to visit a church in broad daylight. Don’t worry. Patti might not even be able to set it up.’
But she did. And on Monday morning, Libby, Fran, Edward Hall and Patti herself met at the lychgate of St Mary’s, Steeple Cross to inspect the memorial tablet of Sir Godfrey Wyghtham.
‘A tablet?’ exclaimed Libby.
‘Yes.’ The Reverend Toby Morley looked surprised. Patti grinned.
‘Sorry, Mr Morley,’ she said. ‘Mrs Sarjeant was expecting something more spectacular, I think.’
The Reverend took off his glasses and smiled at Patti. ‘Please call me Toby. And there is the Parish Register, even though the date was problematic.’ He looked round at the puzzled circle of faces. ‘Civil War, you see. All the upheaval within the church – there were gaps between 1642 and 1660.’
‘How did you know who we were looking for?’ asked Fran. ‘We didn’t.’
‘Patti, here – may I call you Patti? – told me why you were looking, and I remembered the young lady immediately. Very striking.’
‘Ramani?’ Libby looked questioningly at Patti.
‘It would appear so. She came asking for information about previous owners of Dark House,’ said the Reverend Toby. ‘Of course it wasn’t Dark House then, but Wyghtham Hall. That was how I knew what I was looking for. And of course she had a date – 1648.’
‘May we see?’ Edward Hall spoke for the first time. ‘I’m the historian of the party, Edward Hall.’ He held out a hand, which the Reverend Toby shook warmly.
‘I’ll show you the tablet first,’ he said, leading the way down the central aisle, and to a dark corner beside the door to the vestry. ‘There.’
It was a stone tablet, with very little decoration, unlike several they had passed on the way. A coat of arms, very worn, headed the inscription.
“In Memorie of Godfrey Wyghtham, late of Wyghtham Hall in this parish, who departed this life April 3
rd
1664 and Rebecca, wife of above died September 15th 1665”.
‘But that’s 1664,’ said Libby, ‘not 1648.’
Reverend Toby smiled again. ‘But that meant he must have been living at the Hall in 1648, or at least to have had a connection to it, even if his father was still alive and living there, do you see?’
‘He survived the war, then,’ murmured Edward, ‘and so did she. But there’s no reference to hidden treasure. What was Ramani thinking of?’
‘Come and see the parish register. Not that it mentions treasure, either. But there’s a gift to the parish.’
The relevant book was already laid out for them in the vestry.
‘This is very unusual, but there is a note under the entry for Rebecca’s death that “her portion” is given to the parish.’ The Reverend Toby pointed and Edward bent to peer at it.
‘If found,’ Edward said suddenly, looking up in triumph. ‘That’s it!’
‘If found?’ they all repeated. The Reverend Toby bent closer, then stood up with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You know I’d never noticed that! I suppose you’re better at deciphering these things than I am.’
‘So what does it mean?’ asked Fran.
‘I guess it means that there is money somewhere that, if found, will go to the church. I wonder if she had a will?’
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve done wills. And they were all lodged somewhere – Canterbury, was it? – before you could properly check them all.’
‘We could check,’ said Fran. ‘What date did old Bartholomew die?’
‘Who?’ said Edward and Toby together.
‘A man we looked into last summer,’ said Libby. ‘And he was seventeen hundreds, anyway. The wills of these people wouldn’t be recorded, would they?’
‘Not if they were made before 1660,’ said Edward, ‘and they probably were. So we’re unlikely to be able to look it up. I just wondered if there’s any other record in the church?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Toby shook his head. ‘I wonder what it means?’
‘Well,’ said Libby slowly, ‘we know that Ramani was told there was a treasure in the house. She came here to check out if there was any indication of the owner, like a good little historian, and obviously interpreted that text in the same way that Edward did.’
‘Wild goose chase?’ asked Patti.
‘No, not at all,’ said Fran. ‘We’re following Ramani’s trail, which may well lead to finding out who murdered her.’
The Reverend Toby blenched. ‘Oh, dear! I’d forgotten that.’ He escorted them to the door and shook hands with them all. ‘Will you keep me informed?’ he asked Patti, who assured him she would.
‘So what now?’ asked Libby, as they walked back down the lane towards Carl’s surgery.
‘We need to find out what Roland told Ramani,’ said Fran. ‘She would never have gone to the church otherwise. She must have known Godfrey Wyghtham’s name.’
‘But will he tell us?’ said Edward. ‘He doesn’t strike me as particularly forthcoming.’
‘The police are going to ask him,’ said Libby. ‘It’s relevant to Ramani’s murder.’
‘He could still refuse to tell them, or lie.’ Patti dug her hands in her pockets and frowned. ‘Murderers do lie to the police.’
‘You think he’s the murderer?’ asked Libby.
‘He seems to be the obvious suspect,’ said Patti. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fran doubtfully. ‘After all, he was in Brussels at the time, and if they were having an affair …’
‘I think,’ said Edward suddenly, ‘that he told her about the so-called treasure to keep her interest. And if he knew Godfrey’s name that would add weight to it.’
‘But there’s the “if found” in the parish records,’ objected Libby.
‘That might mean nothing,’ said Edward. ‘There are many odd notes in parish records. But Ramani would have taken it as confirmation of what she’d been told.’
‘Let’s just hope Ian gets Roland to set up our search,’ said Libby. ‘I was sure he’d come back to us over the weekend, but he hasn’t.’
‘Isn’t that Adelaide Watson’s car?’ asked Fran, as they approached the Oxenford house.
‘It’s surgery time,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps she’s consulting him.’
‘I don’t think he’s holding surgeries at the moment,’ said Edward.
Libby and Fran looked at each other.
‘They know one another far better than she admitted, don’t they?’ murmured Libby.
Back home in Steeple Martin, Libby did a little desultory housework, peered at the half finished painting on the easel in the conservatory and tried to decide what to cook for supper, all the while listening for the phone. By four o’clock in the afternoon, when it still hadn’t rung, she called Fran.
‘I can’t understand it. Ian said he or Robertson would call us over the weekend. There’s complete silence.’
‘What do you want to do? You can’t really call Ian to chivvy him up.’
‘I could call Adelaide and ask her if Roland’s heard anything from Ian. I want to know what she was doing with Carl Oxenford this morning, anyway.’
‘I doubt if she’d tell you that,’ said Fran. ‘If she’s concealed it up to now, she’s not going to spill the beans just because you ask her.’
‘I know!’ said Libby. ‘I could call Ian to tell him what we found in the church.’
‘But it’s not really relevant to his enquiry, is it?’
‘It’s not fair! Ian asked us to help, so did Adelaide, and now no one’s telling us anything.’
‘You’ll just have to contain your soul in patience, won’t you?’ said Fran, sounding amused. ‘You’re rehearsing tonight, aren’t you? That’ll take your mind off it.’
But when Libby walked up The Manor drive at a quarter to eight, her mind was still full of the Dark House murder, and it took a minute for her to realise that someone was waiting for her in the foyer of the theatre. Glancing up at the lighting and sound box at the top of the spiral staircase, she saw Peter making faces at her and pointing at the figure standing by the windows which faced on to the tiny garden, arms folded and legs apart. She approached warily.
‘Yes, Reggie? Were you waiting for me?’
Reggie turned slowly, an expression of hauteur arranged on his face.
‘I certainly was, my dear Libby. I need to tell you that I simply cannot carry on with this part the way you seem to want it.’
‘The way
I
want it?’ said Libby in surprise. ‘I simply want the Dame played as a traditional Dame in a traditional pantomime.’
If anything, Reggie’s nose rose even higher. ‘It is lewd and vulgar. There is no sensitivity.’
Libby laughed. ‘The traditional Dame is about as sensitive as a house brick, Reggie. Surely you’ve seen panto before?’
‘Not since I was a child.’ The nose descended a fraction. ‘And I had to be removed from the theatre.’
‘Were you scared of the villain?’
‘No. I hated the Dame.’ He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t have even tried to do this part.’
‘Were you trying to exorcise the memory?’
‘I think I was. I’ve disliked pantomime ever since, but as an actor I was convinced that I should be able to play all kinds of theatre.’
‘Are you telling me that you don’t want to continue?’ Libby was conscious of conflicting feelings of relief and worry.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to let you down, but I can’t help but feel you’d be better off with someone less –’ He stopped.
Libby grinned. ‘I know exactly what you mean Reggie. We’ll be sorry to lose you, but I quite understand. I just hope you manage to get another job – preferably better paid than this.’
He bowed, then straightened up with a determined look and said, ‘I shall forfeit the last two weeks of my salary in lieu of notice.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Libby. ‘It’s already been paid into your bank. Now, off you go and better luck next time.’
‘I knew that was coming,’ said Peter, as the defeated Dame passed out of the glass doors.
‘Did you? I didn’t think we’d ever get rid of him.’ Libby thoughtfully watched the retreating figure. ‘But now we’ve got to find another Dame.’
‘Ben,’ said Peter.
Libby looked doubtful. ‘Do you think he could?’
‘He’s done it before, remember? And he’s always been brilliant in the comedy parts.’
‘OK, I’ll ask him.’ Libby sighed. ‘At least we’ll be saving money. Perhaps we should give up having professionals in the company.’
‘You’re an old pro.’ Peter grinned at her.
‘Trouper, dear, trouper. But I’m not now. I’m not paid any more.’
‘You’re still a trained professional actor.’ Peter turned to the auditorium doors. ‘I’m going to put the workers on.’
‘Who does he mean?’ said a timid voice behind Libby’s left shoulder. ‘The workers?’
She turned to see one of the smallest dancers hovering in the doorway.
‘Not people,’ she said, wracking her brain to remember the dancer’s name. ‘Workers means the stage working lights.’
‘Oh.’ The dancer bobbed her head and followed Peter into the auditorium. Libby sighed. And that was one of the problems of having
non
-professionals in the company. She went to find Ben in the backstage workshop.
By the time the rest of the cast had assembled, including the two middle-aged ladies playing the Ugly Sisters – unusual, but Libby only had one Dame, so chose to make her Cinderella’s stepmother – she was able to tell them of the change in casting. She was amused to hear the murmurs of relief in her listeners, and, for Ben’s benefit, decided to start with the boudoir scene, in which he made his first entrance, and sent the ensemble home, apologising for having wasted their time. She was also amused to see that several of them decided to stay, obviously to watch Ben put through his paces.
She found it rather odd to see her excessively masculine partner in the role of Dame, but had to admit he was going to be good at it. At the end of the rehearsal he smiled across triumphantly and she gave him a thumbs-up.
‘Good,’ said Harry, emerging from the darkness of the auditorium.
‘When did you arrive?’ Libby turned round.
‘Ten minutes after Pete phoned to tell me what had happened.’ Harry winked. ‘My night off. I wanted a bit of amusement.’
Peter strolled up. ‘Come back to ours and have a drink to celebrate.’
So it was almost half past eleven when Libby and Ben returned to number 17 and found the red light flashing on the answerphone.
‘It’s Edward Hall. I think I’ve found it,’ it confided tinnily.
‘You can’t ring him back at this time of night,’ said Ben.
‘Wretched man,’ said Libby, flinging off her coat. ‘Found what? Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘I expect he thought you’d ring him back. Calm down. You can call him first thing in the morning.’
It was barely half past eight when Libby deemed it allowable to ring Edward.
‘I’m having breakfast!’ he complained.
‘Sorry.’ Libby sighed. ‘Shall I ring you in half an hour?’
‘No, hang on. I’ll pour myself another cup of coffee and take it into the lounge.’
She heard the sounds of movement and finally, Edward’s voice.
‘I decided to go back and look for Wyghtham Hall. So far we’ve been looking at Dark House.’
‘I haven’t even been looking for that,’ said Libby, ‘but I see what you mean. It makes sense.’
‘Anyway, in some old documents dating from the early seventeenth century, before old Godfrey extended the house – ’
‘Oh, that was him, was it?’
‘Yes, in 1643, the date on the front. It also has his initials entwined with the date. Anyway, before then, the cellars were in use and – get this – from one of them, a passage ran to Keeper’s Cob!’
‘Wow!’ gasped Libby. ‘That’s incredible. When Fran and I went to Keeper’s Cob we guessed that, despite all those tortuous lanes, it might be right behind Dark House.’
‘It is. I’ve found an old map and the Wyghtham land extends right to the edge of the hamlet.’
‘So they could just have wandered across the land to get there.’
‘But they didn’t. They obviously used this passage.’
‘Was it a secret passage?’
‘It doesn’t seem to have been hidden, but it goes right up under another building.’
‘Was brandy and tobacco being smuggled then? Or was that later?’ asked Libby.
‘It was actually after the Restoration that wool exports were forbidden, and in 1671 the King set up the Board of Customs. And of course, Kent was the centre of the trade.’
‘So the passage could actually be one that was used in the old “Brandy for the Parson, Baccy for the Clerk” business?’
‘It could. But what’s more, there’s no trace of it now.’
Libby frowned. ‘But that doesn’t help, does it? If it was there in the late seventeenth century, old Godfrey wouldn’t have hidden anything in it, it would be too easy to find. And he died in 1664, anyway.’
